Song nor Sonnet can relieve ye; II. Urge but home the fair Occasion, III. Tho' the vows fhe'll ne'er permit ye, IV. When the fierce Affault is over, EPILOGUE. Allants, by all good Signs it does appear, G That sixty leven's a very damning Year, For Knaves abroad, and for ill Poets here. Among the Muses there's a gen❜ral Rot, The Ghosts of Poets walk within this Place, For this poor Wretch, he has not much to say, He fends me only like a Sh'riff's Man here, For if you fhou'd be gracious to his Pen, Upon Four New Phyficians Repairing to TUNBRIDGE WELLS. Written feveral Years fince. OU Maidens and Wives and young Widows rejoice, Since Waters were Waters, I boldly dare fay, [Voice; There ne'er was such cause for a Thanksgiving Day: For from London Town Are lately come down, Four able Physicians that never wore Gown ; II. No Bolus, no Vomit, no Potion or Pill, Which fometimes do Cure, but oftner do Kill, For they have a new Drug Which is call'd the clofe Hug, [lock fmug. Which will mend your Complexion and make you A Sovereign Balfom, which once well apply'd, Though griev'd at the Heart, the Patient ne'er dy'd. III. In the Morning you need not be robb'd of your Reft, On your Back you must lye, And one of these Doctors must always be by, IV. Before they do venture to give their Direction, Scarce any one knows How many large Handfulls must go to her Dofe; You Ladies that have fuch ill Symptoms as thefe, In Reason and Conscience should pay double Fees. V. But that we may give these Doctors due Praise, They never lay hold, For what comes fo freely they fcorn fhould be fold: A Cruel MISTRESS. By T. CAREW, Efq; WA Fitcher full d with Water from the Brook: E read of Kings, and Gods, that kindly took But I have daily tendred without thanks Vesta is not difpleas'd, if her chaft Urn Do with repaired Fuel ever burn; But my Saint frowns, though to her honour'd Name Th' Affyrian King did none i' th' Furnace throw, With bended Knees I daily worship her, Of fuch a Goddefs no times leave record, That burnt the Temple, where she was ador❜d. K Ingrateful Beauty threatned. Now Celia, (since thou art so proud,) That killing Power is none of thine, Tempt me with fuch Affrights no more, 43 AT T the fight of my Phyllis, from every Part, A Spring-Tide of Joy does flow up to my Heart Which quickens each Pulse, and fwells ev'ry Vein: But all my Delights are still mingled with Pain. 11. So ftrange a Diftemper fure Love cannot bring; III. But the Boy is much grown, and fo alter'd of late, He's become a more furious Paffion than Hate; Since, by Phyllis, reftor'd to the Empire of Hearts, He has new ftrung his Bow, and sharpen'd his Darts: And ftrictly the Rights of his Crown to maintain, He breaks ev'ry Heart, and turns ev'ry Brain.. IV. My Madnefs, alas! I too plainly discover; Let's tie the Knot fo very fast, |