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“ Dear gentle youth, is 't none but thee?
Desire 's asleep, and cannot wake, With innocence I dare be free;
When women such advances make: By so much truth and modesty
Both time and charms thus Phyllis wastes, No nymph was e'er betray'd.
Since each must surfeit ere he tastes.
Nothing escapes her wandering eyes, “ Come lean thy head upon my lap;
No one she thinks too mean a prize; While thy smooth cheeks I stroke and clap,
Ev'n Lynch ?, the lag of human kind, Thou may'st securely take a nap;"
Nearest to brutes by God design'd, Which he, poor fool, obey'd.
May boast the smiles of this coquet, She saw him yawn, and heard him snore,
As much as any man of wit. And found him fast asleep all o'er.
The signs bang thinner in the Strand, She sigh'd, and could endure no more,
The Dutch scarce more infest the land, But starting up, she said:
Though Egypt's locusts they outvie,
In number and voracity. « Such virtue shall rewarded be:
Whores are not half so plenty found, For this thy dull fidelity,
In play-house, or that hallow'd ground I'll trust you with my flocks, not me,
Of Temple-walks or Whetstone's Park; Pursue thy grazing trade;
Caresses less abound in Spark 3. “ Go, milk thy goats, and shear thy sheep,
Then with kind looks for all who come, And watch all night thy flocks to keep;
At bawdy-house, the drawing-room: Thou shalt no more be lull'd asleep
But all in vain she throws her darts,
They hit, but cannot hurt our hearts :
With “ Reverend Mother of the Maids !"
Forgetting what her charms have done;
To Teagueland we this beauty owe, Phyllis, if you will not agree
Teagueland her earliest charms did know: To give me back my liberty,
There first her tyrant beauties reign'd; In spite of you, I must regain
Where'er she look'd, she conquest gain'd. My loss of time, and break your chain.
No heart the glances could repel, You were mistaken, if you thought
The Teagnes in shoals before her fell; I was so grossly to be caught;
And trotting bogs was all the art Or that I was so blindly bred,
The Sound had left to save his beart. As not to be in woman read.
She kill'd so fast, by my salvation, Perhaps you took me for a fool,
She near dispeopled half the nation : Design'd alone your sex's tool;
Though sbe, good soul, to save took care Nay, you might think so mad a thing,
All, all she could from sad despair. That, with a little fashioning,
From thence she hither came to prove I might in time, for your dear sake,
If yet ber charms could kindle love : That monster call'd a husband make:
But, ah! it was too late to try, Perhaps I might, had I not found
For Spring was gone, and Winter nigh: One darling vice in you abound;
Yet though her eyes such conquests made, A vice to me, which e'er will prove
That they were shunn'd, or else obey'd, An antidote to banish love.
Yet now her charms are so decay'd, 0! I could better bear an old,
She thanks each coxcomb that will deign Ugly, diseas'd, mis-shapen scold,
To praise her face, and wear her chain. Or one who games, or will be drunk,
So some old soldier, who had done A fool, a spendthrift, bawd, or punk,
Wonders in youth, and battles won, Than one at all who wildly flies,
When feeble years his strength depose, And, with soft, asking, giving eyes,
That he too weak to vanquish grows, And thousand other wanton arts,
With mangled face and wooden leg,
Reduc'd about for alms to beg,
On him who but a farthing throws.
SONG TO CHLORIS,
FROM THE BLIND ARCHER.
Ah! Chloris, 'tis time to disarm your bright eyes, So quick her yielding looks are sent,
And lay by those terrible glances; They hope forestal, and even desire prevent. We live in an age that's more civil and wise, But Nature's turn'd when women woo,
Than to follow the rules of romances,
2 A notorious debauchee.
When once your round bubbies begin but to pout, “ For you, my love, is all my fear!
They 'll allow you no long time of courting ; Hark, how the drums do rattle! And you 'll find it a very hard task to hold out; Alas, sir! what should you do here For all maidens are mortal at fourteen.
In dreadful day of battle?
“ Let little Orange stay and fight,
For danger 's his diversion;
The wise will think you in the right,
Not to expose your person:
“ Nor vex your thoughts how to repair
“ Are not Boileau and Corneille paid
For panegyric writing? She 's plump, yet with ease you may span round
Without the help of fighting. her waist, But her round swelling thighs can scarce be embrac'd:
“ When foes too saucily approach, Her belly is soft, not a word of the rest:
'Tis best to leave them fairly : But I know what I think, when I drink to the best.
Put six good horses to your coach,
“ Let Bouflers, to secure your fame, And the proudest town gallants are forc'd to submit;
Go take some town or buy it;
Whilst you, great sir, at Nôtre Dame,
Though fiercer than a dragon,
What has she now to brag on?
Till they had scarce a rag on.
Did sad complaints begin; To kill us by looking as if she would die.
Which surly Strephon hearing, said,
“ It was both shame and sin,
As will neither play nor spin."
Success in crowds and noise,
DORINDA's sparkling wit and eyes,
United, cast too fierce a light,
Which blazes high, but quickly dies,
Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight, And all the world despise.
Love is a calmer gentler joy, Let conquering kings new triumphs raise,
Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace; And melt in court delights;
Her Cupid is a blackguard boy,
That runs his link full in your face.
A FRENCH SONG PARAPHRASED.
grey-hair'd Cælia's with r'd arms
My dearest, let 's away.
Sylvia, methinks you are unfit
For your great lord's embrace;
We can 't a handsome face.
Then where 's the pleasure, where is the good, But when the least regard I shovih
To fools who thus advise,
May I be dull enough to grow Your keeper's bliss is lost.
Most miserably wise !
Phyllis, for shame, let us improve,
A thousand different ways,
From many tedious days.
The censure of the grave,
Your heart is but a slave.
By a murmuring current laid,
Thus address'd the charming maid. “O! my Sacharissa, tell
How could Nature take delight,
In a frame so soft and white.
Half the tortures that I bear,
You 'd be kind as you are fair.
O! behold the burniog man ;
And be cruel if you can."
Cry'd, with an insulting look,
She spoke, and pointed to the brook.
My love is full of noble pride,
Nor can it e'er submit,
In triumph over it.
False friends I have, as well as you,
Who daily counsel me
And leave off loving thee.