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Now in his Throne the King securely fate, But O! this Change alarm’d the Rival State; Besides he lately brib'd in Breach of Laws, The fair Deserter of her Uncle's Cause. This rouz’d the Monarch of the neighbouring Crown, A drowsie Prince, too careless of Renown, Yet prompt to Vengeance and untaught to yield, Great Scarsdale challeng'd Skipwith to the Field: Whole Shoals of Poets for this Chief declare, And Vafsal Players attend him to the War. Skipwith with Joy the dreadful Şummons took, And brought an equal Force: Then Scarsdale fpoke;

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's Restore bright Helen to my longing Sight, Or now my Signal shall begin the Fight.

Hold, said the Foe, thy warlike Hoft remove, Nor let our Bards the Chance of Battel prove ; Should Death deprive us of their shining Parts, What would become of all the Liberal Arts : Should Dennis fall, whose 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 resign his Breach, The Lyrick Muse would scarce survive his DeathBut should Divine Motteux untimely die, The gasping Nine would in Convullions lie. For these bold Champions fafer Arms provide, And let their Pens the doubtful Strife decide.

The King.consents, and urg'd by publick Good, Wisely retreats to save his Peoples Blood, The moving Legions leave the dusty Plain, And safe at home Poetick Wars maintain.

A LETTER from J. P. to Colonel

H. occasion'd by the Colonel's two

late Letters. O

But thy best 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 Curse) Still to be writing, and still writing worse. Thy first Essay was with fome Fancy fir'd, Thy last was by some Grubstreet Muse infpir'd; So harsh the Numbers, Raillery so gross, Sure 'twas translated out of Scotch by Rofs. Is this thy Gratitude for all the Wine The Knights bestow'd, who never tasted thine? And dost thou thus our Mysteries disclose, And in tude Rhime our President expose? How oft haft thou with awful Silence heard The midnight Le&ures of that Reverend Bard, When with his Glass in Hand he dath 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 search Decrees of Fáte, And give strong Proofs about a future State: Not old Silesius fo divinely spoke 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 Despite ? Hard Fate of Greatness! tho’a Man Thould be As wise as Ashly, or refin'd like thee,

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Like Fletcher should for England's Glory toil,
And plot as deep as Monmouth, or as Muyle,
Yet Barber, B-----y, and such Wits as those,
Would find out something 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 smart as Archer to engage the Fair.
Such are his Mien, his Person, and his .Parts,
He seems by Nature form’d to gain their Hearts;
And such 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 stood recorded yet in Walker's Page.
The Jealous trust 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 seems 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 ?
Resign the Task to some sublimer Muse,
To tell what Beauties Burl----n pursues,
What powerful Charms did Anglesea recal,
And who now warms the Heart of gentle Manle;
What lovely Youth Boyle fondly doth caress,
Or strowling Punk does brawny Granvile bless ;
What new Swivante Manwaring will clap,
And who by Walsh is destin’d to a Rape ;
How Therrold Atill for Mazareen doth burn,
And Lady Mary does loft Kingston mourn.
Well it becomes wise William's rightful Heir
To fix his serious Inclinations there.
Where solid Prudence the fit Choice commends,
And from the Muther Chastity descends.

But groundless Fears oblig'd him to delift,
And no bold Man will venture to be blest,
Till Heaven provides, the Family to grace,
Some daring Hero of the Regal Race.

But these are Subjects that surpass 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 false Beauty does deface the true ;
And may arrive with Diligence and Care
In time to rival Darwentwater's Heir.
On such as these thy Doggrel Numbers try,
And fresh Memoirs Lord Edward will supply.
But all whose Beauty and whose Virtue shine,
Should be protected from such Pens as thine:
From them, dear Harry, modestly abftain,
Nor ever more immortal Charms profane.
More I could say, but Business must not wait,
And I to day must open a Debate.
If after all the Criticks tell us right,
Who say some other did those Rhimes indite,
And set thy Name to what thou didst not write ;
Then pardon this Impertinence in me,
Who am thy most assured Friend 4. P.


Cure for Green Sickness, 1702. A Much Lode I did proffer to her, and me the like

to me ;

But when I kiss'd her lovely Lips, and press’d her to be kind,

[are Wind. She cry'd o no, but I remember, Womens words I hug'd her till her Breath grew short, then farther did intrude,

[was rude. she scratch'd and struggld modestly, and told me I did feign,

I beg'd her Pardon twenty times, and some Concern

(again, But like a bold presumptuous Sinner did the same At last I did by Dalliance raise the pretty Nymph's

Delire, 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, stick me; stick me, kill me; kill me

On the Lord Lovelace's coming

to Oxford from Glocefter Goal in

December, 1688. A

Late Expedition to Oxford was made

By a Protestant Peer and his Brother o’th' Blade, Who in Triumph his Lordship from Glocefter convey'd,

Which no body can deny.

II. Had you seen all his Myrmidons when they came to us; Equipt in their thred-bare greyCoats and highShooes, You'd have sworn not the Goal, but all Hell was broke loose,

Which, dc.

III, 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 Hars they had Head-pieces on,

Which, &c.

IV. Tho' Arms were not plenty, yet armed they come With stout oaken Plants and Crabtree Sticks some, To cudgel the Pope and the bald Pates of 'Rome,

Which, co

V. Some had two able Legs, but never a Boot, And on their Tits inounted they stood stoutly to't, But for the Name of a Horfe they'd as good went on foot,

Which, cc.

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