T dead of night, when stars appear,
And ftrong Boötes turns the Bear;
When mortals fleep their cares away,
Fatigu'd with labours of the day,
Cupid was knocking at my gate;
Who's there! fays I, who knock's fo late,
Disturbs my dreams, and breaks my reft?
O fear not me, a harmless guest,
He faid, but open, open pray;
A foolish child, I 've loft my way,
And wander here this moon-light night,
All wet and cold, and wanting light.
With due regard his voice I heard,
Then rofe, a ready lamp prepar'd,-
And faw a naked Boy below,
With wings, a quiver, and a bow;
In hafte I ran, unlock'd my gate,
Secure and thoughtlefs of my fate;
I fet the child an easy chair
Against the fire, and dry'd his hair ;
Brought friendly cups of chearful wine,
And warm'd his little hands with mine.
All this did I with kind intent;
But he, on wanton mifchief bent,
Said, Dearest friend, this bow you fee,
This pretty bow belongs to me :
Obferve, I pray, if all be right;
I fear the rain has fpoil'd it quite.
He drew it then, and strait I found
Within my breaft a fecret wound.
This done, the rogue no longer ftaid,
But leapt away, and laughing faid,
"Kind Hoft, adieu! we now must part;
"Safe is my bow, but fick thy heart!"
TO A POET OF QUALITY,
Praifing the LADY HINCHINBROKE.
F thy judicious Mufe's fenfe,
Young Hinchinbroke so very proud is,
That Sachariffa and Hortenfe
She looks, henceforth, upon as dowdies. Yet the to one must still submit,
To dear Mamma must pay her duty, She wonders, prafing Wilmot's wit,
Thou should't forget his daughter's beauty.
THE PEDANT.
LYSANDER talks extremely well;
On any subject let him dwell,
His tropes and figures will content ye: He should poffefs to all degrees.
The art of talk; he practifes
Full fourteen hours in four-and-twenty.
So good a Wife doth Liffy make,
That from all company fhe flieth;
Such virtuous courfes doth fhe take,
That she all evil tongues defieth;
And, for her dearest Spouse's fake,
She with his Brethren only lieth.
INCURABLE.
PHILLIS, you boaft of perfect health in vain,
And laugh at those who of their ills complain:
That with a frequent fever Chloe burns,
And Stella's plumpnefs into dropfy turns!
O Phillis, while the patients are nineteen,
Little, alas are their diftempers seen.
But thou, for all thy feeming health, art ill,
Beyond thy lover's hopes, or Blackmore's skill;
No lenitives can thy disease affuage,
I tell thee, 'tis incurable-'tis Age.
FORTUNE.
HILST I in prifon or in court look down,
Nor beg thy favour, nor deferve thy frown,
In vain, malicious Fortune, haft thou try'd,
By taking from my state, to quell my pride:
Infulting girl! thy present rage abate ;
And, would'ft thou have me humbled, make me great.
N O N PAREIL.
ET others from the town retire,
And in the fields feek new delight;
My Phillis does fuch joys infpire,
No other objects please my fight.
In her alone. I find whate'er
Beauties a country landschape grace:
No fhade fo lovely as her hair,
Nor plain fo fweet as in her face.
Lilies and roses there combine,
More beauteous than in flowery field;
Transparent is her skin so fine,
To this each crystal stream must lead.
Her voice more sweet than warbling found,
Though, fung by nightingale or lark;
eyes fuch luftre dart around,
Compar'd to them, the fun is dark.
Both light and vital heat they give;
Cherish'd by them, my love takes root;
From her kind looks does life receive,
Grows a fair plant, bears flowers and fruit.
Such fruit, I ween, did once deceive
The common parent of mankind;
And made tranfgrefs our mother Eve:
Poifon its core, though fair its rind.
Yet fo delicious is its taste,
I cannot from the bait abstain,
But to th' inchanting pleasure hafte,
Though I were fure 'twould end in pain.
O-I'll endure ten thousand deaths,
Ere any farther I'll comply;
Oh! Sir, no man on earth that breathes
Had ever yet his hand fo high!
Oh! take your fword, and pierce my heart,
Undaunted fee me meet the wound,
-Oh! will you act a Tarquin's part ?
A fecond Lucrece you have found.
Thus to the preffing Corydon,
Poor Florimel, unhappy maid!
Fearing by Love to be undone,
In broken dying accents faid.
Delia, who held the confcious door,
Infpir'd by truth and brandy, fmil'd, Knowing that, fixteen months before, Our Lucrece had her fecond child.
And, hark ye! Madain, cry'd the Bawd, None of your flights, your high-rope dodging; 'Be civil here, or march abroad;
Oblige the Squire, or quit the lodging.
Oh! have I-Florimel went on-
Have I then loft my Delia's aid?
Where fhall forfaken virtue run,
If by her friend she is betray'd?
Oh! curfe on empty friendship's name!
Lord, what is all our future view!
Then, dear destroyer of my fame,
Let my laft fuccour be to you!
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