Που

Savin.

THOU wretched Shrub! (in paffionate tones)
Doft thou pretend to be my enemy? [faid the,
Doft thou, a Plant which through the world is
known,

Difparage? All mankind my virtues own,
Whilft thou for hollow teeth a med'cine art,
And fcarcely bear'ft in barbers' fhops a part.
Go, hang thy tables up, to fhew the vows,
And with thy trophies load thy bending boughs:
Among the monuments of thy chivalry,
The greatest fome old rotten tooth will be,
What? 'caufe thy tears flops weeping rheum, and
A dam, which currents of defluction ftays, [lays
Doft think thy force can keep the womb fo right,
As to refrain conception's liquid flight?
No, fure; but thou by cheats a name haft fought,
And would't, though vile thou art, too dear be
bought.

By falfe pretences you on Fame impofe,
But I the truth of what I am difclose.
Children, I own, 1 from the belly wreft;
Go now, of my confeilion make your best.
I own, I fay, nor canft thou for thy heart,
Though thou more tender than the mother wert,
Prevent me with thy tears, or all thy art.
Thee let the pregnant mother eat, and fence
With thee her womb, with pitch and frankincenfe;
A loadstone, too, about her let her bear:
(That, I fuppofe, does thy great virtues wear)
For that, we know, fix'd to their native place,
Retains the iron-feeds of human race.
Let emeralds and coral her adorn,
And many jafpers on her fingers worn ;
With diamonds and pearl, child of a fhell,
Whofe fith herself and that fecures fo well;
But, above all, let her the eagle's stone
Carry, and two of them, not only one;
For nothing ftrengthens Nature more than that,
Nothing the womb does more corroborate;
Let her do all, yet all shall prove in vain,
If once accefs to her my juices gain.
I own it, nor will I ungrateful be
To bounteous Nature, left I anger thee,
Though thou haft done thy worst to anger me.
'Tis Nature's gift, whofe wifdom I efterm
Much more than thine, though thou a Cato feem.
Into the womb by ftealth I never creep,
Nor force myself on women whilft they fleep;
I'd rather far, untouch'd, uncropp'd, be feen
In gardens always growing, fresh and green.
I'm gather'd, pounded, and th' untimely blow
Must give, which I myself first undergo.

Senper us, and other phyficians, recommended the fe ftones to be held in the land, or otherwife app.d, to thole who fear abortion.

The guiltless knife the cut with do not blame.
The lift'ning trees will think thee drunk with wine,
If thou of drunkenness accufe the vine.
Nor this bare pow'r do I to Heaven owe,
Which greater virtues did on me bestow;
For I the courfes and the after-birth,
With the dead member's deadly weight, bring
Poor infants from their native gaol 1 free, [forth.
And with aftonish'd eyes the fun they fee.
And would return into the dark again;
But nothing can they find worth fo much pain,
They with my fatal draught had come before,
Ere the great work of life was yet quite o'er.
That which you call a crime I own to be,
But you muit lay 't on men, and not on me.
Ah what at firit would tender infants give
(When newly form'd they scarce began to live)
For this, if poflibly they could but know,
Through what a paffage they muft after go?
Ah! why did Heav'n (with rev'rence let me fay)
Into this world make fuch a narrow way?
You'd think the child by his pains to heav'n
fhould go,

Whilft he through pain is born to a world of wo.
Through deadly ftrugglings, he receives his breath,
And pangs i' th' birth refemble thofe of death.
Mothers the name of mothers dearly buy,
And purchase pleasure at a rate too high.
But thou, childbearing Woman! who no ease
Cant find, (tormented with a dear disease)
Whofe tortur'd bowels that fweet viper gnaws,
(That living burden, of thy rack the caufe)
Take but my leaves, with speed their virtue try,
(In them, believe me, fov'reign juices lie)
Thy barriers they by force foon open lay,
And out o' th' world 't is fcarce a wider way.
The infant ripe, drops from the bows, and cries,
The whilft his half-dead mother filent lies;
But hearing him, the foon forgets her pain,
And thinks to do that pleasant trick again.
But thou, on whom the filver Moon's moift rays
(For the womb's night its Lady-moon obeys)
No influence have; I charge thee do not take
My leaves, but hafte, though loaded, from 'em
make.

