Poor sotted poets, cease to praise Your Lauras, Cynthias, Lydias, Fondly ador'd in your mistaken days:

Tell me no more of golden hair, Of all ill colours the worst wear, And renders beauty terrible as fair:

Almanna's curls are black as night, Thorough whose sable ring's a white, Whiter than whiteness, strikes the wounded sight.

Tell me no more of arched brows,

Nor henceforth call them Cupid's bows, Which common praise to common form allows!

Hers, shining, smooth, and black as jet, Short, thick, and even without fret, Exceed all simile and counterfeit.

Study no more for eulogies,

For English gray, or French blue eyes,
Which never yet but of a fool made prize:

Almanna's eyes are such as none
Could ever dare to gaze upon,

But in a trice he found his heart was gone.

Those lights the coldest blood can thaw, And hearts by their attraction draw. As warm chaf'd jet licks up a trembling straw. No more for cheeks make senseless posies Of lilies white, and damask roses,

Which more of fancy than of truth discloses:

In hers complexion's mixed so,

That white and red together grow,
Like lovers' blood sprinkled on virgin snow.

Cease, cease, of coral lips to prate,
Of rubies, and I can't tell what,
Those epithets are all grown stale and flat:

Almanna's rosy lips are such,

To praise them is for wit too much,
Till first inspir'd by their most blessed touch.

No more hang teeth upon a string,
And ropes of pearl for grinders bring,
Your treasure is too poor an offering:

Comparisons do hers no right,
Ivory's yellow in their sight,

[white.

Which are than all things but themselves more

No more of odours go in quest

As far as the remotest East,

Thence to perfume a lady's rotten chest:

Her breath, much sweeter than the spring
With all its join'd perfumes can bring,
Gives life, and happy life, to ev'ry thing.

Tell me no more of swan-white breasts,
Which you call little Cupids' nests,
In those you praise fit for such wauton guests:

Almanna's ten times whiter are
Than those of the supremest fair,
But yet, alas! no Loves inhabit there.

Oh! set your wits no more o' th' last To praise a nymph's contorted waist, By such admirers fit to be embrac'd:

Whilst quiet we sit

We conclude all things fit,

Acquiescing with hearty submission;
For, though simple, we know
That soft murmurs will grow

At the last unto downright sedition.

We care not who says,

And intends it dispraise,

That an angler t'a fool is next neighbour; Let him prate, what care we,

We're as honest as he,

And so let him take that for his labour.

We covet no wealth

But the blessing of health,

And that greater good conscience within ; Such devotion we bring

To our God and our king,

That from either no offers can win.

Whilst we sit and fish,

We do pray as we wish,

For long life to our king James the second; Honest anglers then may,

Or they've very foul play,

With the best of good subjects be reckon'd.

EPISTLE

TO JOHN BRADSHAW, ESQ.

FROM Porto Nova as pale wretches go
To swing on fatal tripus, even so,

My dearest friend, I went last day from thee,
Whilst for five miles the figure of that tree
Was ever in my guilty fancy's eye,

As if in earnest I'd been doom'd to die
For, what descrv'd it, so unworthily
Stealing so early, Jack, away from thee.

[break,

And that which (as 't well might) increas'd my fear,
Was the ill luck of my vile charioteer,
Who drove so nicely too, t' increase my dread,
As if his horses with my vital thread
Had harness'd been, which being, alas! so weak,
He fear'd might snap, and would not it should
Till he himself the honour had to do't
With one thrice stronger, and my neck to boot.
Thus far in hanging posture then I went,
(And sting of conscience is a punishment
On Earth, they say, the greatest, and some tell
It is moreo'er the only one in Hell,
The worm that never dies, being alone
The thing they call endless damnation:)
But leaving that unto the wise that made it,
And knowing best the gulph, can best evade it,
I'll tell you, that heing pass'd thro' Highgate, there
I was saluted by the country air,

