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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.

TO FORTUNE.

WHILST I in prison or in court look down,
Nor beg thy favour, nor deserve thy frown,
In vain, malicious Fortune, hast thou try'd,
By taking from my state, to quell my pride:
Insulting girl thy present rage abate,
And, would'st thou have me humbled, make me
great.

NONPAREIL.

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 caunot from the bait abstain,
But to th' enchanting pleasure haste,
Though I were sure 'twould end in pain,

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.

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.

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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

UPON HONOUR.

"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."

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.

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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.

But yet till then it never did appear,
That, as she wanted eyes, she could not hear;
I begg'd that she would give me leave to lose,
A thing she does not commonly refuse!
Two matadores are out against my game,
Yet still I play, and still my luck's the same:
Unconquer'd in three suits it does remain,
Whereas I only ask in one to gain;

Yet she, still contradicting, gifts imparts,
And gives success in every suit-but hearts.

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;
His wife dy'd this year, he has marry'd his maid
To suppress all his carnal desires in their birth,
At all hours a lusty young hussy is near:
And, to take off his thoughts from the things of this
Earth,

He can be content with two thousand a year.

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CUPID'S PROMISE,

A FRENCH SONG PARAPHRASED

SOFT Cupid, wanton, amorous boy,
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 make good what Love has said,
Wilt thou the wish'd reward bestow?
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.

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A LETTER

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

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

In double beauty say your prayer:
Our Father first.-then Notre Pere:
And, dearest child, along the day,
In every thing you do and say,
Obey and please my lord and lady,
So God shall love, and angels aid ye.
If to these precepts you attend,
No second letter need I send,
And so I rest your constant friend.

LINES WRITTEN UNDER THE PRINT OF TOM BRITTON THE SMALL-COAL-MAN,

PAINTED BY MR. WOOLASTON.

THOUGH doom'd to small-coal, yet to arts ally'd,
Rich without wealth, and famous without pride;
Music's best patron, judge of books and men,
Belov'd and honour'd by Apollo's train:
In Greece or Rome sure never did appear
So bright a genius, in so dark a sphere:
More of the man had artfully been sav'd,
Had Kneller painted, and had Vertue grav'd.

TRUTH TOLD AT LAST.

SAYS Pontius in rage, contradicting his wife, "You never yet told me one truth in your life." Vext Pontia no way could this thesis allow, "You're a cuckold," says she, "do I tell you truth now?"

This stone had still remain'd unmark'd,
I still writ prose, True still have bark'd.
But envious Fate has claim'd its due:
Here lies the mortal part of True:
His deathless virtues must survive,
To better us that are alive.

His prudence and his wit were seen
In that, from Mary's grace and mien,
He own'd the power, and lov'd the queen.
By long obedience he confest

That serving her was to be blest-
Ye murmurers, let True evince
!
That men are beasts, and dogs have sense
His faith and truth all Whitehall knows,
He ne'er could fawn or flatter those
Whom he believ'd were Mary's foes:
Ne'er skulk'd from whence his sovereign led him,
Or snarl'd against the hand that fed him.-
Read this ye statesmen now in favour,

And mend your own, by True's behaviour!

EPIGRAM.

To Richmond and Peterburgh, Matt gave his [betters.

letters, And thought they were safe in the hands of his How happen'd it then that the packets were lost? These were Knights of the Garter, not Knights of

the Post.

WRITTEN IN

LADY HOWE'S OVID'S EPISTLES. HOWEVER high, however cold, the fair, However great the dying lover's care, Ovid, kind author, found him some relief, Rang'd his unruly sighs, and set his grief: Taught him what accents had the power to move, And always gain'd him pity, sometimes love. But, oh! what pangs torment the destin'd heart, That feels the wound, yet dares not show the dart; What ease could Ovid to his sorrows give, Who must not speak, and therefore cannot live?

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THE VICEROY,

A BALLAD.

TO THE TUNE OF, LADY ISABELLA'S TRAGEDY.

Or Nero, tyrant, petty king2,

Who heretofore did reign
In fam'd Hibernia, I will sing,
And in a ditty plain.

He hated was by rich and poor,
For reasons you shall hear;
So ill he exercis'd his power,

That he himself did fear.

