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         Coppinger, Matthew.
      
       
         
           1682
        
      
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         A34476
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         ESTC R20376
         11771359
         ocm 11771359
         48867
         
           
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             Poems, songs and love-verses, upon several subjects by Matthew Coppinger ...
             Coppinger, Matthew.
          
           [8], 128, [6] p.
           
             Printed for R. Bentley, and M. Magnes ...,
             London :
             1682.
          
           
             Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.
             Pages 107-108 are lacking in filmed copy. Pages 98-119 filmed from Bodleian Library copy and inserted at end.
             Index: p. [1]-[6] at end.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Love poetry, English -- Early works to 1800.
           English poetry -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
     
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           POEMS
           ,
           SONGS
           AND
           Love-Verses
           ,
           Upon
           several
           Subjects
           .
        
         
           By
           
             Matthew
             Coppinger
          
           Gent.
           
        
         
           LONDON
           ,
           Printed
           for
           
             R.
             Bentley
          
           ,
           and
           
             M.
             Magnes
          
           ,
           in
           
             Russel
             street
          
           ,
           in
           Covent-Garden
           ,
           1682.
           
        
         
      
       
         
         
         
           TO
           HER
           GRACE
           THE
           DUTCHESS
           OF
           Portsmouth
           .
        
         
           
             MAdam
             ,
             it
             is
             but
             just
             ,
             since
             you
             receive
          
           
             All
             the
             Delights
             our
             Soveraign
             can
             give
             ,
          
           
             That
             we
             ;
             in
             gratitude
             unto
             our
             King
             ,
          
           
             Shou'd
             to
             your
             Highness
             bring
             an
             Offering
             .
          
           
             For
             we
             by
             Duty
             are
             oblig'd
             to
             Prize
          
           
             Those
             that
             are
             Gracious
             in
             our
             Princes
             Eyes
             ,
          
           
             As
             well
             as
             hate
             his
             greatest
             Enemies
             .
          
           
             Accept
             this
             also
             ,
             Madam
             ,
             sent
             to
             you
             ,
          
           
             Both
             as
             Your
             Merit
             ,
             and
             Your
             Beauties
             due
             ;
          
           
           
             Which
             to
             You
             not
             the
             least
             of
             Glory
             brings
             ,
          
           
             Having
             by
             it
             subdu'd
             the
             best
             of
             Kings
             .
          
           
             And
             now
             Your
             Country
             may
             Precedence
             claim
             ,
          
           
             Since
             You
             have
             gave
             it
             such
             a
             lasting
             Fame
             ;
          
           
             
               Greece
               ,
               Helen
               ;
               England
               ,
               Rosamond
            
             did
             boast
             ,
          
           
             But
             France
             You
             henceforth
             will
             Glory
             most
             ;
          
           
             For
             by
             Your
             conqu'ring
             Eyes
             You
             have
             made
             known
          
           
             The
             Monarchy
             of
             Beauty
             is
             Your
             own
             .
          
           
             You
             are
             the
             Darling
             of
             my
             King
             ,
             His
             Pleasure
             ,
          
           
             His
             Indies
             of
             incomparable
             Treasure
             ;
          
           
             That
             precious
             Gem
             ,
             who
             from
             your
             Country
             came
             ,
          
           
             Too
             narrow
             for
             the
             Limits
             of
             Your
             Fame
             ,
          
           
             Into
             the
             Bosom
             of
             a
             King
             who
             knows
          
           
             What
             't
             is
             for
             to
             deserve
             ,
             and
             to
             dispose
             .
          
           
             But
             stay
             ,
             my
             Muse
             ,
             no
             Sacrilegious
             Eye
          
           
             Shou'd
             dare
             be
             so
             Prophane
             ,
             as
             once
             to
             pry
          
           
             In
             Princes
             Actions
             ;
             they
             like
             Gods
             appear
             ,
          
           
             And
             never
             move
             in
             any
             common
             Sphere
             :
          
           
             We
             shou'd
             from
             their
             Concerns
             our selves
             retire
             ,
          
           
             And
             what
             we
             understand
             not
             well
             ,
             admire
             .
          
           
             Your
             Pardon
             ,
             Madam
             ,
             if
             my
             zealous
             Passion
          
           
             Has
             err'd
             beyond
             the
             Rules
             of
             Dedication
             ;
          
           
             And
             if
             so
             high
             and
             rare
             a
             Contemplation
          
           
             Shou'd
             fly
             beyond
             all
             bounds
             of
             Limitation
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             Dedalian
             Wings
             shou'd
             dare
             to
             pry
          
           
             Too
             near
             the
             Beams
             of
             Sacred
             Majesty
             ;
          
           
             Since
             my
             Ambition
             for
             your
             Service
             may
          
           
             Make
             me
             speak
             more
             than
             others
             dare
             to
             say
             .
          
           
             Then
             prostrate
             at
             your
             Feet
             I
             now
             lay
             down
          
           
             This
             Infant
             Book
             ,
             which
             may
             deserve
             your
             Frown
             ;
          
           
           
             But
             hopes
             a
             better
             Fate
             ,
             since
             the
             intent
          
           
             Was
             good
             ,
             and
             only
             for
             your
             Service
             meant
             .
          
           
             Which
             if
             you
             view
             but
             with
             a
             pleasing
             Eye
             ,
          
           
             It
             will
             presage
             such
             a
             Felicity
             ,
          
           
             That
             all
             the
             Frowns
             of
             Fortune
             ,
             and
             the
             rage
          
           
             Of
             time
             shall
             want
             a
             Power
             to
             engage
             .
          
        
         
           
             Your
             Highnesses
             Most
             humble
             and
             devoted
             Servant
             ,
          
           
             Matthew
             Coppinger
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           TO
           THE
           READER
           .
        
         
           TILL
           this
           minute
           I
           was
           in
           doubt
           whether
           or
           no
           I
           should
           afford
           you
           an
           Epistle
           ,
           being
           as
           indifferent
           whether
           you
           take
           the
           pains
           to
           read
           it
           ,
           as
           you
           are
           to
           go
           to
           the
           cost
           to
           buy
           my
           Book
           .
           It
           was
           design'd
           for
           my
           own
           Pleasure
           ,
           (
           being
           the
           rellicts
           of
           some
           Idle
           hours
           )
           wherein
           though
           I
           have
           borrowed
           the
           name
           of
           Clelia
           ,
           I
           wou'd
           not
           have
           you
           think
           I
           do
           it
           as
           your
           Epigrammists
           do
           ,
           only
           to
           sill
           up
           my
           Verse
           ,
           or
           to
           invoke
           an
           unknown
           Deity
           ;
           but
           that
           I
           veil'd
           my
           Ambition
           under
           it
           ,
           not
           daring
           to
           name
           a
           Person
           whose
           Quallity
           and
           Merit
           did
           so
           far
           exceed
           all
           my
           pretentions
           ,
           that
           it
           had
           been
           a
           sin
           as
           great
           as
           my
           Ambition
           ,
           to
           have
           once
           but
           mentioned
           her
           name
           ,
           and
           
           to
           have
           expos'd
           it
           to
           the
           publick
           view
           .
           And
           as
           for
           what
           else
           you
           find
           contain'd
           in
           this
           slender
           Vollumn
           ,
           if
           you
           think
           it
           worth
           your
           time
           to
           give
           it
           the
           perusal
           ,
           you
           will
           find
           I
           took
           more
           care
           to
           please
           my self
           ,
           than
           you
           .
        
         
           
             Your
             Friend
             ,
          
           
             M.
             C.
             
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
         
           POEMS
           .
        
         
           
             On
             Clelia's
             Garden
             .
          
           
             O
             Garden
             ,
             unto
             me
             more
             blest
          
           
             Than
             the
             Elizian
             Fields
             ,
             possest
          
           
             By
             happy
             Lovers
             ;
             and
             more
             Fair
          
           
             Than
             the
             Hesper'an
             Orchards
             are
             ,
          
           
             Which
             all
             in
             Golden
             Metal
             shine
             ,
          
           
             With
             Boughs
             ,
             and
             Leaves
             ,
             and
             Fruit
             Divine
             ;
          
           
             Such
             Paradise
             it self
             might
             be
             ,
          
           
             In
             its
             first
             virent
             Purity
             ;
          
           
             On
             which
             the
             Heavens
             did
             then
             dispence
          
           
             An
             incorrupted
             Influence
             .
          
           
             Here
             grow
             no
             Dodan
             Oaks
             ,
             nor
             Pines
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             Elm-inamour'd
             clasping
             Vines
             ,
          
           
             No
             Paphian
             Myrtle
             ,
             nor
             the
             Bays
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             Lawrel
             binding
             Phoebus
             Rays
             :
          
           
             No
             Cedar
             ,
             nor
             the
             pleasant
             Palm
             ,
          
           
             No
             Poplar
             dropping
             precious
             Balm
             .
          
           
             Such
             Ornaments
             are
             far
             too
             mean
          
           
             In
             Clelia's
             Garden
             to
             be
             seen
          
           
           
             Within
             these
             Walks
             are
             neither
             set
          
           
             The
             Couslip
             ,
             or
             the
             Violet
             .
          
           
             No
             Dary
             ,
             nor
             Narcissus
             grows
             ,
          
           
             No
             Tulip
             ,
             nor
             the
             fragrant
             Rose
             ,
          
           
             No
             Marigold
             ,
             nor
             running
             Vine
             ,
          
           
             Of
             the
             embracing
             Cullumbine
             .
          
           
             Here
             is
             no
             Alabaster
             Font
             ,
          
           
             With
             Sea-green
             Tryton
             carved
             on
             't
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             yet
             Arion
             ,
             to
             bestride
          
           
             The
             sporting
             Dolphins
             watery
             side
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             Neptune
             riding
             on
             the
             main
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Hand
             a
             Trident
             does
             sustain
             .
          
           
             No
             Silver
             Stream
             here
             glides
             along
             ,
          
           
             Bearing
             the
             Goose
             ,
             or
             Princely
             Swan
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             yet
             through
             pleasant
             Shades
             displays
          
           
             Its
             murm'ring
             Streams
             a
             hundred
             ways
             .
          
           
             Here
             's
             no
             Colossus
             to
             bestride
          
           
             The
             fronting
             Walks
             from
             side
             to
             side
             :
          
           
             Nor
             any
             Statues
             that
             surpass
             ,
          
           
             Of
             sollid
             Marble
             ,
             or
             of
             Brass
             .
          
           
             These
             and
             the
             like
             may
             such
             delight
             ,
          
           
             VVhose
             Eyes
             can't
             bare
             a
             better
             sight
             .
          
           
             The
             Airy
             Nation
             sing
             not
             here
             ,
          
           
             But
             gladly
             lend
             a
             list'ning
             Ear.
          
           
             The
             chattering
             Pye
             (
             if
             here
             )
             grows
             dumb
             ,
          
           
             And
             prating
             Parrats
             Note
             is
             done
             .
          
           
             Domestick
             Robin
             nought
             can
             say
             ,
          
           
             Not
             does
             its
             chat
             avail
             the
             pay
             .
          
           
             The
             Goldsinch
             ,
             Linnet
             ,
             and
             the
             Thrush
             ,
          
           
             Confine
             themselves
             unto
             their
             Bush
             ;
          
           
           
             And
             for
             their
             silence
             you
             may
             swear
             ,
          
           
             They
             mute
             Pythagoreans
             are
             ;
          
           
             And
             Philomel
             is
             here
             affraid
          
           
             Tereus
             with
             Incest
             to
             upbraid
             .
          
           
             Now
             some
             ,
             perchance
             ,
             may
             ask
             me
             where
          
           
             My
             Gardens
             excellencies
             are
             ,
          
           
             To
             which
             no
             other
             may
             compare
             ?
          
           
             I
             answer
             thus
             ;
             The
             shady
             Trees
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             spreading
             branches
             some
             may
             please
             ,
          
           
             My
             
             Clelia's
             presence
             doth
             supply
             ,
          
           
             Who
             may
             with
             Art
             and
             Nature
             vie
             .
          
           
             For
             when
             she
             please
             for
             to
             unfold
          
           
             Her
             braided
             Tresses
             ,
             to
             behold
             ,
          
           
             You
             'd
             guess
             it
             for
             a
             Grove
             of
             Gold
             ;
          
           
             But
             that
             her
             Eyes
             such
             Lustre
             make
             ,
          
           
             That
             any
             one
             may
             well
             mistake
             ,
          
           
             And
             think
             it
             Paradise
             ,
             and
             she
          
           
             The
             Guardian
             Angel
             of
             the
             Tree
             .
          
           
             Upon
             her
             Princely
             Forehead
             ,
             there
          
           
             The
             the
             azure
             Veins
             so
             clear
             appear
             ,
          
           
             In
             such
             a
             rich
             composure
             set
             ,
          
           
             As
             far
             exceed
             the
             Violet
             .
          
           
             But
             when
             she
             please
             for
             to
             disclose
             .
          
           
             Her
             blushing
             Cheeks
             ,
             the
             new
             blown
             Rose
          
           
             For
             shame
             into
             its
             bud
             doth
             close
             ,
          
           
             Not
             once
             presuming
             for
             to
             vie
             ,
          
           
             With
             such
             a
             pure
             Vermillion
             Dye
             .
          
           
             Her
             Skin
             so
             rare
             a
             White
             does
             show
             ,
          
           
             As
             may
             lend
             Beauty
             to
             the
             Snow
             .
          
           
           
             The
             paler
             Lillies
             close
             do
             stand
             ,
          
           
             To
             steal
             some
             whiteness
             from
             her
             Hand
             .
          
           
             Her
             clasping
             Arms
             (
             O
             Charms
             Divine
             !
             )
          
           
             Do
             far
             excel
             the
             Cullumbine
             ;
          
           
             VVithin
             whose
             close
             embraces
             are
          
           
             Two
             Virgn
             Fonts
             ,
             so
             lovely
             fair
             ,
          
           
             That
             every
             drop
             which
             flows
             from
             thence
             ,
          
           
             Such
             Sov'raign
             Vertue
             will
             dispence
             ,
          
           
             As
             might
             (
             if
             such
             a
             thing
             could
             be
             )
          
           
             Cloath
             us
             with
             Immortality
             .
          
           
             But
             when
             she
             please
             to
             touch
             her
             Lyre
             ,
          
           
             Or
             with
             her
             Voice
             our
             Souls
             Inspire
             ,
          
           
             The
             gen'ral
             Choire
             of
             Birds
             will
             be
          
           
             Ravisht
             with
             such
             a
             Harmony
             .
          
           
             The
             Angels
             too
             ,
             that
             turn
             the
             Spheres
             ,
          
           
             VVou'd
             to
             her
             Anthems
             lend
             their
             Ears
             .
          
           
             This
             is
             the
             Eden
             of
             my
             Pleasure
             ,
          
           
             The
             Indies
             of
             my
             choicest
             Treasure
             ;
          
           
             The
             Venus
             of
             my
             Love
             and
             State
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             Sole
             Ruler
             of
             my
             Fate
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             Inquest
             .
          
           
             
               WHere
               's
               absent
               Clelia
               ?
            
             
               VVhere
               are
               those
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               That
               steal
               away
            
             
               My
               Heart
               in
               Play
               ,
            
             
               And
               over
               it
               so
               strangely
               Tyrannize
               ?
            
          
           
             
             
               I
               thought
               I
               had
               been
               free
               ;
            
             
               But
               looking
               round
               ,
            
             
               Alas
               for
               me
               !
            
             
               I
               nought
               cou'd
               see
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               found
               my self
               in
               Fetters
               closely
               bound
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               laid
               me
               down
               to
               rest
               ;
            
             
               And
               yet
               my
               mind
            
             
               Was
               still
               opprest
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               my
               Breast
            
             
               I
               did
               a
               hundred
               thousand
               torments
               find
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               walk'd
               the
               City
               round
               ,
            
             
               In
               search
               of
               ease
               ;
            
             
               But
               nothing
               found
            
             
               On
               which
               to
               ground
            
             
               A
               hope
               of
               Remedy
               for
               my
               Disease
               .
            
          
           
             
               Into
               the
               Countrey
               streight
            
             
               I
               made
               repair
               ,
            
             
               To
               mittigate
            
             
               My
               cruel
               Fate
               ,
            
             
               But
               I
               found
               nothing
               there
               ,
               but
               sad
               Despair
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               view'd
               the
               Arched
               Skie
               ,
            
             
               And
               foaming
               Sea
               ,
            
             
               The
               first
               too
               high
            
             
               For
               me
               to
               flye
               ,
            
             
               And
               t'other
               deep
               ,
               as
               is
               my
               Misery
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               I
               cou'd
               not
               tell
               what
               course
            
             
               Or
               way
               to
               Steer
               ;
            
             
               Or
               by
               what
               force
            
             
               To
               gain
               Remorse
               ,
            
             
               And
               ease
               my
               Heart
               of
               this
               my
               cruel
               fear
               .
            
          
           
             
               At
               last
               my
               Clelia
               came
               ,
            
             
               O
               blest
               Reprieve
               !
            
             
               And
               ceas'd
               to
               blame
            
             
               My
               ardent
               Flame
               ;
            
             
               And
               for
               her
               sake
               commanded
               me
               to
               live
               .
            
          
           
             
               What
               happiness
               was
               this
               ,
            
             
               To
               one
               as
               lost
               ?
            
             
               O
               who
               cou'd
               wish
            
             
               So
               great
               a
               Bliss
               ,
            
             
               Half
               starv'd
               at
               Sea
               ,
               to
               gain
               so
               blest
               a
               Coast
               ?
            
          
        
         
           
             To
             the
             King's
             Majesty
             .
          
           
             IF
             that
             this
             Book
             ,
             without
             Command
             ,
          
           
             May
             chance
             (
             Great
             Sir
             )
             to
             kiss
             your
             Hand
             ,
          
           
             Vouchsafe
             one
             smile
             ,
             my
             bashful
             Muse
          
           
             Will
             then
             grow
             bold
             ,
             no
             more
             refuse
          
           
             To
             bear
             Loves
             Standard
             ,
             and
             desie
          
           
             All
             force
             ,
             but
             from
             a
             Female
             Eye
             .
          
           
             The
             vigorous
             God
             of
             Love
             dares
             say
             ,
          
           
             That
             Mighty
             Kings
             his
             Power
             obey
             ;
          
           
           
             And
             that
             his
             force
             is
             felt
             by
             all
             ,
          
           
             The
             Rich
             ,
             the
             Poor
             ,
             the
             Great
             ,
             the
             Small
             ,
          
           
             None
             are
             exempt
             ,
             he
             conquers
             all
             .
          
           
             The
             Gods
             themselves
             his
             Vassals
             be
             ;
          
           
             
             Apollo's
             Love
             became
             his
             Tree
             .
          
           
             Iove
             was
             a
             Bull
             ,
             although
             Divine
             ;
          
           
             And
             
             Pluto's
             Love
             was
             Proserpine
             .
          
           
             And
             you
             (
             Dread
             Sir
             ,
             )
             more
             Great
             ,
             we
             know
          
           
             Have
             felt
             the
             power
             of
             
             Cupid's
             Bow.
          
           
             And
             may
             you
             always
             in
             the
             Night
             ,
          
           
             Be
             sill'd
             with
             
             Venus's
             delight
             ;
          
           
             And
             in
             the
             day
             have
             choice
             of
             Pleasure
             ,
          
           
             Which
             may
             in
             sum
             out-vie
             your
             Treasure
             ;
          
           
             Which
             grant
             ,
             O
             Heaven
             ,
             so
             great
             may
             be
             ,
          
           
             That
             one
             small
             Bag
             may
             come
             to
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             Song
             .
          
           
             
               COY
               Clelia
               ,
               veil
               those
               Charming
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               From
               whose
               surprize
               there
               's
               none
               can
               part
               ;
            
             
               For
               he
               that
               gazes
               ,
               surely
               dyes
               ,
            
             
               Or
               leaves
               behind
               a
               conquered
               Heart
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               durst
               not
               once
               presume
               to
               look
               ,
            
             
               Or
               cast
               my
               wary
               Eyes
               aside
               :
            
             
               But
               as
               a
               Boy
               that
               Cons
               his
               Book
               ,
            
             
               Close
               sitting
               by
               his
               Masters
               side
               ,
            
          
           
             
             
               Dares
               not
               presume
               to
               look
               awry
               ,
            
             
               On
               Toys
               that
               catch
               the
               wand'ring
               sense
               ;
            
             
               So
               if
               I
               gaze
               ,
               I
               surely
               die
               :
            
             
               Against
               those
               Charms
               there
               's
               no
               defence
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thus
               Heathens
               at
               the
               Suns
               up-rise
               ,
            
             
               Unto
               the
               Ground
               did
               bow
               their
               Head
               ,
            
             
               Not
               able
               with
               their
               feeble
               Eyes
            
             
               To
               view
               their
               God
               they
               worshipped
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Sent
             to
             Clelia
             .
          
           
             
               GO
               tell
               her
               that
               I
               love
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               have
               a
               special
               care
            
             
               Lest
               thou
               despair
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               thou
               dost
               strive
               to
               move
               ,
            
             
               A
               Love
               whose
               happiness
               does
               fly
               so
               high
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               the
               next
               Mansion
               to
               Divinity
               .
            
          
           
             
               If
               she
               but
               ask
               thee
               where
            
             
               Thy
               Master
               lives
               or
               lies
               ,
            
             
               Look
               on
               her
               sparkling
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               And
               boldly
               tell
               her
               there
               ;
            
             
               And
               that
               thy
               duty
               made
               thee
               come
               to
               find
            
             
               Him
               that
               by
               gazing
               left
               himself
               behind
               .
            
          
           
             
               If
               she
               desire
               to
               know
            
             
               Where
               first
               I
               saw
               her
               face
               ;
            
             
               Tell
               her
               the
               happy
               place
            
             
               To
               which
               my
               life
               I
               owe
               ,
            
             
             
               Was
               in
               her
               Garden
               ;
               there
               I
               heard
               her
               sing
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               her
               Fingers
               touch
               the
               quav'ring
               String
               .
            
          
           
             
               Nor
               had
               thy
               Thracian
               Lyre
               ,
            
             
               Orpheus
               ,
               when
               thou
               didst
               play
               ,
            
             
               More
               Power
               the
               Beasts
               to
               stay
               ,
            
             
               Or
               Trees
               or
               Stones
               Inspire
               .
            
             
               Thy
               Auditors
               were
               sensless
               ones
               ,
               but
               here
            
             
               Angels
               came
               list'ning
               from
               their
               Heavenly
               Sphere
               .
            
          
           
             
               If
               she
               in
               anger
               say
               ,
            
             
               How
               durst
               he
               come
               so
               nigh
               ,
            
             
               T'
               invade
               my
               privacy
               ,
            
             
               When
               I
               my self
               retir'd
               away
               ?
            
             
               Tell
               her
               the
               Queen
               of
               Love
               brought
               me
               to
               see
            
             
               The
               full
               perfections
               of
               her
               Deity
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Epig.
             43.
             lib.
             5.
             
             Martial
             .
          
           
             THe
             crafty
             Thief
             may
             rob
             thee
             of
             thy
             store
             ,
          
           
             And
             greedy
             Flames
             thy
             Houshold
             Gods
             devour
             ;
          
           
             Thy
             Debtor
             Principal
             and
             Use
             deny
             ;
          
           
             In
             barren
             Fields
             ,
             thy
             Corn
             that
             's
             sown
             ,
             may
             dye
             .
          
           
             Thy
             Steward
             ,
             by
             his
             crafty
             Mistress
             spoil'd
             ;
          
           
             And
             laden
             Ships
             be
             in
             the
             Ocean
             foil'd
             :
          
           
             But
             what
             thou
             giv'st
             the
             Poor
             with
             liberal
             Hand
             ,
          
           
             This
             Fortune
             can
             alone
             thy
             Power
             withstand
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Omnia
             mutantur
             .
          
           
             
               MY
               Genius
               hurried
               by
               that
               haste
            
             
               Which
               brought
               the
               Universe
               to
               waste
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               things
               by
               its
               Power
               defac't
               ,
            
          
           
             
               Compels
               me
               to
               reflect
               upon
            
             
               Past
               Ages
               ,
               others
               coming
               on
               ,
            
             
               By
               a
               swift
               Revolution
               .
            
          
           
             
               For
               by
               the
               eating
               Teeth
               of
               Time
               ,
            
             
               There
               's
               nought
               so
               noble
               ,
               or
               sublime
               ,
            
             
               But
               shall
               be
               turned
               into
               slime
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               four
               great
               Monarchies
               that
               were
            
             
               So
               vast
               ,
               as
               kept
               the
               World
               in
               fear
               ,
            
             
               Their
               Exits
               past
               ,
               and
               disappear
               .
            
          
           
             
               Cities
               so
               vast
               ,
               that
               one
               may
               say
               ,
            
             
               The
               Sun
               scarce
               view'd
               them
               in
               a
               day
               ,
            
             
               Are
               nothing
               now
               ,
               but
               heaps
               of
               Clay
               .
            
          
           
             
               Wonders
               ,
               of
               which
               the
               World
               did
               boast
               ,
            
             
               For
               their
               Magnificence
               and
               Cost
               ,
            
             
               Are
               now
               in
               their
               own
               Ruins
               lost
               .
            
          
           
             
               All
               things
               are
               subject
               unto
               change
               ,
            
             
               And
               into
               several
               orders
               range
               :
            
             
               Natures
               events
               are
               often
               strange
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Yet
               Man
               ,
               whose
               Glory
               's
               but
               a
               shade
               ,
            
             
               Oft-times
               his
               fancy
               does
               perswade
            
             
               That
               nothing
               can
               his
               Power
               invade
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               yet
               their
               Honours
               quickly
               rust
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               their
               glorious
               Titles
               must
            
             
               Be
               mingled
               with
               the
               common
               dust
               .
            
          
           
             
               Their
               Pageant
               Pomp
               does
               fade
               away
               ,
            
             
               And
               greatest
               Trophies
               soon
               decay
               ,
            
             
               And
               Death
               the
               Victor
               turns
               to
               clay
               .
            
          
           
             
               Riches
               remain
               but
               for
               a
               Night
               ,
            
             
               And
               e're
               the
               Morning
               take
               their
               flight
               ,
            
             
               And
               leave
               the
               miserable
               Wight
               .
            
          
           
             
               Beauty
               decays
               much
               like
               a
               Flower
               ,
            
             
               Which
               buds
               and
               spreads
               ,
               and
               in
               an
               hour
            
             
               Th'
               Impartial
               Scythe
               doth
               it
               devour
               .
            
          
           
             
               That
               Beauty
               which
               e're-while
               might
               seem
            
             
               Enough
               to
               grace
               the
               Cyprian
               Queen
               ,
            
             
               Is
               counted
               now
               of
               no
               esteem
               .
            
          
           
             
               When
               in
               her
               Glass
               fair
               Hellen
               spy'd
            
             
               Her
               Face
               ,
               by
               Time
               so
               mortifi'd
               ,
            
             
               Which
               was
               e're-while
               her
               chiefest
               pride
               ,
            
          
           
             
               She
               weeping
               said
               unto
               her
               Glass
               ,
            
             
               Is
               this
               the
               Beauty
               did
               surpass
               ?
            
             
               Tell
               me
               why
               I
               twice
               ravisht
               was
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               O
               Time
               ,
               whose
               greedy
               Teeth
               devours
            
             
               The
               prime
               and
               glory
               of
               our
               Powers
               ,
            
             
               And
               leav'st
               us
               what
               was
               none
               of
               ours
               ;
            
          
           
             
               VVho
               lay'st
               thy
               rav'nous
               hands
               on
               all
               ,
            
             
               The
               Rich
               ,
               the
               Poor
               ,
               the
               great
               ,
               the
               small
               ;
            
             
               None
               are
               secure
               untill
               they
               fall
               .
            
          
           
             
               VVhen
               will
               thy
               wanton
               lust
               have
               end
               ?
            
             
               Or
               till
               what
               date
               dost
               thou
               pretend
            
             
               These
               outrages
               thus
               to
               defend
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Thou
               need'st
               not
               answer
               ;
               for
               I
               know
            
             
               Thy
               furious
               course
               shall
               forward
               go
               ,
            
             
               Till
               Heaven
               does
               
                 Ne
                 plus
                 ultra
              
               show
               .
            
          
           
             
               Tempus
               edax
               rerum
               tuque
               invidiosa
               omnia
               distruitis
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             An
             Epitaph
             on
             
               A.
               P.
            
             
          
           
             IF
             that
             Extortion
             ,
             Fraud
             ,
             and
             Strage
             ,
          
           
             Lust
             ,
             Envy
             ,
             Rapine
             ,
             in
             this
             Age
          
           
             May
             claim
             your
             Tears
             ,
             I
             justly
             may
          
           
             Claim
             all
             the
             Tears
             that
             you
             can
             pay
             .
          
           
             For
             though
             the
             pious
             Hand
             of
             Death
          
           
             Has
             nimbly
             snatcht
             away
             my
             Breath
             ,
          
           
             It
             had
             prevented
             him
             before
             ,
          
           
             And
             Sin
             had
             made
             my
             Age
             fourscore
             .
          
           
           
             Say
             then
             ,
             who-e're
             shall
             name
             my
             loss
             ,
          
           
             Here
             lies
             extinct
             Misanthrópos
             .
          
        
         
           
             Senex
             Tempus
             Mors
             &
             Chorus
             .
          
           
             
               Sen.
               
            
             
               HAil
               ancient
               Brother
               ,
               what
               is
               in
               thy
               mind
               ,
            
             
               To
               count
               the
               Sand
               ,
               and
               mow
               the
               whistling
               VVind
               ?
            
             
               Has
               age
               depriv'd
               thee
               of
               thy
               sense
               ,
               to
               be
            
             
               The
               perfect
               Emblem
               of
               Foolery
               ?
            
             
               Come
               leave
               this
               madness
               ,
               do
               as
               I
               have
               done
               ,
            
             
               Cast
               thy
               old
               skin
               ,
               and
               be
               agen
               as
               young
            
             
               As
               is
               Aurora
               at
               her
               first
               up-rise
               ,
            
             
               Youthful
               by
               virtue
               of
               her
               Lovers
               Eyes
               .
            
             
               I
               am
               all
               Air
               ,
               there
               's
               not
               a
               part
               in
               me
            
             
               But
               has
               shook
               off
               it's
               dull
               Mortality
               ;
            
             
               Prithee
               go
               run
               and
               fetch
               me
               Charles
               his
               VVain
               ,
            
             
               To
               hurry
               me
               o're
               the
               Celestial
               Plain
               .
            
             
               O
               Love
               ,
               Love
               ,
               Love
               ,
               thy
               strong
               Medean
               Charms
            
             
               Has
               gave
               new
               strength
               and
               motion
               to
               my
               Arms.
            
             
               My
               Legs
               and
               Thighs
               are
               able
               to
               support
            
             
               The
               mighty
               Fabrick
               of
               Heavens
               starry
               Court.
               
            
          
           
             
               Temp.
               
            
             
               Are
               you
               in
               Love
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Sen.
               
            
             
               I
               am
               .
            
          
           
             
               Temp.
               
            
             
               With
               whom
               ;
            
          
           
             
               Sen.
               
            
             
               There
               stay
               ;
            
             
               One
               that
               wou'd
               make
               thee
               throw
               thy
               Scyth
               away
               ,
            
             
               And
               break
               thy
               Glass
               ,
               if
               thou
               shouldst
               chance
               to
               spie
            
             
               One
               of
               the
               smallest
               Cupids
               in
               her
               Eye
               :
            
             
             
               How
               then
               couldst
               thou
               resist
               united
               Charms
               ,
            
             
               Which
               conquer
               Men
               and
               Gods
               with
               their
               Alarms
               ?
            
             
               But
               let
               that
               pass
               ,
               sure
               I
               have
               seen
               before
            
             
               Thy
               Picture
               painted
               on
               a
               Usurers
               Door
               ;
            
             
               They
               call'd
               it
               Time.
               
            
          
           
             
               Temp.
               
            
             
               'T
               is
               true
               ,
               and
               I
               am
               he
            
             
               Until
               this
               day
               regarded
               not
               by
               thee
               ,
            
             
               And
               something
               slightly
               now
               .
               Seest
               thou
               this
               Glass
               ?
            
             
               Thy
               Life
               and
               Sand
               in
               the
               same
               moment
               pass
               .
            
          
           
             
               Sen.
               
            
             
               Thou
               ly'st
               ,
               base
               Slave
               ,
               though
               Sixty
               years
               are
               run
               ,
            
             
               Double
               their
               Number
               are
               as
               yet
               to
               come
               ;
            
             
               My
               active
               Blood
               runs
               quick
               ,
               and
               every
               part
            
             
               Performs
               it's
               Duty
               round
               about
               my
               Heart
               :
            
             
               My
               strength
               at
               Thirty
               never
               was
               more
               great
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               does
               one
               part
               fail
               of
               it's
               usual
               heat
               ;
            
             
               All
               pains
               and
               groans
               have
               now
               forsook
               the
               Stage
               ,
            
             
               And
               like
               the
               Phoenix
               I
               've
               renew'd
               my
               Age.
               
            
          
           
             
               Temp.
               
            
             
               Fond
               Man
               ,
               thy
               present
               State
               is
               but
               a
               Breath
               ,
            
             
               And
               lightsomness
               doth
               but
               foretel
               thy
               Death
            
             
               Just
               as
               a
               Lamp
               ,
               when
               all
               the
               Oyl
               is
               spent
               ,
            
             
               Gives
               the
               last
               farewel
               to
               it's
               nourishment
               .
            
          
           
             
               Mor.
               
            
             
               Here
               ends
               thy
               Labour
               ,
               thy
               last
               Thred
               is
               spun
               ,
            
             
               Embrace
               me
               silently
               now
               I
               am
               come
               .
            
             
               You
               seem
               to
               wonder
               ,
               doating
               Age
               ,
               I
               am
               Death
               ,
            
             
               Come
               to
               demand
               this
               moment
               of
               thy
               Breath
               .
            
             
               How
               soon
               he
               's
               gone
               ?
               how
               silently
               he
               lyes
               ?
            
             
               When
               I
               once
               come
               ,
               in
               vain
               are
               all
               Replies
               ;
            
             
             
               No
               Charms
               can
               stay
               m'inexorable
               Hand
               ,
            
             
               All
               Sexes
               bow
               the
               head
               when
               I
               command
               ;
            
             
               If
               I
               once
               strike
               ,
               no
               Wards
               against
               my
               Blow
               ,
            
             
               Youth
               ,
               Beauty
               ,
               Strength
               ,
               and
               what
               are
               priz'd
               below
               ,
            
             
               Are
               menial
               things
               ,
               and
               here
               may
               please
               the
               Eye
               ,
            
             
               But
               Vassals-like
               ,
               desert
               their
               Lords
               ,
               when
               I
            
             
               Do
               once
               appear
               ;
               in
               vain
               are
               Prayers
               or
               Tears
               ,
            
             
               No
               sound
               of
               Mercy
               ever
               pierc't
               my
               Ears
               .
            
          
           
             
               Chor.
               
            
             
               Then
               happy
               he
               who
               leads
               a
               life
               so
               blest
               ,
            
             
               That
               when
               thou
               com'st
               ,
               thou
               only
               shalt
               devest
            
             
               Of
               Earthly
               dross
               ,
               whose
               better
               part
               shall
               flye
               ,
            
             
               A
               welcom
               present
               to
               the
               Deity
               ;
            
             
               There
               shall
               be
               lasting
               Pleasures
               to
               be
               found
               ,
            
             
               That
               he
               shall
               thank
               the
               Hand
               that
               gave
               the
               wound
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             An
             Elegie
             on
             Mr.
             
               W.
               L.
            
             
          
           
             MEek
             ,
             Kind
             ,
             and
             Good
             ,
             could
             I
             relate
          
           
             Our
             loss
             ,
             and
             thy
             too
             sudden
             fate
             ,
          
           
             I
             'd
             force
             the
             World
             to
             lend
             their
             Eyes
          
           
             As
             Conducts
             to
             thy
             Obsequies
             .
          
           
             But
             since
             thy
             loss
             too
             great
             appears
          
           
             To
             be
             the
             Subject
             of
             our
             Tears
             ,
          
           
             We
             will
             contemplate
             on
             thy
             Worth
             ,
          
           
             Too
             great
             for
             any
             to
             set
             forth
             ;
          
           
             And
             only
             saying
             ,
             Thou
             art
             dead
             ,
          
           
             Will
             be
             as
             much
             as
             can
             be
             sed
             .
          
