Whether these lines do find you out,
Putting or clearing of a doubt;
(Whether Predestination,
Or reconciling Three in One,
Or the unriddling how men die,
And live at once eternally,
Now take you up) know 'tis decreed
You straight bestride the college steed.
Leave Socinus and the schoolmen,
(Which Jack Bond swears do but fool men)
And come to town; 'tis fit you shew
Yourself abroad, that men may know
(Whate'er some learned men have guest)
That oracles are not yet ceas'd:
There you shall find the wit and wine
Flowing alike, and both divine:
Dishes, with names not known in books,
And less amongst the college cooks,
With sauce so poignant that you need
Not stay till hunger bids you feed.
The sweat of learned Jonson's brain,
And gentle Shakespear's easier strain
A hackney-coach conveys you to,
In spite of all that rain can do:
And for your eighteen-pence you sit
The lord and judge of all fresh wit.
News in one day as much as we've here
As serves all Windsor for a year;

And which the carrier brings to you,
After t' has here been found not true.
Then think what company's design'd
To meet you here, men so refin'd,
Their very common talk at board,
Makes wise, or mad, a young court lord:
And makes him capable to be
Umpire in's father's company.
Where no disputes nor forc'd defence
Of a man's person for his sense

DETRACTION EXECRATED.

Thou vermin slander, bred in abject minds,
Of thoughts impure, by vile tongues animate,
Canker of conversation! could'st thou find
Nought but our love whereon to shew thy hate?
Thou never wert, when we two were alone;
What canst thou witness then? thou base dull aid
Wast useless in our conversation,

Where each meant more than could by both be said.
Whence hadst thou thy intelligence, from earth?
That part of us ne'er knew that we did love;
Or from the air: our gentle sighs had birth
From such sweet raptures as to joy did move:
Our thoughts, as pure as the chaste morning's breath,
When from the night's cold arms it creeps away,
Were cloth'd in words; and maiden's blush that hath
More purity, more innocence than they.
Nor from the water could'st thou have this tale,
No briny tear has furrow'd her smooth cheek;
And I was pleas'd, I pray what should he ail
That had her love, for what else could he seek?

We short'ned days to moments by Love's art,
Whilst our two souls in amorous ecstasy
Perceiv'd no passing time, as if a part
Our love had been of still eternity;
Much less could have it from the purer fire,
Our heat exhales no vapour from coarse sense,
Such as are hopes, or fears, or fond desire;
Our mutual love itself did recompense:
Thou hast no correspondence had in heav'n,
And th' elemental world, thou see'st, is free:
Whence hadst thou then this, talking monster? even
From hell, a harbour fit for it and thee.
Curst be th' officious tongue that did address
Thee to her ears, to ruin my content:
May it one minute taste such happiness,
Deserving lost unpitied it lament!
I must forbear her sight, and so repay
In grief, those hours joy short'ned to a dream;
Each minute I will lengthen to a day,
And in one year outlive Methusalem.

Though of all those pleasures past
Nothing now remains at last
But remembrance (poor relief)
That more makes than mends my grief;
She's my mind's companion still,
Maugre envy's evil will;
Whence she should be driven too,
Were't in mortals' power to do.
She doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow;
Makes the desolatest place
To her presence be a grace;
And the blackest discontents
Be her fairest ornaments.
In my former days of bliss
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw
I could some invention draw,
And raise pleasure to her height
Through the meanest object's sight.
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustling,
By a daisy whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed,
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.
By her help I also now
Make this churlish place allow
Some things that may sweeten gladness
In the very gall of sadness.

The dull loneness, the black shade,
That these hanging vaults have made;
The strange music of the waves,
Beating on these hollow caves;
This black den which rocks emboss,
Overgrown with eldest moss;
The rude portals, which give light
More to terror than delight;
This my chamber of Neglect,
Wall'd about with Disrespect:
From all these, and this dull air,
A fit object for despair,
She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,
I will cherish thee for this;
Poesy, thou sweet's content
That e'er heaven to mortals lent,
Though they as a trifle leave thee,
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee;
Though thou be to them a scorn,
Who to nought but earth are born;
Let my life no longer be
Than I am in love with thee.
Though our wise ones call it madness,
Let me never taste of sadness,
If I love not thy madd'st fits
Above all their greatest wits.
And though some too seeming holy
Do account thy raptures folly,
Thou dost teach me to contemn
What make knaves and fools of them.

