the Bully to your Bed admit?
Are his hard Limbs for Ladies Dalliance fit?
His Hands in your Embrace you'll find embru'd,
With clotted, and perhaps with guiltless Blood;
How aukward muft it be for you to feel,
Near your's his Thigh, that late was cas'd with Steel?
That Ring, the Token of his Pride, and State,
Was with a heavy Gauntlet hid of late:
Canft thou have Commerce with a Thing fo foul?
Where now the boafted Nicenefs of thy Soul?
What Pleasure canft thou in his Roughness find?
Thou, that wer't once the fofteft of thy Kind?
Behold what Marks of brutal Rage he bears,
And how he's mangled with dishonest Scars.
Yet to thofe Scars, difhoneft as they are,
His Wealth he owes, his Fortunes with the Fair.
No doubt, he makes a Merit of his Guilt,
And brags what Blood he has in Battle spilt.
Fine Courtship this, to win a gentle Dame;
Thou shar'st his Money, and must share his Shame,
Me, not the meaneft of Apollo's Train,
She hates, and I repeat my Verse in vain ;
I fing before her Gate; her Gate I find
Is lefs obdurate, than her harden'd Mind.
Forbear your Songs, Apollo's Sons, forbear,
And bend your future Thoughts to Arms and War.
Instead of Inspirations, get Commands;
To Murder, and to Rapine use your Hands,
And you with Eafe reduce the Female Bands.
Had Homer in the Grecian Army ferv'd,
We ne'er had heard that he had begg'd, or ftarv'd.
Of Gold the Thund'rer she'd the mighty Pow'r,
Defcending foftly thro' the Brazen Tow'r,
And clafping Danaë in a Golden Show'r.
A Thousand Bars the Virgin Fair did hold,
But what are Iron Bars, to Bribes of Gold?
Against this Foe, her Father could not guard,
Watchmen, and Women keep a fruitless Ward.
The Damfel who her felf before was Coy,
Melts at the Sight, and meets the dazling Joy.
When peacefu! Saturn did Heav'ns Sceptre fway,
Deep in Earth's Womb the fatal Metal lay;
None then their teeming Mother's Bowels tore,
In quest of hidden Wealth, in various Ore;
Fed with the Fruits, which bounteous Nature yields,
In painted Gardens, and in Golden Fields,
From her rich Soil are reap'd fpontaneous Crops,
And from the Foreft Oak fweet Honey drops.
No Hinds as yet did toil their Time away,
Nor with keen Cultors wound the Parent Clay;
As yet no Landmark was by Lab'rers fet,
And none had learn'd to plow the Sea as yet:
None as yet knew the Ufe of Sails, and Oars,.
Nor ventur'd Voyages beyond their Shores.
The Wit of Men, the Race of Men destroys,.
And all its Pow'rs against it felf employs.
How fubtle's Human Nature to contrive
Its proper Ruin, and it felf deceive!
Why didft thou Cities with high Walls furround,
Why Arms invent thy jarring Sons to wound?
What Quarrel haft thou with the Sea, and why
Didit thou at firft the pathlefs Ocean try ?
Cannot the Land content thy restless Pride?
Didft thou with Saturn's Sons the whole divide,
Thou wouldst not with three Worlds be fatisfy'd.
'Tis ftrange thy vaft Ambition did not Ay
O'er Earth, and Sea, and Air, and fcale the Sky.
That Man did not afpire to be a God,
And tread the Paths by Indian Bacchus trod,
To give his Name to some distinguish'd Star,
And be what Hercules and Cæfar are.
Instead of yellow Harvefts, now we feek
For folid Gold, and thro' Earth's Entrails break;
The Wealth we thus acquire's the Soldier's Prey,
And dearly for the Blood he spills we pay.
The Courts deny Admittance to the Poor,
In vain the needy Clients crowd the Door;
The Judges to the Rich decree the Caufe,
And Money only gives their Force to Laws.
'Tis Money makes the Judge with Looks fevere
Infult the Poor, and give the Rich his Ear;
'Tis Money buys the Title, makes the Knight,
And dignifies with Quality the Cit:
Let Money do all this, and more; the Bar
Let Money govern, and direct the War;
Let Peace, as Money fets the Terms be made,
But let it not the Rights of Love invade,
Let us enjoy this Privilege at least,
That if we must be poor, we may with Love be blefs'd:
For now-a-days there's not a Dame in Town
So Coy, but if you've Money, fhe's your own;
What tho' her Keeper may an Argus be,
Blind him with Money, and he'll nothing fee:
What tho' her Husband should by Chance be by,
He'll leave the Houfe, let you your Money fly.
If there's a God above, to whom belongs
The Caufe of Love, and flighted Lovers Wrongs,
Revenge the falfe One's mercenary Scorn,
And let ill-gotten Pelf to Dirt return.
Upon the Death of TIBULLUS.
By Mr. STEPNEY.
F Memmon's Fate, bewail'd with constant Dew,
Does, with the Day, his Mother's Grief renew ;
If her Son's Death mov'd tender Thetis' Mind
To fwell with Tears the Waves, with Sighs the Wind ;
If mighty Gods can Mortals Sorrow know,
And be the humble Partners of our Woe;
Now loose your Treffes, penfive Elegy,
(Too well your Office and your Name agree.)
Tibullus, once the Joy and Pride of Fame,
Lies now rich Fuel on the trembling Flame.
Sad Cupid now despairs of conqu’ring Hearts,
Throws by his empty Quiver, breaks his Darts:
Eafes his ufelefs Bow from idle Strings;
Nor flies, but humbly creeps with flagging Wings.
He wants, of which he robb'd fond Lovers, Reft;
And wounds with furious Hands his penfive Breaft.
Thofe graceful Curls which wantonly did flow,
The whiter Rivals of the falling Snow,
Forget their Beauty, and in Difcord lie,
Drunk with the Fountain from his melting Eye.
Not more Æneas' Lofs the Boy did move;
Like Paffions for them both, prove equal Love.
Tibullus' Death grieves the fair Goddess more,
More fwells her Eyes, than when the savage Boar
Her beautiful, her lov'd Adonis tore.
Poets large Souls, Heav'n's nobleft Stamps, do bear;
(Poets, the watchful Angels darling Care)
Yet Death (blind Archer) that no Diff'rence knows,
Without Refpect, his roving Arrows throws.
Nor Phabus, nor the Mufes Queen, could give
Their Son, their own Prerogative, to live.
Orpheus, the Heir of both his Parents Skill,
Tam'd wond'ring Beafts, not Death's more cruel Will.
Linus' fad Strings on the dumb Lute do lie,
In Silence forc'd to let their Master die.
Homer (the Spring, to whom we Poets owe
Our little All, does in fweet Numbers flow)
Remains immortal only in his Fame,
His Works alone furvive the envious Flame.
In vain to Gods (if Gods there are) we pray,
And needless Victims prodigally pay,
Worship their fleeping Deities: Yet Death
Scorns Votaries, and ftops the praying Breath.
To hallow'd Shrines intruding Fate will come,
And drag you from the Altar to the Tomb.
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