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MISCELL A N I E S.
Loaded with guilt, they still pursue their course,
Not ev'n restrain'd by love or friendship's force.
Not to enlarge on such an obvious thought,
To gain the means, and then to lose the end,
For mistresses that yield them no delight.
This, of all vice, does most debase the mind,
Oh, happy times! when no such thing as coin
Was all their wealth, the gold and silver then :
Ev'n traffic now is intercourse of ill,
And every wind brings a new mischief still;
By trade we flourish in our leaves and fruit,
But avarice and excess devour the root,
Thus far the muse unwillingly has been
But now, more pleas'd, ihe views the different ways
Dear luxury! thou soft, but sure deceit!
Rise of the mean, and ruin of the great!
Thou sure presage of ill-approaching fates,
Was by her cwn victorious arms oppress’d,
And catch'd infection from the conquer'd east;
Whence all those vices cane, which foon devour Either remiss and negligent of all,
The best foundations of renown and power. Or else imperious and tyrannical.
But oh! what need have we abroad to roam,
Of wild excess ? which we lo plainly find
Decays the body, and impairs the mind.
But yet grave fops must not presume from hence
To Right che sacred pleasures of the sense :
Our appetites are Nature's laws, and given
Under the broad authentic seal of heaven.
Let pedants wrangle, and let bigots fight,
But Heaven and Nature's always in the right;
Admire at wit, because themselves have ronc,
MISCELLANI E S. They would not draw poor mortals in,
And in such wild attempts are blindly bold, Or give desires tha: fall be doom'd for fin. Which afterwards they tremble to behold: Yet, that in height of harmless joy we may
So I review there rallies of my pen,
And modeft reason is return'd again;
No wretched poet of the railing pit,
No critic curs'd with the wrong side of wit,
is more severe itom ignorance and spite,
ON MR. HOBBES, AND HIS WRITINGS.
Poets are en vious now, and fools alone
Prailing is harder much than finding fault;
In homely pieces er'n the Dutch excel, Behold the silent shades, the amorous grove,
Italians only can draw beauty well. The dear delights, the very act of love.
As strings, alike wound up, so equal prove, This is his lowest sphere, his country scene, That one resounding makes the other move; Where love is humble, and his fare but mear
From fuch a cause our satires please so much, Yet springing up without the help of art,
We sympathize with each ill-natur'd touch; Leaves a Gncerer relish in the heart,
And as the sharp infection spreads about, More healthfully, though not so finely fed, The reader's malice helps the writer out. And better thrives than where more nicely bred. To blame, is easy; to commend, is bold; But 'tis in courts where most he makes a fhow, Yet, if the muse inspires it, who can hold? And, high enthron'd, governs the world below; To merit we are bound to give applause, For though in histories learn'd ignorance
Content to suffer io so just a cause. Attributes all to cunning or to chance,
While in dark ignorance we lay afraid Love will in those disguises often smile,
Of fancies, ghosts, and every empty shade; And knows the cause was kindness all the while. Great Hobbes appear'd, and by plain reason's light What story, place, or person, cannot prove
Put such fantastic forms to shameful flight. The boundles influence of mighty love?
Food is their fear, who think men needs must be Where'er the sun can vigorous heat inspire,
To vice enslav'd, if from vain terrors free; Both sexes glow, and languish with delire.
The wife and good morality will guide, The weary'd swain, fast in the arms of sleep, And superstition all the world belide. Love can awake, and often fighing keep;
In other authors though the thought be good,
So that, in search of sense, we either stray,
But here (weet eloquence does always smile,
The force of reason, with the fiowers of art;
Which nerer hides the blood, yet holds it in:
Like a delicious stream it ever ran,
Bacon himself, whose universal wit
Or greater credit to his country brought, To all fond thoughts I'll sing such counter-charms, While fame is young, coo weak to fly away, The fair shall liten in their lovers arms.
Malice pursues her, like some bird of prey; Now the enthusiastic fit is spent,
But once on wing, then all the quarrels cease; I feel my weakness, and tou late repent.
Envy herself is glad to be at peace,
Above her reach, and scarce within ber light
Hobbes, to this happy pitch arriv'd at last,
For, sure, the noble thirst of fame Might have look'd down with pride on dangers past: With the frail body never dies; But such the frailty is of human kind,
But with the soul ascends the skies, Men toil for fame, which no man lives to find;
From whence at first it came. Long ripening under ground this China lies;
'Tis sure no little proof we have Fame bears no fruit, till the vain planter dies.
That part of us survives the grave, , Thus Nature, tir'd with his unusual length And in our fame below still bears a share : Of life, which put her to her utmost strength, Why is the future else so much our care, Such stock of wit unable to supply,
Ev'n in our latest moment of despair ? (brave? To spare herself, was glad to let him die.
And death despis'd för fame by all the wife and
(mire! Who power almighty only love, and only that ad
Look down with pity from your peaceful bower, WRITTEN OVER A GATE,
On this sad ille perplex'd,
And ever, ever vex'd Here lives a man, who, by relation,
With anxious care of trifles, wealth and power. Depends upon predestination;
In our rough minds due reverence infufe For which the learned and the wise
Før sweet melodious sounds, and each harmonious
muse. His understanding much despise : But I pronounce with loyal tongue
Music exalts man's nature, and inspires Him in the right, them in the wrong ;
High elevated thoughts, or gentle, kind desires. For how could such a wretch succeed, But that, alas, it was decreed?
ON THE LOSS OF AN ONLY SON,
ROBERT MARQUIS OF NORMANDY.
OÙR morning's gay and shining;
The days our joys declare; MERIT they hate, and wit they slight;
At evening no repining;
And night's all void of care.
