To blooming Phillis I a Song compose,
And, for a Rhyme, compare her to the Rose;
Then, while my Fancy works, I write down Morn,

To paint the Blush that does her Cheek adorn;
And, when the Whitenefs of her Skin I fhow,
With Ecftafie bethink my self of Snow.
Thus, without Pains, I tinkle in the Clofe,
And sweeten into Verfe infipid Profe.

The Country Scraper, when he wakes his Crowd,
And makes the tortur'd Cat-gut squeak aloud,
I fee him ravish'd, and in Transport loft:

What more, my Friend, can fam'd Corelli boaft,
When Harmony her felf from Heav'n descends,
And on the Artift's moving Bow attends?

Why then, in making Verses should I ftrain
For Wit, and of Apollo beg a Vein ?
Why study Horace and the Stagyrite?

Why cramp my Dulness, and in Torment write?
Let me tranfgrefs by Nature, not by Rule,
An artlefs Ideot, not a ftudy'd Fool;

A Withers, not a D------s; fince I aim
At nothing lefs, in Writing, than a Name.

то

ΤΟ

Mr. JER VAS.

Occafion'd by the Sight of Mrs. Chetwind's

Picture.

By the Right Honourable the Countess of W--

HIS matchlefs Picture, Jervas, hide,

THIS

Or let it ftand alone;

When One does over all prefide,

The rest are vainly fhown.

The meanest Figures of the Sky,
(Though drawn with handsome Faces,) ́
Are, when their Goddeffes are by,
Th' attending Nymphs and Graces.

For fure, (as Cafar chofe Renown)
'Tis better to be reckon'd

The Dulcinea of fome Town,
Than in a Court, the Second.

Then, let this new Campafpe go,

Or, if tholt not refign,

As thou Apelles' Skill doest know,
So, may his Heart be thine,

To Praife more equal leave our Choice,
When we thy Works furvey,
Nor let each fighing Breaft and Voice
But one Applause betray.

PROLOGUE,

Defign'd for Mr. D

-'s last Play.

Written by feveral Hands..

ROWN Old in Rhyme, 'twere barbarous to

GRO

difcard

Your perfevering, unexhausted Bard:

Damnation follows Death in other Men,

But your damn'd Poet lives and writes again.
Th' adventrous Lover is fuccessful still,

Who ftrives to please the Fair against her Will:
Be kind, and make him in his Wifes eafie,

Who in your own Despite has ftrove to please ye.
He fcorn'd to borrow from the Wits of Yore;

But ever Writ as none e'er Writ before

You

You modern Wits, should each Man bring his Claim,, Have defperate Debentures on your Fame;

And little would be left you, I'm afraid,

If all your Debts to Greece and Rome were paid.
From his deep Fund our Author largely draws;
Nor finks his Credit lower than it was.

Tho' Plays for Honour in old Time he made,
"Tis now for better Reasons---to be Paid.
Believe him, Sirs, h'has known the World too long,
And feen the Death of much Immortal Song.
He fays, poor Poets loft, while Players won,
As Pimps grow rich, while Gallants are undone.
Tho' Tom the Poet writ with Ease and Pleasure,
The Comick Tom abounds in other Treasure.
Fame is at best an unperforming Cheat;

But 'tis fubftantial Happiness to Eat----

Let Ease, his last Request, be of your giving,
Nor force him to be Damn'd to get his Living

LOVE'S

A

RELIE F.

Wretch long tortur'd with Difdain,

That hourly pin'd, but pin'd in vain;

At length the God of Wine addreft,

The Refuge of a wounded Breast.

Vouchsafe, oh Pow'r, thy healing Aid,
Teach me to gain the cruel Maid;
Thy Juices take the Lover's Part,

Flush his wan Looks, and chear his Heart,

Thus to the Jolly God he cry'd;
And thus the Jolly God reply'd,

Give Whining o'er, be brisk and gay,
And quaff this fneaking Form away.

With dauntlefs Mein approach the Fair;
The way to Conquer is to Dare.
The Swain purfu'd the God's Advice;
The Nymph was now no longer Nice.

She finil'd, and spoke the Sex's Mind; When You grow Daring, We grow Kind: Men to themselves are most severe,

And make us Tyrants by their Fear.

ΤΟ