LYE, Philo, untouch'd on my peaceable shelf;

Nor take it amifs, that fo little I heed thee: I've no envy to thee, and fome love to my self: Then why should I anfwer; fince first I must read

thee?

Drunk with Helicon's waters and double brew'd bub,
Be a linguist, a poet, a critic, a wag;
To the folid delight of thy well-judging club,
To the damage alone of thy bookseller Brag,

Pursue me with fatyr: what harm is there in't?
But from all VIVA VOCE reflection forbear:
There can be no danger from what thou fhalt print:
There may be a little from what thou may'ft fwear,

ON

ON THE SAME PERSON.

WHILE, fafter than his coftive brain indites,

Philo's quick hand in flowing letters writes;
His cafe appears to me like honest Teague's,
When he was run away with, by his legs.
Phœbus, give Philo o'er himself command;
Quicken his fenfes, or reftrain his hand;
Let him be kept from paper, pen, and ink:
So
may he ceafe to write, and learn to think.

46

QUID SIT FUTURUM CRAS FUGE QUÆRERE.'

FOR what to-morrow shall disclose,

May spoil what you to-night propose:
England may change; or Cloe stray:
Love and life are for to-day.

BE

E it ryght, or wrong, these men among on women do complayne;

Affyrmynge this-how that it is a labour spent in

vayne,

To love them wele; for never a dele thy love a man

agayne:

For late a man do what he can, theyr favour to at

tayne,

Yet,

This ancient poem was originally printed in an old black letter book, intitled, THE CUSTOMES OF LONDON OR ARNOLDE'S CHRONICLE, which Mr. Capell fuppofes appeared about the year 1521. According to that gentleman's opinion-" It was certainly written in the beginning "of the fixteenth century, and not fooner: the curious in "these matters, who fhall conceive a doubt of what is here "afferted thro' remembrance of what he has feen advanced by

"a poet

Yet, yf a newe do them pursue, theyr fyrft true

lover than

Laboureth for nought; for from her thought he is a banyshed man.

B.

I fay, nat, nay, but that all day it is bothe writ and

fayd,

That womens fayth is, as who fayth, all utterly de

cayed:

But, nevertheleffe, ryght good wytnèffe in this cafe might be layed,

That they love true, and continùe; recorde the notbrowne mayde;

a poet of late days, is defired to look into the works of the "C great SIR THOMAS MORE, and particularly into a poem "that ftands at the head of them, and from thence receive "conviction; if fameness of rhymes, fameness of orthogra66 phy, and a very near affinity of words and phrafes be ca

pable of giving it." THE POET OF LATE DAYS mentioned above, is certainly Mr. Prior, who in the edition of his poems published in 1718, had afferted it to have been written THREE HUNDRED YEARS SINCE. What led him to that mistaken notion, was probably a writer in THE MUSES MERCURY for June 1707, who conjectures that it was written about the year 1472. The fame writer fays, and the Ballad feems to confirm it, that the perfons reprefented are a young Lord, the Earl of Westmoreland's fon, and a lady of equal quality. The copy from which this poem hath hitherto been printed being very inaccurate, it is here given according to that published by Mr. Capell.

Which, when her love came, her to prove, to her to make his mone,

Wolde nat depart; for in her hart she loved but hym

alone.

A.

Than betwayne us late us dyfcus what was all the

manère

Betwayne them two: we wyll alfo tell all the payne, and fere,

That she was in: nowe I begyn, so that ye me anfwère ;

Wherefore, all ye, that present be, I pray you give

an ere:

I am the knyght; I come by nyght, as fecret as I

can;

Sayinge, Alas, thus ftandeth the cafe, I am a banyshed man.

B.

And I your wyll for to fulfyll in this wyll nat refuse; Truftynge to fhewe in wordes fewe, that men have na yll ufe]

(To theyr own fhame) women to blame, and causeleffe them accufe:

Therfore to you I answere nowe, all women to ex

cufe,

Myne owne hart dere, with you what chere? I pray you, tell anone;

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you

alone.

1