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Thou fure Prefage of ill-approaching Fates!

The Bane of Empires, and the Change of States! Armies in vain refift thy mighty Pow'r ;

Not the worst Conduct would confound them more.
Thus Rome her felf, while o'er the World fhe flew,
And did by Virtue all that World fubdue,

Was by her own victorious Arms opprefs'd,
And catch'd Infection from the conquer'd Eaft;
Whence all thofe Vices came, which foon devour
The best Foundations of Renown, and Pow'r.

But, oh, what need have we abroad to roam,
Who feel too much the sad Effects at home,
Of wild Excefs? which we fo plainly find,
Decays the Body, and impairs the Mind.
But yet grave Fops must not presume from hence
To flight the facred Pleasures of the Sense:
Our Appetites are Nature's Laws, and giv'n

Under the broad authentick Seal of Heay'n.

Let

Let Pedants wrangle, and let Biggots fight,
To put restraint on innocent Delight;

But Heav'n and Nature's always in the right;
They wou'd not draw poor wretched Mortals in,
Or give Defires that fhall be doom'd for Sin.
Yet, that in height of harmless Joys we may
Laft to old Age, and never lofe a Day;
Amidft our Pleasures we our felves fhould fpage,
And manage
all with Temperance and Care.
The Gods forbid but we fometimes may steep
Our Joys in Wine, and lull our Cares asleep:
It raises Nature, ripens Seeds of Worth,
As moift'ning Pictures calls the Colours forth;
But if the Varnish we too oft apply,

Alas! like Colours, we grow faint and die.

Hold, hold, impetuous Mufe: I would reftrain

Her over-cager Heat, but all in vain ;

Abandon'd to Delights, fhe longs to rove;

I check her here, and now fhe flies to Love.

Shews

Shews me fome rural Nymph by Shepherd chas'd,

Soor overtaken, and as foon embrac'd ;

The Grass by her, as the by him is prefs'd;

For fhame, my Mufe, let Fancy guess the reft:
At fuch a Point Fancy can never stay,

But flies beyond whatever you can fay.

Behold the filent Shades, the am'rous Grove,
The dear Delights, the very Act of Love.
This is his loweft Sphere, his Country Scene,
Where Love is humble, and his Fare but mean,
Yet fpringing up without the help of Art,
Leaves a fincerer Relifh in the Heart;

More healthfully, tho' not fo finely fed,
And better thrives than where more nicely bred.
But 'tis in Courts where most he makes a Show,
And high enthron'd, governs the World below;
For tho' in Hiftories learn'd Ignorance

Attributes all to Cunning, or to Chance;
Love will in those Disguises often fmile,

And knows, the Caufe was Kindness all the while:

VOL. I.

N

What

What Story, Place, or Perfon cannot prove
The boundless Influence of mighty Love?
Where-e'er the Sun can vig'rous Heat infpire,
Both Sexes glow, and languish with Defire.
The weary'd Swain faft in the Arms of Sleep
Love can awake, and often fighing keep;
And busy Gown-men, by fond Love disguis'd,
Will leifure find to make themselves defpis'd.
The proudest Kings submit to Beauty's Sway
Beauty it felf, a greater Prince than they,
Lies fometimes languishing with all its Pride
By a belov'd, tho' fickle Lover's Side.

I meant to flight the foft enchanting Charm,
But, oh, my Head and Heart are both too warm.
I doat on Womankind with all their Faults;
Love turns my Satire into fofteft Thoughts;
Of all that Paflion which our Peace deftroys,
Instead of Mischiefs, I defcribe the Joys.
But fhort will be his Reign (I fear too short)
And prefent Cares fhall be my future Sport

Then

Then Love's bright Torch put out, his Arrows broke,
Loofe from kind Chains, and from th' engaging Yoke,
To all fond Thoughts I'll fing fuch Counter-Charms,
The Fair fhall liften in their Lovers Arms.

Now the Enthusiastick Fit is spent,

I feel my Weakness, and too late repent.

As they who walk in Dreams, oft climb too high
For Senfe to follow with a waking Eye;
And in fuch wild Attempts are blindly bold,
Which afterwards they tremble to behold.
So I review thefe Sallies of my Pen,
And modeft Reason is return'd agen;
My Confidence I curfe, my Fate accuse,
Scarce hold from cenfuring the facred Mufe.

No wretched Poet of the railing Pit,
No Critick curs'd with the wrong fide of Wit,
Is more fevere from Ignorance, and Spite,

Than I with Judgment against all I write.

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