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VENUS'S ADVICE TO THE MUSES.

HUS to the Mufes fpoke the Cyprian Dame;

my name.

My Son fhall elfe affume his potent darts,

"Twang goes the bow, my girls; have at your hearts!" The Mufes anfwer'd, "Venus, we deride "The Vagrant's malice, and his Mother's pride; "Send him to Nymphs who fleep on Ida's fhade, "To the loofe dance, and wanton mafquerade; "Our thoughts are fettled, and intent our look, "On the inftructive verfe, and moral book; "On Female idlenefs his power relies;

But, when he finds us studying hard, he flies.”

CUPID TURNED PLOUGHMAN.
From MosсHUS.

IS lamp, his bow, and quiver, laid afide,
A ruftic wallet o'er his fhoulders ty'd;
Sly Cupid, always on new mifchief bent,
To the rich field and furrow'd tillage went;
Like any Ploughman toil'd the little God,
His tune he whiftled, and his wheat he fow'd;
Then fat and laugh'd, and to the skies above
Railing his
eye, he thus infulted Jove :
Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms restrain,
And, as I bid you, let it shine or rain.

Elfe

Elfe you again beneath my yoke fhall bow,
Feel the fharp goad, and draw the fervile plow;
What once Europa was, Nannette is now.

PONTIUS

AND

ΡΟΝΤΙΑ,

PONTIUS (who loves, you know a joke,

Much better than he loves his life)

Chanc'd t'other morning to provoke
The patience of a well-bred Wife.
Talking of you, faid he, my dear,
Two of the greateft wits in town,
One afk'd, if that high furze of hair
Was, bona fide, all your own.

Her own! most certain, t'other faid;

For Nan, who knows the thing, will tell ye, The hair was bought, the money paid,

And the receipt was fign'd Ducailly.

Pontia (that civil prudent fhe,

Who values wit much less than sense,

And never darts a repartee,

But purely in her own defence)

Reply'd, thefe friends of yours, my dear,
Are given extremely much to fatire !
But pr'ythee, Husband, let one hear

Sometimes lefs wit, and more good-nature.

Now I have one unlucky thought,

That would have fpoil'd your friend's conceit; Some hair I have, I'm fure, unbought:

Pray bring your Brother Wits to fee't.

CUPID TURNED STROLLER.

From ANACREON.

T dead of night, when stars appear,

AT

And ftrong Boötes turns the Bear
When mortals fleep their cares away,
Fatigu'd with labours of the day,
Cupid was knocking at my gate;

Who's there! fays I, who knocks so late,
Disturbs my dreams, and breaks my reft ?
O fear not me, a harmless gueft,

He faid, but open, open pray ;
A foolish child, I 've loft my way,
And wander here this moon-light night,
All wet and cold, and wanting light.
With due regard his voice I heard,
Then rofe, a ready lamp prepar'd,
And faw a naked Boy below,
With wings, a quiver, and a bow;
In hafte I ran, unlock'd my gate,
Secure and thoughtlefs of my fate;
I fet the child an easy chair

Against the fire, and dry'd his hair;
Brought friendly cups of chearful wine,
And warm'd his little hands with mine..
All this did I with kind intent;
But he, on wanton mifchief bent,
Said, Dearest friend, this bow you fee,
This pretty bow belongs to me:

Obferve,

Obferve, I pray, if all be right;.
I fear the rain has fpoil'd it quite.
He drew it then, and ftrait I found
Within my breast a fecret wound.
This done, the rogue no longer staid,
But leapt away, and laughing faid,
"Kind Hoft, adieu! we now must part;
"Safe is my bow, but fick thy heart!"

TO A POET OF QUALITY,

Praifing the LADY HINCHINBROKE.

F thy judicious Mufe's fenfe,

Young Hinchinbroke fo very proud is,

That Sachariffa and Hortenfe

She looks, henceforth, upon as dowdies. Yet fhe to one must still submit,

To dear Mamma must pay her duty,

She wonders, prafing Wilmot's wit,

Thou should't forget his daughter's beauty.

THE

L

PEDA N T.

YSANDER talks extremely well;
On any fubject let him dwell,

His tropes and figures will content ye :-
He should poffefs to all degrees

The art of talk; he practifes

Full fourteen hours in four-and-twenty.

CAUTIOUS

CAUTIOUS

S°

ALICE.

O good a Wife doth Liffy make,
That from all company fhe flieth
Such virtuous courfes doth fhe take,
That the all evil tongues defieth;
And, for her dearest Spouse's fake,
She with his Brethren only lieth.

THE

IN CURA BL E.

PHILLIS, you boaft of perfect health in vain,

And laugh at thofe who of their ills complain :
That with a frequent fever Chloe burns,
And Stella's plumpnefs into dropfy turns!
O Phillis, while the patients are nineteen,
Little, alas! are their diftempers feen.*
But thou, for all thy feeming health, art ill,
Beyond thy lover's hopes, or Blackmore's skill;
No lenitives can thy difeafe affuage,
I tell thee, 'tis incurable-'tis Age.

то

FORTUNE.

WHILST I in prifon or in court look down,

Nor beg thy favour, nor deferve thy frown,

In vain, malicious Fortune, haft thou try'd,
By taking from my state, to quell my pride :
Infulting girl! thy prefent rage abate;

And, would'st thou have me humbled, make me great.

NON