Full proud and arrogant was he,
And covetous withal;
The guilty he would still set free,

But guiltless men enthral.

He, with a haughty impious nod,
Would curse and dogmatize;
Not fearing either man or God:
Goid he did idolize.

A patriot' of high degree,

Who could no longer bear
This upstart Viceroy's tyranny,
Against him did declare.

And, arm'd with truth, impeach'd the Don
Of his enormous crimes,
Which I'll unfold to you anon,

In low, but faithful rhymes.

2 Lord Coningsby, one of the lords justices of Ireland.

The earl of Bellamont impeached Coningsby.

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You'll find them written there. Attend, and justly I'll recite

His treasons to you all,

The heads set in their native light
(And sigh poor Gaphny's fall).
That traitorously he did abuse
The power in him repos'd,
And wickedly the same did use,
On all mankind impos'd.
That he, contrary to all law,

An oath did frame and make,
Comp-lling the militia

Th' illegal oath to take.
Free-quarters for the army too
He did exact and force

On Protestants; his love to show,
Than Papist us'd them worse.
On all provisions destin'd for
The camp at Limerick,

He laid a tax full hard and sore,
Though many men were sick.

The sutlers too he did ordain

For licences should pay,
Which they refus'd with just disdain,
And fled the camp away.

By which provisions were so scant,
That hundreds there did die ;
The soldiers food and drink did want,
Nor famine could they fly.

He so much lov'd his private gain,
He could not hear or see;

They might or die, or might complain,
Without relief pardie.

That, above and against all right,
By word of mouth did he,
In council sitting, hellish spite!
The farmer's fate decree:
That he, O Cic!! without trial,
Straightway should hanged be;
Though then the courts were open all,
Yet Nero judge would be.

No sooner said, but it was done,
The bourreau did his worst;
Gaphny, alas! is dead and gone,
And left his judge accurst.

In this concise despotic way
Unhappy Gaphny fell,

Which did all honest men affray,
As truly it might well.

Full two good hundred pounds a year,

This poor man's real estate,

He settled on his favourite dear,
And Culliford can say't.

Besides, he gave five hundred pound

To Fielding, his own scribe,

Who was his bal; one friend he found, He ow'd him to the bribe.

*Journal, Sabbati, 16 die Decemb.is, 1693.

But for this horrid murder vile

None did him prosecute;

His old friend help'd him o'er the stile:
With Satan who dispute !

With France, fair England's mortal foe,
A trade he carry'd on ;

Had any other don't, I trow,
To Tripos he had gone.

That he did likewise traitorously,
To bring his ends to bear,
Enrich himself most knavishly;
O thief without compare!

Vast quantitics of stores did he
Embezzle and purloin;

Of the king's stores he kept a key,
Converting them to coin.

The forfeited estates also,

Both real and personal,
Did with the stores together go,
Fierce Cerberus swallow'd all.

Mean while the soldiers sigh'd and sobb'd,
For not one sous had they;

His excellence had each man fobb'd,
For he had sunk their pay.

Nero, without the least disguise,
The Papists, at all times,
Still favour'd, and their robberies
Look'd on as trivial crimes.

The Protestants, whom they did rob
During his government,

Were fore'd with patience, like good Job,
To rest themselves content.

For he did basely them refuse

All legal remedy;

The Romans still he well did use,
Still screen'd their roguery.
Succinctly thus to you I've told
How this Viceroy did reign;
And other truths I shall unfold,
For truth is always plain.

The best of queens he hath revil'd,
Before and since her death;
He, cruel and ungrateful, sinil'd
When she resign'd her breath.

forgetful of the favours kind

She had on him bestow'd,
Like Lucifer his rancorous mind,
He lov'd nor her nor God.

But listen, Nero, lend thine cars,
As still thou hast them on;
Hear what Britannia says, with ears,
Of Anna dead and gone.

"Oh! sacred be her mentory,

For ever dear her name!
There never was, nor e'er can be,
A brighter, juster dame,

"Blest be my sons, andi eke all those

Who on her praises dwell!

She conquer'd Britain's fiercest foes, She did all quecus excel.

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