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Lost in the {weet tumultuous Joy',


!:!T And pleas'd beyond exprefling

, How can your Slave, my Fair, faid I, Reward so great a Bleffing?


The whole Creation's Wealth survey ;

Thro' both the Indies wander :
Afk what brib'a Senates give away,
And fighting Monarchs squander.


The richeft Spoils of Earth and Air;

The rifled Ocean's Treasure ;
'Tis all too poor a Bribe by far
To purchase so much Pleasure.

She blushing cry'-My Life, my Dear,

Since Celia thus you fancy,
Give her, but 'tis too much, I fear,
A Rundlet of right Nancy.

augiausia 09 70,00
An Imitation of Uxor vade foras.
In Mart. l. ii. Ep. 105.

I. Weet Spouse, you must presently troop and be gone

(Or fairly submit to your Betters ;) Unless for the Faults that are past, you atone,

I must knock off my conjugal Fetters.
When at Night I am paying the Tribute of Love,

(You know well enough what's my Meaning)
You scorn to assist my Devotion, or move
As if all the while you were dreaming.

At Cribbage, and Put, and All-Fours, I have seen

A Porter more Passion expreffing,
Than thou, wicked Kate, in the rapturous Scene,
And the Height of the amorous Blesling.

IV. Then



Then say I to my felf, Is my Wife made of Stone,

Or does the old Serpent postess hier;
Better Motion and Vigor by far might be shown
By dull Spouse of a German Professor ?

So, Kate, take Advice, and reform in good Time,

And while I'm performing my Duty,
Come in for your Club, and repent of the Crime
of paying old Scores with your Beauty...

All Day thou may'it Cant, and look grave as a Nun,

And run after Burgess the surly;
Or fee that the Family Business be done,
And chide all thy Servants demurely.

But when you're in Bed witl your Master and King,

That Tales out of School ne'er does trumpet,
Move, riggle, heave, pant, clip me round like a Ring,

In short, be as lewd as a Strumpet.

Mart. Epig. 61. I. 11. Sit Phlogis, an Chione Veneri magis apta requiris ?


By Nature more befriended :
Celia's less-beautiful, 'tis trie,
But by more Hearts attended.

No Nymph alive, with so much Art,

Receives her Shepherd's Firing,
Or does such Cordial Drops im part,

To Love when just expiring,

III. Cold


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Cold niggard Age, that does elsewhere

At one poor Offering falter,
To her whole Hetacombs wou'd spare, {
pay them on her Alrar.

But Chloe; to Love's great Difgrace

In Bed nor falls, nor rises :
And too much trusting to her Face,
All other Arts despises.

No half-form'd Words, nor murm'ring Sighsy

Engage to fresh Performing
Her breathlefs Lover, when he lies
Disabled after Storming.

Dull as a Prelate when he prays;

Or Cowards after Lifting,
The fair Infenfible betrays
Loves Rires, by not Aflifting.

Why thus, ye Powers; that cause our Smart,

Do ye Love's Gifts dissever;
Or why thofe happy Talents part,
That shou'd be join'd for ever.

For once perform an Act of Grace,

Implord with such Devocion, And grant my Celia Chloe's Faces.

Or Chloe Celia's Motion.

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To a Gentleman that cut off his Hair, and set up for *

Spark in his old Age. Out of Martial. Erig45,: lib. 3. Mentiris. Jurenem, &c.

That shitetas Swan, of driven Strios,

Now blacker far chan Æjop's Crow;
Thanks to my Wig, fer’st up for Beans



Faith, Harry, thou'rt in the wrong Box,
Old Age these vain Endeavours mocks,
And Time, that knows thou'st hoary Locks,
Will pluck thy Mask off with a Pox.

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The Soth Epigram of Martial imitated.
Queris folicitus diu, rogafq;
Cui tradas, Luipe, filium Magiftro, &c.

Hen e'er I meet you, still you cry,

What shall I do with Bob, my Boy.
Since this Affair you'll have me treat ong
Ne'er fend the Lad to Paul's or Eaton.
The Muses let him not confide in,
But leave those Jilts to Tate or Dryden.
If with damn'd Rhimes he racks his Wits,
Send him to Mevis or St. Kit's.


with Wealth his Pockets store well,
Teach him to pimp, or hold , Door well?
If he has a Head not worth a Stiver,
Make him a Curate, or Hog-driver..
An Epigram out of Martial imitated,

Book 3. Epig. 54.
IR Fopling, you're a Man of Fashion grown;

The most accomplifi'd Blade in all the Towny
'Tis all the Ladies Talk; but tell me this,
What a fine Man of Mode and Fashion is ?
'Tis he that's all the Morning at the Glass,
To put each Curl in its most proper Place,
And in affected Forms to set his Face,
That sinells of Effence, and the best Perfume,
· Which does from India or Arabia come.
That when one speaks (as if he did not hear)
Humms o'er fome wanton Song, or modifh Air ;


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That Legs and Arms in various Postures throws,
And seems to dance at every step he goes ;
That fits among the Women in the Pit ;
And that he may be thought a Man of Wit,
He whispers to the next as to a friend,
That in loud Laughter does his Whispering end;
That reads and writes Love-Letters to and fro,
And does each Gallant's Wench and Mistress know.
Who, tho' unbidden, is a constant Guest
At ev'ry Mask, at ev'ry Treat and Feast.
But sits in Pain for Fear the next should ftir,
And so difplace his Dress, or Garniture.
Who knows New-Market Breed, so well, that he
Can tell you fack-a-Dandy's Pedigree ;
And down from long Descent pretends to trace
The famous Swallows, or Aleet Dragon's Race.
How, Sir, what's this you fay; Is this Buffoon
Admir'd so for a Spark throughout the Town ?
Believe me, Sir, on Earth there cannot be
A more ridiculous trifting Thing than he.

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An Epigram under the Pi&ure of a Bear.
HE vain Thing, set up for Man,

But fee whar Fate attends himis
The poud'ring. Barber first began,
The Barber-Surgeon ends him.
884899*98496 69

An extempore Epigram on Death.
F Death does come as soon as Breath departs,

Then he muf offen die, who often farts.
And if to die, be but to lose one's Breath,
Then Death's a Førs, and fo a Fart for Death.

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