Courted, admir'd, and lov'd, with presents fed,
Youth in her looks, and pleasure in her bed;
Till Fate, or her ill angel, thought it fit
To make her doat upon a man of wit;
Who found 't was dull to love above a day,
Made his ill-natur'd jest, and went away.
Now scorn'd of all, forsaken and opprest,
She's a memento mori to the rest:

Diseas'd, decay'd, to take up half a crown
Must mortgage her long scarf and mantua gown;
Poor, creature, who, unheard-of, as a fly
In some dark hole must all the winter lie,
And want and dirt endure a whole half year,
That for one month she tawdry may appear.
In Easter-term she gets her a new gown,
When my young master's worship comes to town,
From pedagogue and mother just set free,
The heir and hopes of a great family;
Who with stong beer and beef the country rules,
And ever since the Conquest have been fools;
And now, with careful prospect to maintain
This character, lest crossing of the strain
Should mend the booby breed, his friends provide
A cousin of his own to be his bride:
And thus set out

With an estate, no wit, and a young wife,
The solid comforts of a coxcomb's life,
Dunghill and pease forsook, he comes to town,
Turns spark, learns to be lewd, and is undone.
Nothing suits worse with vice than want of sense,
Fools are still wicked at their own expense.
This o'er-grown school-boy lost Corinna wins;
At the first dash to make an ass begins;
Pretends to like a man that has not known
The vanities or vices of the town;

Fresh is the youth, and faithful in his love,
Eager of joys which he does seldom prove;
Healthful and strong, he does no pains endure
But what the fair one he adores can cure;
Grateful for favours, does the sex esteem,
And libels none for being kind to him;
Then of the lewdness of the town complains,
Rails at the wits and atheists, and maintains
'Tis better than good sense, than power or wealth,
To have a blood untainted, youth, and health.
The unbred puppy, who had never seen
A creature look so gay, or talk so fine,
Believes, then falls in love, and then in debt;
Mortgages all, ev'n to the ancient seat,
To buy his mistress a new house for life,
To give her plate and jewels, robs his wife:
And when to th' height of fondness he is grown,
"Tis time to poison him, and all 's her own:
Thus meeting in her common arms his fate,
He leaves her bastard heir to his estate;
And, as the race of such an owl deserves,
His own dull lawful progeny he starves.
Nature (that never made a thing in vain,
But does each insect to some end ordain)
Wisely provokes kind keeping fools, no doubt,
To patch up vices men of wit wear out."

Thus she ran on two hours, some grains of sense
Still mixt with follies of impertinence.
But now 'tis time I should some pity show
To Chloe, since I cannot choose but know,
Readers must reap what dullest writers sow.
By the next post I will such stories tell,
As, join'd to these, shall to a volume swell;
As true as Heaven, more infamous than Hell,
But you are tir'd, and so am I. Farewell.

AN EPISTOLARY ESSAY

FROM LORD ROCHESTER TO LORD MULGRAVE UPON
THEIR MUTUAL POEMS.

DEAR friend, I hear this town does so abound
In saucy censurers, that faults are found
With what of late we, in poetic rage
Bestowing, threw away on the dull age.
But (howsoe'er envy their spleen may raise,
To rob my brows of the deserved bays)

Their thanks, at least, I merit; since through me
They are partakers of your poetry.

And this is all I'll say in my defence,

T' obtain one line of your well-worded sense,
I'll be content t' have writ the British Prince.
I'm none of those who think themselves inspir'd,
Nor write with the vain hope to be admir'd;
But from a rule I have (upon long trial)
T'avoid with care all sort of self-denial.
Which way soe'er desire and fancy lead,
(Contemning fame) that path I boldly tread:
And if, exposing what I take for wit,
To my dear self a pleasure I beget,
No matter though the censuring critics fret.
These whom my Muse displeases are at strife,
With equal spleen, against my course of life;
The least delight of which I'll not forego,
For all the flattering praise man can bestow.
If I design'd to please, the way were then
To mend my manners, rather than my pen:
The first 's unnatural, therefore unfit;
And for the second I despair of it,
Since grace is not so hard to get as wit:
Perhaps ill verses ought to be confin'd,
In mere good breeding, like unsavoury wind.
Were reading forc'd, I should be apt to think,
Men might no more write scurvily than stink.
I'll own that you write better than I do,
But I have as much need to write as you.
In all I write, should sense, and wit, and rhyme,
Fail me at once, yet something so sublime
Shall stamp my poem, that the world may see,
It could have been produc'd by none but me.
And that's my end; for man can wish no more
Than so to write, as none e'er writ before;
Yet why am I no poet of the times?

