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That rob in clans, like men o' th' Highland; Of apes that storm or keep a town,

As well almost as Count Lauzun;

Of unicorns and alligators,

Elks, mermaids, mummies, witches, satyrs,
And twenty other stranger matters;
Which, though they're things I've no concern in,
Make all our grooms admire my learning.
Critics I read on other men,

And hypers upon them again;
From whose remarks I give opinion
On twenty books, yet ne'er look in one.
Then all your wits that fleer and sham,
Down from Don Quixote to Tom Tram;
From whom I jests and puns purloin,
And slily put them off for mine:
Fond to be thought a country wit:
The rest-when fate and you think fit.
Sometimes I climb my mare, and kick her
To bottled ale, and neighbouring vicar;
Sometimes at Stamford take a quart,
Squire Shephard's health-With all my heart.
Thus without much delight or grief,
I fool away an idle life:

Till Shadwell from the town retires
(Chok'd up with fame and sea-coal fires)
To bless the wood with peaceful lyric:
Then hey for praise and panegyric;
Justice restor'd, and nations freed,
And wreaths round William's glorious head.


HON. CHARLES MONTAGUE, ESQ. AFTERWARDS EARL OF HALIFAX. Howe'er, 'tis well, that while mankind Through fate's perverse meander errs, He can imagin'd pleasures find,

To combat against real cares.

Fancies and notions he pursues,

Which ne'er had being but in thought; Each, like the Grecian artist, woo8 The image he himself has wrought.

Against experience he believes;

He argues against demonstration; Pleas'd, when his reason he deceives; And sets his judgment by his passion. The hoary fool, who many days

Has struggled with continued sorrow, Renews his hope, and blindly lays

The desperate bet upon tomorrow. Tomorrow comes; 'tis noon, 'tis night; This day like all the former flies: Yet on he runs, to seek delight

Tomorrow, till to-night he dies.

Our hopes, like towering falcons, aim At objects in an airy height:

The little pleasure of the game

Is from afar to view the flight.

Our anxious pains we, all the day,
In search of what we like, employ:
Scorning at night the worthless prey,
We find the labour gave the joy.

At distance through an artful glass

To the mind's eye things well appear: They lose their forms, and make a mass Confus'd and black if brought too near.

If we see right, we see our woes: Then what avails it to have eyes? From ignorance our comfort flows:

The only wretched are the wise.

We wearied should lie down in death:

This cheat of life would take no more; If you thought fame but empty breath, I Phillis but a perjur'd whore.


Celia and I the other day
Walk'd o'er the sand-hills to the sea:
The setting sun adorn'd the coast,
His beams entire, his fierceness lost :
And, on the surface of the deep,
The winds lay only not asleep.
The nymph did like the scene appear,
Serenely pleasant, calmly fair:
Soft fell her words, as flew the air.
With secret joy I heard her say,
That she would never miss one day
A walk so fine, a sight so gay.

But, oh the change! the winds grow high;
Impending tempests charge the sky :
The lightning flies, the thunder roars;
And big waves lash the frighten'd shores.
Struck with the horror of the sight,
She turns her head, and wings her flight:
And, trembling, vows she'll ne'er again
Approach the shore, or view the main.

Once more at least look back, said I,
Thyself in that large glass descry:
When thou art in good-humour drest;
When gentle reason rules thy breast;
The sun upon the calmest sea
Appears not half so bright as thee:
'Tis then that with delight I rove
Upon thy boundless depth of love :
I bless my chain; I hand my oar;
Nor think on all I left on shore,

But when vain doubt and groundless fear
Do that dear foolish bosom tear ;
When the big lip and watery eye
Tell me, the rising storm is nigh;
'Tis then, thou art yon angry main,
Deform'd by winds, and dash'd by rain;

And the poor sailor, that must try
Its fury, labours less than I.

Shipwreck'd, in vain to land I make,
While love and fate still drive me back :
Forc'd to dote on thee thy own way,
I chide thee first, and then obey.
Wretched when from thee, vex'd when nigh,
I with thee, or without thee, die.

Beneath a myrtle's verdant shade
As Cloe half asleep was laid,
Cupid perch'd lightly on her breast,
And in that heaven desir'd to rest:
Over her paps his wings he spread:
Between he found a downy bed,
And nestled in his little head.

Still lay the god: the nymph, surpris'd,
Yet mistress of herself, devis'd
How she the vagrant might enthral,
And captive him, who captives all.

Her bodice half-way she unlac'd;
About his arms she slily cast
The silken bond, and held him fast.

