But each of these have decoration
According to their affectation.

That dance is graceful, and will please,
Where all the motions glide with ease.
We to the skilful theatre

This seeming want of art prefer.

"Tis no small art to give direction
How to suit knots to each complexion,
How to adorn the breast and head,
With blue, white, cherry, pink, or red.
As the morn rises, so that day
Wear purple, sky-colour, or grey:
Your black at Lent, your green in May;
Your filamot when leaves decay.
All colours in the summer shine:
The nymphs should be like gardens fine.
"It is the fashion now-a-days,
That almost every lady plays.
Basset and piquet grow to be
The subject of our comedy:
But whether we diversion seek
In these, in comet, or in gleek,
Or ombre, where true judgment can
Disclose the sentiments of man;
Let's have a care how we discover,
Especially before a lover,

Some passions which we should conceal,
But heats of play too oft' reveal;
For, be the matter small or great,
There's like abhorrence for a cheat.
There's nothing spoils a woman's graces
Like peevishness and making faces:
Then angry words and rude discourse,
You may be sure, become them worse,
With hopes of gain when we're beset,
We do too commonly forget

Such guards, as screen us from those eyes
Which may observe us, and despise.
I'd burn the cards, rather than know
Of any of my friends did so :
I've heard of some such things; but I,
Thanks to my stars, was never by.
"Thus we may pass our time: the men
A thousand ways divert their spleen,
Whilst we sit peevishly within;
Hunting, cocking, racing, joking,
Foddling, swimming, fencing, smoking;
And little thinking how poor we
Must vent our scandal o'er our tea.
I see no reason but we may
Be brisk, and equally as gay.
Whene'er our gentlemen would range,
We'll take our chariot for the 'Change:
If they're disposing for the play,
We'll hasten to the Opera:
Or when they'll lustily carouse,
We'll surely to the Indian house:
And at such cost whilst thus we roam,
For cheapness sake they'll stay at home.
Few wise men's thoughts e'er yet pursued
That which their eyes had never view'd:
And so our never being seen

Is the same thing as not t' have been.
Grandeur itself and poverty
Were equal if no witness by:
And they who always sing alone

Can ne'er be prais'd by more than one.
Had Danaë been shut up still,
She'd been a maid against her will,

And might have grown prodigious old,
And never had her story told.
'Tis fit fair maids should run a-gadding,
To set the amorous beaux a-madding.
To many a sheep the wolf has gone
Ere it can neatly seize on one;
And many a partridge scapes away
Before the hawk can pounce its
prey:
And so, if pretty damsels rove,
They'll find out one perhaps may love;
If they no diligence will spare,
And in their dressing still take care.
The fisher baits his hook all night,
In hopes by chance some eel may bite.
Each with their different grace appears,
Virgins with blush, widows with tears,
Which gain new husbands tender-hearted,
To think how such a couple parted.
But then there are some foppish beaux
Like us in all things but their clothes;
That we may seem the more robust,
And fittest to accost them first:
With powder, paint, false locks, and hair,
They give themselves a female air;
Who, having all their tale by rote,
And harping still on the same note,
Will tell us that, and nothing more
Than what a thousand heard before.
Though they all marks of love pretend,
There's nothing which they less intend:
And, 'midst a thousand hideous oaths,
With jewels false and borrow'd clothes,
Our easiness may give belief

To one that is an errant thief."

The spark was coming; she, undrest,
Scuttles away as if possest.
The governess cries, "Where d'ye run?"
"Why, madam, I've but just begun."
She bawls; the other nothing hears,
But leaves her prattling to the chairs,
Virtue, without these little arts,
At first subdues, then keeps, our hearts:
And though more gracefully it shows
When it from lovely persons flows;
Yet often goodness most prevails
When beauty in perfection fails.
Though every feature mayn't be well,
Yet all together may excel.

There's nothing but will easy prove,
When all the rest 's made up by love.

PART XIII.

