For me, whom wandring Fortune threw Are, that they did their Work, and Din'd. The Books of which I'm chiefly fond, : That rob in Clans, like Men o' th' HIGHLAND; As well almost, as Count LA UZUN; Elks, Mermaids, Mummies, Witches, Satyrs, And twenty other stranger Matters; Which, tho' they're Things I've no Concern in, Criticks I read on other Men, And Hypers upon Them again ; F From From whose Remarks I give Opinion Then all your Wits, that flear and fham, Fond to be thought a Country Wit: The reft,when Fate and You think fit. Sometimes I climb my Mare, and kick her Thus, without much Delight, or Grief, 'Till SHADWELL from the Town retires, Justice restor'd, and Nations freed, And Wreaths round WILLIAM's glorious Head. TO THE COUNTESS of DORSE T Written in her MILTON. By Mr. BRADBURY. EE here how bright the first-born Virgin fhone, SEE And how the first fond Lover was undone. Such charming Words our beauteous Mother spoke, Such Chains no Author cou'd escape but He; LADY TO THE 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; You ftill, fair Mother, in your Offspring trace The Stock of Beauty deftin'd for the Race: Kind Kind Nature, forming Them, the Pattern took You, happy Saint, the Serpent's Pow'r controul: And Hell does o'er that Mind vain Triumph boast, With Virtue ftrong as Yours had E VE been arm'd, In vain the Fruit had blufh'd, or Serpent charm'd: Nor had our Blifs by Penitence been bought; Nor had frail ADAM fall'n, nor MILTON wrote. то My LORD BUCKHURST, Very Young, Playing with a CAT. HE am'rous Youth, whose tender Breast TH Was by his darling Cat poffeft, Obtain'd of VENUS his Defire, Nature the Pow'r of Love obey'd: Take Take care, O beauteous Child, take care, Nor vainly hope, the Queen of Love The Queen of Love, who foon will fee Will lightly her firft Lofs deplore; Her Eyes with Tears no more will flow; An O D E. I. WHILE from our Looks, fair Nymph, You guess The fecret Paffions of our Mind; My heavy Eyes, You say, 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, |