In royal garments each was drest,
Each with a gold and purple vest:
I faw them of their garments ftript;
Their throats were cut, their bellies ript;
Twice were they bury'd, twice were born,
Twice from their fepulchres were torn;
But now difmember'd here are caft,
And find a refting-place at last.

Here oft' the curious traveller finds
The combat of opposing winds;
And feeks to learn the fecret cause,
Which alien feems from nature's laws,
Why at this cave's tremendous mouth
He feels at once both north and fouth;
Whether the winds, in caverns pent,
Through clefts oppugnant force a vent;
Or whether, opening all his flores,
Fierce Æolus in tempeft roars.

Yet, from this mingled mass of things,
In time a new creation fprings.
Thefe crude materials once fhall rife
To fill the earth, and air, and skies;
In various forms appear again,
Of vegetables, brutes, and men.
So Jove pronounc'd among the gods,
Olympus trembling as he nods.

VIII. LOUISA * TO STREPHON.

AH! Strephon, how can you despise
Her who without thy pity dies?
To Strephon I have ftill been true,
And of as noble blood as you;
Fair iffue of the genial bed,
A virgin in thy bofom bred;
Embrac'd thee clofer than a wife;
When thee I leave, I leave my life.
Why fhould my fhepherd take amifs,
That oft' I wake thee with a kifs?
Yet you of every kifs complain;
Ah! is not love a pleafing pain?
A pain which every happy night
You cure with eafe and with delight;
With pleasure, as the poet fings,
Too great for mortals lefs than kings.
Chloe, when on thy breast I lie,
Obferves me with revengeful eye :
If Chloe o'er thy heart prevails,
She'll tear me with her defperate nails,
And with relentlefs hands deftroy
The tender pledges of our joy.
Nor have I bred a fpurious race;
They all were born from thy embrace.
Confider, Strephon, what you do;
For, fhould I die for love of you,
I'll haunt thy dreams, a bloodless ghoft;
And all my kin (a numerous hoft,
Who down direct our lineage bring
From victors o'er the Memphian king;
Renown'd in fieges and campaigns,
Who never fled the bloody plains,
Who in tempeftuous feas can sport,
And fcorn the pleasures of a court,
From whom great Sylla found his doom,

Who fcourg'd to death that scourge of Rome)

→ This Riddle is folved by an Anagram.

Shall on thee take a vengeance dire;
Thou, like Alcides, fhalt expire,
When his envenom'd fhirt he wore,
And skin and flesh in pieces tore.
Nor less that shirt, my rival's gift,
Cut from the piece that made her shift,
Shall in thy dearest blood be dy'd,
And make thec tear thy tainted hide.

IX.

DEPRIV'D of root, and branch, and rind,
Yet flowers I bear of every kind;
And fuch is my prolific power,
They bloom in less than half an hour;
Yet ftanders-by may plainly fee
They get no nourishment from me.
My head with giddinefs goes round,
And yet I firmly ftand my ground:
All over naked I am feen,
And painted like an Indian queen.
No couple-beggar in the land

E'er join'd fuch numbers hand in hand;
I join them fairly with a ring;

Nor can our parfon blame the thing:
And, though no marriage words are spoke,
They part not till the ring is broke;
Yet hypocrite fanatics cry,

I'm but an idol rais'd on high:

And once a weaver in our town,

A damn'd Cromwellian, knock'd me down.
I lay a prisoner twenty years,
And then the jovial cavalliers
To their old poft, reftor'd all three,
I mean the church, the king, and me.

X. ON THE MOON.

I WITH borrow'd filver fhine,
What you fee is none of mine.
First I fhow you but a quarter,
Like the bow that guards the Tartar;
Then the half, and then the whole,
Ever dancing round the pole.
And what will raife your admiration,
I am not one of God's creation,
But fprung (and I this truth maintain}
Like Pallas from my father's brain.
And, after all, I chiefly owe
My beauty to the fhades below.
Moft wondrous forms you fee me wear,
A man, a woman, lion bear,

A fish, a fowl, a cloud, a field,

All figures heaven or earth can yield; Like Daphne, fometimes in a tree: Yet am not one of all you fee.

