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From your fair pattern she would strive to write, That I might see the lovely awful swain,
And with unequal strength pursue your flight ; Whoše holy crosier guides our willing plain;
Yet hopes she ne'er can err that follows you, Whose pleasing power and ruling gooriness keep
Led by your blest coinmands, and great example Our souls with equal care as we our sheep ;

Whose praise excites each lyre, employs cach Then smiling and aspiring influence give,

tongue: And make the Muse and her endeavours live; Whilst only he who caus'd, dislikes the song. Claim all her future labours as your due,

To this great, humble, parting man I gain'd læt every song begin and end with you:

Access, and happy for an hour I reignd; So to the blest retreat she'll gladly go,

Happy as new-form'd man in paradise, Where the saints' palm and Muses' laurel grow; Ere sin debauch'd his innoffensive bliss ; Where kindly both in glad embrace shall join, Happy as heroes after battles won, And round your brow their mingled honours twine; | Prophets entranc’d, or monarchs on the throne; Both to the virtue due, which could excel, But (oh, my friend !) those joys with Daphnis As much in writing, as in living well

To them these tributary tears are due. (tlew. So shall she proudly press the tumeful string, Anl mighty things in 'mighty numbers sing ; Nor doubt to strike Prudentius' daring lyre,

Was he so humble then ? those joys so vast ?
And humbly bring the verse which you ins; ire.

Cease to admire that both so quickly past.
Too happy should we be, would smiling Fate
Render one blessing durable and great ;
But (oh the sad vicissitude!) how soon
l'nwelcome night succeeds the cheerful noon;

Ane rigid winter nips the flowery pomp of June!

Then griere not, friend, like you, since all man.

A certain change of joy and sorrow find. skind
Suppress your sigh, your down-cast eyelids raise,
Whom present you revere, him absent praise.






Tell, dear Alexis, tell thy Damon, why
Dost thou in mournful shades obscurely lie ?
Why dost thou sigh, why strike thy panting breast? TO THE COUNTESS OF EXETER,
And steal from life the needful hours of rest?
Are thy kids starv'd by winter's early frost ?
Are any of thy bleating stragglers lost? [ground? | What charms you have, from what high race
Hare strangers' cattle trod thy new-plough'd

you sprung,
Has great Joanna, or her greater shepherd, frown'd ? Have been the pleasing subjects of my song:

Unskill'd and young, yet something still I writ, ALEXIS.

Of Ca'ndish' beauty join'd to Cecil's wit. See my kids browze, my lambs securely play:

But when you please to show the labouring Muse, (Ah! were their master unconcern'd as they!).

What greater theme your music can produce; No beasts (at noon I look'd) had trod my ground ; | My babbling praises I repeat no more, Nor has Joanna, or her shepherd, frown'd.

But hear, rejoice, stand silent, and adore.

The Persians thus, first gazing on the Sun,

Adınir'd how high 'twas plac d, how bright it shone : Then stop the lavish fountain of your eyes,

But, as bis power was known, their thoughts were Nor let those sighs from your swolu bosom rise;

rajs'd; Chase sadness, friend, and solitude away ;

And soon they worship’d, what at first they prais’d. And once again rejoice, and once again look gay.

Eliza's glory lives in Spenser's song;

And Cowley's verse keeps tair Orinda young. Say what can more our tortur'd souls annoy,

That as in birth, in beauty you excel, Than to behold, adınire, and lose our joy?

The Muse might dictate, and the poet teil: Whose fate more hard than those who sadly run,

Your art no other art can speak; and you, For the last glimpse of the departing Sun?

To show how well you play, must play anew : Or what severer sentence can be given,

Your musie's power your music must disclose;

For what light is, 'tis only light that shows. Than, having seen, to be excluded Heaven?

