Pleasures in long fucceffion reign,

And all my powers employ :

Friendship but shifts the pleasing scene,

And fresh repeats the joy.

Life has a foft and filver thread,
Nor is it drawn too long;

Yet, when my vafter hopes perfuade,

I'm willing to be gone.

Faft as ye please roll down the hill,

And hafte away, my years; can wait father's will,

Or I

my

And dwell beneath the spheres.

Rife glorious, every future fun,

Gild all my following days,

But make the last dear moment known

By well-diftinguish'd rays.

To the Right Honourable JOHN Lord CUTTS.

"OW

At the Siege of Namur.

The HARDY SOLDIER.

WHY is man fo thoughtless grown? "Why guilty fouls in hafte to die? Venturing the leap to worlds unknown, "Heedless to arms and blood they fly.

"Are lives but worth a foldier's pay?

66

Why will ye join fuch wide extremes, "And ftake immortal fouls, in play

"At defperate chance, and bloody games
"Valour's a nobler turn of thought,
"Whose pardon'd guilt forbids her fears:
"Calmly the meets the deadly fhot!
"Secure of life above the ftars.

"But frenzy dares eternal fate,

"And, fpurr'd with honour's airy dreams, Flies to attack th' infernal gate,

"And force a paffage to the flames."

Thus hovering o'er Namuria's plains,
Sung heavenly love in Gabriel's form:
Young Thrafo left the moving ftrains,
And vow'd to pray before the storm.
Anon the thundering trumpet calls;
Vows are but wind, the hero cries;

Then fwears by heaven, and scales the walls,
Drops in the ditch, despairs, and dies.

BURNING feveral POEMS of OVID, MARTIAL,

OLDHAM, DRYDEN, &C.

I

JUDGE the Mufe of lewd defire;

1708.

Her fons to darkness, and her works to fire. In vain the flatteries of their wit

Now with a melting ftrain, now with an heavenly flight,

Would

Would tempt my virtue to approve
Those gaudy tinders of a lawless love.

So harlots dress: They can appear
Sweet, modeft, cool, divinely fair,
To charm a Cato's eye; but all within,

Stench, impudence, and fire, and ugly raging fin.

Die, Flora, die in endless shame,

Thou prostitute of blackest fame,
Stript of thy false array.

Ovid, and all ye wilder pens

Of modern luft, who gild our scenes,

Poison the British stage, and paint damnation gay,

Attend your mistress to the dead;

When Flora dies, her imps fhould wait upon her shade.

Strephon*, of noble blood and mind, (For ever shine his name!)

As death approach'd, his foul refin'd, And gave his loofer fonnets to the flame. "Burn, burn, he cry'd with facred rage, "Hell is the due of every page,

"Hell be the fate. (But O indulgent heaven! "So vile the Mufe, and yet the man forgiven!)

"Burn on my fongs: For not the filver Thames "Nor Tyber with his yellow ftreams

"In endless currents rolling to the main,

"Can e'er dilute the poison, or wash out the stain.".

*Earl of Rochester,

G4

So

So Mofes by divine command

Forbid the leprous house to stand

When deep the fatal spot was grown. "Break down the timber, and dig up the stone."

To MRS. B. BEN DISH.

AGAINST TEARS.

1699.

MADAM, perfuade me tears are good

Thefe

To wash our mortal cares away;

eyes fhall weep a fudden flood, And stream into a briny sea.

Or if these orbs are hard and dry,
(These orbs that never use to rain)
Some star direct me where to buy
One fovereign drop for all my pain,
Were both the golden Indies mine,
I'd give both Indies for a tear;
I'd barter all but what's divine :
Nor fhall I think the bargain dear,
But tears, alas! are trifling things,
They rather feed than heal our woe ;
From trickling eyes new forrow springs,
As weeds in rainy seasons grow.

Thus

Thus weeping urges weeping on;

In vain our miferies hope relief,
For one drop calls another down,
Till we are drown'd in feas of grief.

Then let thefe ufelefs ftreams be staid,
Wear native courage on your face :
These vulgar things were never made
For fouls of a fuperior race.

If 'tis a rugged path you go,

And thousand foes your fteps furround,

Tread the thorns down, charge through the foe;

The hardest fight is higheft crown'd,

FEW HAPPY MATCHES.

SAY

AY mighty Love, and teach my song,
To whom thy fweeteft joys belong,

And who the happy pairs

Whofe yielding hearts, and joining hands,
Find bleffings twisted with their bands,

To foften all their cares.

Not the wild herd of nymphs and fwains That thoughtlefs fly into thy chains,

As cuftom leads the way:

If there be blifs without defign,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,
And be as bleit as they.

Aug. 1701.

Not