Which when it comes will raise me above men Greater than crowned monarchs are, and then I'll not exchange my cottage for Whitehall, Windsor, the Louvre, or th' Escurjal.

ANACREONTIC.

PILL a bowl of lusty wine,
Briskest daughter of the vine;
Fill't until it sea like flow,

That my cheek may once more glow.
I am fifty winters old,

Blood then stagnates and grows cold;
And when youthful heat decays,
We must help it by these ways.
Wine breeds mirth, and mirth imparts
Heat and courage to our hearts,
Which in old men else are lead,
And not warm'd, would soon be dead.

Now I'm sprightly, fill again,
Stop not though they mount to ten;
Though I stagger, do not spare,
'Tis to rock and still my ear;
Though I stammer, 'tis no matter,
I should do the same with water:
When I belch, I am but trying
How much better 'tis than sighing;
If a tear spring in mine eye,
"Tis for joy, not grief, I cry:
This is living without thinking,
These are the effects of drinking.

Fill amain, (boy) fill amain,
Whilst I drink I feel no pain;
Gout or palsy I have none,
Hang the cholic and the stone:
I methinks grow young again,
New blood springs in ev'ry vein;
And supply it (sirrah!) still,
Whilst drink you sure may fill :
If I nod, boy, rouse me up
With a bigger, fuller cup;
But when that, boy, will not do,
Faith e'en let me then go to;
For 'tis better far to lie
Down to sleep, than down to die.

BURLESQUE.

UPON THE GREAT FROST.

TO JOHN BRADSHAW, ESQ.

You now, sir, may, and justly, wonder
That I, who did of late so thunder
Your frontier garrison by th' terry,
Should on a sudden grow so weary;
And thence may raise a wrong conclusion,
That you have bobb'd my resolution;
Or else that my poetic battery,
With which so smartly I did patter ye,
(Though I am not in that condition)
Has shot away her animunition;
Or (if in kindness peradventure
You are more gentle in your censure)

That I my writing left pursuing,
'Cause I was weary of ill doing.
Now of these three surmises any,
Except the last, might pass with many;
But such as know me of the nation,
Know I so hate all reformation,
Since so much harm to do I've seen it,
That in myself I'll ne'er begin it;
And should you under your hand give it,
Not one of twenty would believe it.

But I must tell you, in brief clauses,
If you to any of these causes

Impute the six weeks' truce I've given,
That you are wide, sir, the whole Heaven:
For know, though I appear less eager,
I never mean to raise my leaguer,
Till or by storm, or else by famine,
I force you to the place I am in:
Yourself sans art cle to tender,
Unto discretion to surrender;

Where see what comes of your vain glory,
To make me lie so long before ye.
To show you next I want no powder,

I thus begin to batter louder;

And for the last vain hope that fed ye,

I think I've answer'd it already.

Now, to be plain, although your spirit
Will ill, I know, endure to hear it,
You must of force at least miscarry,

For reasons supernumerary:

And though I know you will be striving
To do what lies in mortal living,
And may, it may be, a month double
To lie before you give me trouble,

(Though with the stronger men but vapour ill)
And hold out stiff till th' end of April,
Or possibly a few days longer;

Yet then you needs must yield for hunger,
When, having eaten all provisions,
You're like to make most brave conditions.

Now having friendship been so just to,
To tell you what you're like to trust to,
I'll next acquaint you with one reason
I've let you rest so long a season,
And that my Muse has been so idle:
Know Pegasus has got a bridle,
A bit and curb of crusted water,
Or if I call't plain ice, no matter,
With which he now is so commanded,
His days of galloping are ended,
Unless I with the spur do prick him;
Nay, rather though I whip and kick him:
He, who unbidden us'd to gambol,
Can now nor prance, nor trot, nor amble,
Nor stir a foot to take his airing,
But stands stiff froze, like that at Charing,
With two feet up, two down: 'tis pity
He's not erected in the city.

