Criticks I read on other Men,

And Hypers upon Them again ;

From whofe Remarks I give Opinion

On twenty Books, yet ne'er look in One.
Then all your Wits that flear and fham,
Down from DON QUIXOTE to TOM TRAM;
From whom I Jefts and Punns purloin,
And flily put 'em off for Mine:

Fond to be thought a Country Wit:
The reft,-

when Fate and You think fit.

Sometimes I climb my Mare, and kick her To bottl'd Ale, and neighbouring Vicar; Sometimes at STAMFORD take a Quart, Squire SHEPHARD'S Health,

With all my Heart

Thus, without much Delight, or Grief,
I fool away an idle Life;

'Till SHADWELL from the Town retires,
(Choak'd up with Fame and Sea-coal Fires,)

To blefs the Wood with peaceful Lyric;
Then hey for Praise and Panegyric;

Justice reftor'd, and Nations freed,

And Wreaths round WILLIAM's glorious Head..

TQ

TO THE

COUNTESS of DORSET.

Written in her MILTON.

By Mr. BRADBURY.

SEE

EE here how bright the first-born Virgin fhone,
And how the firft fond Lover was undone.
Such charming Words our beauteous Mother spoke,
AS MILTON wrote, and fuch as Yours Her Look.
Yours, the best Copy of th' Original Face,

Whofe Beauty was to furnifh all the Race:
Such Chains no Author cou'd escape but He;
There's no way to be fafe, but not to See.

TO THE

LADY DURSLEY,

On the fame Subject.

HERE reading how fond ADAM was betray'd,

And how by Sin EvE's blafted Charms decay'd;

Our common Lofs unjustly You complain;

So fmall that Part of it, which You sustain,

You

You ftill, fair Mother, in your Offspring trace
The Stock of Beauty deftin'd for the Race:
Kind Nature, forming Them, the Pattern took
From Heav'n's firft Work, and EVE's Original Look.
You, happy Saint, the Serpent's Pow'r controul:
Scarce any actual Guilt defiles your Soul:

And Hell does o'er that Mind vain Triumph boaft,
Which gains a Heav'n, for earthly EDEN loft.

With Virtue ftrong as Yours had EVE been arm'd,
In vain the Fruit had blufh'd, or Serpent charm'd:
Nor had our Bliss by Penitence been bought;
Nor had frail ADAM fall'n, nor MILTON wrote.

то

My LORD BUCKHURST,

THE

Very Young,

Playing with a CAT.

HE am'rous Youth, whose tender Breast
Was by his darling Cat poffeft,

Obtain'd of VENUS his Defire,
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
Imploy'd his Wonder, and his Joy.

Take

Take care, O beauteous Child, take care,
Left Thou prefer so rash a Pray'r:
Ner 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 foon will fee
Her own ADONIS live in Thee,
Will lightly her firft Lofs deplore;
Will eafily forgive the Boar:

Her Eyes with Tears no more will flow;
With jealous Rage her Breaft will glow:
And on her tabby Rival's Face

She deep will mark her new Disgrace.

WHILE from our Looks, fair Nymph, You guess

The fecret Paffions of our Mind;

My heavy Eyes, You fay, confefs

A Heart to Love and Grief inclin❜d.

II.

There needs, alas! but little Art,

To have this fatal Secret found:

With the fame Eafe You threw the Dart,

'Tis certain You may show the Wound.
III.

How can I fee You, and not love;

While You as op'ning East are fair?

While cold as Northern Blafts You prove;
How can I love, and not defpair?

IV.

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.

N vain You tell your parting Lover,

IN

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 Thofe that I sustain,
From flighted Vows, and cold Disdain?
Be gentle, and in Pity choose
To with the wildeft Tempefts loose:
That thrown again upon the Coast,
Where first my Shipwrackt Heart was loft,
I may once more repeat my Pain;
Once more in dying Notes complain
Of flighted Vows, and cold Difdain.

THE