IV.

If e'er I clear my heart from this defire,
If e'er it home to its breaft retire,

It ne'er fhall wander more about,

Tho' thousand beauties call'd it out:

A lover burnt like me for ever dreads the fire. 20

The pox,

V.

the plague, and ev'ry small disease,

May come as oft' as ill Fate please ;

But Death and Love are never found

To give a fecond wound:

We're by thofe ferpents bit, but we 're devour'd by

Left any elfe should quarter there,

Who has not only fack'd, but quite burnt down the

town.

30

ODES.

ODE. OF WIT.

I.

TELL me, O tell! what kind of thing is Wit,

Thou who mafter art of it:

For the first matter loves variety lefs;

Lefs women love it, either in love or dress:
A thousand diff'rent shapes it bears,
Comely in thousand shapes appears:
Yonder we faw it plain, and here 't is now,
Like spirits, in a place, we know not how.

II.

London, that vends of false ware so much store,

In no ware deceives us more:

For men, led by the colour and the shape,
Like Zeuxis' birds, fly to the painted grape.
Some things do thro' our judgment pass,

As thro' a multiplying-glass;

10

And sometimes, if the object be too far,
We take a falling meteor for a star.

15

III.

Hence 't is a Wit, that greatest word of Fame,
Grows fuch a common name;

And wits by our creation they become,

Just so as tit'lar bishops made at Rome.

20

Tis not a tale, 't is not a jeft,

Admir'd with laughter at a feast,

Nor florid talk, which can that title gain;
The proofs of Wit for ever must remain.

IV.

'Tis not to force fome lifeless verfes meet

25

With their five

gouty feet:

All ev'ry where, like man's, must be the foul,
And reason the inferiour pow'rs control.

Such were the numbers which could call

The ftones into the Theban wall.

30

Such miracles are ceas'd; and now we see
No towns or houses rais'd by poetry.

ས·

Yet 't is not to adorn and gild each part;

That shows more coft than art.

Jewels at nofe and lips but ill appear;

35

Rather than all things Wit, let none be there.

Several lights will not be seen,

1

If there be nothing else between.

Men doubt, because they stand so thick i' th' sky,
If those be stars which paint the Galaxy.

VI.

'Tis not when two like words make up one noise, Jefts for Dutchmen and English boys;

In which who finds out Wit, the same may fee
In an'grams and acrofticks poetry.
Much lefs can that have any place

At which a virgin hides her face;

40

45

Such drofs the fire muft purge away; 't is just

The author blush there where the reader muft.

VII.

'Tis not fuch lines as almost crack the stage, When Bajazet begins to rage:

50

Nor a tall met'phor in the bombaft way,

Nor the dry chips of fhort-lung'd Seneca :
Nor upon all things to obtrude,

And force fome odd fimilitude.

What is it then, which, like the Power Divine,

55

We only can by negatives define?

VIII.

In a true piece of Wit all things must be,

Yet all things there agree:

As in the Ark, join'd without force or ftrife,

All creatures dwelt, all creatures that had life.

60

Or as the primitive forms of all,

(If we compare great things with small)

Which without difcord or confufion lie,

In that strange mirror of the Deity.

IX.

But Love, that moulds one man up out of two, 65 Makes me forget and injure you.

I took you for myself, sure, when I thought

That you in any thing were to be taught.
Correct my errour with thy pen,

And if any ask me then

70

What thing right Wit, and height of genius is,

I'll only fhow your lines, and fay, 'Tis this.

72

ODE.

I.

HERE's to thee, Dick: this whining love despise: Pledge me, my friend, and drink till thou be'ft wife. It sparkles brighter far than she ;

'Tis pure and right, without deceit, And fuch no woman e'er will be:

No; they are all sophisticate.

II.

With all thy fervile pains what canst thou win,
But an ill-favour'd and uncleanly fin?

A thing so vile, and so shortliv'd,

That Venus' joys as well as the

With reafon may be faid to be
From the neglected foam deriv'd.

III.

Whom would that painted toy, a beauty move;
Whom would it ere perfuade to court and love;
Could he a woman's heart have seen,

5

(But, oh! no light does thither come)

And view'd her perfectly within,
When he lay shut up in her womb?

IV.

Follies they have so numberless in store,

That only he who loves them can have more.
Neither their fighs nor tears are true;

Those idly blow, these idly fall,

22