Strange force of harmony, that thus controls

Our thoughts, and turns and sanctities our souls : None, shepherd, none

While with its utmost art your sex could move
Our wonder only, or at best our love:

You far above both these your God did place,
Then cease to chide my cares ! That your high power might worldly thoughts
And rather pity than restrain my tears;

destroy; Those tears, my Damon, which I justly shed, That with your numbers you our zeal might raise, To think how great my joys; how soon they Aed. And, like himself, communicate your jov. I told thee, friend, (now bless the shepherd's name, When to your native Heaven you shall repair, From whose dear care the kind occasion came) And with your presence crown the blessings there, That I, erer I, might happily receive (gire: Your lute may wind its strings but little higher, The sacred wealth, which Heaven and Daphnis | To tune their notes to that immortal quire.





Your art is perfect here; your numbers do, Kindness itself too weak a charm will prove
More than our books, inake the rude atheist know To raise the feeble tires of aged love.
That there's a Heaven by what he bears below.

Forc'd compliments, and formal bows,
As in some piece, while Luke bis skill exprest,

Will show thee just above neglect : A cunning angel came, and drew the rest :

The heat with which thy lover glows, So when you play, some godhead does iinpart

Will settle into cold respect : Harmonious ai l, divinity helps art;

A talking dull Platonic I shall turn : Some cherub finishes what you begun,

Learn to be civil, when I cease to burn. And to a miracle improves a tune.

To burning Rome, when frantic Nero play'd, Then shun the ill, and know, my dear, Viewing that face, no more he had survey'd

Kindness and constancy will prove The raging flames; but, struck with strange sur The only pillars, fit to bear prise,

So vast a weight as that of love. Confiss'd them less than those of Anna's eyes: If thou canst wish to make my flames endure, But, had he heard thy lute, he soon bad found Thine must be very fierce, and very pure. His rage cluded, and his crime aton'd: Thinc, like Amphion's hand, had wak'd the stone,

Haste, Celia, haste, while youth invites, And from destruction callid the rising town :

Obey kind Cupid's prescnt voice ; Malice to Music had been forc'il to viele ;

Fill crery sense with soft delights,

And give thy soul a loose to joys :
Nor could he burn so fast, as thou could'st build.

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 PICTURE OF SENECA DYING IN A B.ITH; To me alone; nor come so far,

As liking any youth b side:

What men e'er court thee, fly them, and believe AT TILE EARL OF EXETER'S, AT BURLEIGH-HOUSE. They're serpents all, and thou the tempted Ere. White cruel Nero only drains

So shall I court thy dearest truth, The inoral Spaniard's ebbing veins,

When beauty ceases to engage; By study worn, and slack with age,

So, thinking on thy charming youth, How dull, how thoughtless, is his rage!

I'll love it o'er again in age: Heighten'd revenge would he have took,

So time itself our raptures shall improve,
He should have burnt his tutor's book;

While still we wake to joy, and live to love.
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,

When crowding folks, with strange ill faces, And lives and speaks, restor'd and whole. 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.
Hipe blooming youth and gay delight

I waited while the clock struck thrice,
Sit on thy rosy cheeks confest,

And footman brought out fifty lies; Thou hast, my dear, undoubted right

Till, patience vext, and legs grown weary, To triumph o'er this destin'd breast.

I thought it was in vain to tarry : My reason bends to what thy eyes ordain;

But did opine it might be better For I was born to love, and thou to reign.

By penny-post to send a letter;
But would you meanly thus rely

Now, if you miss of this epistle,
On power you know I must obey ?

I'm baulk'd again, and may go whistle.
Exert a legal tyranny,

My business, sir, you'll quickly guess,
And do an ill, because yon may ?

Is to desire soine little place;
Still must I thee, as atheists Heaven, adore ;

And fair pretensions I have for 't, Not see thy mercy, and yet dread thy power?

Much need, and very small desert.

Whene'er I writ to you, I wanted;
Take heed, my dear: youth flies apace ;

I always begg'd, you always granted.
As well as Cupid, Time is blind :

Now, as you took me up when little,
Soon must those glories of thy face

Gave me my learning and my vittle;
The fate of vulgar beauty tind :

Ask'd for me, from my lord, things fitting,
The thousand Loves, that arıp thy potent eye, Kind as I'ad been your own begetting;
Must drop their quivers, flag their wings, and die.

