THE RICH RIVAL.

I.

THEY fay you're angry, and rant mightily,

Becaufe I love the fame as you ;

Alas! you're very rich, 't is true;

But, prithee, Fool! what's that to Love and me?
You 'ave land and money, let that serve;

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And know you 'ave more by that than you deserve.

II.

When next I see my fair one, she shall know
How worthlefs thou art of her bed;

And, Wretch! I'll strike thee dumb and dead,
With noble verse not understood by you;

Whilft thy fole rhetorick shall be

Jointure and jewels, and our friends agree.

III.

Pox o' your friends, that dote and domineer;
Lovers are better friends than they :

Let's thofe in other things obey;

The Fates, and stars, and gods, must govern here.
Vain names of Blood! in love let none

Advise with any blood but with their own.

IV.

'Tis that which bids me this bright maid adore;

No other thought has had access;

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Did she now beg I'd love no lefs,

And were she an emprefs I should love no more;
Were fhe as juft and true to me,

Ah! fimple Soul! what would become of thee?

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AGAINST HOPE.

I.

HOPE, whofe weak being ruin'd is,

Alike if it fucceed and if it mifs,

Whom good or ill does equally confound,

And both the horns of Fate's dilemma wound;
Vain fhadow! which doft vanish quite,

Both at full noon and perfect night!

The stars have not a poffibility

Of bleffing thee:

If things, then, from their end we happy call, 'Tis Hope is the most hopeless thing of all,

II.

Hope! thou bold tafter of delight,

Who, whilst thou shouldst but taste, devour'ft it quite! Thou bring'ft us an estate, yet leav'ft us poor,

By clogging it with legacies before!

The joys which we entire fhould wed,

Come deflow'red virgins to our bed.

Good fortunes without gain imported be,

Such mighty customs paid to thee:

For joy, like wine, kept clofe does better taste;
If it take air before, its fpirits waste.

III.

Hope! Fortune's cheating lottery!

Where for one prize an hundred blanks there be;
Fond Archer! Hope! who tak'ft thy aim fo far,
That ftill or fhort or wide thine arrows are!

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Thin empty cloud, which th' eye deceives
With shapes that our own fancy gives!
A cloud which gilt and painted now appears,
But muft drop presently in tears!

When thy falfe beams o'er Reafon's light prevail,
By ignes fatui for North-stars we sail.

IV.

Brother of Fear! more gaily clad;

The merrier fool o' th' two, yet quite as mad;
Sire of Repentance! child of fond Defire!

That blow'ft the chymick's and the lover's fire!
Leading them ftill infenfibly' on

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By the ftrange witchcraft of Anon!

By thee the one does changing Nature thro'
Her endless labyrinths pursue,

And th' other chafes woman, whilst the goes

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More ways and turns than hunted Nature knows.

FORHOPE.

I.

HOPE, of all ills that men endure,

The only cheap and univerfal cure!

Thou captive's freedom! and thou fick man's health! Thou lofer's vict'ry! and thou beggar's wealth!

Thou manna, which from heav'n we eat,

Το every tafte à fev'ral meat!

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Thou ftrong retreat! thon fure entail'd estate,
Which nought has pow'r to alienate!

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Thou pleasant, honest Flatterer! for none
Flatter unhappy men but thou alone!

" Hi.

Hope! thou firft-fruits of happiness!
Thou gentle dawning of a bright fuccefs!

Thou good prepar'tive, without which our joy
Does work too ftrong, and whilft it cures destroy;
Who out of Fortune's reach doft stand,
And art a bleffing still in hand!

Whilft thee, her earneft-money, we retain,
We certain are to gain,

Whether fhe her bargain break or elfe fulfil;
Thou only good, not worfe for ending ill!

Brother of Faith! 'twist whom and thee
The joys of heav'n and earth divided be!
Tho' Faith be heir, and have the fix'd eftate,
Thy portion yet in moveables is great.
Happiness itself is all one

In thee or in poffeffion!

Only the future is thine, the prefent his!
Thine is the more hard and noble blis;
Beft apprehender of our joys, which haft
So long a reach, and yet canft hold so fast!

Thou way, that may'ft difpute it with the end!
For love, I fear, 's a fruit that does delight
The tafte itself less than the smell and fight.

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Fruition more deceitful is

Than thou can't be when thou dost mifs;

Men leave thee by obtaining, and straight flee
Some other way again to thee:

And that's a pleasant country, without doubt,
To which all foon return that travel out.

LOVE'S INGRATITUDE.

I..

I LITTLE thought, thou fond ingrateful fin !

When first I let thee in,

And gave thee but a part

In my unwary heart,

That thou wouldst e'er have grown

So falfe or ftrong to make it all thine own.

At mine own.breast with care I feed thee ftill,
Letting thee fuck thy fill,

And daintily I nourish'd thee

With idle thoughts and poetry!

What ill returns doft thou allow?

I fed thee then, and thou dost starve me now.

There was a time when thou waft cold and chill,
Nor hadft the pow'r of doing ill;

Into my bofom did I take

This frozen, and benumbed fnake,

Not fearing from it

any harm,

But now it ftings that breast which made it warm.