But, to leave fooling, I assure ye There never was so cold a fury Of nipping frost, and pinching weather, Since Eve and Adam met together. Our Peak, that always has been famous For cold, wherewith to cramp and lame us, Worse than its If, did now resemble a Certain damn'd place call'd Nova Zembla, And we who boast us human creatures, Had happy been had we chang'd features, Garments at leas, though theirs be shabbed, With those who that cold place inhabit,

The bears and foxes, who sans question
Than we by odds have warmer vests on.
How cold that country is, he knows most
Has there his fingers and his toes lost;
But here I know that every member
Alike was handled by December:

Who blew his nose had clout or fist all,
Instead of snivel fill'd with crystal:
As men were fierce, or gentle handed,
Their fists were clutch'd, or palms expanded;
Limbs were extended, or contracted,
As use or humour most affected;
For, as men did to th' air expose 'em,
It catch'd and in that figure froze 'em ;
Of which think me not over ample,
If I produce you here example:
Where, though I am believ'd by scarce one,
None will, I hope, suspect the person,
Who, from lies he far remote is,
Will give in verbo sacerdotis.

One going to discharge at wild duck,
Had for his recompence the ill luck
(Or my informer's an impostor)
To be in that presenting posture,
Surpris'd with his left eye fast winking,
Till by good fires, and hot things drinking,
He thaw'd, to the beholders' laughter,
Unto itself a few hours after.

Two towns, that long that war had waged,
Being at foot-ball now engaged
For honour, as both sides pretended,
Left the brave trial to be ended
Till the next thaw, for they were frozen
On either part at least a dozen;
With a good handsome space between 'em,
Like Rollrich stones, if you've seen 'em,
And could no more run, kick, or trip ye,
Than I can quaff off Aganippe;
Till ale, which crowns all such pretences,
Mull'd them again into their senses.
A maid, compell'd to be a gadder,
T'abate th' extension of her bladder,
Which is an importuning matter,
Was so supported by her water,
To ease her knees with a third pillar,
That as she sat, the poor distiller
Look'd on the tripod, like the famous
Astrologer hight Nostradamus.
These stories sound so very oddly,
That though men may be pretty godly,

One should though store of mustard give 'em,
Ere they expect they should believe 'em.
But, to allure your faith a little,
What follows true is to a tittle:
Our country air was, in plain dealing,
Some weeks together so congealing,
That if, as men are rude in this age,
One spit had in another's visage;
The constable by th' back had got him,
For he infallibly had shot him.

Nay, friend with friend, brother with brother,
Must needs have wounded one another
With kindest words, were they not wary
To make their greetings sideways carry ;
For all the words that came from gullets,
If long, were slugs; if short ones, bullets.
You might have read from mouths (sans fable)
"Your humble servant, sir," in label:
Like those (yet theirs were warmer quarters)
We see in Fox's Book of Martyrs.

Eyes that were weak, and apt to water,
Wore spectacles of their own matter ;
And noses that to drop were ceased,
To such a longitude increased,
That whoe'er wrung for ease or losses,
Snapp'd off two handfuls of proboscis.
Beards were the strangest things, God save us!
Such as dame Nature never gave us !
So wild, so pointed, and so staring,
That I should wrong them by comparing
Hedgehogs, or porcupines' small taggers,
To their more dangerous swords and daggers.
Mustachios look'd like heroes' trophies
Behind their arms i' th' herald's office;
The perpendicular beard appear'd
Like hop-poles in a hop-yard rear'd:
'Twixt these the underwoody acres
Look'd just like bavins at a baker's,
To heat the oven mouth most ready,
Which seem'd to gape for heat already.
In mouths with salivation flowing,
The horrid hairs about 'em growing,
Like reeds look'd, in confused order,
Growing about a fish-pond's border.
But stay, myself I caught have tripping,
(This frost is perilous for slipping)
I've brought this stupifying weather,
These elements, too near together;
The bearded, therefore, look'd as Nature,
Instead of forming human creature,
So many garrisons had made us,
Our beards t' our sconces palisadoes.
Perukes now stuck so firm and stedfast,
They all were riveted to head fast ;
Men that bought wigs to go a wooing,
Had them made natural now and growing:
But let them have a care, for truly
The hair will fall 'twixt this and July.
The tender ladies, and the lasses,
Were vitrifi'd to drinking-glasses,
Contriv'd to such an admiration,
After so odd fantastic fashion,
One scarce knew at which end to guzzle,
The upper or the lower muzzle.
The earth to that degree was crusted,
That, let me never more be trusted,
(I speak without poetic figure)
If I don't think a lump no bigger
Than a good walnut, had it hit one,
Would as infallibly have split one,
As cannon-shot, that killing's sure at,
Had not both been alike obdurate.
The very rocks, which in all reason
Should stoutli'st have withstood the season,
Repetrifi'd with harder matter,
Had no more privilege than water.
Had Pegasus struck such a mountain,
It would have fail'd him for a fountain:
'Twas well Parnassus, when he started,
Prov'd to his hoof more tender-hearted,
Or else of Greece the sullen bully,
And Trojan Hector, had been dully
In threadbare prose, alas! related,
Which now in song are celebrated;
For steed poetic ne'er had whined
Greek Iliad, or Latin Æneid:
Nor Nero writ his ribble rabbles

Of sad complaints, love, and strange fables:
Then too Anacreon and Flaccus
Had ne'er made odes in praise of Bacchus,

And taught blind harpers for their bread sneak,
From feast to feast to make cats dead squeak.
Nor Martial giv'n so great offences,
With epigrams of double senses.