Down from the trees, by my force fhaken, all
The fruits, though ne'er fo green and four, fall:
(This I foretel you, left, when you're aggriev'd,
You then fhould fay by me you are deceiv'd)
For innocent girls fin fore against their will,
None ever wish'd her womb a child might fill.
Yet if I were not in the world, they would
Incline to do the fact, but never could.
But many other plants the fame can do,
Wherefore if banishment you think my duc,
Companions in it I fhall have I know,
And into Crete a troop of us fhall go.
Thou, Myrrh! for one fhalt go, who heretofore
For lewdnefs punifh'd, now deferv'it the more
But thou, though lewd, did'it not prevent the

And Dragon too, the Cretan fhore muft fee;
And Sowbread too, whofe fecret darts are found
Childbearing women diftantly to wound;
And Rue, as noble a Plant as any is here,
Phyfic to other things, is poifon there.
What should I name the reft? we make a throng;
Thou, Birthwort! too, with us must troop along;
Nor muit you, Prefident behind us ftay,
Rife then, and into exile come away.
She ended with great favour and applaufe,

And there's no doubt but fhe obtain'd her caufe.
The Mugwort next began, whofe awful face
Check'd all their firs, and filence fill'd the place.

Mugwort [the Prefident].

Ir the Green nation, Sifter! banish thee,
I'll go along, and bear thee company:
If we for women's faults must bear difgrace,
We the Ecbolics, are a wretched race.
On her head let it, (if a woman shall
To her own bowels prove inhuman) fall,
Not part of death's fad penalties, but all.
Why are we fent for at untimely hours;
That day when lucky Juno comes is ours.
She's wicked, and deferves the worst of fates,
Who to ill ends that time anticipates;
For the admitted juice knows no delay,
But torpid as it is will force its way:
Nor is it hard a fabric to confound,
Ill fix'd within itfelf, or to the ground.

A fhip well tackled, which the winds may fcorn,
Ill rigg'd, away by ev'ry guft is born.
The elements of life what can't o'erthrow?
No wonder, life itfelf's an empty fhew.
Sometimes it fmells a candle's fnuff and dies **
The weaker fume before the stronger flies.
Let Cæfar round the globe with his Eagles fly,
And grieve with Jove to fhare equality;
Yet what a trifle might have been his death,
Preventing all his triumphs with his breath?
One farthing candle, by its dying flame,
Would have depriv'd the world of his great name;
Nor had we had fuch numerous fupplies
Of mighty lords and new-found deities.
Thou, Alexander! too, might'it fo have dy'd,
(How well the world that imell had gratify'd!)
Thou who, a petty king of th' univerfe,
Thought'ft with thyself alone thou did converse;
Yea, the fame chance might have remov'd from us
Both thee, Jove's fon, and thy Bucephalus ;
And if thy groom his candle out had flept,
Bucephala he from being built had kept.

Ecbolics, i. c. fuch medicines as bring away dead children, or cacfe abortion.

The goddefs of Childbearing.

**The fmell of a candle's fnuff, it is faid, will make women mif. carry.

The flink of the fnuff of a candle is faid alfo to caufe abortion la marcs

Unless the nicenefs of the womb you knew:
How fhy it is of an ungrateful fmell,
You by its fecret coynefs know full well.
(But that's no prudence in it, fince that place
For pleasure no good fituation has)
But greedily fweet things it meets half way,
And into its own bofor does convey:
The fecret caufe of which effect to find
Is hard, nor have the learned it affign'd.
Let's fee if any thing farther we can say;
The night grows late, and now 'tis toward day,'

Wherefore a thousand wonders that remain
Concerning childbirth, us may entertain

I' th' next Affembly, when we meet again.
You, Myrrh! who from a line of monarchs came,
The glory of their angry fathers' name,
Sacred and grateful to the gods, again

A virgin, and fhalt always fo remain ;
You know the fecrets of the female kind,
And what you know, I hope, can call to mind:
Then, fly, you the nature of a smell,
Among rich ou

born, muft clearly tell :

Befides, when formerly ir reafon ftrove,
Weak as it was, to cope with

You in the middle of the fight would's Love,
They fay, and lie in fits hysterical.

Come, then, let's hear what you at last can say:
Speak, modeft Myrrh! why do you fo delay ?
Why do the tears run down thy bark so fast?
Thou need'it not blush for faults fo long time paft:
Ah! happy faults, that can fuch tears produce,
Which to the world are of fuch fov'reign ufe.
No woman e'er deferv'd, before this time,
So much for virtue as thou for a crime.

Myrrb.

