But when our Souls their Force dilate,
And Thoughts grow up to Wit's Estate;
In Verse or Prose, We write or chat,
Not Six-Pence Matter upon what.

'Tis not how well an Author says;
But 'tis how much, that gathers Praise.
TONSON, who is himself a Wit,
Counts Writers Merits by the Sheet.
Thus each should down with all he thinks,
As Boys eat Bread, to fill up Chinks.

Kind Sir, I should be glad to see You;
I hope Y' are well; so God be wi' You;
Was all I thought at first to write :
But Things, since then, are alter'd quite;
Fancies flow in, and Muse flies high:
So God knows when my Clack will lye :
I must, Sir, prattle on, as afore,
And beg your Pardon yet this half Hour.

So at pure Barn of loud NON-CON,
Where with my Granam I have gone,
When LOBB had sifted all his Text,
And I well hop'd the Pudding next;
Now to apply, has plagu'd me more,
Than all his Villain Cant before.

For your Religion, first, of Her
Your Friends do sav'ry Things aver:
They say, She's honest, as your Claret,
Not sowr'd with Cant, nor stum'd with Merit :
Your Chamber is the sole Retreat

Of Chaplains ev'ry SUNDAY Night:
Of Grace, no doubt, a certain Sign,

When Lay-Man herds with Man Divine:
For if their Fame be justly great,
Who would no Popish Nuncio treat;
That His is greater, We must grant,
Who will treat Nuncio's Protestant.
One single Positive weighs more,
You know, than Negatives a Score.

In Politicks, I hear, You're stanch,
Directly bent against the FRENCH;
Deny to have your free-born Toe
Dragoon'd into a Wooden Shoe:
Are in no Plots; but fairly drive at
The Publick Welfare in your Private:
And will, for ENGLAND'S Glory, try
Turks, Jews, and Jesuits to defy,
And keep your Places 'till You die.

For me, whom wand'ring Fortune threw
From what I lov'd, the Town and You;
Let me just tell You how my Time is
Past in a Country-Life.- -Imprimis,
As soon as PHOEBUS' Rays inspect us,
First, Sir, I read; and then I Breakfast;
So on, 'till foresaid God does set,
I sometimes Study, sometimes Eat.
Thus, of your Heroes and brave Boys,
With whom old HOMER makes such Noise,
The greatest Actions I can find,

Are, that They did their Work, and din'd.

The Books of which I'm chiefly fond,
Are such, as You have whilom con'd;
That treat of CHINA'S Civil Law,
And Subjects Rights in GOLCONDA ;

Of Highway-Elephants at CEYLAN,

That rob in Clans, like Men o' th' HIGHLAND ;

Of Apes that storm, or keep a Town,

As well almost, as Count LAUZUN;

Of Unicorns and Alligators,

Elks, Mermaids, Mummies, Witches, Satyrs,

And twenty other stranger Matters;

Which, tho' they're Things I've no Concern in,

Make all our Grooms admire my Learning.

Criticks I read on other Men,

And Hypers upon Them again;
From whose Remarks I give Opinion
On twenty Books, yet ne'er look in One.

Then all your Wits, that flear and sham,
Down from DON QUIXOTE to TOM TRAM;
From whom I Jests and Punns purloin,
And slily put 'em off for Mine:

Fond to be thought a Country Wit:

The rest,

-when Fate and You think fit.

Sometimes I climb my Mare, and kick her
To bottl'd Ale, and neighb'ring Vicar;
Sometimes at STAMFORD take a Quart,
'Squire SHEPHARD's Health-With all my Heart.
Thus, without much Delight, or Grief,

I fool away an idle Life;

'Till SHADWELL from the Town retires
(Choak'd up with Fame and Sea-coal Fires)
To bless the Wood with peaceful Lyric;
Then hey for Praise and Panegyric,
Justice restor'd, and Nations freed,

And Wreaths round WILLIAM's glorious Head.

SEE

TO THE

COUNTESS of DORSET.

Written in her MILTON.

By Mr. BRADBURY.

EE here, how bright the first-born Virgin shone ; And how the first fond Lover was undone. Such charming Words our beauteous Mother spoke, As MILTON wrote; and such as Your's Her Look. Your's the best Copy of th' Original Face, Whose Beauty was to furnish all the Race: Such Chains no Author could escape but He: There's no Way to be safe, but not to See.

H

TO THE

LADY DURSLEY

On the same Subject.

ERE reading how fond ADAM was betray'd;

And how by Sin EvE's blasted Charms decay'd;

Our common Loss unjustly You complain;

So small that Part of it, which You sustain.

You still, fair Mother, in your Offspring trace The Stock of Beauty destin'd for the Race: Kind Nature, forming Them, the Pattern took From Heav'n's first Work, and EVE's Original Look.

You, happy Saint, the Serpent's Pow'r controul: Scarce any actual Guilt defiles your Soul: And Hell does o'er that Mind vain Triumph boast, Which gains a Heav'n, for Earthly EDEN lost.

With Virtue strong as Your's had EVE been arm'd, In vain the Fruit had blush'd, or Serpent charm'd: Nor had our Bliss by Penitence been bought : Nor had frail ADAM fall'n, nor MILTON wrote.

ΤΟ

My LORD BUCKHURST,

Very Young,

Playing with a CAT.

HE am'rous Youth, whose tender Breast

THE Was by his darling Cat possest,

Obtain'd of VENUS his Desire,
Howe'er irregular his Fire:

Nature the Pow'r of Love obey'd:
The Cat became a blushing Maid;
And, on the happy Change, the Boy
Imploy'd his Wonder and his Joy.

Take care, O beauteous Child, take care,
Lest Thou prefer so rash a Pray'r :
Nor vainly hope, the Queen of Love
Will e'er thy Fav'rite's Charms improve.
O quickly from her Shrine retreat;

Or tremble for thy Darling's Fate.

The Queen of Love, who soon will see

Her own ADONIS live in Thee,

Will lightly her first Loss deplore ;

Will easily forgive the Boar:

Her Eyes with Tears no more will flow:
With jealous Rage her Breast will glow:
And on her tabby Rival's Face

She deep will mark her new Disgrace.