The Time, which should be kindly lent

To Plays and witty Men,
In waiting for a Knave is spent,
Or wishing for a Ten.

Stand in defence of your own Charms,

Throw down this Favorite,

That threatens with his dazling. Armas
Your Beauty and your Wit.

What Pity 'tis, thofe conquering Eyes,
Which all the World fubdue,

Should, while the Lover gazing dies,
Be only on Alpue.

That 'tis of late believ'd, nay fix'd a Rules
Whoever is not vicious, is a Fool:

Hifs'd at by old and young, defpis'd; opprefty,
If he be not a Villain like the rest.

Virtue and Truth are loft: Search for good Men,
Among ten Thousand you will fcarce find Ten.
Half Wits, conceited Coxcombs, Cowards, Braves,
Bafe Flatt'rers, and the endless fry of Knaves,
Fops, Fools, and Pimps; we ev'ry where may find;
And not to meet 'em is to fhun Mankind.
The other Sex too, whom we all adore,
When fearch'd we still find rotten at the Core,
An old dry Bawd, or a young juicy Whore:
Their Love all falfe, their Virtue but a Name,
And nothing in 'em conftant, but their Shame.
What Satyrift then that's honeft can fit ftill,
And unconcern'd fee fuch a Tide of Ill,

With an impetuous Force o'erflow the Age,
And not strive to reftrain it with his Rage;"
On Sin's vaft Army feize, Wing, Rear, and Van,
And, like impartial Death, not spare a Man?
For where, alas! where is that mighty He,
That is from Pride, Deceit, and Envy free,
Or rather is not tainted with all three?
Mankind is criminal, their Acts, their Thoughts
'Tis Charity to tell 'em of their Faults,
And how their Failings in a faithful Glafs:
For who wont mend who fees himself an Afs?
And this Defign 'tis that employs my Mufe,
That for her daily Theam fhe's proud to chufe

A Theam that she'll have daily need to use.
Let other Poets flatter, fawn, and write,
To get fome Guineas and a Dinner by't:
Such mercenary Wretches, fhould they starve,
They meet a kinder Fate than they deserve.
But the cou'd ne'er cringe to a Lord for Meat,
Or praise a profperous Villain, tho' he's great :
Quite contrary her Practice shall appear,
Unbrib'd, impartial, pointed, and severe:
That way my Nature leads, compos'd of Gall,
I must write sharply, or not write at all.

}

Tho' THYRSIS wings the Air in tow'ring Flights
And to a wonder Panegyrick writes,
Tho' he is ftill exalted and fublime,
Scarce to be match'd by paft or present Time;
Tho' fmooth and lofty all his Linès appear,
The Thoughts all noble, the Expreffion clear,
With Judgment, Wit, and Fancy, fhining ev'ry
where;

Yet what Inftru&tion can from hence accrue?
'Tis Flatt'ry all; too fulfome to be true,
Urge not, for 'tis to vindicate the Wrong,
It caufes Emulation in the Young,

A Thirst to Fame, while fome high Act they read,
That prompts 'em to the fame Romantick Deed,

As if fome pow'rful Magick lay in Rhimes,
That made 'em braver than at other times.
'Tis falfe and fond; Hero's may huff and fight
But who can merit fo as he can write?
To fay a Glow-worm is the Morning Star,
And that it may with ease be seen as far,
Were most ridiculous; fo far from Truth,
It justly wou'd deferve a fharp Reproof.

That Slave is more to blame, whofe hireling Per
Calls Knaves and Coxcombs wife deferving Men;
Says the rank Bawds are all with Sweetness grac'd,
Courtiers all juft, and all Court-Strumpets chafte.
If to be prais'd does give a Man pretence
To Glory, Learning, Honefty and Senfe,
Cromwell had much to say in his Defence:
Who, tho' a Tyrant, which all Ills comprize,
Has been extoll'd and lifted to the Skies.
Whilft Living, fuch was the Applause he gave,
Counted High, Princely, Tious, Juft, and Brave;
And with Encomiums waited to his Grave.
Who then wou'd give this for a Poet's Praife,
Which rightly understood does but debafe,
And blaft the Reputation it wou'd raife?
Hence 'tis, and 'tis a Punishment that's fit,
They are contemn'd and scorn'd by Men of Wit.
'Tis true fome Sots may nibble at their Praise,
And think it great to ftand i'th' Front of Plays;
Tho' most to that Stupidity are grown,

}

They wave their Patron's Praife to write their own
And yet they never fail of their Rewards;
And faith in that I cannot blame the Bards.
If Coxcombs will be Coxcombs, let 'em rue;
If they love Flatt'ry let 'em pay for't too.
'Tis one fure Method to convince the Elves,
They spare my Pains, and Satyrize themselves.

In short, nought helps like Satyr to amend,
While in huge Volumes Motley Priests contend,
And let their vain Difputes ne'er have an end:

They plunge us in thofe Snares we else fhou'd thun j
Like Tinkers, make ten Holes in mending one.

Our dearest Friends too, tho' they know our Faults,
For Pity or for Shame conceal their Thoughts;
While we, who fee our Failings not forbid,
Loosely run on in the vain Paths we did.
'Tis Satyr then that is our truest Friend;
For none, before they know their Faults, can mendi:
That tells us boldly of our fouleft Crimés,
Reproves ill Manners, and reforms the Times.
How am I then to blame, when all I write
Is honeft Rage, not Prejudice or Spite?
Truth is my Aim, with Truth I fhall impeach;
And I'll spare none that comes within its reach.
On then, my Mufe, the World before thee lyes,
And lafh the Knaves and Fools that I defpife.

The FORSAKEN MISTRESS:

A Dialogue between PHYLLIS, and STREP HON.

By Sir GEORGE ETHERIDGE,

PHYLLIS.

ELL me, gentle Strephon, why
You from my Embraces. fly?

Does my Love thy Love deftroy?
Tell me, I will yet be coy.

Stay, Oftay, and I will feign
(Though I break my Heart) Difdain;
But left I too unkind appear,
For ev'ry Frown I'll fhed a Tear.
And if in vain I court thy Love,
Let mine, at least, thy Pity move:
Ah! while I fcorn, vouchsafe to woo,
Methinks you may diffemble too.

I

STREP HON.
Ah! Phyllis, that you would contrive
A way to keep my Love alive;
But all your other Charms must fail,
When Kindness ceases to prevail.

Alas! no less than you, I grieve,
My dying Flame has no Reprieve;
For I can never hope to find,

Shou'd all the Nymphs 1 court, be kind,
One Beauty able to renew

'Thofe Pleafures I enjoy'd in you;
When Love and Youth, did both confpire
To fill our Breafts and Veins with fire.

'Tis true, fome other Nymph may gain That Heart which merits your Disdain; But fecond Love has ftill allay,

The Joys grow aged, and decay.
Then blame me not for lofing more
Than Love and Beauty, can reftore;
And let this Truth thy Comfort prove,
I wou'd, but can no longer love.

The NATURE of WOMEN;

A Tranflation of Part of the Fourth Eclogue of Mantuan.

A SAT Y R.

Famineum fervile genus, crudele, fuperbum.

Y While you, Polymnia, prompt my Memory;

E facred Nymphs of Lebethra be by,

And all the reft infpire my weaker Tongue,
Left Woman should complain I do her Wrong,

NS