The gentle God to calm thy Soul;
Peaceful Slumbers Love controul..
Have a care of purling Brooks,
Of filent Groves, and awful Shade,
They but to thy Torment add,
Love does there with ease invade;
No Mufick hear, no dying Looks
Behold, read no romantick Books;
Books and Mufick turn the Head,
Fools only fing, and Madmen read:
They with falfe Notions fill the Brain,
Are only fit to entertain

Women, and Fops that are more vain.
Love and Folly still are found

In thofe to make the deepest Wound,
Who think their Paffions to allay,
By giving of them leave to fway

A while; but they like Winter Torrents grow,
And all our Limits overflow.

Never truft thy self alone,

Frequent good Company and Wine.
In gen'rous Wines thy Paffion drown,
That will make thee all divine.
Better 'tis to drink to death,
Than figh and whine away, our Breath.
In Friends and Bottles we may find:
More Joys than in Womankind.
A far Enjoyment Women pall,
Intolerable Plagues they're all,
Vain, foolish, fond, proud, whimsical,
Diffembling, hypocritical.

Wines by keeping them improve,
And real Friends more firmly love.
If one Vintage proves fevere,

We're doubly recompenc'd next Year
If our dearest Friends we lose,
Others may fucceed to those.
Women, only, of all things,
Have nothing to affwage their Stings

Curs'd is the Man that does pursue
The fhort-liv'd Pleasures of their Charms;
There is no Hell but in their Arms:
For ever damned, damning Sex adicu.

An ODE written by Mr. Abraham Cowley, for Her Majefty, Queen to King CHARLES I.

COME

NOME Poetry, and with thee bring along
A rich and painted throng

Of nobleft Words into my Song;

Into my Numbers let them gently flow,
Soft, and smooth, and thick as Snow,
And turn the Numbers 'till they prove
Smooth as the fmootheft Sphear above,
And like a Sphear harmoniously move.

II.

Little doft thou, mean Song, the Fortune know
That thou art deftin'd to;

Or what thy Stars intend to do.
Among a thoufand Songs, but few can be
Born to the Honour promis'd thee;
Urania's felf fhall thee rehearse,
And a juft Bleffing to thee give;

Thou in her fweet and tuneful Breath fhalt live.

III.

Her pleafing Tongue with thee shall freely play,
Thou on her Lips fhalt ftray,

And dance upon that rofie way;
What Prince alive, that would not envy thee!
And think thee higher far than he!

And how wilt thou thy Author Crown,

When fair Urania fhall be known

To fing my Words, when the but fpeaks her own.

On VIRTUE,

By Mr. EVELYN.

AIR Virtue, fhould I follow thee

FAIR

I fhou'd be naked, and alone, For thou art not in Company, And fcarce art to be found in one.

Thy Rules are too fevere, and cold, To be embrac'd by vig'rous Youth ; And Fraud and Av'rice arm the old Against thy Juftice and thy Truth.

He who, by light of Reafon led, Inftructs himself in thy rough School, Shall all his Life-time beg his Bread, And when he dies, be thought a Fool,

Though in himself he's fatisfy'd With a calm Mind and chearful Heart, The World will call his Virtue Pride, His holy Life, Defign and Art.

The Reign of Vice is abfolute, While good Men vainly ftrive to rife; They may declaim, they may difpute, But fhall continue poor, and wife.

Honours and Wealth were made by Fate To wait on fawning Impudence, To give infipid Coxcombs weight, And to fupply the want of Senfe,

Mighty Pompey, whose great Soul Defign'd the Liberty of Romes..

יו

In vain did Cafar's Arms controul, And at Pharfalia was o'ercome.

His Virtue, conftant in Distress,
In Ptolemy no Pity bred,

Who barely guided by Success,
Secur'd his Peace with his Friend's Head.

Brutus, whom the Gods ordain'd
To do what Pompey would have done,
The gen'rous Motion entertain'd,
And ftab'd the Tyrant on his Throne.

This godlike Brutus, whofe delight Was Virtue, which he had ador'd, Haunted by Spectres over Night, Fell the next Day on his own Sword.

If, when his hope of vict'ry loft, This noble Roman could exclaim, Oh Virtue, whom I courted most, I find fhe's but an empty Name!

In a degen'rate Age like this,
We with more reafon may conclude,
That Fortune will attend on Vice,
Mis'ry on those who dare be good.

The COMPLAINT.

A SONG to a Scotch Tune.

By Mr. THO. OTWAY.

I Love, 1 dote, I rave with pain,

No Quiet's in my Mind,

Tho' ne'er cou'd be a happier Swain,
Were Sylvia lefs unkind,

For when, as long her Chains I've worn,

I ask relief from fmart,

She only gives me Looks of Scorn,

Alas, 'twill break my Heart!

My Rivals, rich in Worldly Store,
May offer heaps of Gold,

But furely I a Heav'n adore,

Too precious to be fold; Can Sylvia fuch a Coxcomb prize, For Wealth and not Defert, And my poor Sighs and Tears defpife? Alas, 'twill break my Heart!

When like fome 'panting, hovʼring Dove,
I for my Blifs contend,
And plead the Cause of eager Love,
She coldly calls me Friend.

Ah, Sylvia thus in vain you strive
To act a Healer's part,
Twill keep but ling'ring Pain alive,
Alas! and break my Heart.

When on my lonely, penfive Bed,
I lay me down to reft,

In hope to calm my raging Head,
And cool my burning Breaft,

Her Cruelty all Eafe denies,

With fome fad Dream I'ftart, All drown'd in Tears I find my Eyes, And breaking feel my Heart.

Then rifing, through the Path I rove
That leads me where the dwells,
Where to the fenfelefs Waves my Love
Its mournful Story tells;

With Sighs I dew and kifs the Door,
'Till Morning bids depart;