The god awak'd; and thrice in vain
He strove to break the cruel chain;
And thrice in vain he shook his wing,
Incumber'd in the silken string.
Fluttering the god, and weeping, said,
Pity poor Cupid, generous maid,
Who happen'd, being blind, to stray,
And on thy bosom lost his way;
Who stray'd, alas! but knew too well,
He never there must hope to dwell:
Set an unhappy prisoner free,
Who ne'er intended harm to thee.

To me pertains not, she replies,
To know or care where Cupid flies;
What are his haunts, or which his way;
Where he would dwell, or whither stray:
Yet will I never set thee free;

For harm was meant, and harm to me.
Vain fears that vex thy virgin heart!
I'll give thee up my bow and dart;
Untangle but this cruel chain,
And freely let me fly again.

Agreed secure my virgin heart:
Instant give up thy bow and dart:
The chain I'll in return untie;
And freely thou again shalt fly.
Thus she the captive did deliver;
The captive thus gave up his quiver.
The god disarm'd, e'er since that day,
Passes his life in harmless play;
Flies round, or sits upon her breast,
A little, fluttering, idle guest.

E'er since that day, the beauteous maid Governs the world in Cupid's stead; Directs his arrow as she wills;

Gives grief, or pleasure; spares, or kills.

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She sigh'd; she smil'd: and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said;
See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder, what a change is made.

Ah me! the blooming pride of May,

And that of Beauty, are but one:
At morn both flourish bright and gay;
Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.

At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung;
The amorous youth around her bow'd:
At night her fatal knell was rung;

I saw, and kiss'd her in her shroud.

Such as she is, who died today;

Such I, alas! may be tomorrow: Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display The justice of thy Cloe's sorrow.


Miss Danaë, when fair and young,
(As Horace has divinely sung)
Could not be kept from Jove's embrace
By doors of steel, and walls of brass.
The reason of the thing is clear,
Would Jove the naked truth aver.
Cupid was with him of the party;
And show'd himself sincere and hearty;
For, give that whipster but his errand,
He takes my lord chief justice' warrant;
Dauntless as death away he walks:
Breaks the doors open, snaps the locks;
Searches the parlour, chamber, study;
Nor stops till he has culprit's body.

Since this has been authentic truth,
By age deliver'd down to youth;
Tell us, mistaken husband, tell us,
Why so mysterious, why so jealous?
Does the restraint, the bolt, the bar,
Make us less curious, her less fair?
The spy, which does this treasure keep,
Does she ne'er say her prayers, nor sleep?
Does she to no excess incline?
Does she fly music, mirth, and wine?
Or have not gold and flattery power
To purchase one unguarded hour?

Your care does further yet extend:
That spy is guarded by your friend.
But has this friend nor eye nor heart?
May he not feel the cruel dart,
Which, soon or late, all mortals feel?
May he not, with too tender zeal,
Give the fair prisoner cause to see
How much he wishes she were free?
May he not craftily infer

The rules of friendship too severe,
Which chain him to a hated trust;
Which make him wretched, to be just?
And may not she, this darling she,
Youthful and healthy, flesh and blood,

Easy with him, ill us'd by thee, Allow this logic to be good?

Sir, will your questions never end?
I trust to neither spy nor friend.
In short, I keep her from the sight
Of every human face.-She'll write.-
From pen and paper she's debarr'd.-
Has she a bodkin and a card?
She'll prick her mind.—She will, you say:
But how shall she that mind convey?

I keep her in one room: I lock it:
The key (look here) is in this pocket.
The key-hole, is that left? Most certain.
She'll thrust her letter through.-Sir Martin.
Dear angry friend, what must be done?
Is there no way ?-There is but one.
Send her abroad: and let her see,
That all this mingled mass, which she,
Being forbidden, longs to know,
Is a dull farce, an empty show,
Powder, and pocket-glass, and beau;
A staple of romance and lies,
False tears and real perjuries:

Where sighs and looks are bought and sold,
And love is made but to be told;
Where the fat bawd and lavish heir
The spoils of ruin'd beauty share;

And youth, seduc'd from friends and fame,
Must give up age to want and shame.
Let her behold the frantic scene,
The women wretched, false the men:
And when, these certain ills to shun,
She would to thy embraces run;
Receive her with extended arms,
Seem more delighted with her charms;
Wait on her to the park and play,
Put on good-humour; make her gay;
Be to her virtues very kind;
Be to her faults a little blind;
Let all her ways be unconfin'd;
And clap your padlock—on her mind.


Hans Carvel, impotent and old,
Married a lass of London mould:
Handsome? enough; extremely gay:
Lov'd music, company, and play:
High flights she had, and wit at will;
And so her tongue lay seldom still:
For in all visits who but she,

To argue or to repartee?

