And that's my end; for man can with no more
Than fo to write, as none e'er writ before;
Yet why am I no poet of the times?
I have allufions, fimilies, and rhymes,
And wit; or elfe 'tis hard that I alone,

Of the whole race of mankind, fhould have none.
Unequally the partial hand of heaven
Has all but this one only bleffing given.
The world appears like a great family,
Whofe lord, opprefs'd with pride and poverty,
(That to a few great bounty he may fhew)
Is fain to ftarve the numerous train below.
Juft fo feems Providence, as poor and vain,
Keeping more creatures than it can maintain :
Here 'tis profufe, and there it meanly faves,
And for one prince, it makes ten thousand flaves.
In wit alone t has been magnificent,
Of which so just a share to each is, fent,
That the moft avaricious are content.
For none e'er thought (the due divifion fuch)
His own too little, or his friend's too much.
Yet moft men fhew, or find, great want of wit,
Writing themselves, or judging what is writ.
But I, who am of fprightly vigour full,
Look on mankind as envious and dull.
Born to myfelf, I like myfelf alone,

}

And must conclude my judgment good, or none;
For could my fenfe be naught, how fhould I know
Whether another man's were good or no?
Thus I refolve of my own poetry,

That 'tis the beft; and there's a fame for me.
If then I'm happy, what does it advance,
Whether to merit due, or arrogance?
Oh, but the world will take offence hereby!
Why then the world fhall fuffer for it, not I.
Did e'er the faucy world and I agree,
To let it have its beaftly will on me?
Why fhould my proflituted sense be drawn,
To every rule their mufty customs fpawn?
But men may cenfure you; 'tis two to one,
Whene'er they cenfure, they 'll be in the wrong.
There's not a thing on earth, that I can name,
So foolish, and fo falfe, as common fame.
It calls the courtier knave, the plain man rude,
Haughty the grave, and the delightful lewd,
Impertinent the brifk, morofe the fad,
Mean the familiar, the referv'd one mad.
Poor helpless woman is not favour'd more,
She's a fly hypocrite, or public whore.
Then who the devil would give this-to be free
From th' innocent reproach of infamy?
These things confider'd, make me (in despight
Of idle rumour) keep at home and write.

A TRIAL OF THE POETS FOR THE BAYS.

IN IMITATION OF A SATIRE IN BOILEAU.

SINCE the fons of the Mufes grew numerous and loud,

For th' appeafing fo factious and clamorous a crowd,

Apollo thought fit, in fo weighty a cause,
T' establish a government, leader, and laws.
The hopes of the bays, at the fummoning call,
Had drawn them together, the devil and all;
All thronging and liftening, they gap'd for the
bleffing:

No prefbyter fermon had more crowding and preffing:

In the head of the gang, John Dryden appear'd,
That ancient grave wit fo long lov'd and fear'd,
But Apollo had heard a story in town,

Of his quitting the Muses, to wear the black gown;
And fo gave him leave now his poetry's done,
To let him turn prieft fince R is turn'd nun.
This reverend author was no fooner fet by,
But Apollo had got gentle George in his eye,
And frankly contefs'd, of all men that writ,
There's none had more fancy, fenfe, judgment,
and wit:

But in th' crying fin, idleness, he was fo harden'd, That his long seven years filence was not to be pardon'd.

Wytwas the next man fhew'd his face. But Apollo e'en thought him too good for the place;

No gentleman writer that office fhould bear,
But a trader in wit the laurel fhould wear,
As none but a Cit-e'er makes a Lord Mayor.
Next in the crowd, Tom Shadwell docs wallow,
And fwears by his guts, his paunch, and his tallow,
That 'tis he alone best pleases the age,

Himfelf and his wife have fupported the stage:
Apollo, well pleas'd with fo bonny a lad,
T'oblige him, he told him, he should be huge
glad,

Had he half fo much wit, as he fancy'd he had.
Nat Lee stepp'd in next, in hopes of a prize,
Apollo remember'd he had hit once in thrice;
By the rubies in's face, he could not deny,
But he had as much wit as wine could fupply;
Confefs'd that indeed he had a musical note,
But fometimes ftrain'd fo hard that he rattled in
throat;

Yet owning he had fenfe, t' encourage him for 't,
He made him his Ovid in Auguftus's court.
Poor Settle, his trial was the next came about,
He brought him an Ibrahim with the preface torn

out,

And humbly defir'd he might give no offence;
D-n him, cries Shadwell, he cannot write fense:
And Bancks, cry'd Newport, I hate that dull rogue;
Apollo, confidering he was not in vogue,
Would not truft his dear bays with fo modeft a
fool,

And bid the great boy be sent back to school.
Tom Otway came next, Tom Shadwell's dear Zany,
And fwears, for heroics, he writes best of any:
Don Carlos his pockets fo amply had fill'd,
That his mange was quite cur'd, and his lice were
all kill'd;

Anababaluthu put in for a fhare,

And little Tom Efience's author was there;

*Sir George Etherege.

