Since I'd been told a woman's mind
Varies as oft as April's face;
But I suppos'd thine more refin'd,
And so it was.

Till (sway'd by thy unruly blood)
Thou changedst thy uncertain will,
And 'tis far worse to have been good,
Than to be ill.

Methinks thou'rt blemish'd in each part,
And so or worse than others are;
Those eyes grown hollow as thy heart,
Which two suns were.

Thy cheeks are sunk, and thy smooth skin
Looks like a conquest now of Time;
Sure thou'd'st an age to study in
For such a crime.

Thou'rt so transform'd, that I in thee
(As 'tis a general loss) more griere
Thy falling from thyself, than me
Fool to believe!

For I by this am taught to prize

The inward beauties of the breast, "Bove all the gaieties of the eyes

Where treasons rest.

LOVE'S TRIUMPH.

GOD Capid's power was ne'er so shown,
Since first the boy could draw a bow,
In all past ages, as this one,

This lovesick age we live in now:

Now he and she, from high to low, Or lovers are, or would seem so. His arrows now are every where,

In every lip, and every eye,

From young, from old, from foul, and fair, This little archer lets them fly:

He is a traitor to Love's throne,

That has no love, or seems t' have none.

If she be young and fair, we do

Think her the blessing of this life;

And, out of that opinion, woo

Her for a mistress or a wife;
And if they think us able men,
The pretty souls will love again.

Or, if she be a wife, and that

A jealous ass corrupts her bed,
We build our pleasures on his fate,
And for her sake do crown his head;

So what he fears a truth doth prove,
And what's this but a trick of love?

If she be left a widow, then

Her first amours have warm'd her blood;
She'll think us puppies, or no men,
Should not her wants be understood:
Pity then makes us lovers prove,
And Pity is the child of Love.
If she be wither'd, and yet itch
To do as once in time of old,
We love a little, for she's rich,
Though but to scare away the cold:

She has (no doubt) the gift t' assuage,
Then never stand upon her age.

Thus maid, wife, widow, do all wound,
Though each one with a different eye;
And we by love to love are bound,
Either in heat or policy;

That is, we love, or say we do,
Women, we love ourselves, or you.
Cupid may now slacken his nerve,

Hang bow and quiver in some place
As useless grown, useless they serve
For trophies of what once he was:

Love's grown a fashion of the mind,
And we shall henceforth love by kind.
Lord! what a childish ape was this!
How vain improvident an elf!
To conquer all at once, when 'tis,
Alas! a triumph o'er himself!

He has usurp'd his own fear'd throne,
Since now there's nothing to be done.
And yet there is, there is one prize,

'Lock'd in an adamantine breast;
Storm that then, Love, if thou be'st wise,
A conquest above all the rest,

Her heart, who binds all hearts in chains,
Castanna's heart untouch'd remains.

THE CONTEST.

COME, my Corinna, let us try
Which loves you best, of you, and I:
I know you oft have in your glass
Seen the faint shadow of your face;
And, consequently, then became
A wond'ring lover, as I am:
Though not so great a one, for what
You saw but a glimpse of that,
So sweet, so charming majesty,
Which I in its full lustre see.
But if you then had gaz'd upon
Yourself, as your reflection,
And seen those eyes for which I die,
Perhaps you'd been as sick as I.

Thus, sweetest, then it is confess'd,
That of us lovers, I love best:
You'll say 'tis reason, that my share
Be great as my affections are,
When you insensibly are grown

More mine, by conquest, than your own.
But, if this argument I name

Seem light to such a glorious claim;
Yet, since you love yourself, this do,
Love me, at least, for loving you:
So my despair you may destroy,
And you your loved self enjoy;
Acting those things, can ne'er be done,
Whilst you remain yourself alone:
So for my sighs you make amends,
So you have yours, and I my ends.

THE FALSE ONE.

IN IMITATION OF THAT OF HORACE.
Non erat & Cœlo, &c.

BEHOLD, false maid, yon horned light,
Which in Heav'n's arched vault doth range,
And view part of thyself in it;

Yet she but once a month does change.

The raging sea, th' uncertain air,

Or, what does yet more change admit, Of variation emblems are ;

When thou, and only thou, art it.

Philosophers their pains may spare

Perpetual motion where to find; If such a thing be any where,

'Tis, woman, in thy fickle mind. How oft, incenter'd in thine arms,

Big with betraying sighs and tears,
Hast thou secur'd me, by thy charms,
From other lovers' natural fears?
Sighs, that improv'd the honest flame,
Which made my faithful bosom pant;
And tears so gentle, as might claim
Belief from hearts of adamant.
These were the arts seduc'd my youth,
A captive to thy wanton will:
That with a falsehood, like to truth,
In the same instant cure and kill.

Go, tell the next you will betray,

(I mean that fool usurps my room) How for his sake I'm turn'd away;

To the same fortune he must come.

When I, restored to that sense

Thou hast distemper'd, sound and free, Shall, with a very just pretence,

Despise and laugh at him and thee.

