I. Under a lady's picture.
SUCH Helen was! and who can blame the boy *
That in fo bright a flame confum'd his Troy;
But had like virtue shin'd in that fair Greek,
The am'rous fhepherd had not dar'd to feek
Or hope for pity, but with filent moan,
And better fate, had perished alone.
II. Of a lady who writ in praise of Mira.
WHILE fhe pretends to make the graces known
Of matchlefs Mira, fhe reveals her own:
And when she would another's praise endite,
Is by her glafs inftructed how to write.
III. To one married to an old man.
SINCE thou wouldst needs (bewitch'd with fome ill
Be bury'd in those monumental arms, [charms!)
All we can with is, may that earth lie light
Upon thy tender limbs! and fo good night.
IV. An epigram on a painted lady with ill teeth.
WERE men fo dull they could not fee
That Lyce painted; should they flee,
Like fimple birds, into a net
So grofsly woven and ill set,
Her own teeth would undo the knot,
And let all go that she had got.
Those teeth fair Lyce muft not show
If the would bite : her lovers, tho'
Like birds they stoop at seeming grapes,
Are difabus'd when first she gapes:
The rotten bones difcover'd there
Shew 'tis a painted fepulchre.
V. Epigram upon the golden medal.
OUR guard upon the royal fide!
On the reverse our beauty's pride!
Here we difcern the frown and smile,
The force and glory of our ifle.
In the rich medal, both fo like
Immortals ftand, it seems antique;
Carv'd by fome mafter, when the bold
Greeks made their Jove descend in gold,
And Danae wond'ring at that show'r,
Which, falling, storm'd her brazen tow'r:
Britannia there, the fort in vain
Had batter'd been with golden rain:
Thunder itself had fail'd to pass:
Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
VI. Written on a card that her Majesty * tore at Ombre.
THE cards you tear in value rise;
So do the wounded by your eyes.
Who to celeftial things afpire,
Are by that paffion rais'd the higher.
VII. To Mr. Granville, (now Lord Lanfdown) on bis
An early plant! which fuch a bloffom bears,
And fhews a genius fo beyond his years:
A judgment! that could make fo fair a choice;
So high a fubje&t to employ his voice:
Still as it grows, how fweetly will he fing
The growing greatness of our matchless King!
VIII. Long and foort life.
CIRCLES are prais'd, not that abound
In largeness, but th' exactly round:
So life we praife that does excel
Not in much time, but acting well.
IX. Tranflated out of Spanish.
we may feem importunate, While your compaffion we implore, They whom you make too fortunate, May with prefumption vex you more.
X. Tranflated out of French.
FADE, Flow'rs! fade, Nature will have it fo;
'Tis but what we muft in our autumn do!
And as your leaves lie quiet on the ground,
The lofs alone by thofe that lov'd them found;
So in the grave shall we as quiet lie,
Mifs'd by fome few that lov'd our company:
But fome fo like to thorns and nettles live,
That none for them can, when they perish, grieve. 8
XI. Some verfes of an imperfect copy defigned for a friend, On bis tranflation of Ovid's Fafli.
ROME's holy days you tell, as if a guest
With the old Romans you were wont to feast.
Numa's religion, by themselves believ'd,
Excels the true, only in fhew receiv'd.
They made the nations round about them bow,
With their Dictators taken from the plow;
Such pow'r has justice, faith, and honesty!
The world was conquer'd by morality.
Seeming devotion does but gild a knave,
That's neither faithful, honest, juft, nor brave; 10
But where religion does with virtue join,
It makes a hero like an angel fhine.
XII. On the ftatue of King Charles I. at Charing-crofs, in the year 1674.
THAT the First Charles does here in triumph ride,
See his fon reign'd where he a martyr dy'd,
And people pay that rev'rence as they pafs,
(Which then he wanted!) to the facred brass,
Is not th' effect of gratitude alone,
To which we owe the ftatue and the stone;
But Heav'n this lasting monument has wrought,
That mortals may eternally be taught
Rebellion, tho' successful, is but vain,
And kings fo kill'd rife conquerors again.
This truth the royal image does proclaim,
Loud as the trumpet of furviving Fame.
Nor the brave Macedonian youth * alone,
But bafe Caligula, when on the throne,
Boundless in pow'r, would make himself a god,
As if the world depended on his nod.
The Syrian King† to beasts was headlong thrown, 5
Ere to himself he could be mortal known.
The meanest wretch, if Heav'n fhould give him line,
Would never stop till he were thought divine.
All might within difcern the serpent's pride,
If from ourselves nothing ourselves did hide.
*Alexander. + Nebuchadnezzar.
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