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Send all your wishes with him, let the air
With gentle breezes waft it safely there,
The seas, like what they'll carry, calm and fair

Let the illustrious niother touch our land

Mildly, as hercafter may her son command;

While our glad monarch welcumes her to shore,

With kind assurance shc shall part no more. Coming to the Tbeatre, Friday, April 21, 1682.

Be the majeltic babe then smiling born,

And all good tigns of fate his birth adorn,
THEN too much plenty, luxury, and case,

So live and grow, a constant pledge to stand
Had surfeited this ifle to a difeafe;

Of Cacfar's love to an obedient land.
When noisome blains did its best parts o’crfpread,
Anion the rest their dire infection fhed;
Our great Physician, who the nature knew
of the distemper, and from whence it grew,
Fir'd, for three kingdoms' quiet, Sir, on you:
He cast his fearching eyes o'er all the frame,
And finding whence before one sickness came,

How once before our mischiefs fofter'd were,
Krew well your virtne, and arrly'r yna there :
Where so your goodness, fo your justice fway'd,

You but appear’d, and the wild plagie was Itay'd.
When, from the filthy dunghill-faction bred,


New-form'd rebellion durft rear up its head,
Answer me all : Who ftruck the norster dicais All ,

and See, sce, the injur'd prince, and bless his name,

every loyal Muse's loyal friend, Thirk va the martyr from whole loins he canic;

That come to treat your longing wishes here, Think on the blood was shed for you before,

Turn your defiring eyes, and feast them there. Ard curse the parricides that thirit for more.

Thus falling on your knces with me implore, Flives are yours, then of their wiles beware: May this poor land ne'er lose that presence mort! 12}, lay him in your hearts, and guard him

But if there any in this circle be, there',

That come so curft to envy what they fee, teet luis wrongs your real for him improve; From the vain fool that would be great too foon, F. wear a sword will justify your love.

To the dull knave that writ the last lampoon ! With blood ftill ready for your good i' expend,

Let such, as victims to that beauty's fame, And has a hivart that nc'er forgot his friend.

Hang their vile blafted heads, and dic with shame. His duteous loyalty before you lay,

Our mighty bleffing is at last return'd, And learn of him, unmurniuring to obey,

The joy arriv'd for which so long we mourn'd: Tin's what he'as borne, your quiet to restore;

From whom our present peace we expect etzRepent your m. dacfs, and rebel no murre.

creasid, No more let Boutefcus hope to lead petitions,

And all our future generations blest. Scriveners tu be treafurers; pedlars, politicians ;

Time, have care : bring safe the hour of joy, Nor every fool, whofe wife has tript at court,

When some bleft tongue proclaims a royal boy: Puck up a spirit, and turn rebel fort.

And when 'tis born, let nature's hand be strong; in lands where cuckolds niultiply like ours,

Bless him with days of strength, and make them What prince can be too jealous cf their powers,

long; Or can too often think himself alarm'd?

Till charg'd with honours we behold him stand,? They're mal-contents that every where go krmid: Three kingdoms banners waiting his command, And when the horn'd herd's together gre,

His father's conquering sword within his hand : Nothing portends a common-wealti like that. Then th' English lions in the air advance, Cal, cast your idols off, your gods of wood,

And with them roaring nunsic to the dance,
Ere yet Philistines fattén with your blood :

Carry a Quo Warranto into France.
Renounce your priests of Baal with anien faces,
Your Wapping fealls, and your Milc-end high

Nail all your medals on the gallows post,

In recompence th' original was lost :
At these, illustrious repentance pay,
In his kind hands your humble offerings lay :

Let royal pardon be by him implor'd,

CITY HEIRESS, 1682. Th' atoning brother of your anger'd lord: He only brings a niedicine fit t' assuage

COW vain have prov'd the labours of the Atage, A people's folly, and rouz'd monarch's rage.

In striving to reclaim a vicious age! An infant prince, yet labouring in the womb, Poets may write, the mischief to impcach;

2 Fated with wondrous harpiness to come,

You care as little what the poets teach, He goes to fetch the mighty bleflings home : As you regard at church what parsons preach,




But where such follies and such vices reign, No base defires corrupt his head,
What honest pen has patience to refrain

No fears disturb him in his bed.
At church, in pews, ye most devoutly snore, What then in life, which foon most end,
And here, gut dully drunk, ye come to roar; Can all our rain designs intend!
Ye go to church, to glout and ogle there,

From shore to shore why should we run, And come to meet more lewd convenient here : When none his tiresome self can fhun? With equal zeal ye honour either place,

For baneful care will ftill prevail, And run fo very evenly your race,

And overtake us under fail, Y' improve in wit just as ye do in grace.

