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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. 184

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.

EE here how bright the first-born virgin

shone, And how the first fond lover was un

done. Such charming words our beauteous mother spoke, As Milton wrote, and such as yours her look.

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.

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ERE reading how fond Adam was be

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 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 onr bliss by penitence been bought; Nor had frail Adam fall’n, nor Milton wrote.

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

soul :

10

TO MY LORD BUCKHURST.

VERY YOUNG, PLAYING WITH A CAT.

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10

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:
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:
And on her tabby rival's face
She deep will mark her new disgrace.

20

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

AN ODE.

HILE from our looks, fair nymph, you

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 ? 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.

10

A SONG.

N 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

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,
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.

10

THE DESPAIRING SHEPHERD.

YLEXIS shunn'd his fellow swains,
Their rural sports, and jocund strains,
(Heav'n guard us all from Cupid's

bow!)
He lost his crook, he left his flocks ;
And wand'ring through the lonely rocks,

He nourish'd endless woe.

The nymphs and shepherds round him came:
His grief some pity, others blame;

The fatal cause all kindly seek:
He mingled his concern with theirs;
He gave 'em back their friendly tears;

He sigh'd, but would not speak.

10

Clorinda came among the rest;
And she too kind concern exprest,

And ask'd the reason of his woe:

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