VIRGINS should not unskill'd in music be;
For what's more like themselves than harmony?
Let not Vice use it only to betray,

As Syrens by their songs entice their prey.
Let it with sense, with voice, and beauty join,
Grateful to eyes and ear, and to the mind divine:
For there's a double grace when pleasing strings
Are touch'd by her that more delightful sings.
Thus Orpheus did the rage of deserts quel',
And charm'd the monstrous instruments of Hell.
New walls to Thebes Amphion thus began,
Whilst to the work officious marble ran.
Thus with his harp and voice Arion rode
On the mute fish safe through the rolling flood.
Nor are the essays of the female wit
Less charming in the verses they have writ.

From ancient ages, love has found the way
Its bashful thoughts by letters to convey;
Which soufetimes run in such engaging strain,
That pit makes the fair write back again.
What's thus intended, some small time delay:
His passion strengthens rather by our stay.
Then with a cautious wit your pen withhold,
Lest a too free expression make him bold.
Create a mixture 'twixt his hope and fear,
And in reproof let tenderness appear.
As he deserves it give him hopes of life:
A cruel mistress makes a froward wife.
Affect not foreign words: love will impart
A gentle style more excellent than art.
Astrea's' lines flow on with so much ease,
That she who writes like them must surely please.
Orinda's works, with courtly graces stor'd,
True sense in nice expressions will afford:
Whilst Chudlei h's3 words seraphic thoughts ex-
In lofty grandeur, but without excess. [press
Oh, had not Beauty parts enough to wound,
But it must pierce us with poetic sound;
Whilst Phoebus suffers female powers to tear
Wreaths from his Daphne, which they justly wear!
If greater things to lesser we compare,
The skill of love is like the art of war.
The general says,
"Let him the horse command:
You by that ensign, you that cannon stand:
Where danger calls, let t'other bring supplies."
With pleasure all obey, in hopes to rise.
So, if you have a servant skill'd in laws,
Send him with moving speech to plead your cause.
He that has native unaffected voice,
In singing what you bid him, will rejoice.
And wealth, as Beauty orders it, bestow'd,
Would make ev'n misers in expenses proud.

But they, o'er whom Apollo rules, have hearts
The most susceptible of lovers' smarts,
And, like their god, so they feel Cupid's darts:
The gods and kings are by their labours prais'd;
And they again by them to honour rais'd:
For none to Heaven or majesty exprest
Their duty well, but in return were blest.
Nor did the mighty Scipio think it scorn,
That Ennius, in Calabrian mountains born,
His wars, retirements, councils, should attend,
In all distinguish'd by the name of friend.
He that, for want of worlds to conquer, wept,
Without consulting Homer never slept.
The poet's cares ali terminate in fame;
As they obtain, they give, a lasting name.
Thus from the dead Lucrece and Cynthia rise,
And Berenice's hair adorns the skies.
The sacred bard no treacherous craft displays,
But virtuous actions crowns with his own bays,
Far from ambition and wealth's sordid care,
In him good-nature and content appear:
And far from courts, from studious parties free,
He sighs forth Laura's charms beneath some tree;
Despairing of the valued prize he loves,
Commits his thoughts to winds and echoing groves.
Poets have quick desire and passion strong;
Where once it lights, there it continues long.
They know that truth is the perpetual band,
By which the world and Heaven of love must stand.
The poet's art softens their tempers so,
That manners easy as their verses flow.
Oh, could they but just retribution find,
And as themselves what they adore be kind!
In vain they boast of their celestial fire, [aspire!
Whilst there remains a Heaven to which they can't
Apelles first brought Venus to our view,
With blooming charms and graces ever new,
Who else unknown to mortals might remain,
Hid in the caverns of her native main:
And with the painter now the poets join
To make the mother and her boy divine.
Therefore attend, and from their music learn
That which their minds inspir'd could best discern.
First see how Sidney, then how Cowley mov'd,
And with what art it was that Waller lov'd.
Forget not Dorset, in whose generous mind
Love, sense, wit, honour, every grace combin'd;
And if for me you one kind wish would spare,
Answer a poet to his friendly prayer.
Take Stepney's verse, with candour ever blest;
For love will there still with his ashes rest.
There let warm spice and fragrant odours burn,
And everlasting sweets perfume his urn.