Mr. Wycherley.

But Apollo had feen his face on the stage,
And prudently did not think fit to engage [age.
The fcum of a play-houfe, for the prop of an
In the numerous crowd that encompass'd him
round,
[found,
Little ftarch'd Johnny Crown at his elbow he
His cravat ftring new iron'd, he gently did stretch
His lily white hand out, the laurel to reach.
Alleging that he had most right to the bays,
For writing romances, and fh-ting of plays:
Apollo rofe up, and gravely confess'd,
Of all men that writ, his talent was best;

For fince pain and dishonour man's life only damn,

The greatest felicity mankind can claim, [fhame;
Is to want fenfe of fmart, and be past sense of
And to perfect his blifs in poetical rapture,
He bid him be dull to the end of the chapter.
The poetefs Afra next fhew'd her sweet face,
And fwore by her poetry, and her black ace,
The laurel by a double right was her own,
For the plays fhe had writ, and the conquests she
had won.

Apollo acknowledg'd 'twas hard to deny her,
Yet, to deal frankly and ingenuously by her,
He told her, were conquefts and charms her pre-

tence,

She ought to have pleaded a dozen years fince. Nor could D'Urfey forbear for the laurel to ftickle,

Protefting that he had the honour to tickle
Th' ears of the town, with his dear madam
Fickle.

With other pretenders, whofe names I'd rehearse,
But that they're too long to stand my verse :
Apollo, quite tir'd with their tedious harangue,
At laft found Tom Betterton's face in the gang, (
For, fince poets without the kind players may
hang,

By his one facred light he folemnly swore,
That in fearch of a laureat he'd look out no more,
A general murmur ran quite through the hall,
To think that the bays to an actor fhould fall;
Tom told them, to put his defert to the teft,
That he had MAID plays as well as the best,
And was the great'ft wonder the age ever bore,
Of all the play fcribblers that e'er writ before,
His wit had moft worth, and modefty in't,
For he had writ plays, yet ne'er came in print.

A SATYR AGAINST MANKIND.

WERE I, who to my cost already am
One of thofe ftrange prodigious creatures man,
A fpirit free, to choose for my own fhare,
What fort of flesh and blood I pleas'd to wear,
I'd be a dog, a monkey, or a bear,
Or any thing, but that vain animal,
Who is fo proud of being rational.
The fenfes are too grofs, and he'll contrive
A fixth, to contradict the other five;

And, before certain inftinct, will prefer
Reason, which fifty times for one does err.
Reason, an ignis fatuus of the mind,
Which leaves the light of nature, sense, behind :
Pathlefs and dangerous wandering ways it takes,
Through error's fenny bogs, and thorny brakes;
Whilft the mifguided follower elimbs with pain
Mountains of whimfies, heapt in his own brain:
Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong
down

Into Doubt's boundless sea, where like to drown
Books bear him up a while, and make him try
To fwim with bladders of philofophy;
In hopes still to o'ertake the fkipping light,
The vapour dances in his dazzled fight,
Till, fpent, it leaves him to eternal night.
Then Old Age and Experience, hand in hand,
Lead him to death, and make him understand,
After a fearch fo painful and fo long,
That all his life he has been in the wrong.
Huddled in dirt, this reasoning engine lies,
Who was fo proud, fo witty, and fo wife :
Pride drew him in, as cheats their bubbles catch,
And made him venture to be made a wretch:
His wildom did his happiness destroy,
Aiming to know the world he should enjoy:
And wit was his vain frivolous pretence,
Of pleafing others at his own expence;
For wits are treated just like common whores,
First they're enjoy'd, and then kick'd out of doors:
The pleasure paft, a threatening doubt remains,
That frights th' enjoyer with fucceeding pains.
Women, and men of wit, are dangerous tools,
And ever fatal to admiring fools.