XI. ON A CIRCLE.

I'M up and down, and round about,
Yet all the world can't find me out;
Though hundreds have employ'd their leifure,
They never yet could find my measure.
I'm found almoft in every garden,
Nay in the compafs of a farthing.
There's neither chariot, coach, nor mill,
Can move an inch, except I will.

XII. ON INK.

I AM jet black, as you may see,
The fon of pitch, and gloomy night,
Yet all that know me will agree,
I'm dead except I live in light.

Sometimes in panegyric high,
Like lofty Pindar, I can foar;
And raife a virgin to the sky,
Or link her to a pocky whore.

My blood this very day is sweet,

To-morrow of a bitter juice;
Like milk, 'tis cried about the street,
And fo apply'd to different use.

Moft wondrous is my magic power:
For with one colour I can paint;
I'll make the devil a faint this hour,
Next make a devil of a faint.
Through diftant regions I can fly,
Provide me but with paper wings;
And fairly fhow a reason, why

There fhould be quarrels among kings.
And, after all, you'll think it odd,
When learned doctors will difpute,
That I should point the word of God,

And show where they can beft confute.

Let lawyers bawl and strain their throats:
'Tis I that must the lands convey,
And ftrip the clients to their coats,
Nay, give their very fouls away.

XIII. ON THE FIVE SENSES.

ALL of us in one you'll find,
Brethren of a wondrous kind;
Yet among us all no brother
Knows one tittle of the other.
We in frequent councils are,
And our marks of things declare,
Where, to us unknown, a clerk
Sts, and takes them in the dark.
He's the register of all

In our ken, both great and small;
By us forms his laws and rules:
He's our master, we his tools;
Yet we can with greatest ease
Turn and wind him where we please.
One of us alone can fleep,
Yet no watch the reft will keep,
But the moment that he closes,
Every brother else repofes.

If wine's bought, or victuals drest, One enjoys them for the rest.

Pierce us all with wounding fteel, One for all of us will feel.

Though ten thousand cannons roar, Add to them ten thousand more, Yet but one of us is found Who regards the dreadful found. Do what is not fit to tell, There's but one of us can smell.

XIV. FONTINELLA TO FLORINDA.

WHEN on my bofom thy bright eyes,
Florinda, dart their heavenly beams,
I feel not the leaft love-furprise,

Yet endless tears flow down in streams;
There's nought fo beautiful in thee,
But you may find the fame in me.
The lilies of thy fkin compare;

In me you fee them full as white.
The roses of your cheeks, I dare
Affirm, can't glow to more delight.
Then, fince fhow as fine a face,
Can you refufe a foft embrace?

Ah! lovely nymph, thou'rt in thy prime!
And fo am I whilft thou art here;
But foon will come the fatal time,

When all we fee fhall difappear.
'Tis mine to make a juft reflexion,
And yours to follow my direction.
Then catch admirers while you may;
Treat not your lovers with difdain;
For time with beauty flies away,

And there is no return again.
To you the fad account I bring,
Life's autumn has no second spring.

XV. ON AN ECHO.

NEVER fleeping, still awake,
Pleafing moft when most I speak;
The delight of old and young.
Though I fpeak without a tongue.
Nought but one thing can confound me,
Many voices joining round me;
Then I fret, and rave, and gabble,
Like the labourers of Babel.
Now I am a dog, or cow;
I can bark, or I can low;
I can bleat, or I can fing
Like the warblers of the fpring.
Let the love-fick bard complain,
And I mourn the cruel pain;
Let the happy fwain rejoice,
And I join my helping voice;
Both are welcome, grief or joy,
I with either fport or toy.
Though a lady, I am ftout,
Drums and trumpets bring me out:
Then I clash, and roar, and rattle,

Join in all the din of battle.

Jove, with all his loudest thunder,

When I'm vext, can't keep me under; Yet fo tender is my ear,

That the loweft voice I fear.

Much I dread the courtier's fate,
When his merit's out of date;

For I hate a filent breath,

And a whisper is my death.

XIV. ON A SHADOW IN A GLASS.

By fomething form'd, I nothing am, Yet every thing that you can name.

