Your art is perfect here; your numbers do,
More than our books, make the rude atheist know
That there's a Heaven by what he hears below.

As in some piece, while Luke his skill exprest,
A cunning angel came, and drew the rest:
So when you play, some godhead does impart
Harmonious ail, divinity helps art;
Some cherub finishes what you begun,
And to a miracle improves a tune.

To burning Rome, when frantic Nero play'd,
Viewing that face, no more he had survey'd
The raging flames; but, struck with strange sur-
prise,

Confess'd them less than those of Anna's eyes:
But, had he heard thy lute, he soon had found
His rage eluded, and his crime atou'd :
Thine, like Amphion's hand, had wak'd the stone,
And from destruction call'd the rising town:
Malice to Music had been forc'd to yield;
Nor could he burn so fast, as thou could'st build.

ON A

PICTURE OF SENECA DYING IN A BATH; BY JORDAIN:

AT THE EARL OF EXETER'S, AT BURLEIGH-HOUSE.
WHILE cruel Nero only drains

The moral Spaniard's ebbing veins,
By study worn, and slack with age,
How dull, how thoughtless, is his rage!
Heighten'd revenge would he have took,
He should have burnt his tutor's book;
And long have reign'd supreme in vice:
One nobler wretch can only rise;
'Tis he whose fury shall deface
The Stoic's image in this piece;
For while unhurt, divine Jordain,
Thy work and Seneca's remain,
He still has body, still has soul,
And lives and speaks, restor❜d and whole.

Kindness itself too weak a charm will prove
To raise the feeble fires of aged love.

Forc'd compliments, and formal bows,
Will show thee just above neglect:
The heat with which thy lover glows,
Will settle into cold respect :

A talking dull Platonic I shall turn:
Learn to be civil, when I cease to burn.
Then shun the ill, and know, my dear,
Kindness and constancy will prove
The only pillars, fit to bear

So vast a weight as that of love.
If thou canst wish to make my flames endure,
Thine must be very fierce, and very pure.

Haste, Celia, haste, while youth invites,
Obey kind Cupid's present voice;
Fill every sense with soft delights,

And give thy soul a loose to joys:
Let millions of repeated blisses prove
That thou all kindness art, and I all love.
Be mine, and only mine; take care
Thy looks, thy thoughts, thy dreams, to guide
To me alone; nor come so far,

As liking any youth beside:

What men e'er court thee, fly them, and believe They're serpents all, and thou the tempted Eve.

TO FLEETWOOD SHEPHARD, ES2.
WHEN crowding folks, with strange ill faces,
Were making legs, and begging places,
And some with patents, some with merit,
Tir'd out my good lord Dorset's spirit:
Sneaking I stood amongst the crew,
Desiring much to speak with you.

I waited while the clock struck thrice,
And footman brought out fifty lies;
Till, patience vext, and legs grown weary,
I thought it was in vain to tarry:
But did opine it might be better
By penny-post to send a letter;
Now, if you miss of this epistle,
I'm baulk'd again, and may go whistle.
My business, sir, you'll quickly guess,
Is to desire some little place;
And fair pretensions I have for 't,
Much need, and very small desert.
Whene'er I writ to you, I wanted;
I always begg'd, you always granted.
Now, as you took me up when little,
Gave me my learning and my vittle;
Ask'd for me, from my lord, things fitting,
Kind as I'ad been your own begetting;
Confirm what formerly you've given,
Nor leave me now at six and seven,
As Sunderland has left Mun Stephen.
No family, that takes a whelp
When first he laps, and scarce can yelp,

Neglects or turns him out of gate
When he's grown up to dog's estate:
Nor parish, if they once adopt
The spurious brats by strollers dropt,
Leave them, when grown up lusty fellows,
To the wide world, that is, the gallows:
No, thank them for their love, that's worse,
Than if they'd throttled them at nurse.

My uncle, rest his soul! when living,
Might have contriv'd me ways of thriving;
Taught me with cider to replenish
My vats, or ebbing tide of Rhenish.
So when for hock I drew prickt white-wine,
Swear 't had the flavour, and was right wine.
Or sent me with ten pounds to Furni-
val's inn, to some good rogue-attorney;
Where now, by forging deeds, and cheating,
I'ad found some handsome ways of g. tting.
All this you made me quit, to follow
That sneaking whey-fac'd god Apollo;
Sent me among a fiddling crew
Of folks, I'ad never seen nor knew,
Calliope, and God knows who.

