'Tis he whofe fury shall deface
The Stoic's image in this piece.
For while unhurt, divine Jordain,
Thy work and Seneca's remain,
He still has body, still has foul,
And lives and speaks, restor’d and whole.
WHILE blooming youth, and gay delight
Sit on thy rofy cheeks confeft,
Thou haft, my dear, undoubted right
To triumph o'er this deftin'd breast.
My reafon bends to what thy eyes ordain;
For I was born to love, and thou to reign.
II.
But would you meanly thus rely
On power, you know, I must obey ?
Exert a legal tyranny;
And do an ill, because you may?
Still must I thee, as atheists heav'n adore;
Not fee thy mercy, and yet dread thy power? III..
Take heed, my dear, youth flies apace;
As well as Cupid, time is blind:
Soon must those glories of thy face
The fate of vulgar beauty find:
The thousand loves that arm thy potent eye, -Muft drop their quivers, flag their wings, and die.
Then wilt thou sigh, when in each frown
A hateful wrinkle more appears;
And putting peevith humours on,
Seem but the fad effect of years:
Kindness itself too weak a charm will prove,
To raise the feeble fires of aged love.
Forc'd compliments, and formal bows
Will fhew thee just above neglect:
The heat with which thy lover glows,
Will fettle into cold refpect:
A talking dull Platonic I fhall turn;
Learn to be civil, when I cease to burn.
Then fhun the ill, and know, my dear,
Kindness and conftancy will prove
The only pillars fit to bear
So valt a weight, as that of love.
If thou canst wish to make my flames endure,
Thine must be very fierce, and very pure.
Hafte, Celia, halte, while youth invites,
Obey kind Cupid's present voice;
Fill ev'ry sense with soft delights,
And give thy foul a loose to joys:
Let millions of repeated bliffes prove,
That thou all kindness art, and I all love.
Be mine, and only mine; take care
Thy looks, thy thoughts, thy dreams to guide To me alone; nor come fo far,
As liking any youth befide:
What men e'er court thee, fly 'em, and believe
They're ferpents all, and thou the tempted Eve.
IX..
So fhall I court thy dearest truth,
When beauty ceases to engage ;
So thinking on thy charming youth,
I'll love it o'er again in age:
So time itself our raptores hall improve,
While still we wake to joy, and live to love.
AS once a twelvemonth to the priest,
Holy at Rome, here antichrist,
The Spanish king present a Jennet,
To fhew his love;- -that's all that's in it:
For if his Holiness would thump
His rev'rend bum 'gainst horfe's rump,
He might b'equipt from his own stable
With one more white, and eke moje able.
Or, as with Gondola's and men, his
Good excellence the Duke of Venice
(I wish, for rhime, 't had been the king)
Sails out, and gives the gulph a ring;
Which trick of state, he wifely maintains,
Keeps kindness up 'twixt old acquaintance:*
For elfe, in honest truth, the fea
Has much less need of gold, than he.
Or, not to rove, and pump one's fancy
For Popish fimilies beyond fea;
As folks from mud-wall'd tenement
Bring landlord's pepper corn for rent;
Prefent a turkey, or a hen
To those might better spare them ten:
Ev'n fo, with all fubmiffion, I
(For first men instance, then apply)
Send you each year a homely letter,
Who may return me much a better.
Then take it, Sir, as it was writ,
To pay respect, and not fhow wit:
Nor look afkew at what it faith;
There's no petition in it,- -'faith.
Here fome would fcratch their heads, and try What they should write, and how, and why; But I conceive, fuch folks are quite in Mistakes, in theory of writing."
If once for principle 'tis laid,
That though is trouble to the head;
I argue thus: the world agrees,
That he writes well, who writes with ease:
Then he, by fequel logical,
Writes beft, who never thinks at all.
Verfe comes from heav'n, like inward light ;
Mere human pains can ne'er come by 't;
The god, not we, the poem makes;
We only tell folks what he speaks.
Hence, when anatomists difcourfe,
How like brutes organs are to ours;
They grant, if higher pow'rs think fit,
A bear might foon be made a wit;
And that, for any thing in nature,
Pigs might squeak love-odes, dogs bark fatyr.
Memnon, tho' ftone, was counted vocal;
But 'twas the god, mean while, that spoke all.
Rome oft has heard a cross haranguing:
With prompting prieft behind the hanging:
The wooden head refolv'd the question;
While you and Pettis help'd the jeft on.
Your crabbed rogues that read Lucretius,
Are against gods, you know; and teach us,
The god makes not the poet; but
The thefis, vice-versa put,
Should Hebrew-wife be understood;
And means, the poet makes the god.
Ægyptian gard❜ners thus are said to
Have fet the leeks they after pray'd to;
And Romish bakers praise the deity
They chipp'd, while yet in its paniety.
That when you poets swear and cry,
The god infpires; I rave, I die;
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