In no place have I ever been,
Yet every where I may be feen;
In all things falfe, yet always true,
I'm ftill the fame-but ever new.
Lifelefs, life's perfect form I wear,
Can fhow a nofe, eye, tongue, or ear,
Yet neither fmell, fee, tafte, or hear.
All shapes and features I can boast,
No flesh, no bones, no blood-no ghost;
All colours, without paint, put on,
And change like the cameleon.
Swiftly I come, and enter there,
Where not a chink lets in the air;
Like thought, I'm in a moment gone,
Nor can I ever be alone;

All things on earth I imitate,
Fafter than nature can create;
Sometimes imperial robes I wear,
Anon in beggar's rags appear;
A giant now, and ftrait an elf,
I'm every one, but ne'er myself;
Ne'er fad I mourn, ne'er glad rejoice;
I move my lips, but want a voice;
I ne'er was born, nor e'er can die;
Then prythee tell me what am 1.

XVII.

MOST things by me do rife and fall,
And as I please they're great and small;
Invading foes, without refiftance,
With cafe I make to keep their distance;
Again, as I'm difpos'd, the foe

Will come, though not a foot they go.

Both mountains, woods, and hills, and rocks,
And gaming goats, and fleecy flocks,
And lowing herds, and piping fwains,
Come dancing to me o'er the plains.
The greatest whale that fwims the fea
Does inftantly my power obey.
In vain from me the failor flies;
The quickeft fhip I can furprife,
And turn it as I have a mind,
And move it against tide and wind.
Nay, bring me here the tallest man,
I'll fqueeze him to a little fpan;
Or bring a tender child and pliant,
You'll fee me ftretch him to a giant ;
Nor fhall they in the leaft complain,
Because my magic gives no pain.

XVIII. ON TIME.

EVER eating, never cloying, All devouring, all deftroying, Never finding full repaft,

Till I eat the world at laft.

XIX. ON THE GALLOWS.

THERE is a gate, we know full well,

That ftands 'twixt heaven, and earth, and hell,

Where many for a paffage venture,
Yet very few are fond to enter;
Although 'tis open night and day,
They for that reafon fhun this way:

Both dukes and lords abhor its wood,
They can't come near it for their blood.
What other way they take to go,
Another time I'll let you know.
Yet commoners with greatest eafe
Can find an entrance when they please.
The poorest hither march in ftate
(Or they can never pass the gate),
Like Roman generals triumphant,
And then they take a turn and jump on't.
If graveft parfons here advance,
They cannot pafs before they dance;
There's not a foul that does refort here,
But ftrips himself to pay the porter.

XX. ON THE VOWELS.

We are little airy creatures,
All of different voice and features:
One of us in glafs is fet,
One of us you'll find in jet,
T'other you may fee in tin,
And the fourth a box within;
If the fifth you should pursue,
It can never fly from you.

XXI. ON SNOW.

FROM heaven I fall, though from earth I begin:
No lady alive can fhow such a skin.

I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather;
But heavy and dark when you fqueeze me together.
Though candour and truth in my aspect I bear,
Yet many poor creatures I help to ensnare.
Though fo much of heaven appears in my make,
The fouleft impreffions I cafily take.

My parent and I produce one another,

The mother the daughter, the daughter the mother.

XXII. ON A CANON.

BEGOTTEN, and born, and dying with noife,
The terror of women, and pleasure of boys,
Like the fiction of poets concerning the wind,
I'm chiefly unruly when ftrongeft confin'd.
For filver and gold I don't trouble my head,
But all 1 delight in is pieces of lead;
Except when I trade with a fhip or a town,
Why then I make pieces of iron go down.
One property more I would have you remark;
No lady was ever more fond of a fpark;
The moment I get one, my foul's all a-fire,
And I roar out my joy, and in transport expires

XXIII. ON A PAIR OF DICE.

We are little brethren twain,

Arbiters of lofs and gain;

Many to our counters run,

Some are made, and fome undone :

But men find it to their coft,

Few are made, but numbers loft. Though we play them tricks for ever, Yet they always hope our favour.

XXIV. ON A CANDLE.

TO LADY CARTERET.

Or all inhabitants on earth,
To man alone I owe my birth;

And yet the cow, the fheep, the bee,
Are all my parents more than he.
I, a virtue ftrange and rare,
Make the fairest look more fair;
And myself, which is yet rarer,
Growing old, grow ftill the fairer.
Like fots, alone I'm dull enough,

When dos'd with fmoke, and fmear'd with snuff;

But, in the midst of mirth and wine,
I with double luftre fhine.