I have allusions, similes, and rhymes,
And wit; or else 'tis hard that I alone,

Of the whole race of mankind, should have none.
Unequally the partial hand of Heaven
Has all but this one only blessing given.
The world appears like a great family,
Whose lord, oppress'd with pride and poverty,
(That to a few great bounty he may show)
Is fain to starve the numerous train below.
Just so seems Providence, as poor and vain,
Keeping more creatures than it can maintain:
Here 'tis profuse, and there it meanly saves,
And for one prince, it makes ten thousand slaves.
In wit alone 't has been magnificent,
Of which so just a share to each is sent,
That the most avaricious are content.
For none e'er thought (the due division 's such)
His own too little, or his friend's too much.
Yet most men show, or find, great want of wit,
Writing themselves, or judging what is writ.
But I, who am of sprightly vigour full,
Look on mankind as euvious and dull.

Born to myself, I like myself alone,

And must conclude my judgment good, or none :
For could my sense be naught, how should I know
Whether another man's were good or no?
Thus I resolve of my own poetry,

That 'tis the best; and there's a fame for me.
If then I'm happy, what does it advance,
Whether to merit due, or arrogance?
Oh, but the world will take offence hereby!
Why then the world shall suffer for 't, not I.
Did e'er this saucy world and I agree,
To let it have its beastly will on me?
Why should my prostituted sense be drawn
To every rule their musty customs spawn?
But men may censure you; 'tis two to one,
Whene'er they censure, they'll be in the wrong.
There's not a thing on Earth, that I can name,
So foolish, and so false, as common fame.
It calls the courtier knave, the plain man rude,
Haughty the grave, and the delightful lewd,
Impertinent the brisk, morose the sad,
Mean the familiar, the reserv'd-one mad.
Poor helpless woman is not favour'd more,
She's a sly hypocrite, or public whore.
Then who the Devil would give this-to be free
From th' innocent reproach of infamy?
These things consider'd, make me (in despite
Of idle rumour) keep at home and write.

Apollo, well pleas'd with so bonny a lad,
T'oblige him, he told him he should be huge glad,
Had he half so much wit, as he fancy'd he had.
Nat Lee stepp'd in next in hopes of a prize
Apollo remember'd he had hit once in thrice;
By the rubies in 's face, he could not deny,
But he had as much wit as wine could supply;
Confess'd that indeed he had a musical note,
But sometimes strain'd so hard that he rattled in
throat;

Yet owning he had sense, t' encourage him for 't,
He made him his Ovid in Augustus's court.
Poor Settle, his trial was the next came about,
He brought him an Ibrahim with the preface torn out,
And humbly desir'd he might give no offence;

D-n him," cries Shadwell, "he cannot write

sense:"

"And Bancks," cry'd Newport, "I hate that dull
Apollo, considering he was not in vogue, [rogue;"
Would not trust his dear bays with so modest a fool,
And bid the great boy be sent back to school.
Tom Otway came next, Tom Shadwell's dear Zany,
And swears, for heroics, he writes best of any:
Don Carlos his pockets so amply had fill'd,
That his mange was quite cur'd, and his lice were
Anababaluthu put in for a share, [all kill'd;

And little Tom Essence's author was there:
But Apollo had seen his face on the stage,
And prudently did not think fit to engage
The scum of a playhouse, for the prop of an age.
In the numerous crowd that encompass'd him round,

IN IMITATION OF A SATIRE IN BOILEAU.

