His Courage in his Weakness yet prevails,
As a bold Pilot fteers with tatter'd Sails;
And Cordage crackt, directs no steddy Course,
Carry'd by Refolution, more than Force.
Before his once fcorn'd Enemy he reels,
His Wounds encreasing with his Shame, he feels.
The others ftrength, more from his weakness grows,
And with one furious push, his Rival throws.
So a tall Oak, the Pride of all the Wood,
That long th' Affault of feveral Storms had ftood;
Till by a mighty Blaft more pow'rfully pusht,
His Root's torn up, and to the Earth he rusht.
Yet then he rais'd his Head, on which there grew
Once, all his Power, and all his Title too ;-
Unable now to rife, and lefs to fight,

He rais'd those Scepters to demand his Right :
But fuch weak Arguments prevail with none,
To plead their Titles, when their Power is gone.
His Head now finks, and with it all defence,
Not only robb'd of Power, but Pretence.
Wounds upon Wounds the Conqueror ftill gives,
And thinks himself unfafe, while t'other lives:
Unhappy State of fuch as wear a Crown,
Fortune can never lay 'em gently down.

Now to the moft feorn'd Remedy he flys,
And for fome pity feems to move his Eyes;
Pity, by which the beft of virtue's try'd,
To wretched Princes ever is deny'd.
There is a Debt to Fortune, which they pay
For all their Greatnefs, by no Common way.
The flatt'ring Troops unto the Victor fly,
And own his Title to his Victory;
The faith of moft, with Fortune does decline,
Duty's but Fear, and Confcience but Design.
The Victor now, proud in his great Success,
Haftes to enjoy his fatal Happiness;
Forgot his mighty Rival was destroy'd
By that, which he fo fondly now enjoy'd.

In Paffions thus Nature her felf enjoys, Sometimes preferves, and then again destroys ; Yet all deftruction which Revenge can move, Time or Ambition, is fupply'd by Love.

Ranging the Plain one Summer's Night,.

To país a vacant Hour,

I fortunately chanc'd to light:
On lovely Phillis Bow'r :

The Nymph, adorn'd with thousand Charms,
In Expectation fate,

To meet thofe Joys in Strephon's Arms,
Which Tongue cannot relate.

II.

Upon her Hand fhe lean'd her Head,

Her Breaft did gently rife;

That ev'ry Lover might have read
Her Wishes in her Eyes.

At ev'ry Breath that mov'd the Trees,

She fuddenly would start;

A Cold on all her Body feiz'd,

A trembling on her Heart.

III.

But he that knew how well the lov'd,
Beyond his Hour had fray'd;
And both with Fear and Anger mov'd
The melancholy Maid..

Ye Gods, fhe faid, how oft he swore
He would be here by One;
But now, alas! 'tis Six and more,
And yet he is not come

T

A SON G.

I.

HE Night her blackest Sables wore,
And gloomy were the Skies;

And glitt'ring Stars there were no more,
Than thofe in Stella's Eyes:

When at her Father's Gate I knock'd,
Where I had often been;

And throwded only with her Smock,
The fair one let me in.

II.

Faft lock'd within her clofe Embrace, She trembling lay asham'd;

Her fwelling Breaft, and glowing Face, And every touch enflam'd.

My eager Paffion I obey'd,

Refolv'd the Fort to win;

And her fond Heart was foon betray'd, To yield and let me in.

III.

Then! then! beyond expreffing,
Immortal was the Joy;

I knew no greater Bleffing,
So great a God was I.

And the tranfported with Delight,

Oft pray'd me come again;

And kindly vow'd, that every Night
She'd rife and let me in.

IV.

But, oh at laft fhe prov'd with Bern,
And fighing fate, and dull;

And I that was as much concern'd
Look'd then just like a Fool.

Her lovely Eyes with Tears run o'er,
Repenting her rash Sin;

She figh'd, and curs'd the fatal Hour
That e'er he let me in.

V.

But who could cruelly deceive,

Or from fuch Beauty part?
I lov'd her fo, I could not leave.
The Charmer of my Heart.
But Wedded and conceal'd the Crime,
Thus all was well again;

And now the thanks the bleffed Hour,
That e'er fhe let me in.

A SONG, on the Devil's Arle of the Peak.

By BEN. JOHNSON.

I.

Ook-Lawrel would needs have the Devil his Gueft,

Cad bad him once into the Peak to Dinner,

Where never the Fiend had fuch a Feaft

Provided him yet, at the Charge of a Sinner.
II

His Stomach was queafie for coming there Coach'd;
The jogging had caus'd fome Crudities rife;
To help it, he call'd for a Puritan poach'd,
That used to turn up the Eggs of his Eyes.

III.

And fo recover'd unto his Wish,

He fate him down, and he fell to eat ; Promoter in Plum-broth was the firft Difh, His own privy Kitchen had no fuch Meat.

IV.

Yet though with this he much were taken,
Upon a fudden he shifted his Trencher
As foon he fpy'd the Bawd, and Bacon,
By which you may Note the Devil's a Wencher.

V.

'Six pickl'd Taylors fliced and cut,

Sempfters, Tyrewomen, fit for his Palat; With Feathermen, and Perfumers put,

Some twelve in a Charger to make a grand Sallet.

VI.

A rich fat Ufurer ftew'd in his Marrow,

And by him a Lawyer's Head and Green-fawce; Both which his Belly took in like a Barrow, As if till then he had never feen Sawce.

VII.

Then Carbonadoed, and Cook'd with Pains,
Was brought up a cloven Serjeant's Face;
The Sawce was made of his Yeoman's Brains,
That had been beaten out with his own Mace.
VIII.

Two roafted Sheriffs came whole to the Board;
(The Feaft had nothing been without 'em)
Both living, and dead, they were foxt, and fur'd,
Their Chains like Sawfages hung about 'em.

IX.

The very next Dish, was the Mayor of a Town, With a Pudding of maintenance thruft in his Belly; Like a Goose in the Feathers dreft in his Gown, And his Couple of Hinch-boys boil'd to a Jelly,

X.

A London Cuckold, hot from the Spit,

And when the Carver up had broke him,

The Devil chopt up his Head at a bit,

[him.

But the Horns were very near like to have choak'd

XI.

The Chine of a Lecher too there was roafted,
With a plump Harlot's Haunch and Garlick;
A Pander's Pettitoes that had boafted

Himfelf for a Captain, yet never was warlike.

XII.

A large fat Paftry of a Mid-wife hot;

And for a cold bak'd Meat into the Story,