me.

Night of the mind, wherein our reasons grope

Yet once, I must confess, I was For future joys, but never can find hope.

Such an overweening ass,
Parent of mothers, treasons, and despair,

As in fortune's worst distress
Thou pleasing and eternal care ;

To believe thy promises ;
Go sow thy rank and pois'nous seeds

Which so brave a change foretold,
In such a soil of mind as breeds,

Such a stream of happiness,
With little help, black and nefarious deeds ;

Such mountain bopes of glittring gold, And let my whiter soul alone,

Such honours, friendships, offices, For why should I thy sable weed put on,

In love and arms so great success ; Who never meditated ill, nor ill have never done! That I even hugu'd myself with the conceit,

Was myself party in the cheat,
Ah, 'tis ill done to me, that makes me sad

And in my very bosom laid
And thus to pass away

That fatal hope by which I was betray'd,
With sigbs the tedious nights, and does Thinking myself already rich, and great:
Like one that either is, or will be mad.

And in that foolish thought despis'd Repeuiance can our own foul souls make pure, Th’advice of those who out of love advis'd; And expiate the foulest deell,

As I'd foreseen what they did not foresee, Whereas the thought others offences breed.

A torrent of felicity, Nothing but true amendment one can cure. And rudely laugh'd at those, who pitying wept for Thus man, who of this world a member is,

Is by good natur subject made To smart for what his fellows do amiss,

But of this expectation, when 't came to't,

What was the fruit ?
As he were guilty, when he is betray'd,
And mourning for the vices of the tiine,

In sordid robes poor Disappointment came, Suffers unijusily for another's crime.

Attended by her handmaids, Grief and Shame;

No wealth, no titles, no friend could I see, Go, foolish soul, and wash thee white,

For they still court prosperity,
Be troubled for thine own misileeds

Nay, what was worst of what mischance could
That heav'nly sorrow comfort breeds,

do, And true contrition turns delight.

My dearest lore forsook me too; Let princes thy past services forget.

My pretty love, with whom, had she been true, Let dear-bought friends thy foes become,

Even in banishment, Though round with misery thon art busel,

I could have liv'd most happy and content; With scorn abroad, and poverty at home,

Her sight whichi nourish'à me withdrew. Keep yet thy hands but clear, and conscience puie,

I then, although too late, perceiv'd
And all the ills thou shalt endure

I was by flattering Hope deceiv’d,
Will on thy worth such lustre set

And call'd for it t'expostulate
As shall out-shine the brightest coronet.

The treachery and foul deceit:
Aud men at last will be ashaui'd to see,

But it was then quite fled away,
That still,

And gone some other to betray,
For all their malice, and malicious skill,

Leaving me in a state
Thy mind revives as it was used to be, [thers

By much more desolate, And that they have disgrac'd themselves to honour

Than if when first attack'd by fate,

I bad submitted there
And made my courage yield unto despair.

For llope, like cordials, to our wrong
HOPE.

Does but our miseries prolong,

Whilst yet our vitals daily waste, And not supporting life, but pain

Call their false friendships back again Hove, thou darling, and delight

And unto Death, grim Death, abandon us at Qiunforeseeing reckless minds,

last. Thou deceiving parasite, Which no where entertainment finds

In me, false Hope, in me alone, But with the wretched, or the vain ;

Thon thine own treachi'ry hast out-done: 'Tis they alone fond hope maintain.

Fur chance, perhaps may have befriended Thow easy fool's chief la rourite;

Some one thou'st labour'd to deceive Thou fawning slave to slases, tiat still remains With what by thee was ne'er intended, In galleys, dungeons, and in chains,

Nor in thy pow'r to give :
Or with a whining lover lov'st to play,

But me thou hast deceivid in all, as well
With treach'rous art

Possible, as impossible,
Fanning bis heart,

And the most sad example made
A greater slave by far than they

Of all that ever were betray'd.
Who in worst durance wear their age away.

But thou hast taught me wisdom yet,
Thou, whose ambition mounts no higher,

Henceforth to hope no more
Nor dors to greater fange aspire,

Than I see reason for,
Than to be ever found a liar:

A precept I shall ne'er forget :
Thou treacherous fiend, deluding shade,

Nor is there any thing below
Who would with soch a phantom be betray'ri,

Worth a man's wishing, or his care, By whom the wretched are at last more wretched

When what we wish begets our woe, made.