ODE.

VALEDICTORY.

1 Go; but never to return:

With such a killing flame I burn,
Not all th' enraged waves that beat

My ship's calk'd ribs, can quench that heat:
Nor thy disdains, which colder are
Than climates of the northern star,

Can freeze the blood, warm'd by thine eye :
But, sweet, I must thy martyr die.

Oh! canst thou know, that losing thee,
The universe is dead to me,

And I to it yet not become
So kind, as to revoke my doom?
Gentle heart, do if I remove,
How can I hope t' achieve thy love?
If not, I shall 't a blessing call,
That she who wounds may see my fall.

Or say thou lov'st, and bid me go
Where never Sun his face did show:
Or to, what's worse, want of thy light,
Which dissipates the shades of night;
To dangers, death, Hell dares not own,
Soarcely to apprehension known,

Arm'd with thy will, (despite of fear)
I'll seek them, as if thou wert there.

But, if thou wilt I die, and that,
By, worse than thousand deaths, thy hate;
When I am dead, if thou but pay

My tomb a tear, and sighing say,
Thou dost my timeless fall deplore,
Wishing thoud'st known my truth before;
My dearest dear, thou mak'st me then,
Or sleep in peace, or live again.

TO MY FRIEND, MR. LELY,

ON HIS PICTURE OF THE EXCELLENTLY VIRTUOUS
LADY, THE LADY ISABELLA THYNN.
NATURE and art are here at strife;
This shadow comes so near the life:
Sit still, (dear Lely) thou'st done that
Thyself must love and wonder at.
What other ages e'er could boast,
Either remaining yet, or lost,
Are trivial toys, and must give place.
To this, that counterfeits her face:
Yet I'll not say, but there have been,
In every past age, paintings seen
Both good and like, from every hand,
That once had mast'ry and command,
But none like her! Surely she sat
Thy pencil thus to celebrate
Above all others that could claim
An echo from the voice of Fame.
For he, that most, or with most cause,
Speaks, or may speak, his own applause,
Can't, when he shows his master-piece,
Brag, he e'er did a face like this.
Such is thy chance to be the man,

None, but who shares thy honour, can:
If such another do arise,

To steal more glory from her eves;
But 'twould improvident bounty show
To hazard such a beauty so:
'Tis strange thy judgment did not etr,
Or want a hand, beholding her,
Whose awing graces well might make
Th' assured'st pencil to mistake.
To her and truth, then, what a crime,
To us, to all the world, and time,
(Who most will want her copy) 'twere
To have it then unlike appear!
But she's preserved from that fate,
Thou know'st so well to imitate,
And in that imitation show
What oil and colour mixt can do,
So well, that had this piece the grace
Of motion, she and none else has;
Or, if it could the odour breathe,
That her departing sighs bequeath,
And had her warmth, it then would be
Her glorious self, and none but she.
So well 'tis done! But thou canst go
No farther than what art can do:
And when all's done, this, thou hast made,
Is but a nobler kind of shade;

And thou, though thou hast play'd thy part,'
A painter, no creator, art.

TO CHLORIS.

ODE.

FAREWEI, my sweet, until I come,
Improv'd in merit, for thy sake,
With characters of honour, home,
Such as thou canst not then but take.

To loyalty my love must bow,

My honour too calls to the field, Where, for a lady's busk, I now

Must keen, and sturdy iron wield.

Yet, when I rush into those arms,

Where death and danger do combine, I shall less subject be to harms,

Than to those killing eyes of thine. Since I could live in thy disdain, Thou art so far become my fate, That I by nothing can be slain,

Until thy sentence speaks my date.

But, if I seem to fall in war,

T'excuse the murder you commit, Be to my memory just so far,

As in thy heart t' acknowledge it: That's all I ask; which thou must give To him, that dying, takes a pride It is for thee; and would not live

Sole prince of all the world beside.

ODE.

THE day is set did Earth adorn,

To drink the brewing of the main; And, hot with travel, will ere morn Carouse it to an ebb again.

Then let us drink, time to improve, Secure of Cromwell and his spies; Night will conceal our healths and love, For all her thousand thousand eyes.

CHORUS.

Then let us drink, secure of spies,
To Phoebus, and his second rise.

Without the evening dew and show'rs,

The Earth would be a barren place,
Of trees, and plants, of herbs, and flow'rs,
To crown her now enamell'd face:

Nor can wit spring, or fancies grow,
Unless we dew our heads in wine,
Plump Autumn's wealthy overflow,
And sprightly issue of the vine.

CHORUS.

Then let us drink, secure of spies, To Phoebus, and his second rise. Wine is the cure of cares and sloth, - That rust the metal of the mind; The juice that man to man does both In freedom and in friendship bind. This clears the monarch's cloudy brows, And cheers the hearts of sullen swains; To wearied souls repose allows,

And makes slaves caper in their chains.

CHORUS.