Pleasure allures; and when the fops escape,
"Tis not that they are lov'd, but fortunate;
And therefore what they fear, at heart they hate.
But now, methinks, fome formal band and beard
Takes me to talk: come on, Sir, I'm prepar'd.
Then, by your favour, any thing that's writ,
Against this gibing, gingling knack, call'd Wit,
Like me abundantly; but you'll take care,
Upon this point, not to be too fevere;
Perhaps my Muse were fitter for this part;
For, I profess, I can be very sinart
On wit, which I abhor with all my heart.
I long to lash it in fome fharp effay,
But your grand indifcretion bids me stay,
And turns my tide of ink another way.
What rage ferments in your degenerate mind,
To make you rail at reason and mankind?
Bleft glorious man, to whom alone kind heaven
An everlasting foul hath freely given;
Whom his great Maker took fuch care to make,
That from himself he did the image take,
And this fair frame in fhining reason drest,
To dignify his nature above beast :
Reason, by whofe afpiring influence,
We take a flight beyond material fenfe,
Dive into myfteries, then foaring pierce
The flaming limits of the universe,
Search heaven and hell, find out what's acted there,
And give the world true grounds of hope and fear.
Hold, mighty man, I cry; all this we know
From the pathetic pen of Ingelo,

From Patrick's Pilgrim, Sibb's Soliloquies,
And 'tis this very reason I despise
This fupernatural gift, that makes a mite
Think he's the image of the Infinite;
Comparing his fhort life, void of all reft,
To the Eternal and the Ever-bleft:
This bufy puzzling ftirrer up of doubt,
That frames deep myfteries, then finds them out,
Filling with frantic crowds of thinking fools,
The reverend bedlams, colleges and schools,
Borne on those wings, each heavy fot can pierce
The limits of the boundless universe.

So charming ointments make an old witch fly,
And bear a crippled carcafe through the sky.
'Tis this exalted power, whofe butinefs lies
In nonfenfe and impoflibilities:
This made a whimifical philofopher,
Before the fpacious world his tub prefer;
And we have many modern coxcombs, who
Retire to think, 'cause they have nought to do.
But thoughts were given for actions' government,
Where action ceafes, thought's impertinent.
Our sphere of action is life's happiness,
And he that thinks beyond, thinks like an afs.
Thus whilst against false reasoning I inveigh,
I own right reafon, which I would obey;
That reafon, which diftinguishes by fenfe,
And gives us rules of good and ill from thence;
That bounds defires with a reforming will,
To keep them more in vigour, not to kill:
Your reafon hinders, mine helps to enjoy,
Renewing appetites, yours would deftroy.
My reafon is my friend, yours is a cheat:
Hunger calls out, my reafon bids me eat :
Perverfely yours your appetite does mock;
This afks for food; that anfwers, what's a clock?
This plain diftinction, Sir, your doubt fecures:
'Tis not true reafon I defpife, but yours.
Thus I think reafon righted: but for man,
I'll ne'er recant; defend him, if you can.
For all his pride and his philofophy,
'Tis evident beafts are, in their degree,
As wife at leaft, and better far than he.
Thofe creatures are the wifeft, who attain,
By fureft means, the ends at which they aim.
If therefore Jowler finds and kills his hare,
Better than Meres fupplies committee-chair:
Though one's a ftatefman, th' other but a hound,
Jowler in justice will be wifer found.

You fee how far man's wifdom here extends:
Look next if human nature makes amends;
Whofe principles are moft generous and just;
And to whofe morals you would fooner truft:
Be judge yourfelf; I'll bring it to the test,
Which is the bafeft creature, man or beast :
Birds feed on birds, beafts on each other prey,
But favage man alone does man betray.
Preft by neceflity, they kill for food;
Man undoes man, to do himfelf no good:
With teeth and claws by nature arm'd, they hunt
Nature's allowance, to fupply their want;
But man, with fmiles, embraces, friendships, praife,
Inhumanly his fellow's life betrays,
With voluntary pains works his diftrefs,
Not through neceflity, but wantonnels.

For hunger or for love, they bite or tear:
Whilft wretched man is fill in arms for fear:
For fear he arms, and is of arms afraid;
From fear to fear fucceffively betray'd:
Bafe fear, the fource whence his bafe paffions came,
His boatted honour, and his dear-bought fame:
The luft of power, to which he's such a flave,
And for the which alone he dares be brave;
To which his various projects are defign'd,
Which makes him generous, affable, and kind;
For which he takes fuch pains to be thought wife,
And screws his actions in a forc'd difguile;
Leads a most tedious life, in mifery,
Under laborious, mean hypocrify.
Look to the bottom of his vaft design,
Wherein man's wisdom, power, and glory, join:
The good he acts, the ill he does endure;
'Tis all from fear, to make himself secure.
Merely for fafety, after fame they thirst;
For all men would be cowards if they durft :
And honesty's against all common sense;
Men must be kraves; 'tis in their own defence,
Mankind's difhoneft: if you think it fair,
Amongst known cheats, to play upon the fquare,
You'll be undone -

Nor can weak truth your reputation fave;
The knaves will all agree to call you knave.
Wrong'd fhall he live, infulted o'er, oppreft,
Who dares be lefs a villain than the reft.
Thus here you fee what human nature craves,
Moft men are covards, all men fhould be knaves,
The difference lies, as far as I can fee,
Not in the thing itself, but the degree;
And all the fubject matter of debate,
Is only who's a leave of the first rate.