WALLER.]

ON MY LADY D. SYDNEY'S PICTURE.
Such was Philoclea, and such Dorus' flame!
The matchless Sydney that immortal frame
Of perfect beauty on two pillars plac'd:
Not his high fancy could one pattern, grac'd
With such extremes of excellence, compose;
Wonders so distant in one face disclose!

A

ch cheerful modesty, such humble state, As when, dig love, but with as doubtful fate Inviting fruit on too submedy reach, we see All the rich flow'rs through his is found, Amaz'd we see in this one garland bouna. Had but this copy (which the artist took From the fair picture of that noble book) Stood at Kalander's, the brave friends had jarr'd, And, rivals made, th' ensuing story marr'd. Just Nature, first instructed by his thought, In his own house thus practis'd what he taught. This glorious piece transcends what he could think, So much his blood is nobler than his ink!

PHEBUS AND DAPHNE.

Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain:
Like Phœbus sung the no less am'rous boy;
Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy!
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues,
With numbers such as Phœbus' self might use!
Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads,
O'er craggy mountains, and through flow'ry meads;
Invok'd to testify the lover's care,
Or form some image of his cruel fair,
Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer,

aut now apprching near,
Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay,
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay.
Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain:
All but the nymph that should redress his wrong,
Attend his passion, and approve his song.
Like Phœbus, thus acquiring unsought praise,
He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays.

AT PENSHURST.

Had Dorothea liv'd when mortals made
Choice of their deities, this sacred shade
Had held an altar to her pow'r that gave
The peace and glory which these alleys have;
Embroider'd so with flowers where she stood,
That it became a garden of a wood.
Her presence has such more than human grace,
That it can civilize the rudest place;
And beauty too, and order, can impart,
Where Nature ne'er intended it, nor art.
The plants acknowledge this, and her admire,
No less than those of old did Orpheus' lyre.
If she sit down, with tops all tow'rds her bow'd,
They round about her into arbours crowd;
Or if she walk, in even ranks they stand,
Like some well marshall'd and obsequious band.
Amphion so made stones and timber leap
Into fair figures from a confus'd heap:
And in the symmetry of her parts is found
A pow'r like that of harmony in sound.

Ye lofty beeches! tell this matchless dame,
That if together ye fed all one flame,
It could not equalize the hundredth part
Of what her eyes have kindled in my heart!-
Go, Boy, and carve this passion on the bark
Of yonder tree, which stands the sacred mark
Of noble Sydney's birth; when such benign,
Such more than mortal-making stars did shine,
That there they cannot but for ever prove
The monument and pledge of humble love;
His humble love whose hope shall ne'er rise higher
Than for a pardon that he dares admire.

OF LOVE.

Anger, in hasty words or blows,
Itself discharges on our foes;
And sorrow too finds some relief
In tears, which wait upon our grief:
So ev'ry passion, but fond love,
Unto its own redress does move;
But that alone the wretch inclines
To what prevents his own designs;
Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep,
Disorder'd, tremble, fawn, and creep;
Postures which render him despis'd,
Where he endeavours to be priz'd.
For women (born to be control'd)
Stoop to the forward and the bold;
Affect the haughty and the proud,
The gay, the frolic, and the loud.
Who first the gen'rous steed opprest,
Not kneeling did salute the beast;
But with high courage, life, and force,
Approaching, tam'd th' unruly horse.
Unwisely we the wiser East
Pity, supposing them opprest
With tyrants' force, whose law is will,
By which they govern, spoil, and kill:
Each nymph, but moderately fair,
Commands with no less rigour here.
Should some brave Turk, that walks among
His twenty lasses, bright and young,
And beckons to the willing dame,
Preferr'd to quench his present flame,
Behold as many gallants here,
With modest guise and silent fear,