SINCE the sons of the Muses grew numerous and loud,
For th' appeasing so fractious and clamorous a crowd,
Apollo thought fit, in so weighty a cause,
T establish a government, leader, and laws.
The hopes of the bays, at the summoning call,
Had drawn them together, the Devil and all; [ing:
All thronging and listening, they gap'd for the bless-
No presbyter sermon had more crowding and press-
ing:

In the head of the gang, John Dryden appear'd,
That ancient grave wit so long lov'd and fear'd,
But Apollo had heard a story in town,

His cravat-string new iron'd, he gently did stretch
His lily-white hand out, the laurel to reach.
Alleging, that he had most right to the bays,
For writing romances, and sh-ting of plays:
Apollo rose up, and gravely confess'd,
Of all men that writ, his talent was best;
For since pain and dishonour man's life only damn,
The greatest felicity mankind can claim,
Is to want sense of smart, and be past sense of
shame;

And to perfect his bliss in poetical rapture,
He bid him be dull to the end of the chapter.
The poetess Afra next show'd her sweet face,
And swore by her poetry, and her black ace,
The laurel by a double right was her own,
For the plays she had writ, and the conquests she had`
Apollo acknowledg'd 'twas hard to deny her, [won.
Yet, to deal frankly and ingenuously by her,
He told her, were conquests and charms her pretence,
She ought to have pleaded a dozen years since.
Nor could D'Urfey forbear for the laurel to stickle,
Protesting that he had the honour to tickle

-W--y 3 was the next man show'd his face, But Apollo e'en thought him too good for the place; No gentleman writer that office should bear, But a trader in wit the laurel should wear, As none but a cit e'er makes a lord-mayor. Next into the crowd, Tom Shadwell does wallow, And swears by his guts, his paunch, and his tallow, That 'tis he alone best pleases the age, Himself and his wife have supported the stage:

'See The Session of the Poets, in the State Poems, vol. i. and The Election of the Poet Laureat, 1719, in Sheffield duke of Buckingham's works. 2 Sir George Etherege. Mr. Wycherley.

With other pretenders, whose names I'd rehearse,
But that they're too long to stand in my verse:
Apollo, quite tir'd with their tedious harangue,
At last found Tom Betterton's face in the gang,
For, since poets without the kind players may hang.
By his one sacred light he solemnly swore,
That in search of a laureat, he 'd look out no more
A general murmur ran quite through the hall,
To think that the bays to an actor should fall;
Tom told them, to put his desert to the test,
That he had MAID plays as well as the best,
And was the great'st wonder the age ever bore,
Of all the play-scribblers that e'er writ before,
His wit had most worth, and modesty in 't,
For he had writ plays, yet ne'er came in print

A SATIRE AGAINST MANKIND.

WERE I, who to my cost already am
One of those strange prodigious creatures man,
A spirit free, to choose for my own share,
What sort of flesh and blood I pleas'd to wear,
I'd be a dog, a monkey, or a bear,
Or any thing, but that vain animal,
Who is so proud of being rational.

The senses are too gross, and he 'll contrive
A sixth, to contradict the other five;
And, before certain instinct, will prefer
Reason, which fifty times for one does err.
Reason, an ignis fatuus of the mind,
Which leaves the light of Nature, sense, behind:
Pathless and dangerous wandering ways it takes,
Through Errour's fenny bogs, and thorny brakes;
Whilst the misguided follower climbs with pain
Mountains of whimsies heapt in his own brain:
Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong
down

Into Doubt's boundless sea, where, like to drown,
Books bear him up a while, and make him try
To swim with bladders of philosophy;
In hopes still to o'ertake the skipping light,
The vapour dances in his dazzled sight,
Till, spent, it leaves him to eternal night.
Then Old Age and Experience, hand in hand,
Lead him to Death, and make him understand,
After a search so painful and so long,
That all his life he has been in the wrong.
Huddled in dirt, this reasoning engine lies,
Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise:
Pride drew him in, as cheats their bubbles catch,
And made him venture to be made a wretch:
His wisdom did his happiness destroy,
Aiming to know the world he should enjoy:
And wit was his vain frivolous pretence,
Of pleasing others at his own expense;
For wits are treated just like common whores,
First they're enjoy'd, and then kick'd out
doors:

The pleasure past, a threatening doubt remains,
That frights th' enjoyer with succeeding pains.
Women, and men of wit, are dangerous tools,
And ever fatal to admiring fools.

