UPON PLAYING AT OMBRE

WITH

TWO

LADIE S.

I

KNOW that Fortune long has wanted fight,
And therefore pardon'd when she did not right;
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 refufe!
Two matadores are out against my game,
Yet ftill I play, and still my luck 's the fame :
Unconquer'd in three fuits it does remain,
Whereas I only afk in one to gain;

Yet fhe, ftill contradicting, gifts imparts,
And gives fuccefs in every suit-but Hearts.

CUPID'S

PROMISE,

A FRENCH SONG, paraphrased.

SOFT

OFT Cupid, wanton, amorous boy,
The other day, mov'd with my lyre,

In flattering accents spoke his joy,
And utter'd thus his fond defire.

Oh! raise thy voice! one Song I ask;
Touch then thy harmonious ftring:

To Thyrfis easy is the task,

Who can fo fweetly play and fing.

Two

Two kiffes from my mother dear,

Thyrfis, thy due reward shall be ;
None, none, like Beauty's Queen is fair,
Paris has vouch'd this truth for me.

I ftrait reply'd, Thou know'ft alone
That brightest Chloe rules my breaft,
I'll fing the Two instead of One,

If thou 'It be kind, and make me bleft.
One kifs from Chloe's lips, no more,
I crave: He promis'd me fuccefs;
I play'd with all my skill and power,
My glowing paffion to express.
But, oh my Chloe, beauteous maid !
Wilt thou the wifh'd reward beftow?
Wilt thou make good what Love has faid,
And, by thy grant, his power fhow?

TO THE EARL OF OXFORD.

Written extempore, in Lady OXFORD's Study, 1717.

PEN, ink, and wax, and paper, fend

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.

A LETTER to the Honourable Lady MARGARET CAVENDISH HARLEY, when a Child.

MY noble, lovely, little Peggy,

Let this my first epistle beg you,

At dawn of morn and close of even,
To lift your heart and hands to Heaven.
In double beauty fay your prayer:
Our Father firft,-then, Notre Pere:
And, deareft child, along the day,
In every thing you do and say,
Obey and please my lord and lady,
So God fhall love, and Angels aid ye.
If to thefe precepts you attend,

No fecond letter need I fend,

And fo I reft your conftant friend.

LINES written under the Print of Toм BRITTON the Small-coal-man, painted by Mr. WOOLASTON.

THO

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

TRUTH

TOLD AT

LAST.

TRUTH

SA

AYS Pontius in rage, contradicting his wife, "You never yet told me one truth in your life." Vext Pontia no way could this thefis allow,

"You're a Cuckold, fays fhe; do I tell you truth now?"

Written in Lady HowE's Ovid's Epiftles.

How

OWEVER high, however cold, the fair,
However great the dying lover's care,
Ovid, kind author, found him fome relief,
Rang'd his unruly fighs, and fet his grief;
Taught him what accents had the power to move,
And always gain'd him pity, fometimes love.
But, oh! what pangs torment the deftin'd heart,
That feels the wound, yet dares not fhew the dart!
What care could Ovid to his sorrows give,

Who must not speak, and therefore cannot live?

I

AN

EPISTLE, 1716.

Pray, good Lord Harley, let Jonathan know,
How long you intend to live incognito.
Your humble fervant,

ANOTHER

ELKANAH SETTLE.

EPISTLE.

I

Pray, Lady Harriot, the time to affign
When the fhall receive a turkey and chine;
That a body may come to St. James's, to dine.

TRUE'S

EPITAPH.

F wit or honefty could fave

IF

Our mouldering afhes from the grave,
This stone had fill remain'd unmark’d,
I ftill writ profe, True ftill have bark'd.
But envious Fate has claim'd its due,
Here lies the mortal part of True;
His deathlefs virtues must furvive,
To better us that are alive.

His prudence and his wit were feen
In that, from Mary's grace and mien,

He own'd the power, and lov'd the Queen.
By long obedience he confest

That ferving her was to be bleft.—
Ye murmurers, let True evince

That men are beafts, 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 fovereign led him,
Or fnarl'd against the hand that fed him.—
Read this, ye ftatesmen now in favour,
And mend your own, by True's behaviour!

EPIGRAM.

}

}

To Richmond and Peterburgh, Matt gave his letters, And thought they were fafe in the hands of his

betters.

How happen'd it then that the packets were loft?

These were Knights of the Garter, not Knights of the

Poft.