OF

TO HIS BOOK.

Go, little Book, and to the world impart
The faithful image of an amorous heart.
Those who love's dear deluding pains have known,
May in my fatal stories read their own.
Those who have liv'd from all its torments free,
May find the thing they never felt, by me:
Perhaps, advis'd, avoid the gilded bait,
And, warn'd by my example, shun my fate;
While with calm joy, safe landed on the coast,
I view the waves on which I once was tost.
Love is a medley of endearments, jars,
Suspicions, quarrels, reconcilements, wars;
Then peace again. Oh! would it not be best
To chase the fatal poison from our breast?
But, since so few can live from passion free,
Happy the man, and only happy he,
Who with such lucky stars begins his love,
That his cool judgment does his choice approve.
Ill-grounded passions quickly wear away;
What 's built upon esteem can ne'er decay.

The lawyer, to reward his tedious care,
Roars on the bench, that babbled at the bar:
While I take pains to meet a fate more hard,
And reap no fruit, no favour, no reward.

EPIGRAM.

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S TABLE-BOOK.

WITH what strange raptures would my soul be blest,
Were but her book an emblem of her breast!
As I from that all former marks efface,
And, uncontrol'd, put new ones in their place;
So might I chase all others from her heart,
And my own image in the stead impart.
But, ah! how short the bliss would prove, if he
Who seiz'd it next, might do the same by me!

ELEGY.

THE UNREWARDED LOVER.

LET the dull merchant curse his angry fate, And from the winds and waves his fortune wait: Let the loud lawyer break his brains, and be A slave to wrangling coxcombs, for a fee: Let the rough soldier fight his prince's foes, And for a livelihood his life expose: I wage no war, I plead no cause, but Love's; I fear no storms but what Celinda moves. And what grave censor cau my choice despise? But here, fair charmer, here the difference lies: The merchant, after all his hazards past, Enjoys the fruit of his long toils at last; The soldier high in his king's favour stands, And, after having long obey'd, commands;

ELEGY.

THE POWER OF VERSE.

TO HIS MISTRESS.

WHILE those bright eyes subdue where'er you will,
And, as you please, can either save or kill;
What youth so bold the conquest to design?
What wealth so great to purchase hearts like thine?
None but the Musé that privilege can claim,
And what you give in love, return in fame.
Riches and titles with your life must end;
Nay, cannot ev'n in life your fame defend:
Verse can give fame, can fading beauties save,
And after death redeem them from the grave:
Embalm'd in verse, through distant times they come,
Preserv'd, like bees, within an amber tomb.
Poets (like monarchs on an eastern throne,
Restrain'd by nothing but their will alone)
Here can cry up, and there as boldly blame,
And, as they please, give infamy or fame.

In vain the Tyrian queen' resigns her life,
For the bright glory of a spotless wife,
If lving bards may false amours rehearse,
And blast her name with arbitrary verse;
While one, who all the absence of her lord
Had her wide courts with pressing lovers stor❜d,
Yet, by a poet grac'd, in deathless rhymes,
Stands a chaste pattern to succeeding times.
With pity then the Muses' friends survey,
Nor think your favours there are thrown away;
Wisely like seed on fruitful soil they 're thrown,
To bring large crops of glory and renown:
For as the Sun, that in the marshes breeds
Nothing but nauseous and unwholesome weeds,
With the same rays, on rich and pregnant earth,
To pleasant flowers and useful fruits gives birth:
So favours cast on fools get only shame,
On poets shed, produce eternal fame,
Their generous breasts warm with a genial fire,
And more than all the Muses can inspire.

Ye gods! she weeps; behold that falling shower!
See how her eyes are quite dissolv'd in tears!
Can she in vain that precious torrent pour?
Oh, no, it bears away my doubts and fears:
'Twas pity sure that made it flow:
For the same pity, stop it now;

For every charming, heavenly drop, that from those eyes does part,

Is paid with streams of blood, that gush from my o'erflowing heart.

Yes, I will love; I will believe you true,

And raise my passions up as high as e'er; Nay, I'll believe you false, yet love you too, Let the least sign of penitence appear. I'll frame excuses for your fault, Think you surpris'd, or meanly caught; Nay in the fury, in the height of that abhorr'd embrace,

Believe you thought, believe at least you wish'd, me in the place.

Oh, let me lie whole ages in those arms,
And on that bosom lull asleep my cares:
Forgive those foolish fears of fancy'd harms,
That stab my soul, while they but move thy
And think, unless I lov'd thee still, [tears;
I had not treated thee so ill; [certain signs
For these rude pangs of jealousy are much more
Of love, than all the tender words an amorous
fancy coins.

