The monfter's foreign. Mark the pointed spears
That from thy hand on his pierc'd back he wears!
Who nobler could, or plainer things prefage?
Yet one thing scap'd him, the prophetic rage
Shew'd not the turbot's country, nor its age.
At length by Cæfar the grand question 's put :
My lords, your judgement; fhall the fish be cut?
Far be it, far from us, Montanus cries;
Let's not difhonour thus the noble prize!
A pot of finest earth, thin, deep, and wide, ·
Some fkilful quick Prometheus muft provide.
Clay and the forming wheel prepare with speed.
But, Cæfar, be it from henceforth decreed,
That potters on the royal progress wait,
T'affift in these emergencies of state.
This counsel pleas'd; nor could it fail to take,
So fit, fo worthy of the man that spake.
The old court riots he remember'd well;
Could tales of Nero's midnight fuppers tell,
When Falern wines the labouring lungs did fire,
And to new dainties kindled falfe defire.
In arts of eating, none more carly train'd,
None in time had equal skill attain`d.
He whether Circe's rock his oysters bore,
Or Lucrine lake, or the Rutupian fhore,
Knew at first taste, nay at first fight could tell
A crab or lobster's country by its shell.
They rife; and straight all, with refpectful awe, At the word given, obfequioufly withdraw,
Whom, full of eager hafte, furprize, and fear,
Our mighty prince had fummon'd to appear;
As if fome news he'd of the Catti tell,
Or that the fierce Sicambrians did rebel :
As if expreffes from all parts had come
With fresh alarms threatening the fate of Rome.
What folly this! But, oh! that all the reft
Of his dire reign had thus been spent in jeft;
And all that time fuch trifles had employ'd
In which fo many nobles he deftroy'd;
He fafe, they unreveng'd, to the difgrace
Of the furviving, tame, Patrician race!
But, when he dreadful to the rabble grew,
Him, whom fo many lords had flain they flew.
ELL me, Alexis, whence thefe forrows grow?
From what hid fpring do these falt torrents flow?
Why hangs the head of my afflicted swain;
Like bending lilies over-charg'd with rain?
Ah, Damon, if what you already fee,
Can move thy gentle breast to pity me;
How would thy fighs with mine in concert join,
How would thy tears fwell up the tide of mine ?
Couldst thou but fee (but, oh, no light is there,
But blackeft clouds of darkness and defpair!)
Couldst thou but fee, the torments that within
Lie deeply lodg'd, and view the horrid scene!
View all the wounds, and every fatal dart
That sticks and rankles in my bleeding heart!
No more, ye fwains, Love's harmless anger fear,
For he has empty'd all his quiver here.
Nor thou, kind Damon, ask me why I grieve,
But rather wonder, wonder that I live.
Unhappy youth! too well, alas! I know The pangs defpairing lovers undergo!
young Alexis faw
Cælia to all the plain give law,
The haughty Calia, in whofe face
Love dwelt with Fear, and Pride with Grace ;
When every fwain he faw fubmit
To her commanding eyes and wit,
How could th' ambitious youth aspire
To perish by a nobler fire?
With all the power of verse he strove
The lovely fhepherdess to move :
Verfe, in which the Gods delight,
That makes nymphs love, and heroes fight;
Verfe, that once rul'd all the plain,
Verfe, the wishes of a fwain.
How oft has Thyrfis' pipe prevail'd,
Where Egon's flocks and herds have fail'd?
Fair Amaryllis, was thy mind
Ever to Damon's wealth inclin'd;
Whilft Lycidas 's gentle breast,
With Love, and with a Mufe poffeft,
Breath'd forth in verfe his foft defire,
Kindling in thee his gentle fire?
MISTRESS of all my fenfes can invite,
Free as the air, and unconfin'd as light;
Queen of a thousand slaves that fawn and bow,
And, with fubmiffive fear, my power allow,
Shoul I exchange this noble ftate of life
To gain the vile detested name of Wife;
Should I my native liberty betray,
Call him my lord, who at my footstool lay?
No thanks, kind heaven, that haft my foul employ'd, With my great fex's ufeful virtue, Pride.
That generous pride, that noble just disdain,
That fcorns the flave that would prefume to reign.
Let the raw amorous fcribbler of the times
Call me his Cælia in infipid rhymes;
I hate and fcorn you all, proud that I am
T revenge my fex's injuries on man.
Compar'd to all the plagues in marriage dwell,
It were preferment to lead apes in hell.
TO SOME DISBANDED OFFICERS, Upon the late Vote of the House of Commons.
HAVE we for this ferv'd full nine hard campaigns ?
Is this the recompence for all our pains?
Have we to the remotest parts been sent,
Bravely expos'd our lives, and fortunes spent,
To be undone at laft by Parliament ?
Must colonels and corporals now be equal made,
And flaming fword turn'd pruning knife and fpade?
T---b, S---, F---, and thousands more,
Muft now return to what they were before.
No more in glittering coaches fhall they ride,
No more the feathers fhew the coxcombs' pride.
For thee, poor
! my Mufe does kindly weep,
To fee disbanded colonels grown fo cheap.
So younger brothers with fat jointures fed,
Go defpicable, once their widows dead.
No ship, by tempeft from her anchor torn,
Is half so lost a thing, and so forlorn.
On every fall, in every broker's fhop,
Hang up the plumes of the dismantled fop;
Trophies like these we read not of in story,
By other ways the Romans got their glory.
But in this, as in all things, there's a doom,
Some die i' th' field, and others ftarve at home.
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