"Our thoughts are fettled, and intent our look,
"On the inftructive verse, and moral book:
"On female idleness his power relies;
"But, when he finds us ftudying hard, he flies."

CUPID TURNED PLOUGHMAN.

FROM MOSCHUS.

HIS lamp, his bow, and quiver, laid afide,

A ruftic wallet o'er his shoulders ty❜d,
Sly Cupid, always on new mischief bent,
To the rich field and furrow'd tillage went ;
Like any ploughman toil'd the little god,
His tune he whiftled, and his wheat he fow'd;
Then fat and laugh'd, and to the skies above
Raifing his
eye, he thus infulted Jove :
Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms restrain,
And, as I bid you, let it shine or rain;

Elfe you again beneath my yoke shall bow,

Feel the sharp goad, and draw the fervile plough;
What once Europa was, Nannette is now.

PONTIUS

AND

ΡΟΝΤΙΑ.

PONTIUS (who loves, you know, a joke,
Much better than he loves his life)

Chanc'd t'other morning to provoke
The patience of a well-bred wife.

E 4

}

Talking

Talking of you, faid he, my dear,
Two of the greatest wits in town,
One afk'd if that high furze of hair
Was, bona fide, all your own.

Her own! most certain, t'other faid;

For Nan, who knows the thing, will tell ye, The hair was bought, the money paid, And the receipt was fign'd Ducailly.

Pontia (that civil prudent she,

Who values wit much less than sense, And never darts a repartee,

But purely in her own defence)

Reply'd, thefe friends of yours, my dear,
Are given extremely much to fatire!
But pr'ythee, husband, let one hear

Sometimes lefs wit, and more good-nature.

Now I have one unlucky thought,

That would have spoil'd your friend's conceit: Some hair I have, I'm fure, unbought:

Pray bring your brother wits to fee't.

CUPID TURNED STROLLER.

AT

FROM ANACREON.

́T dead of night, when stars appear, And strong Boötes turns the bear; When mortals fleep their cares away, Fatigu'd with labours of the day,

Cupid was knocking at my gate;
Who's there! fays I, who knocks fo late,
Disturbs my dreams, and breaks my
reft?
"O fear not me, a harmless guest,
He said, but open, open, pray!
A foolish child, I've loft my way,
And wander here this moon-light night,
All wet and cold, and wanting light."
With due regard his voice I heard,
Then rofe, a ready lamp prepar'd,
And faw a naked boy below,
With wings, a quiver, and a bow;
In hafte I ran, unlock'd my gate,
Secure and thoughtless of my fate:
I fet the child an easy-chair

fee,

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
This pretty bow belongs to me:
Obferve, I pray, if all be right;
I fear the rain has spoil'd it quite.
He drew it then, and strait I found
Within my breaft a fecret wound.
This done, the rogue no longer ftaid,
But leapt away, and laughing faid,

Kind hoft, adieu! we now must part; "Safe is my bow, but fick thy heart!"

TO

POET OF

TO A

QUALITY,

PRAISING THE LADY HINCHINBROKE.

F thy judicious Muse's fense,

OF

Young Hinchinbroke so very proud is,

That Sachariffa and Hortenfe

She looks, henceforth, upon as dowdies. Yet fhe to one must still submit,

To dear Mamma must pay her duty; She wonders, praifing Wilmot's wit,

Thou should't forget his daughter's beauty.

THE

PEDAN T.

LYSANDER talks extremely well;

On any fubject let him dwell,

His tropes and figures will content ye:
He fhould poffefs to all degrees

The art of talk; he practifes

Full fourteen hours in four-and-twenty.

CAUTIOUS

ALICE.

So good a wife doth Liffy make,

That from all company she flieth;
Such virtuous courfes doth fhe take,
That fhe all evil tongues defieth;
And, for her dearest spouse's fake,
She with his brethren only lieth.

THE

THE

INCURABLE.

PHILLIS, you boaft of perfect health in vain,
And laugh at those who of their ills complain;
That with a frequent fever Cloe burns,
And Stella's plumpnefs into dropfy turns!
O Phillis, while the patients are nineteen,
Little, alas! are their diftempers feen.
But thou, for all thy feeming health, art ill,
Beyond thy lover's hopes, or Blackmore's fkill;
No lenitives can thy difeafe affuage,
I tell thee, 'tis incurable-'tis age.

TO FORTUNE.

WHILST I in prifon or in court look down,

Nor beg thy favour, nor deserve thy frown,

In vain, malicious Fortune, haft thou try'd,
By taking from my ftate, to quell my pride:
Infulting girl! thy prefent rage abate,

And, would't thou have me humbled, make me great.

NON PAREI L.

LET others from the town retire,

And in the fields feek new delight;

My Phillis does fuch joys inspire,
No other objects please my fight.

In