Now in his Throne the King fecurely fate, But O! this Change alarm'd the Rival State: Befides he lately brib'd in Breach of Laws, The fair Deferter of her Uncle's Cause.
This rouz'd the Monarch of the neighbouring Crown,
A drowfie Prince, too careless of Renown,
Yet prompt to Vengeance and untaught to yield,
Great Scarfdale challeng'd Skipwith to the Field:
Whole Shoals of Poets for this Chief declare,
And Vaffal Players attend him to the War.
Skipwith with Joy the dreadful Summons took, -1
And brought an equal Force: Then Scarfdale spoke;
Thou Bane of Empire, Foe to human Kind,
Whom neither Leagues nor Laws of Nations bind,
For Cares of high Poetick Sway unfit,
Thou Shame of Learning and Reproach of Wit
Reftore bright Helen to my longing Sight,
Or now my Signal fhall begin the Fight..
Hold, faid the Foe, thy warlike Hoft remove,
Nor let our Bards the Chance of Battel prove;
Should Death deprive us of their fhining Parts,
What would become of all the Liberal Arts?
Should Dennis fall, whofe high Majeftick Wit
And awful Judgment like two Tallies fit,
Adieu ftrong Odes and every lofty Strain,
The Tragick Rant, and proud Pindarick Vein.
Should tuneful Durfey now refign his Breath,
The Lyrick Mufe would fcarce furvive his Death
But fhould Divine Motteux untimely die,
The gafping Nine would in Convulfions lie.
For thefe bold Champions fafer Arms provide,
And let their Pens the doubtful Strife decide.
The King confents, and urg'd by publick Good,
Wifely retreats to fave his Peoples Blood.
The moving Legions leave the dusty Plain,
And fafe at home Poetick Wars maintain.
A LETTER from J. P. to Colonel H. occafion'd by the Colonel's two
Harry, canft thou find no Subject fit,
But thy beft Friend, to exercise thy Wit;
No Order but the Toaft to ridicule ?
Why with things facred doft thou play the Fool?
Sadly condemn'd (the Poets common Curfe)
Still to be writing, and ftill writing worse.
Thy first Effay was with fome Fancy fir'd,
Thy laft was by fome Grubftreet Mufe infpir'd;
So harsh the Numbers, Raillery fo grofs,
Sure 'twas tranflated out of Scotch by Rofs.
Is this thy Gratitude for all the Wine
The Knights beftow'd, who never tafted thine?
And doft thou thus our Myfteries disclose,
And in rude Rhime our Prefident expofe?
How oft haft thou with awful Silence heard
The midnight Lectures of that Reverend Bard,
When with his Glafs in Hand he doth unfold
What Faith the Priests of all Religions hold;
What old Socinus, and Molinos teach,
And what the modern Philadelphians preach;
What nice Remarks each different Tongue affords,
And curious Etymologies of Words?
Then he goes on to fearch Decrees of Fate,
And give ftrong Proofs about a future State:
Not old Silenus fo divinely fpoke
Of hidden Truths in Virgil's facred Book,
When with a load of Wine and Knowledge fraught,
The drunken God the liftning Satyrs taught;
And doft thou thus his Care and Pains requite,
To make thee learned in thy own Defpite?
Hard Fate of Greatnefs! tho' a Man fhould be
As wife as Ashly, or refin'd like thee,
Like Fletcher fhould for England's Glory toil,
And plot as deep as Monmouth, or as Mayle,
Yet Barber, B-----y, and fuch Wits as thofe,
Would find out fomething in him to expofe.
Thrice happy B----, who alike does prove
Successful in Affairs of State and Love;
Grave as Sir Harry in a Council-Chair,
Yet fmart as Archer to engage the Fair.
Such are his Mien, his Perfon, and his Parts,
He feems by Nature form'd to gain their Hearts;
And fuch his Prudence to protect their Fame,
Safe are his Darts, and innocent his Flame:
None e'er for him provok'd her Husband's Rage,
Nor ftood recorded yet in Walker's Page.
