PROMETHEUS, forming Mr. Day,
Carv'd something like a man in clay;
The mortal's work might well miscarry;
He that does heav'n and earth controul
Has only pow'r to form a scul;
His head is evident in Harry,
Since one is but a moving clod,
Th' other the lively form of God.
'Square Wallis, you will scarce be able
To prove all poetry but fable.
H. OH! with what woes am I opprest!
W. Be still, you senseles calf!
What if the Gods should make you blest?
H. Why then I'd sing and laugh;
But if they won't, I'll wail and cry.
W. You'll hardly laugh before you die.
PHILLIS, you boast of perfect health in vain,
And laugh at those who of their ills complain;
That with a frequent fever Chloe burns,
And Stella plumpness into dropsy turns.
O Phillis, while the patients are nineteen,
Little, alas! are their distempers seen :
But thou, for all thy seeming health, art ill,
Beyond thy lover's hopes or Blackmore's skill;
No lenitives can thy disease assuage;
I tell thee 'tis incurable---'tis age.
LUKE Preachill admires what we laymen can mean,
That thus by our profit and pleasure are sway'd,
He has but three livings, and would be a dean;
His wife dy'd this year, he has marry'd his maid.
To suppress all his carnal desires in their birth,
At all hours a lusty young hussy is near;
And to take off his thoughts from the things of this He can be content with two thousand a-year.
WHEN Willis* of Ephraim heard Rochester† preach,
Thus Bentley said to him, I pr'ythee, dear brother,
How lik'st thou this sermon? 'tis out of my reach.
His is one way, said Willis, and ours is another;
I care not for carping, but this I can tell,
We preach very sadly, if he preaches well.
Bishop of Gloucester.
+ Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester.
PONTIUS (who loves, you know, a joke
Much better than he loves his life)
Chanc'd t'other morning to provoke
The patience of a well-bred wife.
Talking of you, said he, my dear,
Two of the greatest wits in town,
One ask'd if that high furze of hair
Was bona fide all your own.
Her own! most certain, t'other said;
For Nan, who knows the thing, will tell ye The hair was bought, the money paid,
And the receipt was sign'd Ducailly.
Pontia (that civil prudent she,
Who values wit much less than sense,
And never darts a repartee
But purely in her own defence)
Reply'd, These friends of your's, my dear,
Are giv'n extremely much to satire;
But pr'ythee, husband, let one hear
Sometimes less wit and more good-nature.
Volume II.
Now I have one unlucky thought
That would have spoil'd your friend's conceit;
Some hair I have, I'm sure, unbought,
Pray bring your brother-wits to see't.
CAUTIOUS ALICE.
So good a wife doth Lissy make,
That from all company she flieth;
Such virtuous courses doth she take,
That she all evil tongues defieih;
And for her dearest spouse's sake
She with his brethren only lieth.
TRUTH TOLD AT LAST.
SAYS Pontius in rage, contradicting his wife,
You never yet told me one truth in your life.
Vext Pontia no way could this thesis allow,
You're a cuckold, says she; do I tell you truth now?
VAIN the concern which you express,
That uncall'd Alard will possess
Your house and coach both day and night,
And that Macbeth was haunted less
By Banquo's restless spright.
With fifteen thousand pounds a-year,
Do you complain you cannot bear
An ill you may soon retrieve?
Good Alard, faith, is modester
By much than you believe:
Lend him but fifty louis d'or,
And you shall never see him more: =Take the advice; probatum est.
Why do the Gods indulge our store
But to secure our rest?
ON A FART,
LET IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.
READER, I was born, and cry'd ;'
I crack'd, I smelt, and so I dy'd.
Like Julius Cæsar's was my death,
Who in the senate lost his breath.
Much alike entomb'd does lie
The noble Romulus and I:
And when I dy'd, like Flora fair,
I left the commonwealth my heir.
AT Bacchus, born in thunder and in fire,
By native heat asserts his dreadful sire.
Nurish'd near shady rills and cooling streams,
He to the nymphs avows his am'rous flames.
To all the brethren at the Bell and Vine,
The moral says, Mix water with your wine.
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