What more were prefects then? The best he was,
And faithfullest expounder of the laws.
Yet in ill times thought all things manag'd best,
When Justice exercis'd her sword the least.
Old Crispus 13 next, pleasant though old, appears,
His wit nor humour yielding to his years.
His temper mild, good-nature join'd with sense,
And manners charming as his eloquence.
Who fitter for a useful friend than he,
To the great ruler of the earth and sea,

If, as his thoughts were just, his tongue were free?
If it were safe to vent his generous mind
To Rome's dire plague, and terrour of mankind;
If cruel Power could softening counsel bear,
But what's so tender as a tyrant's ear;
With whom whoever, though a favourite, spake,
At every sentence set his life at stake,

Though the discourse were of no weightier things,
Than sultry summers, or unhealthful springs?
This well he knew, and therefore never try'd,
With his weak arms, to stem the stronger tide.
Nor did all Rome, grown spiritless, supply
A man that for bold truth durst bravely die.
So, safe by wise complying silence, he
Ev'n in that court did fourscore summers see.
Next him Acilius, though his age the same,
With eager haste to the grand council came:
With him a youth, unworthy of the fate
That did too near his growing virtues wait,
Urg'd by the tyrant's envy, fear, or hate.
(But 'tis long since old age began to be
In noble blood no less than prodigy,
Whence 'tis I'd rather be of giants' birth 14,
A pigmy brother to those sons of Earth.)
Unhappy youth! whom from his destin'd end,
No well-dissembled madness could defend,
When naked in the Alban theatre,

In Libyan bears he fixt his hunting spear.
Who sees not now through the lord's thin dis-
guise,

That long seem'd fool, to prove at last more wise?
That stale court trick is now too open laid:
Who now admires the part old Brutus play'd1?
Those honest times might swallow this pretence,
When the king's beard was deeper than his sense.
Next Rubrius came, though not of noble race,
With equal marks of terrour in his face.
Pale with the gnawing guilt and inward shame
Of an old crime, that is not fit to name.
Worse, yet in scandal taking more delight,
Than the vile pathic 16 that durst satire write.
Montanus' belly next, advancing slow
Before the sweating senator, did go.

Crispinus after, but much sweeter comes,
Scented with costly oils and eastern gums,
More than would serve two funerals for perfumes.
Then Pompey, none more skill'd in the court-

game

Of cutting throats with a soft whisper, came.
Next Fuscus 17, he who many a peaceful day
For Dacian vultures was reserv'd a prey,
Till, having study'd war enough at home,
He led abroad th' unhappy arms of Rome.

13 Who made the jest on Domitian's killing flies. 14 Of an obscure and unknown family. 15 In counterfeiting madness.

16 Nero, who charged his own crimes on Quin

tianus.

17 Conelius Fuscus, who was slain in Dacia.

Cunning Vejento next, and by his side
Bloody Catullus leaning on his guide.
Decrepit, yet a furious lover he,

And deeply smit with charms he could not see.
A monster, that ev'n this worst age outvies,
Conspicuous, and above the common size.
A blind base flatterer, from some bridge or gate 18,
Rais'd to a murdering minister of state;
Deserving still to beg upon the road,
And bless each passing waggon and its load.
None more admir'd the fish; he in its praise
With zeal his voice, with zeal his hands did raise;
But to the left all his fine things did say,
Whilst on his right the unseen turbot lay.
So he the fam❜d Cilician fencer prais'd,
And at each hit with wonder seem'd amaz'd:
So did the scenes and stage machines admire,
And boys that flew through canvass clouds in wire.
Nor came Vejento short; but, as inspir'd
By thee, Bellona, by thy fury fir'd,
Turns prophet. "See the mighty omen, see,"
He cries," of some illustrious victory!
Some captive king thee his new lord shall own;
Or from his British chariot headlong thrown
The proud Arviragus come tumbling down!
The monster's foreign. Mark the pointed spears
That from thy hand on his pierc'd back he wears!"
Who nobler could, or plainer things presage?
Yet one thing 'scap'd him, the prophetic rage
Show'd not the turbot's country, nor its age.

At length by Cæsar the grand question's put: My lords, your judgement; shall the fish be cut?" "Far be it, far from us," Montanus cries; "Let's not dishonour thus the noble prize! A pot of finest earth, thin, deep, and wide, Some skilful quick Prometheus must provide. Clay and the forming wheel prepare with speed. But, Cæsar, be it from henceforth decreed, That potters on the royal progress wait, T'assist in these emergencies of state."