And hope deceiv'd becomes despair.

PINDARIC ODE.

IN ANSWER TO AN ODE OF MR. ABRAHAM COWLEY'S

Yet from the seeds shed from that fruitful core,
Have sprung up volumes infinite, and great,
With which th' o'er charged world doth sweat,
Of women fal-e, proud, cruel, insolent.;
And what could else befall,
Since she herself was president

Who was the mother of them all;
And who, altho' mankind indeed was scant,
To show her malice, rather than her want,
Would make a loathsome serpent her gallant.

O mother Eve, sure't was a fault
So wild a rule to give,

Ere there were any to be taught,
Or any to deceive.

'Twas ill to ruin all thy offspring so,
E're they were yet in embrio,
Great mischiefs did attend thy easy will,

For all thy sons (which usually are
The mother's care)

For ever lost, and ruin'd were,

By thy instructing thy fair daughters ill.
What's he that dares his own fond choice ap-
prove

Or be secure his spouse is chaste;
Or if she be, that it will last?
Yet all must love.

Oh cruel Nature, that does force our wills
T'embrace those necessary ills!

Oh negligent, and treacherous eyes,
Given to man for true and faithful spies;

How oft do you betray your trust,

And, join'd confederate with our lust,

Tell us that beauty is, which is but flesh, that flesh

but dust.

Heaven, if it be thy undisputed will

That still

This charming sex we must adore,
Let us love less, or they love more;
For so the ills that we endure,
Will find some ease, if not a cure:

Or if their hearts from the first gangrene be
Infected to that desperate degree

As will no surgery admit ;
Out of thy love to men at least forbear
To make their faces so subduing fair,

And if thou wilt give beauty, limit it: For moderate beauty, though it bear no price, Is yet a mighty enemy to vice,

And who has virtue once, can never see

Any thing of deformity,

Let her complexion swart, or tawny be, A twilight olive, or a midnight ebony.

She that is chaste, is always fair,
No matter for her hue,

And though for form she wear a star,
She's ugly, if untrue:
True beauty always lies within,
Much deeper, than the outer skin,
So deep, that in a woman's mind,
It will be hard, I doubt, to find;

Or if it be, she's so deriv'd,
And with so many doors contriv'd,
Harder by much to keep it in.

For virtue in a woman's breast
Seldom by title is possess'd,
And is no tenant, but a wand'ring guest.

But all this while I've soundly slept,

And rav'd as dreamers use:

Fy! what a coil my brains bave kept
T' instruct a saucy Muse
fler own fair sex t'abuse.

'Tis nothing but an ill digestion

Has thus brought women's fame in question,
Which have been, and still will be what they are,
That is, as chaste, as they are sweet and fair;
And all that has been said
Nothing but ravings of an idle head,

Troubled with fumes of wine;

For now, that I am broad awake,
I find 'tis all a gross inistake,

Else what a case were his, and thine, and mine?

THE WORLD.

ODE.

FIE what a wretched world is this?

Nothing but anguish, griefs, and fears,
Where, who does best, must do amiss.

Frailty the ruling power bears
la this our dismal vale of tears.
Oh! who would live that could but die,
Die honestly, and as he shou'd,
Since to contend with misery

Will do the wisest man no good.
Misfortune will not be withstood.

The most that helpless man can do

Towards the bett'ring his estate
Is but to barter woe for woe,
And he ev'n there attempts too late,
So absolute a prince is fate.

But why do I of fate complain;

Map might live happy, if not free,
And fortune's shocks with ease sustain,
If man would let him happy be:
Man is man's foe, and destiny.

And that rib woínan, though she be
But such a little little part;

Is yet a greater fate than he,

And has the power, or the art

To break his peace; nay break his heart.

Ah, glorious flower, lovely piece

Of superfine refined clay,

Thou poison'st only with a kiss,

And dartest an auspicious ray
On him thou meanest to betray.

These are the world, and these are they
That life does so unpleasant make.
Whom to avoid there is no way

But the wild desert straight to take,
And there to husband the last stake.

Fly to the empty deserts tren,

For so you leave the world behind ;
There's no world where there are no men,

And brutes more civil are, and kind,
Than man whose reason passions blind.

For should you take an hermitage,

Tho' you might scape from other wrongs,
Yet even there you bear the rage

Of venomous, and slanderous tongues,
Which to the innocent belongs.