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On twenty books, yet ne'er look in one. 170
Then all your wits, that fleer and sham,
Down from Don Quixote to Tom Tram ;
From whom I jests and puns purloin,
And slily put them off for mine:
Fond to be thought a country wit:
The rest,-when fate and you think fit.
Sometimes I climb my mare, and kick her
To bottled ale, and neighbouring vicar;
Sometimes at Stamford take a quart,
Squire Shephard's health, with all my heart. Ise
Thus, without much delight, or grief,
I fool away an idle life;
Till Shadwell from the town retires,
(Chok’d up with fame and sea-coal fires,)
To bless the wood with peaceful lyric;
Then hey for praise and panegyric ;
Justice restor'd, and nations freed,
And wreaths round William's glorious head.

TO THE COUNTESS OF DORSET,

written IN HER MILTON, BY MR. BRADBURY.

to EE here how bright the first-born virgin o shone, And how the first fond lover was undone. Such charming words our beauteous mother spoke, As Milton wrote, and such as yours her look.

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Yours, the best copy of th’ original face,
Whose beauty was to furnish all the race:
Such chains no author could escape but he ;
There's no way to be safe, but not to see.

TO THE LADY DURSLEY: *

On THE SAME SUBJECT.

5 ERE reading how fond Adam was beo tray'd, # And how by sin Eve's blasted charms decay’d; Our common loss unjustly you complain; So small that part of it, which you sustain. You still, fair mother, in your offspring trace The stock of beauty destin’d for the race: Kind nature, forming them, the pattern took From Heav'ns first work, and Eve's original look. You, happy saint, the serpent's pow'r control: Scarce any actual guilt defiles your soul: 10 And hell does o'er that mind vain triumph boast, Which gains a Heav'n, for earthly Eden lost. With virtue strong as yours had Eve been arm’d, In vain the fruit had blush'd, or serpent charm'd : Nor had our bliss by penitence been bought; Nor had frail Adam fall’n, nor Milton wrote.

* Elizabeth, daughter of Baptist Noel, Wiscount Campden. She died 30th July, 1719. Her husband, Charles Earl of Berkeley (when Lord Dursley), had been envoy extraordimary and plenipotentiary to the States of Holland, from whence he returned in 1695.

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TO MY LORD BUCKHURST *

VERY YoUNG, PDAYING wrTH A CA r.

HE am’rous youth, whose tender breast

Was by his darling cat possest, § Obtain'd of Venus his desire,

- Howe'er irregular his fire: Nature the pow'r of love obey'd: The cat became a blushing maid; And, on the happy change, the boy Employ'd his wonder, and his joy.

Take care, O beauteous child, take care,
Lest thou prefer so rash a pray’r: 10
Nor vainly hope, the queen of love
Will e'er thy fav'rite's charms improve.
O quickly from her shrine retreat;
Or tremble for thy darling's fate.
The queen of love, who soon will see

Her own Adonis live in thee,
Will lightly her first loss deplore;
Will easily forgive the boar:
Her eyes with tears no more will flow;
With jealous rage her breast will glow: 20
And on her tabby rival's face
She deep will mark her new disgrace.

* Lionel, afterwards Duke of Dorset, to whom Prior dedicated his poems. -

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AN ODE.

WoźHILE from our looks, fair nymph, you
o guess
The secret passions of our mind,
My heavy eyes, you say, confess
A heart to love and grief inclin'd.

There needs, alas! but little art,
To have this fatal secret found:

With the same ease you threw the dart,
'Tis certain you may show the wound.

How can I see you, and not love;
While you as op'ning east are fair? 10

While cold as northern blasts you prove;
How can I love, and not despair?

The wretch in double fetters bound
Your potent mercy may release:

Soon, if my love but once were crown'd,
Fair prophetess, my grief would cease.

A SONG.

KN vain you tell your parting lover, * You wish fair winds may waft him over Alas! what winds can happy prove, That bear me far from what I love? Alas! what dangers on the main

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Can equal those that I sustain,
From slighted vows, and cold disdain?
Be gentle, and in pity choose
To wish the wildest tempests loose:
That, thrown again upon the coast, 10
Where first my shipwreck'd heart was lost,
I may once more repeat my pain;
Once more in dying notes complain
Of slighted vows, and cold disdain.

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The nymphs and shepherds round him came:
His grief some pity, others blame;
The fatal cause all kindly seek:
He mingled his eoncern with theirs; 10
He gave 'em back their friendly tears;
He sigh'd, but would not speak.

Clorinda came among the rest;
And she too kind concern exprest,
And ask'd the reason of his woe:

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