When innocence, beauty, and wit, do confpire
To betray, and engage, and inflame my defire;
Why should I decline what I cannot avoid,
And let pleafing hope by base fear be destroy'd?

UPON HIS LEAVING HIS MISTRESS.

I.

"Tis not that I am weary grown

Of being yours, and yours alone :
But with what face can I incline
To damn you to be only mine:

You, whom fome kinder power did fashion,
By merit, and by inclination,

The joy at least of a whole nation?

II.

Let meaner spirits of your sex,

With humble aims their thoughts perplex:
And boast, if, by their arts, they can.
Contrive to make one happy man.
While, mov'd by an impartial fenfe,
Favours, like Nature, you difpenfe,
With univerfal influence.

UPON DRINKING IN A BOWL,

I.

VULCAN, contrive me fuch a cup
As Neftor us'd of old ;
Shew all thy skill to trim it up,
Damask it round with gold.

II.

Make it fo large, that, fill'd with sack
Up to the fwelling brim,
Vaft toafts on the delicious lake,
Like ships at fea, may swim.

Engrave not battle on his cheek;
With war I've nought to do;
I'm none of those that took Maftrick,
Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew.

}

That welcome hour that ends this fmart,

Will then begin your pain;

For fuch a faithful tender heart

Can never break, can never break in vain.

A SONG.

I.

My dear mistress has a heart

Soft as those kind looks she gave me, When, with love's refiftlefs art,

And her eyes, fhe did enflave me. But her conftancy's fo weak,

She's fo wild and apt to wander, That my jealous heart would break, Should we live one day afunder.

II.

Melting joys about her move,
Killing pleafures, wounding bliffes:
She can dress her eyes in love,

And her lips can warm with kiffes.
Angels liften when she speaks,

She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; But my jealous heart would break, Should we live one day afunder.

A SONG.

In imitation of Sir JOHN EATOΝ,

1.

Too late, alas! I must confefs,

You need not arts to move me; Such charms by nature you poffefs, 'Twere madness not to love ye.

11.

Then spare a heart you may surprise,
And give my tongue the glory
To boaft, though my unfaithful eyes
Betray a tender ftory.

A LETTER

FROM ARTEMISA IN THE TOWN, TO CLOE IN THE COUNTRY.

CLOE, by your command in verfe I write ;
Shortly you'll bid me ride aftride and fight:
Such talents better with our fex agree,
Than lofty flights of dangerous poetry.
Among the men, I mean the men of wit,
(At least they pafs'd for fuch before they writ)
How many bold adventurers for the bays,
Proudly defigning large returns of praise;

Who durft that stormy pathlefs world explore,
Where foon dafh'd back, and wreck'd on the
dull fhore,

Broke of that little ftock they had before!
How would a woman's tottering bark be toft
Where ftouteft fhips (the men of wit) are loft!
When I reflect on this, I ftraight grow wife,
And my own felf I gravely thus advise :
Dear Artemifa! poetry's a fnare;
Bedlam has many manfions, have a care;
Your Mufe diverts you, makes the reader fad ;
You think yourself infpir'd, he thinks you mad.
Confider too, 'twill be difcreetly done,

To make yourself the fiddle of the town.
To find th' ill-humour'd pleasure at their need:
Curs'd when you fail, and scorn'd when you fuc-
ceed.

Thus, like an arrant woman as I am,

No fooner well convinc'd writing's a shame,
That whore is fcarce a more reproachful name
Than Poetefs-

Like men that marry, or like maids that woo,
Because 'tis the very worst thing they can do:
Pleas'd with the contradiction and the fin,
Methinks I stand on thorns till I begin,

Y' expect to hear, at least, what love has past
In this lewd town, fince you and I saw laft;
What change has happen'd of intrigues, and whe-
ther

The old ones laft, and who and who's together.
But how, my dearest Cloe, fhould I fet
My pen to write what I would fain forget!
Or name that loft thing love, without a tear,
Since fo debauch'd by ill-bred cuftoms here?
Love, the most generous paffion of the mind,
The fofteft refuge innocence can find;
The fafe director of unguided youth,
Fraught with kind wishes, and fecur'd by truth;
That cordial drop heaven in our cup has thrown,
To make the naufeous draught of life go down;
On which one only bleffing God might raise,
In lands of Atheists, fubfidies of praife;
For none did e'er fo dull and stupid prove,
But felt a God, and blefs'd his power, in love:
This only joy, for which poor we are made,
Is grown, like play, to be an arrant trade :
The rooks creep in, and it has got of late
As many little cheats and tricks as that;

But, what yet more a woman's heart would vex,
'Tis chiefly carry'd on by our own fex;
Our filly fex, who born, like monarchs, free,
Turn Gipfies for a meaper liberty,

}

And hate restraint, though but from infamy :
That call whatever is not common nice,
And, deaf to Nature's rule, or Love's advice,
Forfake the pleasure to purfue the vice.
To an exact perfection they have brought
The action Love, the paffion is forgot.
"Tis below wit, they tell you, to admire,
And ev❜n without approving, they defire:
Their private wifh obeys the public voice,
'Twixt good and bad whimfy defides not choice:
Fashions grow up for tafte, at forms they strike.
They know what they would have, not what they
like.

