V E N US's

A D VICE

Τ Ο

THE

M U S E S.

THUS to the Muses spoke the Cyprian Dame ; “ Adorn my altars, and revere my name. “ My Son shall else assume his potent darts, “ Twang goes the bow, my girls ; have at your

hearts ?” The Muses answer'd, “ Venus, we deride so The Vagrant's malice, and his Mother's pride; “ Send him to Nymphs who sleep on Ida's shade, * To the loose dance, and wanton masquerade ; “ Our thoughts are settled, and intent our look, 6. On the instructive verse, and moral book; « On Female idleness his

power relies; “ But, when he finds us studying hard, he flies."

His lamp, his bow, and quiver, laid aside,
A rustic 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 toild the little God,
His tune he whistled, and his wheat he fow'd;
Then sat and laugh’d, and to the skies above
Raising his eye, he thus insulted Jove :
Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms reftrain,
And, as I bid you, let it shine or rain,
Else you again beneath my yoke shall bow,
Feel the sharp goad, and draw the servile plow;
What once Europa was, Nannette is now,

}

PON.

PONTIUS (who love, 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.

Talking of you, said he, my dear,

Two of the greatest wits in town One ask'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's Ducailly.

Pontia (that civil prudent fhe,

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

But purely in her own defence)

Reply'd,

Reply'd, these friends of your's, my dear,

Are given extremely much to fatire ! But pr’ythee, husband, let one hear

Sometimes less 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 sure, unbought :

Pray bring your Brother Wits to see 't.

CUPID TURNED STROLLER,

F ROM

A N ACREON.

AT

T dead of night, when stars appear,
And strong Boötes turns the Bear;
When mortals sleep their cares away,
Fatigu'd with labours of the day,
Cupid was knocking at my gate;
Who's there! says I, who knocks so late,
Disturbs my dreams, and breaks my rest?
O fear not me, a harmless guest,
He said, but open, open pray;
A foolish child, I've lost my way,
And wander here this moon-light night,
All wet and cold, and wanting light.

With due regard his voice I heard,
Then rose, a ready lamp prepar'd,
And saw 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 set the child an easy chair
Against the fire, and dry'd his hair;
Brought friendly cups of chcarful 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 see,
This

pretty bow belongs to me:
Observe, I pray, if all be right;
I fear the rain have spoil'd it quite.
He drew it then, and strait I found
Within

my

breast a secret wound. This done, the rogue no longer said, But leapt away, and laughing said, “ Kind Hoft, adieu ! we now must part; “ Safe is my bow, but fick thy heart!”