           
             
               Quid
               de
               te
               jactor
               ?
               fama
               &
               tua
               gloria
               major
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             Song
             .
          
           
             
               I
               Will
               not
               tell
               her
               that
               she
               's
               fair
               ,
            
             
               For
               that
               she
               knows
               as
               well
               as
               I
               ,
            
             
               And
               that
               her
               Virtues
               equal
               are
            
             
               Unto
               the
               Glorys
               of
               her
               Eye
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               that
               I
               love
               her
               well
               ,
               she
               knows
               ,
            
             
               For
               who
               can
               view
               that
               Heavenly
               Face
               ,
            
             
               Not
               paying
               that
               Respect
               he
               owes
            
             
               To
               Beauty
               ,
               bearing
               such
               a
               Grace
               ?
            
          
           
             
               But
               this
               I
               'le
               tell
               ,
               and
               tell
               her
               true
               ,
            
             
               She
               takes
               upon
               her
               too
               much
               State
               ;
            
             
               For
               ,
               by
               the
               Gods
               ,
               it
               would
               undo
            
             
               A
               King
               to
               Love
               at
               such
               a
               rate
               .
            
          
           
             
               Let
               Common
               Beauties
               boast
               the
               Power
            
             
               Of
               some
               uncommon
               Excellence
               ,
            
             
               And
               thank
               Dame
               Nature
               for
               the
               Dower
            
             
               Of
               that
               decoying
               Charming
               Sense
               ;
            
          
           
             
               Adorn
               themselves
               with
               Pearls
               and
               Gold
               ,
            
             
               In
               Rubies
               and
               Rich
               Di'monds
               shine
               ,
            
             
               In
               choicest
               Silks
               that
               may
               be
               sold
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               to
               make
               such
               Ladies
               Fine
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               These
               are
               like
               some
               Rich
               Monument
               ,
            
             
               Rais'd
               all
               of
               carv'd
               and
               costly
               Stones
               ,
            
             
               Painted
               and
               Gilt
               for
               Ornament
               ;
            
             
               But
               full
               within
               of
               dead
               Mens
               Bones
               .
            
          
           
             
               Such
               common
               ways
               my
               Clelia
               scorns
               ,
            
             
               Her
               lovely
               Soul
               is
               too
               sublime
               ,
            
             
               She
               's
               not
               compleat
               that
               Cloaths
               adorn
               ,
            
             
               Or
               does
               in
               ought
               but
               Nature
               shine
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             To
             Clelia
             .
          
           
             FAir
             ,
             and
             yet
             Cruel
             ,
             sure
             it
             cannot
             be
             ,
          
           
             Nature
             denies
             such
             Catastrophe
             ;
          
           
             The
             spangled
             Orbs
             serenely
             do
             display
          
           
             Not
             in
             a
             Cloudy
             Night
             the
             Milkie
             way
             ;
          
           
             The
             misty
             Shades
             do
             swiftly
             disappear
             ,
          
           
             When
             
             Sol's
             Bright
             rays
             do
             Crown
             the
             Hemesphere
             ;
          
           
             But
             Love
             is
             subject
             to
             the
             Chains
             of
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             And
             more
             unhappy
             proves
             than
             fortunate
             .
          
           
             How
             often
             have
             my
             Vows
             to
             Clelia
             paid
          
           
             My
             Constant
             Zeal
             ?
             How
             often
             have
             I
             made
          
           
             The
             same
             consession
             of
             my
             Love
             to
             thee
             ,
          
           
             As
             mortals
             pay
             unto
             Divinity
             ?
          
           
             Yet
             the
             requital
             of
             my
             Love's
             Disdain
             ,
          
           
             And
             Cruelty
             the
             Med'cine
             for
             my
             Pain
             ;
          
           
             A
             Viper
             which
             doth
             seed
             upon
             my
             Heart
             ,
          
           
             And
             plays
             the
             Tyrant
             upon
             every
             Part
             ;
          
           
           
             Forcing
             a
             Lethargy
             through
             all
             my
             Soul
             ,
          
           
             Which
             does
             my
             vital
             Spirits
             so
             controul
             ,
          
           
             That
             though
             you
             'd
             strive
             for
             to
             prevent
             my
             fate
             ,
          
           
             My
             Doom's
             confirm'd
             and
             pitty
             comes
             too
             late
             .
          
           
             Thus
             the
             faint
             Pilgrim
             with
             Devotion
             bows
          
           
             Unto
             the
             Sacred
             Shrine
             ,
             and
             pays
             his
             Vows
             ;
          
           
             Beging
             a
             Blessing
             on
             his
             feeble
             knee
             ,
          
           
             Supported
             by
             his
             Faith
             and
             Piety
             ;
          
           
             His
             daily
             Orisons
             do
             beg
             Direction
          
           
             From
             that
             great
             Pow'r
             that
             is
             his
             sole
             Protection
             ;
          
           
             But
             when
             at
             last
             his
             fatal
             Glass
             is
             run
             ,
          
           
             And
             time
             casts
             Mists
             before
             his
             glimmering
             Sun
             ,
          
           
             In
             some
             old
             ruin'd
             Monastry
             or
             Cave
             ,
          
           
             Shunning
             the
             World
             ,
             he
             seeks
             a
             quiet
             Grave
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             Song
             .
          
           
             
               I
               Have
               drank
               too
               much
               Lethe
               of
               late
               ,
            
             
               I
               've
               forgot
               that
               I
               e're
               was
               in
               Love
               ,
            
             
               I
               am
               Crown'd
               with
               a
               nobler
               Fate
               ;
            
             
               'T
               is
               a
               passion
               that
               's
               too
               much
               above
            
             
               That
               pittiful
               State
            
             
               Which
               sometimes
               moves
               pitty
               ,
               but
               oftener
               hate
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               sad
               looks
               of
               a
               Lover
               in
               pain
               ,
            
             
               When
               my
               fancy
               descends
               to
               his
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               Makes
               me
               Smile
               when
               I
               think
               how
               in
               vain
            
             
               He
               does
               so
               much
               disquiet
               his
               rest
               ,
            
             
               In
               thinking
               her
               best
            
             
               Who
               in
               mocking
               his
               Love
               does
               think
               her self
               blest
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Such
               Whiners
               as
               these
               ,
               at
               their
               leasure
               ,
            
             
               With
               an
               ang'ry
               glance
               from
               their
               Eye
               ,
            
             
               They
               quickly
               deject
               at
               their
               pleasure
               ,
            
             
               Who
               during
               their
               anger
               do
               dye
               ;
            
             
               Such
               is
               the
               measure
            
             
               These
               predicant
               Fools
               do
               get
               from
               their
               Treasure
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             To
             Clelia
             .
          
           
             THink
             not
             ,
             fair
             Madam
             ,
             that
             your
             high
             disdain
             ,
          
           
             Which
             wounds
             my
             Heart
             ,
             shall
             cause
             me
             to
             sustain
          
           
             The
             pond'rous
             bulk
             of
             all
             your
             Tyranny
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             Insulting
             Conquest
             of
             your
             Eye
             .
          
           
             Against
             your
             scorns
             I
             'le
             arme
             my
             panting
             Heart
             ,
          
           
             Secure
             from
             wound
             ,
             and
             safe
             in
             every
             Part
             ;
          
           
             Biding
             defiance
             to
             your
             Conq'ring
             Eyes
             ,
          
           
             I
             'l
             give
             you
             no
             more
             leave
             to
             Tyrannise
             .
          
           
             Yet
             if
             at
             last
             no
             Remedy
             I
             find
          
           
             To
             ease
             the
             troubles
             of
             my
             tortur'd
             Mind
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             despair
             must
             yield
             to
             Fate
             ,
             my
             Breath
          
           
             Shall
             censure
             you
             the
             Agent
             of
             my
             Death
             :
          
           
             Then
             you
             that
             are
             the
             cause
             of
             this
             my
             fate
             ▪
          
           
             Shall
             mourn
             and
             grieve
             like
             one
             that
             's
             desolate
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             my
             Hearse
             engrave
             my
             Tragedy
             ,
          
           
             With
             Tears
             proceeding
             from
             your
             doleful
             Eye
             .
          
           
             Yet
             have
             a
             care
             ,
             for
             if
             a
             Tear
             should
             steal
          
           
             And
             touch
             my
             Corps
             ,
             I
             instantly
             should
             feel
          
           
           
             The
             Fire
             of
             Love
             to
             kindle
             in
             my
             Breast
             ,
          
           
             '
             Twou'd
             wake
             my
             drowsie
             Senses
             from
             their
             rest
             .
          
           
             
               Me
               tamen
               urit
               amor
               ,
               quis
               enim
               modus
               adsit
               amori
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             To
             Clelia
             .
          
           
             MIrrour
             of
             Beauty
             ,
             from
             whose
             conquering
             Eyes
          
           
             All
             Power
             of
             Love
             and
             Glory
             does
             arise
             ;
          
           
             Resistless
             Charms
             does
             Crown
             your
             Heavenly
             Brow
             ,
          
           
             You
             
             Hellen-like
             no
             Second
             can
             allow
             .
          
           
             Here
             Nature
             strove
             to
             shew
             her
             greatest
             Art
             ,
          
           
             Each
             part
             of
             you
             does
             captivate
             a
             Heart
             ,
          
           
             Your
             wounding
             Beauty
             spreads
             through
             every
             Part.
          
           
             Pardon
             me
             then
             if
             that
             I
             soar
             above
             ,
          
           
             The
             Merits
             of
             undeserving
             Love.
          
           
             I
             needs
             must
             love
             ,
             for
             't
             is
             my
             cruel
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             Let
             not
             my
             kindness
             then
             deserve
             your
             hate
             ;
          
           
             Since
             to
             your
             Beauty
             I
             have
             Prisoner
             been
             ,
          
           
             Divinest
             Creature
             ,
             think
             it
             not
             a
             Sin
             :
          
           
             The
             Torrent
             of
             my
             Grief
             oreslow'd
             my
             Heart
             ,
          
           
             And
             Love
             conceal'd
             still
             swell'd
             in
             every
             Part.
          
           
             All
             my
             Ambition
             only
             is
             to
             gain
          
           
             Your
             love
             ,
             but
             (
             Cruelty
             )
             I
             strive
             in
             vain
             :
          
           
             One
             Smile
             from
             you
             has
             power
             enough
             to
             save
          
           
             A
             drooping
             Corps
             that
             's
             catching
             at
             a
             Grave
             .
          
           
           
             One
             Frown
             wou'd
             make
             a
             Miser
             ,
             '
             midst
             his
             store
             ,
          
           
             Forsake
             his
             Wealth
             ,
             his
             Fate
             for
             to
             deplore
             :
          
           
             The
             Gods
             bewail
             their
             Case
             ,
             and
             mourn
             to
             see
          
           
             Mortals
             so
             blest
             ,
             more
             than
             Immortals
             be
             .
          
           
             Iuno
             till
             now
             from
             her
             Olympick
             Throne
          
           
             Nere
             saw
             a
             Beauty
             greater
             then
             her
             own
             .
          
           
             Since
             then
             all
             Beauty
             is
             in
             you
             alone
             ,
          
           
             You
             are
             that
             Goddess
             I
             'le
             adore
             ,
             or
             none
             .
          
        
         
           
             Scribe
             aliquid
             magnum
             .
          
           
             
               I
               Thank
               you
               ,
               worthy
               Sir
               ,
               your
               good
               advice
            
             
               Is
               like
               the
               Recepes
               of
               a
               Doctor
               's
               Bill
               ,
            
             
               Where
               an
               Ingredient's
               dear
               ,
               to
               save
               the
               price
               ,
            
             
               You
               'l
               leave
               it
               out
               ,
               though
               it
               the
               Patient
               kill
               .
            
          
           
             
               You
               'd
               have
               me
               take
               some
               Noble
               Theam
               ,
               and
               make
            
             
               Verses
               that
               might
               be
               worthy
               of
               the
               Press
               ,
            
             
               Which
               if
               I
               were
               so
               mad
               to
               undertake
               ,
            
             
               You
               'd
               see
               a
               Gyant
               in
               a
               Pigmies
               dress
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               am
               no
               Mole
               ,
               nor
               can
               I
               feed
               on
               Earth
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               yet
               Camelion
               ,
               to
               browse
               on
               Air
               ;
            
             
               I
               always
               have
               sed
               well
               ,
               e're
               since
               my
               Birth
               ;
            
             
               And
               now
               to
               starve
               my self
               I
               do
               not
               care
               .
            
          
           
             
               Wou'd
               you
               but
               be
               Mecenas
               ,
               then
               I
               'd
               try
            
             
               To
               what
               my
               bold
               Invention
               cou'd
               aspire
               ,
            
             
               And
               strive
               for
               to
               excel
               in
               Poetry
            
             
               Great
               Maro
               ,
               and
               the
               Rhodopean
               Lyre
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               No
               barren
               fancy
               shou'd
               possess
               my
               Brain
               ,
            
             
               Each
               Verse
               shou'd
               flow
               as
               from
               
               Apollo's
               Quill
               ,
            
             
               In
               such
               a
               lofty
               and
               Heroick
               strain
            
             
               The
               Universe
               I
               'd
               with
               my
               Numbers
               fill
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               'd
               frame
               such
               raptures
               in
               Immortal
               Verse
               ,
            
             
               As
               shou'd
               the
               brightest
               Stars
               from
               Heaven
               convey
               ,
            
             
               And
               every
               Cloud
               the
               Muses
               shou'd
               disperse
               ;
            
             
               And
               with
               my
               Feet
               I
               'd
               tread
               the
               Milkie
               way
               .
            
          
           
             
               
                 Otia
                 da
                 nobis
                 :
                 sed
                 qualia
                 fecerat
                 olim
              
               
                 Mecenas
                 Flacco
                 ,
                 Virgilioque
                 suo
                 .
              
               
                 Condere
                 victuras
                 tentem
                 per
                 secula
                 chartas
              
               
                 Et
                 nomen
                 flammis
                 eripuisse
                 meum
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             De
             Pompeo
             &
             Filiis
             ,
             e
             Martial
             .
          
           
             THe
             Sons
             of
             Pompey
             yielded
             up
             their
             Breath
          
           
             In
             divers
             quarters
             of
             the
             spacious
             Earth
             .
          
           
             Europe
             within
             her
             Bowels
             does
             contain
          
           
             One
             of
             the
             Sons
             of
             Noble
             Pompey
             slain
             .
          
           
             In
             
             Asia's
             Confines
             doth
             the
             other
             lye
             ,
          
           
             And
             he
             himself
             in
             Africa
             did
             dye
             .
          
           
             What
             makes
             the
             World
             as
             Thunder-struck
             appear
             ,
          
           
             That
             such
             a
             Slaughter
             shou'd
             be
             every
             where
             ?
          
           
             So
             great
             a
             Ruine
             cou'd
             not
             likely
             be
          
           
             Contained
             in
             One
             place
             ,
             nay
             scarce
             in
             Three
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             De
             Sacerdote
             qui
             Caniculum
             in
             Coemeterio
             Sepelivit
             .
          
           
             A
             Wealthy
             Thuscan
             Priest
             ,
             of
             no
             mean
             note
             ,
          
           
             One
             that
             cou'd
             say
             his
             Decalogue
             by
             rote
             ,
          
           
             And
             Pater-noster
             too
             ,
             and
             ,
             if
             such
             need
             ,
          
           
             Cou'd
             make
             a
             Repetion
             of
             his
             Creed
             ,
          
           
             Had
             a
             small
             Dog
             he
             did
             so
             much
             regard
             ,
          
           
             That
             dead
             ,
             he
             Buried
             him
             in
             the
             Church-yard
             ;
          
           
             The
             Bishop
             glad
             that
             he
             had
             got
             a
             Claw
          
           
             Whereby
             to
             get
             the
             Priest
             into
             his
             Paw
             ,
          
           
             Summons
             him
             to
             a
             strict
             Examination
          
           
             Of
             his
             so
             irreligious
             Violation
          
           
             Of
             Holy
             ground
             .
             The
             Priest
             ,
             who
             knew
             his
             mind
             ,
          
           
             How
             much
             he
             was
             to
             Avarice
             inclin'd
             ,
          
           
             Appears
             ,
             and
             with
             him
             brings
             full
             Fifty
             Pound
             ,
          
           
             Which
             he
             knew
             well
             wou'd
             make
             the
             matter
             sound
             .
          
           
             The
             Bishop
             urg'd
             the
             Crime
             ,
             and
             so
             far
             went
             ,
          
           
             That
             he
             ,
             poor
             Man
             ,
             must
             be
             to
             Prison
             sent
             ;
          
           
             To
             whom
             the
             Priest
             ,
             My
             Father
             ,
             did
             you
             know
          
           
             How
             much
             you
             to
             that
             loving
             Creature
             owe
             ,
          
           
             And
             how
             in
             Wisdom
             he
             did
             antecede
          
           
             All
             that
             I
             ever
             knew
             was
             of
             the
             breed
             ,
          
           
             I
             am
             sure
             you
             wou'd
             not
             blame
             my
             action
             then
             ,
          
           
             Since
             he
             deserv'd
             a
             Burial
             among
             Men.
          
           
           
             For
             whilst
             he
             liv'd
             ,
             and
             did
             enjoy
             his
             Breath
             ,
          
           
             He
             was
             as
             wise
             as
             Men
             ,
             but
             more
             in
             Death
             .
          
           
             The
             Bishop
             ask't
             him
             how
             .
             The
             Priest
             reply'd
             ,
          
           
             He
             wisely
             made
             his
             Will
             before
             he
             dy'd
             ;
          
           
             And
             knowing
             that
             it
             was
             a
             Pious
             deed
             ,
          
           
             He
             left
             you
             Fifty
             Pounds
             to
             help
             your
             need
             ;
          
           
             With
             that
             produc'd
             the
             money
             .
             Sure
             reply'd
          
           
             The
             bishop
             ,
             never
             Dog
             more
             fairely
             dy'd
             ;
          
           
             And
             God
             forbid
             I
             shou'd
             at
             all
             detract
          
           
             From
             this
             your
             Zeal
             in
             such
             a
             Pious
             Act.
          
           
             If
             you
             have
             more
             ,
             let
             there
             be
             set
             apart
             ,
          
           
             A
             place
             to
             bury
             Dogs
             of
             such
             Desert
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             Suadela
             .
          
           
             
               THey
               say
               Ulisses
               by
               his
               Art
            
             
               Had
               power
               to
               hear
               the
               Sirens
               Sing
               ,
            
             
               And
               from
               their
               Charming
               Notes
               depart
               ,
            
             
               Tasting
               the
               sweets
               without
               a
               Sting
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               wonder
               not
               ,
               since
               free
               from
               harms
            
             
               I
               have
               left
               Suadela
               and
               her
               Charms
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Nobis
             placeant
             ante
             omnia
             Sylvae
             .
          
           
             HAil
             Sacred
             Woods
             ,
             and
             all
             the
             rural
             Gods
             ,
          
           
             Who
             in
             these
             Coverts
             make
             your
             blest
             abodes
             ;
          
           
             Ye
             Fauns
             and
             Satyrs
             that
             do
             here
             reside
             ,
          
           
             And
             Watery
             Nymphs
             that
             neer
             these
             springs
             abide
             ;
          
           
           
             And
             ye
             ,
             ye
             pretty
             mourning
             Turtle
             Doves
             ,
          
           
             The
             living
             emblem
             of
             chastest
             Loves
             ;
          
           
             May
             no
             devouring
             Hawk
             e're
             fly
             this
             way
             ,
          
           
             Of
             so
             much
             Innocence
             to
             make
             a
             prey
             :
          
           
             Let
             all
             be
             happy
             ,
             chirp
             sweet
             Birds
             ,
             and
             sing
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             your
             Melody
             these
             Woods
             shall
             ring
             .
          
           
             For
             here
             I
             first
             beheld
             that
             Angels
             Face
             ,
          
           
             Which
             to
             these
             Coverts
             gave
             the
             greatest
             Grace
             .
          
           
             And
             thou
             ,
             old
             Oak
             ,
             beneath
             whose
             spreading
             shade
          
           
             That
             Heavenly
             Object
             did
             my
             sight
             invade
             ,
          
           
             May
             no
             rough
             Wind
             e're
             rend
             thy
             aged
             top
             ,
          
           
             Or
             thankless
             hand
             thy
             Beauties
             glory
             crop
             ;
          
           
             Or
             shivering
             Winter
             ,
             which
             the
             Woods
             bereaves
             ,
          
           
             E're
             rob
             thee
             of
             thy
             green
             and
             shady
             Leaves
             ;
          
           
             But
             may
             each
             year
             new
             Strength
             and
             Verdure
             grant
             .
          
           
             'Till
             thou
             grow
             young
             ,
             as
             when
             thou
             wert
             a
             Plant
             ;
          
           
             And
             may'st
             thou
             flourish
             many
             Ages
             more
             ,
          
           
             And
             still
             more
             green
             than
             e're
             thou
             wast
             before
             .
          
           
             But
             when
             thou
             must
             decay
             ,
             for
             eating
             Time
          
           
             Will
             not
             permit
             thee
             always
             thus
             to
             shine
             ,
          
           
             From
             thy
             old
             Trunk
             may
             thousand
             young
             ones
             Flower
             ,
          
           
             Weaving
             their
             tender
             Boughs
             into
             a
             Bower
             .
          
           
             And
             thou
             great
             Paphian
             Goddess
             ,
             ever
             bless
          
           
             This
             goodly
             Bower
             with
             so
             much
             happiness
             ,
          
           
             That
             whosoe're
             shall
             come
             within
             it's
             shade
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             to
             thy
             Mystick
             power
             be
             Captive
             made
             ;
          
           
           
             Each
             Lover
             then
             this
             Covert
             shall
             invite
          
           
             To
             taste
             the
             happiness
             of
             Loves
             delight
             ;
          
           
             Thus
             shall
             thy
             fall
             be
             greater
             then
             thy
             rise
             ,
          
           
             And
             of
             a
             Tree
             become
             a
             Paradise
             .
          
        
         
           
             An
             Epitaph
             .
          
           
             
               JUst
               as
               I
               liv'd
               ,
               just
               so
               I
               dy'd
               ,
            
             
               Contemning
               God
               and
               Man
               ,
            
             
               With
               Earthly
               dross
               nere
               satisfi'd
               ;
            
             
               Now
               satiated
               am
               .
            
          
           
             
               Desire
               not
               to
               know
               my
               Name
               ,
            
             
               Which
               justly
               is
               accurst
               ,
            
             
               For
               making
               Gold
               my
               chiefest
               aim
               ,
            
             
               Even
               with
               Tantalian
               thirst
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             A
             Dialogue
             .
          
           
             
               Lover
               .
            
             
               REnder
               your
               Heart
               ,
               or
               else
               give
               mine
               agen
               .
            
          
           
             
               Virgin.
               
            
             
               What
               ,
               change
               with
               Men
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Lov.
               
            
             
               Justice
               commands
               you
               to
               do
               one
               or
               t'other
               .
            
          
           
             
               Vir.
               
            
             
               Yes
               ,
               to
               a
               Lover
               .
            
          
           
             
               Lov.
               
            
             
               Then
               I
               am
               he
               ,
               sweet
               Saint
               ,
               that
               owns
               that
               Flame
               .
            
          
           
             
               Vir.
               
            
             
               You
               are
               much
               to
               blame
               .
            
          
           
             
               Lov.
               
            
             
               For
               loving
               you
               ?
               I
               must
               until
               I
               dye
               .
            
          
           
             
               Vir.
               
            
             
               Pray
               tell
               me
               why
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Lov.
               
            
             
               Most
               mighty
               Love
               no
               reason
               can
               indure
               .
            
          
           
             
               Vir.
               
            
             
               Is
               your
               Love
               pure
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Lov.
               
            
             
               As
               pure
               from
               spot
               as
               Elemental
               fire
               .
            
          
           
             
               Vir.
               
            
             
               N'ere
               to
               expire
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Lov.
               
            
             
               No
               ,
               not
               when
               Time
               it self
               shall
               cease
               to
               be
               .
            
          
           
             
               Vir.
               
            
             
               You
               have
               conquer'd
               me
               .
            
          
           
             
               Lov.
               
            
             
               Blest
               voice
               ,
               that
               very
               word
               new
               life
               does
               give
               .
            
          
           
             
               Vir.
               
            
             
               With
               thee
               I
               'le
               live
               .
            
          
           
             
               Lov.
               
            
             
               Our
               mutual
               Joy
               shall
               with
               our
               Loves
               combine
               .
            
          
           
             
               Vir.
               
            
             
               I
               am
               only
               thine
               .
            
          
           
             
               Lov.
               
            
             
               Triumphant
               Love
               ,
               what
               never
               lose
               the
               field
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Vir.
               
            
             
               Love
               makes
               me
               yield
               .
            
          
           
             
               Lov.
               
            
             
               Then
               let
               's
               enjoy
               each
               other
               without
               fear
               .
            
          
           
             
               Vir.
               
            
             
               Agreed
               ,
               my
               Dear
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             A
             Pastoral
             Courtship
             .
          
           
             
               COme
               ,
               my
               Dear
               Love
               ,
               into
               this
               Grove
               ,
            
             
               This
               Paradise
               shall
               cover
            
             
               The
               secret
               Pleasures
               of
               our
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Which
               we
               will
               here
               discover
               .
            
          
           
             
               See
               how
               the
               Trees
               do
               bend
               their
               Boughs
               ,
            
             
               And
               silent
               murmuring
               make
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               the
               inviting
               Shade
               allows
            
             
               A
               place
               to
               recreate
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               The
               pleasant
               Birds
               do
               sit
               and
               sing
               ,
            
             
               No
               cause
               of
               sorrow
               's
               here
               ,
            
             
               Here
               nothing
               lurks
               will
               terror
               bring
            
             
               To
               Hare
               or
               timerous
               Deer
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               pretty
               cooing
               Turtles
               take
            
             
               This
               place
               for
               their
               delight
               ,
            
             
               And
               an
               inviting
               moaning
               make
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               fear
               the
               ravenous
               Kite
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               all
               stand
               wond'ring
               and
               admire
            
             
               That
               we
               delay
               so
               long
               ,
            
             
               The
               gentle
               Choire
               of
               Birds
               conspire
            
             
               To
               please
               us
               with
               a
               Song
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               why
               so
               coy
               ?
               thou
               needst
               not
               fear
               ,
            
             
               No
               danger
               's
               in
               this
               Grove
               ,
            
             
               Venus
               her self
               did
               here
               enjoy
            
             
               The
               Pleasures
               of
               her
               love
               .
            
          
           
             
               Come
               let
               me
               kiss
               those
               Lips
               ,
               those
               Eyes
            
             
               That
               Captivate
               my
               Heart
               ,
            
             
               And
               are
               to
               me
               a
               Paradise
            
             
               Beyond
               the
               power
               of
               Art.
               
            
          
           
             
               O
               let
               me
               touch
               those
               milk-white
               Breasts
               ,
            
             
               Which
               like
               the
               Alps
               appear
               ,
            
             
               Which
               never
               yet
               fond
               Love
               hath
               prest
            
             
               To
               make
               his
               Vintage
               there
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Come
               let
               that
               Belly
               ,
               which
               might
               well
            
             
               A
               Stoick's
               courage
               move
               ,
            
             
               Which
               does
               so
               far
               ,
               dear
               Love
               ,
               excel
               ,
            
             
               Receive
               the
               stamp
               of
               Love.
               
            
          
           
             
               So
               ,
               do
               not
               blush
               ,
               the
               buding
               Rose
            
             
               That
               hangs
               upon
               the
               Tree
               ,
            
             
               Retains
               his
               glory
               ,
               though
               the
               Nose
            
             
               Has
               ravisht
               its
               Virginity
               .
            
          
           
             
               Come
               do
               not
               grieve
               ,
               thou
               needst
               not
               fear
               ,
            
             
               This
               place
               will
               all
               conceal
               ,
            
             
               There
               's
               none
               can
               know
               what
               we
               did
               here
               ,
            
             
               Our
               Pleasures
               to
               reveal
               .
            
          
           
             
               Nor
               does
               thy
               Angels
               Beauty
               seem
            
             
               Less
               lovely
               than
               before
               ,
            
             
               For
               then
               thy
               Face
               but
               here
               and
               there
            
             
               A
               little
               Cupid
               bore
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               now
               ten
               thousand
               Cupids
               crown
            
             
               That
               heavenly
               Face
               of
               thine
            
             
               Angellick
               Essence
               flowing
               down
            
             
               Has
               made
               thee
               quite
               Divine
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Therefore
               each
               day
               we
               'll
               try
               the
               Power
            
             
               What
               charms
               of
               Love
               can
               do
               ,
            
             
               And
               create
               Pleasures
               for
               each
               Hour
               ,
            
             
               Until
               the
               Gods
               shall
               sue
               ,
            
             
               My
               Joy
               ,
               my
               Paradise
               ,
               to
               Worship
               you
               .
            
          
           
             
               
                 Ite
                 triumphales
                 circum
                 mea
                 tempora
                 lauri
              
               
                 Vicimus
                 ,
                 in
                 nostro
                 est
                 ecce
                 Corinna
                 sinu
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             An
             Epitaph
             .
          
           
             ALas
             ,
             poor
             Infant
             !
             Death
             was
             too
             severe
             ,
          
           
             O're
             such
             small
             Bones
             to
             raise
             a
             Trophy
             here
             .
          
           
             Merciless
             Tyrant
             ,
             thus
             for
             to
             bereave
          
           
             Thee
             of
             thy
             life
             ,
             scarce
             giving
             time
             to
             Breath
             .
          
           
             Thou
             wert
             a
             Gem
             ,
             as
             quickly
             lost
             as
             found
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             Life
             and
             Death
             was
             in
             one
             Volumn
             bound
             .
          
           
             If
             Prayers
             and
             Tears
             cou'd
             have
             preserv'd
             thy
             Breath
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             yet
             hadst
             liv'd
             triumphant
             over
             Death
             .
          
           
             But
             thou
             wert
             snatch'd
             away
             ,
             thy
             rising
             Sun
          
           
             Finish'd
             its
             Course
             e're
             it
             had
             scarce
             begun
             ;
          
           
             And
             we
             in
             darkness
             mourn
             ,
             yet
             we
             can
             see
          
           
             The
             Hand
             that
             cuts
             the
             Twig
             may
             fell
             the
             Tree
             .
          
           
             Sweet
             Fruits
             soon
             drop
             ,
             but
             those
             that
             longer
             last
          
           
             Always
             do
             relish
             with
             a
             sower
             taste
             .
          
           
             
               
                 Optima
                 prima
                 fere
                 manibus
                 rapiuntur
                 avaris
              
               
                 Implentur
                 numeris
                 deteriora
                 suis.
                 
              
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Syrens
             Song
             .
          
           
             
               YE
               Powers
               above
               ,
               and
               ye
               Celestial
               ones
               ,
            
             
               We
               Sirens
               sing
               a
               doleful
               Lullaby
            
             
               To
               those
               who
               by
               our
               false
               inchanting
               Tones
               ,
            
             
               We
               draw
               to
               hear
               our
               pleasant
               Harmony
               .
            
          
           
             
               No
               Ulyssean
               stratagem
               nor
               skill
            
             
               Can
               save
               poor
               Mariners
               that
               coast
               our
               way
               ,
            
             
               But
               with
               Inchanting
               Notes
               we
               please
               and
               kill
            
             
               Who
               on
               our
               Road
               to
               hear
               our
               voice
               do
               stray
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               Women-like
               ,
               our
               Tongue
               can
               play
               its
               part
               ;
            
             
               Whilst
               like
               to
               Deities
               wee
               seem
               to
               be
               ,
            
             
               At
               the
               same
               instant
               we
               can
               by
               our
               Art
               ,
            
             
               Read
               to
               poor
               Mariners
               their
               Destiny
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             An
             Elegie
             on
             the
             Death
             of
             that
             Noble
             and
             Renowned
             Gentleman
             ,
             Collonel
             
               Simon
               Lambert
            
             ,
             of
             the
             Island
             of
             the
             Barbadoes
             .
          
           
             
               Dignum
               laude
               virum
               musa
               vetat
               mori
               .
            
          
           
             BEfore
             some
             Famine
             ,
             Pestilence
             ,
             or
             War
             ,
          
           
             Or
             Monarchs
             Death
             ,
             Heaven
             sends
             a
             blazing
             Star
             ,
          
           
             To
             let
             us
             know
             not
             what
             to
             hope
             ,
             but
             fear
             ,
          
           
             When
             such
             Portents
             his
             Messengers
             appear
             .
          
           
             And
             can
             great
             Lambert
             dye
             ,
             and
             Nature
             show
          
           
             No
             sign
             ,
             so
             great
             a
             ruine
             to
             forego
             ?
          
           
             Had
             I
             beheld
             th'
             Illustrious
             Prince
             of
             Light
          
           
             Resign
             his
             glorious
             Rays
             to
             sable
             Night
             ,
          
           
             And
             some
             bright
             Constellation
             fall
             from
             thence
             ,
          
           
             I
             instantly
             shou'd
             have
             inferr'd
             from
             hence
          
           
             Our
             certain
             loss
             ,
             and
             boldly
             wou'd
             have
             said
             ,
          
           
             The
             Heavens
             declare
             that
             vertuous
             
             Lambert's
             dead
             .
          
           
             But
             none
             of
             these
             presented
             to
             our
             view
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             that
             he
             's
             dead
             ,
             we
             know
             to
             be
             too
             true
             .
          
           
             Let
             us
             consider
             then
             what
             loss
             we
             have
             ,
          
           
             And
             what
             great
             Vertue
             's
             buried
             in
             his
             Grave
             :
          
           
             For
             we
             lament
             no
             shrub
             that
             was
             but
             small
             ,
          
           
             But
             grieve
             to
             see
             this
             stately
             Cedar's
             fall
             .
          
           
           
             Beneath
             whose
             spreading
             Branches
             ,
             whilest
             it
             stood
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             it
             did
             flourish
             like
             a
             verdant
             Wood
             ,
          
           
             We
             did
             enjoy
             all
             that
             was
             just
             and
             good
             .
          
           
             Great
             Ionathan
             ,
             a
             Witness
             thou
             may'st
             be
             ,
          
           
             He
             liv'd
             to
             serve
             his
             Sovereign
             and
             thee
             .
          
           
             He
             was
             no
             gilded
             Image
             ,
             that
             did
             show
          
           
             A
             Glorious
             outside
             ,
             and
             did
             nothing
             know
             :
          
           
             But
             he
             in
             every
             part
             was
             so
             compleat
             ,
          
           
             As
             shew'd
             that
             he
             was
             wise
             ,
             as
             well
             as
             great
             .
          
           
             Among
             the
             Best
             ,
             he
             Noblest
             was
             ,
             and
             where
          
           
             The
             Noblest
             were
             ,
             there
             he
             did
             Best
             appear
             .
          
           
             Mercy
             and
             Justice
             both
             did
             in
             him
             dwell
             ,
          
           
             And
             each
             did
             strive
             which
             shou'd
             in
             him
             excell
             .
          
           
             He
             ,
             like
             another
             Atlas
             ,
             did
             sustain
          
           
             This
             Islands
             burthen
             ,
             with
             
             Minerva's
             Brain
             ;
          
           
             And
             in
             each
             Exigent
             he
             did
             advise
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             that
             he
             had
             seen
             with
             Argus
             Eyes
             .
          
           
             In
             sum
             ,
             Each
             action
             has
             deserv'd
             Renown
             ,
          
           
             For
             which
             he
             shall
             receive
             a
             Heavenly
             Crown
             ,
          
           
             And
             sing
             with
             Angels
             in
             that
             Heavenly
             Choire
             ,
          
           
             To
             which
             his
             Righteous
             Soul
             did
             still
             aspire
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             Madam
             Lambert
             .
          
           
             NOW
             ,
             Madam
             ,
             since
             you
             have
             sustain'd
             a
             loss
             ,
          
           
             Which
             all
             the
             pleasures
             of
             your
             Life
             may
             cross
             ;
          
           
           
             And
             such
             a
             loss
             as
             doth
             all
             loss
             exceed
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             very
             name
             may
             make
             your
             heart
             to
             bleed
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             comfort
             take
             ,
             since
             he
             is
             gone
             before
             ,
          
           
             To
             wait
             your
             coming
             at
             the
             Heavenly
             Door
             ;
          
           
             Where
             you
             shall
             enter
             an
             Immortal
             Bride
             ,
          
           
             With
             Saints
             and
             Angels
             to
             be
             glorify'd
             .
          