Rhyme then had ne'er been scann'd on fingers,
No ballad-makers then, or singers,

Had e'er been heard to twang out metre,
Music than which back-drones make sweeter:
Of poetry, that writing mystic,
There had not extant been one distich;
And, which is worst, the noblest sort on't,
And to the world the most important
Of th' whole poetical creation,
Burlesque, had never been in fashion.
But how have I this while forgot so
My mistress dove, who went to pot too,
My white dove, that was smoking ever,
In spite of winter's worst endeavour,
And still could so evade or fly him,
As never to be pinion'd by him:
Now, numb'd with bitterness of weather,
Had not the pow'r to stir a feather;
Wherein the nymph was to be pity'd,
But flagg'd her wings, and so submitted.
The ruffian bound though, knowing's betters,
Her silver feet in crystal fetters;

In which estate we saw poor Dove lie,
Even in captivity more lovely:
But in the fate of this bright princess
Reason itself, you know, convinces,
That her pinniferous fry must die all,
Imprison'd in the crystal vial;

And doubtless there was great mortality
Of trout and grailing of great quality,
Whom love and honour did importune
To stick to her in her misfortune,
Though we shall find, no doubt, good dishes
Next summer of plebeian fishes;
Or, if with greater art and trouble,
An old patrician trout we bubble,
In better liquor swim we'll make him,

By odds, than that from whence we take him,
Now, though I have in stuff confounded,
Of small truths and great lies compounded,
Giv'n an account, that we in England
May, for cold weather, vie with Greenland,
I ha'n't yet the main reason given,
Why I so very long have driven

My answer to the last you sent me,
Which did so highly compliment me:
Know, therefore, that both ink and cotton
So desperately hard were gotten,
It was impossible by squeezing
To get out either truth or leasing:
My fingers, too, no more being jointed,
My love and manners disappointed;
Nay, I was numb'd on that strange fashion,
I could not sign an obligation,

(Though Heaven such a friend ne'er sent me)
Would one a thousand pounds have lent me
On my own bond; and who is 't buckles
To writing, pray, that has no knuckles?
But now I'm thaw'd beyond all conscience
Into a torrent of damn'd nonsense:
Yet still in this our climate frigid
I'm one day limber, next day rigid;
Nay, all things yet remain so crusty,
That were I now but half so lusty

As when we kiss'd four months agone,
And had but Dutch galloshoes on,
At one run I would slide to Lon-
But surely this transforming weather
Will soon take leave for altogether;
Then what now Lapland seems, in May
You'll swear is sweet Arcadia.

CLEPSYDRA.

WHY, let it run! who bids it stay?
Let us the while be merry;
Time there in water creeps away,
With us it posts in sherry.

Time not employ'd's an empty sound,
Nor did kind Heaven lend it,

But that the glass should quick go round,
And men in pleasure spend it.

Then set thy foot, brave boy, to mine,
Ply quick to cure our thinking;
An hour-glass in an hour of wine
Would be but lazy drinking.

The man that snores the hour-glass out
Is truly a time-waster;

But we, who troll this glass about,

Make him to post it faster.

Yet though he flies so fast, some think, 'Tis well known to the sages,

He'll not refuse to stay and drink,

And yet perform his stages.

Time waits us whilst we crown the hearth,
And doats on ruby faces,

And knows that this career of mirth
Will help to mend our paces.

He stays with him that loves good time,
And never does refuse it,
And only runs away from him

That knows not how to use it.
He only steals by without noise

From those in grief that waste it,
But lives with the mad roaring boys
That husband it, and taste it.
The moralist, perhaps, may prate
Of virtue from his reading;
'Tis all but stale and foisted chat
To men of better breeding.
Time, to define it, is the space

That men enjoy their being;
'Tis not the hour, but drinking glass,
Makes time and life agreeing.