The Jealous truft him with their Wives alone,
Who guards them from all Arrows but his own.
Bold to attack, yet skilful to defend,
He plays at once the Lover and the Friend;
But he's a Theam too lofty for thy Pitch,
Aim not at things that are above thy reach.
Mildmay feems fitting for a Stile like thine,
And William Pawlet in thy Works would shine;
Lord Ratcliff's Poems might thy Satyr fit,
But what haft thou to do with Men of Wit?
Refign the Task to fome fublimer Mufe,
To tell what Beauties Burl----n pursues,
What powerful Charms did Anglefea recal,
And who now warms the Heart of gentle Maule
What lovely Youth Boyle fondly doth carefs,
Or ftrowling Punk does brawny Granvile bless;
What new Swivante Manwaring will clap,
And who by Walsh is deftin'd to a Rape;
How Therrold ftill for Mazareen doth burn,
And Lady Mary does loft Kingston mourn.
Well it becomes wife William's rightful Heir
To fix his ferious Inclinations there.
Where folid Prudence the fit Choice commends,
And from the Mother Chastity descends.
But groundless Fears oblig'd him to defift,
And no bold Man will venture to be bleft,
Till Heaven provides, the Family to grace,
Some daring Hero of the Regal Race.
But these are Subjects that furpafs thy Rhimes,
Draw thou the Fops or Husbands of the Times;
Or if to charge the Fair thy Fancy moves,
Write Popham's Life, or Madam Griffin's Loves.
One Labour too to Ranelagh is due,
Who with falfe Beauty does deface the true;,
And may arrive with Diligence and Care
In time to rival Darwentwater's Heir.
On fuch as these thy Doggrel Numbers try,
And fresh Memoirs Lord Edward will fupply.
But all whofe Beauty and whofe Virtue fhine,
Should be protected from fuch Pens as thine:
From them, dear Harry, modeftly abstain,
Nor ever more immortal Charms profane.
More I could fay, but Business must not wait,
And I to day muft open a Debate.
If after all the Criticks tell us right,
Who fay fome other did those Rhimes indite,
And fet thy Name to what thou didst not write;
Then pardon this Impertinence in me,
Who am thy moft affured Friend J. P.
Cure for Green Sickness, 1702.
S fair Olinda fat beneath a fhady Tree,
Much Love I did proffer to her, and the the like
But when I kifs'd her lovely Lips, and prefs'd her [are Wind. She cry'd O no, but I remember, Womens words I hug'd her till her Breath grew fhort, then farther did intrude, [was rude. She fcratch'd and struggl'd modeftly, and told me I
I beg'd her Pardon twenty times, and fome Concern did feign, [again. But like a bold prefumptuous Sinner did the fame At laft I did by Dalliance raise the pretty Nymph's Defire,
Our Inclinations equal were, and mutual was our Fire. Then in the height of Joy she cry'd, O I'm undone I fear, [quite, my Dear. O kill me, tick me; ftick me, kill me; kill me
On the Lord LOVELACE's coming to Oxford from Glocefter Goal in December, 1688.
Late Expedition to Oxford was made
By a Proteftant Peer and his Brother o'th' Blade, Who in Triumph his Lordship from Glocefter convey'd, Which no body can deny.
Had you feen all his Myrmidons when they came to us, Equipt in their thred-bare greyCoats and highShooes, You'd have fworn not the Goal, but all Hell was broke
In rank and in file there rode many a Man,
Some march'd in the Rear, and fome in the Van,
And for want of their Hats they had Head-pieces on,
Which, &c.
Tho' Arms were not plenty, yet armed they come With ftout oaken Plants and Crabtree Sticks fome, To cudgel the Pope and the bald Pates of Rome, Which, c.
Some had two able Legs, but never a Boot,
And on their Tits mounted they stood ftoutly to't,
But for the Name of a Horfe they'd as good went on
Which, &c.
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