To add no more invectives to it,

You spoil'd the youth, to make a poet.
In common justice, sir, there's no man
That makes the whore, but keeps the woman.
Among all honest christian people,
Whoe'er breaks limbs, maintains the cripple.
The sum of all I have to say,

Is, that you'd put me in some way;
And your petitioner shall pray--

There's one thing more I had almost slipt,
But that may do as well in postscript:
My friend Charles Montague's preferr'd;
Nor would I have it long observ'd,

That one mouse eats, while t'other's starv'd,

As

ANOTHER EPISTLE TO THE SAME.

SIR,

Then take it, sir, as it was writ, To pay respect, and not shew wit: Nor look askew at what it saith; There's no petition in it-'faith.

Here some would scratch their heads, and try
What they should write, and how, and why;
But, I conceive, such folks are quite in
Mistakes, in theory of writing.

If once for principle 'tis laid,
That thought is trouble to the head;

I argue thus: the world agrees
That he writes well, who writes with ease:
Then he, by sequel logical,

Writes best, who never thinks at all.

Verse comes from Heaven, like inward light; Mere human pains can ne'er come by 't: The god, not we, the poem makes ; We only tell folks what he speaks. Hence, when anatomists discourse, How like brutes' organs are to ours; They grant, if higher powers think fit, A bear might soon be made a wit; And that, for any thing in nature, Pigs might squeak love-odes, dogs bark satire. Memnon, though stone, was counted vocal; But 'twas the god, meanwhile, that spoke all. Rome oft has heard a cross haranguing, With prompting priest behind the hanging: The wooden head resolv'd the question; While you and Pettis help'd the jest on. Your crabbed that read Lucretius, rogues, Are against gods, you know; and teach us, The gods make not the poet; but The thesis, vice-versa put, Should Hebrew-wise be understood; And means, the poet makes the god.

Egyptian gardeners thus are said to
Have set the leeks they after pray'd to:
And Romish bakers praise the deity
They chipp'd while yet in its paneity.

That when you poets swear and cry,
"The god inspires! I rave, I die!"
If inward wind does truly swell ye,
"I must be the colic in your belly:
That writing is but just like dice,
And lucky mains make people wise:
That jumbled words, if Fortune throw 'em,
Shall, well as Dryden, form a poem ;
Or make a speech, correct and witty,
As you know who-at the committee.

So atoms dancing round the centre,
They urge, made all things at a venture.
But, granting matters should be spoke
By method, rather than by luck;
This may confine their younger styles,
Whom Dryden pedagogues at Will's;
But never could be meant to tye
Authentic wits, like you and I:
For as young children, who are tied in
Go-carts, to keep their steps from sliding;
When members knit, and legs grow stronger,
Make use of such machine no longer;
But leap pro libitu, and scout
On horse call'd hobby, or without;
So when at school we first declaim,
Old Busby walks us in a theme,
Whose props support our infant vein,
And help the rickets in the brain :
But, when our souls their force dilate,
And thoughts grow up to wit's estate,

In verse or prose, we write or chat, Not sixpence 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 ach 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 lie.
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 savoury things aver:
They say, she's honest as your claret,

Not sour'd with cant, nor stumm'd with merit;
Your chamber is the sole retreat
Of chaplains every Sunday night:
Of grace, no doubt, a certain sign,
When layman 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 nuncios protestant.
One single positive weighs more,
You know, than negatives a score.

In politics, 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 public 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 wandering 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 Phœbus' 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 coun'd;
That treat of China's civil law,
And subjects' right 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 Lauzuu;

Of unicorns and alligators,

Elks, mermaids, mummies, witches, satyrs,
And twenty other stranger matters;
Which, though they're things I've no concern in,
Make all our grooms admire my learning.