With such a pleasing gale, as made me smell
The Peak itself; nor is 't a miracle,
For all that pass that portico this way
Are transmontani, as the courtiers say;
Which suppos'd true, one then may boldly speak,
That all of th' north-side Highgate are i' th' Peak;
And so to hanging when I thought to come,
Wak'd from the dream, I found myself at home,
Wonder not, then, if I, in such a case
So overjoy'd, forgot thee for a space;
And but a little space; for, by this light,
I thought on thee again ten times ere night;

I found a coachman, who, my case beinoaning,
With three stout geldings, and one able stoning,
For eight good pounds did bravely undertake,
Or for my own, or for my money's sake,
Thro' thick and thin, fall out what could befall,
To bring me safe and sound to Basford-hall.
Which having drauk upon, he bid good night,
And (Heaven forgive us) with the morning's light,
Not fearing God, nor his vicegerent constable,
We roundly rolling were the road to Dunstable,
Which, as they chim'd to prayers, we trotted
And 'fore elev'n ten minutes came unto [through,
The town that Brickhill hight, where we did rest,
And din'd indifferent well, both man and beast.
'Twixt two and four to Stratford, 'twas well driven,
And came to Towcester to lodge at even.
Next day we din'd at Dunchurch, and did lie
That night four miles on our side Coventry.
Tuesday at noon at Lichfield town we baited,
But there some friends, who long that hour had
waited,

So long de tain'd me, that my charioteer
Could drive that night but to Uttoxeter.
And there the Wednesday, being market-day,
I was constrained with some kind lads to stay
Tippling till afternoon, which made it night
When from my Hero's tower I saw the light
Of her flambeaux, and fancy'd, as we drave,
Each rising hillock was a swelling wave,
And that I swimming was, in Neptune's spite,
To my long long'd for harbour of delight.

And now I'm here set down again in peace,
After my troubles, business, voyages,
The same dull northern clod I was before,
Gravely inquiring how ewes are a score,
How the bay-harvest, and the corn was got,
And if or no there's like to be a rot;
Just the same sot I was e'er I remov'd,
Nor by my travel nor the court improv❜d;
The same old-fashion'd squire, no whit refin'd,
And shall be wiser when the Devil's blind:
But find all here too in the self-same state,
And now begin to live at the old rate,
To bub old ale, which nonsense does create,
Write lewd epistles, and sometimes translate
Old tales of tubs, of Guyenne, and Provence,
And keep a clutter with th' old blades of France,
As D' Avenant did with those of Lombardy,
Which any will receive, but none will buy,
And that has set H. B. and me awry.
My river still through the same channel glides,
Clear from the tumult, salt, and dirt of tides;
And my poor fishing-house, my seat's best grace,
Stands firm and faithful in the self-same place
I left it four months since, and ten to one

I go a fishing ere two days are gone :
So that (my friend) I nothing want but thee
To make me happy as I'd wish to be;
And sure a day will come I shall be blest
In his enjoyment whom my heart loves best;

Which when it comes will raise me above men Greater than crowned monarchs are, and then I'll not exchange my cottage for Whitehall, Windsor, the Louvre, or th' Escurial.

ANACREONTIC.

FILL a bowl of lusty wine,
Briskest daughter of the vine;
Fill't until it sea-like flow,

That my cheek may once more glow.
I am fifty winters old,

Blood then stagnates and grows cold;
And when youthful heat decays,
We must help it by these ways.
Wine breeds mirth, and mirth imparts
Heat and courage to our hearts,
Which in old men else are lead,
And not warm'd, would soon be dead.

Now I'm sprightly, fill again,
Stop not though they mount to ten;
Though I stagger, do not spare,
'Tis to rock and still my ear;
Though I stammer, 'tis no matter,
I should do the same with water:
When I belch, I am but trying
How much better 'tis than sighing;
If a tear spring in mine eye,
'Tis for joy, not grief, I cry:
This is living without thinking,
These are the effects of drinking.

