At length to greater Victims they proceed,
'Till Swine and Heifers too by hundreds Bleed,
On whose half roafted Flesh the impious Wretches
feed.
All quarters foon were fill'd with the Report,
That ceas'd not till it reacht the Monarch's Court;
Th' aspiring Prince with Godlike Rites o'erjoy'd,
Commands all Altars elfe to be destroy'd,
Proclaims himself in Earth's low Sphere to be
The only and fufficient Deity;
That Heav'nly Pow'rs liv'd too remote and high,
And had enough to do to Rule the Sky.
Th' all-feeing Sun no longer could fuftain
Thefe Practices, but with enrag'd Disdain
Darts forth fuch peftilent malignant Beams,
As fhed Infection on Air, Earth and Streams;
From whence this Malady its birth receiv'd,
And firft th' offending Syphilus was griev❜d,
Who rais'd forbidden Altars on the Hill,
And Victims Blood with impious Hands did spille
He first wore Buboes dreadful to the Sight,
Firft felt ftrange Pains, and fleepless past the Night;
From him the Malady receiv'd its Name,
The Neighbouring Shepherds catcht the fpreading.
At laft in City and in Court 'twas known, [Flame:
And feiz'd th' ambitious Monarch on his Throne;
In this distress the wretched Tribes repair
To Ammerice the Gods Interpreter,
Chief Priestess of the confecrated Wood,
In whofe Retreats the awful Tripod flood,
From whence the Gods refponfal fhe expreft;
The Crowd enquire what Cause produc'd this Peft,
What God enrag'd? and how to be appeas'd,
And laft what Cure remain'd for the Difeas'd?
To whom the Nymph reply'd-----The Sun incens'd,
With juft revenge thefe Torments has commenc'd.
What Man can with immortal Pow'rs compare?
Fly, Wretches, fly, his Altars foon repair,
Load them with Incense, him with Pray'rs invade, His Anger will not eafily be laid;
Your Doom is paft, black Styx has heard him fwear,
This Plague should never be extinguifht here.
Since then your Soil must ne'er be wholly free,
Beg Heav'n at least to yield fome Remedy:
A Milk-white Cow on Juno's Altar lay,
To Mother Earth a jet-black Heifer flay;
One from above the happy Seeds fhall shed,
The other rear the Grove and make it spread,
That only for your Grief a Cure shall yield.
She faid: the Croud return'd to th' open'd Field,
Rais'd Altars to the Sun without delay,
To Mother Earth and Juno Victims flay.
'Twill seem moft ftrange what now I fhall declare,
But by our Gods and Ancestors I swear,
These Groves that fpread fo wide and look fo green
Within this Ifle, till then, were never feen,
But now before their Eyes the Plants were found
To fpring, and in an inftant Shade the Ground,
The Prieft forthwith bids Sacrifice be done,
And Justice paid to the offended Sun;
Some deftin'd Head t'attone the Crimes of all,
On Syphilus the dreadful Lot did fall,
Who now was plac'd before the Altar bound,
His Head with facrificial Garlands crown'd,
His Throat laid open to the lifted Knife,
But interceding Juno fpar'd his Life,
Commands them in his stead a Heifer flay,
For Phoebus Rage was now remov'd away.
This made our grateful Ancestors enjoin,
When firft these annual Rites they did affign,
That to the Altar bound a Swine each time
Should ftand, to witness Syphilus his Crime..
All this infected Throng whom you behold,
Smart for their Anceftors Offence of old:
To heal their Plague this Sacrifice is done,
And reconcile them to th' offended Sun.
The Rites perform'd, the hallow'd Boughs they seize, The fpeedy certain Gure for their Disease.