He wisely does oblige his fate,

Does cheerfully obey it,
And is of fops the greatest, that

By temp'rance thinks to stay it.
Come, ply the glass then quick about,
To titillate the gullet;

Sobriety's no charm, I doubt,

Against a cannon bullet.

ECLOGUE.

CORYDON, CLOTTEN.

CORYDON.

RISE, Clotten, rise, take up thy pipe and play, The shepherds want thee, 'tis Pan's holiday; And thou, of all the swains, wert wont to be The first to grace that great solemnity.

CLOTTEN.

True, Corydon; but then I happy was, And in Pan's favour had a minion's place: Clotten had then fair flocks, the finest fleece These plains and mountains yielded then was his. In these auspicious times the fruitful dams Brought me the earliest and the kindli'st lambs ; Nor nightly watch about them need I keep, For Pan himself was shepherd to my sheep: But now, alas! neglected and forgot Are all my off'rings, and he knows me not. The bloody wolf, that lurks away the day, When night's black palm beckons him out to prey Under the cover of those guilty shades, No folds but mine the rav'nous foe invades ; And there he has such bloody havock made, That, all my flock being devour'd or stray'd, I now have lost the fruits of all my pain, And am no more a shepherd, but a swain.

CORYDON.

So sad a tale thou tell'st me, that I must
Allow thy grief (my Clotten) to be just;
But mighty Pan has thousand flocks in store;
He, when it pleases him, can give thee more,
And has perhaps afflicted thee, to try
Thy virtue only, and thy constancy.
Repine not then at him, that thou art poor,
'Twas by his bounty thou wert rich before;

And thou should'st serve him at the same free rate,
When most distress'd, as when most fortunate.

CLOTTEN.

[wise;

Thus do the healthful still the sick advise, And thus men preach when they would fain seem But if in my wretched estate thou wert, I fear me thy philosophy would start, And give thee o'er to an afflicted sense, As void of reason as of patience. Had I been always poor, I should not be, Perhaps, so discontent with poverty, Nor now so sensible of my disgrace, Had I ne'er known what reputation was; But from so great a height of happiness To sink into the bottom of distress, Is such a change as may become my care, And more than, I confess, I well can bear.

CORYDON.

But art thou not too sensible, my lad, Of those few losses thou hast lately had? Thou art not yet in want, thou still dost eat Bread of the finest flour of purest wheat ; Who better cider drinks, what shepherd's board Does finer curds, butter, or cheese afford? Who wears a frock, to grace a holiday, Spun of a finer wool, or finer grey? Whose cabin is so neatly swept as thine, With flow'rs and rushes kept so sweet and fine?

Whose name amongst our many shepherds' swain s
So great as thine is throughout all these plains?
Who has so many friends, so pretty loves!
Who by our bubbling fountains and green groves
Passes away the summer heats so well?
And who but thee in singing does excel?
So that the swains, when Clotten sings or plays,
Lay down their pipes, and listen to his lays.
Wherein then can consist, I fain would know,
The misery that thou complain'st of so?

CLOTTEN.

Some of these things are true: but, Corydon,
That which maintain'd all these, alas! is gone.
The want of wealth I reckon not distress,
But of enough to do good offices;
Which growing less, those friends will fall away;
Poverty is the ground of all decay.
With our prosperities our friendships end,
And to misfortune no one is a friend,
Which I already find to that degree,
That my old friends are now afraid of me,
And all avoid me, as good men would fly
The common hangman's shameful company.
Those who by fortune were advanc'd above,
Being oblig'd by my most ready love,
Shun me, for fear lest my necessity

Should urge what they're unwilling to deny,
And are resolv'd they will not grant; and those
Have shar'd my meat, my money, and my clothes,
Grown rich with others' spoils as well as mine,
The coming near me now do all decline,
Lest shame and gratitude should draw them in,
To be to me what I to them have been;
By which means I am stripp'd of all supplies,
And left alone to my own miseries.

CORYDON.

In the relation that thy grief has made,
The world's false friendships are too true display'd;
But courage, man, thou hast one friend in store,
Will ne'er forsake thee for thy being poor:

I will be true to thee in worst estate,
And love thee more now, than when fortunate.

CLOTTEN.

All goodness then on Earth I see's not lost, I of one friend in misery can boast, Which is enough, and peradventure more Than any one could ever do before; And I to thee as true a friend will prove, Not to abuse, but to deserve, thy love.

