Page images
PDF
EPUB

II.

Beauty's difpers'd through all the Kind,
Through all the Univerfe does move,
And 'till it be to One contin'd,
I think I've lawful Caufe to rove.
To Day this Face delights my Eye,
But when I'm afk'd not to give o'er ;
Your Servant; I've fed heartily:
Surfeits are dang'rous. Not a Bit more.

The Campaign. A Song.

I.

[Ount, my Boys, mount; let us view the Campaign;
At Hounslow the Tents do cover the Plain.
Hark! the Trumpets found, the Troopers are hors'd,
If you ftay longer, the Sight will be loft.

Hark too! the Hautboys, the Grenadiers come;
Now, in the Rear, march the Foot with the Drums.
Halle, Gentlemen, Hafte, our Friends will prefent's
With a kind Bottle, and Wench in their Tents.

II.

See yonder, Sir, fee how dazling they fhew? Their Cloaths, Hats, and Arms, are brandishing new. How dreadfully look the Bag'nets advanc'd! How proudly thofe Jennets before 'em do prance! See how the Houfings and Trappings do blaze! How admiring Crowds upon 'em do gaze! Whigs and old Rebels are daih'd at the Sight;

They curfe in their Hearts, and view 'em with Spight.

III.

Now, now we are there; yon's the General's Tent; { All that long Row's for the, Queen's Regiment; Yonder's the Sutler's; and there the Smiths ftand, With Anvils, and Forges, all ready at Hand. O Windfor and Hourflow! I hope your Stock's large, You're like to maintain an Infantry Charge. The Strollers o' th' Strand and Park will come down, And leave at the Camp what they got in the Town.

The

I

The Libertine. A Song.

I.

Languish no more at the Glance of your Eye;

Can view you all o'er, and ne'er fetch a deep Sigh: No more fhall your Voice, Cyren-like, charm my Heart; In vain you may figh, ufe in vain all your Art. No, Madam, I'm free; when I'm recreant again, Let me, unpity'd, feel again my old Pain.

II.

I'll Libertine turn, ufe all Things in common;
No more than one Difh, be bound to one Woman;
Yet I'll fill love the Sex, but my Bottle before 'em ;
I'll ufe 'em fometimes, but I'll never adore 'em.
Go, Madam, be wife: When a Woodcock's i' th' Noose,
Be fure hold him fast, left, like me, he gets loofe.

L

A Catch.

ET the am'rous Coxcomb adore a fair Face;

An Hour's Enjoyment makes him look like an Afs. Let the ambitious Fop to Honours afpire,

He burns with the Torment of boundless Defire.
And let the old Mifer hoard up his curs'd Pelf,
He enriches his Bags, but he beggars himself.
The Lover, Ambitious, and Mifer, are Fools;
There's no folid Joy, but in jolly full Bowls.

Match for the Devil. In Imitation of
M. Rabelais.

W

Hile others idle Tales relate,

To fright Men from the marry'd State,
Do thou, my Mufe, in humble Verfe,
The Virtues of a Wife rehearse.

A Farmer of much Wealth poffefs'd,'
With Friends too, while they lafted, bless'd,

Kept

Kept open House, and lov'd to feast
Thofe who deferv'd and wanted leaft.
To Pleasures he prefcrib'd no Bounds;
He kept his Hunters, Pack of Hounds.
Somewhat lafcivious, fomewhat vain,
Some Gentleman had crofs'd the Strain.
To try all Joys, and Plagues of Life,
He boldly took a Buxom Wife.
Now fresh Expences, fresh Delights,
Attend the Day, and crown the Nights.
His new Acquaintance crowd the Houfe;
Some praife the Fare, but moft the Spouse;
Each ftrove who fhould divert the moft,
But ftill 'twas at the Hufband's Coft.