           
             Nor
             let
             it
             be
             a
             grief
             that
             you
             have
             none
          
           
             To
             pattern
             your
             dead
             Lord
             ,
             I
             mean
             ,
             a
             Son
             :
          
           
             His
             Vertues
             have
             immortaliz'd
             his
             name
             ,
          
           
             And
             still
             he
             lives
             in
             a
             perennal
             Fame
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             Epitaph
             .
             An
             Acrostick
             .
          
           
             
               Strong
               Monuments
               of
               Wood
               ,
               Marble
               ,
               or
               Brass
               ,
            
             
               In
               time
               time
               decay
               and
               into
               Ruines
               pass
               ;
            
             
               Making
               a
               mock
               of
               all
               that
               Pomp
               and
               Pride
               ,
            
             
               On
               which
               the
               hopes
               of
               Fame
               has
               still
               rely'd
               .
            
             
               Note
               here
               a
               President
               did
               know
               full
               well
               ,
            
          
           
             
               Life
               justly
               led
               all
               Monuments
               excel
               .
            
             
               A
               Person
               of
               such
               great
               Desert
               and
               Fame
               ,
            
             
               Might
               all
               the
               highest
               worths
               of
               Honour
               Claim
               ;
            
             
               By
               which
               he
               to
               himself
               has
               been
               so
               kind
               ,
            
             
               Eternal
               Monuments
               to
               leave
               behind
               .
            
             
               Reader
               ,
               who-e're
               thou
               art
               ,
               believe
               thus
               much
               ,
            
             
               This
               Island
               scarce
               can
               find
               another
               such
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             On
             my
             Ladies
             Lap-Dog
             .
          
           
             LElaps
             ,
             my
             Ladys
             Dog
             ,
             must
             sit
             at
             Meat
             ,
          
           
             And
             be
             her
             Taster
             ,
             e're
             my
             Lady'l
             eat
             :
          
           
             The
             choicest
             bits
             the
             Table
             can
             afford
             ,
          
           
             My
             Lady
             cuts
             ,
             and
             gives
             them
             to
             her
             —
          
           
             And
             many
             a
             lick
             his
             Curship
             gives
             my
             Lady
             ,
          
           
             Who
             cries
             ,
             Poor
             Creature
             ,
             he
             's
             as
             kind
             as
             may
             be
             ▪
          
           
             And
             when
             't
             is
             Night
             ,
             e're
             she
             can
             take
             her
             rest
             ,
          
           
             My
             Lady
             calls
             for
             that
             which
             she
             loves
             best
             .
          
           
             Her
             pretty
             Dog
             is
             all
             my
             Lady's
             care
             ;
          
           
             I
             smell
             a
             Rat
             ,
             Madam
             ,
             you
             'd
             best
             beware
             .
          
           
             All
             Night
             she
             folds
             him
             in
             her
             Arms
             ,
             the
             Cur
             ,
          
           
             Perchance
             ,
             may
             fare
             the
             worse
             for
             loving
             her
             .
          
           
             He
             's
             slick
             and
             sporting
             ,
             who
             can
             chuse
             but
             doat
          
           
             On
             that
             which
             lies
             under
             a
             Ladis
             Coat
             ?
          
           
             But
             why
             a
             Dog
             ?
             Cannot
             my
             Lady
             find
          
           
             Some
             spruce
             young
             Gallant
             that
             will
             please
             her
             mind
             ?
          
           
             Is
             Earth
             so
             barren
             ,
             can
             it
             not
             afford
          
           
             Something
             will
             better
             personate
             a
             Lord
             ?
          
           
             Yet
             't
             is
             the
             mode
             ,
             I
             grant
             it
             ,
             so
             you
             keep
          
           
             Your
             Dogs
             to
             watch
             ,
             whilst
             ,
             Madam
             ,
             you
             do
             sleep
             .
          
           
             However
             ,
             we
             'd
             suppose
             this
             done
             for
             fashion
             ,
          
           
             Did
             not
             your
             actions
             shew
             too
             much
             of
             Passion
             :
          
           
             For
             't
             gives
             suspition
             unto
             every
             Guest
             ,
          
           
             To
             see
             a
             Christian
             serv'd
             after
             a
             Beast
             .
          
           
           
             Her
             Plea
             is
             Innocence
             ;
             yes
             ,
             in
             this
             sense
             ,
          
           
             A
             kind
             of
             dogged
             brutish
             Innocence
             ,
          
           
             And
             Pretty
             :
             May
             be
             so
             ,
             Nature
             ,
             thou'
             rt
             wise
             ,
          
           
             In
             giving
             Ladies
             such
             perspicuous
             Eyes
             .
          
           
             When
             first
             I
             saw
             him
             lying
             on
             her
             Bed
             ,
          
           
             I
             could
             have
             left
             him
             shorter
             by
             his
             Head
             ,
          
           
             For
             all
             his
             Beauty
             ;
             nor
             yet
             cou'd
             I
             find
          
           
             One
             part
             more
             rare
             in
             him
             than
             all
             his
             Kind
             .
          
           
             And
             yet
             she
             doats
             upon
             this
             ugly
             Cur
             ;
          
           
             He
             and
             my
             Lady
             't
             is
             keeps
             all
             the
             stir
             .
          
           
             Many
             do
             think
             the
             Dog
             is
             too
             obscene
             ,
          
           
             Or
             what
             the
             Devil
             shou'd
             my
             Lady
             mean
             ?
          
        
         
           
             De
             Leone
             &
             Lepore
             ,
             e
             Martial
             .
          
           
             WHat
             makes
             the
             trembling
             Hare
             the
             Lyon
             fly
          
           
             Thy
             death
             agrees
             not
             with
             his
             Majesty
             .
          
           
             A
             nobler
             Object
             doth
             his
             rage
             possess
             ,
          
           
             And
             thou
             by
             flying
             makes
             his
             Glory
             less
             :
          
           
             His
             Hunger
             is
             asswag'd
             by
             blood
             of
             Bears
             ,
          
           
             And
             mighty
             Bulls
             he
             in
             his
             anger
             tears
             .
          
           
             The
             choicest
             Stag
             the
             Coverts
             can
             afford
             ,
          
           
             Is
             made
             a
             Dish
             to
             serve
             the
             Forests
             Lord
          
           
             Dogs
             prey
             on
             Hares
             .
             Let
             not
             the
             Irish
             Boy
          
           
             Fear
             mighty
             Charles
             will
             his
             base
             Youth
             destroy
          
        
         
           
           
             To
             the
             Worshipful
             
               Jonathan
               Atkins
            
             ,
             Knight
             ,
             Governour
             of
             the
             Island
             of
             the
             Barbadoes
             .
          
           
             WHat
             ails
             the
             Poet
             ?
             What
             a
             new
             desire
          
           
             Inflames
             his
             Heart
             ,
             and
             doth
             his
             Soul
             inspire
             ,
          
           
             With
             emulous
             Notes
             to
             touch
             
             Apollo's
             Lyre
             ?
          
           
             'T
             is
             you
             ,
             dear
             Sir
             ,
             as
             great
             by
             Birth
             as
             Fame
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             Merit
             and
             true
             Honour
             gives
             a
             Name
             ;
          
           
             Who
             Heaven
             (
             Great
             Soul
             )
             did
             send
             for
             to
             revive
          
           
             This
             drooping
             Island
             ,
             and
             to
             keep
             alive
          
           
             Those
             who
             Oppression
             did
             before
             enslave
             ,
          
           
             And
             Cruelty
             deject
             unto
             the
             Grave
             .
          
           
             You
             are
             the
             Subject
             of
             my
             Verse
             ,
             to
             you
          
           
             All
             the
             Encomiums
             of
             our
             Praise
             is
             due
             .
          
           
             Astroea
             now
             appears
             with
             Heavenly
             Grace
             ,
          
           
             And
             banish'd
             Justice
             re-assumes
             her
             place
             .
          
           
             The
             course
             of
             things
             are
             chang'd
             ,
             and
             we
             are
             now
          
           
             No
             more
             deceiv'd
             by
             Ianus
             double
             brow
             .
          
           
             Blest
             Halcyon
             days
             ,
             and
             you
             that
             made
             them
             so
             !
          
           
             Unto
             what
             Land
             soever
             I
             shall
             go
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Memory
             I
             'll
             strive
             for
             to
             display
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             Phoebus
             with
             his
             Beams
             adorns
             the
             day
             .
          
           
             But
             yet
             methinks
             I
             hear
             some
             say
             ,
             Where
             's
             he
          
           
             Dares
             contradict
             us
             in
             our
             Seigniory
             ,
          
           
             And
             tax
             our
             actions
             ?
             Come
             ,
             and
             you
             shall
             see
          
           
             One
             fam'd
             for
             Justice
             ,
             Mercy
             ,
             Piety
             ;
          
           
           
             VVhose
             Eye
             no
             diff'rence
             knows
             between
             the
             poor
             ,
          
           
             And
             him
             whose
             laden
             Ships
             can
             hold
             no
             more
             ;
          
           
             VVhose
             actions
             Justice
             guides
             ,
             for
             in
             each
             Hand
          
           
             The
             Sword
             and
             Balance
             equally
             do
             stand
             .
          
           
             Here
             's
             no
             Perversion
             ;
             here
             's
             the
             Motto
             too
             ,
          
           
             
               Give
               God
               and
            
             Caesar
             
               equally
               their
               due
            
             .
          
           
             O
             glorious
             Sun-shine
             of
             this
             Western
             Isle
             ,
          
           
             VVhat
             noble
             Appellation
             ,
             or
             what
             Stile
          
           
             Befits
             thy
             Praise
             ?
             Or
             how
             can
             we
             express
          
           
             Our
             Joy
             ,
             your
             Bounty
             ,
             and
             our
             Happiness
             ?
          
           
             VVhose
             liberal
             hand
             bestows
             ,
             e're
             we
             can
             think
             ,
          
           
             Whole
             Bowls
             of
             Blessings
             ,
             fill'd
             up
             to
             the
             brink
             ,
          
           
             Beyond
             our
             hopes
             :
             Yet
             thus
             the
             Powers
             we
             serve
          
           
             Are
             wont
             for
             to
             reward
             ,
             e're
             we
             deserve
             .
          
           
             O
             thou
             great
             Author
             of
             all
             earthly
             things
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             hand
             deposes
             Princes
             ,
             throws
             down
             Kings
             ▪
          
           
             Who
             view'st
             from
             thy
             Olympick
             Throne
             the
             State
             ,
          
           
             And
             actions
             of
             each
             mighty
             Potentate
             ;
          
           
             VVho
             rules
             the
             worlds
             vast
             Frame
             ,
             O
             Crown
             the
             days
          
           
             Of
             our
             blest
             Ionathan
             with
             living
             Bays
             ;
          
           
             And
             that
             his
             Progeny
             may
             ever
             live
             ,
          
           
             Propitious
             Heavens
             ,
             grant
             ,
             as
             I
             believe
             .
          
           
             First
             shall
             the
             liquid
             VVaters
             cease
             to
             flow
             ,
          
           
             The
             Earth
             to
             cause
             both
             Plants
             and
             Trees
             to
             grow
             ▪
          
           
             Heavens
             radiant
             Monarch
             shall
             deny
             his
             light
             ,
          
           
             The
             Machine
             of
             the
             VVorld
             involv'd
             in
             Night
             ;
          
           
           
             The
             Lamb
             shall
             slay
             the
             Lyon
             ,
             and
             the
             Hare
          
           
             Of
             the
             swift
             Hound
             no
             more
             shall
             stand
             in
             fear
             ;
          
           
             The
             Eagle
             court
             the
             Dove
             ,
             and
             all
             things
             be
          
           
             In
             Sympathie
             with
             their
             Antipathie
             :
          
           
             'T
             is
             then
             ,
             and
             not
             till
             then
             ,
             my
             Pen
             shall
             stay
             ,
          
           
             And
             strive
             no
             more
             your
             Glory
             to
             display
             ;
          
           
             Which
             like
             the
             Sun
             in
             his
             Meridian
             height
             ,
          
           
             Cheers
             the
             whole
             World
             with
             his
             illustrious
             Light.
             
          
           
             
               
                 Ante
                 leves
                 ergo
                 pascentur
                 in
                 oethere
                 cervi
                 ,
                 &c.
              
               
                 Quam
                 nostro
                 illius
                 labatur
                 pectore
                 vultus
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Lovers
             Greeting
             .
          
           
             
               WHen
               bald-pate
               Winter
               ,
               with
               his
               hoary
               head
               ,
            
             
               By
               the
               Springs
               kind
               aspect
               was
               vanquished
               ;
            
             
               When
               sturdy
               Boreas
               Storms
               were
               over
               past
               ,
            
             
               And
               milder
               Zeph'rus
               breath'd
               his
               gentle
               blast
               ;
            
             
               In
               pleasant
               May
               ,
               when
               Flora
               did
               invest
            
             
               The
               Fields
               with
               green
               ,
               and
               shady
               Coverts
               blest
               ;
            
             
               When
               ev'ry
               where
               the
               bright
               refulgent
               beams
            
             
               Of
               glorious
               Titan
               shin'd
               upon
               the
               streams
            
             
               Of
               gliding
               Crystal
               Floods
               ,
               whose
               waving
               pace
            
             
               Seem'd
               as
               it
               were
               to
               emulate
               with
               Grace
            
             
               The
               various
               Clouds
               ,
               and
               gladly
               to
               invite
            
             
               Faint-hearted
               Lovers
               to
               their
               dear
               delight
               .
            
             
               It
               was
               my
               chance
               to
               meet
               my
               dearest
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Who
               ,
               Gods
               you
               know
               ,
               I
               do
               esteem
               above
            
             
             
               All
               earthly
               Treasures
               ,
               and
               to
               me
               what-e're
            
             
               Under
               both
               Polls
               can
               be
               accounted
               fair
               .
            
             
               I
               came
               (
               and
               with
               a
               modest
               pace
               )
               and
               bent
            
             
               My
               tim'rous
               body
               ,
               full
               of
               discontent
               ,
            
             
               And
               at
               her
               feet
               (
               who
               the
               great
               Gods
               above
            
             
               Can
               testifie
               ,
               I
               do
               sincerely
               love
               )
            
             
               I
               prostrate
               fell
               ,
               thinking
               thereby
               to
               gain
            
             
               One
               loving
               smile
               ,
               but
               it
               was
               all
               in
               vain
               .
            
             
               For
               ,
               O
               my
               cruel
               Fate
               ,
               at
               the
               first
               view
            
             
               Her
               smiling
               Countenance
               my
               Love
               withdrew
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               an
               ireful
               look
               she
               cast
               her
               Eye
               ,
            
             
               Bending
               her
               brows
               ,
               now
               full
               of
               Tyranny
               .
            
             
               So
               have
               I
               seen
               when
               Phoebus
               in
               his
               might
               ,
            
             
               Shoots
               forth
               his
               glorious
               Raies
               ,
               whose
               shining
               light
            
             
               Doth
               dazle
               all
               Mens
               Eyes
               ;
               yet
               by
               and
               by
            
             
               An
               envious
               Cloud
               doth
               hide
               him
               from
               our
               Eye
               .
            
             
               But
               all
               this
               time
               I
               stood
               amaz'd
               ,
               nor
               knew
            
             
               To
               bear
               those
               sudden
               storms
               of
               frowns
               she
               threw
               ▪
            
             
               Just
               as
               when
               Iove
               doth
               thunder
               in
               the
               Sky
               ,
            
             
               The
               amaz'd
               beholder
               ,
               ready
               for
               to
               dye
               ,
            
             
               Trembles
               and
               shakes
               ,
               not
               knowing
               how
               to
               free
            
             
               Himself
               from
               danger
               that
               he
               's
               forc'd
               to
               see
               .
            
             
               Yet
               at
               the
               last
               ,
               when
               I
               cou'd
               nought
               perceive
            
             
               That
               might
               at
               all
               my
               tim'rous
               heart
               relieve
               ,
            
             
               Like
               a
               bold
               Soldier
               ,
               mad
               ,
               with
               desp'rate
               Fate
               ,
            
             
               Resolv'd
               my
               cruel
               Fortune
               to
               abate
               ,
            
             
               And
               give
               the
               Onset
               with
               a
               Heart
               that
               's
               free
            
             
               From
               Fear
               ,
               or
               any
               such
               base
               ignomy
               .
            
             
               I
               tried
               a
               thousand
               ways
               ,
               but
               all
               in
               vain
               ▪
            
             
               Still
               what
               I
               did
               ,
               did
               more
               increase
               my
               Flame
               .
            
             
             
               Ah
               cruel
               Nymph
               ,
               abate
               your
               high
               disdain
               ,
            
             
               And
               grant
               me
               Love
               to
               mitigate
               my
               pain
               ;
            
             
               Which
               if
               you
               do
               deny
               ,
               for
               my
               relief
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               Death
               shall
               ease
               the
               burthen
               of
               my
               grief
               .
            
          
           
             
               
                 Sui
                 minus
                 est
                 animus
                 nobis
                 effundere
                 vitam
              
               
                 In
                 me
                 crudelis
                 non
                 potes
                 esse
                 diu
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Farewell
               to
               Pleasure
               and
               to
               fond
               Delight
               ,
            
             
               Farewel
               those
               thoughts
               which
               an
               unconstant
               mind
            
             
               Is
               still
               perplext
               with
               ,
               pond'ring
               in
               the
               Night
               ,
            
             
               For
               what
               his
               wearied
               Lust
               can
               never
               find
               ;
            
             
               His
               Rage
               is
               blind
               ,
            
             
               And
               he
               far
               more
               unconstant
               than
               the
               Wind.
               
            
          
           
             
               When
               I
               but
               think
               how
               my
               disorder'd
               Heart
            
             
               Has
               by
               the
               motion
               of
               one
               flatt'ring
               look
               ,
            
             
               By
               that
               detested
               ,
               vile
               and
               cursed
               Art
               ,
            
             
               Venus
               ,
               I
               mean
               thy
               subtle
               tempting
               Hook
               ,
            
             
               Been
               tamely
               took
               ;
            
             
               Thus
               tempting
               Toys
               make
               Children
               leave
               their
               Book
               .
            
          
           
             
               O
               then
               those
               Charms
               that
               did
               my
               Heart
               controll
               ,
            
             
               Burst
               in
               a
               Fury
               from
               my
               swelter'd
               Brest
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               disorder'd
               passions
               of
               my
               Soul
            
             
               Their
               damn'd
               and
               treach'rous
               ways
               does
               so
               detest
               ,
            
             
               That
               over-prest
               ,
            
             
               My
               weary'd
               mind
               is
               robb'd
               of
               all
               its
               rest
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             On
             Clelia's
             Sore
             Eyes
             .
          
           
             WHat
             makes
             the
             Frontiers
             of
             the
             sable
             night
          
           
             Display
             their
             Mists
             ,
             and
             thus
             expel
             the
             light
             ?
          
           
             Dire
             Queen
             of
             Shades
             ,
             what
             power
             ,
             as
             yet
             unknown
             ,
          
           
             Hast
             thou
             assum'd
             ,
             that
             's
             stronger
             than
             thy
             own
             ?
          
           
             These
             sable
             Mists
             are
             worse
             than
             those
             that
             fell
          
           
             On
             impious
             Pharaoh
             for
             an
             Israel
             :
          
           
             For
             but
             a
             time
             those
             dismal
             Clouds
             did
             stay
             ,
          
           
             Which
             gave
             a
             greater
             welcom
             to
             the
             day
             .
          
           
             But
             now
             the
             Gods
             ,
             the
             angry
             Gods
             ,
             I
             find
             ,
          
           
             All
             human
             kind
             has
             at
             one
             stroke
             struck
             blind
             ,
          
           
             And
             rob'd
             the
             World
             of
             Glory
             in
             its
             height
             ,
          
           
             Having
             eclipst
             its
             main
             and
             greatest
             light
             :
          
           
             And
             now
             ,
             alas
             !
             muffl'd
             in
             Clouds
             ,
             it
             lies
          
           
             Groping
             in
             darkness
             ,
             robb'd
             of
             both
             its
             Eyes
             :
          
           
             Nor
             can
             we
             hope
             our
             Fate
             for
             to
             reverse
             ,
          
           
             But
             are
             like
             mourners
             drooping
             o're
             a
             Hearse
             ,
          
           
             Till
             in
             your
             Eyes
             ,
             your
             Eyes
             ,
             we
             may
             behold
          
           
             Beauty
             enthron'd
             ,
             more
             bright
             than
             burnisht
             Gold
             ,
          
           
             Which
             now
             is
             hid
             ,
             and
             doth
             obscurely
             lye
             ,
          
           
             As
             pearls
             i'
             th'
             Oceans
             vast
             profundity
             .
          
           
             But
             sure
             the
             mighty
             Pow'rs
             had
             some
             design
             ,
          
           
             And
             our
             neglect
             of
             you
             they
             thought
             a
             Crime
             ;
          
           
             And
             took
             from
             us
             ,
             what
             we
             as
             slightly
             prize
          
           
             As
             Indians
             Gold
             ,
             and
             precious
             Treasuries
             ;
          
           
             And
             now
             think
             sit
             ,
             lest
             by
             those
             Stars
             we
             fall
             ,
          
           
             And
             so
             receive
             a
             gen'ral
             Funeral
             ,
          
           
           
             For
             to
             restore
             us
             by
             degrees
             those
             Eyes
             ,
          
           
             Which
             else
             would
             make
             mankind
             a
             sacrifice
             ;
          
           
             As
             Men
             not
             quite
             recover'd
             of
             their
             sight
             ,
          
           
             Do
             lose
             the
             same
             by
             the
             excess
             of
             light
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             Dream
             .
          
           
             TEll
             me
             ,
             thou
             pale-fac'd
             Empress
             of
             the
             Night
             ,
          
           
             What
             horrid
             terror
             did
             my
             mind
             affright
             .
          
           
             I
             saw
             ,
             and
             in
             a
             Dream
             a
             Damsel
             stood
          
           
             Before
             me
             trembling
             ,
             all
             besmear'd
             with
             Blood.
          
           
             In
             her
             right
             Hand
             a
             wither'd
             Branch
             she
             had
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             a
             sable
             Veil
             her
             Brows
             were
             clad
             ;
          
           
             And
             to
             her self
             she
             mourning
             seem'd
             to
             say
             ,
          
           
             'T
             was
             love
             ,
             alas
             !
             fond
             Girl
             ,
             did
             thee
             betray
             .
          
           
             And
             so
             she
             vanish'd
             .
             Then
             I
             heard
             a
             cry
             .
          
           
             Of
             a
             lost
             Damsel
             ,
             at
             the
             point
             to
             die
             .
          
           
             Her
             latest
             Breath
             did
             on
             Narcissus
             call
             ,
          
           
             Cruel
             Narcissus
             ,
             cruel
             in
             my
             fall
             .
          
           
             For
             thee
             I
             did
             honour
             and
             life
             forsake
             ,
          
           
             And
             gave
             thee
             Love
             ,
             which
             thou
             refus'd
             to
             take
             ;
          
           
             For
             thee
             I
             did
             Philanders
             Love
             despise
             ,
          
           
             Who
             now
             may
             glory
             at
             my
             injuries
             .
          
           
             Her
             other
             words
             she
             did
             in
             Tears
             confound
             ,
          
           
             Abruptly
             mangled
             in
             a
             dying
             sound
             .
          
           
             With
             that
             I
             shrunk
             ,
             and
             sudain
             terror
             prest
          
           
             My
             melting
             Heart
             in
             my
             molested
             Breast
             ;
          
           
             I
             ponder'd
             in
             my
             mind
             ,
             at
             length
             I
             knew
          
           
             The
             voice
             was
             Phillis
             ,
             that
             her self
             had
             slew
             ;
          
           
           
             And
             art
             thou
             dead
             ,
             said
             I
             ,
             false
             unto
             me
             ?
          
           
             His
             hate
             's
             a
             just
             reward
             of
             Perjury
             .
          
           
             But
             O
             that
             yet
             my
             life
             cou'd
             thine
             redeem
             ,
          
           
             My
             Soul
             shou'd
             vanish
             as
             of
             no
             esteem
             :
          
           
             O
             cruelty
             !
             what
             made
             thee
             so
             unkind
             ,
          
           
             To
             kill
             the
             Joy
             ,
             and
             Darling
             of
             Mankind
             ?
          
           
             And
             since
             thy
             Death
             by
             Pen
             can't
             be
             exprest
             ,
          
           
             I
             'le
             write
             thy
             Elegie
             upon
             my
             Breast
             .
          
           
             But
             snatching
             at
             my
             Sword
             ,
             a
             Hand
             was
             sent
             ,
          
           
             My
             suden
             Execution
             to
             prevent
             ;
          
           
             And
             Phillis
             ,
             who
             before
             I
             thought
             was
             dead
             ,
          
           
             Appear'd
             ,
             and
             with
             a
             Garland
             Crown'd
             my
             Head
             ,
          
           
             And
             told
             me
             death
             had
             not
             the
             power
             to
             sever
          
           
             Two
             Hands
             ,
             two
             Hearts
             ,
             that
             must
             be
             joyn'd
             for
             ever
             .
          
           
             Then
             waking
             suddenly
             ,
             I
             knew
             the
             Theam
          
           
             Was
             my
             molested
             fancy
             in
             a
             Dream
             .
          
           
             Even
             when
             I
             wake
             or
             sleep
             thou'
             rt
             in
             my
             mind
             ,
          
           
             Unconstant
             Phillis
             ,
             cruel
             ,
             and
             unkind
             .
          
           
             
               
                 Omnia
                 qua
                 sensu
                 volvuntur
                 vota
                 diurno
                 ,
              
               
                 Tempore
                 nocturno
                 reddit
                 amica
                 quies
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
           
             An
             Elegie
             on
             the
             Death
             of
             his
             very
             good
             Friend
             Mr.
             
               Edward
               Lynch
            
             ,
             Buried
             in
             
               Salisbury
               Cathedral
            
             .
          
           
             ASist
             my
             Muse
             ,
             thou
             gravest
             of
             the
             Nine
             ,
          
           
             Melpomine
             ,
             assist
             ,
             and
             let
             Line
          
           
             Proceed
             from
             thy
             more
             solemn
             state
             ,
             which
             shall
          
           
             Attend
             the
             Rites
             of
             this
             sad
             Funeral
             .
          
           
             Shall
             then
             Eternal
             sleep
             rich
             minds
             repress
             ,
          
           
             And
             leave
             them
             only
             to
             enjoy
             their
             bliss
             ?
          
           
             And
             must
             their
             Names
             no
             more
             be
             thought
             upon
             ,
          
           
             Buried
             in
             silent
             Oblivion
             ?
          
           
             And
             with
             their
             Bodies
             must
             their
             Names
             be
             thrust
          
           
             Into
             the
             Earth
             ,
             and
             Buried
             in
             the
             Dust
             ?
          
           
             No
             ,
             no
             ,
             their
             Fame
             swift
             Time
             shall
             ne're
             devast
             ,
          
           
             But
             flourish
             still
             ,
             so
             long
             as
             Time
             shall
             last
             .
          
           
             Why
             then
             doth
             Death
             involve
             my
             Friend
             ,
             who
             sleeps
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             the
             Dust
             a
             silent
             Requiem
             keeps
             ?
          
           
             But
             that
             thy
             Name
             henceforth
             may
             never
             die
             ,
          
           
             I
             'l
             write
             in
             Verse
             thy
             mournful
             Elegie
             .
          
           
             Yet
             Ink's
             too
             black
             a
             Colour
             to
             infold
          
           
             Thy
             vertuous
             Name
             ,
             that
             shou'd
             be
             writ
             in
             Gold.
          
           
             That
             honor'd
             Marble
             that
             does
             bear
             thy
             Name
             ,
          
           
             Henceforth
             shall
             be
             Immortal
             by
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             Nor
             Time
             nor
             eating
             Age
             shall
             e're
             devour
          
           
             What
             bears
             th'
             Impression
             of
             so
             fair
             a
             Flower
             .
          
           
           
             When
             first
             my
             steps
             unto
             thy
             Grave
             drew
             nigh
             ,
          
           
             To
             pay
             my
             duty
             to
             thy
             memory
             ,
          
           
             The
             pious
             Marble
             thaw'd
             into
             a
             Tear
             ,
          
           
             As
             silently
             expressing
             thou
             wert
             there
             .
          
           
             The
             Marble
             Statues
             ,
             Bishops
             ,
             Prebends
             ,
             Lords
             ,
          
           
             And
             many
             other
             that
             the
             place
             affords
             ,
          
           
             Through
             stony
             Mantles
             wept
             their
             sufferings
             ,
          
           
             And
             seem'd
             to
             me
             like
             
             Arethusa's
             Springs
             .
          
           
             And
             may
             they
             ever
             weep
             ,
             for
             Piety
          
           
             Is
             seldom
             found
             among
             them
             till
             they
             dye
             .
          
           
             Who
             e're
             shall
             hear
             thy
             Name
             ,
             and
             shall
             not
             spend
          
           
             One
             Tear
             for
             thee
             ,
             unpitty'd
             be
             his
             end
             ,
          
           
             And
             may
             his
             Ghost
             do
             pennance
             at
             thy
             Grave
             ,
          
           
             Honor'd
             (
             though
             restless
             )
             such
             a
             Doom
             to
             have
             .
          
           
             Methinks
             I
             cou'd
             grow
             ang'ry
             with
             my
             Muse
             ,
          
           
             That
             shou'd
             at
             such
             a
             time
             her
             aid
             refuse
             ;
          
           
             But
             that
             she
             told
             me
             that
             her
             Lungs
             were
             weak
             ,
          
           
             And
             far
             unfit
             thy
             Praises
             for
             to
             speak
             ;
          
           
             And
             that
             whilst
             she
             thy
             Fame
             did
             strive
             t'
             express
             ,
          
           
             Her
             halting
             Numbers
             only
             made
             it
             less
             .
          
           
             We
             knew
             thy
             worth
             e're
             we
             discern'd
             thy
             Age
             ,
          
           
             And
             budding
             Glory
             gave
             a
             true
             presage
          
           
             Of
             what
             thou
             did'st
             ,
             and
             what
             thou
             would'st
             have
             done
             ,
          
           
             Had
             not
             thy
             rising
             ▪
             prov'd
             thy
             setting
             Sun.
          
           
             O
             cou'd
             I
             speak
             thy
             praise
             ,
             I
             would
             disperse
          
           
             Thy
             living
             Fame
             throughout
             the
             Universe
             :
          
           
             To
             tell
             thy
             worth
             ,
             how
             vert'ous
             and
             how
             wise
             ,
          
           
             In
             this
             I
             know
             none
             can
             Hyperbolise
             .
          
           
             Each
             of
             thy
             actions
             strove
             for
             to
             excell
             ,
          
           
             As
             rolling
             Waves
             which
             in
             the
             Ocean
             swell
             .
          
           
           
             My
             Muse
             ,
             in
             contemplation
             now
             of
             thee
             ,
          
           
             Has
             struck
             the
             Poet
             in
             an
             Ecstasie
             .
          
        
         
           
             Love
             Triumphant
             .
          
           
             T
             Was
             at
             the
             time
             when
             Phoebus
             with
             his
             Rayes
          
           
             The
             Universe
             with
             equal
             Beams
             serveys
             ;
          
           
             When
             Flocks
             and
             Heards
             to
             the
             cool
             Shades
             repair
             ,
          
           
             T'
             enjoy
             the
             Breezes
             of
             a
             cooler
             Air.
          
           
             I
             laid
             me
             down
             upon
             the
             Grass
             to
             rest
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             Loves
             fierce
             God
             inflam'd
             my
             tender
             Breast
             .
          
           
             Millions
             of
             thoughts
             I
             interweav'd
             with
             fears
             ,
          
           
             And
             my
             blest
             Saints
             Idea
             wash'd
             in
             Tears
             .
          
           
             Ah
             ,
             cruel
             Nymph
             ,
             said
             I
             ,
             what
             God
             unkind
          
           
             Hath
             with
             such
             Cruelty
             incens'd
             thy
             mind
             ?
          
           
             Lay
             by
             Ioves
             Flames
             ,
             Salmonean
             terrors
             fear
             ,
          
           
             Least
             you
             his
             Thunder
             and
             his
             Lightning
             bear
             .
          
           
             For
             that
             great
             God
             that
             rules
             the
             arched
             Skie
             ,
          
           
             Can
             ne're
             be
             pleas'd
             with
             acts
             of
             cruelty
             .
          
           
             But
             if
             you
             needs
             will
             take
             a
             Goddess
             form
             ,
          
           
             Which
             can
             your
             native
             Beauty
             nought
             adorn
             ,
          
           
             Take
             her
             whose
             milder
             form
             Mankind
             did
             move
          
           
             To
             honour
             and
             adore
             as
             Queen
             of
             Love.
          
           
             Thus
             shall
             you
             gain
             that
             honour
             that
             's
             your
             due
             ,
          
           
             And
             we
             take
             you
             for
             her
             ,
             or
             her
             for
             you
             .
          
           
             Thus
             whilst
             my
             mind
             passion
             toss'd
             too
             and
             fro
             ,
          
           
             As
             Waves
             by
             Winds
             which
             on
             the
             Ocean
             blow
             ,
          
           
             Behold
             my
             Clelia
             came
             ,
             and
             forward
             prest
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             the
             light
             Wind
             her
             lower
             Parts
             undrest
             ;
          
           
           
             Rich
             in
             Attire
             ,
             in
             Beauty
             richer
             far
             :
          
           
             Thus
             Venus
             us'd
             to
             court
             the
             God
             of
             War
             ;
          
           
             And
             thus
             themselves
             who
             in
             the
             Woods
             retire
             ,
          
           
             The
             Naides
             ,
             and
             Draydes
             attire
             .
          
           
             I
             silent
             lay
             ,
             as
             if
             with
             sleep
             opprest
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             her
             right
             Arm
             surrounds
             my
             willing
             Breast
             .
          
           
             I
             made
             return
             ,
             and
             often
             Clelia
             cry'd
             ,
          
           
             She
             who
             you
             seek
             is
             here
             ,
             she
             then
             reply'd
             ;
          
           
             With
             that
             I
             gave
             a
             start
             ,
             to
             let
             her
             know
          
           
             How
             great
             a
             passion
             in
             my
             Breast
             did
             slow
             ;
          
           
             She
             smil'd
             ,
             as
             something
             pleas'd
             to
             see
             me
             start
             ,
          
           
             And
             by
             my
             actions
             seem'd
             to
             know
             my
             Heart
             .
          
           
             Then
             ,
             as
             if
             newly
             risen
             from
             a
             trance
             ,
          
           
             Or
             death-like
             sleep
             ,
             I
             did
             my
             Head
             advance
             ,
          
           
             And
             mildly
             speak
             her
             thus
             ,
             Goddess
             most
             fair
             ,
          
           
             If
             you
             are
             come
             to
             comfort
             my
             despair
             ,
          
           
             You
             have
             nob'ly
             done
             ,
             taking
             that
             shape
             whereby
          
           
             You
             may
             at
             once
             deceive
             and
             please
             my
             Eye
             .
          
           
             But
             if
             you
             come
             for
             to
             deride
             my
             fear
             ,
          
           
             And
             make
             me
             think
             my
             absent
             Clelia
             here
             ,
          
           
             You
             have
             lost
             your
             aim
             ,
             for
             to
             my
             grief
             I
             know
          
           
             My
             Clelia
             ne're
             did
             so
             much
             kindness
             show
             .
          
           
             However
             I
             'm
             content
             ,
             be
             what
             you
             will
             ,
          
           
             Nothing
             that
             bears
             that
             form
             can
             e're
             be
             ill
             .
          
           
             Much
             more
             I
             wou'd
             have
             said
             ,
             but
             she
             ,
             too
             kind
          
           
             To
             bear
             my
             passion
             with
             a
             steady
             mind
             ,
          
           
             With
             loving
             words
             my
             sorrow
             did
             asswage
             ,
          
           
             Commanding
             me
             no
             farther
             to
             engage
          
           
             My self
             in
             sadness
             ,
             since
             before
             my
             Eyes
          
           
             No
             flying
             shade
             did
             stand
             to
             Tantalize
             ;
          
           
           
             But
             real
             Substance
             ,
             which
             did
             passion
             move
             ,
          
           
             And
             her
             who
             I
             so
             oft
             had
             vow'd
             to
             love
             .
          
