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Had thy flesh, O Green, been pamper'd
With any cates unhallow'd,

Hadft thou fweetned thy gums

With pottage of plums,

Or profane minc'd pÿe hadst swallow'd :

Roll'd up in wanton fwine's flesh,

The fiend might have crept into thee;
Then fullness of gut

Might have caus'd thee to rut,

And the devil have fo rid through thee.

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For if no refpect of perfons

Be due 'mongst sons of Adam,

In a large extent,

Thereby may be meant

That a Mare 's as good as a Madam.

Then without more ceremony,
Not bonnet vail'd, nor kiss'd her,


But took her by force,

For better for worse,

And us'd her like a fifter.

Now when in fuch a faddle

A faint will needs be riding,
Though we dare not fay
'Tis a falling away,

May there not be fome back-sliding?

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But when him we enrol

For a Saint, Filly Foal

Shall pass herself for a Martyr.

Rome, that fpiritual Sodom,
No longer is thy debtor,
O Colchester, now
Who's Sodom but thou,
Even according to the Letter?


MORPHEUS, the humble God, that dwells

In Cottages and fmoaky Cells,

Hates gilded roofs and beds of down;
And though he fears no prince's frown,
Flies from the circle of a crown.

Come, I fay, thou powerful God,
And thy leaden charming rod,
Dipt in the Lethéan lake,

O'er his wakeful temples shake,

Left he should fleep, and never wake.

Nature (alas) why art thou fo

Obliged to thy greatest foe?
Sleep that is thy best repast,
Yet of death it bears a taste,
And both are the same thing at last.



So fhall we joy, when all whom beats and worms

Have turn'd to their own fubftances and forms:
Whom earth to earth, or fire hath chang'd to fire,
We shall behold more than at first entire ;
As now we do, to fee all thine thy own
In this my Muse's refurrection,

Whofe fcatter'd parts from thy own race, more wounds
Hath fuffer'd, than Acteon from his hounds;
Which firft their brains, and then their belly fed,
And from their excrements new poets bred.
But now thy Muse enraged, from her urn
Like ghosts of murder'd bodies does return
T'accufe the murderers, to right the stage,
And undeceive the long-abused age,

Which cafts thy praise on them, to whom thy wit
Gives not more gold than they give dross to it:
Who, not content like felons to purloin,

Add treason to it, and debase the coin.
But whither am I ftray'd? I need not raise
Trophies to thee from other mens dispraise;
Nor is thy fame on leffer ruins built,
Nor need thy jufter title the foul guilt
Of eastern kings, who, to fecure their reign,
Must have their brothers, fons, and kindred flain.
Then was wit's empire at the fatal height,
When labouring and finking with its weight,

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From thence a thousand leffer poets sprung,
Like petty princes from the fall of Rome;
When Jonfon, Shakespeare, and thyfelf did fit,
And fway'd in the triumvirate of wit---
Yet what from Jonfon's oil and fweat did flow,
Or what more easy nature did bestow

On Shakespeare's gentler Muse, in thee full grown
Their graces both appear, yet so that none
Can fay here Nature ends, and Art begins,
But mixt like th' elements, and born like twins,
So interwove, fo like, fo much the fame,

None, this mere Nature, that mere Art can name :
"Twas this the ancients meant; Nature and Skill
Are the two tops of their Parnaffus' hill.


Upon his Translation of


UCH is our pride, our folly, or our fate,


That few but fuch as cannot write, translate.

But what in them is want of art or voice,

In thee is either modesty or choice.

While this great piece, restor'd by thee, doth stand
Free from the blemish of an artless hand.

Secure of fame, thou justly dost esteem
Lefs honour to create, than to redeem.


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