No secrets else, that mortals learn,
My cares deserve, or life concern:
But this will so important be,
I dread to search the dark decree;
For, while the smallest hope remains,
Faint joys are mingled with my pains;
Vain distant views my fancy please,
And give some intermitting ease:
But, should the stars too plainly show
That you have doom'd my endless woe,

No human force, or art, could bear
The torment of my wild despair.

This secret then I dare not know,
And other truths are useless now.
What matters, if unbles in love,
How long or short my life will prove?
To gratify what low desire,
Should I with needless haste inquire
How great, how wealthy I shall be?
Oh! what is wealth or power to me!
If I am happy, or undone,

It must procced from you alone.

THE MODERN SAINT.

HER time with equal prudence Silvia shares,
First writes a billet-doux, then says her prayers;
Her mass and toilet; vespers and the play;
Thus God and Ashtaroth divide the day:
Constant she keeps her Ember-week and Lent,
At Easter calls all Israel to her tent:
Loose without bawd, and pious without zeal,
She still repeats the sins she would conceal
Envy herself from Silvia's life must grant,
Au artful woman makes a modern saint.

A GREEK EPIGRAM.

IMITATED.

WHEN hungry wolves had trespass'd on the fold, And the robb'd shepherd his sad story told; "Call in Alcides," said a crafty priest; "Give him one half, and he'll secure the rest.” "No!" said the shepherd, "if the Fates decree, By ravaging my flock, to ruin me,

To their commands I willingly resign,

Power is their character, and patience mine; Though, troth! to me there seems but little odds, Who prove the greatest robbers, wolves or gods!"

CUPID TURNED PLOUGHMAN.

The gracious knight full well does weet,

Ten farthings ne'er will do

To keep a man each day in meat:

Some bread to meat is due.

A Rechabite poor Will must live,
And drink of Adam's ale;
Pure element no life can give,

Or mortal soul regale.

Spare diet, and spring-water clear,
Physicians hold are good:

Who diets thus need never fear

A fever in the blood.

But pass-The Asculapian crew,
Who eat and quaff the best,
They seldom miss to bake and brew,
Or lin to break their fast.

Could Yorkshire-tyke but do the same,
Then he like them might thrive;
But Fortune, Fortune, cruel dame!
To starve thou dost him drive.
In Will's old master's plenteous days,
His memory e'er be blest!
What need of speaking in his praise?

His goodness stands confest.

At his fam'd gate stood Charity,
In lovely sweet array;
Ceres and Hospitality

Dwelt there both night and day.
But, to conclude, and be concise,

Truth must Will's voucher be: Truth never yet went in disguise, For naked still is she.

There is but one, but one alone,

Can set the pilgrim free,

And make him cease to pine and moan;

O Frankland! it is thee.

O! save him from a dreary way;
To Coxwould he must hie,
Bereft of thee, he wends astray,

At Coxwould he must die.

Oh! let him in thy ball but stand,
And wear a porter's gown,

Duteous to what thou may'st command;
Thus William's wishes crown.

FROM MOSCHUS.

His lamp, his bow, and quiver, laid aside,
A rustic wallet o'er his shoulders ty'd,
Sly Cupid, always on new mischief bent,
To the rich field and furrow'd tillage went;
Like any ploughman toil'd the little god,
His tune he whistled, and his wheat he sow'd;
Then sat and laugh'd, and to the skies above
Raising his eye, he thus insulted Jove:

"Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms restrain, And, as I bid you, let it shine or rain;

Else you again beneath my yoke shall bow,
Feel the sharp goad, and draw the servile plough;
What once Europa was, Nannette is now."

PONTIUS AND PONTIA.

PONTIUS (who loves, you know, a joke,
Much better than he loves his life)
Chanc'd t'other morning to provoke
The patience of a well-bred wife.
"Talking of you," said he, "
my dear,
Two of the greatest wits in town,
One ask'd if that high furze of hair
Was, bona fide, all your own.

