Here all forts of conditions

Are fociable and free;

They judge not by appearances,
Which often difagree:
A lord will court a fcullion,
A lady hug a clown;

A judge embrace moft tenderly
A madam of the town.

Oh masquerades are fine things
For to delight the mind;
And tho' they vex the bishops,
They make the ladies kind.

Here party makes no difference,
No politicians jar;

Here statesmen lay afide their pride,

And with it all their care.

A babylonish dialect

Inspires all the place;

Which muft produce, no doubt on't,

A very fprightly race.

Oh masquerades are fine things,

For to improve the age;

And much beyond the liberty
And licence of the stage.

Here I an honest calling
Have chofen at my leifure;

For profit by the bye, fir,
But in the main for pleasure."

For

For pleasure each man hither comes,

Each lady comes for pleasure;

And if I'm in the right, firs,
Why then my fong is measure.
Oh masquerades are fine things,
From whence all pleasure springs;
And tho' the vulgar rail at them,
They give delight to kings.

W

HEN love-fick Mars, the god of war,
Sat fighing in a fhade,

The willing, willing goddess bath'd
Those wounds herself had made.

Thus fighting he wou'd for ever die,
Melting in Celia's arms,

And pawn an immortality
For her diviner charms.

The

UND

The Epicure.

NDERNEATH this myrtle fhade,
On flow'ry beds fupinely laid,

With odorous oyls my head o'erflowing,
And around it rofes growing;
What fhou'd I do, but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?

In this more than kingly state
Love himself fhall on me wait;
Fill to me, love, nay, fill it up,
And mingled caft into the cup,
Wit, and mirth, and gay defires,
Vigorous health, and noble fires.

The wheel of life no less will stay
In a smooth than rugged way;
Since it equally doth flee,

Let the motion pleasant be.

Why do we precious ointments show'r?
Noble wines why do we pour?
Beauteous flowers why do we spread
Upon the monuments of the dead?
Nothing they but duft can show,
Or bones that haften to be fo.

Crown

Crown me with roles whilft I live;
Now your wine and ointments give:
After death I nothing crave,
Let me alive my pleasures have;
All are ftoicks in the

grave.

W

Daphne's Denial.

HEN Daphne o'er the meadows fled,
To fave her untouch'd maidenhead,
And thun Apollo's fuit:

The haughty virgin did not fear
His certain darts, nor fcorn to hear

The mufick of his lute.

No, fomething else must needs create
The cause of fuch a cruel hate:
And this was her condition;
She lov'd the god, as he was fair,
And of a bright immortal air,
But hated the physician.

Now,

N

ow, as I live, I love thee much,
And fain wou'd love thee more,
Did I but know thy temper fuch,
That cou'd my joy restore.

But to ingage thy virgin heart,
Then leave it in distress,
Were to betray thy true defert,
And make thy glory lefs.

Were all the eastern treasures mine,
I'd lay them at thy feet;
But to invite a prince to dine
On air, it is not meet.

No, let me rather pine alone;
Then, if my fate prove coy,
I can dispense with grief my own,
Whilst thou haft fhowers of joy.

But if thro' my too niggard fate
Thou shou'dft unhappy prove,
I fhou'd grow mad and desperate,
Thro' killing grief and love.

Since then, tho' more I cannot love,

Without thy injury;

As faints that to an altar move,
My thoughts to thee shall fly.
VOL. III.

N

And