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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.
PHILLIs, you boast of perfect health in vain,
And laugh at those who of their ills complain:
That with a frequent fever Chloe burns,
And Stella's plumpness into dropsy turns !
O Phillis, while the patients are nineteen,
Little, alas ! are their distempers seen.
But thou, for all thy seeming health, art ill,
Beyond thy lover's hopes, or Blackmore's skill;
No lenitives can thy disease assuage,
I tell thee, ’tis incurable—'tis age.
WHILst I in prison or in court look down,
Norbeg thy favour, nor deserve thy frown,
In vain, malicious fortune, hast thou tried,
By taking from my state, to quell my pride:
Insulting girl! thy present rage abate;
And, wouldst thou have me humbled, make me great.
LET others from the town retire,
And in the fields 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.
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 highl
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 be 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.
And, hark ye! madam, cried the bawd,
TNone 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 1
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.
WHEN Willis' of Ephraim heard Rochester”
Thus Bentley said to him, I prithee, dear
How lik'st thou this sermon?'tis out of my reach,
His is one way, said Willis, and ours is another:
I care not for carping; but this I can tell,
We preach very sadly, if he preaches well.
EPIGRAM ON BISHOP ATTERBURY.
MEEK Francis lies here, friend: without stop or stay,
As you value your peace, make the best of your way.
Though at present arrested by death's caitiff paw,
If he stirs, he may still have recourse to the law.
And in the King's Bench should a verdict be found,
That by livery and seisin his grave is his ground,
He will claim to himself what is strictly his due,
And an action of trespass will straightway ensue,
That you without right on his premises tread,
On a simple surmise that the owner is dead.