Contirm what formerly you've given,
Then wilt thou sigh, when in each frown Nor leave me now at six and seven,
A hateful wrinkle more appears ;

As Sunderland bas left Mun Stephen.
And putting peerish humours on,

No family, that takes a whelp
Seems but the sad effect of years :

When first he laps, and scarce can yelp.


Neglects or turns him out of gate

Then take it, sir, as it was writ, When he's grown up to dog's estate:

To pay respect, and not shew wit: Nor parish, if they once adopt

Nor look askew at what it saith; The spurious brats by strollers dropt,

There's no petition in it-'faith. leave them, when grown up lusty fellows,

Here some would scratch their heads, and try To the wide world, that is, the gallows:

What they should write, and how, and why; No, tbank them for their love, that's worse,

But, I conceive, such folks are quite in Than if they 'd throttled them at nurse.

Mistakes, in theory of writing. My uncle, rest his soul! when living,

If once for principle 'tis laid, Might have contriv'd me ways of thriving;

That thought is trouble to the head; Taught me with cider to replenish

I argue thus: the world agrees My vats, or ebbing tide of Rhenish.

That he writes well, who writes with ease: So when for hock I drew prickt white-wine, Then he, by seqirel logical, Swear 't had the flavour, and was right wine. Writes best, who never thinks at all. Or sent me with ten pounds to Furni

Verse cornes from Heaven, like inward light; val's inn, to some good rogue-attorney ;

Mere human pains can ne'er come by 't:
Where now, by forging deeds, and cheating, The god, not we, the poem makes;
l'ad found some handsome ways of g tting. We only tell folks what he speaks.
All this you made me quit, to follow

Hence, when anatomists discourse,
That sneaking whey-fac'd god Apollo;

How lik: brutes' organs are to ours; Sent me among a fiddling crew

They grant, if higher powers think fit, Of folks, l'ad never seen nor knew,

A bear might soon be made a wit; Calliope, and God knows who.

And that, for any thing in nature, To add no more invectives to it,

Pigs mig!t squeak love-odes, dogs bark satire. You spoil'd the youth, to make a poet,

Memnon, though stone, was counted vocal; In common justice, sir, there's no man

But 'twas the god, meanwhile, that spoke all. That makes the whore, but keeps the woman.

Rome oft has heard a cross haranguing, Among all honest christian people,

With prompting priest behind the hanging: Whoe'er breaks limbs, maintains the cripple. The wooden head resolv'd the question; The sum of all I have to say,

While you and Pettis help'd the jest on. Is, that you'd put me in some way;

Your crabbed rogues, that read Lucretius, And your petitioner shall pray

Are against gols, you know; an'l teach us, There's one thing more I had almost slipt, The gods make not the poet; but But that may do as well in postscript :

The thesis, vice-versa put, My friend Charles Montague's prefert'd;

Should Hebrew-wise be understood ; Nor would I have it long observ'd,

And means, the poet makes the god,
That one mouse eats, while t'other's starv'd,

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

That when you poets swear and cry,
ANOTHER EPISTLE TO TUE SAME. “ The god inspires ! I rave, I die!"

If inward wind does truly swell ye,
BURLEIGH, MAY 14, 1689.

"Tinust be the colic in your belly : As once a twelvemonth to the priest,

That writing is but just like dice, Holy at Rome, here antichrist,

And lucky mains make people wise : The Spanish king presents a jennet,

That jumbled words, if Fortune throw 'em, To show his love;--that's all that's in it:

Shall, well as Dryden, form a poem; For if his holiness would thump

Or make a speech, correct and witty, His reverend bum 'gainst horse's rump,

As you know who—at the committee. He might b'equipt from his own stable

So atoms dancing round the centre, With one more white, and eke more able.

They urge, made all things at a venture. Or as, with gondolas and men, his

But, granting matters should be spoke Good excellence the duke of Venice

By method, rather than by luck; (I wish, for rhyme, 't had been the king)

This may confine their younger styles, Sails ont, and gives the Gulph a ring;

Whom Dryden pedagogues at Will's; Which trick of state, he wisely maintains,

But never could be meant to tye Kerps kindness up 'twixt old acquaintance; Authentic wits, like you and I: For else, in honest truth, the sea

For as young children, who are tied in Has much less need of gold than he.