This counsel pleas'd; nor could it fail to take, So fit, so worthy of the man that spake. The old court riots he remember'd well; Could tales of Nero's midnight suppers tell, When Falern wines the labouring lungs did fire, And to new dainties kindled false desire. In arts of eating, none more early train'd, None in my time had equal skill attain'd. He, whether Circe's rock his oysters bore, Or Lucrine lake, or the Rutupian shore, Knew at first taste, nay at first sight could tell A crab or lobster's country by its shell.

They rise; and straight all, with respectful awe, At the word given, obsequiously withdraw, Whom, full of eager haste, surprise, and fear, Our mighty prince had summon'd to appear; As if some news he 'd of the Catti tell, Or that the fierce Sicambrians did rebel : As if expresses from all parts had come With fresh alarms threatening the fate of Rome. What folly this! But, oh! that all the rest Of his dire reign had thus been spent in jest; And all that time such trifles had employ'd In which so many nobles he destroy'd; He safe, they unreveng'd, to the disgrace Of the surviving, tame, patrician race! But, when he dreadful to the rabble grew, Him, whom so many lords had slain, they slew.

18 The common stands for beggars,

DAMON AND ALEXIS.

DAMON.

TELL me, Alexis, whence these sorrows grow?
From what hid spring do these salt torrents flow?
Why hangs the head of my afflicted swain;
Like bending lilies over-charg'd with rain?"

ALEXIS,

Ah, Damon, if what you already see
Can move thy gentle breast to pity me;

How would thy sighs with mine in concert join,
How would thy tears swell up the tide of mine,
Couldst thou but see (but, oh, no light is there,
But blackest clouds of darkness and despair!)
Could'st thou but see the torments that within
Lie deeply lodg'd, and view the horrid scene!
View all the wounds, and every fatal dart
That sticks and rankles in my bleeding heart!
No more, ye swains, Love's harmless anger fear,
For he has empty'd all his quiver here.
Nor thou, kind Damon, ask me why I grieve,
But rather wonder, wonder that I live.

DAMON.

Unhappy youth! too well, alas! I know The pangs despairing lovers undergo! [Imperfect.]

CELIA AND DORINDA.

WHEN first the young Alexis saw
Celia to all the plain give law,
The haughty Cælia, in whose face
Love dwelt with fear, and pride with grace;
When every swain he saw submit
To her commanding eyes and wit,
How could th' ambitious youth aspire
To perish by a nobler fire?

With all the power of verse he strove
The lovely shepherdess to move:
Verse, in which the gods delight,

That makes nymphs love, and heroes fight;
Verse, that once rul'd all the plain,
Verse, the wishes of a swain.

How oft has Thyrsis' pipe prevail'd,

Where Egon's flocks and herds have fail'd?
Fair Amaryllis, was thy mind
Ever to Damon's wealth inclin'd;
Whilst Lycidas's gentle breast,
With love, and with a Muse possest,
Breath'd forth in verse his soft desire,
Kindling in thee his gentle fire?
[Imperfect.]

T-b, S, F, and thousands more,
Must now return to what they were before.
No more in glittering coaches shall they ride,
No more the feathers show the coxcombs' pride.
For thee, poor! my Muse does kindly weep,
To see disbanded colonels grown so cheap.
So younger brothers, with fat jointures fed,
Go despicable, once their widows dead.
No ship, by tempest from her anchor torn,
Is half so lost a thing, and so forlorn.
On every stall, in every broker's shop,
Hang up the plumes of the dismantled fop;
Trophies like these we read not of in story,
By other ways the Romans got their glory.
But in this, as in all things, there's a doom,
Some die i' th' field, and others starve at home.

TO A

ROMAN CATHOLIC UPON MARRIAGE. CENSURE and penances, excommunication, Are bug-bear words to fright a bigot nation; But 'tis the Church's more substantial curse, To damn us all for better and for worse. Falsely your church seven sacraments does frame, Penance and matrimony are the same.

CELIA'S SOLILOQUY.

MISTRESS of all my senses can invite,
Free as the air, and unconfin'd as light;
Queen of a thousand slaves, that fawn and bow,
And, with submissive fear, my power allow,
Should I exchange this noble state of life
To gain the vile detested name of Wife;
Should I my native liberty betray,

Call him my lord, who at my footstool lay?

A FRAGMENT.