POSTSCRIPT.

ALL this with indignation have I hurl'd
At the pretending part of the proud world,
Who, fwoln with felfifh vanity, devife
Falfe freedoms, holy cheats, and formal lies,
Over their fellow-flaves to tyrannize.

But if in court so just a man there be,
(In court a just man, yet unknown to me)
Who does his needful flattery direct,
Not to opprefs and ruin, but protect;
Since flattery, which way foever laid,
Is ftill a tax on that unhappy trade:
If fo upright a statesman you can find,
Whofe paffions bend to his unbias'd mind;
Who does his arts and policies apply,
To raise his country, not his family.

Is there a mortal who on God relies?
Whofe life his faith and doctrine justifies?
Not one blown up with vain, afpiring pride,
Who, for reproof of fins, docs man deride;

Whose envious heart, with faucy eloquence,
Dares chide at kings, and rail at men of fense;
Who in his talking vents more peevish lies,
More bitter railings, fcandals, calumnies,
Than at a goffiping are thrown about,
When the good wives drink free, and then fall

out.

None of the fenfual tribe, whose talents lie
In avarice, pride, in floth, and gluttony;
Who hunt preferment, but abhor good lives;
Whofe luft exalted to that height arrives,
They act adultery with their own wives;
And, ere a fcore of years completed be,
Can from the lofty ftage of honour fee
Half a large parish their own progeny.

Nor doating - who would be ador'd,
For domineering at the council-board;
A greater fop, in business at fourscore,
Fonder of ferious toys, affected more,
Than the gay, glittering fool at twenty proves,
With all his noife, his tawdry cloaths, and loves.
But a meek, humble man, of modest sense,
Who, preaching peace, does practise continence ;
Whofe pious life's a proof he does believe
Myfterious truths, which no man can conceive.
If upon earth there dwell fuch godlike men,
I'll here recant my paradox to them,
Adore thofe fhrines of virtue, homage pay,
And, with the thinking world, their laws obey.
If fuch there are, yet grant me this at least,
Man differs more froni man, than man from beast.

Let the ambitious zealot lay aside
His hope of heaven (whofe faith is but his pride);
Let flavish fouls lay by their fear,
Nor be concern'd which way, or where,
After this life they shall be hurl'd:
Dead, we become the lumber of the world;
And to that mass of matter shall be swept,
Where things deftroy'd with things unborn are
Devouring Time fwallows us whole;
(kept:
Impartial Death confounds body and foul:
For hell, and the foul fiend that rules
The everlasting fiery gaols,
Devis'd by rogues, dreaded by fools,
With his grim grifly dog that keeps the door,
Are fenfeless stories, idle tales,
Dreams, whimfies, and no more.

TO HIS SACRED MAJESTY,
On his RESTORATION in the Year 1660.
VIRTUE's triumphant fhrine! who doft engage
At once three kingdoms in a pilgrimage;
Which in extatic duty strive to come
Out of themselves, as well as from their home;
Whilft England grows one camp, and London is
Itfelf the nation, not metropolis;

And loyal Kent renews her arts again,
Fencing her ways with moving groves of men:
Forgive this diftant homage, which does meet
Your bleft approach on fedentary feet;
And though my youth, not patient yet to bear
The weight of arms, denies me to appear
In fteel before you; yet, great Sir, approve
My manly wishes, and more vigorous love;
In whom a cold refpect were treafon to
A father's afhes, greater than to you;
Whose one ambition 'tis for to be known,
By daring loyalty, your Wilmot's fon.
Wadh. Coll.

ROCHESTER

TRANSLATION OF SOME LINES IN LUCRETIUS.

THE Gods, by right of nature, must poffefs
An everlasting age of perfect peace;
Far off remov'd from us and our affairs,
Neither approach'd by dangers or by cares;
Rich in themfelves, to whom we cannot add;
Not pleas'd by good deeds, nor provok'd by bad.

THE LATTER END OF THE CHORUS OF THE SECOND ACT or SENECA'S TROAS,

TRANSLATED.

AFTER Death nothing is, and nothing Death, The utmost limits of a galp of breath.

TO HER SACRED MAJESTY THE
QUEEN-MOTHER,

On the DEATH of MARY, Princess of Orange.

RESPITE, great queen, your just and hafty fears:
There's no infection lodges in our tears.
Though our unhappy air be arm'd with death,
Yet fighs have an untainted guiltless breath.
Oh! ftay a while, and teach your equal skill
To understand, and to support our ill.
You that in mighty wrongs an age have spent,
And feem to have out-liv'd ev'n banishment;
Whom traiterous mifchief fought its earliest prey,
When to moft facred blood it made its way,
And did thereby its black design impart,
To take his head, that wounded first his heart: