Yet fpringing up without the help of art,
Leaves a fincerer relish 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 fhow,
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 thofe disguises often smile,
And knows, the cause was kindness all the while.
What ftory, place, or perfon cannot prove
The boundless influence of mighty love?
Where-e'er the fun can vig'rous heat inspire,
Both fexes glow, and languish with defire.
The weary'd swain fast in the arms of fleep
Love can awake, and often fighing keep;
And bufy gown-men, by fond love difguis'd,
Will leifure find to make themselves despis'd.
The proudeft kings fubmit to beauty's sway;
Beauty itself, a greater prince than they,
Lies fometimes languifhing with all its pride
By a belov'd, tho' fickle lover's fide.
I mean 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 fatire into softest thoughts;
Of all that paffion which our peace destroys,
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 love's bright torch put out, his arrows broke,
Leofe from kind chains, and from th' engaging yoke.
To all fond thoughts I'll fing fuch counter-charms,
The fair shall 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 fenfe to follow with a waking eye;
And in fuch wild attempts are blindly bold,
Which afterwards they tremble to behold:
So I review these fallies of my pen,
And modest 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 side of wit,
Is more fevere from ignorance and fpite,
Than I with judgment against all I writę.
On Mr. HOBBS, and his Writings,
UCH is the mode of these cenforious days,
The art is loft of knowing how to praife;
Poets are envious now, and fools alone
Admire at wit, because themselves have none.
Yet whatfoe'er is by vain criticks thought,
Praising is harder much than finding fault;
In homely pieces ev'n the Dutch excel,
Italians only can draw beauty well.
As ftrings, alike wound up, fo equal prove,
That one refounding makes the other move;
From fuch a cause our fatires please fo much,
We sympathize with each ill-natur'd touch;
And as the fharp infection spreads about,
The reader's malice helps the writer out.
To blame, is easy; to commend, is bold;
Yet, if the mufe infpires it, who can hold?
To merit we are bound to give applaufe,
Content to suffer in so just a cause.
While in dark ignorance we lay afraid
Of fancies, ghosts, and ev'ry empty shade;
Great HоBBS appear'd, and by plain reafon's light
Put fuch fantastick forms to shameful flight.
Fond is their fear, who think men needs must be
To vice enflav'd, if from vain terrors free;
The wife and good, morality will guide,
And fuperftition all the world befide.
In other authors, tho' the thought be good, 'Tis not fometimes fo eas'ly understood;
That jewel oft unpolish'd has remain'd;
Some words fhould be left out, and some explain'd;
So that in search of fenfe, we either stray,
Or else grow weary in fo rough a way.
But here fweet eloquence does always fmile,
In fuch a choice, yet unaffected ftyle,
As must both knowledge and delight impart,
The force of reason, with the flow'rs of art;
beautiful transparent skin,
Which never hides the blood, yet holds it in a
Like a delicious stream it ever ran,
As smooth as woman, but as strong as man.
BACON himself, whose universal wit
Does admiration through the world beget,
Scarce more his age's ornament is thought,
Or greater credit to his country brought.
While fame is young, too weak to fly away,
Malice pursues her, like fome bird of prey;
But once on wing, then all the quarrels cease;
Envy herself is glad to be at peace,
Gives over, weary'd with so high a flight,
Above her reach, and scarce within her fight.
HOBBS to this happy pitch arriv'd at last,
Might have look'd down with pride on dangers past:
But fuch the frailty is of human kind,
Men toil for fame, which no man lives to find;
Long rip'ning under ground this China lies;
Fame bears no fruit, till the vain planter dies.
Thus nature, tir'd with his unusual length
Of life, which put her to her utmost strength,
Such stock of wit unable to fupply,
To spare herself, was glad to let him die.
ERE lives a man, who, by relation,
Depends upon predestination;
For which the learned and the wife
His understanding much defpife:
But I pronounce with loyal tongue
Him in the right, them in the wrong.
For how could fuch a wretch fucceed?
But that, alas, it was DECREED!
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