Thus while he strives to please, he's forc'd to do't,
Volcius-like Hip-Hop in a fingle Boot.
Criticks, he knows, for this may Damn his Books,
But he makesFeafts for Friends,and not for Cooks.
Tho' Errant Knights of late no favour find,
will be to Ladies Errant kind.

Sure

you

To follow FameKnights Errant makeProfession
We Damfels fly to fave our Reputation:
So they their Valour fhew, we our Discretion.
To Lands of Monsters and fierce Beafts they go,
We to those Islands where rich Husbands grow
Tho' they're no Monsters, we may make 'em fo.

-If they're of English growth, they'l beart with

Patience:

But fave us from a Spouse of Oroonoko's Nations.

Then Blefs your Stars, you happy London
Wives,

Who love at large each day, yet keep your
Lives;

Nor

Nor envy poor Imoinda's doating Blindness,

Who thought her Husband kill'd her out of loo Kindness:

Death with a Husband ne'er had fhewn fuch
Charms,

Had the once Dy'd within a Lover's Arms.
Her Errour was from Ignorance proceeding,

Poor Soul, the wanted fome of our Town Breedo videlo.

ing.

Forgive this Indian's fondness of her Spouse
Their Law no Chriftian Liberty allows:
Alas! they make a Confcience of their Vows.
If Virtue in a Heathen be a fault,

Then Damn the Heathen-School where fhe was taught.

She might have learnt to Cuckold, Jilt,and Sham, Had Covent Garden been in Surinam.

SONG.

283

SON

T

By Sir George Etherege.

Ell me no more you Love; in vain,

Fair Celia, You this Passion feign;
Can they pretend to Love who do
Rufufe what Love perfwades them to?
Who once has felt his active Flame,
Dull Laws of Honour will disdain
You wou'd be thought his Slave, and yet
You will not to his Pow'er fubmit.

More Cruel then those Beauties are,

Whose Coyness wounds us to defpair;

For all the Kindness which

you shew,

Each Smile and Kifs which you beftow,

Are

Are like thofe Cordials which we give

TO Dying Men, to make them Live,

And Languish out an Hour in pain:
Be Kinder, Celia, or Disdain.

To Her EXCELLENCE, the

MARCHIONESS

OF

NEWCASTLE,

After the Reading of Her Incomparable

POEM S.

Madam,

W

By the fame Author.

Ith fo much Wonder we are struck,

When we begin toRead yourMatch

lefs Book;

A while your own Excess of Merit stays

Our forward Pens, and does suspend your Praise