All with the dire Prerogative to kill;
Ev'n they would have the Pow'r, who want the Will. Tis plain from hence, that what our Vows requeft, Are hurtful Things, or useless at the best.
In ev'ry Wish, and know not how to pray :
For he who grafp'd the World's exhaufted Store,
Yet never had enough, but wish'd for more;
Rais'd a Top-heavy Tow'r of monftrous Height,
Which mould'ring crush'd him underneath the Weig! t
What then remains; are we depriv'd of Will ?
Must we not with, for fear of wishing Ill ?
Receive my Coun fel, and fecurely move:
Intrust thy Fortune to the Pow'rs above;
Leave them to manage for thee, and to grant
What their unerring Wisdom fees thee want.
In Goodness as in Greatnefs they excel;
Oh! that we lov'd our felves but half fo well!
So blind we are, our Wishes are fo vain, That what we moft defire, proves moft our Pain. (Dryd. Mar. Ala-Mode. Such is the gloomy State of Mortals here,
We know not what to wish, nor what to fear. Dryd.
A thoufand different Shapes it bears,
Comely in thousand Shapes appears.
"Tis not a Tale, 'tis not a Jeft,
Admir'd with Laughter at a Feaft,
Nor florid Talk, which can this Title gain;
The Proofs of Wit for ever muft remain.
'Tis not to force fome lifelefs Verfes meet,
With their five gouty Feet;
All ev'ry where, like Man's, must be the Soul,
And Reafon th' inferiour Pow'rs controul.
Yet 'tis not to adorn and gild each Part;
That fhews more Coft than Art.
fis not when two like Words make up one Noise,
(Jefts for Dutch Men and English Boys,)
In which who finds out Wit, the fame may fee
In Anagrams and Acroftick Poetry.
Much lefs can that have any Place,
At which a Virgin hides her Face:
Such Drofs the Fire muft purge away:
'Tis juft
The Author blufh, there where the Reader must.
'Tis not fuch Lines as almost crack the Stage,
When Bajazet begins to rage:
Nor a tall Metaphor in the Bombaft Way,
Nor the dry Chips of fhort-lung'd Seneca:
Nor upon all Things to intrude,
And force fome odd Similitude.
What is it then, which, like the Pow'r Divine,
We only can by Negatives define?
In a true Piece of Wit all Things must be,
Yet all Things there agree:
As in the Ark, joyn'd without Force or Strife,
All Creatures dwelt, all Creatures that had Life:
Or as the primitive Forms of all,
Which without Discord and Confusion lye,
In that ftrange Mirror of the Deity.
Wit like a luxuriant Vine,
Unless to Virtue's Prop it.joyn,
Firm and erect toward Heav'n bound,
Tho' it with beauteous Leaves and pleafant Fruit be
It lyes deform'd and rotting on the Ground.
'Tis not a Flash of Fancy, which fometimes,
Dazling our Minds, fets off the flightest Rhymes.
Bright as a Blaze, but in a Moment done;
True Wit is everlafting like the Sun.
Wit, like Beauty, triumphs o'er the Heart,
When more of Nature's feen, and lefs of Art,
Wit, like Tierce Claret, when't begins to pall,
Neglected lyes, and's of no Ufe at all;
But in its full Perfection of Decay,
Turns Vinegar, and comes again in Play. Ld. Dorfet.
Unequally th' impartial Hand of Heav'n,
Has all but this one only Blefling giv❜n.
In Wit alone 'r has been munificent,
Of which fo just a Share to each is fent,
That the most avaricious are content :
For none e'er thought, the due Divifion's fuch,
His own too little, or his Friend's too much."
Great Wits are fure to Madnefs near ally'd,
And thin Partitions do their Bounds divide.
So wither'd, and fo wild in their Attire,
That look not like th' Inhabitants of the Earth,
And yet are on it? Live you, or are you ought
That Man may question! You feem to understand me,
By each at once her choppy Fingers laying
Upon her skinny Lips.
If you can look into the Seeds of Time,
And fee which Grain will grow, and which will not, I conjure you by that which you profefs,
Tho' you untie the Winds, and let 'em fight
Against the Churches; tho' the yefty Waves
Confound and fwallow Navigation up:
Tho' bladed Corn be lodg'd, and Trees blown down
Tho' Caffles topple on their Warders Heads:
The Palaces and Pyramids do flope
Their Heads to their Foundations:
Ev'n 'till Destruction ficken, answer me.
The mumbling Beldam mutter'd thus her Charms.
On the Corner of the Moon
Hangs a vap'rous Drop profound,
I'll catch it e'er it come so Ground:
Which diftill'd by magick Slights,
Shall raife artificial Sprights.
Thrice the brinded Cat has mew'd,
Twice and once the Hedge-pig whin'd:
Harpier cries, 'tis Time, 'tis Time :
Round about the Cauldron go,
In the poyfon'd Entrails throw :
Pour in Sow's Blood that has eaten
Her nine Farrow: Greafe that's sweet
From the Murderer's Gibbet throw
Toad that under the cold Stone
Days and Nights has thirty one
Swelter'd Venom fleeping got,
Boil thou firft in the charmed Pot.
Fillet of a fenny Snake
In the Cauldron boil and bake.
Eye of Neut, and Toe of Frog,
Wool of Bat, and Tongue of Dog,
Adder's Fork, and blind Worm's Sting,
Lizard's Leg, and Howlet's Wing,
For a Charm of pow'rful Trouble,
Like a Hell-broth boil and bubble,
Scale of Dragon, Tooth of Wolf,
Witch's Mummy, Maw and Gulph
Of the ravin'd Salt-Sea Shark,
Root of Hemlock, digg'd i'th' dark;
Liver of blafpheming Jew,
Gall of Goats, and Slips of Yeugh,
Slive'rd in the Moon's Eclipfe;
Nofe of Turk, and Tartar's Lips;
Finger of a Birth ftrangled Babe,
Ditch-deliver'd by a Drab,
Make the Gruel thick and flab:
Add thereto a Tyger's Chaldron
For th' Ingredients of our Cauldron.
Cool it with a Baboon's Blood,
Then our Charm is firm and good.
But fee, they're gone,
The Earth has Bubbles as the Water has,
And these are of them: they vanish'd
Into the Air, and what feem'd corporal.
Melted as Breath into the Wind.
Not uglier follow the Night-Hag, when call'd
In fecret, riding thro' the Air, fhe comes
Lur'd with the Smell of Infant-Blood, to dance
With Lapland Witches, while the fab'ring Moon
Eclipfes at their Charms.
Smear'd with thefe pow'rful Juices, on the Plain
He howls a Wolf among the hungry Train;
And oft the mighty Necromancer boafts,
With thefe to call from Tombs the ftalking Ghofts,
And from the Roots to tear the standing Corn,
Which, whirl'd aloft, to distant Fields is borne:
Such is the Strength of Spells.
Renown'd for magick Arts, her Charms unbind
The Chains of Love, or fix 'em to the Mind;
She ftops the Currents, leaves the Channel dry,
Repels the Stars, and backward beats the Sky.
The yawning Earth re-bellows to her Call,
Pale Ghofts afcend, and Mountain Afhes fal!.
I faw Canidia here, her Feet were bare,
Black were her Robes, and loose her flaky Hair ;
With her fierce Sagana went ftalking round,
Their hideous Howling fhook the trembling Ground.
A Palenefs, cafting Horror round the Place,
Sate dead and terrible on either's Face.
Their impious Trunks upon the Earth they caft,
And dug it with their Nails in frantick Haste.
A Cole-black Lamb then with their Teeth they tore,
And in the Pit they pour'd the reeking Gore.
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