Ar daft when Myrrh had wip'd her od'rous tears, Putting afide her leaves, her face and head the

rears:

Then he began, but blush'd and ftopp'd anon,
Nor could he be entreated to go on.
So a dry pump at first will hardly go,
From whence a river by and by will flow.
"Tis known the female tribe, of all that live,
Above the rest is far more talkative,
And that a Plant, who was a maid before,
Speaks fafter much than all the reft, and more.
Her ftory, therefore, gently fhe begins,
And with her art upon the audience wins.
Her wars with unchafte Love the reckon'd o'er;
For fear of doing ill, what ills fhe bore!
She told how oft' her breasts her hands had try'd
To ftab, whilft chafte fair Myrrha might have
How long and oft' unequally with Love, [dy'd;
Who even goddeffes fubdu'd, fhe ftrove;
And many things befides, which I'll not name,
Since Ovid with more wit has faid the fame :
Then of the womb's intolerable pains
(She 'ad felt them) fadly the, 'tis faid, complains.
Had I an hundred fluent women's tongues,
Or made of sturdy oak a pair of lungs,
The kinds, and forms, and names, of cruel Fate,
And monstrous fhapes, I hardly could relate,

Flora.

Now Mufe! if ever, now look brifk and gay, The Spring's at hand; blithe looks like that dif play:

Ufe all the fchemes and colours now of fpeech,
Ufe all the flow'rs that poetry enrich;
Its glories all, its blooming beauties, bring,
As may resemble the returning Spring:
Let the fame mufic through thy verfe refound,
As in the woods and fhady groves is found:
Let ev'ry line fuch fragrant praise exhale,
As rifes up from fome fweet-fmelling vale:
Let lights and fhades, as in the woods, appear,
And fhew in painted verse the season of the year.
Come then away, for the first welcome morn
Of the fpruce month of May begins to dawn.
This day, fo tells the poct's facred page,
Bright Chloris did in nuptial bands engage;
This very day the knot was ty'd, and thence
The lovely maid a goddefs did commence :
The figns of joy did ev'ry where appear,
On earth, in heav'n, throughout the fea and air;
No wand'ring cloud was feen in all the sky,
And if there were, 'twas of a curious dye.
The air ferenc, not an ungentle blast
Ruffled the waters with its rude embrace;
The wind that was, breath'd odours all around,
And only fann'd the ftreams, and only kifo'd the
ground.

Of unknown Flow'rs now fuch a num'rous birth
Appear'd, as ever aftonifh'd mother-Earth.
The Lily grew 'midft barren Heath and Sedge,
And the Rofe blush'd on each unprickly hedge;
The purple Violet and the Daffodil,
The places now of angry nettles fill.
This great and joyful day, on which the knew
What 'twas to be a wife and goddess too,
The grateful Flora yearly did exprefs
In fhews, religious pomp, and gaudinefs,
Long as the thriv'd in Rome, and reign'd among
The other gods, a vaft and num'rous throng;

But when the facred tribe was forc'd from Rome,
Among the reft an exile she became,
Stripp'd of her plays, and of her fane bereft,
Nought of the grandeur of a goddess left :
Since then no more ador'd on earth by men,
But forc'd o'er flowers to prefide and reign,
The beft fhe can fhe ftill keeps up the day,
Not as of old, when blefs'd with ftore fhe lay;
When with a lavish hand her bounties flew ;
She 'as not the heart and means to do it now;
But in a way fitting her humble ftate
She always did, and still does celebrate :
And now that the the better may attend
The Flow'ry empire under her command,
To all the world, at times, fhe does refort,
Now in this part, now that, fhe keeps her court;
And fo the feasons of the year require,
For here 'tis fpring, perhaps 'tis autumn there.
With eafe fhe flies to the remoteft fhores,
And vifits in the way a world of Flow'rs:
In Zephyr's painted car fhe cuts the air,
Pleas'd with the way, her fpoufe the charioteer.
It was the year, (thrice biefs'd that beauteous
Year!)

Which mighty Charles's facred name did bear;
A golden year the heavens brought about
In high proceffion with a joyful shout;
A year that barr'd up Janus' brazen gates,
That brought home Peace, and laid our monfirous
heats:

A greater gift, blefs'd Albion! thou did'ft gain, It brought home godlike Charles, and all his peaceful train,

Cempes'd our chaos, cover'd o'er the scars,
And clos'd the bleeding wounds of twenty years.
Nor felt the gown alone the fruits of peace,
But gardens, woods, and all the Flow'ry race.
This year to ev'ry thing fresh honours brought,
Nor 'midft thefe were the learned Arts forgot.
Poor exil'd Flora, with the fylvan gods,
Came back again to their old lov'd abodes.