With fuch difcourfe the Chiefs their Cares deceive, Whofe Tribes of different Worlds united live, Till now the Ships fent back to Europe's Shore, Return and bring prodigious Tidings o'er; That this Difeafe did now through Europe rage, Nor any Med'cine found that cou'd affwage, That in their Ships no flender Number mourn'd, With Boils without and inward Ulcers burn'd. Then call'd to mind the Bird's prophetick Sound, That in thofe Groves Relief was to be found. Then each with folemn Vows the Sun entreats, And gentle Nymphs the Guardians of thofe Seats. With lufty Strokes the Grove they next invade, Whose weighty Boughs are on their Shoulders laid, Which with the Natives Methods they prepare, And with the healing Draughts their Health repair, But not forgetful of their Country's Good, They fraight their largeft Ships with this rich Wood, To try if in our Climate it would be
Of equal use, for the fame Malady:
The Year's mild Seafon feconds their defire,
And western Winds their willing Sails inspire.
Iberian Coafts you firft were happy made
With this rich Plant, and wonder'd at its Aid;
Known now to France and Neighbouring Germany,
Cold Scythian Coafts and temp'rate Italy,
To Europe's Bounds, all bless the vital Tree.
Hail Heav'n-born Plant whose Rival ne'er was feen
Whofe Virtues like thy Leaves are ever green;
Hope of Mankind and Comfort of their Eyes,
Of new difcover'd Worlds the richest Prize.
Too happy, would Indulgent Gods allow
Thy Groves in Europe's nobler Clime to grow:
Yet if my Strains have any force, thy Name
Shall flourish here, and Europe fing thy Fame.
If not remoter Lands with Winter bound,
Eternal Snow, nor Libya's fcorching Ground;
Yet Latium and Benacus cool Retreats
Shall thee refound, with Athefis fair Seats.
Too bleft, if Bembus live thy Growth to fee,
And on the Banks of Tyber gather thee,
If he thy matchlefs Virtues once rehearse.
And crown thy Praises with eternal Verfe.
Allants, a bashful Poet bids me fay
is Maidenhead to Day.
Be not too fierce, for he's but green of Age;
And ne'er, 'till now, debauch'd upon the Stage,
He wants the fuff'ring part of Refolution;
And comes with Blushes to his Execution.
E'er you deflow'r his Mufe, he hopes the Pit
Will make fome Settlement upon his Wit.
Promife him well, before the Play begin;
For he wou'd fain be cozen'd into Sin.
'Tis not but that he knows you mean to fail;
But, if you leave him after being frail,
He'll have, at least, a fair Pretence to rail ;
To call you base, and swear you us'd him ill,
And put you in the new Deferters Bill:
Lord, what a Troop of perjur'd Men we fee;
Enow to fill another Mercury!
But this the Ladies may with Patience brook:
Theirs are not the firft Colours you forfook!
He wou'd be loath the Beauties to offend;
But, if he fhou'd, he's not too old to mend.
He's a young Plant, in his firft Year of bearing;
But his Friend fwears, he will be worth the rearing,
His Glofs is ftill upon him: Tho' 'tis true
He's yet unripe, yet take him for the blue.
You think an Apricot half green is best ;
There's sweet and four: And one fide good at least.
Mango's and Limes, whofe Nourishment is little,
Tho' not for Food, are yet preferv'd for Pickle.
So this green Writer may pretend, at least,
To whet your Stomachs for a better Feaft.
He makes this difference in the Sexes too,
He fells to Men, he gives himself to you.
To both, he wou'd contribute some Delight;
A meer Poetical Hermaphrodite.
Thus he's equipp'd, both to be woo'd, and woo;
With Arms offenfive, and defensive too;
Tis hard, he thinks, if neither part will do.
A very ancient Song of the Banishment of the two Dukes of HEREFORD and NORFOLK, in the Time of King RICHARD the Second.
WO noble Dukes of great Renown,
That long had liv'd in Fame,
Thro' hateful Envy were caft down,
And brought to fudden Shame;
The Duke of Hereford was the one,
A prudent Prince and wife,
'Gainft whom fuch Malice there was shown,
Which foon in fight did rise.
The Duke of Norfolk moft untrue,
Declar'd unto the King,
The Duke of Hereford greatly grew
In hatred of each thing,
Which by his Grace was acted ftill,
Against both High and Low;
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