IT was about the middle age of night,
When half the earth stood in the other's light,
And Sleep, Death's brother, yet a friend to life,
Gave weary'd Nature a restorative,

When Pufs, wrapt warm in his own native furs,
Dreamt foundly of as foft and warm amours,
Of making gallantry in gutter-tiles;
And sporting on delightful faggot-piles;
Of bolting out of bufhes in the dark,
As ladies ufe at midnight in the Park;
Or feeking in tall garrets an alcove,
For aflignations in th' affairs of love.
At once his paffion was both false and true,
And the more falfe, the more in earnest grew.
He fancy'd that he heard thofe am'rous charms
That us'd to fummon him to foft alarms,
To which he always brought an equal flame,
To fight a rival, or to court a dame;
And as in dreams love's raptures are more taking
Than all their actual engagements waking,
His am'rous paffion grew to that extreme,
His dream itself awak'd him from his dream.
Thought he, What place is this? or whither art
Thou vanish'd from me, Mistress of my heart?
But now I had her in this very place,
Here, faft imprisond in my glad embrace,
And, while my joys beyond themselves were rapt,
I know not how, nor whither, thou 'rt escap'd,

This poem is a fatirical banter upon thofe heroic plays which were fo much in vogue at the time our Author

Jived.

Stay, and I'll follow thee-With that he leapt
Up from the lazy couch on which he slept,
And, wing'd with paffion, through his known
purlieu,

Swift as an arrow from a bow he flew,
Nor ftopt, until his fire had him convey'd
Where many an affignation he 'ad enjoy'd;
Where finding, what he fought, a mutual flame,
That long had stay'd and call'd before he came,
Impatient of delay, without one word,
To lofe no further time, he fell aboard,
But grip'd fo hard, he wounded what he lov'd,
While the, in anger, thus his heat reprov'd.
C. Forbear, foul ravisher, this rude addrefs;
Canft thou at once both injure and caress?
P. Thou haft bewitch'd me with thy pow'rful

charms,

And I, by drawing blood, would cure my harms.
C. He that does love would fet his heart atilt,
E'er one drop of his lady's fhould be fpilt.
P. Your wounds are but without, and mine within:
You wound my heart, and I but prick your skin;
And while your eyes pierce deeper than my
claws,

You blame th' effect of which you are the cause.
C. How could my guiltless eyes your heart invade,
Had it not firft been by your own betray'd?
Hence 'tis my greateft crime has only been
(Not in mine eyes, but your's) in being feen.
P. I hurt to love, but do not love to hurt.
C. That's worse than making cruelty a sport,

But fince you understand not what you do,
I am the judge of what I feel, not you.
P. Paffion begins indifferent to prove,
When love confiders any thing but love.

P. Love is too full of honour to regard
What it enjoys, but fuffers as reward,

What knight durft ever own a lover's name,
That had not been half-murder'd by his flame?
Or lady, that had never lain at flake,
To death, or force of rivals for his fake?

C. When love does meet with injury and pain,
Difdain's the only med'cine for disdain.
P. At once I'm happy, and unhappy too,
In being pleas'd, and in difpleafing you.
C. Prepoft'rous way of pleasure and of love,
That, contrary to its own end, would move!
'Tis rather hate, that covets to destroy;
Love's business is to love, and to enjoy.
P. Enjoying and destroying are all one,
As flames destroy that which they feed upon.
C. He never lov'd at any gen'rous rate,
That in th' enjoyment found his flame abate.
As wine (the friend of love) is wont to make
The thirst more violent it pretends to flake,
So fhould fruition do the lovers' fire,
Instead of leffening, inflame defire.

P. What greater proof that paffion does tranfport,
When what I would die for I'm forc'd to hurt?
C. Death among lovers is a thing defpis'd,
And far below a fullen humour priz`d,
That is more fcorn'd and rail'd at than the gods,
When they are crofs'd in love, or fall at odds:

And, though they pierce it, never hurt the skin; They leave no marks behind them, where they

fly,

Though through the tend'reft part of all, the eye;
But your sharp claws have left enough to shew
How tender I have been, how cruel you.
P. Pleasure is pain, for when it is enjoy'd,
All it could wish for was but to b' allay'd.
C. Force is a rugged way of making love.
P What you like best you always disapprove.
C. He that will wrong his love will not be nice,
T' excufe the wrong he does to wrong her twice.
P. Nothing is wrong but that which is ill meant.
C. Wounds are ill cured with a good intent.
P. When you mistake that for an injury
I never meant, you do the wrong, not I.
C. You do not feel yourself the pain you give;
But 'tis not that alone for which I grieve,
But 'tis your want of paffion that I blame,
That can be cruel where you own a flame.
P. 'Tis you are guilty of that cruelty
Which you at once outdo, and blame in me;
For while you ftifle and inflame defire,
You burn, and starve me in the self-fame fire.
C. It is not 1, but you, that do the hurt,
Who wound yourself, and then accuse me for't:
As thieves, that rob themselves 'twixt fun and fun,
Make others pay for what themselves have done.

SIR,

You have oblig'd the British nation more
Than all their bards could ever do before,
And, at your own charge, monuments more hard
Than brafs or marble to their fame have rear'd:
For as all warlike nations take delight

To hear how brave their ancestors could fight,
You have advanc'd to wonder their renown,
And no lefs virtuously improv'd your own:
For 'twill be doubted whether you do write,
Or they have acted at a nobler height.

Moft of the celebrated wits in Charles II's reign addrefled this gentleman, in a bantering way, upon his poem called The Brith Princes, and, among the reft, Butler.

You of their ancient princes have retriev'd
More than the ages knew in which they liv'd ;
Defcrib'd their cuftoms and their rites anew,
Better than all their Druids ever knew;
Unriddled their dark oracles as well

As thofe themfelves that made them could forctel;
For as the Britons long have hop'd in vain,
Arthur could come to govern them again,
You have fulfill'd that prophecy alone,
And in this poem plac'd him on his throne,
Such magic pow'r has your prodigious pen,
To raise the dead, and give new life to men
Make rival princes meet in armis and love,
Whom diftant ages did fo far remove:

For as eternity has neither past

Nor future, (authors fay) nor first, nor last,
But is all inftant, your eternal Muse
All ages can to any one reduce.

Then why should you, whofe miracle of art
Can life at pleasure to the dead impart,
Trouble in vain your better-bufy'd head

For fince you have fuch arbitrary power,
It were defect in judgment to go lower,
Or ftoop to things fo pitifully lewd,
As ufe to take the vulgar latitude.

Ir is your pardon, Sir, for which my Muse
Thrice humbly thus, in form of paper, fues ;
For having felt the dead weight of your wit,
She comes to ask forgiveness, and fubmit;
is forry for her faults, and, while I write,
Mourns in the black, does penance in the white :
But fuch is her belief in your juft candour,
She hopes you will not fo misunderstand her,
To wreft her harmless meaning to the fenfe
Of filly emulation or offence.

No; your fufficient wit does ftill declare
Itself too amply, they are mad that dare
So vain and fenfelefs a prefumption own,
To yoke your vaft parts in compar fon :
And yet you might have thought upon a way
T' inftruct us how you'd have us to obey,
And not command our praises, and then blame
All that's too great or little for your fame :
For who could choose but err, without fome trick
To take your elevation to a nick?
As he that was defir'd, upon occafion,
To make the Mayor of London an oration,
Defir'd his Lordship's favour, that he might
Take measure of his mouth, to fit it right;
So, had you fent a fcantling of your wit,
You might have blam'd us if it did not fit;
But 'tis not just t' impofe, and then cry down
All that's unequal to your huge renown;
For he that writes below your vast defert,
Betrays his own, and not your want of art.
Praife, like a robe of ftate, fhould not fit clofe
To th' perfon 'tis made for, but wide and loofe;
Derives its comelinefs from b'ing unfit,
And fuch have been our praifes of your wit,

Which is fo extraordinary, no height
Of fancy but your own can do it right:
With:fs thofe glorious poems you have writ
With equal judgment, learning, art, and wit,
And thofe ftupendous difcoveries
You've lately made of wonders in the skies;
For who, but from yourself, did ever hear
The sphere of atoms was the atmosphere?
Who ever thut thofe ftragglers in a room,
Or put a circle about vacuum?