           
             I
             gave
             attention
             unto
             what
             she
             said
             ,
          
           
             And
             millions
             more
             of
             Protestations
             made
          
           
             To
             keep
             my
             faith
             inviolate
             ,
             whilst
             she
             ,
          
           
             Poor
             Soul
             ,
             did
             both
             believe
             and
             pitty
             me
             .
          
           
             I
             often
             kissing
             wring'd
             her
             by
             the
             Hand
             ,
          
           
             And
             by
             dumb
             signs
             gave
             her
             to
             understand
          
           
             My
             head-strong
             Passion
             wou'd
             no
             more
             obey
             ,
          
           
             Since
             she
             her self
             had
             took
             the
             curb
             away
             .
          
           
             But
             she
             ,
             too
             Innocent
             ,
             ne're
             understood
          
           
             The
             swelling
             Tides
             of
             Passion
             in
             my
             Blood
             :
          
           
             Yet
             from
             her
             Eyes
             some
             pitty
             did
             distil
             ,
          
           
             Like
             Pearls
             thrust
             out
             ,
             though
             shrewd
             against
             their
             will
             ;
          
           
             Unwilling
             for
             to
             leave
             that
             happy
             place
             ,
          
           
             Where
             sorrow
             cou'd
             not
             chuse
             but
             have
             a
             grace
             .
          
           
             Thus
             temper'd
             Steel
             is
             sometimes
             clad
             in
             rust
             ,
          
           
             And
             grains
             of
             Gold
             are
             mingled
             with
             the
             Dust.
          
           
             But
             I
             ,
             who
             in
             the
             Wars
             of
             Love
             had
             been
          
           
             A
             Voluntier
             ,
             thought
             now
             or
             ne're
             to
             win
          
           
             The
             honour
             of
             the
             day
             ,
             and
             in
             some
             sort
          
           
             To
             gain
             the
             conquest
             of
             the
             Virgin
             Fort
             ;
          
           
             Which
             I
             assaulted
             with
             so
             free
             a
             force
             ,
          
           
             (
             Not
             with
             Battallions
             of
             Foot
             and
             Horse
             ;
          
           
             But
             smooth
             and
             courtly
             Complements
             )
             as
             might
          
           
             Have
             mov'd
             the
             chaste
             Diana
             to
             delight
             ,
          
           
             And
             made
             the
             cold
             Lucretia
             to
             desire
          
           
             To
             wanton
             in
             the
             Flames
             of
             Venus
             fire
             .
          
           
           
             Then
             Clelia
             surrender'd
             ,
             all
             her
             Treasure
          
           
             Was
             solely
             at
             the
             Conquerours
             will
             and
             Pleasure
             ;
          
           
             Which
             was
             so
             great
             ,
             that
             nothing
             can
             augment
          
           
             My
             Joy
             ,
             or
             add
             unto
             my
             blest
             Content
             .
          
           
             Divinest
             Creature
             ,
             to
             whose
             heavenly
             Brow
          
           
             Our
             yielding
             Hearts
             do
             with
             submission
             bow
             ;
          
           
             Rare
             Master
             piece
             of
             Nature
             ,
             here
             I
             lye
          
           
             Conquer'd
             by
             Beauty
             ,
             and
             by
             Beauty
             dye
             .
          
           
             To
             you
             my
             Ghost
             shall
             in
             the
             Night
             appear
             ,
          
           
             And
             though
             I
             die
             ,
             I
             'll
             never
             leave
             you
             here
             .
          
           
             Yet
             you
             are
             cruel
             ,
             and
             will
             not
             afford
          
           
             My
             dying
             Corps
             but
             one
             poor
             parting
             Word
             .
          
           
             O
             that
             your
             Beauty
             had
             less
             mortal
             been
             ,
          
           
             Or
             that
             to
             love
             had
             not
             been
             held
             a
             sin
             !
          
           
             I
             boldly
             to
             the
             World
             wou'd
             have
             made
             known
          
           
             Thy
             Beauty
             claims
             Desert
             ,
             and
             thine
             alone
             .
          
           
             But
             stay
             ,
             methinks
             there
             's
             something
             in
             thy
             Eye
          
           
             That
             tells
             me
             that
             thy
             Lover
             must
             not
             die
             .
          
           
             And
             since
             that
             thou
             hast
             gave
             this
             blest
             Reprieve
             ,
          
           
             I
             for
             thy
             sake
             will
             be
             content
             to
             live
             ,
          
           
             And
             by
             some
             signal
             Service
             henceforth
             try
          
           
             For
             to
             requite
             your
             generosity
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               
                 AS
                 you
                 are
                 fair
                 ,
                 can
                 you
                 be
                 loving
                 too
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 And
                 make
                 me
                 happy
                 in
                 adoring
                 you
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Not
                 all
                 the
                 Wealth
                 that
              
               India
               
                 can
                 give
              
               ,
            
             
               
                 Without
                 your
                 love
                 ,
                 can
                 make
                 me
                 wish
                 to
                 live
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               As
               in
               the
               Ocean
               ,
               on
               a
               Summers
               day
               ,
            
             
               You
               may
               behold
               the
               Fish
               keep
               Holy
               day
               ,
            
             
             
               Are
               all
               o're-joy'd
               ,
               and
               smile
               as
               't
               were
               ,
               to
               see
            
             
               Fair
               weather
               gild
               the
               rough
               and
               angry
               Sea.
            
             
               Can
               so
               my
               Fortune
               more
               auspicious
               prove
               ?
            
             
               You
               having
               smil'd
               upon
               my
               hopeless
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Be
               as
               you
               are
               so
               kind
               ,
               so
               truly
               fair
               ,
            
             
               Loving
               of
               me
               ,
               who
               now
               cast
               off
               despair
               ;
            
             
               Too
               soon
               a
               flame
               will
               else
               my
               Heart
               control
               ,
            
          
           
             
               And
               leave
               my
               drooping
               Corps
               without
               a
               Soul.
            
             
               Make
               me
               but
               sure
               that
               you
               will
               ever
               love
            
             
               Me
               ,
               who
               no
               other
               joys
               cou'd
               ever
               move
               ;
            
             
               Happy
               that
               day
               ,
               thrice
               happy
               ,
               wherein
               I
            
             
               In
               you
               beheld
               my
               chief
               felicity
               .
            
             
               Adoring
               you
               ,
               I
               feel
               a
               scorching
               fire
               ;
            
             
               You
               ,
               you
               alone
               ,
               can
               make
               that
               flame
               retire
               .
            
          
           
             
               Not
               that
               the
               Ardor
               can
               e're
               quite
               retreat
               ,
            
             
               All
               you
               can
               do
               is
               to
               allay
               the
               Heat
               ;
            
             
               The
               scorching
               Fervor
               never
               will
               give
               o're
               ,
            
             
               Wealth
               cannot
               do
               't
               ,
               nor
               a
               whole
               Nations
               store
               .
            
             
               That
               you
               are
               good
               ,
               we
               know
               ,
               Vertuous
               ,
               and
               Wise
               :
            
             
               India's
               bright
               Sun
               took
               luster
               from
               your
               Eyes
               .
            
             
               Can
               else
               his
               Beams
               so
               dazle
               all
               Mens
               sight
               ?
            
             
               Give
               me
               but
               leave
               ,
               I
               'll
               say
               ,
               He
               robb'd
               his
               Light.
               
            
          
           
             
               Without
               your
               Beauty
               ,
               he
               eclips'd
               must
               lye
               ;
            
             
               Your
               Presence
               comprehends
               a
               Deity
               .
            
             
               Love
               heads
               his
               Golden
               Arrows
               ,
               and
               from
               you
            
             
               Can
               take
               such
               Charms
               as
               may
               the
               World
               subdue
               ,
            
             
             
               Make
               all
               things
               yeild
               ,
               even
               the
               great
               Gods
               above
               :
            
             
               Me
               thinks
               I
               hear
               them
               cry
               ,
               Great
               Queen
               of
               Love
               ;
            
             
               Wish
               ing
               to
               fall
               by
               your
               more
               pleasing
               Fate
               ,
            
             
               To
               you
               they
               come
               ,
               and
               for
               their
               Sentence
               wait
               ;
            
             
               Live
               ,
               Queen
               of
               Love
               ,
               with
               most
               Imperial
               State.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             On
             a
             Sigh
             .
          
           
             
               GO
               ,
               mournful
               Sigh
               ,
               haste
               to
               my
               Fair
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               her
               what
               thou
               know'st
               declare
               ;
            
             
               Tell
               her
               ,
               that
               thou
               wert
               so
               opprest
            
             
               Within
               the
               Prison
               of
               my
               breast
               ,
            
             
               That
               having
               broak
               the
               Gaol
               ,
               thou
               fled'st
               to
               her
               for
               rest
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               if
               unkindly
               she
               deny
               ,
            
             
               Then
               shall
               thy
               wretched
               Gaoler
               die
               ;
            
             
               And
               by
               this
               means
               thou
               shalt
               be
               free
            
             
               From
               thy
               Confinement
               ,
               she
               from
               thee
               ,
            
             
               And
               I
               from
               all
               my
               grief
               and
               wretched
               misery
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               yet
               ,
               poor
               mournful
               Breath
               ,
               beware
            
             
               Thou
               dost
               not
               draw
               from
               her
               a
               Tear.
            
             
               For
               if
               thou
               dost
               ,
               I
               will
               confine
            
             
               Thee
               to
               this
               hollow
               Breast
               of
               mine
               ,
            
             
               And
               give
               thee
               no
               more
               leave
               or
               time
               to
               wander
               there
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               For
               who
               can
               tell
               ,
               but
               she
               may
               be
            
             
               So
               loving
               as
               to
               pitty
               thee
               ,
            
             
               And
               on
               thy
               sorrow
               notice
               take
               ,
            
             
               And
               entertain
               thee
               for
               my
               sake
               ,
            
             
               In
               Paradice
               of
               Joy
               and
               full
               felicity
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Mount
             Ida.
             
          
           
             
               IN
               times
               of
               old
               ,
               when
               Kings
               did
               not
               disdain
            
             
               The
               sweet
               Employment
               of
               the
               silly
               Swain
               ;
            
             
               When
               to
               the
               Gods
               the
               rural
               Altar
               fumes
            
             
               With
               Sacred
               Incense
               and
               with
               sweet
               Perfumes
               ,
            
             
               Were
               daily
               blest
               ,
               and
               all
               things
               seem'd
               to
               be
            
             
               A
               Paradise
               for
               Mans
               felicity
               .
            
             
               Then
               no
               insulting
               Tyrant
               did
               molest
               ,
            
             
               Hind'ring
               the
               quiet
               of
               his
               Subjects
               rest
               :
            
             
               But
               then
               Simplicity
               did
               crown
               the
               day
               ,
            
             
               And
               Innocence
               did
               every
               Scepter
               sway
               .
            
             
               Within
               the
               Confines
               of
               vast
               Asia's
               Womb
            
             
               Once
               was
               a
               stately
               City
               ,
               now
               a
               Tomb
               ;
            
             
               Imperial
               Troy
               ,
               whose
               stately
               Structures
               Pride
            
             
               Did
               Egypts
               lofty
               Pyramids
               deride
               .
            
             
               Rich
               in
               a
               King
               ,
               their
               glory
               to
               augment
               ,
            
             
               No
               Stranger
               ,
               but
               by
               lineal
               descent
               ;
            
             
               And
               blest
               with
               Children
               of
               such
               high
               Renown
               ,
            
             
               Which
               did
               augment
               the
               honour
               of
               his
               Crown
               ;
            
             
               But
               that
               this
               Sentence
               might
               have
               its
               Probatum
               ,
            
             
               
                 Nihil
                 est
                 ab
                 omni
                 parte
                 beatum
                 .
              
            
             
             
               Whilst
               Paris
               ,
               Priam's
               Son
               ,
               with
               care
               did
               keep
               ,
            
             
               In
               flowry
               Meads
               ,
               his
               Fathers
               Flocks
               of
               Sheep
               ,
            
             
               Lo
               ,
               Three
               triumphant
               Goddesses
               ,
               of
               Birth
            
             
               Celestial
               ,
               guide
               their
               steps
               unto
               the
               Earth
               ,
            
             
               VValking
               to
               view
               the
               Fields
               ,
               whose
               Fragrant
               smell
            
             
               The
               richest
               Indian
               Odours
               did
               excel
               .
            
             
               Discordia
               griev'd
               (
               as
               't
               was
               her
               course
               )
               to
               see
            
             
               Three
               potent
               Goddesses
               so
               well
               agree
               ,
            
             
               Throwing
               a
               Golden
               Ball
               before
               them
               ,
               says
               ,
            
             
               Let
               her
               take
               this
               ,
               whose
               Beauty
               wins
               the
               Bays
               .
            
             
               All
               plead
               their
               Titles
               in
               the
               slowry
               Field
               ,
            
             
               And
               each
               unto
               her
               Rival
               scorns
               to
               yeild
               .
            
             
               Till
               walking
               forward
               ,
               they
               did
               soon
               espy
            
             
               The
               sprightly
               Son
               of
               Priam
               ,
               who
               did
               lye
            
             
               Under
               a
               lofty
               Tree
               ,
               whose
               spreading
               shade
            
             
               Sols
               Radiant
               Beames
               did
               all
               in
               vain
               invade
               .
            
             
               Between
               them
               then
               ,
               to
               end
               this
               fatal
               grudge
               ,
            
             
               They
               all
               consent
               to
               make
               brave
               Paris
               Judge
               :
            
             
               But
               when
               the
               youngster
               saw
               the
               glorious
               sight
               ,
            
             
               His
               Heart
               was
               straight
               way
               ravisht
               ,
               and
               the
               sight
            
             
               Inflam'd
               his
               generous
               Soul
               ,
               he
               prostrate
               lyes
               ,
            
             
               He
               worships
               and
               adores
               the
               Deities
               .
            
             
               Nor
               can
               he
               longer
               gaze
               ,
               so
               great
               a
               light
            
             
               Cou'd
               not
               be
               bore
               by
               any
               mortal
               sight
               .
            
             
               VVhich
               when
               they
               see
               ,
               and
               think
               upon
               the
               Prize
               ,
            
             
               They
               add
               new
               force
               and
               vigor
               to
               his
               Eyes
               .
            
             
               To
               whom
               Queen
               Iuno
               mildly
               did
               begin
               ,
            
             
               Both
               with
               applause
               ,
               and
               promise
               for
               to
               win
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Juno's
               Speech
               .
            
             
               Thou
               who
               of
               Priams
               Court
               the
               glory
               art
               ,
            
             
               More
               beautifi'd
               by
               Nature
               than
               by
               Art
               ;
            
             
               Give
               me
               the
               Ball
               ,
               let
               not
               thy
               Hand
               refrain
               ,
            
             
               But
               give
               it
               me
               ,
               and
               I
               'le
               give
               thee
               again
            
             
               Glory
               and
               Honour
               ,
               and
               what
               e're
               can
               be
            
             
               Than
               this
               more
               happy
               ,
               that
               I
               'le
               give
               to
               thee
               .
            
             
               I
               'le
               set
               a
               Crown
               of
               Gold
               upon
               thy
               Head
               ,
            
             
               These
               words
               thereon
               shall
               be
               Intituled
               ,
            
             
               THE
               GLORY
               OF
               THE
               WORLD
               .
               Riches
               and
               State
               ,
            
             
               Honour
               and
               Fame
               shall
               ever
               propagate
               .
            
             
               The
               Worlds
               vast
               Confines
               shall
               a
               tribute
               yield
            
             
               To
               thee
               alone
               ,
               the
               Caesar
               of
               the
               Field
               ;
            
             
               The
               breath
               of
               Fame
               shall
               all
               thy
               state
               declare
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               the
               world
               shall
               term
               thee
               Fortunes
               Heir
               ;
            
             
               And
               if
               there
               's
               ought
               thy
               mind
               can
               covet
               more
               ,
            
             
               Command
               Queen
               Iuno
               ,
               scorn
               for
               to
               implore
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               youngster
               stands
               amaz'd
               ,
               his
               Hearts
               on
               fire
               ,
            
             
               A
               thirst
               of
               Honour
               does
               his
               Soul
               inspire
               ;
            
             
               His
               eager
               heart
               had
               soon
               a
               Captive
               been
               ,
            
             
               Had
               not
               brave
               Pallas
               soon
               prevented
               him
               ,
            
             
               VVhose
               Princely
               presence
               does
               his
               mind
               control
               ,
            
             
               And
               adds
               new
               force
               unto
               his
               vigorous
               Soul.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               Pallas
               Speech
               .
            
             
               To
               whom
               the
               Goddess
               mildly
               thus
               ,
               Brave
               Prince
               ,
            
             
               Does
               
               Iuno's
               powerful
               promise
               so
               convince
            
             
               Thy
               easie
               fancy
               to
               dispose
               the
               Prize
               ?
            
             
               Art
               thou
               become
               a
               Captive
               to
               her
               Eyes
               ?
            
             
               Can
               VVealth
               and
               Honour
               make
               thee
               to
               contemn
            
             
               The
               certain
               gift
               of
               VVisdoms
               Diadem
               ?
            
             
               VVisdom
               gains
               Riches
               ;
               Honour's
               but
               a
               slave
               ,
            
             
               A
               Lambent
               fire
               ;
               our
               fancy
               more
               does
               crave
               .
            
             
               I
               scorn
               to
               court
               thee
               for
               the
               Ball
               ,
               yet
               know
               ,
            
             
               If
               thou
               on
               Pallas
               do
               the
               same
               bestow
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               VVisdom
               through
               the
               spacious
               Earth
               shall
               ring
            
             
               And
               Forraign
               Nations
               shall
               their
               Presents
               bring
            
             
               Thy
               Foes
               shall
               yield
               unto
               thy
               conquering
               Hand
            
             
               Nor
               shalt
               thou
               fear
               any
               invading
               Band
               ,
            
             
               Or
               Forraign
               Force
               ,
               for
               thou
               alone
               shalt
               Reign
            
             
               From
               East
               to
               West
               ,
               and
               o're
               the
               floating
               Main
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               ending
               thus
               ,
               Venus
               drew
               near
               ,
               whose
               smiles
            
             
               The
               youngster
               of
               his
               Senses
               quite
               beguiles
               ;
            
             
               She
               robs
               him
               of
               his
               Heart
               ,
               and
               therewithal
            
             
               Obtains
               the
               long'd
               for
               prize
               ,
               the
               Golden
               Ball.
            
             
               For
               when
               the
               Prince
               had
               with
               a
               pleasing
               Eye
            
             
               Beheld
               the
               glory
               of
               the
               Deity
               ,
            
             
             
               A
               sudden
               Joy
               through
               every
               Member
               steals
               ,
            
             
               And
               by
               his
               blushes
               he
               his
               Love
               reveals
               .
            
             
               To
               whom
               the
               Queen
               of
               Souls
               ,
               Goddess
               of
               Loves
               ,
            
             
               More
               sweet
               and
               gentle
               than
               her
               Team
               of
               Doves
               ,
            
             
               Makes
               her
               address
               with
               words
               so
               courtly
               mild
               ,
            
             
               As
               might
               the
               watchful
               Dragon
               have
               beguild
               ,
            
             
               Or
               charm'd
               the
               Brazen-footed
               Bulls
               ,
               and
               made
            
             
               The
               Sons
               of
               Tellus
               cease
               for
               to
               invade
            
             
               Each
               others
               life
               ;
               such
               was
               her
               charming
               Tongue
               ,
            
             
               As
               without
               Magick
               might
               make
               Aeson
               young
               ,
            
             
               And
               bring
               th'
               Hesperian
               Fruit
               into
               her
               lap
               ,
            
             
               Force
               Argus
               hundred
               Eyes
               to
               take
               a
               nap
               .
            
             
               Here
               Majesty
               and
               Love
               did
               well
               agree
               ,
            
             
               And
               both
               concur
               ,
               great
               Queen
               ,
               to
               favour
               thee
               .
            
             
               Such
               charms
               her
               looks
               did
               bear
               ,
               such
               her
               aspect
               ,
            
             
               When
               she
               to
               Parris
               did
               this
               Speech
               direct
               .
            
          
           
             
               Venus
               Speech
               .
            
             
               Brave
               Prince
               ,
               to
               whom
               the
               Goddesses
               have
               been
            
             
               Both
               suppliants
               ,
               endeavouring
               to
               win
            
             
               The
               Prize
               ,
               which
               only
               does
               belong
               to
               me
               ,
            
             
               The
               Fates
               themselves
               grant
               the
               Priority
               .
            
             
               They
               promise
               Conquest
               ,
               Wisdom
               ,
               and
               a
               Throne
               ,
            
             
               All
               this
               is
               nought
               but
               what
               's
               before
               thy
               own
               .
            
             
               But
               yet
               suppose
               it
               so
               ,
               cou'dst
               thou
               delight
            
             
               In
               cruel
               Wars
               ,
               where
               blood
               doth
               blood
               excite
               ?
            
             
               Is
               this
               the
               way
               to
               gain
               thee
               honour
               ?
               No.
            
             
               Kingdoms
               thou
               mayst
               possess
               ,
               and
               perish
               so
               .
            
             
             
               Who
               gains
               by
               Blood
               and
               Death
               ,
               shall
               ,
               at
               the
               price
               ,
            
             
               Have
               the
               reward
               of
               blood
               and
               avarice
               .
            
             
               Or
               rather
               ,
               wouldst
               thou
               chuse
               on
               Beds
               of
               Down
               ,
            
             
               In
               Cupids
               Fields
               to
               gain
               the
               sweet
               renown
               ,
            
             
               Spending
               thy
               youthful
               days
               in
               merriment
               ,
            
             
               Such
               as
               pale
               War
               did
               never
               yet
               invent
               ,
            
             
               With
               Grecian
               Dames
               ,
               whose
               Beauty
               may
               not
               be
            
             
               Exprest
               by
               Tongue
               ,
               or
               Pens
               Indignity
               ?
            
             
               If
               this
               can
               please
               ,
               give
               me
               the
               Prize
               ,
               I
               sue
            
             
               Both
               as
               my
               merit
               ,
               and
               my
               Beauties
               due
               ;
            
             
               And
               thou
               shalt
               gain
               a
               Lady
               ,
               such
               another
            
             
               Titans
               Majestick
               Raies
               did
               ne're
               discover
               ;
            
             
               Whose
               Beauties
               form
               there
               's
               none
               can
               Parallel
               ,
            
             
               Her
               Skin
               for
               Whiteness
               does
               as
               far
               excel
            
             
               The
               driven
               Snow
               ,
               as
               does
               the
               Suns
               bright
               Raies
            
             
               A
               glittering
               Star
               :
               shou'd
               I
               disclose
               her
               praise
               ,
            
             
               How
               red
               unto
               the
               sight
               her
               Cheeks
               do
               seem
               ,
            
             
               That
               you
               wou'd
               term
               her
               to
               be
               Beauties
               Queen
               ;
            
             
               Indulgent
               Nature
               out
               of
               all
               her
               store
               ,
            
             
               Has
               not
               enough
               to
               make
               one
               Beauty
               more
               .
            
          
           
             
               Now
               Paris
               burns
               with
               Love
               ,
               his
               warm
               desire
            
             
               At
               length
               is
               turn'd
               into
               a
               Flame
               of
               Fire
               ;
            
             
               He
               knows
               no
               medium
               now
               ,
               Love
               sways
               each
               Part
               ,
            
             
               And
               reigns
               as
               Monarch
               o're
               his
               very
               Heart
               ;
            
             
               And
               ,
               with
               a
               willing
               Hand
               ,
               he
               gives
               the
               Ball
            
             
               To
               Venus
               ,
               most
               deserving
               it
               of
               all
               .
            
             
               Iuno
               ,
               and
               Pallas
               ,
               with
               an
               ireful
               Eye
               ,
            
             
               Ascend
               into
               the
               Turrets
               of
               the
               Skie
               ,
            
             
             
               There
               mindful
               of
               their
               wrongs
               ,
               deliberate
            
             
               The
               Ruine
               of
               the
               mighty
               Trojan
               State.
               
            
          
           
             
               
                 —
                 Manet
                 altâ
                 mente
                 repôstum
              
               
                 Iudicium
                 Paridis
                 spretaeque
                 injuria
                 formae
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             On
             Clelia's
             Picture
             .
          
           
             DO'st
             not
             thou
             see
             this
             Picture
             set
             ,
          
           
             Round
             with
             the
             Rose
             and
             Violet
             ,
          
           
             Crown'd
             with
             the
             Garlands
             of
             the
             Spring
             ,
          
           
             And
             Looks
             that
             might
             entice
             a
             King
             ?
          
           
             And
             can
             thy
             Eye
             find
             any
             place
          
           
             To
             gaze
             upon
             ,
             but
             on
             this
             Face
             ?
          
           
             Do'st
             not
             thou
             see
             that
             sparkling
             Eye
          
           
             Inflam'd
             with
             Love
             and
             Majesty
             ;
          
           
             Those
             tempting
             Lips
             ,
             than
             which
             to
             kiss
             ,
          
           
             I
             cou'd
             not
             hope
             a
             greater
             bliss
             ;
          
           
             Those
             lovely
             Cheeks
             ,
             nay
             ,
             every
             Part
          
           
             Not
             able
             to
             be
             prais'd
             by
             Art
             ;
          
           
             And
             ask
             me
             whom
             it
             represents
             ?
          
           
             My
             Life
             ,
             my
             Soul
             ,
             my
             blest
             Contents
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             
             Clelia's
             Shaddow
             ,
             which
             her
             Eye
          
           
             Reflected
             here
             as
             she
             past
             by
             .
          
           
             To
             which
             ,
             as
             't
             is
             her
             due
             ,
             I
             pay
          
           
             A
             thousand
             Offerings
             a
             Day
             .
          
           
             And
             now
             ,
             methinks
             ,
             I
             cease
             to
             blame
          
           
             The
             Ethnicks
             ,
             who
             did
             Idols
             frame
             ,
          
           
             If
             that
             among
             their
             Number
             they
          
           
             Had
             any
             one
             like
             Clelia
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             
               MY
               Friend
               
                 Iohn
                 Clement
              
               t'other
               day
               ,
            
             
               Was
               very
               Sick
               and
               like
               to
               dye
               ,
            
             
               And
               ,
               as
               't
               was
               thought
               ,
               did
               only
               stay
            
             
               To
               bare
               
                 Tom
                 Flavel
              
               company
               .
            
          
           
             
               He
               made
               his
               Will
               ,
               and
               all
               his
               Lands
            
             
               By
               Testament
               were
               mine
               to
               spend
               ,
            
             
               And
               soon
               had
               come
               into
               my
               Hands
               ,
            
             
               If
               death
               ,
               like
               him
               ,
               had
               been
               my
               Friend
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               ,
               curse
               upon
               it
               ,
               unawares
            
             
               That
               Wicked
               Rogue
               
                 Tom
                 Flavel
              
               dy'd
               ,
            
             
               At
               which
               my
               Friend
               
                 Iohn
                 Clement
              
               swears
            
             
               The
               Rascal
               did
               it
               out
               of
               Pride
               .
            
          
           
             
               With
               that
               he
               bid
               'em
               sill
               his
               Grave
               ,
            
             
               And
               (
               truly
               )
               swore
               he
               would
               not
               dye
               ,
            
             
               Since
               the
               unlucky
               peevish
               Slave
            
             
               Had
               slighted
               thus
               his
               Company
               .
            
          
           
             
               So
               I
               ,
               who
               half
               an
               hour
               ago
            
             
               Built
               lofty
               Castles
               in
               the
               Air
               ,
            
             
               Did
               to
               my
               sorrow
               quickly
               know
               ,
            
             
               I
               was
               an
               Heir
               ,
               not
               worth
               a
               Hair.
               
            
          
           
             
               Heredem
               scripsit
               me
               Numa
               convaluit
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             Song
             .
          
           
             
               REstore
               my
               wounded
               Heart
               ,
               Dear
               Love
               ,
            
             
               And
               let
               thy
               conquering
               Eyes
            
             
               Thy
               hard'ned
               Heart
               with
               pitty
               move
            
             
               Towards
               a
               sacrifice
               ,
            
             
               Who
               prostrate
               lyes
               ,
            
             
               Your
               shade
               with
               reverence
               to
               Idolatrize
               .
            
          
           
             
               Let
               not
               those
               powerful
               Siren
               Charms
            
             
               Which
               do
               my
               Heart
               delay
               ,
            
             
               Take
               me
               and
               Lull
               me
               in
               their
               Arms
            
             
               With
               an
               intent
               to
               slay
               ,
            
             
               Or
               only
               to
               betray
               ,
            
             
               That
               you
               by
               this
               the
               Prize
               may
               bear
               away
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               if
               the
               cruel
               Fates
               decree
            
             
               That
               Love
               must
               end
               in
               Death
               ,
            
             
               I
               'le
               scorn
               ,
               my
               cruel
               Destiny
               ,
            
             
               And
               will
               resign
               my
               Breath
               ,
            
             
               Grasping
               the
               clammy
               Earth
               ,
            
             
               Cursing
               my
               Fate
               ,
               my
               Fortune
               ,
               and
               my
               Birth
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             To
             Venus
             .
          
           
             VEnus
             ,
             I
             oft
             have
             heard
             thy
             Name
             ,
          
           
             Ador'd
             thy
             God-head
             ,
             felt
             thy
             Flame
             ;
          
           
           
             And
             oft
             invok'd
             thy
             Power
             ,
             to
             find
          
           
             Some
             mercy
             in
             a
             Female
             mind
             .
          
           
             And
             Cupid
             ,
             I
             to
             thee
             did
             pay
          
           
             My
             faithful
             Orisons
             each
             day
             ;
          
           
             And
             thou
             so
             well
             perform'dst
             thy
             Part
             ,
          
           
             I
             reign'd
             o're
             many
             a
             Virgins
             Heart
             .
          
           
             But
             now
             I
             've
             other
             work
             to
             do
             ,
          
           
             Faith
             thou
             must
             Court
             thy
             Mother
             too
             .
          
           
             Nay
             ,
             many
             such
             a
             trick
             is
             done
             ,
          
           
             A
             Mother
             cheated
             by
             her
             Son.
          
           
             And
             thou
             ,
             my
             pritty
             courtly
             Lad
             ,
          
           
             Of
             me
             shall
             find
             a
             loving
             Dad.
          
           
             No
             clam'rous
             Mars
             shall
             make
             thee
             fear
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             Vulcans
             Horns
             become
             a
             jear
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             yet
             his
             Net
             ,
             which
             did
             proclaim
          
           
             To
             all
             the
             Gods
             thy
             Mothers
             shame
             ;
          
           
             Tell
             her
             I
             'm
             active
             ,
             young
             ,
             and
             free
             ,
          
           
             And
             that
             ,
             I
             'm
             sure
             ,
             thou
             know'st
             I
             be
             ;
          
           
             A
             Lover
             too
             ,
             thou
             oft
             did'st
             prove
          
           
             The
             mighty
             force
             I
             had
             in
             Love.
          
           
             Nor
             can
             my
             Parts
             ,
             so
             well
             inclin'd
             ,
          
           
             Fail
             for
             to
             please
             thy
             Mothers
             mind
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             will
             this
             Match
             be
             a
             disgrace
             ,
          
           
             Since
             I
             supply
             Anchises
             place
             ,
          
           
             Or
             young
             Adonis
             ,
             who
             did
             move
          
           
             Thy
             Beauteous
             Mother
             once
             to
             love
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             can'st
             thou
             this
             my
             passion
             blame
             ,
          
           
             That
             art
             the
             Author
             of
             my
             Flame
             .
          
           
             Consider
             then
             the
             wound
             you
             gave
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Power
             alone
             has
             strength
             to
             save
             ;
          
           
           
             And
             let
             thy
             never-erring
             Dart
          
           
             Reign
             Monarch
             of
             thy
             Mothers
             Heart
             ;
          
           
             Least
             from
             my
             Arms
             her self
             she
             shroud
             ,
          
           
             And
             I
             embrace
             
             Ixion's
             Cloud
             ,
          
           
             And
             courting
             of
             the
             Substance
             ,
             may
          
           
             With
             empty
             Shaddows
             only
             play
             ,
          
           
             Which
             ne're
             can
             quench
             my
             ardent
             Flame
             ,
          
           
             That
             's
             as
             Immortal
             as
             her
             Name
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             Vesper
             .
          
           
             
               SWeet
               Vesper
               bring
               the
               Night
               ,
            
             
               Why
               dost
               thou
               thus
               delay
               ,
            
             
               To
               rob
               me
               of
               delight
               ,
               ?
            
             
               Too
               long
               has
               been
               thy
               stay
               ,
            
             
               Make
               hast
               away
               ,
            
             
               And
               check
               the
               lasie
               Dawning
               of
               the
               day
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               Phoebus
               tell
               from
               me
               ,
            
             
               That
               he
               his
               Raies
               lay
               by
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               so
               discourteous
               be
            
             
               As
               once
               to
               mount
               the
               Skie
               ,
            
             
               Or
               once
               came
               nigh
            
             
               With
               one
               small
               Beam
               ,
               to
               wake
               my
               Love
               and
               I.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               Shou'd
               he
               scorn
               my
               desire
               ,
            
             
               I
               'd
               send
               his
               Bastard
               Son
            
             
               To
               set
               the
               Heavens
               on
               fire
               ,
            
             
               And
               he
               agen
               shou'd
               run
            
             
               Without
               the
               Sun
               ,
            
             
               And
               grieve
               for
               what
               his
               folly
               shall
               have
               done
               .
            
          
           
             
               How
               soon
               the
               Sun
               makes
               hast
            
             
               Unto
               his
               Thetis
               Bed
               ,
            
             
               Longing
               to
               be
               embrac'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               coole
               his
               radiant
               Head
               ,
            
             
               Which
               now
               looks
               red
               :
            
             
               Such
               longing
               hopes
               hath
               Lovers
               ever
               fed
               .
            
          
           
             
               How
               soon
               my
               Prayer
               is
               heard
               ,
            
             
               
               Cynthia's
               bright
               Horns
               appear
               :
            
             
               No
               ,
               't
               is
               my
               Love
               prepar'd
            
             
               Her
               Lover
               for
               to
               cheer
               ;
            
             
               In
               all
               her
               Sphere
            
             
               Her
               borrow'd
               Luster
               never
               shines
               so
               clear
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             E
             Libro
             quarto
             Horatii
             Carmin
             .
             
               Ode
               7.
            
             
          
           
             THe
             Snow's
             dissolv'd
             ,
             the
             grassie
             Fields
             grow
             green
             ,
          
           
             And
             bald-pate
             Trees
             with
             dangling
             Locks
             are
             seen
             .
          
           
           
             Earths
             course
             is
             chang'd
             ,
             and
             Rivers
             by
             the
             Sun
          
           
             Exhal'd
             ,
             with
             pregnant
             Floods
             their
             Banks
             o're-run
             .
          
           
             The
             Graces
             and
             the
             Nymphs
             their
             Steps
             advance
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             being
             disrob'd
             ,
             do
             lead
             a
             Country
             Dance
             .
          
           
             Times
             Mutability
             doth
             make
             appear
             ,
          
           
             That
             nought
             is
             permanent
             beneath
             the
             Sphere
             .
          
           
             Mild
             Zeph'rus
             chides
             the
             Cold
             ,
             the
             Heat
             doth
             blast
          
           
             The
             slowry
             Spring
             ,
             and
             then
             posts
             on
             as
             fast
             .
          
           
             Next
             fruitful
             Autumn
             comes
             upon
             the
             Stage
             ;
          
           
             Then
             lazy
             Winter
             ,
             like
             decrepid
             Age.
          
           
             And
             yet
             the
             Moon
             ,
             which
             shady
             Night
             adorns
             ,
          
           
             With
             waxing
             Light
             repairs
             his
             waining
             Horns
             .
          
           
             But
             when
             we
             to
             the
             lower
             Shades
             repair
             ,
          
           
             Where
             
               Aeneas
               ,
               Tullus
            
             ,
             and
             Ancus
             are
             ,
          
           
             We
             instantly
             to
             Dust
             and
             Ashes
             turn
             ,
          
           
             No
             more
             return
             ,
             but
             rest
             ,
             us
             in
             our
             Urn.
          
           
             Who
             knows
             whether
             the
             Gods
             above
             will
             cast
          
           
             One
             day
             ,
             to
             add
             to
             what
             's
             already
             past
             ?
          
