My Father to get my Estate,

Though selfish yet was slavish;
I'll spend it at another Rate,

And be as lewdly lavish.
From Madmen, Fools and Knaves he did

Litigiously receive it ;
If so he did Justice forbid,

But I to such should leave it.

Then I'll to Court, where Venus' Sport

Doth revel it in Plenty,
And deal with all both great and small

From Twelve to Five and Twenty.
In Playhouses I'll spend my Days,

For there are Store of Misses-
Ladies, make Room, behold I come

To purchase many Kisses.

The Forward Lover

TUSH! never tell me I'm too young

For loving, or too green;
She stays at least seven Years too long,

That's wedded at Eighteen.
Lambs bring forth Lambs, and Doves bring Doves,

As soon as they're begotten :
Then why should ladies linger Loves,

As if not ripe till rotten?

Grey Hairs are fitter for the Grave

Than for the bridal Bed,
What Pleasure can a Lover have

In a wither'd Maidenhead ?
Nature's exalted in our Time,

And what our Grandames then
At Four and Twenty scarce could climb,
We can arrive at Ten.

AH, Chloris ! that I now could sit

As unconcern'd, as when Your infant Beauty could beget

No Pleasure nor no Pain.

When I the Dawn used to admire,

And praised the coming Day,
I little thought the growing Fire

Must take my Rest away.

Your Charms in harmless Childhood lay,

Like Metals in the Mine :
Age from no Face took more away,

Than Youth conceal'd in thine.

But as your Charms insensibly

To their Perfection press'd, Fond Love as unperceiv'd did fly,

And in my Bosom rest.

My Passion with your Beauty grew,

And Cupid at my Heart,
Still as his Mother favour'd you,

Threw a new flaming Dart.

Each gloried in their wanton Part;

To make a Lover, he
Employ'd the utmost of his Art,

To make a Beauty she.

Though now I slowly bend to Love,

Uncertain of my Fate,
If your fair Self my Chains approve,

I shall my Freedom hate.
Lovers, like dying Men, may well

At first disorder'd be ;
Since none alive can truly tell
What Fortune they must see.

LOVE still has something of the Sea,

From whence his Mother rose, No Time his Slaves from Doubt can free,

Nor give their Thoughts Repose.

They are becalm'd in clearest Days,

And in rough Weather tost; They wither under cold Delays,

Or are in Tempests lost.

One while they seem to touch the Port,

Then straight into the Main Some angry Wind in cruel Sport

The Vessel drives again.

At first Disdain and Pride they fear,

Which, if they chance to’scape, Rivals and Falsehood soon appear

In a more dreadful Shape.

By such Degrees to Joy they come,

And are so long withstood,
So slowly they receive the Sum,

It hardly does them good.

'Tis cruel to prolong a Pain,

And to defer a Joy,
Believe me, gentle Celemene

Offends the winged Boy.

An hundred thousand Oaths

your

Fears Perhaps would not remove, And if I gazed a thousand years

I could no deeper love.

FAIR Aminta, art thou mad

To let the World in me
Envy Joys I never had,

And censure them in thee?

Fill'd with Grief for what is past,

Let us at length be wise,
And to Love's true Enjoyments haste

Since we have paid the Price.

Love does easy Souls despise,

Who lose themselves for Toys,
And Escape for those devise,

Who taste his utmost Joys.

Love should, like the Year, be crown'd

With sweet Variety ;
Hope should in the Spring abound,

Kind Fears and Jealousie.

In the Summer Flow'rs should rise

And in the Autumn Fruit ;
His Spring doth else but mock our Eyes,

And in a Scoff salute.

Advice to the Old Beaux

SCRAPE no more your harmless Chins

Old Beaux in Hope to please ; You should repent your former Sins,

Not study their Increase : Young awkward Tops may shock our Sight But you offend by Day and Night.

In vain the Coachman turns about

And whips the dappled Bays,
When the old Ogler looks out

We turn away our Face.
True Love and Youth will ever charm
But, both affected, cannot warm.

Summer Fruits we highly prize,

They kindly cool the Blood;
But Winter Berries we despise,

And leave 'em in the Wood :
On the Bush they may look well,
But, gather'd, lose both Taste and Smell.
That you languish, that you die,

Alas! is but too true :
Yet tax us not with Cruelty,

Who daily pity you.
Nature henceforth alone accuse,
In vain we grant, if she refuse.

Not, Celia, that I juster am

Or better than the Rest,
For I would change each Hour like them

Were not my Heart at Rest.

But I am tied to very thee

By every Thought I have,
Thy Face I only care to see,

Thy Heart I only crave.

All that in Woman is ador'd

In thy dear Self I find,
For the whole Sex can but afford

The handsome and the kind.

Why then should I seek farther Store,

And still make Love anew ?
When Change itself can give no more

'Tis easy to be true.