'Twill dodge the great man's train behind, It mult be so; some dæmon has pofsest

Out-run the roe, out-fly the wind. Our land, and we have never since been bleft. If then thy soul rejoice to-day, Y' have seen it all, and heard of its renown, Drive far to-morrow's cares away. In reverend shape it Italk'd about the town, In laughter let them all be drown'd: Six yeomen tall attending on its frown.

No perfect good is to be found. Sometimes, with humble note and zealous lore, One mortal feels Fate's sudden blow, 'Twould play the apostolic function o'er :

Another's lingering death comes flow; But heaven have mercy on us when it swore ! And what of life they take from thee, Whene'er it swore, to prove the oaths were true, The gods may give to punish me. Out of his mouth at random halters few

Thy portion is a wealthy stock, Round some unwary neck, by magic thrown, A fertile glebe, a fruitful flock, Though still the cunning devil sav'd its own: Horses and chariots for thy case, For when th' enchantment could no longer last, Rich robes to deck and make thce please, 'The subtlc Pug, most dextrously uncast,

For mc, a little cell I chuse, 1.eft awful form for one more seeming pious, Fit for my mind, fit for my Muse, And in a moment vary'd to defy us ;

Which soft content does best adora, From filken doctor, home-spun Ananias : S Shunning the knaves and fools I scora. Left the lewd court, and did in city fix, Where still by its old arts it plays new tricks, And fills the heads of fools with politicks. This dæmon lately drew in many a guest, To part with zealous guinea for-no feast.

THE COMPLAINT: Who, but the most incorrigible fops, For ever doom'd in dismal cells, call'd shops, To cheat and damn themselves to get their livings,

To a Scotcb Tune. Would lay sweet money out in iham thanksgivings?

I pain, Sham plots you may have paid for o'er and o'er ; No quiet's in my mind, But who e'er paid for a sham trcat before? Though ne'er could be a happier swain, Had you not better sent your offerings all

Were Sylvia less unkind. Hither to us, than Sequestrators' Hall?

For when, as long her chains I've wors,
I being your steward, justice had been done ye ; I ask relief from smart,
I could have entertain'd you worth your money. She only gives nie looks of scorn;

Alas! 'twill break my heart!
My rivals, rich in worldly store,

May offer heaps of gold,
THE SIXTEENTH O DE But surely I a heaven adore,

Too precious to be sold;
Can Sylvia such a coxcomb prize,

For wealth, and not defert;
SECOND BOOK OF HORACE. And my poor fighs and tears despise?

Alas, 'twill break my heart! N storms when clouds the moon do hide,

When, like some panting, hovering dore, Shew me at sea the boldest there,

I for my bliss contend, Who does not wish for quiet here.

And plead the cause of cager love, For quiet, friend, the foldier fights,

She coldly calls me friend. Bears weary marches, sleepless nights,

Ah, Sylvia! thus in vain you strive
For this feeds hard, and lodges cold;

To ad a healer's part,
Which can't be bought with hills of gold. 'Twill keep but lingering pain alive,
Since wealth and power too weak we find,

Alas! and break my heart.
To quell the tumults of the mind;
Or from the monarch's roofs of state

When, on my lonely, pensive bed
Drive thence the cares that round him wait:

I lay me down to rest, Happy the man with little blett,

In hope to calm my raging head, of what his father left poffeft;

And cool my barning breaft,



Her cruelty all ease denies ;

With some sad dream I start, All drowo'd in tears I find my eyes,

And breaking feel my heart. Then rising, through the path I rove,

That leads me where she dwells, Where to the senseless waves my love

Its mournful story tells :
With fighs I dew and kiss the door,

Till morning bids depart;
Then vent ten thousand signs and more :

Alas ! 'twill break my heart !

Therefore all you who have male issue born
Under the starving sign of Capricorn,
Prevent the malice of their stars in time,
And warn them early from the fin of rhyme :
Tell them how Spenser starv'd, how Cowley

How Butler's faith and service was return'd
And if such warning they refuse to take,
This last experiment, o parents make !
With hands behind them see th' offender ty'd,
The parish whip and headle by his fide;
Then lead him to some stall that does expose
The authors he loves moft; there rub his nose,
Till, like a spaniel lash'd to know command,
He by the due correction understand,
To keep his brain clean, and not foul the land;
Till he against his nature learn to strive,
And get the knack of dulness how to thrive.

But, Sylvia, when this conquest's won,

And I am dead and cold, Renounce the cruel deed you've done,

Nor glory when 'tis told ;
For every lovely generous maid

Will take my injur'd part,
And curse thee, Sylvia, I'm afraid,

For breaking my poor heart.