Reason, by whose aspiring influence,
We take a flight beyond material sense,
Dive into mysteries, then, soaring, pierce
The flaming limits of the universe,

Search Heaven and Hell, find out what 's acted

there,

And give the world true grounds of hope and fear." "Hold, mighty man," I cry, "all this we know From the pathetic pen of Ingelo,

From Patrick's Pilgrim, Sibb's Soliloquies,
And 'tis this very reason I despise
This supernatural gift, that makes a mite
Think he 's the image of the Infinite;
Comparing his short life, void of all rest,
To the Eternal and the Ever-blest:
This busy puzzling stirrer up of doubt,
That frames deep mysteries, then finds them out,
Filling with frantic crowds of thinking fools,
The reverend bedlams, colleges, and schools,
Borne on whose wings, each heavy sot can pierce
The limits of the boundless universe.

So charming ointments make an old witch fly,
And bear a crippled carcass through the sky.
'Tis this exalted power, whose business lies
In nonsense and impossibilities:

This made a whimsical philosopher,
Before the spacious world his tub prefer;
And we have many modern coxcombs, who
Retire to think, 'cause they have nought to do.
But thoughts were given for actions' government,
Where action ceases, thought 's impertinent.
Our sphere of action is life's happiness,
And he that thinks beyond, thinks like an ass.
Thus whilst against false reasoning I inveigh,
I own right reason, which I would obey;
That reason, which distinguishes by sense,
And gives us rules of good and ill from thence:
That bounds desires with a reforming will,
To keep them more in vigour, not to kill:
Your reason hinders, mine helps to enjoy,
Renewing appetites, yours would destroy.
My reason is my friend, yours is a cheat;
Hunger calls out, my reason bids me cat;
Perversely yours, your appetite does mock;
This asks for food; that answers, what 's a clock?
"This plain distinction, sir, your doubt secures;
'Tis not true reason I despise, but yours.
Thus I think reason righted: but for man,
I'll ne'er recant, defend him if you can.
For all his pride, and his philosophy,
"Tis evident beasts are, in their degree,
As wise at least, and better far than he.
Those creatures are the wisest, who attain,
By surest means, the ends at which they aim.
If therefore Jowler finds, and kills his hare,
Better than Meres supplies committce-chair;
Though one's a statesman, th' other but a hound,
Jowler in justice will be wiser found.
You see how far man's wisdom here extends :
Look next if human nature makes amends;
Whose principles are most generous and just;
And to whose morals you would sooner trust:
Be judge yourself, I'll bring it to the test,
Which is the basest creature, man or beast:
Birds feed on birds, beasts on each other prey,
But savage man alone does man betray.
Prest by necessity, they kill for food;
Man undoes man, to do himself no good:
With teeth and claws by Nature arm'd, they hunt
Nature's allowance, to supply their want,

Whose lust exalted to that height arrives, They act adultery with their own wives; And, ere a score of years completed be, Can from the lofty stage of honour see, Half a large parish their own progeny. Nor doating - who would be ador'd, For domineering at the council-board,

came,

His boasted honour, and his dear-bought fame:
The lust of power, to which he 's such a slave,
And for the which alone he dares be brave;
To which his various projects are design'd,
Which makes him generous, affable, and kind;
For which he takes such pains to be thought wise,
And screws his actions in a forc'd disguise;
Leads a most tedious life, in misery,
Under laborious, mean hypocrisy.
Look to the bottom of his vast design,
Wherein man's wisdom, power, and glory join;
The good he acts, the ill he does endure,
'Tis all from fear to make himself secure.
Merely for safety, after fame they thirst;
For all men would be cowards if they durst:
And honesty 's against all common sense;
Men must be knaves; 'tis in their own defence
Mankind's dishonest; if you think it fair,
Amongst known cheats, to play upon the square,
You ll be undone

Nor can weak truth your reputation save;
The knaves will all agree to call you knave.
Wrong'd shall he live, insulted o'er, opprest,
Who dares be less a villain than the rest.
Thus here you see what human nature craves,
Most men are cowards, all men should be knaves.
The difference lies, as far as I can see,
Not in the thing itself, but the degree;
And all the subject-matter of debate,
Is only who's a knave of the first-rate."