A fond transported mother
Was often heard to cry, A council without sense.
Oh, where is such an other
Su bless'd by Heaven as I ?
A child at first was wanting;
Now such a son is sent, Could ride a nation as they do,
As parents most lamenting Without a miracle?
In him would find content.
ON THE DEATH OF HENRY PURCELL.
A child of whom kind Heaven
Not only hope bestows,
Him all our hopes propofc.
Adds still a greater blessing
To all my other joy.
But ah ! this shiny weather
And all the sky o'ercaft.
So fierce a fever rages,
We all lie drown in tears; Genius sublime in either art!
And dismal fad presages Crown'd with applause surpaffing all desert! Come thundering in our ears.
A man just after God's own heart ! If human cares are lawful to the blest,
The doubts that made us fanguish Already fettled in eternal rest;
Did worse, far worse than kill, Needs must he wish that Purcell only might Yat, oh, with all their anguish, Have liv'd to fct what he vouchfaf'd to write; Would we had doubted till!
MISCELLANI E S. But why so much digression,
Who knows but my example then may please This fatal loss to show ?
Such noble, hopeful spirits as appear Alas, there's no expression
Willing to flight their pleasures and their ease, Can tell a parent's woe!
For fame and honour? till at last they hear, After much trouble borne, and danger run,
The crown affifted, and my country serv'd;
Without good fortune I had been undone,
Without a good estate I might have starv'de
THE ELECTION OF A POET LAUREAT
A PAMOUS assembly was summon'd of late : Encomiums suit not this censorious time,
To rown a new laureat, came Phæbus in state, Itself a subject for satiric rhyme;
With all that Montfaucon himself could delire, Ignorance honour'd, wit and worth defam'd,
His bow, laurel, harp, and abundance of fire.
At Bartlemew-fair ne'er did bullies so justle,
No country election e'er made such a bustle: Poets are bound a loud applause to pay;
From garret, mint, tavern, they all post away, Apollo bids it, and they must obey.
Some thirsting for fack, some ambitious of bay. And yet so wondrous, so fublime a thing, As the great Iliad, scarce could make me ling;
All came with full confidence,flush'd with vain hope, Except I justly could at once conimend
From Cibber and Durfey, to Prior and Pope. A good companion, and as firm a friend.
Phæbus smil'd on these last, but yet ne'ertheless, One moral, or a mere well-natur'd deed,
Said, he hop'd they had got enough by the preise Can all desert in sciences exceed.
'Tis great delight to laugh at some men's ways; With a hage mountain-load of heroical lumber, But a much greater to give merit praise.
Which from Tonson to Curll every press had groan'd under,
[lays, Came Blackmore, and cry'd, Look, all these are my STANZA S.
But at present I beg you'd but read my Essays. Whene'er my foolish bent to public good, Or fonder zeal for some misguided prince,
Lampooners and critics rush'd in like a tide,
Stern Dennis and Gildon came first side-by-Gde. Shall make my dangerous humour understood, For changing minifters for nien of sense :
Apollo confess'd that their lashes had stings,
Buc beadles and hangmen were never chose kings. When, vainly proud to show my public care, And ev'n afham'd to see thrce nations foul'd,
Steele long had so cunningly manag'd the town, I shall no longer bear a wretched share
He could not be blan'd for expecting the crown; In ruling ill, or being over-ruld:
Apollo demurr'd as to granting his wish,
But wisi'd him good luck in his project of fish. Then, as old lechers in a winter's night To yawning hearers all their pranks disclose;
Lame Congreve, unable such things to endure, And what decay deprives them of delight,
Of Apollo begg'd either a crown or a cure; Supply with vain endeavours to impose :
To refuse such a writer, Apollo was loth,
And almost inclin'd to have granted him both. Just fo fhall I as idly entertain
Some stripling patriots, fond of seeming wife; When Buckinghamı came, he scarce car'd to be seen Tell, how I still could great employments gain,
Till Phæbus desir'd his old friend to walk in; Without concealing truths, or whispering lies! But a laureat peer had never been known,
The commoners claim'd that place as their own. Boast of succeeding in my country's cause
Ev'n against some almost too high to blame; Yet if the kind god had been de'er so inclin'd Whom, when advanc'd beyond the reach of laws, To break an old rule, yet he well knew his mind, I oft' had ridicul'd to fense and shame;
Who of such preferment would only make sport,
And laugli'd at all suitors for places at court. Say, I resisted the most potent fraud; But friendless merit openly approv'd;
Notwithstanding this law, yet Lansdowne was And chat I was above the being aw'd
nani'd, Not only by my prince, but thofe he loved : But Apollo with kindness bis iodolence blam'da
And said he would chrofe'hin; but that he should fear
ON THE TIMES.
Vice has lost its very, nanie, bright,
Skill and cozenage thought the same;
Foul contrivances we see
Out of frauds in every trade,
Enough to wed the greatest lord.
Husbands seeking for a place,
By petticoats, and play :
Where mania's intrigues are shown,
Till Monday comes to chcat again,
And fidelity a jest.
All our wisdomi raising stocks :
Counted folly to defend
Prais'd and wounded, he may starve :
No receipt, to make him rise,
Like inventing loyal lies.
In arts of peace, and fields of fanie,
To ill and idleness inclin'd, (Though a zealous fanatic) presented the bay,
Now are grown a public shame.
Fatal that intestine jar, All the wits stood astonish'd at hearing the god
Which produc'd our civil war! So gravely pronounce an election fo odd;
Ever since, how fad a race! And though Prior and Fope only laugh'd in his face,
Senseless, violent, and bafe! Most others were ready to sink in the place.