English

T HUS have I sung, how scaly Nations rove,
What Food they seek, what Pastures they approve;
How all the busy Wantons of the Seas
Soft Loves repeat, and form the new Increase.
But whence could Man the wond'rous Secret know?
To some kind Pow'r he must the Blessing owe,
Who to his View the hidden Depths expos'd,
Uncover'd all th' Abyss, and the vast Scene disclos'd.
For what great Work has Man unaided wrought?
Heav'n gives the Means, and Heav'n inspires the Thought.

I SING the Natives of the boundless Main,
And tell what Kinds the wat'ry Depths contain.
Thou, Mighty Prince , whom farthest Shores obey,
Favour the Bard, and hear the humble Lay;
While the Muse shows the liquid Worlds below,
Where throng'd with busie Shoals the Waters flow;
Their diff'ring Forms and Ways of Life relates;
And sings their constant Loves, and constant Hates;
What various Arts the finny Herds beguile,
And each cold Secret of the Fisher's Toil.
Intrepid Souls! who pleasing Rest despise,

Come , my Daphne, come away,
We do waste the crystal day;
'Tis Strephon calls. Daphne:
What ways my love? Strephon:
Come, follow to the myrtle grove,
Where Venus shall prepare
New chaplets for thy hair. Daphne:
Were I shut up within a tree,
I'd rend my bark to follow thee. Strephon:
My shepherdess, make haste,
The minutes slide too fast. Daphne:
In those cooler shades will I,
Blind as Cupid, kiss thine eye. Strephon:
In thy bosom then I'll stay;

VISION THE LAST.

'Trs thought my Visions are too grave;
A proof I'm no designing knave.
Perhaps if Interest held the scales,
I had devis'd quite different tales,
Had join'd the langhing low buffoon,
And scribbled satire and lampoon;
Or stirr'd each source of soft desire,
And fann'd the coals of wanton fire;
Then had my paltry Visions sold,
Yes, all my dreams had turn'd to gold;
Had prov'd the darlings of the town,
And I — a poet of renown!

Man is deceiv'd by outward show —
'Tis a plain homespun truth, I know,
The fraud prevails at every age,
So says the school-boy and the sage;
Yet still we hug the dear deceit,
And still exclaim against the cheat.
But whence this inconsistent part?
Say, moralists, who know the heart:
If you'll this labyrinth pursue,
I'll go before, and find the clue.
I dreamt ('twas on a birth-day night)
A sumptuous palace rose to sight;
The builder had, through every part,
Observ'd the chastest rules of art;

INSCRIBED TO MISS .

M Y lovely girl, I write for you;
And pray believe my Visions true;
They'll form your mind to every grace;
They'll add new beauties to your face:
And when old age impairs your prime,
You'll triumph o'er the spoils of time.
Childhood and youth engage my pen,
'Tis labour lost to talk to men.
Youth may, perhaps, reform, when wrong,
Age will not listen to my song.
He who at fifty is a fool,
Is far too stubborn grown for school.

Not he that knows how to acquire
But to enjoy, is blest.
Nor does our happiness consist
In motion, but in rest.

The gods pass man in bliss, because
They toil not for more height;
But can enjoy, and in their own
Eternal rest delight.

Then, Princes, do not toil, nor care;
Enjoy what you possess.
Which whilst you do, you equalize
The gods in happiness.

I AM in love and cannot woo,
Heigho! Heigho! what shall I do;
I gape and sigh and sometimes weep
For Phillis that my heart doth keep.

I love her hair and forehead high,
Then am I taken with her eye,
Her cheek I do commend for gay
But then her nose hangs in my way.

Her lips I praise but then steps in
Her white and pretty dimpled chin,
But there her neck I do behold
Fit to be hung with chains of gold.

Her breasts are soft as any down
Beneath which lies her Maiden Town,

Now fie on love, it ill befits,
Or man and woman know it,
Love was not meant for people in their wits,
And they that fondly show it
Betray their too much feathered brains,
And shall have only Bedlam for their pains.
To love is to distract my sleep,
And waking, to wear fetters;
To love is but to go to school to weep;
I'll leave it for my betters.
If single love be such a curse,
To marry is to make it ten times worse.

S IGH , shepherds, sigh,
Spend all your breath in groans,
Lay your sweeter music by,
Harken only to the drones.
Henceforth no other garlands view
But what are made of dismal yew.
Tis fit all nature now should mourn
And every tree to cypress turn.

Those nymphs are gone