Fill amain, (boy) fill amain,
Whilst I drink I feel no pain;
Gout or palsy I have none,
Hang the cholic and the stone:
I methinks grow young again,
New blood springs in ev'ry vein ;
And supply it (sirrah!) still,
Whilst I drink you sure may fill :
If I nod, boy, rouse me up
With a bigger, fuller cup;
But when that, boy, will not do,
Faith e'en let me then go to;
For 'tis better far to lie
Down to sleep, thau down to die.

BURLESQUE.

UPON THE GREAT FROST.

TO JOHN BRADSHAW, ESQ.

You now, sir, may, and justly, wonder
That I, who did of late so thunder
Your frontier garrison by th' ferry,
Should on a sudden grow so weary;
And thence may raise a wrong conclusion,
That you have bobb'd my resolution;
Or else that my poetic battery,
With which so smartly I did patter ye,
(Though I am not in that condition)
Has shot away her ammunition;
Or (if in kindness peradventure
You are more gentle in your censure)

That I my writing left pursuing,
'Cause I was weary of ill doing.
Now of these three surmises any,
Except the last, might pass with many;
But such as know me of the nation,
Know I so hate all reformation,
Since so much harm to do I've seen it,
That in myself I'll ne'er begin it;
And should you under your hand give it,
Not one of twenty would believe it.

But I must tell you, in brief clauses,
If you to any of these causes

Impute the six weeks' truce I've given,
That you are wide, sir, the whole Heaven:
For know, though I appear less eager,
I never mean to raise my leaguer,
Till or by storm, or else by famine,
I force you to the place I am in:
Yourself sans article to tender,
Unto discretion to surrender ;
Where see what comes of your vain glory,
To make me lie so long before ye.
To show you next I want no powder,

I thus begin to batter louder ;

And for the last vain hope that fed ye,

I think I've answer'd it already.

Now, to be plain, although your spirit
Will ill, I know, endure to hear it,
You must of force at least miscarry,

For reasons supernumerary:

And though I know you will be striving

To do what lies in mortal living,
And may, it may be, a month double
To lie before you give me trouble,

(Though with the stronger men but vapour ill)
And hold out stiff till th' end of April,
Or possibly a few days longer;

Yet then you needs must yield for hunger,
When, having eaten all provisions,
You're like to make most brave conditions.

Now having friendship been so just to,
To tell you what you're like to trust to,
I'll next acquaint you with one reason
I've let you rest so long a season,
And that my Muse has been so idle:
Know Pegasus has got a bridle,
A bit and curb of crusted water,
Or if I call't plain ice, no matter,
With which he now is so commanded,
His days of galloping are ended,
Unless I with the spur do prick him;
Nay, rather though I whip and kick him:
He, who unbidden us'd to gambol,
Can now nor prance, nor trot, nor amble,
Nor stir a foot to take his airing,
But stands stiff froze, like that at Charing,
With two feet up, two down: 'tis pity
He's not erected in the city.

But, to leave fooling, I assure ye There never was so cold a fury Of nipping frost, and pinching weather, Since Eve and Adam met together. Our Peak, that always has been famous For cold, wherewith to cramp and lame us, Worse than its If, did now resemble a Certain damo'd place call'd Nova Zembla, And we who boast us human creatures, Had happy been had we chang'd features, Garments at least, though theirs be shabbed, With those who that cold place inhabit,

The bears and foxes, who sans question
Than we by odds have warmer vests on.
How cold that country is, he knows most
Has there his fingers and his toes lost;
But here I know that every member
Alike was handled by December:

Who blew his nose had clout or fist all,
Instead of snivel fill'd with crystal:
As men were fierce, or gentle anded,
Their fists were clutch'd, or palms expanded;
Limbs were extended, or contracted,
As use or humour most affected;
For, as men did to th' air expose 'em,
It catch'd and in that figure froze 'cm ;
Of which think me not over ample,
If I produce you here example:
Where, though I am believ'd by scarce one,
None will, I hope, suspect the person,
Who, from lies he far remote is,
Will give in verbo sacerdotis.

One going to discharge at wild duck,
Had for his recompence the ill luck
(Or my informer's au impostor)
To be in that presenting posture,
Surpris'd with his left eye fast winking,
Till by good fires, and hot things drinking,
He thaw'd, to the beholders' laughter,
Unto itself a few hours after.

