Not the fair fruit that on yon' branches glows
With that ripe red th' autumnal fun bestows;
Nor tafteful herbs that in these gardens rife,
Which the kind foil with milky fap supplies;
You, only you, can move the God's defire:
Oh crown fo conftant and so pure a fire!
Let foft compaffion touch your gentle mind;
Think, 'tis Vertumnus begs you to be kind!
So may no froft, when early buds appear,
Destroy the promise of the youthful year;
Nor winds, when first your florid orchard blows, 110
Shake the light blossoms from their blasted boughs!
This when the various God had urg'd in vain,
He ftrait affum'd his native form again;
Such, and so bright an aspect now he bears,
As when thro' clouds th' emerging fun appears, 115 And thence exerting his refulgent ray,
Dispels the darkness, and reveals the day.
Force he prepar'd, but check'd the rash design;
For when, appearing in a form divine,
The Nymph furveys him, and beholds the grace 120
Of charming features, and a youthful face!
In her soft breast consenting paffions move,
And the warm maid confefs'd a mutual love.
Done by the AUTHOR in his Youth.
CHAU CE R.
WOMEN ben full of Ragerie,
Yet fwinken nat fans fecrefie.
Thilke moral shall ye understond,
From Schoole-boy's Tale of fayre Irelond:
Which to the Fennes hath him betake,
To filch the gray Ducke fro the Lake.
Right then, there paffen by the Way
His Aunt, and eke her Daughters tway.
Ducke in his Trowses hath he hent,
Not to be fpied of Ladies gent.
"But ho! our Nephew, (crieth one)
"Ho! quoth another, Cozen John;
And stoppen, and lough, and callen out,-
This fely Clerk full low doth lout:
They asken that, and talken this,
"Lo here is Coz, and here is Mifs.
But, as he glozeth with Speeches foote,
The Ducke fore tickleth his Erfe roote:
Fore-piece and buttons all-to-brest,
Forth thruft a white neck, and red crest.
Te-he, cry'd Ladies; Clerke nought spake:
Mifs ftar'd; and gray Ducke crieth Quaake.
"O Moder, Moder, (quoth the daughter)
"Be thilke fame thing Maids longer a'ter?
"Bette is to pyne on coals and chalke,
"Then truft on Mon, whofe yerde can talke.
IN ev'ry Town, where Thamis rolls his Tyde,
A narrow Pafs there is, with Houses low; Where ever and anon, the Stream is ey'd, And many a Boat soft sliding to and fro.
There oft are heard the notes of Infant Woe,
The short thick Sob, loud Scream, and shriller Squall:
How can ye, Mothers, vex your Children fo?
Some play, fome eat, fome cack against the wall, And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call.
And on the broken pavement, here and there,
Doth many a ftinking sprat and herring lic;
A brandy and tobacco fhop is near,
And hens, and dogs, and hogs are feeding by;
And here a failor's jacket hangs to dry.
At ev'ry door are fun-burnt matrons seen,
Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry;
Now finging fhrill, and fcolding eft between ;
Scolds anfwer foul-mouth'd scolds; bad neighbour-
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