Alas, poor youth! thy love will never thrive!

This blafted tree predestines it;

Go, tie the dismal knot (why should'st thou live?)
And, by the lines thou there haft writ,
Deform'dly hanging, the fad picture be
To that unlucky hiftory.

'T

IS a ftrange kind of ignorance this in you!
That you your victories should not spy,
Victories gotten by your eye!

That your bright beams, as thofe of comets do,
Should kill, but not know how, nor who!

"

That truly you my idol might appear,

Whilft all the people smell and fee

The odorous flames I offer thee,

Thou fitt'ft, and doft not see, nor smell, nor hear, Thy conftant, zealous worshiper.

They fee 't too well who at my fires repine;

Nay, th' unconcern'd themselves do prove
Quick-ey'd enough to fpy my love;

Nor does the caufe in thy face clearlier shine,
Than the effect appears in mine.

Fair infidel! by what unjuft decree

Muft I, who with fuch reftlefs care

Would make this truth to thee appear,

Muft I, who preach it, and pray for it, be
Damn'd by thy incredulity ?

I, by thy unbelief, am guiltless flain :

Oh, have but faith, and then, that you
May know that faith for to be true,
It shall itself by' a miracle maintain,

And raise me from the dead again!

Meanwhile my hopes may feem to be o'erthrown;
But lovers' hopes are full of art,

And thus difpute-That, fince my heart,
Though in thy breast, yet is not by thee known,.
Perhaps thou may'st not know thine own.

COME

NOME, let's go on, where love and youth does call; I've seen too much, if this be all.

Alas! how far more wealthy might I be

With a contented ignorant poverty !

To fhew fuch ftores, and nothing grant,
Is to enrage and vex my want.

For love to die an infant 's leffer ill,

Than to live long, yet live in childhood still.

We 'ave both fat gazing only, hitherto,

As man and wife in picture do;

The richest crop

of joy is still behind,

And he who only fees, in love, is blind,.

So, at firft, Pygmalion lov'd,

But th' amour at last improv'd;

The ftatue' itself at last a woman grew,
And fo at last, my dear, fhould you do too..

X 4.

Beauty ·

Beauty to man the greatest torture is,
Unless it lead to farther blifs,

Beyond the tyrannous pleasures of the eye;
It grows too ferious a cruelty,

Unless it heal, as well as ftrike :

I would not, falamander-like,

In fcorching heats always to live defire,
But, like a martyr, pass to heaven through fire.

Mark how the lufty fun falutes the spring,
And gently kifles every thing!

His loving beams unlock each maiden flower,
Search all the treasures, all the sweets devour:
Then on the earth, with bridegroom-heat,
He does ftill new flowers beget.

The fun himself, although all eye he be,
Can find in love more pleasure than to fee.

THE

INCURABLE.

I

Try'd if books would cure my love, but found
Love made them nonsense all;

I 'apply'd receipts of bufinefs to my wound,
But ftirring did the pain recall.

As well might men who in a fever fry,
Mathematic doubts debate;

As well might men who mad in darkness lie,
Write the dispatches of a state.

I try'd

I try'd devotion, fermons, frequent prayer,
But those did worse than useless prove;
For prayers are turn'd to fin, in those who are
Out of charity, or in love.

I try'd in wine to drown the mighty care;
But wine, alas! was oil to th' fire:

Like drunkards' eyes, my troubled fancy there
Did double the defire.

I try'd what mirth and gaiety would do,
And mix'd with pleasant companies;
My mirth did graceless and infipid grow,
And 'bove a clinch it could not rise.

Nay, God forgive me for 't! at last I try'd,
'Gainft this fome new defire to stir,
And lov'd again, but 'twas where I espy'd
Some faint resemblances of her.

The phyfic made me worse, with which I ftrove
This mortal ill t' expel;

As wholesome medicines the disease improve,
There where they work not well.

HONOUR.

HE loves, and the confeffes too;

SH

There's then, at laft, no more to do:

The happy work 's entirely done;

Enter the town which thou hast won;

The

The fruits of conquest now begin ;

Iö triumph! Enter in.

What's this, ye Gods! what can it be?

Remains there ftill an enemy?

Bold Honour ftands up in the gate,

And would yet capitulate;

Have I o'ercome all real foes,

And fhall this phantom me oppose?:

Noify nothing! ftalking fhade!
By what witchcraft wert thou made?
Empty cause of folid harms!

But I fhall find out counter-charms,
Thy airy devilship to remove
From this circle here of love.

Sure I fhall rid myfelf of thee
By the night's obfcurity,
And obfcurer fecrecy!

Unlike to every other sprite,
Thou attempt'st not men t' affright,
Nor appear'ft but in the light.

Т.НЕ

TH

INNOCENT ILL..

HOUGH all thy geftures and difcourfes be
Coin'd and stamp'd by modesty;

Though from thy tongue ne'er flipp'd away

One word which nuns at th' altar might not say;

Yet