'Her own! most certain,' t'other said;

For Nan, who knows the thing, will tell ye, The hair was bought, the money paid, And the receipt was sign'd Ducailly." Pontia (that civil prudent she,

Who values wit much less than sense,

And never darts a repartee,

But purely in her own defence)
Reply'd, "These friends of yours, my dear,
Are given extremely much to satire!
But pr'ythee, husband, let one hear
Sometimes less wit, and more good-nature.
"Now I have one unlucky thought,

That would have spoil'd your friend's conceit:
Some hair I have, I'm sure, unbought:
Pray bring your brother wits to see't."

CUPID TURNED STROLLER.

FROM ANACREON.

Ar dead of night, when stars appear,
And strong Boötes turns the bear;
When mortals sleep their cares away,
Fatigu'd with labours of the day,
Cupid was knocking at my gate;

"Who's there!" says I, "who knocks so late, your Disturbs my dreams, and breaks my rest?" "O fear not me, a harmless guest," He said, "but open, open, pray! A foolish child, I've lost my way, And wandering here this moon-light night, All wet and cold, and wanting light." With due regard his voice I heard, Then rose, a ready lamp prepar'd, And saw a naked boy below, With wings, a quiver, and a bow;

In haste I ran, unlock'd my gate,
Secure and thoughtless of my fate:
I set the child an easy chair
Against the fire, and dry'd his hair;
Brought friendly cups of cheerful wine,
And warm'd his little hands with mine.
All this did I with kind intent;
But he, on wanton mischief bent,

Said, "Dearest friend, this bow you see,
This pretty bow, belongs to me:
Observe, I pray, if all be right;
I fear the rain has spoil'd it quite."
He drew it then, and straight I found
Within my breast a secret wound.
This done, the rogue no longer staid,
But leapt away, and laughing said,

Kind host, adieu! we now must part; Safe is my bow, but sick thy heart!"

TO A POET OF QUALITY,

PRAISING THE LADY HINCHINBROKE.

Or thy judicious Muse's sense,
Young Hinchinbroke so very proud is,
That Sacharissa and Hortense

She looks, henceforth, upon as dowdies.

Yet she to one must still submit,

To dear mamma must pay her duty: She wonders, praising Wilmot's wit, Thou should'st forget his daughter's beauty.

THE PEDANT.

LYSANDER talks extremely well;
On any subject let him dwell,

His tropes and figures will content ye:
He should possess, to all degrees,
The art of talk; he practises

Full fourteen hours in four-and-twenty.

CAUTIOUS ALICE.

So good a wife doth Lissy make, That from all company she flieth; Such virtuous courses doth she take, That she all evil tongues defieth; And, for her dearest spouse's sake, She with his brethren only lieth.

THE INCURABLE.

VOL. X.

LET others from the town retire,
And in the field seek new delight;
My Phillis does such joys inspire,
No other objects please my sight.
In her alone I find whate'er
Beauties a country landscape grace:
No shade so lovely as her hair,
Nor plain so sweet as in her face.
Lilies and roses there combine,

More beauteous than in flowery field;
Transparent is her skin so fine,

To this each crystal stream must yield.
Her voice more sweet than warbling sound,
Though sung by nightingale or lark;
Her eyes such lustre dart around,

Compar'd to them, the Sun is dark.
Both light and vital heat they give;
Cherish'd by them, my love takes root,
From her kind looks does life receive,

Grows a fair plant, bears flowers and fruit.
Such fruit, I ween, did once deceive

The common parent of mankind,
And made transgress our mother Eve:
Poison its core, though fair its rind.
Yet so delicious is its taste,

I cannot from the bait abstain,
But to th' enchanting pleasure haste,
Though I were sure 'twould end in pain

CHASTE FLORIMEL.

"No-I'll endure ten thousand deaths,
Ere any farther I'll comply;

Oh, sir! no man on Earth that breathes,
Had ever yet his hand so high!

"Oh! take your sword, and pierce my heart,
Undaunted see me meet the wound;
Oh! will you act a Tarquin's part?
A second Lucrece you have found."
Thus to the pressing Corydon,
Poor Florimel, unhappy maid!
Fearing by love to he undone,

In broken dying accents said.
Delia, who held the conscious door,
Inspir'd by truth and brandy, smil'd
Knowing that, sixteen months before,
Our Lucrece had her second child.