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WHAT think ye meant wise Providence, WHAT



when firit
Poets were made? I'd tell you, if I durst,
That 'twas in contradiction to heaven's word,
That when its spirit o'er the waters stirr'd,
When it saw all, and said that all was good,
The creature Poet was not understood :
For, were it worth the pains of six long days,
To mould retailers of dull third-day plays,
That starve out threescore years in hopes

'Tis plain they ne'er were of the first creation,
But came by meer equivocal generation ?
Like rats in ships, without coition bred,
As hated too as they are, and unfed.
Nature their species fure must needs disown,
Scarce knowing Poets, less by Poets known.
Yet this poor thing, fo fcorn’d and set at nought,
Ye all pretend to, and would fain be thought.
Disabled wasting Whore masters are net
Prouder to own the brats they never got,
Ihan fumbling, itching rhymers of the town
r" adopt some base-born song that's not their


CHAT horror's this that dwells upon the

plain, And thus disturbs the shepherds' peaceful reign? A dismal sound breaks through the yielding air, Forewarning us some dreadful form is near. The bleating flocks in wild confusion stray, The early larks forsake their wandering way, And cease to welcome-in the now-born day. Each nymph posleft with a distracted fear, Disorder'd hangs her loose dishevel'd hair, Diseases with her strong convulsions reign, and deities, not known before to pain, Arc now with apoplectic seizures fain. Hence flow our forrows, hence increase our fears, Each humble plant docs drop her silver tears. Ye tender lambs, stray not so fast away, To weep ard mourn let us together stay: O’er all the universe let it be spread, That now the shepherd of the flock is dead. The royal Pan, that shepherd of the sheep, He, who to leave his flock did dying weep, Is gone, ah gone! ne'er to return from Death's

eternal sleep! Begin, Damela, let thy numbers fly Aloft where the soft milky way does lie; Mopsus, who Daphnis to the itars did fing, Shall join with you, and thither waft our king. Play gently on your reeds a mournful strain, And tell in notes, through all th’ Arcadian plain, The royal Pan, the shepherd of the sheep, He, who to leave his flock did dying wiep, Is gone, ah gone! re'er to return from Death's

eternal sleep!

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A Dialogue between Strephon and Daphne

9 10 II 13 14 ib.

and Strephon The Advice The Discovery Woman's Honour Grecian Kindness The Mistress A Song A Song To Corinna Love and Life




An Epistolary Esay from Lord Rochester

to Lord Mulgrave, upon their mutual

Poems 2 Trial of the Poets for the Bays ib. 4 Satire against Mankind

3The Maim'd Debauchee ib. Upon Nothing ib. A Translation froni Lucretius, &c.

The latter End of the Chorus of the Se. ib. cond Act of Seneca's Troas, translated ib. To his Sacred Majesty, on his Restoration ib. in the Year 1660, written at twelve 5

Years old ib To her Sacred Majesty the Queen-Mother, ib. on the Death of Mary Princess of ib. Orange

6 An Epilogue ib. Allufion to the Tenth Satire of the First ib. Book of Horace ib. Verses to Sir Car Scrope

7 An Epilogue ib. Prologue, spoken at the Court at Whiteib. hall, before K. Charles il. by the Lady

Elizabeth Howard ib. / Elegy on the Earl of Rochester


A Song A Song

Upon his leaving his Mistress Upon drinking in a Bowl

ib. ib.

A Song A Song The Answer Constancy A Song

16 17


A Song, in Imitation of Sir John Eaton
A Letter from Artemisa in the Town, to

Cloe in the Country

18 ib.




ib. 29

ib. ib.

An Essay on translated Verse
To the Earl of Roscommon, on his Essay

on translated Verse To the Earl of Roscommon; occasioned by

his Lordship's Ellay on translated Verfe.

From the Latin of Mr. Charles Dryden. Paraphrase on the 148th Psalm Prologue spoken to his Royal Highness the

Duke of York, at Edinburgh Song on a young Lady who fung finely, and

was afraid of a Cold Virgil's Sixth Eclogue, translated Ode upon Solitude The Twenty-second Ode of the First Book

of Horace The same imitated, addressed to Mrs.

Cath Philips Part of the Fifth Scene in the Second Act

of Guarini's Pastor Fido, tranflated

Page 19

The Dream 22 | The Ghost of the Old House of Commons

to the New One, appointed to meet at

Oxford 23 On the Death of a Lady's Dog 24 Epilogue to Alexander the Great, when

acted at the Theatre in Dublin 25 On the Day of Judgment

Prologue tu Pompey, a Tragedy, translated

by Mrs. Cath. Philips from the French ib. of Monsieur Corneille, and acted at the 26 Theatre in Dublin

Ross's Ghost 27 | The Sixth Ode of the Third Book of

Horace ib. Translation of a Verse from Lucan

Horace's Art of Poctry ib.


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