The Free Young Maid, a Marry'd Life wou'd chuse,
Ty'd to one Man, to be with all more loose;
Travellers gain Rest, but by coming Home,
Men at Home none, till that Abroad they come;
Thus is Love of Variety, Man's Curse,
Which us to such a Love of Change does force,
Rather than not change, we wou'd for the worse;
In fine, all sorts of Affectations so,
In Quest of Praise, Ease, Shame, and Trouble, grow;
To make our vain Endeavours, lose our Aim,
By more Pride, seeking more Praise, more our Shame,
Which Fame we merit, forfeits by our Claim;
Till our own Affectation of more Praise,
Makes our Pretence to Honour, our Disgrace,
And us our Pride does, by our Height, debase;
Whilst our Contempt of Fame, or Praise of Man,
Wou'd it sure, from him, for us sooner gain,
As we seem less (more Praise to merit) vain;
Thus Affectation, of Good Mien, or Dress,
In Setting off, but heightens Ugliness,
Which, but by Carelesness alone, seems less;
Since Affectations give themselves the Lie,
Whilft Truth is seen, thro' its Simplicity;
Our Self-Denials then, our Praises are,
Since Virtues best, by hiding them, appear;
Then he who wou'd get, and deserve Esteem,
Not Wiser, Juster, than he is, must seem,
Since Affectation does itself condem',
And all Vain, Self-Justification, does
Praise, else its Due, Pretending to it, lose;
Provoking Envious Men to Calumny,
Who Contradiction love, Truth, Praise, deny,
To Vain Men, but from their own Vanity;
Yet to the Meritorious, Praise, or Fame,
Refuse not, (if their Right) till 'tis their Claim,
Feign'd Virtues, more than own'd Crimes, are our Shame,
And Vain Pretenders, will but more expose;
No Man's so Faulty, so Ridiculous,
For Faults, or Follies he has, and avows;
Or, for Bad Qualities, which he does own,
As Good Ones, he pretends to, having none;
Which, tho' he had his Vain Pretence to them,
Wou'd lose him, what he sought for, Men's Esteem.


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A Song to Lucinda : Upon the News of Her

Returning to Town in Winter ; and, Her Enquiry by Letter, How Things went in Town, since Her Departure.

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HE Town is, like the Season, fad,

your Bright Brother Sun,
Are at such Distance, with us, made,

We Chill'd, for want of Heat, are grown;
So, Nought but your Return sure, to us can,
Restore our Sense, and make us Live again;


Our Winter's now severer grown,

Taking you from us out of sight,
Than taking from our Eyes the Sun,

Less Chearful to us, and less Bright;
Your Coldness, Distance, shortens more our Days,
Than our Miss of the Sun's Reviving Rays;


Rather than Freeze still, we wou'd Burn,

Rather than we wou'd undergo
Your Absence, wou'd have you Return,

T'enflame us, as you us'd to do;
Since it, in you, more Mercy wou'd appear,
To Kill with Love, than Save with Cold Despair;


We, like our Days, o'er-clouded are,

Now you, so far, are from us gone;
Our Short Days are, more tedious far,

By losing your Eyes, than the Sun;
Return then to us, your Eyes Brighter Rays,
You, tho' in Winter, will prolong our Days.

To Play the Fool in General, is to be Wife in Par

ticular: To a Conceited Fop, who pretended to be more Wife, as more Singular. SINC

INCE but by Custom, not by Reason, all

Is done, which Juft, Wise, Reafnable, we call,
Then Practice, Pow'r, not Justice, or True Sense,
Our Actions, Notions, Lives, must influence;
Since New Conceits, Old Practices explode,
Knowledge itself, must be then Alamode;
Experience must for Antic Nonsense go,

And Novelty the True Wit's Study grow,
Who, but his Parts, and Reason, best to show,
Try'd Truths for New Conjectures, must forsake,
Must Truth from Fancy, not Experience take,
From his Sense, not Example, Act, Think, Speak;
As Thoughts, Tongues, Stiles, change with their Ages, so
Must Reason, Fancy, Wit, and Judgment too;
Since, by the Major Vote, not Greater Sense,
By Reason not, or Good Intelligence;
But Bought Experience, all Things here, must pass,
The Wit, who scorns Examples, proves an Ass;
For, since Dull Custom is too hard for Wit,
He shows most Sense, who least depends on it;
So none now, Fops for Want of Sense appear, ,
Made, as most of their Fellow-Creatures are;
The Wits, moft Fools are, as most Singular,
Who, to their Sense, against the World's, adhere;
Since Men, by Numbers, not by Reason vote,
They must tell Noses, not Examples quote;
By Reason, not determine what is what,
By Rules dispute, Form'd Arguments debate,
But thinks, he thinks best, who the most does Prate;
Who Talks not the most Reason, but most Loud,
Since most Noise, not most Sense 'tis, leads the Crowd;
So he, who truly has more Sense or Wit,
(Since it makes Foes) is shie of showing it;
Who not, like Wits, the Populace defies,
But to be Popular, with it complies,
So, making one of many Fools, is Wise;





proves to Knaves, or Fools, but more his Sense,
As less he shows it, to give more Offence,
By which, Good Sense wou'd prove Impertinence;
To make his Foes more, than they were before,
Friends Trust him less, but as his Wit is more;
More Folly, but by more Wit, so to show,
Since for most Fools, the most Wise ought to go,
When they have most mind to make others so;
As Rooks at Play, conceal their Art, or Skill,
Their Ends, best on their Cullies, to fulfil.


A SONG. To an Antiquated Mistress, accused by Her

of Falseness, and not being the same Man He was once to Her ; but call’d a Renegade to Love and Beauty.

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Since Beauty's Due, Love is alone,

He Faithful is, that follows it;
When in a Mistress it is gone,

'Tis just its Lover her shou'd quit;
For he to Love does justest prove,
Who does most, the most Lovely love;


By the same Justice, that I was

Thy Beauty's conquer'd Slave before; I'm more enslav'd by that New Face,

Whose Charms both me, nay thine o'erpow'r, Must not your Subjects Vassals grow, To her, who triumphs over you?


Cease then, to call me Renegade,

Since thou, sure 'tis, art chang'd, not I; I have the Passion still I had,

For Beauty, love Variety; Others I left, to come to you, For others, justly leave you now;


Then as the Fire is still the same,

Altho' new Fuel keeps it in,
So still the same, has my Love's Flame,

Through all its Change of Passions been;
Since Love, Variety does love,
To Love, in Change, I Constant prove;


For Truth to one Old Mistress, were,

To the whole Sex more false to grow;
And Faith to one Particular,

But Wrong to all the rest wou'd do;
The Dues of all, to pay to one,
Were most Injustice cou'd be done;


Since Man's Heart is by Nature Free,

And Common, it, like Commons, n'er,
For any private Right shou'd be

Inclofd by one Particular;
Since all we call Peculiar Love,
But Wrong does to the Public prove;


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