To his FRIEND, a Cautious Lover.
HAT thou wilt marry, thou doft ever say,
And still th' important, threaten'd Act delay;
For in one Woman you expect to find
A fprightly Genius, and a steady Mind,
A folid Judgment, and a reas'ning Soul,
That all her Sexes Follies can control.
Prefumptious Man! what Merits of thy Life
Can earn thee fuch a Wonder of a Wife?
Heav'n may fome Miracles, of Grace, have lent,
But modern Wives are for our Punishment,
Not giv'n to bless, but force us to repent.
Then stand not idly fhiv'ring on the Shore;
Refolve or to go back, or venture o'er.
In vain you'll feek a Mistress, or a Wife,
Who will be govern'd in her Course of Life,
Or fteer her Conduct by her Reason still,
Controul her Paffions, or reform her Will:
All steer their Motions juft as Frigats fail,
The Head is always govern'd by the Tail!
To a Young GENTLEMAN, who ask'd the Author's Advice, whether he should turn Courtier.
you my Counsel ask, as oft 'tis done,
Refolv'd before-hand to purfue your own,
You then will call the Counfel that I fend,
Scandal, and not the Dictates of a Friend:
But if you really, for your Ufe, require
The Sentiments you with fuch Zeal defire,
In these blunt Lines, as in a Mirror, fee
All Courts decypher'd in Epitome.
The Court's a Place of Contradictions still,
Where all are Libertines, yet none can have their Will.
Where all are proud as Kings, yet all are Slaves,
All Men of Honour, yet all lying Knaves.
Where most are Fools, tho' feeming Men of Sense,
Cowards in Fact, but Heroes in Pretence.
Where All to All feem Friends, but are not fo;
Where true Faith leaft, for fwearing it, they shew:
And Lying still does for good Breeding go.
Where violent Hands can on the great Men lay,
And yet from little Dunners run away.
Where highest Places, Honours, and Command
By basest Servitude and Frauds are gain'd.
Where Joys are short, Vexations long endure,
And Disappointments only there are fure.
Where Womens Love, and moft Mens Friendships are,
For feeming free and cheap, to Friends most dear.
Where Men, their Fame and Int'rest to increase,
But elsewhere make their Fame and Credit lefs.
Where, as by Lotteries, All in Hopes of Gain,
Their Fortunes to augment, their Pockets drain:
Where, as in other Lott'ries too, for One
Who gets a Prize an Hundred are undone.
Where Fools, since Fortune there has most to do,
More of her Favour, and her Bounty know.
Where then it is most Folly to be Wife,
And Wisdom ftill is made a Sacrifice.
For Wit and Wisdom fly Discov'rers are,
Which guilty Knaves, and Fools in Office, fear:
Whence with Court Secret, and with State Affair
The Wife and Honeft but least trusted are.
Honour and Int'rest you at Court will miss,
Where Virtue's fcorn'd, and Vice triumphant is;
Where Modesty to Grace has no Pretence,
But is difgrac'd by pow'rful Impudence.
Where Foes by Truth, and Friends by Fraud are made,
And Flatt'ry is the only thriving Trade.
Where proud, great Men, as moft in Actions base,
Themselves in Wealth and Honours highest raise.
To Favour then, nor Justice, there pretend,
Where Wit no Patron has, nor Truth a Friend,
Nor Honour will the weakest Side defend.
Where Wit on Politicians is a Spy,
And Luft and Fraud require ftill Privacy.
Where either Sex, to aid their Int'rest, must
With Honour part, to gain or keep a Trust.
Where Benefits are grudg'd, and come fo flow,
They more an Injury than Favour fhew.
Since none can there obtain the Boon defir'd,
Till Modefty's fhamed out, and Patience tir'd.
With Virtue, Juftice, Truth, then ne'er pretend
To gain Friends, where those Virtues have no Friend.
But there pimp, cheat, forswear thyself, and lie,
Shun clownish Truth, and fimple Honesty,
To gain Court-Grace, and with the Courtier vie.