AND yet he fears to use them, and be free; Yet some have ventur'd, and why should not all? Let villains, perjur'd, envious, and malicious, The wretched miser and the midnight murderer; Betrayers of their country, or their friend, (And every guilty breast) fear endless torment, Blue lakes of brimstone, unextinguish'd fires, Scorpions and whips, and all that guilt deserves;

Let these, and only these, thus plague themselves.
For though they fear what neither shall nor can be,
'Tis punishment enough it makes them live,
Live, to endure the dreadful apprehension
Of death, to them so dreadful; but why dreadful,
At least to virtuous minds?-To be at rest,
To sleep, and never hear of trouble more,
Say, is this dreadful? Heart, wouldst thou be at
quiet?

Dost thou thus beat for rest, and long for ease,
And not command thy friendly hand to help thee?
What hand can be so easy as thy own,

To apply the medicine that cures all diseases?

AN EPISTLE'

TO MR. OTWAY.

DEAR Tom, how melancholy I am grown
Since thou hast left this learned dirty town,
To thee by this dull letter be it known.
Whilst all my comfort, under all this care,
Are duns, and puns, and logic, and small beer.
Thou seest I'm dull as Shadwell's men of wit,
Or the top scene that Settle ever writ:
The sprightly court that wander up and down
From gudgeons to a race, from town to town,
All, all are fled; but them I well can spare,
For I'm so dull I have no business there.
I have forgot whatever there I knew,
Why men one stocking tye with ribbon blue:
Why others medals wear, a fine gilt thing,
That at their breasts hang dangling by a string;
(Yet stay, I think that I to mind recal,
For once3 a squirt was rais'd by Windsor wall).
I know no officer of court; nay more,
No dog of court, their favourite before.
Should Veny fawn, I should not understand her,
Nor who committed incest for Legander.
Unpolish'd thus, an arrant scholar grown,
What should I do but sit and coo alone,
And thee, my absent mate, for ever moan.
Thus 'tis sometimes, and sorrow plays its part,
Till other thoughts of thee revive my heart.
For, whilst with wit, with women, and with wine,
Thy glad heart beats, and noble face does shine,
Thy joys we at this distance feel and know;
Thou kindly wishest it with us were so.

Then thee we name; this heard, cries James, " For him,

Leap up, thou sparkling wine, and kiss the brim:
Crosses attend the man who dares to flinch,
Great as that man deserves who drinks not Finch."
But these are empty joys, without you two,
We drink your names, alas! but where are you?
My dear, whom I more cherish in my breast
Than by thy own soft Muse can be exprest;
True to thy word, afford one visit more,
`Else I shall grow, from him thou lov❜dst before,
A greasy blockhead fellow in a gown,
(Such as is, sir, a cousin of your own)
With my own hair, a band, and ten long nails,
And wit that at a quibble never fails.

In answer to one in Otway's Poems. Mr. Duke was then at Cambridge. Sir Samuel Moreland. DUKE.

AD THOMAM OTWAY.

MUSARUM nostrûmque decus, charissime Thoma,
O animæ melior pars, Otoæe, meæ;
Accipe quæ sacri tristes ad littora Cami
Avulsi vestro flevimus à gremio.

Quot mihi tunc gemitus ex imo pectore ducti,
Perque meas lacrymæ quot cecidere genas,
Et salices testes, & plurima testis arundo,
Et Camus pigro tristior amne fluens.
Audiit ipse etenim Deus, & miserata dolores
Lubrica paulisper constitit unda meos.
Tunc ego; vos nymphæ viridi circumlita musca
Atria quæ colitis, tuque, verende Deus,
Audite O qualem absentem ploramus amicum,
Audite ut lacrymis auctior amnis eat.
Pectoris is candore nives, constantibus arcti
Stellam animis, certâ fata vel ipsa fide;
Ille & Amore columbas, ille & Marte leones
Vincit, Pierias ingenioque Deas,

Sive vocat jocus, & charites, & libera vini
Gaudia, cumque suâ matre sonandus Amor.
Ille potest etiam numeros æquare canendo
Sive tuos, Ovidi, sive, Catulle, tuos.
Sive admirantis moderatur fræna theatri,
Itque cothurnato Musa superba pede,
Fulmina vel Sophoclis Lycophrontæasve tene-
bras,

Carminis aut fastus, Eschyle magne, tui,
Vincit munditiis & majestate decorâ,

Tam bene naturam pingere docta manus, Hæc ego, cum spectans labentia flumina, versus Venere in mentem, magne poeta tui.