Critics I read on other men, And hypers upon them again; From whose remarks I give opinion On twenty books, yet ne'er look in oné. Then all your wits, that fleer and sham, Down from Don Quixote to Tom Tram; From whom I jests and puns purloin, And slily put them 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 bottled ale, and neighbouring 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
(Chok'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.

TO THE COUNTESS OF DORSET.

WRITTEN IN HER MILTON.

BY MR. BRADBURY.

SEE 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 yours her look.
Yours, 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.

TO THE LADY DURSLEY.

ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

HERE 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 Heaven's first work, and Eve's original look.
You, happy saint, the serpent's power control :*
Scarce any actual guilt defiles your soul:
And Hell does o'er that mind vain triumph boast,
Which gains a Heaven, for earthly Eden lost.

With virtue strong as yours 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.

Obtain'd of Venus his desire,
Howe'er irregular his fire:
Nature the power of love obey'd,
The cat became a blushing maid;
And, on the happy change, the boy
Employ'd his wonder and his joy.

Take care, O beauteous child, take care,
Lest thou prefer so rash a prayer:
Nor vainly hope, the queen of love
Will e'er thy favourite's charms improve.
O quickly from her shrine retreat;
Or tremble for thy darling's fate.

The queen of love, who soon will sce
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.

AN ODE.

WHILE from our looks, fair nymph, you guess

The secret passions of our mind; My heavy eyes, you say, confess

A heart to love and grief inclin'd.

There needs, alas! but little art,

To have this fatal secret found; With the same ease you threw the dart, 'Tis certain you may show the wound,

How can I see you, and not love,

While you as opening east are fair?
While cold as northern blasts you prove,
How can I love, and not despair?
The wretch in double fetters bound
Your potent mercy may release:
Soon, if my love but once were crown'd,
Fair prophetess, my grief would cease.

A SONG

Is vain you tell your parting lover,
You wish fair winds may waft him over.
Alas! what winds can happy prove,
That bear me far from what I love?
Alas! what dangers on the main
Can equal those that I sustain,
From slighted vows, and cold disdain ?

Be gentle, and in pity choose
To wish the wildest tempests loose:
That, thrown again upon the coast
Where first my shipwreck'd heart was lost,
I may once more repeat my pain;
Once more in dying notes complain
Of slighted vows, and cold disdain.

THE DESPAIRING SHEPHERD.

ALEXIS shunn'd his fellow-swains,
Their rural sports, and jocund strains :

(Heaven guard us all from Cupid's bow!)
He lost his crook, he left his flocks;
And, wandering through the lonely rocks,
He nourish'd endless woc.

The nymphs and shepherds round him came:
His grief some pity, others blame;'
The fatal cause all kindly seck:
He mingled his concern with theirs;
He gave them back their friendly tears;
He sigh'd, but would not speak.
Clorinda came amongst the rest;
And she too kind concern exprest,

And ask'd the reason of his woe:
She ask'd, but with an air and mien,
That made it easily foreseen,

She fear'd too much to know.

The shepherd rais'd his mournful head; "And will you pardon me," he said,

"While I the cruel truth reveal? Which nothing from my breast should tear; Which never should offend your ear,

But that you bid me tell.

""Tis thus Irove, 'tis thus complain, Since you appear'd upon the plain ;

You are the cause of all my care; Your eyes ten thousand dangers dart; Ten thousand torments vex my heart: I love, and I despair."

"Too much, Alexis, I have heard: 'Tis what I thought; 'tis what I fear'd: And yet I pardon you," she cried: "But you shall promise ne'er again To breathe your vows, or speak your pain :" He bow'd, obcy'd, and died.

TO THE HON, CHARLES MONTAGUE, ES2.

AFTERWARDS EARL OF HALIFAX,

HOWE'ER, 'tis well, that while mankind
Through fate's perverse meander errs,
He can imagin'd pleasures find,

To combat against real cares.
Fancies and notions he pursues,

Which ne'er had being but in thought:
Each, like the Grecian artist, woos
The image he himself has wrought.

Against experience he believes;

He argues against demonstration;
Pleas'd when his reason he deceives ;
And sets his judgment by his passion.
The hoary fool, who many days

Has struggled with continued sorrow,
Renews his hope, and blindly lays
The desperate bett upon to morrow.
To morrow comes; 'tis noon, 'tis night;
This day like all the former fiies:
Yet on he runs, to seek delight
To morrow, till to night he dies.