POSTSCRIPT.

ALL this with indignation have I hurl'd,
At the pretending part of the proud world,
Who, swoln with selfish vanity, devise
False freedoms, holy cheats, and formal lies,
Over their fellow-slaves to tyrannize.

But if in court so just a man there be,
(In court a just man, yet unknown to me)
Who does his needful flattery direct,
Not to oppress and ruin, but protect;
Since flattery, which way soever laid,
Is still a tax on that unhappy trade;
If so upright a statesman you can find,
Whose passions bend to his unbias'd mind;
Who does his arts and policies apply,
To raise his country, not his family.

Is there a mortal who on God relies?
Whose life his faith and doctrine justifies?
Not one blown up with vain aspiring pride,
Who, for reproof of sins, does man deride:
Whose envious heart with saucy eloquence
Dares chide at kings, and rail at men of sense:
Who in his talking vents more peevish lies,
More bitter railings, scandals, calumnies,
Than at a gossiping are thrown about,
When the good wives drink free, and then fall out.
None of the sensual tribe, whose talents lie
In avarice, pride, in sloth, and gluttony;

Fonder of serious toys, affected more,
Than the gay glittering fool at twenty proves,
With all his noise, his tawdry clothes, and loves.
But a meek humble man of modest sense,
Who, preaching peace, does practise continence;
Whose pious life 's a proof he does believe
Mysterious truths, which no man can conceive.
If upon Earth there dwell such godlike men,
I'll here recant my paradox to them;
Adore those shrines of virtue, homage pay,
And, with the thinking world, their laws obey.
If such there are, yet grant me this at least,
Man differs more from man, than man from beast.

THE MAIMED DEBAUCHEE.

As some brave admiral, in former war
Depriv'd of force, but prest with courage still,
Two rival fleets appearing from afar,

Crawls to the top of an adjacent hill:

From whence (with thoughts full of concern) he views
The wise and daring conduct of the fight:
And each bold action to his mind renews

His present glory, and his past delight:

From his fierce eyes flashes of rage he throws,
As from black clouds when lightning breaks away,
Transported, thinks himself amidst his foes,
And absent, yet enjoys the bloody day.

So when my days of impotence approach,
And I'm, by wine and love's unlucky chance,
Driven from the pleasing billows of debauch,
On the dull shore of lazy temperance:

My pains at last some respite shall afford,

While I behold the battles you maintain; When fleets of glasses sail around the board, From whose broadsides vollies of wit shall rain.

Nor shall the sight of honourable scars,

Which my too forward valour did procure, Frighten new-listed soldiers from the wars;

Past joys have more than paid what I endure.

Should some brave youth (worth being drunk) prove
And from his fair inviter meanly shrink, [nica
Twould please the ghost of my departed vice,
If, at my counsel, he repent and drink.

Or should some cold-complexion'd sot forbid,
With his dull morals, our night's brisk alarms;
I'll fire his blood, by telling what I did

When I was strong, and able to bear arms.

I'll tell of whores attack'd, their lords at home,
Bawds quarters beaten up, and fortress won;
Windows demolish'd, watches overcome,

And handsome ills by my contrivance done.

With tales like these I will such heat inspire,
As to important mischief shall incline;
I'll make him long some ancient church to fire,
And fear no lewdness they 're call'd to by wine.
Thus statesman-like I'll saucily impose,
And, safe from dar ger, valiantly advise;
Shelter'd in impotence urge you to blows,
And, being good for nothing else, be wise.

UPON NOTHING.

