B

E wary, my Celia, when Celadon fues,
Thefe wits are the bane of your charms:
Beauty, play'd against reafon, will certainly lose;
Warring, naked, with robbers, in arms.

Young Damon, despis'd for his plainness of parts,
Has worth, that a woman fhou'd prize:
He'll run the race out, though he heavily starts,
And distance the fhort-winded wife.

Your fool is a faint in the temple of love,
And kneels all his life there to pray:

Your wit but looks in, and makes hafte to remove: "Tis a stage he but takes in his way.

T

HE chains of love I wear,

I burn and I despair,

Yet blefs my charmer.

Too great wou'd be my joy,
The pleasure wou'd destroy,
Cou'd my flame warm her.

I

PLAGUE

P

LAGUE us not with idle stories,

Whining loves, and fenfeless glories;
What are lovers, what are kings,
What at best but flavish things?

Free I liv'd as nature made me,
Love nor beauty durft invade me,
No rebellious flaves betray'd me,
Free I liv'd as nature made me.

Each by turns, as sense inspir'd me,
Bacchus, Ceres, Venus, fir'd me;
I alone have loft true pleasure!
Freedom is the only treasure.

C

HARMER, hear your faithful lover, Nor difdain to admit his flame; Ceafe to flight, your scorn give over; Conftant ever I'll remain.

Charms furround those lovely features,

Tender pity grant your slave:

Turn, and be fo kind a creature;
Haste, and heal the wounds you gave.

The Fisherman.

F all the world's enjoyments
That ever valued were,

OF

There's none of our employments

With fishing can compare:
Some preach, fome write,

Some fwear, fome fight,

All golden lucre courting;
But fishing still

Bears off the bell,

For profit, or for fporting.

Then who a jolly fisherman, a fisherman wou'd be,

His throat muft wet,

Just like his net,

To keep out cold at sea.

The country fquire loves running

A pack of well-mouth'd hounds;

Another fancies gunning

For wild ducks in his grounds:
This hunts, that fowls,

This hawks, Dick bowls,

No greater pleasure wishing;
But Tom that tells

What sport excels,

Gives all the praise to fishing.

Then who &c.

A good

A good Weftphalia gammon,
Is counted dainty fare;

But what is't to a falmon,

Juft taken from the ware:
Wheat-ears and quails,

Cocks, fnipes, and rayls,

Are priz'd while season's lasting;
But all muft ftoop

To cray-fifh foop,

Or I've no skill in tasting.
Then who &c.

Keen hunters always take too
Their prey with too much pains;
Nay, often break a neck too,
A penance for no brains:

They run, they leap,

Now high, now deep; Whilft he that fishing chooses,

With ease may do't,

Nay more to boot,

May entertain the mufes.

Then who &c.

And tho' fome envious wranglers
To jeer us will make bold,
And laugh at patient anglers,
Who ftand fo long i'th' cold;

They

C

YNTHIA frowns whene'er I woe her,
Yet fhe's vex'd if I give over,

Much fhe fears I fhou'd undoe her,

But much more to lose her lover:
Thus in doubting fhe refuses,
And not winning, thus fhe lofes.

Pr'ythee, Cynthia, look behind you,

Age and wrinkles will o'ertake you, Then too late defire will find you, ́ When the power does forfake you: Think, oh! think; oh, fad condition, To be past, yet wish fruition!

JONNY