On VIRTUE,

By Mr. EVELYN.

AIR Virtue, fhould I follow thee

Firhou'd be naked, and alone,

For thou art not in Company, And scarce art, to be found in one.

Thy Rules are too fevere, and cold, To be embrac'd by vig'rous Youth; And Fraud and Av'rice arm the old Against thy Juftice and thy Truth.

He who, by light of Reafon led, Inftructs himself in thy rough School, Shall all his Life-time beg his Bread, And when he dies, be thought a Fool,

Though in himself he's fatisfy'd With a calm Mind and chearful Heart, The World will call his Virtue Pride, His holy Life, Defign and Art.

The Reign of Vice is abfolure,

While good Men vainly ftrive to rife; They may declaim, they may difpute, But fhall continue poor, and wise.

Honours and Wealth were made by Fate To wait on fawning Impudence, To give infipid Coxcombs weight, And to fupply the want of Senfe,

Mighty Pompey, whose great Soul Defign'd the Liberty of Rome;

In vain did Cafar's Arms controul, And at Pharfalia was o'ercome.

His Virtue, constant in Distress,
In Ptolemy no Pity bred,

Who barely guided by Success,
Secur'd his Peace with his Friend's Head.

Brutus, whom the Gods ordain'd
To do what Pompey would have done,
The gen'rous Motion entertain'd,
And ftab'd the Tyrant on his Throne.

This god-like Brutus, whofe delight Was Virtue, which he had ador'd, Haunted by Spectres over Night, Fell the next Day on his own Sword.

If, when his hope of Vict'ry loft, This noble Roman could exclaim, Oh Virtue, whom I courted moft, I find she's but an empty Name!

In a degen'rate Age like this,
We with more reafon may conclude,
That Fortune will attend on Vice,
Mis'ry on those who dare be good.

I

The COMPLAINT.

A SONG to a Scotch Tune.

By Mr. THO. OTWAY.

*

Love, I dote, I rave with Pain,

No Quiet's in my Mind,

Tho' ne'er cou'd be a happier Swain,
Were Sylvia lefs unkind.

For when, as long her Chains I've worn,

I ask relief from fmart,

She only gives me Looks of Scorns

Alas, 'twill break my Heart!

My Rivals, rich in Worldly Store,
May offer heaps of Gold,

But surely I a Heav'n adore,

Too precious to be fold; Can Sylvia fuch a Coxcomb prize, For Wealth and not Defert, And my poor Sighs and Tears defpife! Alas, 'twill break my Heart!

When like fome panting, hov'ring Dove,
I for my Blifs contend,
And plead the Cause of eager Love,
She coldly calls me Friend.

Ah, Sylvia! thus in vain you strive
To act a Healer's part,
*Twill keep but ling'ring Pain alive,
Alas! and break my Heart.

When on my lonely, penfive Bed,
I lay me down to reft,

In hope to calm my raging Head,
And cool my burning Breaft,

Her Cruelty all Eafe denies,

With fome fad Dream frart, All drown'd in Tears I find my Eyes, And breaking feel my Heart.

Then rifing, through the Path I rove
That leads me where the dwells,
Where to the fenfelefs Waves my Love
Its mournful Story tells;

With Sighs I dew and kifs the Door,
'Till Morning bids depart ;

Then vent ten thousand Sighs and more:
Alas, 'twill break my Heart!

But, Sylvia, when this Conqueft's won,
And I am dead and cold,
Renounce the cruel Deed you've done,
Nor glory when 'tis told;

For ev'ry lovely gen'rous Maid,
Will take my injur'd Part,
And curfe thee, Sylvia, I'm afraid,
For breaking my poor Heart.

N°

1

A S O N G.

more will I my Paffion hide,
Tho' too prefuming it appear,
When long Despair a Heart has try'd,
What other torment can it fear?
Unlov'd of her I would not live,
Nor die till the the Sentence give.

Why fhou'd the Fair offended be,

If Virtue charm in Beauty's Drefs:
If where fo much divine I fee,

My open Vows the Saint confefs?
Awak'd by wonders in her Eyes,
My former Idols I despise.

The

The WISH.

I.

As which the Ter the suns

S Leaves which from the Trees blown down

Or Lillies which the Virgins crop
Contract their Beauty, die and drop:
So when I on Dorinda look,

I ftrait am with a Lightning ftrook;
But if I gaze a while and stay
I melt infenfibly away.

II.

But then as soft and gentle Showers,
Renew old Life in dying Flowers ;
Or Dew fhed on the Womb of Earth
Does give the Early Bloffoms birth:
So if Dorinda fheds a Tear

New ftrength and motion does appear
But if the balmy Kiffes gives,

My Soul returns again and lives.

III.

Therefore, my Dear, fince Life and Death

Depend at once upon your Breath;

Since what your Eyes of Life deprive,
Your Kiffes heal and do revive;
Kill and deftroy me as you please,
For only then my Mind's at ease,
When your Eyes and Lips contrive,
To make me often Die and Live.