Ce iiij

Bovy's a beauty, if fome few agree

To call him fo, the reft to that degree
Affected are, that with their ears they fee.
Where I was vifiting the other night,
Comes a fine lady, with her humble knight,
Who had prevail'd with her, through her own
fkill,

At his request, though much against his will,
To come to London-

As the coach ftopt, I herd her voice, more loud
Than a great belly'd woman's in a crowd;
Telling the knight, that her affairs require
He for fome hours, obfequioufly retire.
I think she was afham'd he should be feen:
Hard fate of hufbands! the gallant kad been.
Though a difeas'd, ill-favour'd fool, brought in.
Difpatch, fays fhe, the business you pretend,
Your beaftly visit to your drunken friend,
A bottle ever makes you look fo fine:
Methinks I long to fmell you stink of wine.
Your country drinking breath 's enough to kill;
Sour ale corrected with a lemon-peel.
Pr'ythec, farewell; we'll meet again anon :
'The neceffary thing bows, and is gone.
She flies up ftairs, and all the hafte does fhew
That fifty antic poftures will allow;

And then burfts out-Dear madam, am not I
The ftrangeft, alter'd, creature; let me die,
I find myself ridiculously grown,
Embarraft with my being out of town:
Rude and untaught, like any Indian queen,
My country nakeduefs is plainly feen.

How is Love govern'd? Love that rules the state;
And pray who are the men moft worn of late?
When I was marry'd, fools were a-la-mode,
The men of wit were then held incommode :
Slow of belief, and fickle in defire,
Who, ere they'll be perfuaded, must inqu ire,
As if they came to fpy, and not t'admire:
With fearching wifdom, fatal to their cafe,
They fill find out why what may fhould not
pleafe;

Nay, take themselves for injur'd, when we dare
Make them think better of us than we are ;
And if we hide our frailties from their fights,
Call us deceitful jilts and hypocrites:
They little guefs, who at our arts are griev'd,
The perfect joy of being well deceiv'd;
Inquifitive as jealous cuckolds grow;
Rather than not be knowing, they wit know
What, being known, creates their certain woe.
Women fhould thefe, of all mankind avoid,
For wonder, by clear knowledge, is destroy'd.
Woman, who is an arrant bird of night,
Bold in the dusk, before a fool's dull fight
Muft fly, when Reafon brings the glaring

light.

But the kind easy fool, apt to admire
Himself, trufts us; his follies all confpire
To flatter his, and favour our defire:
Vain of his proper merit, he with ease
Believes we love him beft, and best can please;
On him our grofs, dull, common flatteries pass,
Ever most happy when most made an ass;

Heavy to apprehend, though all mankind
Perceive us falfe, the fop himself is blind;
Who, doating on himfelf-

Thinks every one that fees him of his mind. These are true women's men-Here, forc'd to cease.

Through want of breath, not will, to hold her

peace,

She to the window runs, where she had spy'd
Her much efteem'd dear friend, the monkey, ty'd;
With forty fmiles, as many antic bows,
As if 't had been the lady of the house,
The dirty chattering monfter the embrac'd,
And made it this fine tender fpeech at last:
Kifs me,
thou curious miniature of man;
How odd thou art, how pretty, how japan!
Oh! I could live and die with thee: then on,
For half an hour, in compliments the ran :

I took this time to think what Nature meant,
When this mixt thing into the world the fent,
So very wife, yet fo impertinent :

One that knows every thing that God thought fit,
Should be an afs through choice, not want of wit
Whole foppery, without the help of sense,
Could ne'er have rose to fuch an excellence:
Nature's as lame in making a true sop,
As a philofopher; the very top
And dignity of folly we attain

By ftudious fearch and labour of the brain,
By obfervation, counfel, and deep thought:
God never made a coxcomb worth a groat;
We owe that name; induftry and arts:
An eminent fool must be a fool of parts,
And such a one was the, who had turn'd o'er
As many books as men, lov'd much, read more,
Had a difcerning wit; to her was known
Every one's fault or merit, but her own.
All the good qualities that ever bleft
A woman fo diftinguifh'd from the reft,
Except diferetion only, the poffeft,
But now, mon cher, dear Pug, fhe cries, adieu;
And the difcourfe broke off, does thus renew:

You fmile to fee me, who the world perchance
Mistakes to have fome wit, fo far advance
The intereft of fools, that I approve
Their merit more than men of wit in love;
But in our fex too many proofs there are
Of fuch whom wits undo, and fools repair.
This, in my time, was fo obferv'd a rule,
Hardly a wench in town but had her fool;
The meanest common flut, who long was grown
The jeft and fcorn of every pit buffoon,
Had yet left charms enough to have fubdued
Some fop or other, fond to be thought kwd.
Fofter could make an Irish Lord a Nokes,
And Betty Morris had her city Cokes.
A woman's ne'er fo ruin'd, but she can
Be ftill reveng'd on her undoer, man:
How loft fo'er, she'll find some lover more
A lewd abandon'd fool than she a whore.
That wretched thing, Corinna, who has run
Through all the feveral ways of being undone:
Cozen'd at first by love, and living then
By turning the too dear bought cheat on men:

Gay were the hours, and wing'd with joy they flew,

When first the town her early beauties knew;
Courted, admir'd, 'and lov'd, with presents fed,
Youth in her looks, and pleasure in her bed;
Till fate, or her ill angel, thought it fit
To make her doat upon a man of wit;
Who found 'twas dull to love above a day,
Made his ill-naturd jest, and went away.
Now fcorn'd of all, forfaken and oppreft,
She's a memento mori to the reft:

Difeas'd, decay'd, to take up half a crown
Muft mortgage her long scarf and mantua gown;
Pour creature, who, unheard-of, as a fly
In fome dark hole must all the winter lie,
And want and dirt endure a whole half-year,
That for one month fhe tawdry may appear.
la Eafter-term fhe gets her a new gown;
When my young master's worship comes to town,
From pedagogue and mother just fet free,
The heir and hopes of a great family;

Who with ftrong beer and beef the country rules,

And ever fince the Conquest have been fools;
And now, with careful profpect to maintain
This character, left crofling of the ftrain

Should mend the booby breed, his friends provide
A coufin of his own to be his bride :
And thus fet out→→→→

With an eftate, no wit, and a young wife,
The folid comforts of a coxcomb's life,
Dunghill and peafe forfook, he comes to town,
Turns fpark, learns to be lewd, and is undone;
Nothing fuits worfe with vice than want of fenfe,
Fools are ftill wicked at their own expence.
This o'ergrown school-boy loft Corinna wins;
At the first dash to make an afs begins:
Pretends to like a man that has not known
The vanities or vices of the town;

Fresh is the youth, and faithful is his love,
Eager of joys which he does feldom prove;
Healthful and strong, he does no pains endure
But what the fair one he adores can cure;
Grateful for favours, does the fex esteem,
And libels none for being kind to him;
Then of the lewdness of the town complains,
Rails at the wits and atheists, and maintains
'Tis better than good sense, than power or wealth,
To have a blood untainted, youth, and health.
The unbred puppy, who had never feen
A creature look fo gay, or talk fo fine,
Believes, then falls in love, and then in debt;
Mortgages all, ev'n to the ancient feat,
To buy his mistress a new house for life,
To give her plate and jewels, robs his wife;
And when to th' height of fondness he is grown,
'Tis time to poifon him, and all's her own:
Thus meeting in her common arms his fate,
He leaves her bastard heir to his estate;
And, as the race of fuch an owl deferves,
His own dull lawful progeny he ftarves.
Nature (that never made a thing in vain,
But does each infect to fome end ordain)
Wisely provokes kind keeping fools, no doubt,
To patch up vices men of wit wear out.

DEAR friend, I hear this town does fo abound
In faucy cenfures, that faults are found
With what of late we, in poetic rage
Beftowing, threw away on the dull age.
But howfoe'er envy their spleen may raise,
To rob my brows of the deserved bays)
Their thanks, at least, I merit; fince through me
They are partakers of your poetry.
And this is all I'll fay in my defence,
Tobtain one line of your well worded fenfe,
I'll be content t' have it writ the

"Prince."

British (

I'm none of those who think themselves infpir'd,
Nor write with the vain hope to be admir'd;
But from a rule I have (upon long trial)
T' avoid with care all fort of felf-denial.
Which way foe'er defire and fancy lead,
(Contemning fame) that path I boldly tread :
And if expofing what I take for wit,
To my dear felf a pleasure I beget,

No matter though the cenfuring critics fret.
I hefe whom my Mufe difpleafes are at ftrife,
With equal fpleen, against my courfe of life;
The leaft delight of which I'll not forego,
For all the flattering praise man can beflow.
If I defign'd to please, the way were then
Jo mend my manners rather than my pen:
The firft's unnatural, therefore unfit;
And for the second 1 defpair of it,
Since grace is not fo hard to get as wit:
Perhaps ill verses ought to be confin'd,
In mere good breeding, like unfavoury wind.
Were reading forc'd, I should be apt to think,
Men might no more write fcurvily than ftink.
I'll own that you write better than I do,
But I have as much need to write as you.
In all I write, should fenfe, and wit, and rhyme,
Fail me at once, yet fomething fo fublime
Shall ftamp my poem, that the world may fee,
It could have been produc'd by none but me.

}