Torment me with this horrid rage no more;
Oh smile, and grant one reconciling kiss!
Ye gods, she 's kind! I'm ecstasy all o'er!
My soul's too narrow to contain the bliss.
Thou pleasing torture of my breast,

Sure thou wert fram'd to plague my rest, Since both the ill and good you do, alike my peace destroy;

That kills me with excess of grief, this with excess of joy.

CURE OF JEALOUSY. WHAT tortures can there be in Hell, Compar'd to what fond lovers feel, When, doating on some fair one's charms, They think she yields them to their rival's arms?

As lions, though they once were tame,
Yet if sharp wounds their rage inflame,
Lift up their stormy voices, roar,
And tear the keepers they obey'd before:
So fares the lover when his breast
By jealous phrenzy is possest;
Forswears the nymph for whom he burns,
Yet straight to her whom he forswears returns.

But when the fair resolves his doubt,
The love comes in, the fear goes out;
The cloud of Jealousy 's dispell'd,
And the bright sun of Innocence reveal'd.

With what strange raptures is he blest!
Raptures too great to be exprest,
Though hard the torment 's to endure,
Who would not have the sickness for the cure?

SONNET.

DEATH.

WHAT has this bugbear, Death, that's worth our
After a life in pain and sorrow past,
[care?
After deluding hope and dire despair,
Death only gives us quiet at the last.

How strangely are our love and hate misplac'd!
Freedom we seek, and yet from freedom flee;
Courting those tyrant-sins that chain us fast,

And shunning Death, that only sets us free. [stains?) 'Tis not a foolish fear of future pains, (Why should they fear who keep their souls from That makes me dread thy terrours, Death, to see: 'Tis not the loss of riches, or of fame,

Or the vain toys the vulgar pleasures name; 'Tis nothing, Cælia, but the losing thee.

ELEGY.

TO HIS FALSE MISTRESS.

CALIA, your tricks will now no longer pass,
And I'm no more the fool that once I was.
I know my happier rival does obtain
All the vast bliss for which I sigh in vain.
Him, him you love, to me you use your art;
I had your looks, another had your heart:
To me you 're sick, to me of spies afraid;
He finds your sickness gone, your spies betray'd:
I sigh beneath your window all the night;
He in your arms possesses the delight.

I know you treat me thus, false fair, I do;
And, oh! what plagues me worse, he knows it too;
To him my sighs are told, my letters shown,
And all my pains are his diversion grown.
Yet, since you could such horrid treasons act,
I'm pleas'd you chose out him to do the fact:
His vanity does for my wrongs atone,
And 'tis by that I have your falsehood known.
What shall I do? for treated at this rate,
I must not love, and yet I cannot hate:
I hate the actions, but I love the face:
Oh, were thy virtue more, or beauty less!
I'm all confusion, and my soul 's on fire,
Torn by contending Reason and Desire;
This bids me love, that bids me love give o'er,
One counsels best, the other pleases more.
I know I ought to hate you for your fault,
But, oh! I cannot do the thing I ought.

Canst thou, mean wretch! canst thou contented prove
With the cold relics of a rival's love?

Why did I see that face to charm my breast?
Or, having seen, why did I know the rest?
Gods! if I have obey'd your just commands,
If I've deserv'd some favour of your hands;
Make me that tame, that easy fool again,
And rid me of my knowledge and my pain:
And you, false fair! for whom so oft I've griev'd,
Pity a wretch that begs to be deceiv'd;
Forswear yourself for one who dies for you,
Vow, not a word of the whole charge was true;
But scandals all, and forgeries, devis'd
By a vain wretch neglected and despis'd.

I too will help to forward the deceit,
And, to my power, contribute to the cheat.

And thou, bold man, who think'st to rival me,
For thy presumption I could pardon thee;
I could forgive thy lying in her arms,
I could forgive thy rifling all her charms:
But, oh! I never can forgive the tongue
That boasts her favours, and proclaims my wrong.

UPON THE SAME OCCASION.

WHAT fury does disturb my rest?
What Hell is this within my breast?
Now I abhor, and now I love;
And each an equal torment prove.
I see Celinda's cruelty,

I see she loves all men but me;

I see her falsehood, see her pride,

I see ten thousand faults beside;

I see she sticks at nought that 's ill;
Yet, oh ye powers! I love her still.
Others on precipices run,

Which, blind with love, they cannot shun:

I see my danger, see my ruin;

Yet seek, yet court, my own undoing:
And each new reason I explore

To hate her, makes me love her more.

THE ANTIDOTE.

WHEN I see the bright nymph who my heart does entral,

When I view her soft eyes, and her languishing Her merit so great, my own merit so small, [air, It makes me adore, and it makes me despair.

But when I consider, she squanders on fools

All those treasures of beauty with which she is My fancy it damps, my passion it cools, [stor'd;

And it makes me despise what before I ador'd.