Not that the living Muse is to be scorn'd:
Britain with equal worth is still adorn'd.
See Halifax, where sense and honour mixt
Upon the merits just reward have fixt:
And read their works, who, writing in his praise,
To their own verse immortal laurels raise.
Learn Prior's lines; for they can teach you more
Than sacred Ben, or Spenser, did before:
And mark him well that uncouth physic's art
Can in the softest tune of wit impart.
See Pastorella o'er Florello's grave,
See Tamerlane make Bajazet his slave;
And Phædra with her ancient vigour rave.
Through Rapin's nurseries and gardens walk,
And find how nymphs transform'd by amorous
colours talk.

Fresh and rare; Dearest, rarest, Loveliest, fairest,

Cooler, come; cooler, come; cooler, come!"

A woman, that had heard him sing,
Soon had her malice on the wing:
For females usually don't want
A fellow-gossip that will cant;

Who still is pleased with others' ails,
And therefore carries spiteful tales.

She thought that she might raise some strife
By telling something to his wife:
That once upon a time she stood
In such a place, in such a wood,
On such a day, and such a year,
There did, at least there did appear
('Cause for the world she would not lie,
As she must tell her by the by)
Her husband; first more loudly bawling,
And afterwards more softly calling
A person not of the best fame,
And mistress Cooler was her name.
"Now, Gossip, why should she come thither?
But that they might be naught together?"

When Cris heard all, her colour turn'd,
And though her heart within her burn'd,
And eyeballs sent forth sudden flashes,
Her cheeks and lips were pale as ashes.
Then, "Woe the day that she was born!"
The nightrail innocent was torn :
Many a thump was given the breast,
"And she, oh, she should never rest!
She straight would heigh her to the wood,
And he'd repent it-that he should."
With eager haste away she moves,
Never regarding scarf or gloves :
Into the grotto soon she creeps,
And into every thicket peeps,
And to her eyes there did appear
Two prints of bodies-that was clear:
"And now" (she cries)" I plainly see
How time and place, and all agree:
But here's a covert, where I'll lie,
And I shall have them by and by."

'Twas noon; and Cephalus, as last time,
Heated and ruffled with his pastime,
Came to the very self-same place
Where he was us'd to wash his face;
And then he sung, and then he hum'd,
And on his knee with fingers thrum'd.
When Crissy found all matters fair,
And that he only wanted air,
Saw what device was took to fool her,
And no such one as mistress Cooler;
Mistrusting then no future harms,
She would have rush'd into his arms;
But, as the leaves began to rustle,

He thought some beast had made the bustle.

He shot, then cried, "I've kill'd my deer."-
"Ay, so you have," (says Cris) " I fear."-
"Why, Crissy, pray what made you here?"
"By Gossip Trot, I understood

You kept a small girl in this wood."
Quoth Ceph, "Tis pity thou should'st die
For this thy foolish jealousy:

For 'tis a passion that does move
Too often from excess of love."

But, when they sought for wound full sore,
The petticoat was only tore,

And she had got a lusty thump,

Which in some measure bruis'd her rump.
Then home most lovingly they went:
Neither had reason to repent.

Their following years pass'd in content;
And Crissy made him the best wife
For the remainder of his life.

The Muse has done, nor will more laws obtrude,
Lest she, by being tedious, should be rude.
Unbrace love's swans, let them unharness'd stray,
And eat ambrosia through the milky way.
Give liberty to every Paphian dove,
And let them freely with the Cupids rove.
But, when the Amazonian trophies rise
With monuments of their past victories;
With what discretion and what art they fought;
Let them record, "They were by Ovid taught."

AN

INCOMPARABLE ODE OF MALHERBE'S', Written by him when the marriage was on foot between the king of France and Anne of Austria.

Cette Anne si belle, Qu'on vante si fort, Pourquoy ne vient elle? Vrayment, elle a tort! Son Louis soûpire

Apres ses appas: Que veut elle dire, Que elle ne vient pas? Si il ne la posséde, Il s'en va mourir; Donnons y reméde, Allons la querir.

Translated by a great admirer of the easiness of French poetry.

This Anna so fair,

So talk'd of by Fame,
Why don't she appear?
Indeed, she's to blame!

The translator proposed to turn this ode with all imaginable exactness; and he hopes he has been pretty just to Malherbe: only in the sixth liue he has made a small addition of these three words," as they say;" which he thinks is excusable, if we consider the French poet there talks a little too familiarly of the king's passion, as if the king himself had owned it to him. The translator thinks it more mannerly and respectful in Malherbe to pretend to have the account of it only by hearsay. KING.