TO MY DEAR AND MOST WORTHY FRIEND, MR. ISAAC WALTON. WHILST in this cold and blust'ring clime, Where bleak winds howl, and tempests roar, We pass away the roughest time

Has been for many years before:

Whilst from the most tempest'ous nooks
The chillest blasts our peace invade,
And by great rains our smallest brooks
Are almost navigable made:

Whilst all the ills are so improv'd
Of this dead quarter of the year,
That even you, so much belov'd,
We would not now wish with us here:

In this estate, I say, it is

Some comfort to us to suppose, That in a better clime than this

You, our dear friend, have more repose:

And some delight to me the while,

Though Nature now does weep in rain, To think that I have seen her smile, And haply may I do again. If the all-ruling Power please We live to see another May, We'll recompense an age of these

Foul days in one fine fishing day: We then shall have a day or two,

Perhaps a week, wherein to try What the best master's hand can do With the most deadly killing fly: A day without too bright a beam,

A warm, but not a scorching Sun,
A southern gale to curl the stream,

And (master) half our work is done.
There, whilst behind some bush we wait
The scaly people to betray,
We'll prove it just with treach'rous bait

To make the preying trout our prey :
And think ourselves in such an hour

Happier than those, though not so high, Who, like leviathans, devour

Of meaner men the smaller fry.

This (my best friend) at my poor home
Shall be our pastime and our theme;
But then, should you not deign to come,
You make all this a flatt'ring dream.

ΤΟ

THE COUNTESS of chesterfield,

ON THE BIRTH OF HER FIRST SON.

MADAM, let an humble stranger
Give you joy, without the danger

Of correction from your brow;

And I fancy 'tis not easy
For the rudest to displease ye,

Y'are in so good an humour now.
Such a treasure you have brought us,
As in gratitude has taught us

To praise and bless your happy womb;

And since you have oblig'd so many,
You cannot but expect sure (can ye?)

To be thank'd at least by some.

A more wish'd-for heir by Heaven

Ne'er to family was given,

Nor a braver boy to boot;
Finer ne'er was born before him,
One may know who got and bore him,
And now-a-days 'tis hard to do't.

You copy well, for which the rather,
Since you so well have hit the father,

Madam, once more try your skill,
To bring of th'other sex another
As fair, and good, and like the mother,
And double 'em after when you will

TO CHLORIS.

STANZES IRREGULIERS.

LORD! how you take upon you still!

How you crow and domineer ! How! still expect to have your will, And carry the dominion clear,

As you were still the same that once you were!
Fie, Chloris! 'tis a gross mistake,
Correct your errour, and be wise;

I kindly still your kindness take,

But yet have learn'd, though love I prize,,
Your froward humours to despise,

And now disdain to call them cruelties.

I was a fool whilst you were fair,
And I had youth t' excuse it,

And all the rest are so that lovers are;
I then myself your vassal swear,
And could be still so, (which is rare)
Nay, I could force my will

To love, and at a good rate still,
But on condition that you not abuse it;
I am now master of the gate,
And therefore, Chloris, 'tis too late

Or to insult, or to capitulate.
'Tis beauty that to womankind
Gives all the rule and sway,
Which once declining, or declin'd,

Men afterwards unwillingly obey:
Your beauty 'twas at first did awe me,
And into bondage, woeful bondage, draw me;
It was your cheek, your eye, your lip,
Which rais'd you first to the dictatorship.

But your six months are now expir'd,
'Tis time I now should reign;
And if from you obedience be requir'd,
You must not to submit disdain,
But practise what y'ave seen me do,
And love and honour me, as I did you ;
That will an everlasting peace maintain,
And make me crown you sovereign once again.
And, faith, consult your glass, and see
If I ha'n't reason on my side;
Are those eyes still the same they use to be?
Come, come, they're alter'd, 'twill not be de-
And yet although the glass be true,
And show you, you no more are you,
I know you'll scarce believe it,

[ny'd;

For womankind are all born proud, and never,

never leave it.

Yet still you have enough, and more than needs, To rule a more rebellious heart than mine; For as your eyes still shoot, my heart still bleeds, And I must be a subject still,

Nor is it much against my will,

Though I pretend to wrestle and repine:
Your beauties sweet are in their height,
And I must still adore ;

New years, new graces still create,
Nay, maugre time, mischance, and fate,
You in your very ruins shall have more
Than all the beauties that have grac'd the world

before.