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Song nor Sonnet can relieve ye;
Faint Attempts in Love are vain.

II.

Urge but home the fair Occasion,
And be Master of the Field;
To a pow'rful kind Invasion
'Twere a Madness not to yield.

III.

Tho' the vows fhe'll ne'er permit ye,
Cries you're rude, and much to blame;
And with Tears implores your Pity;
Be not merciful for fhame.

IV.

When the fierce Affault is over,
Chloris time enough will find
This her cruel furious Lover,
Much more gentle, not fo kind.

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 Rhyming Monfieur, and the Spanish Plot;
Defie, or Court, all's one, they go to Pot.

The Ghosts of Poets walk within this Place,
And haunt us Actors wherefoe'er we pass,
In Visions bloodier than King Richard's was.

For this poor Wretch, he has not much to say,
But quietly brings in his Part o' th' Play,
And begs the Favour to be damn'd to Day.

He fends me only like a Sh'riff's Man here,
To let you know the Malefactor's near,
And that he means to die, en Cavalier.

For if you fhou'd be gracious to his Pen,
Th' Example will prove ill to other Men,
And you'll be troubled with 'em all agen.

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 ;
Their Phyfick is pleasant, their Dofe it is large,
And you may be cur'd without Danger or Charge.

II.

No Bolus, no Vomit, no Potion or Pill,

Which fometimes do Cure, but oftner do Kill,
Your Taste or your Stomach need ever displease,
If you'll be advised but by one of these ;

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,
For in your warm Bed your Phyfick works best;
And though in the Taking some Stirring's requir'd,
The Motion's so pleasant you need not be tir'd;

On your Back you must lye,
And raise your felf high,

And one of these Doctors must always be by,
Who ftill will be ready to cover you warm;
For if you take cold all Phyfick does harm.

IV.

Before they do venture to give their Direction,
They always confider the Patient's Complexion;
If the have a moist Palm or a red Head of Hair,
She requires more Phyfick than one Man can spare:
If the have a long Nofe,

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,
Who to all forts of People their Favour conveys,
To the Ugly for Pity's fake Skill shall be shewn,
And as for the Handfom they're cur'd for their own.
On your Silver or Gold

They never lay hold,

For what comes fo freely they fcorn fhould be fold:
Then join with these Doctors and heartily pray,
That their Power of Healing may never decay.

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
Rivers of Tears that overflow their Banks.
A flaughter'd Bull will appease angry Joves
A Horse the Sun; a Lamb the God of Love:
But the difdains the spotlefs Sacrifice
Of a pure Heart, that at her Altar lies,

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
I confecrate a never-dying Flame.

Th' Affyrian King did none i' th' Furnace throw,
But those that to his Image did not bow;

With bended Knees I daily worship her,
Yet the confumes her own Idolater.

Of fuch a Goddefs no times leave record,

That burnt the Temple, where she was ador❜d.

K

Ingrateful Beauty threatned.
By the fame Hand.

Now Celia, (since thou art so proud,)
'Twas I that gave thee thy Renown:
Thou had'ft, in the forgotten Crowd
Of common Beauties, liv'd unknown,
Had not my Verfe exhal'd thy Name,
And with it impt the Wings of Fame.

That killing Power is none of thine,
I gave
to thy Voice and Eyes:
Thy Sweets, thy Graces, all are mine;
Thou art my Star, fhin'ft in my Skies;
Then dart not, from thy borrow'd Sphere,
Lightning on him that fixt thee there.

Tempt me with fuch Affrights no more,
Left what I made, I uncreate:
Let Fools thy myftick Forms adore,
I'll know thee in thy mortal State.
Wife Poets that wrap'd Truth in Tales,
Knew her themselves through all her Vails.

43

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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;
To my knowledge, Love was a much quieter Things
So gentle and tame, that he never was known,
So much as to wake me, when I lay alone.

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;
For he is (at least) as much Madman as Lover,
Who, for one cruel Beauty, is ready to quit
All the Nymphs of the Stage, and those of the Fit,
The Joys of Hide-Park, and the Mall's dear Delight 3.
To live fober all Day, and chaste all the Night

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Let's tie the Knot fo very fast,
That Time thall ne'er untie it.
Love's dearest Joys they never prove,
Who free from Quarrels live;
'Tis fure the tender'ft Part of Love
Each other to forgive.

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