Justice, since none would take her word, Her fillet's to a quoif translated. 'Tis strange! but what's more strange than these, In a continued torrent flow! Oh! let me come and live with thee, I winter shall nor feel, nor see. ON RUTT, THE JUDGE. RUTT, to the suburb beauties full well known, ON SIM AND SIMON. THOUGH Sim, whilst Sim, in ill repute did live, VIRELAY. THOU Cruel fair, I go To seek out any fate but thee, Since there is none can wound me so, Thou cruel fair, I go! For ever then farewel! 'Tis a long leave I take: but, oh! LA ILLUSTRISSIMA. ON MY FAIR AND DEAR SISTER, MRS. ANNE KING. [light. That shot me through and through with conqu'ring A beauty of so rare a frame As does all other beauties shame, And renders poetry to praise it lame. Poor sotted poets, cease to praise Your Lauras, Cynthias, Lydias, Fondly ador'd in your mistaken days: Tell me no more of golden hair, Of all ill colours the worst wear, And renders beauty terrible as fair: Almanna's curls are black as night, Thorough whose sable ring's a white, Whiter than whiteness, strikes the wounded sight. Tell me no more of arched brows, Nor henceforth call them Cupid's bows, Which common praise to common form allows! Hers, shining, smooth, and black as jet, Short, thick, and even without fret, Exceed all simile and counterfeit. Study no more for eulogies, For English gray, or French blue eyes, Almanna's eyes are such as none But in a trice he found his heart was gone. Those lights the coldest blood can thaw, And hearts by their attraction draw. As warm chaf'd jet licks up a trembling straw. No more for cheeks make senseless posies Of lilies white, and damask roses, Which more of fancy than of truth discloses: In hers complexion's mixed so, That white and red together grow, Cease, cease, of coral lips to prate, Almanna's rosy lips are such, To praise them is for wit too much, No more hang teeth upon a string, Comparisons do hers no right, [white. Which are than all things but themselves more No more of odours go in quest As far as the remotest East, Thence to perfume a lady's rotten chest: Her breath, much sweeter than the spring Tell me no more of swan-white breasts, Almanna's ten times whiter are Oh! set your wits no more o' th' last To praise a nymph's contorted waist, By such admirers fit to be embrac'd: Here is a shape, and such a one Your rod with tops two, As regulates proportion, For the same will not do, And but to see is half fruition. If your manner of angling you vary ; And full well you may think, Tell me no more poetic lies If you troll with a pink, Of hard, cold, crusted, marble thighs, One too weak will be apt to miscarry. Hopeless and fond impossibilities: Then basket, neat made Hers, by the rule of symmetry, By a master in's trade, Although unseen, we know must be In a belt at your shoulders must dangle; Above the poor report of poetry. For none e'er was so vain Tell me no more of legs and feet, To wear this to disdain, Where grace and elegancy meet, Who a true brother was of the angle. But leave your lying, and come here to see't : Next, pouch must not fail, Stuff 'd as full as a mail Here's shape, invention that disgraces, With wax, crewels, silks, hair, furs, and feathers, And when she moves the charming Graces To make seferal Aies Both number, figure, and adjust her paces : For the several skies, But to this shape there is a mind That shall kill in despite of all weathers. From Alesh and blood so well reîn'd, The boxes and books As renders her the glory of her kind. For your lines and your hooks, On the world's centre never yet And, though not for strict need notwithstanding, Were form and virtue so well met, Your scissors, and your hone Nor priceless diamond so neaily set. To adjust your points on, With a net to be sure for your landing. All these being on, 'Tis high time we were gone, Down, and upward, that all may have pleasure; Almanna is the only she Till, here meeting at night, Deserves the gen'ral eulogy, We shall have the delight To discourse of our fortunes at leisure. And the wind hits us right, And all nature does seem to invite us; We have all things at will For to second our skill, Or stream now, or still, Trout and grailing to rise are so willing; I dare venture to say The day that is over, 'Twill be a bloody day, The present is with us, and does threaten no ill; And we all shall be weary of killing, He's a fool that will sorrow Away, then, away, For the thing call'd to morrow, [will. We lose sport by delay, But the hour we've in hand we may wield as we But first leave all our sorrows behind us 5 If Misfortune do come, We are all gone from home, And a fishing she never can find us. The angles is free [do shine? From the cares that degree And although we should slay Each a hundred to day, Is worth a year's thinking, 'Tis a slaughter needs ne'er be repented. There's nothing that kills us so surely as sorrow; Then to drown our cares, boys, And though we display Let's drink up the stars, boys, All our arts to betray What were made for man's pleasure and diet; Each face of the gang will a sun be to morrow, Yet both princes and states Rule themselves and their people in quiet, We scratch not our pates, Nor repine at the rates All your tackle out look, Our superiors impose on our living ; Here's a day that is worth a year's wishing ; But do frankly submit, See that all things be right, Knowing they have more wit Yor 'tis a very spite In demanding, than we have in giving, To want tools when a man goes a fishing. Whilst quiet we sit We conclude all things fit, Acquiescing with hearty submission; At the last unto downright