R

"And, hark ye, madam !" cry'd the bawd; "None of your flights, your high-rope dodging; Be civil here, or march abroad;

Oblige the squire, or quit the lodging."
"Oh! have I"-Florimel went on-
"Have I then lost my Delia's aid?
Where shall forsaken Virtue run,

If by her friend she is betray'd?
"Oh! curse on empty Friendship's name!
Lord, what is all our future view!
Then, dear destroyer of my fame,
Let my last succour be to you!
"From Delia's rage, and Fortune's frown,
A wretched love-sick maid deliver;
Oh! tip me but another crown,

Dear sir, and make me yours for ever."

UPON HONOUR.

A FRAGMENT.

HONOUR, I say, or honest fame,

I mean the substance, not the name;
(Not that light heap of taudry wares,
Of ermine, coronets, and stars,
Which often is by merit sought,
By gold and flattery oftener bought;
The shade, for which Ambition looks
In Selden's or in Ashmore's' books)
But the true glory, which proceeds,
Reflected bright, from honest deeds,
Which we in our own breast perceive,
And kings can neither take nor give.

BURYING THE DUKE of BUCKINGHAM, 1720.

"I HAVE no hopes," the duke he says, and dies; "In sure and certain hopes," the prelate cries; Of these two learned peers I pr'ythee, say, man, Who is the lying knave, the priest, or layman? The duke he stands an infidel confest, "He's our dear brother" quoth the lordly priest. The duke, though knave, still "brother dear," he cries;

And who can say the reverend prelate lies?

THE OLD GENTRY.

Kingsale! eight hundred years have roll'd
Since thy forefathers held the plow ;
When this in story shall be told,
Add, that my kindred do so now.

The man who by his labour gets

His bread, in independent state, Who never begs, and seldom eats, Himself can fix or change his fate.

THE INSATIABLE PRIEST.

LUKE Preachill admires what we laymen can mean, That thus by our profit and pleasure are sway'd: He has but three livings, and would be a dean;

CUPID'S PROMISE,

A FRENCH SONG PARAPHRASED.

near:

And, to take off his thoughts from the things of this Earth,

He can be content with two thousand a year.

"Now how shall I do with my love and my pride, Dear Dick', give me counsel, if friendship has [reply'd, any;" "Pry'thee purge, or let blood!" surly Richard "And forget the coquette in the arms of your Nanny'."

While I pleaded with passion how much I deserv'd, For the pains and the torments of more than a year:

She look'd in an almanack, whence she observ'd,
That it wanted a fortnight to Bart'l'mew fair.
My Cowley and Waller how vainly I quote,
While my negligent judge only hears with her
eye!

In a long flaxen wig, and embroider'd new coat,
Her spark, saying nothing, talks better than I.

The other day mov'd with my lyre, In flattering accents spoke his joy,

And utter'd thus his fond desire. "Oh! raise thy voice! one song I ask ; Touch then thy harmonious string: To Thyrsis easy is the task,

Who can so sweetly play and sing. "Two kisses from my mother dear, Thyrsis, thy due reward shall be; None, none, like beauty's queen is fair,

Paris has vouch'd this truth for me.

I straight reply'd, "Thou know'st alone That brightest Chloe rules my breast: I'll sing thee two instead of one,

If thou'lt be kind, and make me blest. "One kiss from Chloe's lips, no more, I crave:" he promis'd me success ; I play'd with all my skill and power, My glowing passion to express. But, oh! my Chloe, beauteous maid! Wilt thou the wish'd reward bestow?

Wilt thou make good what Love has said, And, by thy grant, his power show?

TO THE EARL OF OXFORD. WRITTEN EXTEMPORE IN LADY OXFORD'S STUDY, 1717.

PEN, ink, and wax, and paper, send
To the kind wife, the lovely friend:
Smiling bid her freely write
What her happy thoughts indite;
Of virtue, goodness, peace, and love,
Thoughts which angels may approve.

UPON PLAYING AT OMBRE
WITH TWO LADIES.

I Now that Fortune long has wanted sight,
And therefore pardon'd when she did not right:

"Mr. Shelton.

1 Mrs. Durham.

A LETTER

TO THE HONOURABLE LADY MARGARET CAVENDISH
HARLEY, WHEN A CHILD.

My noble, lovely, little Peggy,
Let this my first epistle beg you,
At dawn of morn, and close of even,
To lift your heart and hands to Heaven.