You might as well, a lasting Fire
Expect, where all the Fuel's gone;
As think Love's Flames fhou'd not expire,
Where, they have nothing to feed on;
Love's fierce Flames are, like others fo,
But with fresh Fuel kept in too;
You, with my Fellow-Servants, might,
As well as much enrag'd have been,
For letting out the Fire, or Light,
Allowing nought, to keep 'em in;
For my Change, but thy Changing blame,
'Tis you, not I, feem not the fame.
Upon a LADY's Fine Back-Side, it being Her Best
Side; feen by chance, and given for a Subject to
Write upon.
ET Fools praise Faces, cry to Breeches fie,
Mine Arfe on each Affected Face, I cry;
Who will mine Arfe, that is, my Mistress's,
Expose, to make its Credit more, not lefs;
Will her mine Arfe, with my Love, and its Praise,
Raise in Efteem above the finest Face;
Which does, with Love to her, my Fancy raise;
To which her fair Face me had n'er inclin'd,
Before I saw her beautiful behind;
Of whofe Mien, worse I do not think a whit,
For having neither Eyes or Nose to it;
The Want of which, in any other Face,
Wou'd a Maid's Fame or Beauty, more Difgrace;
The Want of which, I think, mine Arfe's Praise;
For what serve all fine Features, Nofe, Lip, Eye?
But to make Faces look affectedly;
By which, as they more Lovers think to make,
Them lefs, they by more Affectation take;
By their Good Features Multiplicity,
Which but as more, look more affectedly;
Heightning their Pride, which them but more disgraces,
By mending their Good Looks, fpoils their Good Faces;
Who furely, by their having but too many
Good Features, ne'r leave till that they leave any;
By Affectation still to make 'em more,
Make 'em less taking, than they were before;
Much Art, is Nature's worst Disparagement,
That Credit, which it aims at, to prevent;
Beauty does Wants imply, requiring Aid,
Deformity, by Affectation's made,
And Beauty, by Repairs, seems most decay'd;
Then, what! ferve each Fine Feature, Lip, or Eye,
Which Graces, 'fpight of Nature, multiply?
But, to make Good Looks look Affectedly,
Or proudly, to make Womens Good Looks prove,
Of Invitations, but the Checks to Love;
Thus, us, to love them, greatest Beauties move
Lefs, by their Good Looks, Multiplicity,
Which Pride and Affectations multiply,
To make the Best Looks, look moft Uglily;
For when, with more Art, Women more wou'd please,
And take us more, they satisfie us less;
With Artful Looks, and Motions, too conftrain'd,
Make our Love, they wou'd move more, at a stand;
But the Dear Bum is grateful to our Love,
Whether it, for us, does lie ftill, or move;
Has not an Eye to Languish, Lip to Pout,
To Tofs up, or take Snuff at us, a Snout;
Or Mouth, or Cheek, with borrow'd Teeth, or Red,
Without a Word faid, Kiffing to forbid;
No Motions has, which Men Affected call,
Hers to beget Love, still are Natural;
She, but her Modefty, the more to show,
Still hides her felf, as the best Beauties do;
Whence she, not like Mask'd Beauties, is by Men,
For hiding so her felf, thought most Unclean,
But more defir'd, for hiding, to be seen;
Whence, like a Bold Friend, ftill to Beauty, I
Make of it now here, a Discovery;
As when, by Force, Men, to no Maid's Difgrace,
Pull off the Vizard, from the Beauteous Face;
So that I wou'd, my Mistress's Back-Side
Have shown, not to its Shame, but to its Pride,
To have its Fame not blam'd, but justify'd;
For fuch, its Modefty has always been,
That it before, by Man, was never feen;
Or ever, with its Good Will, took a Touch,
From Bold Man, but what he did to him grutch;
Was, in its Looks and Actions, Spotlefs fo,
Hard, White, and Cold as Prefs'd, or Driven Snow;
Whofe conftant Silence spoke its Modefty,
In being never heard in Company;
Thus it, but like a Bafhful Lover too,
Does its Good Breeding, by its Silence, fhow,
At least its Modefty, by fpeaking Low;
Its Bold Speech still endeavouring, to restrain,
Tho', that its Silence does, as to the Vain,
O'th' Modeft Female Sex, become its Pain;
Whofe Silence does, Refpect to Lovers prove,
Since them, its Speech wou'd from it, more remove;
For as Loud Winds, wou'd down Stiff Pine-Trees blow, Which the more Gentle, more affift to grow;