What should confine thofe undetermin'd crowds
And yet extend no further than the clouds?
Who ever could have thought, but you alone,
A ign and an afcendant were all one,
Or how 'tis poffible the moon should shroud
Her face, to peep at Mars behind a cloud,
Since clouds below are fo far difant plac'd,
They cannot hinder her from b'ing barefac'd !
Who ever did a language to enrich,
To fcorn all little particles of fpecch?
For though they make the lenfe clear, yet they're
To be a fcurvy hindrance to the found;
[found
Therefore you wifely feorn your flyle to humble,
Or for the fenfe's fake to wave the rumble,
Had Homer known this art, he 'ad ne'er been fain
To ufe fo many particles in vain,
That to no purpofe ferve, but (as he haps
To want a fyllable) to fill up gaps.
You juftiy coin new verbs, to pay for thofe
Which in conftruction you o'erfee and lofe;
And by this art do Prifcian no wrong
When you break 's head, for 'tis as broad as long,
Thefe are your own difcoveries, which none
But fuch a Mufe as your's could hit upon,

For who e'er liv'd in fuch a paradise,
Until fresh straw and darkness op'd your eyes?
Who ever greater treasure could command,
Had nobler palaces and richer land,

Than you had then, who could raise fums as vast
As all the cheats of a Dutch war could wafte,
Or all thofe practis'd upon public money?
For nothing, but your cure, could have undone ye.
For ever are you bound to curse those quacks
That undertook to cure your happy cracks;
For though no art can ever make them found,
The tamp'ring coft you threefecrethousand pound.

How high might you have liv'd, and play'd, and loft,

Yet been no more undone by being chouft,
Nor forc'd upon the King's account to lay
All that, in ferving him, you lot at play?
For nothing but your brain was ever found
To fuffer fequeftration, and compound.
Yet you've an impofition laid on brick,
For all you then laid out at Beaft or Gleek;
And when you've rais'd a fum, ftrait let it fly,
By understanding low, and vent'ring high;
Until you have reduc'd it down to tick,
And then recruit again from lime and brick.

WHO ever will regard poetic fury,
When it is once found Idiot by a jury,
And ev'ry pert and arbitrary fool
Can all poetic licence over-rule;
Affume a barb'rous tyranny to handle

The Mufes worse than Oftrogoth and Vandal;
Make 'em fubmit to verdict and report,

And ftand or fall to th' orders of the court?
Much lefs be fentenc'd by the arbitrary
Proceedings of witless plagiary,
That forges old records and ordinances
Against the right and property of fancies,

More falfe and nice than weighing of the weather
To th' hundredth atom of the lightest feather,
Or measuring of air upon Parnaffus,

With cylinders of Torricellian glasses;
Reduce all Tragedy, by rules of art,

Back to its antique theatre, a cart,

Unless fome god or demon chanc'd t' have piques
Against an ancient family of Greeks;
That other men may tremble, and take warning,
How fuch a fatal progeny they're born in;
For none but fuch for tragedy are fitted,
That have been ruin'd only to be pity'd;
And only thofe held proper to deter,
Who 've had the ill luck against their wills to err
Whence only fuch as are of middling fizcs,
Between morality and venial vices,
Are qualify'd to be deftroy'd by Fate,
For other mortals to take warning at.

As if the antique laws of Tragedy
Did with our own municipal agree,

And ferv'd, like cobwebs, but t' cnfnare the weak,
And give diverfion to the great to break;
To make a lefs delinquent to be brought

To antwer for a greater perfon's fault,

Of rev'rend chorufes and epifodes;

Reform and regulate a puppet play,
According to the true and ancient way,
That not an actor fhall prefume to fqueak,
Unless he have a licence for't in Greek;
Nor Whittington henceforward fell his cat in
Plain vulgar English, without mewing Latin:
No pudding fhall be fuffer'd to be witty,
Unless it be in order to raife pity;
Nor devil in the puppet play b'allow'd
To roar and spit fire, but to fright the crowd,

Can, to excufe and fave himself, difcover.
No longer fhall Drainatics be confin'd
To draw true images of all mankind;
To punish in effigy criminals,
Reprieve the innocent, and hang the falfe;
But a clublaw to execute and kill,

For nothing, whomf e'er they pleafe, at will,
To terrify fpectators from committing
The crimes they did, and fuffer'd for unwitting.
Thefe are the reformations of the Stage,
Like other reformations of the age,