           
             Nor
             shall
             thy
             greedy
             Heir
             for
             ever
             find
          
           
             What
             thou
             bestowest
             with
             a
             lib'ral
             mind
             .
          
           
             When
             thou
             art
             dead
             ,
             and
             Minos
             shall
             of
             thee
          
           
             Give
             Judgment
             ,
             according
             to
             equity
             ,
          
           
             Torquatus
             ,
             not
             thy
             Stock
             nor
             Eloquence
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             yet
             thy
             Piety
             ,
             shall
             fetch
             thee
             thence
             :
          
           
             For
             ,
             neither
             from
             the
             streams
             of
             Cocytus
          
           
             Cou'd
             Dian
             bring
             her
             Chast
             Hyppolitus
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             yet
             the
             friendly
             Theseus
             e're
             retake
          
           
             Perithous
             from
             the
             Lethean
             Lake
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             Song
             .
          
           
             
               FAir
               Clelia
               ,
               didst
               thou
               know
            
             
               How
               great
               a
               sorrow
               in
               my
               Breast
               does
               flow
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               couldst
               not
               be
            
             
               Cruel
               to
               me
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               think
               it
               any
               gain
            
             
               To
               mock
               my
               Sorrow
               ,
               and
               deride
               my
               Pain
               .
            
          
           
             
               Far
               be
               it
               yet
               from
               me
            
             
               To
               hope
               for
               Life
               that
               is
               disdain'd
               by
               thee
               ;
            
             
               For
               if
               I
               thought
            
             
               There
               might
               be
               ought
            
             
               In
               me
               ,
               that
               thou
               dost
               hate
               ,
            
             
               I
               'd
               Court
               my
               Ruin
               ,
               and
               I
               'd
               hug
               my
               Fate
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               if
               thou
               dost
               desire
            
             
               T'
               augment
               my
               grief
               ,
               and
               so
               increase
               my
               Fire
               ,
            
             
               Let
               me
               but
               know
            
             
               Thy
               pleasure
               's
               so
               ;
            
             
               For
               I
               am
               so
               much
               thine
               ,
            
             
               As
               ne're
               to
               speak
               ,
               exclaim
               ,
               or
               once
               repine
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             An
             Abcdary
             .
          
           
             A
             sure
             Foundation
             makes
             a
             Building
             stand
             ,
          
           
             But
             he
             's
             a
             Fool
             that
             builds
             upon
             the
             Sand.
          
           
             Consider
             Vertue
             in
             her
             glorious
             form
             ,
          
           
             Doth
             Youth
             in
             all
             her
             Ornaments
             adorn
             .
          
           
             Extol
             her
             Beauty
             ,
             Court
             her
             Princely
             Eye
             ,
          
           
             For
             with
             her
             Wings
             she
             'll
             raise
             thee
             to
             the
             Sky
             .
          
           
             Get
             but
             a
             place
             within
             her
             Breast
             ,
             and
             know
          
           
             How
             mean
             thy
             thoughts
             were
             when
             thou
             wert
             below
             .
          
           
             If
             thou
             dost
             once
             observe
             the
             Path
             she
             treads
             ,
          
           
             Keep
             close
             ,
             tho'
             over
             Rocks
             and
             Hills
             she
             leads
             :
          
           
             Let
             not
             the
             error
             of
             the
             way
             deceive
             ,
          
           
             Mark
             well
             her
             course
             ,
             and
             thou'lt
             some
             tract
             perceive
             .
          
           
             Nothing
             so
             hard
             but
             Industry
             will
             gain
             ,
          
           
             Obtain
             her
             once
             ,
             thou
             'lt
             find
             her
             worth
             thy
             rain
             .
          
           
             Perchance
             thou'lt
             say
             ,
             Vice
             leads
             a
             smoother
             way
             .
          
           
             Question
             not
             so
             ,
             lest
             thou
             thy self
             betray
             .
          
           
             Rewards
             are
             virtues
             due
             ,
             but
             pains
             confound
             ,
          
           
             Such
             vagrant
             Fools
             ,
             with
             a
             ne're
             dying
             wound
             .
          
           
             Turn
             then
             ,
             and
             take
             that
             path
             that
             's
             so
             severe
             ,
          
           
             Unto
             Eternal
             Joy
             that
             Course
             will
             steer
             ;
          
           
             When
             those
             who
             court
             a
             smoother
             path
             ,
             may
             go
          
           
             X
             times
             more
             quick
             ,
             yet
             to
             their
             overthrow
             .
          
           
             Youth
             ,
             Beauty
             ,
             Strength
             ,
             do
             often
             ill
             advise
             ,
          
           
             Zeal
             only
             with
             a
             Crown
             adorns
             the
             Wise.
             
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             Deserted
             Lover
             .
          
           
             AH
             ,
             lovely
             Fair
             !
             can
             you
             so
             cruel
             be
             ,
          
           
             To
             scorn
             my
             Vows
             ,
             yet
             never
             pity
             me
             ?
          
           
             Can
             you
             prove
             false
             ,
             who
             once
             I
             did
             adore
             ?
          
           
             Pity
             a
             Youth
             that
             never
             lov'd
             before
             .
          
           
             How
             wav'ring
             like
             the
             Wind
             ?
             What
             subtle
             dart
          
           
             Had
             you
             at
             first
             to
             penetrate
             my
             Heart
             ,
          
           
             Obdure
             as
             Steel
             ,
             which
             ne're
             no
             torture
             found
             ,
          
           
             Or
             ever
             knew
             for
             to
             receive
             a
             Wound
             ;
          
           
             Till
             in
             your
             Eyes
             ,
             the
             little
             twinkling
             Boy
          
           
             Taught
             me
             at
             first
             how
             to
             begin
             to
             toy
             ?
          
           
             He
             taught
             me
             Love
             ,
             whose
             active
             Fire
             first
             grew
             ,
          
           
             And
             more
             increast
             ,
             the
             more
             I
             look'd
             on
             you
             :
          
           
             Yet
             you
             more
             Cruel
             than
             the
             Tygers
             Rage
             ,
          
           
             Relying
             on
             your
             Beauty
             ,
             Wealth
             and
             Age
             ,
          
           
             Disdain
             what
             you
             before
             did
             seem
             to
             prize
             ,
          
           
             And
             blast
             my
             Lawrel
             with
             your
             lightning
             Eyes
             .
          
           
             Thus
             to
             the
             World
             your
             Cruelty
             is
             known
             ,
          
           
             And
             after
             Ages
             shall
             repeat
             my
             moan
             .
          
           
             Persidious
             Maid
             ,
             your
             hatred
             makes
             me
             bow
             ,
          
           
             And
             Curse
             the
             rashness
             of
             my
             idle
             Vow
             .
          
           
             And
             since
             it
             is
             alone
             for
             you
             I
             dye
             ,
          
           
             'T
             will
             change
             your
             Honour
             into
             Infamy
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             Song
             .
          
           
             
               VEnus
               of
               Souls
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               Hand
               controls
            
             
               The
               greatest
               Monarchs
               breast
               ;
            
             
               Under
               whose
               Shade
            
             
               All
               Beauty
               's
               laid
               ,
            
             
               Where
               every
               one
               would
               rest
               :
            
          
           
             
               Were
               I
               to
               chuse
               ,
            
             
               I
               'd
               not
               refuse
               ,
            
             
               But
               in
               thy
               very
               Heart
            
             
               My
               mind
               should
               rest
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               thy
               breast
            
             
               I
               'd
               Reign
               by
               Love
               ,
               not
               Art
               ;
            
          
           
             
               VVhere
               I
               would
               be
            
             
               For
               ever
               free
               ,
            
             
               Till
               I
               could
               satisfie
            
             
               My
               curious
               mind
               ,
            
             
               That
               's
               so
               confin'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               that
               Instant
               dye
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             To
             one
             that
             disswaded
             him
             from
             the
             Love
             of
             Clelia
             .
          
           
             GO
             ,
             dull
             Mechanick
             !
             whose
             Invective
             Pride
          
           
             Dares
             the
             Epitome
             of
             love
             deride
             ;
          
           
             Go
             to
             black
             Acheron
             ,
             there
             tell
             thy
             deeds
          
           
             To
             the
             dull
             VVinds
             ,
             which
             on
             the
             Vallies
             feeds
             ;
          
           
             And
             let
             thy
             poys'nous
             Breath
             extol
             the
             Fame
          
           
             Of
             some
             old
             VVitch
             ,
             or
             Hagg
             ,
             or
             canting
             Dame.
          
           
             Croak
             Carrols
             to
             the
             Toad
             or
             hissing
             Snake
             ,
          
           
             And
             breathe
             thy
             Venom
             o're
             the
             Stygean
             Lake
             .
          
           
             And
             for
             to
             please
             thy
             fancy
             ,
             may'st
             thou
             be
          
           
             Inchanted
             with
             thy
             VVises
             deformity
             .
          
           
             O
             Divine
             Clelia
             !
             can
             the
             Gods
             connive
          
           
             At
             Blasphemy
             ,
             and
             let
             the
             Slave
             survive
             ?
          
           
             If
             you
             thus
             deal
             with
             such
             unequal
             odds
             ,
          
           
             I
             'll
             scorn
             to
             worship
             such
             Plebeian
             Gods.
          
           
             There
             's
             not
             an
             Air
             ,
             a
             Whisper
             ,
             or
             a
             Breath
          
           
             Proceeds
             from
             her
             ,
             but
             triumphs
             over
             Death
             .
          
           
             The
             blushing
             Sky
             grows
             pale
             ,
             if
             she
             but
             frowns
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             shrill
             Orbs
             leave
             their
             harmonious
             sounds
             .
          
           
             Prometheus
             from
             her
             Beauty
             stole
             that
             Fire
             ,
          
           
             With
             which
             he
             did
             his
             new
             form'd
             Man
             inspire
             .
          
           
             Her
             Breath
             the
             Zeph'rus
             is
             that
             chears
             the
             Earth
             ,
          
           
             Those
             sweet
             Perfumes
             that
             give
             the
             Phoenix
             birth
             .
          
           
           
             Her
             Eyes
             ,
             Mouth
             ,
             Nose
             ,
             and
             Cheeks
             ,
             Waste
             ,
             Thighs
             and
             Feet
             ,
          
           
             Are
             quite
             beyond
             Comparison
             compleat
             .
          
           
             Go
             then
             ,
             grim
             Cur
             ,
             repent
             what
             thou
             hast
             done
             ,
          
           
             And
             leave
             to
             bark
             at
             such
             a
             glorious
             Sun.
          
           
             My
             Clelia
             is
             so
             fair
             ,
             and
             free
             from
             harms
             ,
          
           
             Such
             Innocence
             in
             her
             all-conquering
             Charms
             ,
          
           
             That
             shou'd
             the
             admiring
             World
             but
             chance
             to
             pry
          
           
             Into
             those
             hidden
             Glories
             of
             her
             Eye
             ,
          
           
             They'd
             ne're
             adore
             another
             Deity
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             Clelia
             .
          
           
             Shall
             still
             my
             suit
             prove
             void
             ,
             then
             bid
             me
             die
             ,
          
           
             I
             onely
             hope
             in
             vain
             ,
             tell
             me
             ,
             shall
             I
          
           
             Enjoy
             that
             very
             word
             torments
             my
             Soul
             ;
          
           
             Your
             Eyes
             do
             promise
             what
             you
             will
             Control
             .
          
           
             Beauty
             's
             too
             great
             to
             be
             a
             Tyrant
             there
             ,
          
           
             I
             harbour
             nothing
             now
             but
             sad
             despair
             ,
          
           
             Adore
             ing
             you
             ,
             my
             hopes
             are
             nought
             but
             Air.
             
          
        
         
           
             Epigr.
             72.
             lib.
             6.
             
             Martial
             .
          
           
             
               CIlex
               ,
               a
               Thief
               ,
               much
               noted
               for
               his
               Crime
               ,
            
             
               Did
               on
               a
               time
               ,
               into
               a
               Garden
               Climb
               :
            
             
               But
               in
               that
               spacious
               Garden
               looking
               round
               ,
            
             
               Nought
               but
               the
               God
               Priapus
               could
               be
               found
               ;
            
             
             
               Unwilling
               then
               empty
               to
               go
               ,
               or
               stay
               ,
            
             
               He
               took
               Priapus
               up
               ,
               and
               went
               away
               .
            
          
           
             
               Rare
               Guardian
               Gods
               !
               Rome
               cou'd
               not
               chuse
               but
               fall
               ,
            
             
               When
               such
               base
               Gods
               did
               keep
               her
               Capitol
               .
            
             
               Romans
               their
               Gods
               ,
               not
               Gods
               did
               Rome
               defend
               ,
            
             
               Their
               Empire
               else
               had
               sooner
               had
               an
               end
               :
            
             
               For
               who
               relies
               on
               such
               Egyptian
               Bands
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               find
               ,
               like
               Reeds
               ,
               they
               'l
               run
               into
               their
               Hands
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             A
             Song
             .
          
           
             
               SO
               strange
               a
               Distemper
               I
               ne're
               yet
               did
               know
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               too
               strong
               to
               be
               call'd
               an
               Impotent
               Foe
               ;
            
             
               'T
               is
               too
               weak
               to
               surprise
               and
               conquer
               my
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               with
               sundry
               Alarms
               it
               oft
               does
               infest
               ;
            
             
               It
               roars
               and
               it
               rages
               ,
               and
               makes
               such
               a
               do
               ,
            
             
               That
               though
               't
               is
               a
               Slave
               ,
               't
               wou'd
               be
               Conquerour
               too
               .
            
          
           
             
               With
               a
               Courage
               more
               stout
               than
               Achilles
               slew
               Hector
               ,
            
             
               I
               swore
               ,
               that
               no
               Passion
               shou'd
               be
               my
               Director
               ;
            
             
               Disdaining
               those
               Bonds
               that
               the
               Predicants
               wear
               ,
            
             
               My
               Soul
               is
               a
               Monarch
               as
               free
               as
               the
               Air.
            
             
               When
               such
               puling
               Passions
               my
               Fancy
               discovers
               ,
            
             
               Like
               Physitians
               ,
               I
               gain
               by
               the
               Sickness
               of
               others
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               If
               Nature
               would
               shew
               me
               a
               Creature
               Divine
               ,
            
             
               I
               'd
               smile
               in
               her
               Face
               ,
               and
               I
               'd
               swear
               she
               was
               mine
               :
            
             
               I
               'd
               urge
               her
               with
               Pleasures
               ,
               my
               glory
               shou'd
               move
            
             
               Ten
               Millions
               of
               Cupids
               to
               inforce
               her
               to
               love
               .
            
             
               I
               'd
               spare
               not
               one
               Kiss
               for
               the
               wealth
               of
               a
               Mine
               ;
            
             
               'T
               is
               death
               for
               a
               Lord
               ,
               if
               he
               touch
               but
               her
               Shrine
               .
            
          
           
             
               Such
               Affection
               I
               bear
               to
               the
               Creature
               I
               love
               :
            
             
               But
               if
               she
               were
               Heiress
               to
               thundering
               Iove
               ,
            
             
               And
               full
               of
               disdain
               ,
               I
               defie
               all
               her
               Charms
               ,
            
             
               As
               Heat
               repels
               Heat
               ,
               and
               Arms
               repels
               Arms.
            
             
               And
               rather
               then
               bear
               their
               scorn
               and
               their
               flight
               ,
            
             
               I
               'le
               worship
               the
               Owl
               ,
               the
               Queen
               of
               the
               Night
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Eurialus
             ,
             Hersilia
             ,
             Dares
             .
          
           
             
               Eur.
               
            
             
               
                 BEautious
                 Hersilia
                 ,
                 those
                 that
                 rule
                 above
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 you
                 have
                 plac'd
                 so
                 much
                 Divinity
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 I
                 am
                 compell'd
                 to
                 tell
                 you
                 that
                 I
                 love
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 those
                 scorching
                 Flames
                 ,
                 alas
                 !
                 I
                 fry
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 O
                 do
                 not
                 frown
                 ,
                 nor
                 yet
                 divert
                 your
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 let
                 one
                 loving
                 glance
                 prolong
                 my
                 end
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 Glory
                 is
                 it
                 for
                 you
                 to
                 defie
              
               
                 Your
                 Slave
                 ,
                 that
                 you
                 are
                 bound
                 for
                 to
                 defend
                 ?
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Hers.
               
            
             
               
                 If
                 Heaven
                 in
                 me
                 had
                 plac'd
                 ought
                 worthy
                 love
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 shou'd
                 have
                 lik'd
                 this
                 Honour
                 done
                 by
                 you
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 since
                 't
                 is
                 only
                 Fancy
                 that
                 does
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 were
                 base
                 in
                 me
                 ,
                 to
                 take
                 what
                 's
                 not
                 my
                 due
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Or
                 if
                 I
                 wou'd
                 ,
                 I
                 cannot
                 ease
                 you
                 now
                 ;
              
               
                 Your
                 fond
                 desires
                 you
                 never
                 can
                 attain
                 :
              
               
                 Think
                 you
                 a
                 Votress
                 will
                 reject
                 her
                 Vow
                 ?
              
               
                 One
                 of
                 the
                 Quiver-bearing
                 Goddess
                 Train
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Besides
                 you
                 may
                 as
                 well
                 go
                 Court
                 a
                 Saint
              
               
                 To
                 leave
                 her
                 Heaven
                 ,
                 and
                 visit
                 Earth
                 agen
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 ever
                 hope
                 to
                 move
                 me
                 by
                 your
                 '
                 plaint
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 taste
                 the
                 sorrows
                 that
                 attend
                 on
                 Men.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               Dar.
               
            
             
               
                 Here
                 comes
                 the
                 mighty
                 Daros
                 ,
                 Madam
                 ,
                 chuse
              
               
                 The
                 solid
                 Oak
                 ,
                 or
                 else
                 this
                 slender
                 Reed
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 if
                 I
                 touch
                 ,
                 I
                 instantly
                 shou'd
                 bruise
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 such
                 an
                 Act
                 would
                 make
                 my
                 Honour
                 bleed
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 I
                 love
                 ,
                 and
                 will
                 enjoy
                 ;
                 nay
                 ,
                 be
                 not
                 Coy
                 ;
              
               
                 Were
                 mighty
                 Turnus
                 ,
                 or
                 Aeneas
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'd
                 not
                 defer
                 one
                 moment
                 to
                 enjoy
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 noble
                 courage
                 scorns
                 to
                 stoop
                 to
                 fear
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 mine
                 by
                 Heaven
                 ,
                 and
                 were
                 the
                 Gods
                 unkind
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 not
                 to
                 aid
                 me
                 ,
                 if
                 I
                 should
                 desire
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 'd
                 search
                 their
                 Palaces
                 ,
                 and
                 there
                 I
                 'd
                 find
              
               
                 A
                 subtler
                 Flame
                 than
                 was
                 Prometheus
                 Fire
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 With
                 this
                 I
                 'd
                 gain
                 thy
                 Love
                 ,
                 or
                 else
                 compel
              
               
                 Thy
                 stubborn
                 Fancy
                 to
                 obey
                 my
                 will
                 ;
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 more
                 ,
                 I
                 'd
                 ransack
                 the
                 abiss
                 of
                 Hell
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Stygian
                 Prince
                 shou'd
                 my
                 Commands
                 fullfil
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Hers.
               
            
             
               
                 Though
                 you
                 're
                 so
                 proud
                 to
                 menace
                 ,
                 know
                 that
                 I
              
               
                 Do
                 neither
                 fear
                 ,
                 nor
                 yet
                 respect
                 your
                 force
                 ;
              
               
                 My
                 Virgin
                 honour's
                 able
                 to
                 desie
              
               
                 The
                 furious
                 Current
                 of
                 your
                 mighty
                 Course
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 If
                 Heaven
                 and
                 Earth
                 were
                 all
                 at
                 thy
                 Command
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 I
                 alone
                 thy
                 Bondage
                 did
                 deny
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Chastity
                 is
                 able
                 to
                 withstand
              
               
                 The
                 Rage
                 of
                 thy
                 audacious
                 Tyranny
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Besides
                 ,
                 the
                 Gods
                 ,
                 (
                 who
                 thy
                 malicious
                 Tongue
              
               
                 Has
                 glory'd
                 in
                 upbraiding
                 thus
                 )
              
               
                 Would
                 with
                 a
                 Thunder-bolt
                 prevent
                 the
                 wrong
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 send
                 thee
                 headlong
                 into
                 Erebus
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               
                 So
                 have
                 I
                 seen
                 a
                 lofty
                 Cedar
                 stand
              
               
                 Amidst
                 a
                 Cops
                 of
                 Shrubs
                 and
                 ragged
                 Trees
                 :
              
               
                 Her
                 lofty
                 Top
                 did
                 wave
                 ,
                 when
                 gently
                 fann'd
              
               
                 And
                 Courted
                 by
                 Favonius
                 milder
                 breeze
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 when
                 in
                 Storms
                 the
                 angry
                 North
                 did
                 frown
                 ,
              
               
                 Threat'ning
                 the
                 ruin
                 of
                 her
                 losty
                 Pride
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 scorn'd
                 to
                 veil
                 unto
                 the
                 angry
                 Clown
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 sollid
                 strength
                 did
                 all
                 her
                 force
                 deride
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
           
             An
             Acrostick
             on
             Madam
             
               Ann
               Tirrell
            
             .
          
           
             
               Admir'd
               Beauty
               ,
               whose
               victorious
               Eyes
            
             
               Ne're
               wants
               a
               Heavenly
               Vertue
               to
               surprise
               .
            
             
               Nature
               in
               you
               alone
               may
               boast
               what-e're
            
          
           
             
               To
               
                 Grecian
                 Hellen
              
               was
               accounted
               fair
               .
            
             
               I
               you
               ,
               as
               Persians
               do
               adore
               the
               Sun
               ,
            
             
               Revived
               Phoenix
               ,
               that
               art
               still
               but
               one
               .
            
             
               Roses
               and
               Lillies
               are
               too
               mean
               a
               Grace
               ,
            
             
               Etherial
               Beauty
               Crowns
               your
               Heavenly
               Face
               ;
            
             
               Lasting
               as
               Fame
               ,
               still
               may
               your
               Honour
               be
               ,
            
             
               Like
               verdant
               Lawrel
               ,
               still
               from
               Envy
               free
               .
            
          
           
             
               Admit
               my
               Fancy
               be
               too
               high
               ,
               or
               low
               ,
            
             
               Regent
               of
               Hearts
               ,
               know
               you
               have
               made
               it
               so
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             On
             
             Clelia's
             severe
             Command
             .
          
           
             
               TO
               thee
               ,
               O
               Wood
               ,
               I
               make
               my
               moan
               ,
            
             
               And
               sing
               the
               Accents
               of
               my
               groan
               ,
            
             
               Which
               else
               I
               durst
               intrust
               to
               none
               .
            
          
           
             
               For
               since
               that
               she
               who
               I
               adore
            
             
               Has
               gave
               Command
               ,
               that
               I
               no
               more
            
             
               Shou'd
               blaze
               her
               Fame
               ,
               as
               heretofore
               ,
            
          
           
             
             
               Silence
               it self
               shall
               louder
               be
            
             
               Than
               any
               voice
               which
               comes
               from
               me
               ,
            
             
               Where
               any
               Auditor
               shall
               be
               .
            
          
           
             
               Yet
               every
               whist'ling
               Wind
               shall
               bear
            
             
               My
               sad
               Complaint
               unto
               her
               Ear
               ,
            
             
               That
               her
               Commands
               were
               too
               severe
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               on
               each
               Tree
               I
               'll
               carve
               her
               Fame
               ,
            
             
               Which
               still
               shall
               flourish
               by
               the
               same
               .
            
             
               Th'
               Immortal
               Grove
               shall
               be
               its
               Name
               .
            
          
           
             
               In
               which
               each
               chirping
               Bird
               shall
               raise
            
             
               Encomiums
               on
               my
               
               Clelia's
               praise
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               I
               in
               sorrow
               spend
               my
               Days
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               'l
               search
               the
               Aetnean
               Caverns
               ,
               where
            
             
               The
               fiery
               Sallamanders
               are
               ,
            
             
               To
               me
               those
               Flames
               cannot
               compare
               .
            
          
           
             
               Though
               Mulciber
               does
               there
               display
            
             
               His
               slaming
               Ensignes
               Night
               and
               Day
               ;
            
             
               In
               time
               those
               Flames
               may
               yet
               decay
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               mine
               's
               Eternal
               ,
               and
               will
               stay
               ,
            
             
               The
               substance
               ne're
               consumes
               away
               ,
            
             
               The
               more
               it
               burns
               ,
               the
               more
               it
               may
               .
            
          
           
             
               They
               are
               no
               Lovers
               that
               can
               tell
            
             
               What
               caus'd
               ,
               how
               strong
               they
               love
               ,
               how
               well
               ;
            
             
               Love
               does
               
                 ad
                 Infinitum
              
               dwell
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               I
               live
               on
               air
               of
               endless
               love
               ,
            
             
               And
               as
               a
               shadow
               only
               move
               ,
            
             
               By
               that
               which
               does
               the
               substance
               prove
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               'le
               search
               where
               the
               Chamelions
               are
               ,
            
             
               And
               unto
               them
               I
               will
               declare
               ,
            
             
               That
               Love
               's
               as
               bad
               a
               Food
               as
               Air.
               
            
          
           
             
               Nay
               ,
               worse
               ,
               for
               though
               their
               Food
               's
               but
               Breath
               ,
            
             
               Air
               is
               their
               Life
               ,
               Love
               is
               my
               Death
               ,
            
             
               Hunger
               more
               Comfort
               wou'd
               bequeath
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               now
               I
               nearer
               come
               ,
               I
               see
            
             
               There
               can
               but
               little
               difference
               be
               ,
            
             
               I
               am
               a
               Shadow
               ,
               so
               is
               he
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               'le
               dig
               the
               Earth
               ,
               that
               I
               may
               know
            
             
               What
               Nature
               has
               deny'd
               to
               show
               ,
            
             
               To
               Moles
               that
               in
               her
               Bowels
               grow
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               there
               I
               'le
               whisper
               
               Clelia's
               Name
               ,
            
             
               That
               Mines
               and
               Stones
               may
               hear
               the
               same
               ,
            
             
               And
               tell
               from
               whence
               their
               knowledge
               came
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               now
               I
               nearer
               come
               ,
               I
               find
            
             
               That
               Moles
               and
               I
               are
               nigh
               of
               Kind
               ;
            
             
               For
               they
               as
               well
               as
               Love
               are
               blind
               .
            
          
           
             
               For
               what
               they
               dig
               they
               do
               not
               know
               ,
            
             
               And
               labouring
               pain
               do
               undergo
               ;
            
             
               I
               love
               ,
               my
               case
               is
               even
               so
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Their
               pain
               is
               pleasure
               ,
               so
               is
               mine
               ;
            
             
               But
               here
               we
               differ
               ,
               mine
               's
               Divine
               ;
            
             
               Their
               aim
               is
               Earth
               ,
               mine
               too
               sublime
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               'le
               dive
               into
               the
               Watery-deep
               ,
            
             
               And
               see
               the
               Bodies
               that
               do
               sleep
               ,
            
             
               For
               whom
               the
               Waves
               themselves
               do
               weep
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               there
               together
               with
               the
               throng
            
             
               Of
               num'rous
               Fish
               I
               'll
               swim
               along
               ,
            
             
               Who
               are
               like
               me
               depriv'd
               of
               Tongue
               .
            
          
           
             
               Yet
               cou'd
               I
               like
               Arion
               play
               ,
            
             
               I
               'd
               make
               those
               Mutes
               stand
               at
               a
               bay
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               I
               my
               
               Clelia's
               praise
               display
               .
            
          
           
             
               That
               so
               ,
               when
               ever
               I
               shou'd
               dye
               ,
            
             
               Each
               Element
               might
               then
               supply
            
             
               The
               praises
               of
               her
               memory
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             A
             Song
             .
          
           
             THE
             Fetters
             of
             Love
             are
             far
             stronger
             than
             hate
             ,
          
           
             Fast
             binding
             the
             Captive
             ,
             by
             that
             they
             call
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             Inslaving
             the
             Senses
             ,
             and
             dulling
             the
             Brain
             ,
          
           
             For
             a
             thing
             of
             no
             moment
             ,
             scarce
             worth
             a
             name
             ,
          
           
             A
             delight
             that
             does
             cloy
             ,
             as
             soon
             as
             enjoy'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             a
             Fancy
             obtain'd
             we
             after
             avoid
             .
          
           
             The
             pleasures
             are
             past
             soon
             as
             ever
             they
             come
             ,
          
           
             And
             gallop
             away
             as
             the
             Deel
             upon
             Dun.
             
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             Complaint
             against
             Cupid
             ,
             for
             causing
             a
             distastful
             Love.
             
          
           
             
               FArewell
               ,
               my
               scornfull
               Female
               Saint
               ,
            
             
               In
               vain
               you
               boast
               your
               conq'ring
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               your
               deportment
               does
               depaint
            
             
               A
               Tygress
               o're
               a
               Sacrifice
               .
            
          
           
             
               Desist
               ,
               for
               by
               the
               Powers
               above
               ,
            
             
               And
               by
               the
               Oath
               they
               use
               to
               swear
               ,
            
             
               My
               anger
               's
               greater
               than
               my
               Love
               ,
            
             
               And
               your
               disdain
               I
               scorn
               to
               bear
               .
            
          
           
             
               For
               your
               base
               pride
               you
               hold
               so
               high
               ,
            
             
               Will
               at
               the
               last
               your self
               anoy
               ,
            
             
               Like
               to
               the
               Cockatrices
               Eye
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               self-reflection
               doth
               destroy
               .
            
          
           
             
               Know
               then
               ,
               that
               I
               am
               no
               such
               Fool
               ,
            
             
               To
               doat
               on
               your
               Complexion
               ;
            
             
               My
               Passion
               is
               become
               too
               cool
            
             
               For
               such
               a
               weak
               Infection
               .
            
          
           
             
               Those
               am'rous
               glances
               which
               I
               paid
            
             
               To
               those
               disdainful
               looks
               of
               thine
               ,
            
             
               Are
               now
               asham'd
               that
               e're
               they
               made
            
             
               An
               Idol
               to
               adorn
               thy
               Shrine
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Cupid
               ,
               henceforth
               I
               vow
               despite
            
             
               Against
               thy
               Quiver
               and
               thy
               Bow
               ,
            
             
               Did
               I
               plead
               Nonage
               in
               thy
               sight
               ,
            
             
               Fond
               Boy
               ,
               that
               thou
               shouldst
               use
               me
               so
               ?
            
          
           
             
               I
               was
               not
               born
               of
               Stygian
               race
               ,
            
             
               Against
               the
               Gods
               I
               ne're
               made
               War
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               did
               thy
               Temples
               e're
               deface
               ,
            
             
               Or
               blemish'd
               Venus
               with
               a
               Scar.
               
            
          
           
             
               It
               was
               not
               I
               that
               took
               the
               pains
            
             
               Her
               secret
               Love
               for
               to
               discover
               ,
            
             
               And
               bound
               her
               in
               Cyclopean
               Chains
               ,
            
             
               Caressing
               her
               Licentious
               Lover
               .
            
          
           
             
               How
               came
               it
               then
               that
               thou
               should'st
               make
            
             
               So
               strange
               a
               love
               my
               Heart
               to
               seize
               ,
            
             
               And
               give
               new
               vigor
               to
               the
               Snake
            
             
               Which
               was
               before
               content
               to
               freeze
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Didst
               thou
               at
               random
               shoot
               a
               Dart
               ,
            
             
               Directed
               by
               no
               certain
               slight
               ,
            
             
               To
               see
               if
               thou
               couldst
               hit
               a
               Heart
            
             
               Which
               did
               thy
               Childish
               Godhead
               slight
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Or
               art
               thou
               like
               some
               Idle
               Lad
               ,
            
             
               Whom
               no
               delight
               can
               e're
               content
               ,
            
             
               But
               in
               a
               humour
               raging
               mad
               ,
            
             
               Throws
               stones
               into
               the
               Element
               ?
            
          
           
             
             
               If
               so
               ,
               a
               Rod
               is
               fitter
               far
            
             
               For
               to
               correct
               thy
               Childish
               will
               ,
            
             
               And
               thousand
               petty
               Gods
               there
               are
            
             
               Can
               draw
               thy
               Bow
               ,
               yet
               never
               kill
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               I
               Blaspheme
               ,
               great
               God
               of
               Hearts
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               did'st
               this
               thing
               ,
               that
               thou
               mightst
               try
            
             
               With
               what
               a
               strength
               thy
               powerful
               Darts
            
             
               Force
               Love
               against
               Antipathy
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             On
             his
             viewing
             a
             Fragment
             of
             the
             
               Old
               James
            
             .
          
           
             THis
             piece
             of
             Wood
             ,
             which
             now
             doth
             lye
          
           
             Neglected
             by
             each
             passer
             by
             ,
          
           
             Not
             for
             so
             base
             a
             use
             design'd
             ,
          
           
             Did
             once
             despise
             the
             Waves
             and
             Wind.
          
           
             This
             was
             a
             Member
             of
             that
             Frame
          
           
             That
             once
             did
             bear
             great
             
             Iames's
             his
             Name
             ;
          
           
             Within
             whose
             bulk
             there
             did
             embark
          
           
             More
             Souls
             than
             Creatures
             in
             the
             Ark
             ;
          
           
             And
             unto
             cruel
             Death
             did
             drive
          
           
             Far
             more
             than
             Noah
             sav'd
             alive
             .
          
           
             His
             wide-mouth'd
             Cannon
             oft
             did
             make
          
           
             The
             Watery
             Region
             to
             quake
             ;
          
           
             And
             frighted
             Neptune
             from
             his
             Seat
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             his
             shrill
             Tryton
             blew
             Retreat
             .
          
           
             The
             quondam
             rageing
             Waves
             did
             sly
             ,
          
           
             And
             left
             the
             Neighbouring
             Ocean
             dry
             .
          
           
           
             His
             Warlike
             sides
             with
             fire
             and
             smoke
          
           
             Did
             oft
             the
             drunken
             Dutch
             provoke
             ;
          
           
             And
             made
             the
             modish
             French
             to
             find
          
           
             The
             difference
             'twixt
             Smoak
             and
             Wind.
          
           
             Yet
             now
             ,
             in
             midst
             of
             all
             his
             State
             ,
          
           
             His
             Glory
             he
             resigns
             to
             Fate
             ;
          
           
             Like
             Hercules
             ,
             (
             though
             Iove
             his
             Sire
             )
          
           
             Yields
             to
             consuming
             Flames
             of
             Fire
             .
          
           
             This
             makes
             the
             English
             Proverb
             sound
             ,
          
           
             
               Who
               's
               born
               to
               hang
               ,
               shall
               ne're
               be
               drown'd
               .
            
          
           
             For
             whom
             the
             Waves
             cou'd
             never
             tire
             ,
          
           
             Lies
             here
             at
             last
             ,
             consum'd
             by
             Fire
             .
          
        
         
           
             An
             Anagram
             on
             His
             Highness
             Jame's
             Duke
             of
             York
             and
             Albany
             .
          
           
             
               JAMES
               STUART
            
             .
             Anagram
             .
             
               A
               JUST
               MASTER
            
             .
          
           
             
               Epigram
               .
            
             
               I
               'LL
               boldly
               on
               ,
               not
               fearing
               a
               disaster
               ,
            
             
               If
               Life
               or
               Death
               can
               serve
               so
               
                 Iust
                 a
                 Master
              
               :
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Susana
             Witherell
             .
          
           
             Anagram
             .
             
               U
               are
               all
               Whitness
            
             .
          
           
             
               Epigram
               .
            
             
               SUch
               great
               Perfection
               reigns
               through
               all
               your
               Soul
               ,
            
             
               
                 You
                 are
                 all
                 Whiteness
              
               ,
               not
               one
               part
               is
               soul.
               
            
          
           
             
               Another
               .
            
             
               
                 You
                 are
                 all
                 Whiteness
              
               ,
               rare
               perfection
               ;
               hence
            
             
               Your
               very
               Name
               creates
               a
               Quintessence
               .
            
          
           
             
               An
               Acrostick
               .
            
             
               
                 So
                 Sweet
                 ,
                 so
                 Good
                 ,
                 so
                 Vertuous
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 Fair
                 !
              
               
                 United
                 Forces
                 still
                 most
                 pow'rful
                 are
                 .
              