To his FRIEND, who prefented him with a Horfe.
make me now a real Steed bestride,
Who did before on Fancy's Courfer ride;
Poor Pegafus, the Poet's founder'd Jade,
Serv'd me, as all the Brothers of the Trade.
On him we ride a hunting after Fame,
A dang'rous Chafe, and for a paltry Game!
But you, my Ease and Safety to procure,
Mount me upon a Horse, that's tame and fure.
Yet he has one damn'd Fault, that he must eat;
While Pegafus requir'd no kind of Meat:
Cheap, tho' unfure, no Provender He needs,
But, like the Race-Horse, still his Mafter feeds.
To a damn'd SCRIBLER, who threaten'd to write
against the AUTHOR.
HAT thou wilt write against me, thou hast said,
A Threat, alas! which I but little dread:
Since, what Thou writ'ft by none but Thee is read.
Yet if it were, fuch wretched Stuff 'twill be,
It more will scandalize Thyself, than Me.
Thy Pen, much like the Coward's Sword, thy Shame
Will by thy weak Defence but more proclaim.
On a SEA FIGHT, which the Author was in, betwixt the English and Dutch.
LUTO himself did tremble in his Hell,
Pale Ghosts look'd paler, to hear new Ghosts tell
What was in Neptune's Empire done above
By Two great Fleets, that for Hell's Empire ftrove.
Each Side, like Fiends, in Fire and Smoke did fight,
And put the Dev'l himself into a Fright;
For both dispatch'd to Hell fuch Numbers down,
That Pluto fcarce could call his Realm his own.
And fince both States to Monarchs had been Foes,
He fear'd, betwixt them, they would him depose.
So loud our Cannons roar'd, fo much our Fire
Outdid his Flames from ev'ry blazing Tire,
As if th' advent'rous Britons ftrove to be
Masters of Hell, as well as of the Sea:
Or that both Parties were Confed'rates grown,
To pluck his Univerfal Empire down.
For Rebels ever by their Nature hate
The abfolute Dominion of a State,
And with the Devil himself would Right difpute,
If He pretended to be Abfolute:
Juftly he fear'd, our English would rebell,
And knew the Dutch the Dev'l would buy and fell.
To a Well-fhap'd LADY, who met him by Appointment, but would not pull off her Mask.
WAS an unhappy happy Hour to me,
In which you met me, yet I faw you not;
That meeting you should my Misfortune be,
Before I met you I could ne'er have thought:
Prevent my seeing you a way more kind,
For let me fee, and Love will make me blind!
If you would have me give my Paffion o'er,
To fhew yourself, tho' out of Spight, confent;
Once let me see Thee, n'er to see Thee more,
Whate'er the Iffue be, I'll be content.
If good thy Face, for Love I foon shall dye;
If bad, the first full Sight will fatisfy.
To a poor Whore, who would fain have father'd a Pox on him.
O cure your Ails, you put me in a Sweat
By a Demand which, as your Ails, is great;
And fince you can no Bastard to me lay,
You for another's Pox would have me pay.
But your Disasters, that are got at large,
Muft e'en be patch'd up at the Publick Charge.
No private Man, in Conscience, fhould relieve
A Pox which Parishes have club'd to give.
From baudy Juftices expect Relief,
And, as for other Fires, procure a Brief.
Since publick as Highways and Streets you are,
The Publick ought to keep you in Repair:
A Common Woman, like the Common Shore,
Should be repair'd upon the Common Score.
The Unperforming LOVER's Apology.
S when our Rage does too much Passion vent,
Our Paffion makes our Vengeance impotent;
So oft in Love, as Rage, Excess of Joy,
And Raptures ftrain'd too high our Bliss destroy.
'Twas not your Want of Charms, nor mine of Love,
Which made our Wishes ineffectual prove;
Our mutual Eagerness our Joys delay'd,
And Love its Wifh by its Defire betray'd.
Your too much Beauty, my too much Defire,
Your too much Warmth in Love, my too much Fire,
Made both our Flames as more, more foon expire.
|