Then let us drink, secure of spies, To Phoebus, and his second rise. Wine, that distributes to each part

Its heat and motion, is the spring; The poet's head, the subject's heart, 'Twas wine made old Anacreon sing. Then let us quaff it, whilst the night Serves but to hide such guilty souls, As fly the beauty of the light;

Or dare not pledge our loyal bowls.

CHORUS.

Then let us revel, quaff, and sing, Health, and his sceptre, to the king.

ODE.

FAIR Isabel, if aught but thee

I could, or would, or like, or love;
If other beauties but approve

To sweeten my captivity:

1 might those passions be above,

Those pow'rful passions, that combine To make and keep me only thine. Or, if for tempting treasure, I

Of, the world's god, prevailing gold,
Could see thy love and my truth sold,
A greater, nobler treasury:

My flame to thee might then grow cold,
And I, like one whose love is sense,
Exchange thee for convenience.

But when I vow to thee, I do

Love thee above or health or peace,
Gold, joy, and all such toys as these,

'Bove happiness and honour too;
Thou then must know, this love can cease,
Nor change for all the glorious show
Wealth and discretion bribes us to.
What such a love deserves, thou, sweet,

As knowing best, may'st best reward:
I, for thy bounty well prepar'd,
With open arms my blessing meet.
Then do not, dear, our joys retard;
But unto him propitious be,
That knows no love, nor life, but thee,

Comer had the first abuse,
Which admitted no excuse ;
But, since Hill so ill did treat him,.
Dick, in wrath, resolv'd to beat him.
Lampon, &c.

Straight a broom-staff was prepar'd,
Which Don Hill no little scar'd;
But he resolv'd, if Dick did baste him,
That his patience should out-last him.
Lampon, &c.

Whilst (good Christian) thus he meant
To despise his punishment,

And first to appease his foe send,
Lo! in sight was Dick's fierce nose-end.
Lampon, &c.

Whom, in terrour, Hill did ask,
If he durst perform his task;

Dick, in wrath, reply'd, “God damn me!
To that purpose now come am I."
Lampon, &c.

And withal, with main and might,
Up he trips this proper knight,
And with such fury he quell'd Hill,
That to the ground he levell'd Hill.
Lampon, &c.

This shows music discord has,
Which the cause of this war was;
And, that Hill's beaten, is a token

That their string of friendship's broken.
Lampon, &c.

Now behold! this mortal cause

Is referr'd to Harry Laws;

And since he's beaten Hill does tell though, Law shall give him salve for's elbow.

Lampon, &c.

ODE.

TO CHLOE.

FALSE on, farewel, thou hast releas'd
The fire imprison'd in my breast;
Your beauties make not half the show
They did a year or two ago:
For now I find

The beauties those fair walls enshrin'd,
Foul and deform'd appear,
Ah! where

In woman is a spotless mind?

I would not now take up thine eyes,
But in revenge to tyrannize;

Nor should'st thou make me blot my skin
With the black thou wear'st within:
If thou would'st meet,

As brides do, in the nuptial sheet,

I would not kiss nor play;
But say,
Thou nothing hast that can be sweet.

I was betray'd by that fair sign
To entertainment cold within;
But found that fine built fabric lin'd
With so ill contriv'd a mind,

TO CHLORIS FROM FRANCE.

PITY me, Chloris, and the flame
Disdain and distance cannot tame;

And pity my necessity,

That makes my courtship, wanting thee,
Nothing but fond idolatry.

In dark and melancholy groves,
Where pretty birds discourse their loves,
I daily worship on my knee
Thy shadow, all I have of thee,
And sue to that to pity me.

I vow to it the sacred vow,
To thee, and only thee, I owe;
When (as it knew my true intent)
The silent picture gives consent,
And seems to mourn my banishment.
Presaging thence my love's success,
I triumph in my happiness,

And straight consider how each grace
Adorns thy body, or thy face;
Surrender up to my embrace.

I think this little tablet now,
Because less cruel, fair as thou;
I do from it mercy implore,
"Tis the sole saint I do adore ;

I do not think I love thee more.

Yet be not jealous, though I do
Thus doat of it, instead of you;

I love it not, for any line
Where captivating beauties shine;
But only (Chloris) as 'tis thine.
And, though thy shadow here take place,
By intimating future grace,

It goes before, but to impart
To thee how beautiful thou art,
And show a reason for my smart.

Nor is 't improper, sweet, since thou
Art in thy youthful morning now,

Whilst I, depriv'd of thine eye's light,
Do drooping live a tedious night
In Paris, like an anchorite.

Recal me, then, that I may see,
Once more, how fair and kind you be ;
Into thy sunshine call again
Him thus exil'd by thy disdain,
And I'll forget my loss and pain.

AN INVITATION TO PHILLIS. COME, live with me, and be my love, And thou shalt all the pleasures prove, The mountains' tow'ring tops can show, Inhabiting the vales below.

From a brave height my star shall shine T'illuminate the desart clime.