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When foes too faucily approach,

'Tis beft to leave them fairly;
Put fix good horfes in your coach,
And carry me to Marly.
Let Bouflers, to fecure your fame,
Go take fome town, or buy it ;
Whilft you, great fir, at Nostredame,
Te Deum fing in quiet!"

FROM THE GREEK,

GREAT Bacchus, born in thunder and in fire,

By native heat afferts his dreadful fire.

Nourish'd near fhady rills and cooling ftreams,
He to the nymphs avows his amorous flames.
To all the brethren at the Bell and Vine,
The moral fays; mix water with your wine.

FRANK

EPIGRAM.

RANK carves very ill, yet will palm all the meats; He eats more than six, and drinks more than he eats. Four pipes after dinner he constantly smokes ; And seasons his whiffs with impertinent jokes. Yet fighing, he fays, we must certainly break; And my cruel unkindnefs compels him to speak; For of late I invite him-but four times a week.

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ΑΝ Ο.

ANOTHER.

O John I ow'd great obligation;
But John unhappily thought fit

To publish it to all the nation:
Sure John and I are more than quit.

ANOTHER.

YES, every poet is a fool,

By demonstration Ned can fhow it.

Happy, could Ned's inverted rule

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ANOTHER.

THY nags, the leaneft things alive!
So very hard thou lov't to drive;

I heard thy anxious coachman fay,
It coft thee more in whips than hay.

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LYE, Philo, untouch'd, on my peaceable shelf;

Nor take it amiss, that so little I heed thee:

I've no envy to thee, and fome love to myself:
Then why fhould I anfwer; fince first I must read

thee?

Drunk

Drunk with Helicon's waters and double-brew'd bub,
Be a linguift, a poet, a critic, a wag;
To the folid delight of thy well-judging club,
To the damage alone of thy bookfeller Brag.

Purfue me with fatire: what harm is there in't?
But from all viva voce reflection forbear:

There can be no danger from what thou shalt print:
There may be a little from what thou may'ft fwear.

ON THE

SAME PERSON.

WHILE, fafter than his coftive brain indites,

Philo's quick hand in flowing letters writes:

His cafe appears to me like honest Teague's,
When he was run away with by his legs.
Phœbus, give Philo o'er himself command;
Quicken his fenfes, or reftrain his hand;
Let him be kept from paper, pen, and ink:
may he cease to write, and learn to think.

So

86

QUID SIT FUTURUM CRAS FUGE QUÆRERE

OR what to-morrow fhall disclofe

FOR

May spoil what you to-night propose:
England may change; or Cloe ftray:
Love and life are for to-day.

2

A BAL

A BALLAD

O F THE

NOT BROWNE

MA Y DE.

BE

WRITTEN THREE HUNDRED YEARS SINCE.

A.

E it ryght, or wrong, these men among on women de complayne;

Affyrmynge this, how that it is a labour spent in vayne, To love them wele; for never a dele they love a man agayne:

For late a man do what he can, theyr favour to attayne, Yet, yf a newe do them purfue, theyr fyrst true lover than

Laboureth for nought; for from her thought he is a banyfhed man.

B.

I say nat, nay, but that all day it is bothe writ and sayd, That womens fayth is, as who fayth, all utterly decayed:

But, nevertheleffe, ryght good wytnèsse in this case might be layed,

That they love true, and continue; recorde the notbrowne mayde;

So Prior.-Firft printed about 1521, says Capel.”

Which, when her love came, her to prove, to her to make his mone,

Wolde nat depart; for in her hart she loved but hym

alone.

A.

Than betwayne us late us dyfcus what was all the

manère

Betwayne them two; we wyll alfo tell all the payne, and fere,

That fhe was in: nowe I begyn, fo that ye me anfwere

Wherfore, all ye, that prefent be, I pray you gyve an

ere :

I am the knyght; I come by nyght, as fecret as I can; Sayinge, Alas, thus ftandeth the cafe, I am a banyfhed

man.

B.

And I your wyll for to fulfyll in this wyll nat refufe; Truftynge to fhewe in wordes fewe, that men have an yll ufe

(To theyr own shame) women to blame, and causelesse them accufe:

Therfore to you I anfwere nowe, all women to excuse;Myne owne hart dere, with you what chere? I pray you, tell anone;

For, in my mynde, of all mankynde I love but you alone.

A.

It ftandeth fo; a dede is do, whereof grete harme shall

growe;

My deftiny is for to dy a fhamefull deth, I trowe;

Or,

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