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VENUS'S ADVICE TO THE MUSES.
HUS to the Mufes fpoke the Cyprian Dame;
"Adorn my altars, and revere my name.
"My Son fhall elfe affume his potent darts,
"Twang goes the bow, my girls; have at your
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 shade,
"To the loofe dance, and wanton masquerade;
"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 ftudying hard, he flies.”
CUPID TURNED PLOUGH MAN. From MosсHUS.
HIS 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
Raifing his eye, he thus infulted Jove :
Lay by your hail, your hurtful ftorms restrain,
And, as I bid you, let it fhine or rain.
Elfe you again beneath my yoke shall bow,
Feel the fharp goad, and draw the fervile plow;
What once Europa was, Nannette is now.
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 greatest wits in town,
One afk'd, if that high furze of hair
Was, bona fide, all your own..
Her own! moft 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 the,
Who values wit much lefs than fenfe,
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, Hufband, let one hear
Sometimes lefs wit, and more good-nature.
Now I have one unlucky thought,
That would have spoil'd your friend's conceit Some hair I have, I'm fure, unbought :
Pray bring your Brother Wits to fee't.
T dead of night, when stars appear,
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 fo late,
Disturbs my dreams, and breaks my reft ?
O fear not me, a harmless guest,
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 thoughtless 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, I pray, if all be right;
I fear the rain has spoil'd it quite.
He drew it then, and ftrait I found
Within my breaft 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,
Praising 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 fhould't forget his daughter's beauty.
YSANDER talks extremely well;
On any fubject let him dwell,
His tropes and figures will content ye :He fhould poffefs to all degrees
The art of talk; he practifes
Full fourteen hours in four-and-twenty.
So good a Wife doth Liffy make,
That from all company fhe flieth;
Such virtuous courfes doth fhe take,
That she all evil tongues defieth;
And, for her deareft Spoufe's fake,
She with his Brethren only lieth.
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 seen.
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.
HILST 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.