Two towns, that long that war had waged,
Being at foot-ball now engaged
For honour, as both sides pretended,
Left the brave trial to be ended

Till the next thaw, for they were frozen
On either part at least a dozen;
With a good handsome space between 'em,
Like Rollrich stones, if you've seen 'em,
And could no more run, kick, or trip ye,
Than I can quaff off Aganippe;
Till ale, which crowns all such pretences,
Mull'd them again into their senses.
A maid, compell'd to be a gadder,
T'abate th' extension of her bladder,
Which is an importuning matter,
Was so supported by her water,
To ease her knees with a third pillar,
That as she sat, the poor distiller
Look'd on the tripod, like the famous
Astrologer hight Nostradamus.
These stories sound so very oddly,
That though men may be pretty godly,

One should though store of mustard give 'em,
Ere they expect they should believe 'em.
But, to allure your faith a little,
What follows true is to a tittle:
Our country air was, in plain dealing,
Some weeks together so congealing,
That if as men are rude in this age,
One spit had in another's visage ;
The constable by th' back had got him,
For he infallibly had shot him.

Nay, friend with friend, brother with brother,
Must needs have wounded one another
With kindest words, were they not wary
To make their greetings sideways carry ;
For all the words that came from gullets,
If long, were slugs; if short ones, bullets.
You might have read from mouths (sans fable)
"Your humble servant, sir," in label:
Like those (yet theirs were warmer quarters)
We see in Fox's Book of Martyrs.

Eyes that were weak, and apt to water, Wore spectacles of their own matter; And noses that to drop were ceased, To such a longitude increased, That whoe'er wrung for ease or losses, Snapp'd off two handfuls of proboscis. Beards were the strangest things, God save us! Such as dame Nature never gave us! So wild, so pointed, and so staring, That I should wrong them by comparing Hedge hogs, or porcupines' small taggers, To their more dangerous swords and daggers. Mustachios look'd like heroes' trophies Behind their arms i' th' herald's office; The perpendicular beard appear'd Like hop-poles in a hop-yard rear'd: 'Twixt these the underwoody acres Look'd just like bavins at a baker's, To heat the oven mouth most ready, Which seem'd to gape for heat already. In mouths with salivation flowing, The horrid hairs about 'em growing, Like reeds look'd, in confused order, Growing about a fish-pond's border. But stay, myself I caught have tripping, (This frost is perilous for slipping) I've brought this stupifying weather, These elements, too near together; The bearded, therefore, look'd as Nature, Instead of forming human creature, So many garrisons bad made us, Our beards t' our sconces palisadoes. Perukes now stuck so firm and stedfast, They all were riveted to head fast; Men that bought wigs to go a wooing, Had them made natural now and growing: But let them have a care, for truly The hair will fall 'twixt this and July. The tender ladies, and the lasses, Were vitrifi'd to drinking-glasses, Contriv'd to such an admiration, After so odd fantastic fashion, One scarce knew at which end to guzzle, The upper or the lower muzzle. The earth to that degree was crusted, That, let me never more be trusted, (I speak without poetic figure) If I don't think a lump no bigger Than a good walnut, had it hit one, Would as infallibly have split one, As cannon-shot, that killing's sure at, Had not both been alike obdurate. The very rocks, which in all reason Should stoutli'st have withstood the season, Repetrifi'd with harder matter, Had no more privilege than water. Had Pegasus struck such a mountain, It would have fail'd him for a fountain: 'Twas well Parnassus, when he started, Prov'd to his hoof more tender-hearted, Or else of Greece the sullen bully, And Trojan Hector, had been dully In threadbare prose, alas! related, Which now in song are celebrated; For steed poetic ne'er had whined Greek Iliad, or Latin Æneid: Nor Nero writ his ribble rabbles Of sad complaints, love, and strange fables: Then too Anacreon and Flaccus Had ne'er made odes in praise of Bacchus,