NOTHING! thou elder brother ev'n to Shade,
That hadst a being ere the world was made,
And (well fixt) art alone of ending not afraid.
Ere Time and Place were, Time and Place were not,
When primitive Nothing, Something straight begot,
Then all proceeded from the great united-What.
Something, the general attribute of all,
Sever'd from thee, its sole original,

Into thy boundless self must undistinguish'd fall.
Yet something did thy mighty power command,
And from thy fruitful emptiness's hand,
Snatch'd men,
beasts, birds, fire, air, and land.
Matter, the wicked'st offspring of thy race,
By Form assisted, flew from thy embrace,
And rebel Light obscur'd thy reverend dusky face.
With Form and Matter, Time and Place did join;
Body, thy foe, with thee did leagues combine,
To spoil thy peaceful realm, and ruin all thy line.
But turn-coat Time assists the foe in vain,
And, brib'd by thee, assists thy short-liv'd reign,
And to thy hungry womb drives back thy slaves again.
Though mysteries are barr'd from laic eyes,
And the divine alone, with warrant, pries
Into thy bosom, where the truth in private lies:
Yet this of thee the wise may freely say,
Thou from the virtuous nothing tak'st away,
And to be part with thee the wicked wisely pray.
Great Negative! how vainly would the wise
Inquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise?

Didst thou not stand to point their dull philosophies.

Is, or is not, the two great ends of Fate,
And, true or false, the subject of debate,
That perfect or destroy the vast designs of Fate;
When they have rack'd the politician's breast,
Within thy bosom most securely rest,

And, when reduc'd to thee, are least unsafe and best.
But Nothing, why does Something still permit,
That sacred monarchs should at council sit,
With persons highly thought at best for nothing fit?
Whilst weighty Something modestly abstains
From princes' coffers, and from statesmens' brains,
And nothing there like stately Nothing reigns.
Nothing, who dwell'st with fools in grave disguise,
For whom they reverend shapes and forms devise,
Lawn sleeves, and furs, and gowns, when they like

thee look wise.

The great man's gratitude to his best friend, Kings' promises, whores' vows, towards thee they bend,

Flow swiftly into thee, and in thee ever end.

TRANSLATION

OF SOME LINES IN LUCRETIUS.

THE gods, by right of Nature, must possess
An everlasting age of perfect peace;
Far off remov'd from us and our affairs,
Neither approach'd by dangers or by cares;
Rich in themselves, to whom we cannot add;
Not pleas'd by good deeds, nor provok'd by bad.

THE LATTER END OF THE CHORUS OF

THE SECOND ACT OF SENECA'S TROAS,

TRANSLATED.

AFTER death nothing is, and nothing death,
The utmost limits of a gasp of breath.
Let the ambitious zealot lay aside

His hope of Heaven, (whose faith is but his pride)
Let slavish souls lay by their fear,
Nor be concern'd which way, or where,
After this life they shall be hurl'd:
Dead, we become the lumber of the world,
And to that mass of matter shall be swept,
Where things destroy'd with things unborn are kept;
Devouring Time swallows us whole,
Impartial Death confounds body and soul.
For Hell, and the foul fiend that rules
The everlasting fiery gaols,
Devis'd by rogues, dreaded by fools,
With his grim grisly dog that keeps the door,
Are senseless stories, idles tales,
Dreams, whimsies, and no more.

ΤΟ

HIS SACRED MAJESTY,

ON HIS RESTORATION IN THE YEAR 1660.

VIRTUE'S triumphant shrine! who dost engage
At once three kingdoms in a pilgrimage:
Which in ecstatic duty strive to come
Out of themselves, as well as from their home;
Whilst England grows one camp, and London is
Itself the nation, not metropolis;
And loyal Kent renews her arts again,
Fencing her ways with moving groves of men:
Forgive this distant homage, which does meet
Your blest approach on sedentary feet;
The weight of arms, denies me to appear
And though my youth, not patient yet to bear
In steel before you; yet, great sir, approve
My manly wishes, and more vigorous love;
In whom a cold respect were treason to
A father's ashes, greater than to you;
Whose one ambition 't is for to be known,
By daring loyalty, your Wilmot's son.
Wadh. Coll.

ROCHESTER,