               
                 Such
                 conqu'ring
                 Charms
                 do
                 in
                 your
                 Eyes
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 gives
                 new
                 Luster
                 to
                 the
                 Hemesphere
                 ;
              
               
                 Nature
                 in
                 you
                 perform'd
                 her
                 utmost
                 skill
                 ,
              
               
                 Allowing
                 priviledge
                 to
                 save
                 or
                 kill
                 ;
              
            
             
               
                 Who
                 can
                 resist
                 the
                 Dictates
                 of
                 your
                 will
                 ?
              
               
               
                 Interiour
                 motions
                 from
                 your
                 Beauty
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 Teaching
                 me
                 love
                 ,
                 which
                 you
                 alone
                 despise
                 ;
              
               
                 How
                 can
                 you
                 be
                 so
                 cruel
                 for
                 to
                 slay
              
               
                 Each
                 minute
                 ,
                 that
                 which
                 doth
                 your
                 will
                 obey
                 ?
              
               
                 Reprieve's
                 in
                 vain
                 ,
                 when
                 Death
                 hath
                 seal'd
                 the
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 Ever
                 be
                 cruel
                 ,
                 pity'll
                 come
                 to
                 late
                 .
              
               
                 Like
                 Niobe
                 I
                 'le
                 mourn
                 ,
                 and
                 my
                 last
                 breath
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 Swans
                 ,
                 shall
                 sing
                 the
                 Omen
                 of
                 my
                 Death
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             A
             Song
             to
             Lucifer
             .
          
           
             
               WHy
               dost
               thou
               thus
               delay
               ,
            
             
               O
               Lucifer
               ,
               to
               usher
               in
               the
               day
               ?
            
             
               Sluggard
               ,
               I
               know
               thy
               fear
               ;
            
             
               Thou
               know'st
               my
               Clelia
               will
               then
               appear
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               blest
               and
               heavenly
               sight
            
             
               VVill
               doom
               thy
               Light
               unto
               Eternal
               Night
               .
            
          
           
             
               Nor
               shall
               we
               need
               the
               Sun
               ,
            
             
               Bid
               him
               unto
               the
               lower
               VVorld
               return
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               his
               Beams
               of
               light
            
             
               Expel
               from
               the
               Abyss
               the
               Queen
               of
               Night
               ;
            
             
               For
               from
               my
               Clelias
               Eyes
            
             
               Proceed
               such
               Rayes
               as
               doth
               all
               Light
               surprize
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Nor
               shall
               we
               need
               the
               Powers
            
             
               Of
               Moon
               ,
               or
               Stars
               ,
               or
               Hail
               ,
               or
               Snow
               ,
               or
               Showers
               ;
            
             
               For
               whilst
               on
               Earth
               she
               stays
               ,
            
             
               With
               her
               more
               glorious
               and
               refulgent
               Rayes
               ,
            
             
               Proceeding
               from
               her
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               Gives
               Birth
               to
               all
               ,
               and
               Natures
               course
               supplies
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               when
               she
               please
               to
               sly
            
             
               From
               Earth
               to
               Heaven
               ,
               and
               be
               enthron'd
               on
               high
               ,
            
             
               And
               there
               look
               down
               on
               Men
               ,
            
             
               The
               Golden
               Age
               shall
               Visit
               Earth
               agen
               ;
            
             
               And
               all
               the
               World
               shall
               be
            
             
               Blest
               with
               its
               Primitive
               Fecundity
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             To
             the
             King
             's
             most
             Excellent
             Majesty
             .
          
           
             OF
             mighty
             Iove
             I
             lately
             ask't
             a
             Boon
             ,
          
           
             Which
             ,
             like
             a
             God
             ,
             he
             granted
             me
             as
             soon
          
           
             As
             I
             cou'd
             ask
             ;
             and
             gave
             me
             this
             Command
             ,
          
           
             Go
             ,
             and
             receive
             it
             at
             thy
             Princes
             Hand
             ,
          
           
             Great
             Charles
             ,
             to
             whom
             the
             World
             shall
             Homage
             pay
             ,
          
           
             The
             Dutch
             ,
             the
             French
             ,
             the
             Spaniards
             all
             obey
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             mighty
             Fleets
             shall
             from
             the
             Indies
             bring
          
           
             Spice
             ,
             Pearls
             ,
             and
             Gold
             ,
             as
             Presents
             to
             the
             King.
          
           
             Thou
             need'st
             not
             doubt
             ,
             thy
             wants
             he
             'll
             soon
             supply
             ,
          
           
             From
             his
             so
             unexhausted
             Treasury
             .
          
           
           
             No
             more
             he
             said
             ,
             the
             God
             I
             straight
             ador'd
             ,
          
           
             With
             Hecatombs
             of
             Thanks
             his
             Altar
             stor'd
             ;
          
           
             And
             big
             with
             expectation
             to
             receive
          
           
             The
             promis'd
             Gift
             ,
             I
             thought
             my
             King
             wou'd
             give
             .
          
           
             Some
             Days
             ,
             some
             Weeks
             ,
             some
             Months
             I
             spent
             in
             vain
             ,
          
           
             Each
             moment
             full
             of
             hopes
             of
             promis'd
             gain
             ;
          
           
             And
             still
             my
             want
             increas'd
             .
             I
             therefore
             then
          
           
             Swore
             ne're
             to
             trust
             a
             Heathen
             God
             agen
             ,
          
           
             But
             to
             my
             Soveraign
             my
             wants
             declare
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Clemency
             shall
             suit
             unto
             my
             Prayer
             .
          
           
             Thus
             shall
             th'
             admiring
             World
             perceive
             the
             odds
          
           
             Between
             our
             Christian
             Kings
             ,
             and
             Heathen
             Gods.
             
          
        
         
           
             A
             Song
             .
          
           
             
               FRom
               Salamis
               when
               Teucer
               fled
               ,
            
             
               And
               left
               his
               Country
               ,
               then
            
             
               With
               Poplar
               Boughs
               he
               Crown'd
               his
               Head
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               his
               Warlike
               Men
               ;
            
          
           
             
               And
               with
               a
               Bowl
               of
               fragrant
               Wine
            
             
               With
               Bachus
               did
               caress
               ,
            
             
               Drowning
               their
               Souls
               in
               Muscadine
               ,
            
             
               Joy'd
               with
               such
               happiness
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               So
               let
               us
               like
               Immortal
               Souls
            
             
               Our
               life
               in
               pleasure
               spend
               ,
            
             
               Quassing
               our
               time
               in
               lusty
               Bowls
               ,
            
             
               Which
               never
               shall
               have
               end
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thus
               shall
               we
               make
               the
               Powers
               above
            
             
               To
               envy
               our
               delight
               ,
            
             
               And
               Cupid
               ,
               Prince
               and
               God
               of
               Love
               ,
            
             
               To
               Revel
               all
               the
               Night
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thus
               shall
               we
               make
               the
               Gods
               despise
            
             
               The
               sweet
               and
               pleasant
               taste
            
             
               Of
               Nectar
               ,
               which
               they
               once
               did
               prize
               ,
            
             
               Drank
               by
               Immortal
               Race
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thus
               each
               of
               us
               shall
               be
               a
               Star
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               the
               Gods
               combine
            
             
               In
               their
               Divinity
               to
               share
               ,
            
             
               As
               they
               shall
               in
               our
               Wine
               .
            
          
           
             
               Frange
               ●oros
               ,
               Pete
               vina
               ,
               rosas
               cape
               ,
               tingere
               nardo
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Dido's
             Expostulation
             .
          
           
             THey
             say
             ,
             that
             Souls
             departed
             ,
             first
             must
             run
          
           
             To
             Styx
             ,
             and
             so
             unto
             Elizium
             .
          
           
             They
             tell
             me
             wonders
             ,
             and
             they
             likewise
             show
          
           
             Th'
             Immortal
             Pleasures
             of
             the
             Shades
             below
             .
          
           
           
             I
             dare
             not
             trust
             loud
             Fame
             ,
             but
             ,
             if
             I
             might
             ,
          
           
             My
             wandring
             Soul
             should
             pass
             to
             Styx
             this
             Night
             .
          
           
             Fond
             Heart
             ,
             ne're
             fear
             ,
             undoubtedly
             't
             is
             so
             ,
          
           
             Be
             resolute
             ,
             for
             thou
             mayst
             safely
             go
             .
          
           
             Well
             ,
             I
             'm
             resolv'd
             ,
             and
             if
             that
             Fame
             doth
             lie
             ,
          
           
             Let
             Fortune
             do
             her
             worst
             ,
             I
             can
             but
             dye
             .
          
           
             And
             now
             this
             Sword
             shall
             pass
             into
             my
             veins
          
           
             And
             ease
             my
             Heart
             of
             all
             my
             cruel
             pains
             ;
          
           
             My
             vital
             Spirits
             saint
             ,
             I
             come
             ,
             I
             come
             ,
          
           
             To
             my
             sweet
             rest
             ,
             even
             to
             Elizium
             .
          
        
         
           
             Dido
             and
             Charon
             .
          
           
             
               Did.
               
            
             
               A
               Boat
               ,
               a
               Boat.
               
            
          
           
             
               Ch.
               
            
             
               Who
               calls
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Did.
               
            
             
               Charon
               ,
               't
               is
               I
               ,
            
             
               A
               Soul
               drove
               by
               Immense
               extremity
            
             
               To
               leave
               the
               furious
               Earth
               ,
               and
               now
               am
               come
            
             
               To
               thee
               ,
               to
               row
               me
               to
               Elizium
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ch.
               
            
             
               What
               is
               thy
               Name
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Did.
               
            
             
               Dido
               ,
               who
               just
               now
               sway'd
            
             
               Thy
               Scepter
               ,
               Carthage
               ,
               who
               great
               Kings
               obey'd
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ch.
               
            
             
               What
               brought
               thee
               hither
               ?
               freely
               now
               relate
            
             
               The
               real
               cause
               of
               this
               thy
               sudden
               Fate
               .
            
          
           
             
               Did.
               
            
             
               Make
               no
               delay
               ,
               sweet
               Charon
               ,
               pitty
               me
               ,
            
             
               Involv'd
               by
               Fate
               in
               this
               Calamity
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ch.
               
            
             
               Thou
               canst
               not
               pass
               ,
               't
               is
               vain
               for
               thee
               to
               strive
               ,
            
             
               The
               Gods
               command
               ,
               and
               I
               cannot
               connive
               .
            
          
           
             
               Did.
               
            
             
               O
               Cruelty
               !
               then
               must
               I
               tell
               the
               cause
               ?
            
             
               I
               have
               transgress'd
               the
               great
               Commands
               and
               Laws
            
             
             
               Of
               the
               just
               Gods
               ,
               thus
               to
               anticipate
            
             
               The
               desperate
               force
               of
               my
               too
               rigid
               Fate
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ch.
               
            
             
               What
               was
               the
               motive
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Did.
               
            
             
               Love.
               
            
          
           
             
               Ch.
               
            
             
               The
               Gods
               forbid
               .
            
             
               Wou'd
               such
               a
               thing
               from
               Mortal
               Race
               were
               hid
               ?
            
             
               O
               't
               was
               not
               Love
               ,
               but
               Glory
               and
               Revenge
               ,
            
             
               And
               had
               not
               Fate
               commanded
               such
               to
               range
            
             
               A
               hundred
               years
               on
               this
               side
               Styx
               ,
               my
               Boat
            
             
               Ere
               now
               had
               been
               as
               tatter'd
               as
               my
               Coat
               .
            
          
           
             
               Did.
               
            
             
               Charon
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ch.
               
            
             
               I
               cannot
               stay
               ,
               but
               must
               be
               gone
               ,
            
             
               And
               leave
               thee
               here
               most
               sadly
               to
               bemoan
            
             
               Thy
               desp'rate
               folly
               ,
               with
               those
               Shades
               that
               fly
            
             
               Like
               num'rous
               Troops
               of
               Atoms
               in
               the
               Skie
               .
            
          
           
             
               Did.
               
            
             
               But
               where
               is
               then
               Sicheus
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Ch.
               
            
             
               Pish
               ,
               he
               's
               free
            
             
               From
               all
               those
               troubles
               that
               attend
               on
               thee
               ;
            
             
               He
               's
               in
               Elizium
               .
            
          
           
             
               Did.
               
            
             
               What
               can
               he
               rest
               ,
            
             
               When
               I
               with
               sorrow
               am
               so
               much
               opprest
               ?
            
             
               Let
               not
               the
               burden
               of
               my
               grief
               exceed
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ch.
               
            
             
               This
               is
               enough
               to
               make
               the
               Rocks
               to
               bleed
               ,
            
             
               And
               Gods
               relent
               .
            
          
           
             
               Did.
               
            
             
               My
               very
               Soul
               doth
               swell
               ,
            
             
               My
               Heart
               doth
               burn
               worse
               than
               the
               Flames
               of
               Hell
               ;
            
             
               My
               Princely
               Power
               is
               gone
               ,
               where
               's
               Honours
               now
               ,
            
             
               Those
               regal
               Titles
               that
               did
               crown
               my
               Brow
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Ch.
               
            
             
               Honour
               !
               there
               's
               no
               such
               thing
               ,
               the
               meanest
               Slave
            
             
               Is
               equal
               to
               a
               Queen
               when
               in
               the
               Grave
               .
            
             
               Here
               's
               no
               distinction
               ,
               Kings
               and
               Princes
               all
            
             
               Must
               bear
               that
               equal
               Sentence
               that
               shall
               fall
            
             
             
               Upon
               them
               ,
               for
               their
               bad
               or
               good
               intent
               ,
            
             
               Firmly
               enacted
               by
               Heavens
               Parliament
               .
            
          
           
             
               
                 Sub
                 tua
                 purpurei
                 venient
                 vestigia
                 Reges
              
               
                 Deposito
                 luxu
                 :
                 turbaque
                 cum
                 paupere
                 mixti
              
               
                 Omnia
                 mors
                 equat
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
          
        
         
           
             AN
             envious
             ,
             angry
             ,
             sluggish
             ,
             drunken
             Lover
             ,
          
           
             His
             Passion
             ,
             and
             his
             Vice
             at
             once
             discover
             ;
          
           
             A
             vicious
             Passion
             quickly
             will
             discover
          
           
             An
             envious
             ,
             angry
             ,
             sluggish
             ,
             drunken
             Lover
             ;
          
           
             A
             sluggish
             drunken
             Lover
             in
             a
             trice
          
           
             Discovers
             both
             his
             Passion
             and
             his
             Vice
             ;
          
           
             His
             anger
             and
             his
             envy
             quickly
             be
          
           
             Disclos'd
             by
             Wine
             ,
             
               In
               Wine
               is
               Verity
            
             .
          
           
             Desire
             of
             sloath
             ,
             and
             lust
             of
             Wine
             may
             prove
          
           
             An
             Antidote
             against
             the
             power
             of
             Love
             ;
          
           
             Anger
             and
             Envy
             ,
             in
             one
             Breast
             confin'd
             ,
          
           
             Love
             ne're
             will
             stumble
             at
             ,
             though
             Love
             is
             blind
             .
          
           
             Who
             e're
             to
             Wrath
             or
             Envy
             will
             give
             place
             ,
          
           
             May
             he
             ne're
             meet
             with
             any
             chast
             Embrace
             .
          
           
             Those
             that
             to
             Sloath
             and
             Wine
             addicted
             be
             ,
          
           
             May
             live
             with
             Epicurus
             ,
             not
             with
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             Confidence
             of
             a
             Iust
             Man.
             
          
           
             NO
             Salvage
             Tyranny
             ,
             no
             desp'rate
             War
             ,
          
           
             No
             cruel
             Fortune
             ,
             nor
             unlucky
             Jar
             ,
          
           
           
             No
             trembling
             Earthquake
             ,
             nor
             the
             Potent
             Hand
          
           
             Of
             thund'ring
             Iupiter
             ,
             whose
             high
             command
          
           
             Doth
             claim
             obedience
             ,
             no
             ,
             not
             if
             the
             frame
          
           
             Of
             Nature
             were
             involved
             in
             the
             same
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             whole
             Fabrick
             by
             disorder
             brought
             ,
          
           
             Shou'd
             be
             converted
             suddenly
             to
             nought
             ;
          
           
             Like
             hopeless
             Wretches
             ,
             it
             cou'd
             never
             fright
          
           
             My
             Heart
             ,
             and
             make
             me
             tremble
             at
             the
             sight
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             cou'd
             it
             shake
             the
             Castle
             of
             my
             Soul
             ,
          
           
             That
             's
             fortifi'd
             beyond
             such
             weak
             control
             .
          
           
             My
             Valiant
             Heart
             ne're
             sears
             the
             scorching
             Sun
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             the
             strange
             Operations
             of
             the
             Moon
             ;
          
           
             No
             Comet
             hath
             the
             power
             to
             make
             me
             fear
             ,
          
           
             Not
             though
             his
             Beard
             portend
             a
             Famine
             neer
             ,
          
           
             Or
             Pestilence
             ,
             or
             Sword
             ,
             or
             what
             is
             worse
             ,
          
           
             All
             Heavenly
             Influence
             turn'd
             into
             a
             Curse
             .
          
           
             For
             what
             are
             these
             ,
             but
             secondary
             things
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             the
             Hands
             of
             the
             great
             King
             of
             Kings
             ,
          
           
             VVho
             can
             dispose
             of
             us
             ,
             and
             all
             of
             these
             ,
          
           
             Not
             as
             we
             wou'd
             ,
             but
             as
             himself
             does
             please
             ?
          
           
             
               
                 Si
                 fractus
                 illabatur
                 orbis
              
               
                 Impavidum
                 ferient
                 ruinae
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
           
             On
             the
             Death
             of
             Mr.
             
               William
               Goffe
            
             ,
             late
             Gallant
             to
             the
             Lady
             
               Willoughby
               Yeomans
            
             ,
             kill'd
             by
             
               Richard
               Love.
            
             
          
           
             HOw
             ,
             Goffe
             forsook
             her
             !
             't
             is
             as
             true
             as
             may
             be
             ,
          
           
             He
             has
             took
             distast
             ,
             and
             so
             has
             left
             my
             Lady
             .
          
           
             This
             should
             not
             be
             ,
             for
             Ladys
             have
             such
             Art
             ,
          
           
             VVhen
             they
             have
             got
             possession
             of
             a
             Heart
             ,
          
           
             They
             know
             their
             forces
             ,
             and
             with
             cunning
             sway
             ,
          
           
             No
             Heart
             can
             mutiny
             or
             disobey
             .
          
           
             Some
             say
             he
             's
             dead
             .
             This
             then
             will
             end
             the
             strife
             ,
          
           
             Death
             robb'd
             my
             Lady
             ,
             as
             she
             robb'd
             his
             VVife
             .
          
           
             By
             what
             rude
             Hand
             was
             it
             that
             he
             did
             fall
             ?
          
           
             By
             Love.
             O
             mighty
             Love
             ,
             thou
             conquer'st
             all
             !
          
           
             Hast
             thou
             again
             mistook
             ?
             has
             Death
             and
             thee
          
           
             Been
             conversant
             and
             chang'd
             Artillery
             ?
          
           
             Reclaim
             thy
             Errour
             ,
             see
             what
             thou
             hast
             done
             ,
          
           
             Give
             Death
             his
             Arrows
             ,
             and
             take
             thou
             thy
             own
             .
          
           
             Ah
             Madam
             ,
             now
             where
             were
             those
             powerful
             Charms
          
           
             That
             should
             have
             kept
             your
             Lover
             in
             your
             Arms
             ?
          
           
             Come
             tell
             me
             ,
             Venus
             ,
             is
             not
             Love
             your
             Son
             ,
          
           
             The
             same
             with
             Cupid
             ?
             Then
             what
             has
             he
             done
             ?
          
           
             O
             he
             has
             slain
             thy
             Mars
             ,
             and
             Arms
             put
             on
          
           
             VVould
             fright
             Achilles
             and
             his
             Myrmodons
             ;
          
           
           
             But
             yet
             methinks
             your
             Lover
             should
             not
             dye
             ,
          
           
             Death
             sure
             cannot
             resist
             a
             Ladies
             Eye
             .
          
           
             Go
             touch
             his
             liveless
             Corps
             ,
             and
             when
             that
             's
             done
             ,
          
           
             The
             Tyrant
             needs
             must
             give
             you
             what
             's
             your
             own
          
           
             But
             that
             Dame
             
             Baucis
             will
             put
             in
             a
             Plea
             ,
          
           
             E'ne
             take
             him
             Death
             ,
             for
             he
             belongs
             to
             me
             :
          
           
             Unless
             to
             share
             him
             ,
             you
             have
             got
             the
             Art
             ,
          
           
             Half
             for
             my
             Lady
             ,
             Death
             take
             Baucis
             part
             ;
          
           
             As
             the
             Twin
             Stars
             by
             turn
             shine
             in
             the
             Skie
             ,
          
           
             One
             day
             he
             shall
             survive
             ,
             the
             next
             day
             dye
             .
          
           
             But
             we
             have
             found
             a
             better
             way
             then
             this
             ,
          
           
             Madam
             ,
             my
             Lady
             ,
             or
             what
             else
             you
             please
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             put
             on
             all
             her
             Ornaments
             and
             Geer
             ,
          
           
             Step
             down
             to
             Hell
             ,
             and
             find
             her
             Lover
             there
             ;
          
           
             There
             intercede
             with
             Proserpine
             the
             Queen
             ,
          
           
             And
             if
             she
             can
             but
             him
             from
             thence
             redeem
             ,
          
           
             She
             shall
             in
             partnership
             no
             longer
             be
             ,
          
           
             But
             by
             this
             means
             gain
             the
             Monopoly
             .
          
           
             Now
             Orpheus
             for
             a
             Women
             once
             did
             so
             ,
          
           
             She
             for
             a
             Man
             ,
             will
             make
             it
             quid
             for
             quo
             .
          
           
             But
             here
             perchance
             you
             'l
             say
             ,
             't
             is
             basely
             done
             ,
          
           
             Thus
             to
             insult
             upon
             a
             Ladies
             wrong
             .
          
           
             Which
             I
             'le
             deny
             ,
             for
             many
             in
             your
             sight
             ,
          
           
             Do
             think
             far
             worse
             than
             I
             intend
             to
             Write
             ;
          
           
             And
             though
             they
             do
             not
             speak
             ,
             their
             thoughts
             are
             free
             :
          
           
             A
             secret's
             worse
             than
             open
             Enemy
             :
          
           
             But
             I
             am
             neither
             .
             Deaths
             severer
             Brow
             ,
          
           
             Presents
             his
             Image
             ,
             that
             I
             write
             of
             now
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             to
             my
             thoughts
             most
             sadly
             does
             discover
          
           
             The
             grief
             that
             you
             conceive
             for
             such
             a
             Lover
             .
          
           
             But
             this
             does
             most
             of
             all
             my
             passion
             move
             ,
          
           
             That
             he
             who
             liv'd
             by
             Love
             ,
             shou'd
             dye
             by
             Love.
          
           
             But
             I
             have
             done
             ,
             lest
             this
             shou'd
             give
             offence
             ,
          
           
             My
             
               Ne
               plus
               ultra
            
             makes
             a
             recompence
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             Lovers
             Complaint
             .
          
           
             AH
             fainting
             Breath
             ,
             there
             's
             nought
             can
             yield
             relief
          
           
             Unto
             a
             wounded
             Soul
             ,
             whose
             murm'ring
             grief
          
           
             Loves
             no
             delay
             ,
             but
             like
             the
             rising
             Sun
             ,
          
           
             Still
             perseveres
             until
             his
             course
             is
             done
             .
          
           
             What
             shall
             I
             speak
             ?
             or
             what
             can
             I
             devise
             ?
          
           
             I
             'le
             rather
             dye
             ,
             than
             once
             Apostatize
             .
          
           
             Nor
             shall
             my
             panting
             Breath
             your
             shade
             defame
             ,
          
           
             I
             'll
             honour
             you
             ,
             and
             Idolize
             your
             Name
             ;
          
           
             And
             though
             at
             last
             you
             scorn
             me
             till
             I
             dye
             ,
          
           
             I
             needs
             must
             love
             you
             to
             Eternity
             .
          
        
         
           
             Love
             in
             Ambiguity
             .
          
           
             WHy
             shou'd
             I
             urge
             my
             Love
             ,
             since
             that
             I
             know
          
           
             Her
             Merit
             's
             great
             ,
             and
             my
             Desert's
             as
             low
             ?
          
           
             My
             thought
             's
             as
             high
             as
             his
             who
             did
             aspire
          
           
             To
             climb
             the
             Charriot
             of
             Etherial
             Fire
             ;
          
           
           
             And
             rashly
             perish'd
             ,
             such
             has
             my
             fault
             been
             ,
          
           
             His
             was
             the
             King
             of
             Light
             ,
             and
             mine
             the
             Queen
             .
          
           
             I
             fondly
             thought
             ,
             
             Prometheus-like
             ,
             to
             steal
          
           
             The
             heavenly
             Flame
             her
             Beauty
             does
             conceal
             ;
          
           
             And
             for
             my
             Error
             feel
             the
             raging
             smart
             ,
          
           
             Which
             Vulture-like
             does
             seed
             upon
             my
             Heart
             .
          
           
             Pardon
             my
             rashness
             ,
             mighty
             Queen
             of
             Hearts
             ,
          
           
             And
             thou
             great
             God
             of
             Love
             ,
             whose
             peircing
             darts
          
           
             No
             Medium
             knows
             ,
             but
             either
             help
             or
             kill
             ,
          
           
             Must
             I
             the
             Number
             of
             thy
             victims
             sill
             ?
          
           
             O
             play
             not
             with
             my
             Heart
             ,
             as
             Children
             do
          
           
             With
             some
             poor
             Bird
             ,
             which
             while
             they
             love
             ,
             they
             shew
             .
          
           
             One
             over-weening
             grasp
             of
             life
             bereaves
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             a
             moment
             all
             the
             joy
             deceives
             .
          
           
             But
             why
             do
             I
             thus
             deprecate
             in
             vain
             ,
          
           
             Hoping
             for
             what
             I
             never
             can
             obtain
             ?
          
           
             Alas
             !
             unworthy
             Wrecth
             ,
             too
             great
             a
             sire
          
           
             Has
             on
             a
             sudden
             kindled
             thy
             desire
          
           
             Beyond
             thy
             Fortune
             ;
             as
             some
             Country
             Wight
             ,
          
           
             Who
             never
             knew
             the
             Wars
             ,
             or
             how
             to
             fight
             ,
          
           
             Talks
             Big
             or
             Stoutly
             ,
             and
             resolves
             to
             try
          
           
             His
             ne're
             prov'd
             Courage
             on
             the
             Enemy
             ;
          
           
             But
             when
             he
             sees
             the
             adverse
             Host
             draw
             nigh
             ,
          
           
             And
             now
             or
             never
             all
             his
             Manhood
             try
             ,
          
           
             He
             throws
             his
             Arms
             away
             ,
             resolves
             to
             yield
             ,
          
           
             And
             like
             a
             Vassal
             quits
             the
             ne're
             sought
             Field
             ;
          
           
             Just
             so
             did
             I
             ,
             my
             actions
             ,
             thoughts
             ,
             and
             all
             ,
          
           
             Let
             all
             objections
             in
             a
             moment
             fall
             ;
          
           
           
             Untill
             your
             Heavenly
             Beauty
             I
             did
             see
             ,
          
           
             Alas
             !
             too
             strong
             an
             Enemy
             for
             me
             .
          
           
             At
             the
             first
             sight
             I
             yielded
             Heart
             and
             Will
             ,
          
           
             Lady
             ,
             to
             be
             at
             you
             Devotionr
             still
             .
          
           
             Among
             the
             many
             Trophies
             then
             that
             wait
          
           
             Upon
             your
             Beauty
             ,
             let
             it
             be
             my
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             Or
             rather
             Fortune
             ,
             since
             it
             cannot
             be
          
           
             Counted
             a
             Bondage
             ,
             where
             the
             Body's
             free
             ,
          
           
             But
             why
             the
             Body
             ?
             Body
             ,
             Heart
             ,
             and
             Mind
             ,
          
           
             Unto
             your
             Beauty
             are
             alike
             confin'd
             ,
          
           
             Are
             either
             fix'd
             ,
             or
             move
             by
             your
             direction
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             proud
             ,
             in
             being
             Vassals
             to
             Perfection
             .
          
        
         
           
             Eccho
             to
             the
             Painter
             ,
             out
             of
             Ausonius
             .
          
           
             ALas
             !
             fond
             Painter
             ,
             why
             dost
             strive
             to
             grace
          
           
             An
             unknown
             Goddess
             with
             a
             fancy'd
             Face
             ?
          
           
             I
             am
             the
             Daughter
             of
             the
             Tongue
             ,
             and
             Wind
             ,
          
           
             An
             empty
             Mother
             ,
             Voice
             without
             a
             Mind
             .
          
           
             I
             dying
             sounds
             fetch
             back
             with
             living
             tone
             ,
          
           
             And
             others
             mock
             with
             Words
             that
             are
             my
             own
             .
          
           
             I
             in
             thy
             Ears
             my
             Habitation
             found
             ,
          
           
             And
             if
             thou
             mean'st
             to
             paint
             me
             ,
             paint
             a
             Sound
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             Dialogue
             between
             an
             Aethiopian
             ,
             and
             a
             White
             Virgin.
             
          
           
             
               Vir.
               
            
             
               
                 AFfright
                 me
                 not
                 ,
                 you
                 urge
                 your
                 suit
                 in
                 vain
                 ;
              
               
                 More
                 Fear
                 than
                 Love
                 your
                 Hellish
                 looks
                 have
                 bred
                 .
              
               
                 Eternal
                 terror
                 seize
                 you
                 for
                 your
                 pain
                 ;
              
               
                 Think
                 you
                 I
                 'll
                 take
                 a
                 Devil
                 to
                 my
                 Bed
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Go
                 Court
                 the
                 Darkness
                 ,
                 Wed
                 thy self
                 to
                 Night
                 ;
              
               
                 Fry
                 in
                 your
                 Sands
                 ,
                 and
                 search
                 for
                 grains
                 of
                 Gold
                 ;
              
               
                 O
                 Sun
                 ,
                 how
                 canst
                 thou
                 thus
                 behold
                 a
                 sight
              
               
                 That
                 will
                 thy
                 glorious
                 beams
                 in
                 darkness
                 fold
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 Sure
                 thou
                 art
                 Pluto
                 ,
                 ugly
                 infernal
                 Prince
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 gone
                 ,
                 I
                 say
                 ,
                 be
                 gone
                 to
                 the
                 Divine
              
               
                 And
                 Beautious
                 Creature
                 thou
                 didst
                 ravish
                 hence
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 lovely
                 ,
                 Fair
                 ,
                 and
                 Charming
                 Proserpine
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Eth.
               
            
             
               
                 Whitest
                 of
                 Whites
                 ,
                 more
                 lovely
                 than
                 the
                 day
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 from
                 the
                 East
                 in
                 radiant
                 beams
                 appears
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 lovely
                 to
                 my
                 sight
                 than
                 Cynthia
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 twice
                 six
                 times
                 a
                 year
                 her
                 Beauty
                 clears
                 ,
              
            
             
               
               
                 Despise
                 me
                 not
                 because
                 that
                 I
                 am
                 black
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Sun
                 you
                 speak
                 of
                 lyes
                 so
                 neer
                 our
                 Land
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 have
                 him
                 in
                 our
                 Face
                 ,
                 you
                 on
                 your
                 Back
                 ;
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 sometimes
                 with
                 him
                 we
                 walk
                 Hand
                 in
                 Hand
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Since
                 then
                 that
                 he
                 who
                 the
                 whole
                 World
                 surveys
                 ,
              
               
                 Doth
                 deal
                 his
                 Blessings
                 with
                 partiality
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 he
                 does
                 warm
                 ,
                 us
                 scorcheth
                 with
                 his
                 Rays
                 ;
              
               
                 Your
                 Beauty
                 works
                 the
                 like
                 effect
                 on
                 me
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Vir.
               
            
             
               
                 My
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 Slave
                 !
                 stop
                 that
                 presumptious
                 word
                 ;
              
               
                 Shall
                 such
                 a
                 Harpy
                 ever
                 speak
                 my
                 Name
                 ?
              
               
                 Does
                 Earth
                 another
                 Cacus
                 yet
                 afford
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 was
                 I
                 born
                 to
                 be
                 a
                 sport
                 to
                 Fame
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 that
                 brand
                 the
                 fatal
                 Sisters
                 threw
              
               
                 Into
                 the
                 Fire
                 at
                 
                 Meleager's
                 Birth
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 half
                 consum'd
                 ,
                 in
                 hast
                 Althaea
                 drew
              
               
                 Out
                 of
                 the
                 Flame
                 ;
                 be
                 gone
                 ,
                 thou
                 Son
                 of
                 Earth
                 ▪
              
            
          
           
             
               Eth.
               
            
             
               
                 Alas
                 !
                 too
                 cruel
                 Nymph
                 ,
                 despise
                 me
                 not
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 Slave
                 I
                 am
                 ,
                 but
                 unto
                 none
                 but
                 you
                 .
              
               
                 Whiteness
                 in
                 you
                 none
                 counteth
                 as
                 a
                 spot
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 our
                 Black
                 lies
                 our
                 chief
                 glory
                 too
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Day
                 is
                 pleasant
                 unto
                 every
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 men
                 praise
                 the
                 glory
                 of
                 the
                 Sun
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 when
                 't
                 is
                 gone
                 ,
                 how
                 soon
                 they
                 hug
                 the
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sleeping
                 ,
                 in
                 its
                 sable
                 Bosom
                 run
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 'T
                 is
                 only
                 Fancy
                 moves
                 the
                 Sphere
                 of
                 Love
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 Colour
                 wards
                 ,
                 where
                 Cupid
                 shoots
                 his
                 dart
                 ;
              
               
                 Thou
                 God
                 ,
                 who
                 all
                 things
                 with
                 thy
                 power
                 dost
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 one
                 small
                 touch
                 O
                 wound
                 this
                 Virgins
                 Heart
                 ;
              
            
             
               
                 That
                 she
                 who
                 doth
                 thy
                 Power
                 so
                 much
                 despise
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 quickly
                 by
                 experience
                 learn
                 to
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 only
                 giv'st
                 those
                 leave
                 to
                 Tyrannize
              
               
                 That
                 pay
                 submission
                 to
                 thy
                 Conquering
                 Bow.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Observe
                 the
                 Rain-bow
                 ,
                 view
                 the
                 Colours
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 Looks
                 it
                 not
                 pleasant
                 unto
                 every
                 Eye
                 ?
              
               
                 Diversity
                 of
                 Colours
                 makes
                 it
                 fair
                 :
              
               
                 Discord
                 in
                 Musick
                 makes
                 an
                 Harmony
                 .
              
               
                 Since
                 then
                 that
                 I
                 am
                 Black
                 ,
                 and
                 you
                 are
                 Fair
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 a
                 sweet
                 Babe
                 may
                 come
                 from
                 such
                 a
                 pair
                 ?
              
            
          
        
         
           
             An
             Epitaph
             .
          
           
             UPon
             this
             Marble
             Stone
             forbear
             to
             tread
             ,
          
           
             Or
             to
             deface
             the
             Relicks
             of
             the
             Dead
             ;
          
           
           
             Yet
             Read
             ,
             and
             so
             let
             fall
             a
             Tear
             in
             Verse
             ,
          
           
             To
             pay
             Devotions
             to
             his
             mourning
             Herse
             .
          
           
             Here
             's
             Vertue
             laid
             ,
             and
             Piety
             lies
             slain
             ,
          
           
             Who
             the
             three
             Graces
             shall
             revive
             again
             :
          
           
             Those
             Powers
             Immortal
             ,
             who
             in
             Heaven
             do
             shine
          
           
             That
             Trinity
             ,
             although
             One
             God
             Divine
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             raise
             his
             Body
             glorious
             from
             the
             Dust
             ,
          
           
             Who
             in
             his
             Maker
             did
             repose
             that
             trust
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             Lovers
             Iubile
             .
          
           
             'T
             Was
             Evening
             when
             the
             Suns
             departure
             made
          
           
             The
             open
             grounds
             a
             comfortable
             shade
             ;
          
           
             When
             walking
             forth
             to
             view
             the
             fragrant
             Fields
             ,
          
           
             The
             sweet
             variety
             that
             Flora
             yields
             ,
          
           
             Near
             to
             a
             Myrtle
             Grove
             a
             Cave
             I
             spy'd
             ,
          
           
             By
             which
             a
             pleasant
             Stream
             did
             gently
             glide
             :
          
           
             Amidst
             the
             Grove
             an
             ancient
             Altar
             stands
             ,
          
           
             Almost
             defac'd
             by
             irreligious
             hands
             .
          