So will a Fart (faving to you Refpect)
Blow down that, which a Sigh made more Erect;
But for its Credit, which it kept with Men,
This Beauty was as feldom heard, as seen;
Whose Owner's Fall (fince it was on her Face)
Showing her Back-Side, was not her Disgrace;
But, to her Honour was, fince to her Praise,
Whofe Fall did her more, in Men's Value, raise;
Since my Love's made fo Modest by't (I find)
Tho' 'twas before, to go before inclin'd,
It now wou'd be more Proud, to come behind;
Such was the Dear, Plump, Fair Thing, that the Sight, That it did, from me, take my Seeing quite;
Fixing my Eyes upon its Snow (I find)
Like other Snow gaz'd on, it made me Blind;
So Blind, that I, my Way to Bliss, no more
Can find, by Groping, as I did before;
For which, this Paper must make my Excuse,
Which now I Dedicate but to its Ufe,
The Best Breech scarce, the Worft Mufe will refuse;
Nor the most Coarfe Sense, or most Beastly Wit,
Which the Worst Poet, on Worft Paper, writ,
When, for its Credit, it had Use of it;
Wherefore, that my Verse may more useful be,
Dear Bum! I Dedicate it now to thee;
This Paper send you, to your Honour now,
Since that Uncleannefs wou'd difhonour you,
Wou'd leffen you, nay my Love to you too;
Then I, your Truest Lover, may be stil'd,
Who fend you this, to keep you undefil'd;
To ferve you, like your Trueft Friend, indeed,
That is, to serve you (Dear Bum!) at your need;
That at my need fo, you might serve me too,
By your Best Motions, Love's Best Buf'nefs do;
Who, the Support of Love's Best Buf'ness art,
For, if in Love, you did not Play your Part,
(My Dear Back-Side!) I fhou'd not give a Fart,
For your Fore-Side, if that you did not move,
By which, thou art the Balance made of Love,
Which useless wou'd (but for thy Motion) prove;
Thus thou, Dear Bum! art thy Dame's Honour, Praise,
So far from being her Shame, or Difgrace;
That, but for thee (Dear Bum!) we fhou'd not like her,
Who, but for thee, Love's Balance, were no Striker;
Since Women, like Clocks, but for Motion too,
Not half fo well, our Paft-time sure wou'd grow;
Who, like Clocks from their Motion, have their Pow'r,
To give their Keepers the more Happy Hour.
A SONG, in praise of Solitude.
OST Happy he himself may boast,
Whose Happiness depends on none;
Who, for his knowing this World most,
Lives in it, to it, most unknown;
Who fcorning to Proud Knaves, or Fools, to creep,
For Want of Pride, does Distance with 'em keep;
Who, but the more for his Self-Love,
For others has more Charity;
His Innocence, but more to prove,
Does hide his Head moft Hon'rably;
Who but the more, for his Wife Selfishness,
Of Avarice, or Vanity, has lefs;
Who but much more the wiser grows,
As of the World more ignorant;
More Self-fufficiency he shows,
Shows lefs his Pride, his Fear, or Want,
Is to himself a God on Earth alone,
In Want of no Good, fince in Care for none;
So Solitude, just Selfishness,
Does the World's Selfishness prevent;
Makes Man's Peace more, as his Fear less,
Him more fafe, as more innocent;
To gain more Honour, Ease, for want of Pelf,
By Content, all-fufficient to himself.
In Praise of Industry and Action, (preferr❜d to Good Senfe, Thought, or Wit,) in Business or Love; to a Mistress, who commanded Her Lover to fit ftill, and be more Quiet, to be lefs Idle.
N Love, as Buf'nefs, Industry (we see)
Will, more than Idle Wit, prevailing be;
Then he's a Fool, who does on Wit rely,
To do his Buf'nefs the more speedily,
As 'twere in spight of Pow'rful Industry;
Without which, Idle Wit were more in vain,
Since without Motion, useless were the Brain;
And Life but Circulation is alone,
Of Blood and Spirits, which if ftopt, were gone;
Nay Heav'n and Earth, but by their Motion too,
Support themselves, both Wonders are, and do;
The various Seafons, but by Changing can,
Do Nature's Work, the World and Man maintain;
When Univerfal Ruine, wou'd attend
Its standing still, to all things put an End;
So Motion we but neceffary find,
To the Support, as making Human Kind;
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