She made it plain, that human passion Was order'd by predestination; That, if weak women went astray, Their stars were more in fault than they : Whole tragedies she had by heart;

Enter'd into Roxana's part:

To triumph in her rival's blood,
The action certainly was good.
How like a vine young Ammon curl'd!

Oh that dear conqueror of the world!
She pitied Betterton in age,
That ridicul'd the god-like rage.

She, first of all the town, was told,
Where newest India things were sold:
So in a morning, without bodice,
Slipt sometimes out to Mrs. Thody's;
To cheapen tea, to buy a screen:

What else could so much virtue mean?
For, to prevent the least reproach,
Betty went with her in the coach.

But, when no very great affair
Excited her peculiar care,

She without fail was wak'd at ten;
Drank chocolate, then slept again:
At twelve she rose; with much ado
Her clothes were huddled on by two;
Then, does my lady dine at home?
Yes, sure!-But is the colonel come?
Next, how to spend the afternoon,
And not come home again too soon;
The Change, the city, or the play,
As each was proper for the day:
A turn in summer to Hyde-park,
When it grew tolerably dark.

Wife's pleasure causes husband's pain:
Strange fancies come in Haus's brain:
He thought of what he did not name;
And would reform, but durst not blame.
At first he therefore preach'd his wife
The comforts of a pious life:

Told her, how transient beauty was;
That all must die, and flesh was grass:

He bought her sermons, psalms, and graces;
And doubled down the useful places.
But still the weight of worldly care
Allow'd her little time for prayer:
And Cleopatra was read o'er;

While Scot, and Wake, and twenty more,
That teach one to deny one's self,
Stood unmolested on the shelf.
An untouch'd Bible grac'd her toilet;

No fear that thumb of her's should spoil it.
In short, the trade was still the same:
The dame went out: the colonel came.
What's to be done? poor Carvel cry'd:
Another battery must be try'd:
What if to spells I had recourse?
"Tis but to hinder something worse.
The end must justify the means;
He only sins who ill intends:
Since therefore 'tis to combat evil;
'Tis lawful to employ the devil.

Forthwith the devil did appear
(For name him and he's always near):
Not in the shape in which he plies
At miss's elbow when she lies;
Or stands before the nursery doors,
To take the naughty boy that roars:
But, without saucer-eye or claw,
Like a grave barrister at law.

Hans Carvel, lay aside your grief,

The devil says; I bring relief.
Relief! says Hans: pray, let me crave
Your name, Sir?-Satan-Sir, your slave;
I did not look upon your feet:

You'll pardon me :-Ay, now I see't:
And pray, Sir, when came you from hell?
Our friends there, did you leave them well?
All well; but pr'ythee, honest Hans,
(Says Satan) leave your complaisance :
The truth is this; I cannot stay
Flaring in sunshine all the day:
For, entre nous, we hellish sprites
Love more the fresco of the nights;
And oftener our receipts convey
In dreams, than any other way.

I tell you therefore as a friend,

Ere morning dawns, your fears shall end: Go then this evening, master Carvel,

Lay down your fowls, and broach your barrel;
Let friends and wine dissolve your care;
Whilst I the great receipt prepare:
To-night I'll bring it, by my faith!
Believe for once what Satan saith.
Away went Hans; glad? not a little;
Obey'd the devil to a tittle;

Invited friends some half a dozen,

The colonel and my lady's cousin.

The meat was serv'd; the bowls were crown'd;
Catches were sung: and healths went round;
Barbadoes waters for the close;

Till Hans had fairly got his dose :
The colonel toasted" to the best:"
The dame mov'd off, to be undrest:

The chimes went twelve: the guests withdrew:
But, when, or how, Hans hardly knew.
Some modern anecdotes aver,

He nodded in his elbow chair;
From thence was carried off to bed,
John held his heels, and Nan his head.
My lady was disturb'd: new sorrow!
Which Hans must answer for tomorrow.

In bed then view this happy pair;
And think how Hymen triumph'd there.
Hans fast asleep as soon as laid;
The duty of the night unpaid:
The waking dame, with thoughts opprest,
That made her hate both him and rest:
By such a husband, such a wife!
'Twas Acme's and Septimius' life:
The lady sigh'd: the lover snor'd:
The punctual devil kept his word:
Appear'd to honest Hans again;
But not at all by madam seen:
And giving him a magic ring,
Fit for the finger of a king;
Dear Hans, said he, this jewel take,
And wear it long for Satan's sake:
"Twill do your business to a hair:
For, long as you this ring shall wear,

As sure as I look over Lincoln,

That ne'er shall happen which you think on.
Hans took the ring with joy extreme

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