           
             This
             I
             repair'd
             ,
             and
             said
             ,
             O
             Goddess
             ,
             now
             ,
          
           
             Who
             e're
             thou
             art
             ,
             receive
             my
             sacred
             Vow
             ,
          
           
             And
             grant
             my
             Suit
             ,
             and
             let
             some
             pity
             move
          
           
             In
             
             Clelia's
             Heart
             a
             more
             propitious
             Love.
          
           
             Off'rings
             by
             me
             shall
             ever
             be
             repaid
          
           
             Upon
             this
             Altar
             ,
             though
             by
             time
             decay'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             Mans
             ingratitude
             .
             Then
             looking
             round
             ,
          
           
             I
             spy'd
             an
             Iv'ry
             Image
             on
             the
             ground
             .
          
           
           
             Hail
             Power
             ,
             said
             I
             ,
             what
             impious
             hand
             hath
             done
          
           
             So
             vile
             an
             Act
             ?
             who
             wou'd
             such
             honour
             shun
             ?
          
           
             I
             washt
             it
             in
             the
             Stream
             ,
             and
             to
             it
             said
             ,
          
           
             Ah
             beautious
             Image
             ,
             fair
             Pigmaleon
             Maid
             :
          
           
             Then
             gazing
             on
             it
             ,
             where
             a
             Fillet
             ty'd
          
           
             The
             Ivory
             Hair
             ,
             this
             Motto
             I
             espy'd
             ;
          
           
             
               In
               Honour
               of
               the
               mighty
            
             Cyprean
             Goddess
             .
          
           
             O
             thou
             Illustrious
             Queen
             of
             Love
             ,
             said
             I
             ,
          
           
             What
             Hand
             cou'd
             do
             this
             great
             Impiety
             ?
          
           
             What
             Impious
             Creature
             was
             it
             durst
             prophane
          
           
             Thy
             sacred
             Shrine
             ?
             O
             Sin
             without
             a
             Name
             !
          
           
             Against
             a
             Myrtle
             by
             the
             Altar
             stood
          
           
             The
             Goddess
             Seat
             ,
             Arch'd
             round
             with
             Carved
             Wood
             ,
          
           
             There
             I
             the
             Image
             set
             ,
             and
             having
             laid
          
           
             My
             Hand
             upon
             the
             Altar
             ,
             thus
             I
             pray'd
             .
          
           
             Great
             Paphian
             Goddess
             ,
             Cytherean
             Shrine
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             presence
             ,
             I
             acknowledge
             ,
             is
             Divine
             .
          
           
             If
             to
             this
             Grove
             or
             Altar
             I
             have
             done
          
           
             Ought
             Meritor'ous
             ,
             or
             have
             favour
             won
             ,
          
           
             Let
             Love
             to
             all
             more
             mild
             and
             gentle
             be
             ,
          
           
             And
             cease
             to
             punish
             Mans
             Impiety
             .
          
           
             A
             thousand
             Lovers
             shall
             this
             Grove
             frequent
             ,
          
           
             And
             offer
             Odours
             of
             the
             purest
             scent
             .
          
           
             The
             Shepherds
             that
             possess
             the
             Vales
             shall
             bring
          
           
             Their
             Sheep-hooks
             crown'd
             to
             thee
             an
             Offering
             .
          
           
             The
             Altar
             shook
             ,
             the
             Myrtles
             seem'd
             to
             move
             ,
          
           
             Resounding
             murmuring
             Notes
             of
             happy
             Love.
          
           
             Celestial
             Musick
             did
             salute
             my
             Ears
             ,
          
           
             VVhen
             lo
             ,
             the
             God
             of
             Love
             to
             me
             appears
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             says
             ,
             Young
             Man
             ,
             this
             Bow
             my
             hand
             doth
             hold
             ,
          
           
             Le
             ts
             sly
             no
             Arrow
             ,
             but
             the
             Head
             is
             Gold.
          
           
             Thy
             Prayer
             is
             heard
             ,
             the
             Goddess
             is
             appeas'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             every
             Lover
             of
             his
             pain
             is
             eas'd
             .
          
           
             No
             Jealousie
             or
             Fears
             shall
             now
             torment
          
           
             A
             Lovers
             Joy
             ,
             or
             ravish
             his
             Content
             .
          
           
             The
             fairest
             Nymphs
             ,
             whose
             Beauty
             wins
             the
             Bays
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             sing
             Encomiums
             of
             her
             Lovers
             praise
             .
          
           
             The
             fairest
             Shepherdess
             (
             for
             Love
             hath
             Charms
             )
          
           
             Shall
             fold
             a
             naked
             Shepherd
             in
             her
             Arms
             ;
          
           
             Fair
             Daphne
             playing
             on
             a
             rural
             Quill
             ,
          
           
             Both
             Hills
             and
             Dales
             with
             Corydon
             shall
             fill
             ,
          
           
             And
             Corydon
             shall
             VVoods
             and
             Springs
             possess
          
           
             VVith
             praises
             of
             his
             Loving
             Shepherdess
             .
          
           
             Loves
             mutual
             Sympathy
             shall
             Crown
             the
             Year
             ,
          
           
             And
             thou
             whose
             Heart
             doth
             Loves
             Idea
             bear
             ,
          
           
             Shalt
             in
             thy
             Clelia
             find
             a
             quick
             return
             ,
          
           
             VVho
             ,
             in
             thy
             absence
             ,
             flames
             of
             Love
             do
             burn
             :
          
           
             And
             e're
             the
             Sun
             the
             Horizon
             decline
             ,
          
           
             Her
             beautious
             Body
             shall
             be
             joyn'd
             to
             thine
             .
          
           
             This
             said
             ,
             he
             lightly
             from
             the
             Altar
             Springs
             ,
          
           
             And
             Fans
             the
             sounding
             Grove
             with
             tow'ring
             wings
             .
          
           
             Then
             on
             a
             sudden
             ,
             through
             my
             swelling
             Veins
          
           
             Loves
             passion
             glides
             ,
             and
             all
             my
             Bones
             inflames
             ;
          
           
             And
             having
             gain'd
             the
             Conquest
             of
             my
             Breast
             ,
          
           
             Reigns
             Monarch
             there
             ,
             and
             scorns
             to
             be
             supprest
             ,
          
           
             The
             Goddess
             then
             adoring
             ,
             I
             a
             way
          
           
             Espy'd
             ,
             which
             'twixt
             the
             Shrine
             and
             Altar
             lay
             :
          
           
           
             This
             path
             I
             follow'd
             ,
             Fortune
             was
             my
             guide
             ,
          
           
             And
             led
             me
             all
             along
             the
             River
             side
             ,
          
           
             VVhere
             Multitude
             of
             Lovers
             did
             resort
             ,
          
           
             Filling
             the
             Fields
             with
             all
             delightful
             sport
             .
          
           
             Some
             in
             the
             stream
             their
             tender
             Limbs
             unite
             ,
          
           
             Like
             Salamacis
             and
             Hermaphrodite
             ;
          
           
             Others
             upon
             the
             ground
             so
             closely
             lye
             ,
          
           
             You
             'd
             take
             them
             for
             the
             
               Zodiack
               Geminy
            
             .
          
           
             One's
             plaiting
             Garlands
             ,
             '
             tother
             's
             twisting
             Boughs
             ,
          
           
             Commixt
             with
             Flowers
             ,
             to
             bind
             her
             Lovers
             brows
             .
          
           
             One's
             braiding
             of
             the
             Hair
             ,
             another
             tries
          
           
             VVith
             pleasant
             Songs
             to
             close
             her
             Lovers
             Eyes
             .
          
           
             This
             seeming
             coy
             ,
             a
             thousand
             pretty
             ways
          
           
             Her
             eager
             Lover
             to
             her
             Arms
             betrays
             .
          
           
             That
             skill'd
             in
             nothing
             ,
             but
             pure
             Innocence
             ,
          
           
             Thinks
             to
             delay
             her
             Lover's
             an
             offence
             .
          
           
             O
             happy
             place
             !
             said
             I
             ,
             and
             down
             I
             lay
          
           
             Upon
             a
             rising
             ground
             that
             did
             survey
          
           
             The
             posture
             of
             each
             Lover
             ,
             when
             from
             far
          
           
             A
             Lady
             came
             ,
             just
             as
             a
             rising
             Star.
          
           
             The
             lighter
             Vestments
             that
             her
             parts
             infold
             ,
          
           
             VVere
             Azure
             Silk
             ,
             and
             interweav'd
             with
             Gold
             ;
          
           
             Her
             Hair
             was
             braided
             ,
             drest
             with
             Ribbons
             ;
             so
          
           
             Iris
             appears
             ,
             drest
             in
             her
             mantling
             Bow.
          
           
             A
             Silver
             Veil
             her
             beauteous
             Face
             did
             shade
             ,
          
           
             So
             fine
             ,
             you
             'd
             say
             't
             was
             by
             Arachne
             made
             .
          
           
             The
             emulous
             Winds
             her
             swelling
             Garments
             kiss
             ,
          
           
             VVhich
             to
             my
             view
             betray'd
             a
             Lovers
             Bliss
             .
          
           
             I
             gaz'd
             ,
             not
             able
             to
             revert
             my
             Eyes
          
           
             From
             Loves
             great
             Charms
             ,
             and
             sacred
             Novelties
             :
          
           
           
             Thy
             Fate
             ,
             
               Acte
               on
            
             ,
             then
             I
             did
             bemone
             ,
          
           
             And
             fear'd
             it
             instantly
             might
             be
             my
             own
             ;
          
           
             But
             as
             she
             nearer
             came
             unto
             my
             view
             ,
          
           
             My
             doubts
             were
             clear'd
             ,
             and
             I
             my
             Clelia
             knew
             ;
          
           
             I
             ran
             to
             meet
             her
             ,
             when
             her
             eager
             steps
          
           
             Prevents
             my
             speed
             ,
             and
             in
             my
             Arms
             she
             leaps
             ;
          
           
             Clasping
             I
             laid
             me
             gently
             on
             the
             ground
             ,
          
           
             Millions
             of
             kisses
             their
             successors
             found
             .
          
           
             I
             ruffled
             up
             her
             Silks
             which
             kept
             the
             way
          
           
             Unto
             the
             Paradise
             where
             Cupid
             lay
             ;
          
           
             She
             made
             resistance
             ,
             such
             as
             might
             be
             said
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             shalt
             enjoy
             ,
             and
             yet
             I
             'le
             dye
             a
             Maid
             .
          
           
             Her
             Eyes
             declar'd
             her
             Pleasure
             and
             Content
             ,
          
           
             And
             what
             she
             did
             was
             out
             of
             Complement
             .
          
           
             What
             thought
             can
             know
             the
             Pleasures
             I
             enjoy'd
             ?
          
           
             Immortal
             Pleasures
             ,
             never
             to
             be
             cloy'd
             .
          
           
             But
             till
             in
             modest
             terms
             I
             can
             express
          
           
             My
             full
             fruition
             ,
             you
             have
             leave
             to
             guess
             .
          
           
             VVe
             bound
             our
             Brows
             with
             Myrtle
             ,
             and
             teturn'd
          
           
             Unto
             the
             Grove
             ,
             and
             sweetest
             Odours
             burn'd
             ;
          
           
             VVe
             deck'd
             the
             Shrine
             with
             Garlands
             ,
             and
             this
             day
          
           
             For
             ever
             we
             our
             Annual
             Rites
             will
             pay
             ;
          
           
             And
             unto
             every
             Lover
             this
             shall
             be
          
           
             (
             Great
             Paphian
             Queen
             )
             a
             joyful
             Jubile
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             Love.
             
          
           
             LOves
             Charms
             all
             humane
             force
             do
             sway
             ,
          
           
             And
             Monarchs
             do
             his
             Power
             obey
             .
          
           
           
             Nor
             is
             there
             any
             can
             resist
             ,
          
           
             He
             makes
             them
             Love
             ,
             and
             when
             he
             list
             ,
          
           
             No
             place
             prescrib'd
             ,
             now
             here
             ,
             now
             there
             ,
          
           
             The
             surest
             place
             is
             any
             where
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             Song
             .
          
           
             
               COme
               ,
               let
               's
               to
               the
               Tavern
               be
               gone
               ,
            
             
               The
               day
               does
               begin
               to
               decline
               ,
            
             
               All
               the
               time
               we
               do
               lose
            
             
               VVe
               basely
               abuse
            
             
               The
               longing
               desire
               of
               VVine
               .
            
          
           
             
               Boy
               ,
               call
               up
               your
               Ladies
               of
               Pleasure
               ,
            
             
               No
               Stoick
               with
               us
               shall
               tarry
               ,
            
             
               VVe
               'll
               drink
               all
               the
               Night
            
             
               And
               take
               our
               delight
               ,
            
             
               Let
               Sectary
               Dreamers
               marry
               .
            
          
           
             
               Come
               ,
               fill
               the
               Glass
               full
               to
               the
               Brim
               ,
            
             
               Though
               Iove
               our
               Pleasure
               opposes
               ,
            
             
               Our
               Pallates
               't
               will
               please
            
             
               And
               expel
               all
               Disease
               ,
            
             
               And
               inflame
               our
               frollick
               Reposes
               .
            
          
           
             
               VVe
               laugh
               at
               the
               madness
               of
               those
            
             
               VVho
               heap
               up
               a
               Mass
               of
               Treasure
               ,
            
             
               VVe
               hate
               a
               base
               Miser
               ,
            
             
               But
               we
               will
               be
               wiser
               ,
            
             
               And
               confound
               all
               our
               Riches
               in
               Pleasure
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Thus
               ,
               like
               Gods
               ,
               we
               'll
               have
               pleasure
               in
               store
               ,
            
             
               And
               our
               Wine
               shall
               roar
               in
               like
               the
               Waves
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               spight
               of
               pale
               Death
               ,
            
             
               That
               destroyer
               of
               Breath
               ,
            
             
               We
               'll
               keep
               Revellings
               yet
               in
               our
               Graves
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Surrender
             .
          
           
             I
             Yield
             ,
             dear
             Enemy
             ,
             nor
             now
          
           
             Can
             I
             resist
             so
             sweet
             a
             Brow
             ;
          
           
             For
             who
             would
             not
             a
             slave
             remain
             ,
          
           
             On
             whom
             thou
             please
             to
             lay
             thy
             Chain
             ?
          
           
             For
             with
             such
             love
             thy
             Yoak
             I
             take
             ,
          
           
             As
             Martyrs
             that
             embrace
             a
             Stake
             .
          
           
             Now
             since
             I
             own
             this
             great
             defeat
             ,
          
           
             Command
             thy
             Forces
             to
             retreat
             ,
          
           
             And
             vail
             those
             charming
             looks
             ,
             from
             whence
          
           
             My
             Ruine
             comes
             ,
             by
             Innocence
             :
          
           
             And
             since
             I
             yield
             my self
             your
             Slave
             ,
          
           
             Let
             Beauty
             ,
             which
             the
             conquest
             gave
             ,
          
           
             Not
             triumph
             in
             the
             vanquisht
             foil
             ,
          
           
             Or
             glory
             in
             your
             Captives
             spoil
             .
          
           
             The
             noble
             Lyon
             in
             his
             rage
          
           
             Disdains
             his
             Forces
             to
             engage
          
           
             Against
             a
             prostrate
             Worm
             ,
             from
             whence
          
           
             His
             vallour
             can
             have
             no
             pretence
             :
          
           
             Such
             honours
             always
             did
             pursue
          
           
             The
             Roman
             Valour
             as
             their
             due
             :
          
           
           
             And
             since
             that
             you
             have
             now
             put
             on
          
           
             The
             Courage
             of
             an
             Amazon
             ,
          
           
             An
             Angels
             Beauty
             ,
             such
             a
             form
          
           
             May
             glorified
             Saints
             adorn
             ;
          
           
             May
             all
             their
             Vertues
             take
             a
             place
          
           
             To
             grace
             thy
             Heart
             as
             well
             as
             Face
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             thy
             Breast
             some
             pitty
             plant
             ,
          
           
             The
             only
             Good
             that
             thou
             dost
             want
             :
          
           
             Thus
             shall
             my
             Chain
             more
             gentle
             prove
             ,
          
           
             Supported
             by
             the
             Wings
             of
             Love.
             
          
        
         
           
             I
             love
             a
             Lass
             that
             will
             not
             wed
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             vallues
             not
             her
             Maiden-head
             ;
          
           
             That
             is
             not
             peevish
             ,
             proud
             ,
             nor
             poor
             ,
          
           
             That
             scorns
             the
             Title
             of
             a
             Whore
             ;
          
           
             That
             can
             both
             Dance
             ,
             and
             Sing
             ,
             and
             Quass
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             in
             what
             ever
             humour
             ,
             Laugh
             ;
          
           
             Who
             swears
             by
             Fate
             ,
             she
             'll
             not
             abuse
          
           
             What
             Nature
             gives
             her
             leave
             to
             use
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             to
             a
             Friend
             will
             not
             be
             coy
             ,
          
           
             But
             give
             him
             leave
             for
             to
             enjoy
          
           
             What
             he
             desires
             ,
             so
             he
             'll
             conceal
          
           
             Those
             hidden
             Pleasures
             which
             they
             steal
             .
          
           
             She
             is
             not
             such
             as
             stand
             without
             ,
          
           
             And
             call
             to
             every
             rabble
             Rout
             ,
          
           
             Crying
             ,
             Turn
             in
             ,
             thou
             honest
             Fellow
             ,
          
           
             Until
             their
             —
             is
             grown
             so
             mellow
             ,
          
           
             That
             even
             the
             Pox
             would
             scorn
             to
             dwell
          
           
             In
             such
             a
             loathsom
             nasty
             Cell
             .
          
           
             A
             vengance
             take
             such
             Whores
             as
             these
             ,
          
           
             〈◊〉
             are
             far
             worse
             than
             the
             Disease
             ;
          
           
           
             I
             cannot
             guess
             but
             their
             descent
          
           
             Was
             from
             some
             nasty
             Excrement
             ;
          
           
             Else
             cou'd
             they
             ne're
             infect
             the
             Earth
          
           
             With
             Plagues
             ,
             but
             from
             so
             base
             a
             Birth
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             Dream
             .
          
           
             WHen
             Titan
             hasted
             from
             his
             heavenly
             Sphere
             ,
          
           
             And
             Thetis
             modest
             Blushes
             did
             appear
             ;
          
           
             Grown
             weary
             with
             the
             fervor
             of
             the
             day
             ,
          
           
             Upon
             the
             Banks
             of
             a
             cool
             Brook
             I
             lay
             ;
          
           
             The
             shallow
             Stream
             soft
             murmuring
             did
             yield
             ,
          
           
             A
             whistling
             Zeph'rus
             cool'd
             the
             heated
             field
             ;
          
           
             The
             Birds
             in
             Trees
             with
             their
             mellodious
             Throats
          
           
             Prattled
             the
             discord
             of
             divided
             Notes
             .
          
           
             The
             Hills
             the
             sound
             repell'd
             ,
             the
             Virgin
             Voice
          
           
             To
             every
             accent
             lent
             a
             parting
             Noise
             .
          
           
             The
             Grashopper
             (
             whose
             shriller
             voice
             repairs
          
           
             The
             smalness
             of
             his
             kind
             )
             with
             pleasant
             Airs
          
           
             Made
             all
             the
             Fields
             to
             ring
             ,
             such
             harmony
          
           
             Proceeded
             from
             th'
             Innumerable
             Fry.
          
           
             I
             fancy'd
             this
             to
             be
             th'
             Elizean
             Groves
             ,
          
           
             The
             happy
             Paradise
             of
             all
             chast
             Loves
             ;
          
           
             And
             wisht
             my
             Clelia
             here
             ,
             when
             happily
          
           
             A
             silent
             slumber
             clos'd
             my
             twinkling
             Eye
             .
          
           
             Behold
             ,
             the
             God
             of
             Dreams
             before
             me
             stood
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             his
             Leaden
             Wand
             he
             smooth'd
             the
             flood
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             brusht
             the
             whistling
             Winds
             ,
             which
             forthwith
             lay
          
           
             Upon
             the
             ground
             as
             Dews
             that
             fall
             in
             May.
          
           
             A
             gen'ral
             silence
             cover'd
             all
             the
             place
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             my
             Head
             he
             laid
             his
             drowsie
             Mace
             ;
          
           
             Earth
             seem
             to
             vanish
             ,
             Heaven
             for
             to
             descend
             ,
          
           
             A
             hundred
             Thrones
             one
             Goddess
             did
             attend
             ,
          
           
             VVho
             in
             a
             Rain-bow
             Robe
             ,
             commixt
             with
             Rays
             ,
          
           
             Such
             as
             Sol
             wears
             when
             he
             the
             VVorld
             surveys
             ,
          
           
             Enters
             the
             Pallace
             ;
             from
             her
             sparkling
             Eye
             ;
          
           
             Proceeded
             Love
             ,
             and
             awful
             Majesty
             .
          
           
             A
             Throne
             there
             was
             ,
             Twelve
             Lyons
             did
             uphold
             ,
          
           
             Set
             round
             with
             Amethysts
             in
             beaten
             Gold.
          
           
             The
             steps
             were
             Crowns
             ,
             Scepters
             ,
             and
             Diadems
             ,
          
           
             Rubies
             ,
             and
             Saphirs
             ,
             and
             commixed
             Gems
             .
          
           
             The
             Goddess
             this
             ascends
             ,
             whose
             heavenly
             Face
          
           
             Did
             quite
             eclipse
             the
             luster
             of
             the
             place
             ;
          
           
             Millions
             of
             Cupids
             ,
             in
             their
             Liveries
             ,
          
           
             Attend
             the
             motion
             of
             her
             sparkling
             Eyes
             .
          
           
             A
             Herauld
             then
             the
             Goddess
             will
             proclaims
             ,
          
           
             And
             summons
             all
             who
             burn
             with
             Love's
             fierce
             Flames
          
           
             T'
             appear
             before
             the
             Throne
             .
             VVithout
             delay
             ,
          
           
             Innumerable
             Troops
             her
             will
             obey
             .
          
           
             And
             here
             't
             was
             worthy
             of
             ones
             observation
             ,
          
           
             To
             see
             each
             Mimick
             fool
             it
             in
             his
             station
             .
          
           
             One
             in
             an
             antick
             posture
             leads
             a
             Dance
             ,
          
           
             And
             swears
             each
             step
             is
             
               Alamode
               de
               France
            
             ;
          
           
             'Tother
             more
             solid
             ,
             walks
             a
             State-Corant
             ,
          
           
             And
             Pedigreed
             Antiquity
             doth
             vaunt
             .
          
           
           
             The
             next
             a
             puling
             Lover
             ,
             foreward
             steers
             ,
          
           
             His
             Eyes
             deject
             ,
             distill
             abundant
             Tears
             ,
          
           
             Complaining
             of
             his
             cruel
             Fate
             ,
             to
             move
          
           
             In
             some
             base
             Punk
             a
             more
             auspicious
             love
             ;
          
           
             A
             braging
             ,
             roaring
             Russian
             next
             appears
             ,
          
           
             Who
             talks
             of
             desolation
             ,
             racks
             and
             fears
             ;
          
           
             Affrights
             his
             Love
             ,
             who
             he
             doth
             strive
             to
             gain
             ,
          
           
             And
             thinks
             Bellona
             one
             of
             Venus
             train
             .
          
           
             Some
             aged
             Fools
             I
             saw
             among
             the
             rest
             ,
          
           
             Who
             time
             of
             every
             Sense
             did
             quite
             divest
             ;
          
           
             Shaking
             their
             hoary
             Heads
             ,
             in
             their
             esteem
             ,
          
           
             As
             Complaisant
             as
             when
             they
             were
             Sixteen
             ;
          
           
             Protesting
             Love
             ,
             in
             such
             a
             doleful
             strain
             ,
          
           
             As
             Ghosts
             are
             wont
             who
             Visit
             Earth
             again
             .
          
           
             But
             that
             which
             mov'd
             me
             most
             ,
             was
             for
             to
             see
          
           
             My
             Brother
             Poets
             sensless
             foolery
             .
          
           
             Loaden
             with
             Anagrams
             ,
             Acrosticks
             ,
             time
          
           
             Was
             never
             spent
             in
             cobling
             of
             such
             Rhime
             :
          
           
             Some
             weep
             in
             Elegie
             ,
             and
             Epitaph
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Nonsense
             well
             might
             cause
             the
             dead
             to
             laugh
             ;
          
           
             Others
             more
             Jocund
             ,
             Songs
             and
             Catches
             make
             ,
          
           
             And
             sure
             they
             are
             ,
             that
             every
             Clause
             will
             take
             .
          
           
             And
             in
             a
             word
             ,
             though
             all
             was
             but
             delusion
             ,
          
           
             It
             was
             the
             perfect
             Map
             of
             meer
             confusion
             .
          
           
             The
             Goddess
             smil'd
             ,
             (
             as
             well
             she
             might
             )
             to
             see
          
           
             The
             true
             adorers
             of
             her
             Deity
          
           
             So
             much
             deluded
             by
             each
             Idle
             Passion
             ,
          
           
             Which
             was
             by
             custom
             grown
             into
             a
             fashion
             ;
          
           
           
             And
             gave
             Command
             ,
             for
             't
             was
             her
             will
             and
             Pleasure
             ,
          
           
             Which
             rashly
             broke
             ,
             they
             might
             repent
             at
             leasure
             ,
          
           
             That
             none
             shou'd
             Court
             in
             any
             other
             sort
          
           
             Then
             what
             was
             us'd
             when
             Mars
             and
             she
             did
             sport
             ;
          
           
             Think
             you
             ,
             said
             she
             ,
             that
             Peleus
             e're
             had
             sped
          
           
             So
             happily
             in
             Thetis
             pregnant
             Bed
             ,
          
           
             Who
             oft
             by
             varying
             forms
             she
             did
             delude
             ,
          
           
             If
             not
             by
             force
             he
             had
             her
             charms
             subdu'd
             ?
          
           
             Did
             not
             th'
             Infernal
             Prince
             ascend
             from
             Hell
             ,
          
           
             To
             Lights
             abode
             ,
             where
             Gods
             and
             Men
             do
             dwell
             ,
          
           
             And
             took
             thy
             Daughter
             ,
             Ceres
             ,
             to
             Command
          
           
             The
             utmost
             limits
             of
             th'
             Infernal
             Land
             ?
          
           
             Yes
             ,
             Proserpine
             was
             fair
             ,
             a
             Goddess
             too
             ,
          
           
             What
             cannot
             Love
             ,
             that
             mighty
             Monarch
             ,
             do
             ?
          
           
             Think
             you
             that
             Iove
             ,
             Father
             of
             Gods
             and
             Men
             ,
          
           
             Had
             e're
             enjoy'd
             
             Agenor's
             lovely
             Gem
             ,
          
           
             If
             not
             by
             Pollicy
             made
             his
             escape
             ,
          
           
             And
             then
             confirm'd
             his
             Passion
             with
             a
             Rape
             ?
          
           
             And
             thousands
             more
             were
             won
             after
             this
             fashion
             ,
          
           
             Not
             courted
             with
             an
             Idle
             whining
             passion
             .
          
           
             Fortune
             assists
             the
             bold
             ,
             who
             Courts
             by
             Letter
          
           
             Is
             counted
             modest
             ,
             yet
             thought
             ne're
             the
             better
             ;
          
           
             For
             Women
             love
             those
             that
             are
             brisk
             and
             free
             ,
          
           
             And
             hate
             the
             lasie
             Lovers
             Pedantry
             .
          
           
             If
             they
             slight
             you
             ,
             do
             you
             but
             then
             slight
             them
             ,
          
           
             The
             Women
             soon
             will
             learn
             to
             Court
             the
             Men
             :
          
           
             Did
             not
             the
             Beautious
             Eccho
             Court
             in
             vain
          
           
             The
             self
             admiring
             Boy
             ,
             who
             with
             disdain
          
           
           
             Her
             love
             repaid
             ,
             did
             not
             Medea
             wo
          
           
             The
             Emonean
             Prince
             with
             love
             and
             Magick
             too
             ?
          
           
             And
             Sylla
             too
             ,
             by
             Impious
             love
             misled
             ,
          
           
             Her
             Father
             slew
             ,
             to
             gain
             just
             Minos
             Bed
             ;
          
           
             And
             both
             her self
             and
             Purple
             Hair
             did
             bring
          
           
             Pledges
             of
             love
             ,
             unto
             the
             Cretan
             King.
          
           
             And
             Dido
             ,
             whilst
             her
             love
             she
             did
             pursue
             ,
          
           
             The
             Trojan
             Prince
             to
             her
             embraces
             drew
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             only
             Custom
             makes
             them
             claim
             as
             due
          
           
             The
             Adoration
             that
             belongs
             to
             you
             ;
          
           
             Your
             servile
             Yoak
             of
             passion
             quickly
             break
             ,
          
           
             And
             put
             in
             practice
             what
             you
             hear
             me
             speak
             .
          
           
             They
             all
             assent
             ,
             and
             wisely
             did
             approve
          
           
             The
             wholsom
             Counsel
             of
             the
             Queen
             of
             Love
             ,
          
           
             And
             so
             departed
             :
             when
             a
             pretty
             Lass
             ,
          
           
             Which
             in
             the
             dark
             might
             for
             my
             Lady
             pass
             ,
          
           
             Gave
             me
             a
             kiss
             ,
             and
             to
             me
             smiling
             sed
             ,
          
           
             She
             thought
             the
             Grass
             as
             good
             as
             any
             Bed
             ;
          
           
             I
             hugg'd
             a
             wholsom
             Girl
             in
             my
             esteem
             ;
          
           
             So
             wak'd
             ,
             and
             vext
             ,
             I
             found
             it
             but
             a
             Dream
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             the
             Honourable
             
               Jonathan
               Atkins
            
             ,
             Governour
             of
             the
             Barbadoes
             .
          
           
             WIth
             joy
             like
             ours
             the
             mighty
             Roman
             State
          
           
             Their
             Capitolean
             Triumphs
             celebrate
             .
          
           
           
             Sing
             
               Io
               Peans
            
             for
             their
             Victory
             ,
          
           
             And
             Trophies
             bring
             ,
             great
             God
             of
             VVar
             ,
             to
             thee
             .
          
           
             Yet
             we
             to
             you
             Great
             Sir
             ,
             will
             Trophies
             bring
          
           
             Of
             Peace
             ,
             a
             more
             delightful
             Offering
             .
          
           
             Our
             VVoods
             shall
             ring
             ,
             whilst
             we
             bring
             Myrtle
             Boughs
             ,
          
           
             Commixt
             with
             Bays
             ,
             to
             crown
             your
             sacred
             Brows
             .
          
           
             And
             thou
             Daphnean
             Lawrel
             too
             shall
             joyn
          
           
             Thy
             verdant
             Leaves
             ,
             which
             shall
             his
             Temples
             twine
             .
          
           
             
               Ceres
               ,
               Pomona
               ,
               Flora
            
             ,
             all
             shall
             bring
          
           
             The
             Glorys
             of
             the
             Summer
             ,
             Autumn
             ,
             Spring
             .
          
           
             The
             great
             Survey
             or
             of
             the
             East
             ,
             and
             West
          
           
             Shall
             fire
             the
             Spices
             of
             the
             Phoenix
             Nest
             ;
          
           
             And
             
             Iove's
             great
             Bird
             shall
             in
             her
             Tallons
             bring
          
           
             The
             living
             Phoenix
             as
             an
             Offering
             ;
          
           
             Iris
             to
             both
             the
             Poles
             her
             Bow
             shall
             tye
             ,
          
           
             VVhose
             party-colour'd
             Robes
             adorn
             the
             Skie
             .
          
           
             The
             spangled
             Orbs
             their
             glory
             shall
             dispence
          
           
             Upon
             this
             Isle
             ,
             with
             sacred
             Influence
             .
          
           
             All
             things
             shall
             strive
             to
             add
             some
             glory
             to
          
           
             This
             Fertil
             Isle
             ,
             that
             's
             Governed
             by
             you
             ,
          
           
             Even
             senseless
             things
             :
             And
             shall
             I
             silent
             sit
             ,
          
           
             And
             slear
             at
             all
             ,
             for
             to
             be
             thought
             a
             VVit
             ,
          
           
             Like
             many
             Foppish
             Gallants
             now
             adays
             ?
          
           
             No
             ,
             I
             'le
             present
             you
             with
             this
             sprig
             of
             Bays
             .
          
           
             Inspire
             my
             Muse
             ,
             thou
             sacred
             God
             of
             Verse
             ,
          
           
             VVhilst
             in
             Heroick
             Numbers
             I
             rehearse
          
           
             The
             glory
             ,
             safety
             ,
             and
             the
             blest
             content
             ,
          
           
             Depends
             ,
             Great
             Sir
             ,
             upon
             your
             Government
             .
          
           
           
             The
             Rich
             ,
             the
             Poor
             ,
             the
             Strong
             ,
             the
             Impotent
             ,
          
           
             Each
             in
             his
             Station
             reaps
             a
             blest
             content
             .
          
           
             The
             Rich
             his
             Land
             and
             Cattle
             doth
             obtain
             ,
          
           
             The
             Poor
             Man
             reaps
             the
             fruit
             of
             all
             his
             pain
             ,
          
           
             The
             strong
             Mans
             strength
             is
             curb'd
             from
             Tyranny
             ;
          
           
             The
             weak
             ne're
             fears
             his
             angry
             Enemy
             .
          
           
             Here
             no
             Man
             falls
             by
             cruel
             hand
             of
             VVar
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             raging
             Tumults
             terrifie
             from
             far
             ;
          
           
             But
             here
             in
             safety
             every
             man
             does
             lye
             ,
          
           
             Reaping
             the
             joys
             of
             such
             Tranquillity
             .
          
           
             
               Vive
               le
               Roy.
            
             Great
             Charles
             ,
             thou
             didst
             foresee
          
           
             This
             Countrys
             good
             ,
             and
             Long'd
             for
             Liberty
             .
          
           
             Great
             Ionathan
             our
             David
             well
             did
             know
             ,
          
           
             On
             whom
             his
             Love
             and
             Honour
             to
             bestow
             ;
          
           
             Else
             had
             this
             Isle
             ne're
             seen
             this
             happy
             time
             ,
          
           
             More
             Fertil
             by
             your
             presence
             ,
             than
             the
             Clime
             .
          
           
             O
             happy
             Island
             !
             O
             Thrice
             happy
             Land
             ,
          
           
             VVhose
             Regiment
             is
             given
             to
             your
             Hand
             ▪
          
           
             Rule
             as
             you
             please
             ,
             those
             Pow'rs
             that
             reign
             above
          
           
             Inspire
             your
             Soul
             with
             a
             paternal
             Love
             ;
          
           
             Infusing
             in
             our
             Hearts
             Obedience
             still
             ,
          
           
             Governing
             all
             our
             Actions
             by
             your
             VVill.
             
          
           
             
               
                 O
                 mibi
                 tam
                 longe
                 maneat
                 pars
                 ultima
                 vitae
              
               
                 Spiritus
                 ,
                 &
                 quantum
                 sat
                 erit
                 sua
                 dicere
                 facta
              
               
                 Non
                 me
                 carminibus
                 vincet
                 nec
                 Thracius
                 Orpheus
                 ,
              
               
                 Nec
                 Linus
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
           
             On
             the
             Nine
             Muses
             ,
             out
             of
             Ausonius
             .
          
           
             CLio
             relates
             things
             done
             ,
             and
             gives
             the
             time
             ;
          
           
             Melpomene
             delights
             in
             Tragick
             Rhyme
             ;
          
           
             Thalia
             sports
             it
             in
             lascivious
             Verses
             ,
          
           
             Euterpe
             sweet
             and
             pleasant
             things
             reherses
             ;
          
           
             Terpsicore
             with
             Harps
             the
             mind
             inspires
             ;
          
           
             Erato
             dancing
             most
             of
             all
             desires
             ;
          
           
             Calliope
             brave
             Deeds
             to
             Books
             commits
             ;
          
           
             Urania
             to
             Astronomy
             submits
             ;
          
           
             Polhymnia
             describes
             with
             hand
             and
             gesture
          
           
             In
             midst
             of
             these
             ,
             Apollo
             most
             Divine
          
           
             VVith
             his
             diffusive
             Spirit
             cheers
             the
             Nine
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             Clelia
             .
          