sedition. We care not who says, And intends it dispraise, That an angler t'a fool is next neighbour; Let him prate, what care we, We're as honest as he, And so let him take that for his labour. We covet no wealth But the blessing of health, And that greater good conscience within ; Such devotion we bring To our God and our king, That from either no offers can win. Whilst we sit and fish, We do pray as we wish, For long life to our king James the second; Honest anglers then may, Or they've very foul play, With the best of good subjects be reckon'd. EPISTLE TO JOHN BRADSHAW, ESQ. FROM Porto Nova as pale wretches go My dearest friend, I went last day from thee, As if in earnest I'd been doom'd to die [break, Though when the night was come, I then indeed Thought all on one of whom I'd greater need: But being now cur'd of that malady, I'm at full leisure to remember thee, And (which I'm sure you long to know) set forth And that which (as 't well might) increas'd my fear, Know, then, with horses twain, one sound, one On Sunday's eve I to St. Alban's came. [lame, Where, finding by my body's lusty state I could not bold out home at that slow rate, With such a pleasing gale, as made me smell I found a coachman, who, my case beinoaning, So long de tain'd me, that my charioteer And now I'm here set down again in peace, I go a fishing ere two days are gone : Which when it comes will raise me above men Greater than crowned monarchs are, and then I'll not exchange my cottage for Whitehall, Windsor, the Louvre, or th' Escurial. ANACREONTIC. FILL a bowl of lusty wine, That my cheek may once more glow. Blood then stagnates and grows cold; Now I'm sprightly, fill again, Fill amain, (boy) fill amain, BURLESQUE. UPON THE GREAT FROST. TO JOHN BRADSHAW, ESQ. You now, sir, may, and justly, wonder That I my writing left pursuing, But I must tell you, in brief clauses, Impute the six weeks' truce I've given, I thus begin to batter louder ; And for the last vain hope that fed ye, I think I've answer'd it already. Now, to be plain, although your spirit For reasons supernumerary: And though I know you will be striving To do what lies in mortal living, (Though with the stronger men but vapour ill) Yet then you needs must yield for hunger, Now having friendship been so just to, But, to leave fooling, I assure ye There never was so cold a fury Of nipping frost, and pinching weather, Since Eve and Adam met together. Our Peak, that always has been famous For cold, wherewith to cramp and lame us, Worse than its If, did now resemble a Certain damo'd place call'd Nova Zembla, And we who boast us human creatures, Had happy been had we chang'd features, Garments at least, though theirs be shabbed, With those who that cold place inhabit, The bears and foxes, who sans question Who blew his nose had clout or fist all, One going to discharge at wild duck, Two towns, that long that war had waged, Till the next thaw, for they were frozen One should though store of mustard give 'em, Nay, friend with friend, brother with brother, Eyes that were weak, and apt to water, Wore spectacles of their own matter; And noses that to drop were ceased, To such a longitude increased, That whoe'er wrung for ease or losses, Snapp'd off two handfuls of proboscis. Beards were the strangest things, God save us! Such as dame Nature never gave us! So wild, so pointed, and so staring, That I should wrong them by comparing Hedge hogs, or porcupines' small taggers, To their more dangerous swords and daggers. Mustachios look'd like heroes' trophies Behind their arms i' th' herald's office; The perpendicular beard appear'd Like hop-poles in a hop-yard rear'd: 'Twixt these the underwoody acres Look'd just like bavins at a baker's, To heat the oven mouth most ready, Which seem'd to gape for heat already. In mouths with salivation flowing, The horrid hairs about 'em growing, Like reeds look'd, in confused order, Growing about a fish-pond's border. But stay, myself I caught have tripping, (This frost is perilous for slipping) I've brought this stupifying weather, These elements, too near together; The bearded, therefore, look'd as Nature, Instead of forming human creature, So many garrisons bad made us, Our beards t' our sconces palisadoes. Perukes now stuck so firm and stedfast, They all were riveted to head fast; Men that bought wigs to go a wooing, Had them made natural now and growing: But let them have a care, for truly The hair will fall 'twixt this and July. The tender ladies, and the lasses, Were vitrifi'd to drinking-glasses, Contriv'd to such an admiration, After so odd fantastic fashion, One scarce knew at which end to guzzle, The upper or the lower muzzle. The earth to that degree was crusted, That, let me never more be trusted, (I speak without poetic figure) If I don't think a lump no bigger Than a good walnut, had it hit one, Would as infallibly have split one, As cannon-shot, that killing's sure at, Had not both been alike obdurate. The very rocks, which in all reason Should stoutli'st have withstood the season, Repetrifi'd with harder matter, Had no more privilege than water. Had Pegasus struck such a mountain, It would have fail'd him for a fountain: 'Twas well Parnassus, when he started, Prov'd to his hoof more tender-hearted, Or else of Greece the sullen bully, And Trojan Hector, had been dully In threadbare prose, alas! related, Which now in song are celebrated; For steed poetic ne'er had whined Greek Iliad, or Latin Æneid: Nor Nero writ his ribble rabbles Of sad complaints, love, and strange fables: Then too Anacreon and Flaccus Had ne'er made odes in praise of Bacchus, |