Go-carts, to keep their steps from sliding; Or, not to rove, and pump one's fancy

When members knit, and legs grow stronger, For popish similies beyond sea ;

Make use of such machine no longer; As folks from mud-wall’d tenement

But leap pro libitu, and scout Bring landlords pepper-corn for rent;

On horse call'd hobby, or without; Present a turkey, or a hen,

So when at school we first declaim, To those might better spare them tenż

Old Busby walks us in a theme, Ev'n so, with all submission, I

Whose props support our infant veiu, (For first men instance, then apply)

And help the rickets in the brain : Send you each year a homely letter,

But, when our souls their force dilate, Who may return me much a better.

Aud thoughts grow up to wit's estate;




In verse or prose, we write or chat,

Critics I read on other men, Not sixpence matter upon what.

And hypers upon them again ; "Tís not how well an author says;

From whose remarks I give opinion But 'is how much, that gathers praise.

On twenty books, yet ne'er look in one. Tonson, who is himself a wit,

Then all your wits, that fleer and sham, Counts writ rs' mirits by the sheet.

Down from Don Quixote to Tom Tram; Thus each should down with all he thinks,

From whom I jests and puns purloin, As boys eat brad, to fill up chinks.

And slily put them off for mine: kind sir, I should be glad to see you;

Fond to be thought a country wit: I hope y’are well; so God be wi' you.

The rest—when Fate and you think fit. Was all I thought at first to write;

Sometimes I climb my mare, and kick her But things, since then, are alter'd quite :

To bottled ale, and neighbouring vicar; Fancies fow in, and Muse flies high;

Sometimes at Stamford take a quart, So God knows when my clack will lie.

“Squire Shephard's health"-"With all my heart." I must, sir, prattle on, as afore,

Thus, without much delight or grief, And beg your pardon yet this half-hour.

I fool away an ille life: So at pure barn of loud Non-con,

Till Shadwell from the town retires Where with my granam I have gone,

(Chok'd up with fame and sea-coal fires), Wh:n Lobb had sifted all his text,

To bless the wood with peaceful lyric: And I well hop'd the pudding next;

Then hey for praise and panegyric; Now to apply,” has plagu'd me more

Justice restor'd, and nations freed,
Than all his villain cant before.

And wreaths round William's glorious heado
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 inan divine;
For, if their fame be justly great,

See here how bright the first-born virgin shone, Who would no popish nuncio treat;

And how the first fond lover was undone. That his is greater, we must grant,

Such charming words, our b auteous mother spoke, Who will treat nuncios protestant.

Ås Milton wrote, and such as yours her look. One single positive weighs more,

Yours, the best copy of th' original face, You know, than negatives a scorc.

Whose beauty was to furnish all the race: In politics, I hear, you're stanch,

Such chains no author could escape but he;
Directly bent against the French;

There's no way to be safe, but not to soe.
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,

ON THE SAME SUBJECT. And keep your places till you die.

For me, whom wandering Fortune threw Here reading how fond Adam was betray'd, From what I lov'd, the town and you :

And now by sin Eve's blasted charms decay'd; Let me just tell you how my time is

Our common loss unjustly you complain; Past in a country life.--Imprimis,

So small that part of it, which you sustain. As soon as Phæbus' rays inspect us,

You still, fair mother, in your offspring trace First, sir, I read, and then I breakfast;

The stock of beauty destin'd for the race: So on, till foresaid god does set,

Kind Nature, forming them, the pattern took I sometimes study, sometimes eat.

From Heaven's first work, and Eve's original look. Thus, of your heroes and brave boys,

You, happy saint, the serpent's power control : With whom old Homer makes such noise,

Scarce any actual guilt detiles your soul: The greatest actions I can find,

And Hell Hoes o'er that mind vain triumph boast, Are, that they did their work, and din'd.