Our hopes, like towering falcons, aim
At objects in an airy height:

The little pleasure of the game
Is from afar to view the flight.

VARIATIONS IN A COPY, PRINTED 1692. OUR hopes, like towering falcons aim At objects in an airy height; But all the pleasure of the game Is afar off to view the flight. The worthless prey but only shews The joy consisted in the strife; Whate'er we take, as soon we lose In Homer's riddle and in life. So, whilst in feverish sleeps we think We taste what waking we desire, The dream is better than the drink, Which only feeds the sickly fire. To the mind's eye things well appear, At distance through an artful glass; Bring but the flattering objects near, They're all a senseless gloomy mass. Seeing aright, we see our woes:

Then what avails it to have eyes ? From ignorance our comfort flows, The only wretched are the wise. We wearied should lie down in death, This cheat of life would take no more; If you thought fame but stinking breath, And Phyllis but a perjur'd whore.

AD VIRUM DOCTISSIMUM DOMINUM
SAMUELEM SHAW,

CUM THESES DE ICTERO PRO GRADU DOCTORIS
DEFENDERET, 4 JUNII, 1692.

PBE potens sævis morbis vel lædere gentes,
Lesas solerti vel relevare maņu,
Aspice tu decus hoc nostrum, placidusque fatere
Indomitus quantum prosit in arte labor :
Non icterum posthac pestemve minaberis orbi,
Fortius hic juvenis dum medicamen habet :
Mitte dehinc iras, et nato carmina dona;
Neglectum telum dejice, sume lyram.

TRANSLATION.

BY MR. COOKE.

O! PHOEBUS, deity, whose powerful hand Can spread diseases through the joyful land,

Alike all-powerful to relieve the pain,
And bid the groaning nations smile again;
When this our pride you see, confess you find
In him what art can do with labour join'd:
No more the world thy direful threats shall fear,
While he, the youth, our remedy, is near;
Suppress thy rage; with verse thy son inspire,
The dart neglected, to assume the lyre.

ON THE TAKING OF NAMUR.

THE town which Louis bought, Nassau re-claims,
And brings instead of bribes avenging flames.
Now, Louis, take thy titles from above,
Boileau shall sing, and we'll believe thee Jove:
Jove gain'd his mistress with alluring gold,
But Jove like thee was impotent and old!
Active and young did he like William stand,
He 'ad stunn'd the dame, his thunder in his hand,

ODE.

IN IMITATION OF HORACE, II. or. ii,
WRITTEN IN 1692.

How long, deluded Albion, wilt thou lie
In the lethargic sleep, the sad repose,
By which thy close, thy constant eneiny,
Has softly lull'd thee to thy woes?

Or wake, degenerate isle, or cease to own
What thy old kings in Gallic camps have done;
The spoils they brought thee back, the crowns they
William (so Fate requires) again is arm'd; [won:
Thy father to the field is gone :
Again Maria weeps her absent lord,
For thy repose content to rule alone.

Are thy enervate sons not yet alarm'd?
When William fights, dare they look tamely on,
So slow to get their ancient fame restor'd,

As nor to melt at Beauty's tears, nor follow Valour's sword?

See the repenting isle awakes,

Her vicious chains the generous goddess breaks: The fogs around her temples are dispell'd; Abroad she looks, and sees arm'd Belgia stand Prepar'd to meet their common Lord's command; Her lions roaring by her side, her arrows in her hand:

And, blushing to have been so long with-held, Weeps off her crime, and hastens to the field. Henceforth her youth shall be inur'd to bear

Hazardous toil and active war;

To march beneath the dog-star's raging heat,
Patient of summer's drought, and martial sweat;
And only grieve in winter's camps to find
Its days too short for labours they design'd:
All night beneath hard heavy arms to watch;
All day to mount the trench, to storm the breach;
And all the rugged paths to tread,
Where William and his virtue lead,

Silence is the soul of war;
Deliberate counsel must prepare

The mighty work, which valour must complete:
Thus William rescued, thus preserves the state;
Thus teaches us to think and dare.