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Whoe'er their Names can in thy Nun:bers show,
S O N G.
N vain you tell your parting Lover,
You with fair Winds may waft hini over
Be gentle, and in Pity choose
WHat art thou Spleen, which every thing doft apa?
Who never yet thy hidden Cause cou'd find,
Still varying thy perplexing Formi,
A Calm of stupid Discontent,
Trembling fometimes thou dost appear, ;
Diffolv'd into a Panick Fear :
Thy gloomy Terrors round the silent Bed,
Or when the Midnight Hour is told,
Thy fond Delusions cheat the Eyes;
Before 'em antick Spectres dance,
And airy Phantoms arise,
Before Philippi's latest Field,
Was vanquish'd by the Spleen.
Fallly the mortal Part we blanie
Which till the first degrading Sin,
Still with the other did comply,
Nor whilst in his own Heaven he dwelt,
And all united Odours felt.
A Aufh'd unhandsome Colour place.
We faint beneath the Aromatick Pain,
'Till fome offensive Scent thy Powers appease, And Pleasure we resign for shortand nauseous Ease.
3. New are thy Motions and thy Dress, In every one thou dost poffess:
Here some attentive fecret Friend
Thy false Suggestions must attend, Thy whisper'd Griefs, thy fancy:d Sorrows hear, Breath'd in a Sigh, and witness’d by a Téar.
Whilst in the light and vulgar Croud
Thy Slaves more clamorous and loud,
Which from o'erheated Pallions rise
He the disputed Point must yield, Something resign of the contested Field; Till Lordly Man, born to Imperial fway,
Compounds for Peace to make his Right away, And Woman arm’d with Spleen does servilely obey, The Fool to invitate the Wits,
Complains of thy pretended Fits; And dulness born with him, wou'd lay
Upon thy accidential fway;
Into the ablest Heads to come,
Impatient of unequal Sense,
(confin'd. In me,
alas ! thou dost too much prevail, I feel thy Force, while I against thee rail; I feel my Verse decay, and my cranipt Numbers Through thy black Jaundice I all Objects see,
As dark and terrible as thee, My Lines decry'd, and my Employment thought An useless Folly, or prefumptuous Fault:
While in the Muses Paths I stray, While in their Groves, and by their Springs, My Hand delights to trace uncommon Things, And deviates from the known and common way.
Nor will in fading Silks compose
Faintly th' inimitable Rose; Fill up an ill-drawn Bird, or paint on Glass The Sovereign's blurra and undistinguish'd Face, The threatning Angel, and the speaking Afs.
The sullen Husband's feign’d Excuse,
As to the Glass he still repairs,
Pretends but to remove thy Cares;
Wou'd in Variety be fair
From Light, impertinent, and vain,
The thoughtful and composed Face
Allows the Fop more Liberty to gaze; Who gently for the tender Cause enquires :
The Cause indeed is a defect in Sense; But still the Spleen’s alledg’d, and still the dull
Which do the weaker Sort engage;
(Charms. By thee, Religion, all we know That should enlighten her below,
Is veil'd in darkness, and perplex'd With
anxious Doubts, with endless Scruples vex'd, And some Restraint imply'd from each perverted