TO A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR,

A PERSON OF HONOUR, WHO LATELY WRIT A RELIGIOUS

BOOK, ENTITLED, HISTORICAL APPLICATIONS, AND OCCASIONAL MEDITATIONS, UPON SEVERAL SUBJECTS.'1

BOLD is the man that dares engage

For piety in such an age!

Who can presume to find a guard

From scorn, when Heaven's so little spared?

Divines are pardon'd; they defend

Altars on which their lives depend;

But the profane impatient are,

When nobler pens make this their care;
For why should these let in a beam
Of divine light to trouble them,

And call in doubt their pleasing thought,
That none believes what we are taught?
High birth and fortune warrant give
That such men write what they believe;
And, feeling first what they indite,
New credit give to ancient light.
Amongst these few, our author brings
His well-known pedigree from kings.2
This book, the image of his mind,
Will make his name not hard to find;
I wish the throng of great and good
Made it less eas❜ly understood!

10

20

'Several subjects': supposed to be Lord Berkeley. It contained testimonies of celebrated men to the value of religion.- Pedigree from kings': the Earl

of Berkeley was descended from the royal house of Denmark.

TO THE DUCHESS OF ORLEANS,

WHEN SHE WAS TAKING LEAVE OF THE COURT AT DOVER.1

THAT sun of beauty did among us rise;

England first saw the light of your fair eyes;

In English, too, your early wit was shown;
Favour that language, which was then your own,

When, though a child, through guards you made your

way;

What fleet or army could an angel stay?

Thrice happy Britain! if she could retain

Whom she first bred within her ambient main.
Our late burnt London, in apparel new,

Shook off her ashes to have treated you;
But we must see our glory snatch'd away,
And with warm tears increase the guilty sea;
No wind can favour us; howe'er it blows,

We must be wreck'd, and our dear treasure lose!
Sighs will not let us half our sorrows tell,—
Fair, lovely, great, and best of nymphs, farewell!

10

TO CHLORIS.

CHLORIS! what's eminent, we know
Must for some cause be valued so;
Things without use, though they be good,

Are not by us so understood.

The early rose, made to display

Her blushes to the youthful May,

'Court at Dover': the Duchess of Orleans, the youngest daughter of Charles I., came to England on the 14th May 1670, on a political mission.

TO MR CREECH,

6

ON HIS TRANSLATION OF LUCRETIUS.'

WHAT all men wish'd, though few could hope to see,
We are now bless'd with, and obliged by thee.
Thou, from the ancient, learned Latin store,
Giv'st us one author, and we hope for more.
May they enjoy thy thoughts!-Let not the stage
The idlest moment of thy hours engage;

Each year that place some wondrous monster breeds,
And the wits' garden is o'errun with weeds.
There, Farce is Comedy; bombast called strong;
Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
"Tis hard to say they steal them now-a-days;
For sure the ancients never wrote such plays.
These scribbling insects have what they deserve,
Not plenty, nor the glory for to starve.
That Spenser knew, that Tasso felt before;
And death found surly Ben exceeding poor.
Heaven turn the omen from their image here!
May he with joy the well-placed laurel wear!
Great Virgil's happier fortune may he find,
And be our Cæsar, like Augustus, kind!

But let not this disturb thy tuneful head;
Thou writ'st for thy delight, and not for bread;
Thou art not cursed to write thy verse with care;
But art above what other poets fear.

What may we not expect from such a hand,
That has, with books, himself at free command?
Thou know'st in youth, what age has sought in vain;
And bring'st forth sons without a mother's pain.
So easy is thy sense, thy verse so sweet,

Thy words so proper, and thy phrase so fit,

30

Lucretius': this piece is not contained in Anderson, or the edition of 1693.

We read, and read again; and still admire

31

Whence came this youth, and whence this wondrous fire!

Pardon this rapture, sir! but who can be

Cold, and unmoved, yet have his thoughts on thee?

Thy goodness may my several faults forgive,
And by your help these wretched lines may live.
But if, when view'd by your severer sight,

They seem unworthy to behold the light,

Let them with speed in deserv'd flames be thrown!
They'll send no sighs, nor murmur out a groan;
But, dying silently, your justice own.

40

SONGS.

STAY, PHOEBUS!

1 STAY, Phœbus! stay;

The world to which you fly so fast,
Conveying day

From us to them, can pay your haste

With no such object, nor salute your rise,
With no such wonder as De Mornay's eyes.

2 Well does this prove

The error of those antique books,
Which made you move

About the world; her charming looks

Would fix your beams, and make it ever day,

Did not the rolling earth snatch her away.

PEACE, BABBLING MUSE!

1 PEACE, babbling Muse!

I dare not sing what you indite;
Her eyes refuse

To read the passion which they write.
She strikes my lute, but, if it sound,
Threatens to hurl it on the ground;
And I no less her anger dread,

Than the poor wretch that feigns him dead,
While some fierce lion does embrace
His breathless corpse, and lick his face;
Wrapp'd up in silent fear he lies,
Torn all in pieces if he cries.

CHLORIS! FAREWELL.

1 CHLORIS! farewell. I now must go; For if with thee I longer stay,

Thy eyes prevail upon me so,

I shall prove blind, and lose my way.

2 Fame of thy beauty, and thy youth,

Among the rest, me hither brought; Finding this fame fall short of truth,

Made me stay longer than I thought.

3 For I'm engaged by word and oath,
A servant to another's will;
Yet, for thy love, I'd forfeit both,
Could I be sure to keep it still.