           
             HEiress
             of
             love
             ,
             and
             glory
             of
             the
             Time
             ,
          
           
             Angelick
             Beauty
             shining
             in
             your
             Prime
             ;
          
           
             Thus
             Gods
             in
             ancient
             times
             did
             terrifie
          
           
             Poor
             Mortals
             by
             approaching
             Deity
             ,
          
           
             As
             when
             you
             show
             the
             luster
             of
             your
             Eye
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             high
             Majestick
             grace
             ,
             when
             lookt
             upon
             ,
          
           
             Doth
             cause
             an
             awful
             adoration
             .
          
           
             Never
             did
             
               Egypt
               Apis
            
             worship
             more
             ,
          
           
             Offering
             their
             lives
             ,
             then
             we
             do
             you
             adore
             ;
          
           
             The
             Sun-burnt
             African
             ,
             of
             sable
             hue
             ,
          
           
             VVorships
             the
             Moon
             ,
             and
             thinks
             it
             may
             be
             you
             .
          
           
           
             The
             Persian
             ,
             the
             Sun
             ,
             and
             thinks
             he
             spies
          
           
             The
             glory
             only
             propper
             to
             your
             Eyes
             .
          
           
             But
             we
             enlightned
             by
             that
             glorious
             light
          
           
             Wou'd
             make
             a
             Sun-shine
             in
             the
             darkest
             Night
             ,
          
           
             Do
             really
             adore
             that
             high
             persection
          
           
             Which
             they
             enjoy
             but
             only
             by
             reslexion
             .
          
           
             Fair
             Clelia
             ,
             then
             give
             me
             but
             leave
             to
             say
             ,
          
           
             I
             shall
             no
             more
             delight
             to
             see
             the
             day
             ,
          
           
             Than
             see
             you
             happy
             ,
             which
             shall
             ever
             be
          
           
             The
             greatest
             happiness
             can
             come
             to
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             the
             undaunted
             Courage
             of
             a
             Shipwrackt
             Captain
             .
          
           
             HArk
             how
             the
             roaring
             Winds
             ,
             (
             great
             God
             of
             Thunder
             ,
             )
          
           
             Exalt
             the
             briny
             Floods
             ,
             to
             tear
             a
             sunder
          
           
             Our
             well
             rig'd
             Vessel
             riding
             on
             the
             Main
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             lofty
             threatned
             Pendant
             does
             disdain
          
           
             Proud
             Neptunes
             angry
             Power
             ,
             and
             awful
             wrath
             ,
          
           
             Dashing
             the
             boldest
             of
             his
             Waves
             to
             Froth
             .
          
           
             Which
             when
             the
             King
             of
             Floods
             with
             anger
             saw
             ,
          
           
             His
             awful
             Trident
             scorning
             to
             withdraw
             ,
          
           
             He
             summon'd
             all
             the
             Waves
             ,
             and
             did
             implore
          
           
             The
             Eolean
             aid
             ,
             which
             made
             the
             Winds
             to
             roar
             .
          
           
             Now
             like
             to
             Mountains
             rise
             the
             Waves
             on
             high
             ,
          
           
             Tossing
             the
             nimble
             Vessel
             to
             the
             Skie
             ;
          
           
             Then
             by
             a
             great
             descent
             she
             falls
             again
          
           
             Into
             the
             gaping
             Bowels
             of
             the
             Main
             .
          
           
           
             No
             voice
             is
             heard
             ,
             in
             vain
             they
             spend
             their
             Breath
             ,
          
           
             Two
             Elements
             at
             once
             conspire
             their
             Death
             .
          
           
             The
             Mariners
             are
             stupisi'd
             with
             fear
             ,
          
           
             The
             skilful
             Pilot
             knows
             not
             how
             to
             steer
             .
          
           
             The
             Ocean
             boils
             ,
             and
             ,
             to
             augment
             the
             rage
             ,
          
           
             The
             Winds
             from
             ev'ry
             Point
             the
             Floods
             engage
             .
          
           
             Heavens
             face
             is
             cover'd
             with
             a
             Veil
             of
             Night
             ,
          
           
             The
             Thunder
             bearing
             Clouds
             ejected
             Light
          
           
             From
             all
             Parts
             flies
             ,
             and
             in
             this
             wretched
             state
             ,
          
           
             Presents
             to
             all
             an
             unavoided
             Fate
             .
          
           
             Which
             when
             the
             Captain
             saw
             ,
             he
             gaz'd
             a
             while
             ,
          
           
             To
             see
             their
             manly
             Courage
             thus
             recoil
             ;
          
           
             And
             with
             more
             Pow'r
             than
             Neptune
             ,
             which
             doth
             sway
          
           
             His
             wat'ry
             Trident
             ,
             which
             the
             Waves
             obey
             ,
          
           
             His
             loud
             Imperial
             voice
             commands
             a
             peace
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Eccho
             stops
             the
             Waves
             ,
             and
             makes
             them
             cease
             .
          
           
             Or
             like
             fierce
             Mars
             ,
             with
             an
             undaunted
             minde
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             their
             God
             the
             wat'ry
             Realm
             did
             bind
             ,
          
           
             He
             cuts
             the
             smiling
             Ocean
             ,
             and
             does
             stand
          
           
             As
             the
             Supream
             that
             Governs
             Sea
             and
             Land.
          
           
             Now
             by
             this
             time
             a
             frighted
             Wave
             appears
          
           
             At
             
             Neplune's
             Court
             ,
             relating
             all
             their
             fears
             ;
          
           
             Telling
             ,
             some
             mighty
             God
             usurp'd
             his
             Seat
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             the
             Waves
             lay
             prostrate
             at
             his
             Feet
             .
          
           
             The
             Sea-green
             God
             all
             in
             a
             rage
             appears
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             shrill
             Trytons
             Visage
             anger
             bears
             ;
          
           
             The
             Mermaids
             skip
             and
             dance
             about
             the
             Boat
             ,
          
           
             Which
             Seamen
             say
             does
             dreadful
             Storms
             denote
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             so
             it
             was
             .
             The
             Misty
             Shades
             of
             Night
          
           
             All
             on
             a
             sudden
             robb'd
             'em
             of
             the
             Light.
          
           
             The
             Heavens
             began
             to
             roare
             ,
             the
             Waves
             arise
             ,
          
           
             Dashing
             their
             briny
             Floods
             against
             the
             Skies
             .
          
           
             The
             Captain
             strives
             in
             vain
             the
             Ship
             to
             save
             ,
          
           
             While
             on
             each
             side
             appears
             a
             threatning
             Grave
             .
          
           
             There
             's
             no
             cessation
             ,
             VVaves
             the
             VVaves
             outvies
             ,
          
           
             And
             threaten
             Heaven
             with
             their
             batteries
             .
          
           
             VVhat
             shou'd
             they
             do
             ,
             poor
             men
             ?
             their
             Courage
             fails
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             their
             hopes
             are
             shatter'd
             as
             their
             Sails
             .
          
           
             They
             all
             stand
             stupifi'd
             ,
             like
             senseless
             stocks
             ,
          
           
             VVhilst
             the
             craz'd
             Vessel
             's
             dash'd
             against
             the
             Rocks
             .
          
           
             The
             Captain
             then
             ,
             with
             a
             Couragious
             motion
             ,
          
           
             '
             Leaps
             in
             the
             raging
             Bowels
             of
             the
             Ocean
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             his
             threatning
             Sword
             he
             cuts
             the
             Waves
             ,
          
           
             The
             raging
             Floods
             with
             Valour
             he
             outbraves
             ;
          
           
             And
             swimming
             to
             the
             Shoar
             ,
             his
             Sword
             he
             shakes
             ,
          
           
             Whereat
             the
             roaring
             Sea
             retires
             and
             quakes
             .
          
           
             But
             all
             his
             men
             ,
             alas
             !
             like
             silly
             Sheep
             ,
          
           
             Sink
             to
             the
             bottom
             of
             the
             swelling
             Deep
             .
          
           
             Yet
             he
             's
             ne're
             daunted
             ,
             his
             firm
             Soul
             stands
             fast
          
           
             Upon
             its
             Basis
             ,
             stedfast
             to
             the
             last
             .
          
           
             What
             Noble
             Hero
             ever
             cou'd
             do
             more
          
           
             Than
             be
             o're
             Land
             and
             Sea
             a
             Conquerour
             ?
          
        
         
           
           
             To
             his
             Verses
             .
          
           
             Go
             tell
             my
             fair
             ,
             that
             I
          
           
             Must
             let
             her
             know
             I
             love
             ,
             or
             dye
             .
          
           
             Nor
             can
             the
             knowledge
             be
          
           
             Enough
             ,
             O
             no
             ,
             she
             too
             must
             pitty
             me
             .
          
           
             Alas
             !
             What
             did
             I
             say
             ?
          
           
             Is
             pitty
             all
             that
             she
             must
             pay
             ?
          
           
             No
             ,
             she
             must
             yet
             do
             more
             ,
          
           
             Love
             me
             as
             much
             as
             I
             adore
             ,
          
           
             And
             joyn
             in
             One
             these
             Three
             ,
          
           
             Know
             ,
             Love
             ,
             and
             Pitty
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             Parson
             Andrew's
             ,
             Parazitical
             Sermon
             to
             Mr.
             Evans
             ,
             Mayor
             of
             Shaston
             .
          
           
             WHere
             is
             this
             Boanerges
             ,
             that
             dares
             batter
          
           
             The
             Churches
             Faith
             ,
             and
             in
             a
             Pulpit
             slatter
             ?
          
           
             VVho
             fears
             not
             both
             in
             Sermon
             and
             in
             Prayer
             ▪
          
           
             For
             to
             delude
             
               Our
               Worshipful
               the
               Mayor
            
             ,
          
           
             And
             make
             the
             People
             think
             ,
             if
             he
             were
             able
             ,
          
           
             That
             he
             in
             all
             things
             is
             Infallible
             ?
          
           
             Let
             him
             do
             what
             he
             will
             ,
             it
             does
             appear
             ,
          
           
             He
             must
             be
             one
             of
             Gods
             Vicegerents
             here
             .
          
           
           
             Believe
             him
             but
             in
             this
             ,
             and
             next
             you
             then
          
           
             Must
             both
             believe
             in
             Mayor
             and
             Aldermen
             ,
          
           
             And
             add
             it
             to
             your
             Creed
             ;
             and
             then
             you
             may
          
           
             Say
             Mass
             ,
             and
             to
             the
             Fur-gown'd
             Idol
             Pray
             ;
          
           
             And
             thus
             he
             puts
             a
             slur
             upon
             the
             Nation
             ,
          
           
             And
             brings
             it
             off
             ,
             
               This
               Ancient
               Corporation
            
             .
          
           
             This
             ancient
             Corporation's
             not
             so
             blind
             ,
          
           
             But
             see
             the
             VVallet
             of
             his
             faults
             behind
             ;
          
           
             And
             hold
             it
             for
             a
             true
             and
             Christian
             Canon
             ,
          
           
             
               The
               Parson
               cannot
               serve
               his
               God
               and
               Mammon
               :
            
          
           
             But
             
             Andrew's
             sham-Apostle
             thought
             in
             Meter
          
           
             Something
             to
             say
             in
             praise
             of
             
               Simon
               Peter
            
             .
          
           
             Nor
             will
             his
             Plea
             excuse
             him
             ,
             though
             he
             say
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             
               Oratoria
               licentia
            
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             a
             Wife
             .
          
           
             OUt
             ,
             or
             I
             burst
             !
             VVhat
             damn'd
             confounded
             spell
          
           
             Made
             Orpheus
             run
             to
             fetch
             a
             VVife
             from
             Hell
             ?
          
           
             VVhat
             was
             it
             mov'd
             that
             madness
             in
             his
             Breast
             ?
          
           
             He
             by
             a
             Legion
             surely
             was
             possest
          
           
             Of
             master-Devils
             .
             Had
             he
             lov'd
             the
             Pox
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             the
             Plagues
             were
             in
             
             Pandora's
             Box
             ,
          
           
             Embrac'd
             all
             Vice
             ,
             though
             loathsom
             and
             impure
             ,
          
           
             Heaven
             might
             in
             pitty
             yet
             afford
             a
             Cure.
          
           
             But
             when
             they
             come
             to
             that
             licentious
             life
             ,
          
           
             To
             fawn
             ,
             and
             hug
             ,
             and
             doat
             upon
             a
             VVife
             ,
          
           
           
             There
             's
             no
             Salvation
             for
             such
             cursed
             Elves
             ,
          
           
             They
             may
             ,
             like
             Iudas
             ,
             go
             and
             hang
             themselves
             .
          
           
             Had
             Adam
             ne're
             seen
             Eve
             for
             to
             entice
             ,
          
           
             He
             doubtless
             yet
             had
             liv'd
             in
             Paradise
             .
          
           
             That
             curs'd
             Satanick
             Engin
             ,
             not
             content
          
           
             To
             damn
             her self
             to
             endless
             punishment
             ,
          
           
             Intic'd
             our
             Father
             Adam
             for
             to
             eat
          
           
             The
             fruit
             of
             Life
             ,
             and
             Death
             inflicting
             meat
             .
          
           
             And
             ever
             since
             each
             cursed
             Iezabel
          
           
             Has
             led
             her
             Husband
             the
             right
             way
             to
             Hell.
          
           
             O
             rare
             advice
             to
             Iob
             !
             why
             dost
             retain
          
           
             Thy
             foolish
             Righteousness
             so
             long
             in
             vain
             !
          
           
             Lo
             ,
             the
             reward
             of
             all
             thy
             Piety
             !
          
           
             Take
             thy
             Wife's
             Counsel
             ,
             curse
             thy
             God
             and
             dye
             .
          
           
             Counsel
             so
             good
             ,
             who
             coud
             not
             chuse
             but
             take
             ,
          
           
             Though
             not
             for
             Hells
             ,
             yet
             for
             his
             poor
             Wifes
             sake
             ?
          
           
             Damn'd
             Monster
             ,
             cou'dst
             thou
             find
             no
             other
             way
          
           
             Than
             this
             ,
             thy
             righteous
             Husband
             to
             betray
             ?
          
           
             Can
             e're
             a
             Man
             expect
             a
             moments
             rest
             ,
          
           
             That
             hugs
             so
             curst
             a
             Viper
             in
             his
             Breast
             .
          
           
             Woman
             brings
             VVo
             ,
             't
             is
             true
             ,
             her
             very
             Name
          
           
             An
             adjunct
             is
             of
             Sorrow
             unto
             man
             ;
          
           
             Let
             her
             be
             fair
             or
             foul
             ,
             airy
             or
             dull
             ,
          
           
             Peevish
             or
             pleasant
             ,
             kind
             or
             unnatural
             ;
          
           
             She
             's
             but
             the
             Devils
             bait
             for
             to
             trepan
          
           
             Poor
             ,
             fond
             ,
             uxorious
             ,
             and
             silly
             Man.
             
          
        
         
           
           
             Naides
             ,
             Draides
             ,
             Hymen
             ,
             Orpheus
             ,
             Euridice
             .
          
           
             
               Naides
               .
            
             
               
                 O
                 Hymen
                 ,
                 come
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 Frame
                 no
                 excuses
                 for
                 a
                 longer
                 stay
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 hand
                 in
                 hand
              
               
                 The
                 Lovers
                 stand
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 think
                 each
                 hour
                 a
                 year
              
               
                 Until
                 thy
                 tedious
                 Godhead
                 does
                 appear
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Dra.
               
            
             
               
                 Great
                 God
                 of
                 Nuptual
                 Rites
                 ,
              
               
                 Orpheus
                 and
                 his
                 Euridice
                 invites
              
               
                 Thee
                 to
                 their
                 Feast
                 ,
              
               
                 Wich
                 shall
                 be
                 blest
              
               
                 With
                 mutual
                 Joy
                 ,
                 if
                 thou
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 cause
                 a
                 general
                 Mirth
                 throughout
                 the
                 year
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Hym.
               
            
             
               
                 Shame
                 on
                 your
                 uglie
                 hast
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 thus
                 disturbs
                 and
                 calls
                 away
                 so
                 fast
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Stygian
                 damp
              
               
                 They
                 have
                 dipt
                 my
                 Lamp
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 may
                 the
                 Omen
                 be
              
               
                 Far
                 from
                 my
                 Orpheus
                 and
                 Euridice
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               
                 Far
                 be
                 the
                 Omen
                 ,
                 we
              
               
                 Do
                 hope
                 from
                 him
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Euridice
                 .
              
               
                 Ye
                 Gods
                 that
                 hear
              
               
                 What
                 we
                 prepare
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 Sacrifice
                 and
                 Song
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Beasts
                 and
                 Trees
                 shall
                 caper
                 in
                 a
                 throng
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Orph.
               
            
             
               
                 What
                 over
                 tedious
                 stay
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 fair
                 Euridice
                 does
                 thus
                 betray
                 ?
              
               
                 The
                 slying
                 hours
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 mutual
                 powers
                 ,
              
               
                 Lest
                 they
                 too
                 slow
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Take
                 Cupids
                 Wings
                 ,
                 and
                 hasten
                 from
                 their
                 Sphere
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Eurid
               .
            
             
               
                 The
                 time
                 I
                 think
                 mispent
              
               
                 That
                 robs
                 my
                 Orpheus
                 of
                 the
                 least
                 content
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Lovers
                 fear
              
               
                 Is
                 always
                 neer
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 shall
                 thy
                 Beauteous
                 praise
              
               
                 Appear
                 more
                 blest
                 ,
                 cause
                 thou
                 didst
                 Tantalize
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               A
               Song
               by
               Orpheus
               .
            
             
               Poor
               Tantalus
               ,
               I
               pitty
               thee
               ,
            
             
               Who
               Court'st
               the
               Wave
               ,
               and
               Woo'st
               the
               Tree
               ;
            
             
               The
               water
               slides
               just
               as
               he
               sips
               ,
            
             
               And
               so
               avoids
               his
               amorous
               Lips
               ;
            
             
               The
               Golden
               Fruit
               his
               lust
               intice
               ,
            
             
               VVhich
               he
               wou'd
               tast
               at
               any
               price
               :
            
             
             
               But
               Fare
               resists
               his
               strong
               desires
               ,
            
             
               For
               whilst
               he
               gapes
               ,
               the
               Fruit
               retires
               ;
            
             
               VVhat
               fault
               ,
               alas
               !
               cou'd
               this
               deserve
               ,
            
             
               In
               midst
               of
               plenty
               thus
               to
               starve
               ?
            
             
               Thou
               art
               like
               a
               Miser
               ▪
               cloath'd
               in
               Rags
               ,
            
             
               VVhilst
               he
               sits
               brooding
               o're
               his
               Bags
               .
            
             
               And
               dares
               not
               touch
               ought
               of
               his
               store
               ,
            
             
               But
               is
               in
               midst
               of
               plenty
               Poor
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hym.
               
            
             
               
                 Hail
                 to
                 the
                 lovely
                 pair
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 whose
                 sweet
                 sake
                 I
                 hither
                 made
                 repair
                 ,
              
               
                 Firmly
                 to
                 lie
              
               
                 In
                 Amity
                 ,
              
               
                 Beauty
                 and
                 Love
                 ,
                 which
                 be
              
               
                 Compris'd
                 in
                 Orpheu's
                 and
                 Euridice
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Orph.
               
            
             
               
                 VVelcomer
                 than
                 the
                 day
                 ,
              
               
                 Hymen
                 ,
                 what
                 was
                 the
                 cause
                 of
                 this
                 delay
                 ?
              
               
                 Cou'dst
                 thou
                 find
                 out
              
               
                 A
                 cause
                 of
                 doubt
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 thought
                 that
                 there
                 might
                 be
              
               
                 In
                 either
                 of
                 us
                 Mutability
                 ?
              
            
          
           
             
               Hym.
               
            
             
               
                 Brave
                 Prince
                 of
                 Poets
                 ,
                 no
                 ;
              
               
                 By
                 this
                 delay
                 I
                 strove
                 to
                 let
                 you
                 know
              
               
                 Some
                 cruel
                 Fate
              
               
                 Does
                 on
                 you
                 wait
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhich
                 all
                 your
                 Pleasure
                 banes
                 ,
              
               
                 Fast
                 bound
                 by
                 Fate
                 in
                 Adamantine
                 Chains
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Orph.
               
            
             
               
                 The
                 Gods
                 with
                 ease
                 afflict
              
               
                 Poor
                 Mortals
                 ,
                 who
                 their
                 power
                 can't
                 contradict
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 we
                 adore
              
               
                 That
                 power
                 the
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 herein
                 surely
                 trust
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 we
                 but
                 once
                 are
                 good
                 ,
                 that
                 they
                 are
                 just
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Eurid
               .
            
             
               
                 None
                 but
                 the
                 Guilty
                 fear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 what
                 they
                 fear
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 Justice
                 they
                 shou'd
                 bear
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 nothing
                 cause
              
               
                 A
                 farther
                 pause
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 in
                 this
                 Temple
                 joyn
              
               
                 Two
                 Hands
                 ,
                 Two
                 Hearts
                 ,
                 which
                 Fate
                 cannot
                 untwine
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Hym.
               
            
             
               
                 Goddess
                 of
                 Hearts
                 ,
              
               
                 Before
                 whose
                 Throne
              
               
                 VVith
                 equal
                 parts
              
               
                 Two
                 and
                 yet
                 One
              
               
                 Themselves
                 present
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 intent
              
               
                 That
                 thou
                 mayst
                 ever
                 be
              
               
                 Propitious
                 to
                 their
                 Love
                 and
                 Amity
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Grant
                 their
                 Requests
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 lasting
                 Peace
              
               
                 In
                 mutual
                 Breasts
              
               
                 Ever
                 increase
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 may
                 they
                 prove
              
               
                 True
                 as
                 the
                 Dove
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 may
                 they
                 also
                 be
              
               
                 Inrich'd
                 with
                 a
                 most
                 numerous
                 Progenie
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 For
                 by
                 this
                 Light
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Altars
                 fume
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 in
                 thy
                 sight
              
               
                 We
                 here
                 consume
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 ne're
                 didst
                 bless
              
               
                 With
                 happiness
              
               
                 Two
                 Lovers
                 that
                 will
                 prove
              
               
                 More
                 great
                 in
                 Merit
                 ,
                 or
                 more
                 true
                 to
                 Love.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               
                 Let
                 pleasing
                 smiles
              
               
                 And
                 mutual
                 Joy
              
               
                 The
                 time
                 beguile
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 never
                 cloy
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 pleasant
                 Theams
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 gentle
                 Dreams
                 ,
              
               
                 Increase
                 their
                 generous
                 fire
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 kindle
                 Flames
                 that
                 never
                 shall
                 expire
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Hymen
               .
            
             
               
                 The
                 Goddess
                 frowns
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 dejected
                 Eyes
              
               
                 Seems
                 slightly
                 to
                 regard
                 our
                 Sacrifice
                 .
              
               
                 One
                 of
                 the
                 Turtles
                 which
                 the
                 Offering
                 were
                 ,
              
               
                 Dy'd
                 on
                 the
                 Altar
                 ,
                 e're
                 I
                 made
                 my
                 Prayer
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Tapers
                 shone
                 but
                 with
                 a
                 heavy
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 One
                 sputtering
                 Blue
                 ,
                 resign'd
                 his
                 Flame
                 to
                 Night
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               Orpheus
               .
            
             
               
                 The
                 Gods
                 deep
                 wills
                 are
                 seldom
                 known
                 ,
              
               
                 'Till
                 put
                 in
                 Execution
                 ;
              
               
               
                 And
                 't
                 were
                 a
                 folly
                 to
                 lament
              
               
                 A
                 certain
                 doom
                 none
                 can
                 prevent
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 why
                 shou'd
                 we
                 capitulate
              
               
                 With
                 what
                 recorded
                 is
                 by
                 Fate
                 ?
              
            
          
           
             
               Euridice
               .
            
             
               
                 The
                 power
                 of
                 Fate
                 cannot
                 our
                 love
                 control
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fear
                 's
                 too
                 base
                 for
                 any
                 generous
                 Soul
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Gods
                 ,
                 who
                 in
                 a
                 higher
                 Orb
                 do
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 take
                 our
                 lives
                 ,
                 but
                 never
                 wrong
                 our
                 Love.
              
               
                 Let
                 's
                 then
                 like
                 Turtles
                 sitting
                 on
                 a
                 Tree
                 ,
              
               
                 Wait
                 for
                 the
                 Hawk
                 wou'd
                 catch
                 us
                 if
                 we
                 flee
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           THE
           TABLE
           .
        
         
           
             A.
             
          
           
             A
             Wealthy
             Thuscan
             Priest
             ,
             of
             no
             mean
             note
             .
             
               Page
               .
               23.
            
             
          
           
             Alas
             poor
             Infant
             ,
             Death
             was
             too
             severe
             .
             
               Page
               .
               30.
            
             
          
           
             Assist
             my
             Muse
             ,
             thou
             gravest
             of
             the
             Nine
             .
             
               Page
               .
               45.
            
             
          
           
             As
             in
             the
             Ocean
             on
             a
             Summers
             day
             .
             
               Page
               .
               50.
            
             
          
           
             A
             sure
             Foundation
             makes
             a
             Building
             stand
             .
             
               Page
               .
               67.
            
             
          
           
             Ah
             lovely
             fair
             ,
             can
             you
             so
             cruel
             be
             .
             
               Page
               .
               68.
            
             
          
           
             Admired
             Beauty
             ,
             whose
             victorious
             Eyes
             .
             
               Page
               .
               76.
            
             
          
           
             An
             Anagram
             and
             Epigram
             on
             James
             D.
             of
             York
             .
             
               Page
               .
               83.
            
             
          
           
             An
             Anagram
             ,
             Epigram
             ,
             and
             Acrostick
             on
             
               Su.
               W.
               Page
               .
               84.
            
             
          
           
             A
             Boat
             ,
             a
             Boat.
             
               Page
               .
               89.
            
             
          
           
             An
             envious
             ,
             angry
             ,
             sluggish
             ,
             drunken
             Lover
             .
             
               Page
               .
               91.
            
             
          
           
             Ah
             fainting
             Breath
             ,
             there
             's
             nought
             can
             yield
             relief
             .
             
               Page
               .
               95.
            
             
          
           
             Alas
             ,
             fond
             Painter
             ,
             why
             dost
             strive
             to
             grace
             .
             
               Page
               .
               97.
            
             
          
           
             Affright
             me
             not
             ,
             you
             urge
             your
             suit
             in
             vain
             .
             
               Page
               .
               98.
            
             
          
        
         
           
           
             B.
             
          
           
             Before
             some
             Famine
             ,
             Pestilence
             ,
             or
             War.
             
               Page
               .
               32.
            
             
          
           
             Beautious
             Hersilia
             ,
             those
             that
             rule
             above
             .
             
               Page
               .
               73.
            
             
          
        
         
           
             C.
             
          
           
             Coy
             Clelia
             ,
             veil
             those
             Charming
             Eyes
             .
             
               Page
               .
               7.
            
             
          
           
             Come
             my
             dear
             Love
             into
             this
             Grove
             .
             
               Page
               .
               27.
            
             
          
           
             Cilex
             ,
             a
             Theif
             ,
             much
             noted
             for
             his
             crime
             .
             
               Page
               .
               71.
            
             
          
           
             Come
             le
             ts
             to
             the
             Tavern
             away
             .
             
               Page
               .
               106.
            
             
          
           
             Clio
             relates
             things
             done
             ,
             and
             gives
             the
             time
             .
             
               Page
               .
               116.
            
             
          
        
         
           
             D.
             
          
           
             Divinest
             Creature
             ,
             to
             whose
             heavenly
             brow
             .
             
               Page
               .
               50.
            
             
          
           
             Dost
             thou
             not
             see
             this
             Picture
             set
             .
             
               Page
               .
               59.
            
             
          
        
         
           
             F.
             
          
           
             Fair
             and
             yet
             cruel
             !
             sure
             it
             cannot
             be
             .
             
               Page
               .
               17.
            
             
          
           
             Farewel
             to
             pleasure
             and
             to
             fond
             delight
             .
             
               Page
               .
               41.
            
             
          
           
             Fair
             Clelia
             ,
             didst
             thou
             know
             .
             
               Page
               .
               66.
            
             
          
           
             Farewel
             my
             scornful
             Female
             Saint
             .
             
               Page
               .
               80.
            
             
          
           
             From
             Salamis
             when
             Tucer
             fled
             .
             
               Page
               .
               87.
            
             
          
        
         
           
           
             G.
             
          
           
             Go
             ,
             tell
             her
             that
             I
             love
             .
             
               Page
               .
               8.
            
             
          
           
             Go
             mournful
             sigh
             ,
             haste
             to
             my
             fair
             .
             
               Page
               .
               52.
            
             
          
           
             Go
             dull
             Mechanick
             ,
             whose
             infective
             pride
             .
             
               Page
               .
               70.
            
             
          
           
             Go
             tell
             my
             fair
             that
             I.
             
               Page
               .
               102.
            
             
          
        
         
           
             H.
             
          
           
             Hail
             ancient
             Brother
             ,
             what
             is
             in
             thy
             mind
             .
             
               Page
               .
               13.
            
             
          
           
             Hail
             sacred
             Woods
             ,
             and
             all
             ye
             rural
             Gods.
             
               Page
               .
               24.
            
             
          
           
             How
             ,
             Gosse
             forsook
             her
             !
             't
             is
             as
             true
             as
             may
             be
             .
             
               Page
               .
               93.
            
             
          
           
             Heiress
             of
             Love
             ,
             and
             glory
             of
             the
             time
             .
             
               Page
               .
               106.
            
             
          
           
             Heark
             how
             the
             raging
             Winds
             (
             Great
             God
             of
             Thunder
             .
             )
             ibid.
             
          
        
         
           
             I.
             
          
           
             If
             that
             this
             Book
             without
             command
             .
             
               Page
               .
               6.
            
             
          
           
             If
             that
             extortion
             ,
             fraud
             and
             strage
             .
             
               Page
               .
               12.
            
             
          
           
             I
             will
             not
             tell
             her
             that
             she
             's
             fair
             .
             
               Page
               .
               16.
            
             
          
           
             I
             have
             drank
             too
             much
             Lethe
             of
             late
             .
             
               Page
               .
               18.
            
             
          
           
             I
             thank
             you
             ,
             worthy
             Sir
             ,
             your
             good
             advice
             .
             
               Page
               .
               21.
            
             
          
           
             Iust
             as
             I
             liv'd
             ,
             just
             so
             I
             dy'd
             .
             
               Page
               .
               26.
            
             
          
           
             In
             times
             of
             old
             ,
             when
             Kings
             did
             not
             disdain
             .
             
               Page
               .
               53.
            
             
          
           
             I
             yield
             ,
             dear
             Enemy
             ,
             nor
             now
             .
             
               Page
               .
               107.
            
             
          
           
             I
             love
             a
             Lass
             that
             will
             not
             wed
             .
             
               Page
               .
               108.
            
             
          
        
         
           
           
             L.
             
          
           
             Lelaps
             my
             Ladys
             Dog
             ,
             must
             sit
             at
             meat
             .
             
               Page
               .
               35.
            
             
          
           
             Loves
             Charms
             all
             humane
             force
             doth
             sway
             .
             
               Page
               .
               105.
            
             
          
        
         
           
             M.
             
          
           
             My
             Genius
             hurried
             by
             that
             haste
             .
             
               Page
               .
               10.
            
             
          
           
             Meek
             ,
             kind
             ,
             and
             good
             ,
             cou'd
             I
             relate
             .
             
               Page
               .
               15.
            
             
          
           
             Mirrour
             of
             Beauty
             ,
             from
             whose
             conqu'ring
             Eyes
             .
             
               Page
               .
               20.
            
             
          
           
             My
             Friend
             
               John
               Clement
            
             'tother
             day
             .
             
               Page
               .
               60.
            
             
          
        
         
           
             N.
             
          
           
             No
             Salvage
             Tyranny
             ,
             no
             desperate
             War.
             
               Page
               .
               91.
            
             
          
        
         
           
             O.
             
          
           
             O
             Garden
             ,
             unto
             me
             more
             blest
             .
             
               Page
               .
               1.
            
             
          
           
             Of
             mighty
             Jove
             I
             lately
             askt
             a
             Boon
             .
             
               Page
               .
               86.
            
             
          
           
             Out
             or
             I
             burst
             ,
             what
             damn'd
             confounded
             spell
             .
             
               Page
               .
               121.
            
             
          
           
             O
             Hymen
             come
             away
             .
             
               Page
               .
               123.
            
             
          
        
         
           
             R.
             
          
           
             Render
             your
             heart
             ,
             or
             give
             mine
             agen
             .
             
               Page
               .
               26.
            
             
          
           
             Restore
             my
             wounded
             heart
             ,
             dear
             Love.
             
               Page
               .
               61.
            
             
          
        
         
           
           
             S.
             
          
           
             Shall
             still
             my
             suite
             prove
             vain
             ?
             then
             bid
             me
             dye
             .
             71.
             
          
           
             Sweet
             Vesper
             being
             the
             Night
             .
             63.
             
          
           
             So
             strange
             a
             distemper
             I
             ne're
             yet
             did
             know
             .
             72.
             
          
        
         
           
             T.
             
          
           
             The
             crafty
             Thief
             may
             rob
             thee
             of
             thy
             store
             .
             9.
             
          
           
             Think
             not
             ,
             fair
             Madam
             ,
             that
             your
             high
             disdain
             .
             19.
             
          
           
             The
             Sons
             of
             Pompey
             yielded
             up
             their
             breath
             .
             22.
             
          
           
             They
             say
             Ulisses
             by
             his
             art
             .
             24.
             
          
           
             Tell
             me
             ,
             thou
             pale-fac'd
             Empress
             of
             the
             Night
             .
             43.
             
          
           
             'T
             was
             at
             the
             time
             when
             Phoebus
             with
             his
             rays
             .
             47.
             
          
           
             The
             Snow's
             dissolv'd
             the
             grassy
             Fields
             grown
             green
             .
             64.
             
          
           
             To
             thee
             ,
             O
             Wood
             ,
             I
             make
             my
             moan
             .
             76.
             
          
           
             The
             Fetters
             of
             love
             are
             far
             stronger
             than
             hate
             .
             79.
             
          
           
             This
             piece
             of
             Wood
             which
             now
             doth
             lye
             .
             82.
             
          
           
             They
             say
             that
             Souls
             departed
             first
             must
             run
             .
             88.
             
          
           
             'T
             was
             Evening
             when
             the
             Suns
             departure
             made
             .
             101.
             
          
        
         
           
             U.
             
          
           
             Venus
             ,
             I
             oft
             have
             heard
             thy
             Name
             .
             61.
             
          
           
             Venus
             of
             Souls
             ,
             whose
             hand
             controls
             .
             69.
             
          
           
             Upon
             this
             Marble
             stone
             forbear
             to
             tread
             .
             100.
             
          
        
         
           
           
             W.
             
          
           
             Where
             's
             absent
             Clelia
             .
             4.
             
          
           
             What
             makes
             the
             Frontiers
             of
             the
             sable
             Night
             .
             42.
             
          
           
             What
             ails
             the
             Poet
             ,
             what
             a
             new
             desire
             .
             37.
             
          
           
             When
             bald-pate
             Winter
             with
             his
             hoary
             head
             .
             39.
             
          
           
             What
             makes
             the
             trembling
             Hare
             the
             Lyon
             fly
             .
             36.
             
          
           
             Why
             dost
             thou
             thus
             delay
             .
             85.
             
          
           
             Why
             shou'd
             I
             urge
             my
             love
             ,
             since
             that
             I
             know
             .
             95.
             
          
           
             When
             Titan
             hasted
             from
             his
             heavenly
             Sphere
             .
             109.
             
          
           
             With
             joy
             like
             ours
             the
             mighty
             Roman
             State
             ▪
             113.
             
          
           
             Where
             is
             this
             Boanerges
             ,
             that
             dares
             batter
             .
             102.
             
          
        
         
           
             Y.
             
          
           
             Te
             powers
             above
             ,
             and
             ye
             Celestial
             ones
             .
             31
             ▪
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
      
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A34476-e750
           
             Mr.
             Gosss
             Wife
             .
          
        
      
    
  