2 Lewis the Fourteenth.

Lewis sighs for the sake

Of her charms, as they say; What excuse can she make

For not coming away? If he does not possess, He dies with despair; Let's give him redress,

And go find out the fair.

THE FURMETARY;

A VERY

INNOCENT AND HARMLESS POEM',

IN THREE CANTO's.

First printed in 1699.

PREFACE.

THE author of the following poem may be thought to write for fame, and the applause of the town: but he wholly disowns it; for he writes only for the public good, the benefit of his country, and the manufacture of England. It is well known, that grave senators have often, at the Palace-yard, refreshed themselves with barley-broth in a morning, which has had a very solid influence on their counsels; it is therefore hoped, that other persons may use it with the like success. No man can be ignorant, how of late years coffee and tea in a morning has prevailed; nay, cold waters have obtained their commendation; and wells are sprung up from Acton to Islington, and cross the water to Lambeth. These liquors have several eminent champions of all professions. But there have not been wanting persons, in all ages, that have shown a true love for their country, and the proper diet of it, as water-gruel, milk-porridge, rice-milk, and especially furmetry both with plums and without. To this end, several worthy persons have encouraged the eating such wholesome diet in the morning; and, that the poor may be provided, they have desired several matrons to stand at Smithfield-bars, Leadenhall-market, Stocksmarket, and divers other noted places in the city, especially at Fleet-ditch; there to dispense furmetry to labouring people, and the poor, at reasonable rates, at three-half-pence and two-pence a dish, which is not dear, the plums being considered.

but

I have thought this a very proper subject for an heroic poem; and endeavoured to be as smooth in my verse, and as inoffensive in my characters, as was possible. It is my case with Lucretius, that I write upon a subject not treated of by the ancients. But, "the greater labour, the greater glory."

Virgil had a Homer to imitate; but I stand upon my own legs, without any support from abroad. I therefore shall have more occasion for the reader's favour, who, from the kind acceptance of this, may expect the description of other furmetaries about this city, from his most humble servant, AND PER SE AND.

CANTO I.

No sooner did the grey-ey'd morning peep,
And yawning mortals stretch themselves from
sleep;

Finders of gold were now but newly past,
And basket-women did to market haste;
The watchmen were but just returning home,
To give the thieves more liberty to roam;
When from a hill, by growing beams of light,
A stately pile was offer'd to the sight;
Three spacious doors let passengers go through,
And distant stones did terminate their view:
Just here, as ancient poets sing, there stood
The noble palace of the valiant Lud;
His image now appears in Portland stone,
Each side supported by a god-like son2:
But, underneath, all the three heroes shine,
In living colours, drawn upon a sign,
Which shows the way to ale, but not to wine.

Near is a place enclos'd with iron-bars,
Where many mortals curse their cruel stars,
When brought by usurers into distress,
For having little still must live on less :
Stern Avarice there keeps the relentless door,
And bids each wretch eternally be poor.
Hence Hunger rises, dismally he stalks,
And takes each single prisoner in his walks :

2 As Dr. King's description of Ludgate, though familiar to the present age, will be less intelligible to the rising generation, it may not be improper to observe, that its name, which Geoffry of Monmouth has ascribed to king Lud, was with greater propriety derived from its situation near the rivulet Flud, or Fleet, which ran near it. So early as 1373, Ludgate was constituted a prison for poor debtors who were free of the city; and was greatly enlarged in 1454, by sir Stephen Forster, who, after having been himself confined there, became lord mayor of London, and established several benevolent re

Written to please a gentleman who thought nothing smooth or lofty could be written upon a mean subject; but had no intent of making any reflection upon The Dispensary, which has deservedly gained a lasting reputation. KING.

coming ruinous, an elegant building, as above described by Dr. King, was erected in 1586, with the statue of queen Elizabeth on the west front, and those of the pretended king Lud and his two sons on the east. This was pulled down in 1760, and the statue of Elizabeth placed against the church of St. Dunstan in the West. Since that time, the city debtors have been confined in a part of the London workhouse in Bishopsgate-street. N.