He, thoughtlefs, prais'd the expenfive Pleafure,
To pleafe his dear domeftick Treasure,
All Care was fcorn'd, and Bus'nefs vanish'd,
The prefent Joys Thoughts future banish'd:
And being both of Years but vernal,
They thought their Wealth and Loves eternal.
But oh! how vain are all Mens Fancies!
Ill-grounded Projects, mere Romances.
What Whims the wifeft entertain?
What ftrange Delufions fill our Brain!
When we are eager to poffefs,
We fmooth the Road to Happiness:
We level Mountains, empty Seas,
And Reafon fierce Defires obeys.
The greatest Danger we defpife;
Our Paffion fees, and not our Eyes.
Our Pair now find, fome Seafons paff,
Nor Wealth, nor Love, would always laft,
Unless improv'd with Application;

But that in one is out of Fashion.
Gold indeed preferves its Sway,
But Love! who does thy Pow'r obey?
E'en Women now profefs to range,
And all their Pleafures is in Change;
Now feek the prefent Joys t improve,
Yielding to many that call Love;

[ocr errors][merged small]

Artful new Lovers to engage,

Then flight bis Love, and fcorn his Rage.
Thus thefe behold what they poffefs'd,
And wonder how they once were blefs'd.
Their Jars are thought on, and improv'd;
They hate themselves, that once they lov❜d.
Thus lab'ring on in dirty Road,

They fnarl, and curfe the heavy Load.
How happy were our mortal State,
Were Indolence but our worst Fate !
No fooner Joys the Place forfake,
But racking Pains Dominion take
No fooner Love had fled the Pair,
When enter'd meager Want and Care.
The Houfe, which had such vast Resort,
When Riot feem'd to keep his Court,
Is now forfook, a lonely Cell,

Where Silence, undisturb'd, might dwell.
Clean Pans and Spits the Walls now grac'd,
For Ornament the Pewter's plac'd,
Bright Dishes entertain the Eye;
No Kitchin-Smoke offends the Sky.
Hogfheads with difmal Sounds complain'd,
Both Hogfheads and the Man were drain'd.
His Landlord, ftern, his Rents demands.
Stray'd are his Flocks, un plough'd his Lands.
The Wife advifes Friends to try;
Her's, fhe was fure, would not deny.
A thoufand Vows the had receiv'd;
Each Vow repaid, for he believ’d.

But oh! how foon did they difcover,
'Tis Wealth brings Friends, the Face a Lover.
His Wants are heard without Relief;

Her Eyes afford not Joy, nor Grief.
His wafted Fortune all affrights;
Her faded Beauty none invites.

Opprefs'd with Wants, to Woods he flies,
And feeks the Peace his Houfe denies.
Roving, lamenting his Condition,
Fate kindly fent him a Phyfician.

His

His Habit, Cane, and formal Face,
Shew'd he was of Geneva Race :
But cloven Feet the Fiend detect,
And prov'd him Author of the Sect.
With Joy he spy'd the Wretches Cares,
And, fawning, thus he fpread his Snares.
My Son! with Pity I have feen
(Tho' I've a Foe to Pity been)
The fad Difafters you endure,
That of a Wife admits no Cure.
I know your Wants, and her's I guefs;
I cannot fwear I'll both redress,
That Tafk, I fear, is too uneasy;
But if Poffeffions large will please ye,
Behold this fpacious Tract of Land,
All that you fee's at my Command.
I'll give it freely all to thee,
If we, on Articles, agree.

I can perform it, I'm the Devil,
Nay, never ftart, Man, I'll be civil.
It fhall be yours to plough and fow;
All that above the Ground does grow,
What e'er it is, fhall be my due;
The rest I freely give to you.

Gladly the Farmer does fubmit,

For pinching Want hath taught him Wit.
With Roots he plants the fruitful Soil,
Which well rewarded all his Toil.
But to his Landlord's jilted Share
A weedy Harvest does appear.

The Devil, vext, new Cov'nants makes,
Next Year all under Ground he takes.
Then golden Wheat the Land does bear,
And ufelefs Roots are Satan's Share.
The Fiend refolv'd to fpoil the Jeft,
And thus the Farmer he addrest.

Believe me, Friend, thou art a Sharper,
Satan himself has caught a Tartar;
I've feen thy Wit, but now, at length,
I am refolv❜d to try thy Strength.

A feratch

« PreviousContinue »