'Twill dodge the great man's train behind,
Out-run the roe, out-fly the wind.
If then thy foul rejoice to-day,
Drive far to-morrow's cares away.
In laughter let them all be drown'd':
No perfect good is to be found.
One mortal feels Fate's fudden blow,
Another's lingering death comes flow;
And what of life they take from thee,
The gods may give to punish me.
Thy portion is a wealthy ftock,
A fertile glebe, a fruitful flock,
Horfes and chariots for thy ease,
Rich robes to deck and make thee pleafe.
For me, a little cell I chufe,
Fit for my mind, fit for my Mufe,
Which foft content does beft adorn,
Shunning the knaves and fools I fcorn.
LOVE, I doat, I rave with pain,
No quiet's in my mind,
Though ne'er could be a happier fwain,
Were Sylvia lefs unkind.
For when, as long her chains I 've worn,
I afk relief from fmart,
She only gives me looks of fcorn
Alas! 'twill break my heart!
My rivals, rich in worldly store,
May offer heaps of gold,
But furely I a heaven adore,
Too precious to be fold;
Can Sylvia fuch a coxcomb prize,
For wealth, and not defert;
And my poor fighs and tears despise ?
Alas, 'twill break my heart!
When, like fome panting, hovering dove,
I for my blifs contend,
And plead the cause of eager love,
She coldly calls me friend.
Ah, Sylvia! thus in vain you strive
To act a healer's part,
'Twill keep but lingering pain alive,
Alas! and break my heart.
When, on my lonely, penfive bed
I lay me down to rest,
In hope to calm my raging head,
And cool my burning breast.
Her cruelty all eafe denies;
With fome fad dream I ftart,
All drown'd in tears I find my eyes,
And breaking feel my heart.
Then rifing, through the path I rove
That leads me where the dwells,
Where to the fenfelefs waves my love
Its mournful story tells:
With fighs I dew and kifs the door,
Till morning bids depart;
Then vent ten thousand fighs and more:
Alas! 'twill break my heart!
But, Sylvia, when this conqueft's won,
And I am dead and cold,
Renounce the cruel deed you've done,
Nor glory when 'tis told;
For every lovely generous maid
Will take my injur'd part,
And curfe thee, Sylvia, I'm afraid,
For breaking my poor heart.
HAT think ye meant wife Providence, when first Poets were made? I'd tell you, if I durst, That 'twas in contradiction to heaven's word, "That when its spirit o'er the waters stirr'd, When it faw all, and faid that all was good, The creature Poet was not understood a
For, were it worth the pains of fix long days,
To mould retailers of dull third-day plays,
That starve out threescore years in hopes of bays?
'Tis plain they ne'er were of the first creation,
But came by meer equivocal generation :
Like rats in fhips, without coition bred,
As hated too as they are, and unfed.
Nature their fpecies fure must needs disown,
Scarce knowing Poets, lefs by Poets known.
Yet this poor thing, so scorn'd and set at nought,
Ye all pretend to, and would fain be thought..
Disabled wasting Whore-mafters are not
Prouder to own the brats they never got,
Than fumbling, itching rhymers of the town
T'adopt fome bafe-born fong that's not their own.
Spite of his ftate, my Lord fometimes defcends,
To please the importunity of friends.
The dullest he, thought most for business fit,
Will venture his bought place to aim at wit;
And though he finks with his employs of state,
Till common fenfe forfake him, he 'Il tranflate.
The Poet and the Whore alike complains
Of trading quality, that fpoil their gains;
The lords will write, and ladies will have fwains!
Therefore all you who have male iffue born
Under the ftarving fign of Capricorn,
Prevent the malice of their ftars in time,
And warn them early from the fin of rhyme:
Tell them how Spenfer ftarv'd; how Cowley mourn'd, How Butler's faith and ferviee was return'd;
And if fuch warning they refuse to take,
This last experiment, O parents, made!
With hands behind them see th' offender ty'd,
The parish whip and beadle by his fide;
Then lead him to fome stall that does expofe
The authors he loves moft; there rub his nose,
Till, like a spaniel lash'd to know command,
He by the due correction understand,
To keep his brain clean, and not foul the land
Till he against his nature learn to strive,
And get the knack of dulnefs how to thrive.
DEATH OF HIS LATE MAJESTY.
WHAT horror's this that dwells
And thus difturbs the shepherds' peaceful reign?
A difmal found breaks through the yielding air,
Forewarning us fome dreadful form is near.
The bleating flocks in wild confusion stray,
The early larks forfake their wandering way,
And ceafe to welcome-in the new-born day.
Each nymph possest with a distracted fear,
Disorder'd hangs her loofe difhevel'd hair.
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