Emblem of the fair am I,
Polish'd neck, and radiant eye;
In my eye my greatest grace,
Emblem of the Cyclop's race;
Metals I like them fubdue,
Slave like them to Vulcan too.
Emblem of a monarch old,
Wife, and glorious to behold,
Waited he appears, and pale,
Watching for the public weal
Emblem of the bashful dame,
That in fecret feeds her flame,
Often aiding to impart
All the fecrets of her heart.
Various is my bulk and hue;
Big like Befs, and small like Sue;
Now brown and burnish'd as a nut,
At other times a very flut;
Often fair, and soft, and tender,
Taper, tall, and smooth, and flender;
Like Flora deck'd with various flowers;
Like Phoebus, guardian of the hours;
But, whatever be my drefs,
Greater be my fize or lefs,
Swelling be my shape or fmall,
Like thyfelf I fhine in all.
Clouded if my face is seen,
My complexion wan and green,
Languid like a love-fick maid,
Stel affords me present aid.
Soon or late, my date is done,
As my thread of life is fpun;
Yet to cut the fatal thread
Oft' revives my drooping head:
Yet I perish in my prime,
Seldom by the death of time;
Die like lovers as they gaze,
Die for those I live to please ;
Pine unpitied to my urn,

Nor warm the fair for whom I burn;
Lapitied, unlamented too,
Die like all that look on you.

XXV. TO LADY CARTERET,

BY DR. DELANY.

I REACH all things near me, and far off to boot,
Without ftretching a finger, or stirring a foot;
I take them all in too, to add to your wonder,
Though many and various, and large and afunder.

All this I can do without witchcraft or charm; Though fometimes, they fay, I bewitch and do harm.

Though cold, I inflame; and though quiet, invade;
And nothing can fhield from my fpell but a fhade.
A thief that has robb'd you, or done you difgrace
In magical mirror I'll fhow you his face:
Nay, if you'll believe what the poets have faid,
They'll tell you I kill, and can call back the dead,
Like conjurers fafe in my circle 1 dwell;

I love to look black too, it heightens my spell.
Though my magic is mighty in every hue,
Who fee all my power muft fee it in you.

ANSWERED BY DR. SWIFT,

WITH half an eye your riddle I fpy.

I obferve your wicket hemm'd in by a thicket,
And whatever paffes is ftrained through glaffes
You fay it is quiet: I flatly deny it.

It wanders about, without ftirring out;
No paffion fo weak but gives it a tweak;
Love, joy, and devotion, fet it always in motion.
And as for the tragic effects of its magic,
Which you fay it can kill or revive at its will,
The dead are all found, and revive above ground
After all you have writ, it cannot be wit;
Which plainly does follow, fince it flies from Apollo.
Its cowardice fuch, it cries at a touch:
"Tis a perfect milkfop, grows drunk with a drop.
Another great fault, it cannot bear falt :
And a hair can difarm it of every charm.

A RECEIPT

TO RESTORE STELLA'S YOUTH. 1724-5.
THE Scottish hinds, too poor to house
In frosty nights their ftarving cows,
While not a blade of grafs or hay
Appears from Michaelmas to May,
Muft let their cattle range in vain
For food along the barren plain.
Meagre and lank with fafting grown,
And nothing left but skin and bone;
Expos'd to want, and wind, and weather,
They just keep life and foul together,
Till fummer-flowers and evening's dew
Again the verdant glebe renew;
And, as the vegetables rife,

The famifh'd cow her want fupplies:
Without an ounce of last year's flesh,
Whate'er fhe gains is young and fresh;
Grows plump and round, and full of mettle,
As rifing from Medea's kettle,
With youth and beauty to inchant
Europa's counterfeit gallant.