Thus sometimes I despair, and sometimes I despise:
I love, and I hate, but I never esteem:
The passion grows up when I view her bright eyes,
Which my rivals destroy when I look upon them!

How wisely does Nature things so different unite?
In such odd compositions our safety is found;
As the blood of a scorpion 's a cure for the bite,
So her folly makes whole whom her beauty does
wound.

UPON A FAVOUR OFFERED.
CELIA, too late you would repent;
The offering all your store,
Is now but like a pardon sent
To one that 's dead before.

While at the first you cruel prov'd,
And grant the bliss too late;
You hinder'd me of one I lov'd,

To give me one I hate.

I thought you innocent as fair,
When first my court I made;
But when your falsehoods plain appear,
My love no longer stay'd.

Your bounty of those favours shown,
Whose worth you first deface,
Is melting valued medals down,
And giving us the brass.

Oh, since the thing we beg 's a toy
That 's priz'd by love alone,
Why cannot women grant the joy,
Before our love is gone?

But, oh! they see not with their own,

All things to them are through false optics shown. Love at the first does all your charms increase, When the tube 's turn'd, hate represents them less.

LOVER.

Whate'er may come, I will not grieve

For dangers that I can't believe. She 'll ne'er cease loving me; or if she do, 'Tis ten to one I cease to love her too.

THE RECONCILEMENT.
BE gone, ye sighs! be gone, ye tears!
Be gone, ye jealousies and fears!
Celinda swears she never lov'd,
Celinda swears none ever mov'd
Her heart, but I; if this be true,
Shall I keep
p company with you?
What though a senseless rival swore
She said as much to him before?
What though I saw him in her bed?

I'll trust not what I saw, but what she said.
Curse on the prudent and the wise,

Who ne'er believe such pleasing lies:
I grant she only does deceive;

I grant 'tis folly to believe;

But by this folly I vast pleasures gain, While you with all your wisdom live in pain.

DIALOGUE

BETWEEN A LOVER AND HIS FRIEND. [IRREGULAR VERSES.]

FRIEND.

VALUE thyself, fond youth, no more
On favours Mulus had before;
He had her first, her virgin flame,
You like a bold intruder came
To the cold relics of a feast,

When he at first had seiz'd the best.

LOVER.

When he, dull sot, had seiz'd the worse,
I came in at the second course;
'Tis chance that first makes people love,
Judgment their riper fancies move.
Mulus, you say, first charm'd her eyes;
First, she lov'd babies and dirt-pies;
But she grew wiser, and in time

Found out the folly of those toys and him.

FRIEND.

If wisdom change in love begets,
Women, no doubt, are wondrous wits.

But wisdom that now makes her change to you,
In time will make her change to others too.

LOVER.

I grant you no man can foresee his doom;
But shall I grieve because an ill may come?
Yet I'll allow her change, when she can see
A man deserves her more than me,
As much as I deserve her more than he.

FRIEND.

Did they with our own eyes see our desert, No woman e'er could from her lover part.

EPIGRAM.

LYCE.

"Co," said old Lyce, "senseless lover, go,
And with soft verses court the fair; but know,
With all thy verses, thou canst get no more.
Than fools without one verse have had before."
Enrag'd at this, upon the bawd I flew,

And that which most enrag'd me was, 'twas true.

THE FAIR MOURNER.

In what sad pomp the mournful charmer lies!
Does she lament the victim of her eyes?
Or would she hearts with soft compassion move,
To make them take the deeper stamp of Love?
What youth so wise, so wary to escape,
When Rigour comes, drest up in Pity's shape?
Let not in vain those precious tears be shed,
Pity the dying fair-one, not the dead;
While you unjustly of the Fates complain,
I grieve as much for you, as much in vain.
Each to relentless judges make their moan;
Blame not Death's cruelty, but cease your own.
While raging passion both our souls does wound,
A sovereign balm might sure for both be found;
Would you but wipe your fruitless tears away,
And with a just compassion mine survey.

EPIGRAM.

TO HIS FALSE MISTRESS.

THOU saidst that I alone thy heart could move,
And that for me thou wouldst abandon Jove.
I lov'd thee then, not with a love defil'd,
But as a father loves his only child.

I know thee now, and though I fiercelier burn,
Thou art become the object of my scorn:
See what thy falsehood gets; I must confess
I love thee more, but I esteem thee less.

EPIGRAM.

LOVE AND JEALOUSY.

How much are they deceiv'd who vainly strive
By jealous fears to keep our flames alive!
Love 's like a torch, which, if secur'd from blasts,
Will faintlier burn, but then it longer lasts:
Expos'd to storms of jealousy and doubt,
The blaze grows greater, but 'tis sooner out.