Which gains a Hearen, for earthly Eden lost. The books, of which I'm chiefly fond,

With virtue strong as yours had Eve been arm'd, Are such as you have whilom conn'd;

In vain the fruit had blush'd, or serpent charm'd; That treat of China's civji law,

Nor had our bliss by penitence been bought;
And subjects' right in Golconda;

Nor had frail Adam fall'n, nor Milton wrote.
Of higiiway-elephants at (eylan,
That rob in clans, like men o'th' Highland ;
Of apes that storm, or ket p a town,
As well almost as count Lauzun;

Of unicorns and alligitors,
Elks, mermaids, mummies, witches, satyrs,

And twenty other stranger matters;

The am Which, though they're things I've no concern in,

amorous youth, whose tender breast Make all our grooins admire my learning.

Was by his darling cat possest,

Obtain'd of Venus his desire,

(Heaven guard us all from Cupid's bow!). Howe'er irregular his fire :

He lost his crook, he left bis flocks; Nature the power of love obey'd,

And, wandering through the lonely rocks,
The cat became a blushing maid;

He nourish'd endless woe.
And, on the happy change, the boy
Employ'd bis wonder and his joy.

The nymphs and shepherds rosind bim came:
Take care, O beauteous child, take care,

His grief somne pity, others blame; Lest thou prefer so rash a prayer:

The fatal cause all kindly seek: Nor rainly hope, the queen of love

He mingled his concern with theirs; Will e'er thy favourite's charms improve.

He gave them back their friendly tears ; O quickly from her shrine retreat;

He sighd, but would not speak. Or tremble for thy darling's fate.

Clorinda came amongst the rest ; The qneen of love, who soon will see

And she too kind concern exprest, Hrown Adonis live in thee,

And ask'd the reason of his woe : Will lightly her first loss deplore;

She ask'd, but with an air and mien, Will easily forgive the boar:

That made it easily foreseen,
Her eyes with tears no more will flow;

She fear'd too much to know.
With jealous rage her breast will glow :
And, on her tabby rival’s face,

The shepherd rais'd his mournful head;
She deep will mark her new disgrace.

“And will you pardon me," he said,

“ While I the cruel truth revcal ?
Which nothing from my breast should tear;
Which never should ofsend your ear,

But that you bid me tell.

“ 'Tis thus I rove, 'tis thus complain, We from our looks, fair nymph, you guess Since you appear'd upon the plain ; The secret passions of our mind;

You are the cause of all my care ; My heavy eyes, you say, confess

Your eyes ten thousand dangers dart; A heart to love and grief inclin’d.

Ten thousand torments vex my heart :

I love, and I despair.”
There needs, alas! but little art,
To have this fatal secret found ;

“ Too much, Alexis, I have heard : With the same ease you threw the dart,

"Tis what I thought ; 'tis what I fear'd: 'Tis certain you may show the wound,

And yet I pardon you,” she cried :

“ But you shall promise ne'er again How can I see you, and not love,

To breathe your vows, or speak your pain :"
While you as opening east are fair ?
While cold as northern blasts you prove,

He bow'd, obey'd, and died.
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,

Howe’er, 'tis well, that while mankind

Through fate's perverse micander erts,
He can imagin'd pleasures find,

To combat against real cares.

Fancies and notions he pursues,
Ixtain yol tell youmparting

lover, You wish fair winds may waft him over.

Which ne'er had being but in thought: Alas! what winds can happy prove,

Each, like the Grecian artist, woos

The image he himself has wrought.
That bear me far from what I love?
Alas! what dangers on the main

Against experience he believes;
Can equal those that I sustain,

He argues against demonstration; From slighted vows, and cold disdain?

Pleas'd when his reason he deceives;

And sets his judgment by his passion,
Be gentle, and in pity choose
To wish the wildest tempests loose :

The hoary fool, who many days
That, thrown again upon the coast

Has struggled with continued sorrow,
Where first my shipwreck'll heart was lost, Renews his hope, and blindly lays
I may once more repeat my pain;

The desperate bett upon to morrow.
Once more in dying notes complain

To morrow comes; 'tis noon, 'tis night;
Of slighted vows, and cold disclain.

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, aira

At objects in an airy height: Alexis shunnid his fellow-swains,

The little pleasure of the game Their rural sports, and jocund strains:

Is from afar to view the tigh to


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