Why, Stella, fhould you knit your brow
If I compare you to the cow?
'Tis juft the cafe; for you have fafted
So long, till all your flesh is waited,

And must against the warmer days
Be fent to Quilca down to graze;
Where mirth, and exercife, and air,
Will foon your appetite repair:
The nutriment will from within,
Round all your body, plump your skin;
Will agitate the lazy flood,

And fill your veins with fprightly blood:
Nor flesh nor blood will be the fame,
Nor aught of Stella but the name;
For what was ever understood,
By human kind, but flesh and blood?
And if your flesh and blood be new,
You'll be no more the former you;
But for a blooming nymph will pafs,
Juft fifteen, coming fummer's grafs,
Your jetty locks with garlands crown'd :
While all the 'fquires for nine miles round,
Attended by a brace of curs,
With jocky boots and filver fpurs,
No lefs than justices o'quorum,
Their cow-boys bearing cloaks before 'em,
Shall leave deciding broken pates,
To kifs your fteps at Quilca's gates.
But, left you should my skill difgrace,
Come back before you're out of cafe:
For if to Michaelmas you stay,
The new-born flesh will melt away;
The 'fquire in fcorn will fly the house
For better game, and look for groufe;
But here, before the froft can mar it,
We'll make it firm with beef and claret.

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY. 1724-5.

As, when a beauteous nymph decays,
We fay, fhe's paft her dancing-days;
So poets lose their feet by time,
And can no longer dance in rhyme.
Your annual bard had rather chofe
To celebrate your birth in profe:
Yet merry folks, who want by chance
A pair to make a country-dance,
Call the old houfe-keeper, and get her
To fill a place, for want of better:
While Sheridan is off the hooks,
And friend Delany at his books,
That Stella may avoid difgrace,
Once more the Dean fupplies their place.
Beauty and wit, too fad a truth!
Have always been confin'd to youth;
The god of wit, and beauty's queen,
He twenty-one, and the fifteen.
No poet ever fweetly fung,

Unlefs he were, like Phoebus, young;
Nor ever nymph inspir'd to rhyme,
Unless, like Venus, in her prime.
At fifty-fix, if this be true,
Am I a poet fit for you?
Or, at the age of forty-three,
Are you a fubject fit for me?
Adieu! bright wit, and radiant eyes!
You must be grave, and I be wife.
Our fate in vain we would oppose:
But I'll be ftill your friend in profe:
Esteem and friendship to express,
Will not require poetic drefs;

And, if the mufe deny her aid
To have them fung, they may be said.
But, Stella, fay, what evil tongue
Reports you are no longer young;
That Time fits, with his fcythe, to mow
Where erft fat Cupid with his bow;
That half your locks are turn d to gray?
I'll ne'er believe a word they fay.
'Tis true, but let it not be known,
My eyes are fomewhat dimmifh grown:
For nature, always in the right,
To your decays adapts my fight;
And wrinkles undiftinguish'd pass,
For I'm afham'd to ufe a glafs;
And till I fee them with these eyes,
Whoever fays you have them, lies.

No length of time can make you quit
Honour and virtue, fenfe and wit:
Thus you may ftill be young to me,
While I can better hear than fee.
Oh, ne'er may fortune fhow her fpight,
To make me deaf, and mend my fight!

AN EPIGRAM ON WOOD's BRASS MONEY.

CARTERET was welcomed to the fhore
Firft with the brazen cannons roar ;
To meet him next the foldier comes,
With brazen trumps and brazen drums;
Approaching near the town he hears
The brazen bells falute his ears:
But, when Wood's brafs began to found,
Guns, trumpets, drums, and bells, were drown'd.

A SIMILE,

ON OUR WANT OF SILVER:

And the only Way to Remedy it. 1725.

As when of old fome forceress threw
O'er the moon's face a fable hue,
To drive unfeen her magic chair,
At midnight, through the darken'd air;
Wife people, who believ'd with reafon
That this eclipfe was out of feafon,
Affirm'd the moon was fick, and fell
To cure her by a counter-spell.
Ten thousand cymbals now begin
To rend the fkies with brazen din;
The cymbals' rattling founds difpel
The cloud, and drive the hag to hell.
The moon deliver'd from her pain,
Difplays her filver face again
(Note here, that in the chemie ftyle,
The moon is filver all this while).

So (if my fimile you minded,
Which I confefs is too long-winded)
When late a feminine magician *,
Join'd with a brazen politician,
Expos'd, to blind the nation's eyes,
A parchment + of prodigious fize;
Conceal'd behind that ample screen,
There was no filver to be seen.

*A great lady was faid to bave been bribed by Wood. The patent for coining balfpence.