Giv'ft the right blush and colour unto things;
Low without creeping, high without loss of wings;
Smooth, yet not weak, and by a thorough care,
Big without fwelling, without painting fair:
They Wretches, while they cannot ftand to fit,
Are not Wits, but materials of Wit.

What though thy fearching Wit did rake the Duft
Of time, and purge old Metals of their Ruft?
Is it no Labour, no Art, think they, to

Snatch Shipwracks from the Deep, as Divers do?
And rescue Jewels from the covetous Sand,
Making the Seas hid Wealth adorn the Land?
What though thy culling Mufe did rob the ftore
Of Greek and Latin Gardens, to bring o'er
Plants to thy native Soil? Their Virtues were
Improv'd far more, by being planted here.
If thy Still to their Effence doth refine

So many Drugs, is not the Water thine?

Thefts thus become juft Works; they and their Grace Are wholly thine: Thus doth the Stamp and Face Make that the King's, that's ravisht from the Mine: In others then 'tis Oar, in thee 'tis Coin.

Bleft Life of Authors, unto whom we owe Thofe that we have, and those that we want too : Thou'rt all fo good, that reading makes thee worse, And to have writ fo well's thine only curse. Secure then of thy Merit, thou didst hate That fervile bafe dependance upon fate: Success thou ne'er thought'ft Virtue, nor that fit, Which Chance, and th' Ages Fashion did make hit ; Excluding those from Life in after-time,

Who into Po'try firft brought Luck and Rime :[Name Who thought the Peoples breath good Air: Stil'd What was but Noife; and getting Briefs for fame Gather'd the many's Suffrages, and thence

Made Commendation a Benevolence:

Thy Thoughts were their own Lawrel, and did win That beft Applause of being crown'd within,

And though th' exacting' Age, when deeper Years
Had interwoven Snow among thy Hairs,
Would not permit thou shouldft grow old, caufe they
Ne'er by thy Writings knew thee young; we may
Say justly, they're ungrateful, when they more
Condemn'd thee, 'cause thou wert fo good before :
Thine Art was thine Art's blur, and they'll confefs
Thy ftrong Perfumes made them not fmell thee lefs.
But, though to err with thee be no finall skill,

And we adore the laft draughts of thy Qill: [Age,
Though those thy Thoughts, which the now queafie
Doth count but Clods, and refuse of the Stage,
Will come up Porcelain-wit fome hundreds hence,
When there will be more Manners, and more Sense;
'Twas Judgement yet to yield, and we afford
Thy Silence as much Fame, as once thy Word:
Who like an aged Oak, the Leaves being gone,
Waft Food before, art now Religion;

Thought ftill more Rich, though not fo richly ftor'd,
View'd and enjoy'd before, but now ador'd.

Great Soul of Numbers, whom we want and boaft; Like curing Gold, moft valu'd now th' art loft; When we shall feed on refufe Offals, when. We shall from Corn to Akorns turn again; Then fhall we fee that these two Names are one, Johnson and Poetry, which now are gone.

O

A S O N G.

2

N the Bank of a River clofe under the Shade, Young Cleo and Sylvia one Evening were laid; The Youth pleaded ftrongly for proof of his Love, But Honour had won her his Flame to reprove. [Sun, She cry'd, where's the Lufter, when Clouds shade the Or what is rich Netar, the tafte being gone? [dwell. 'Mongft Flow'rs on the Stalk fweetest Odours do But if gather'd, the Rofe it felf lofes the smell.

II.

Thou dearest of Nymphs, the brisk Shepherd reply'd,
If e'er thou wilt argue, begin on Love's fide:
In Matters of State let grave Reason be shown,
But Love is a Power will be ruled by none;
Nor fhould a coy Beauty be counted fo rare,
For Scandal can blaft both the Chafte and the Fair.
Moft fierce are the Joys Love's Alembick do fill,
And the Rofes are fweeteft when put to the Still.

T

A SON G.

"Hat beauteous Creature for whom I'm a Lover, I cannot, I will not, I muft not discover, Yet mark well my Song, and fome Token I'll give; For the that both kills my Heart, and makes it live, Is either call'd Mary, of Betty, of Ann.

Now guess if you can, now guess if you can.

II.

Her Stature is tall, and her Body is flender,
Her Eyes are moft lovely, her Cheeks pale and tender,
Fine Pearls are her Teeth, and her Lips Cherry red,
Her Smiles would revive a Man though he were dead,
She'd make one in love were he never before;
But I fay no more, but I fay no more.

An AYR E on a Ground.

IGH State and Honours to others impart,

H1 But give me your Heart;

That Treafure, that Treasure alone, I beg for my own: So gentle a Love, so frequent a Fire,

My Soul does infpire;

That Treasure, that Treasure alone, I beg for my own:

Your Love let me crave, give me in poffeffing
So matchless a Bleffing,

That Empire is all I would have:

Love's my Petition, and all my Ambition.

If e'er you Discover fo faithful, fo faithful a Lover, So real a Flame,

I'll die, I'll die, I'll die, fo give up my Game.

T

HE bright Laurinda, whofe hard Fate
It was to love a Swain,

Ill-natur'd, faithlefs, and ingrate,
Grew weary of her Pain:

Long, long, alas! fhe vainly ftrove,
To free her Captive Heart from Love;
'Till urg'd too much by his Difdain,
She broke at laft the ftrong-link'd Chain,
And vow'd the ne'er would love again,

II.

The lovely Nymph now free as Air,
Gay as the blooming Spring,
To no foft Tale would lend an Ear,
But careless fit and fing:

Or if a moving Story wrought

Her frozen Breaft to a kind thought,

She check'd her Heart, and cry'd, Ah! hold!

Amyntor thus his Story told,

Once burn'd as much, but now he's cold.

III.

Long thus fhe kept her Liberty,

And by her all-conquering Eyes

A thoufand Youths did daily die
Her Beauty's Sacrifice:

'Till Love at laft young Cleon brought,
The object of each Virgin's thought,

Whofe ftrange refiftlefs Charms did move,
They made her burn and rage with Love,
And made her bleft as those above.

A

ASON G.

1.

Pox upon this needlefs Scorn,

Sylvia for fhame the Cheat give o'er;

The end to which the Fair are born,
Is not to keep their Charms in store :
But lavishly difpofe in hafte

Of Joys, which none but Youth improve ; Joys which decay when Beauty's past,

And who, when Beauty's paft, will love?

II.

When Age thofe Glories fhall deface,
Revenging all your cold Difdain,
And Sylvia fhall neglected pafs,

By every once-admiring Swain:
And we can only Pity pay,

When you in vain too late fhall burn;
If Love increase, and Youth decay,
Ah Sylvia! who will make return?

III.

Then hafte my Sylvia to the Grove,
Where all the Sweets of May conspire;
And teach us every Art of Love,

And raise our Charms of Pleafure higher: And when Embracing we fhall lye,

Clofely in Shades, on Banks of Flowers;

The duller World whilft we defie,

Years would be Minutes, Ages Hours.