Like heroes in romances, ftill in fight

For miftreffes that yield them no delight.
This, of all vice, does moft debase the mind,
Gold is itself th' allay to human-kind.

Oh, happy times! when no fuch thing as coin
E'er tempted friends to part, or foes to join!
Cattle or corn, among those harmless men,
Was all their wealth, the gold and filver then :
Corn was too bulky to corrupt a tribe,

And bellowing herds would have betray'd the bribe.
Ev'n traffick now is intercourse of ill,

And every wind brings a new mischief still;
By trade we flourish in our leaves and fruit,
But avarice and excefs devour the root.

Thus far the Muse unwillingly has been
Fix'd on the dull, lefs happy forts of fin;
But now, more pleas'd, fhe views the different ways
'Of luxury, and all its charms furveys.

Dear luxury! thou soft, but fure deceit !
Rife of the mean, and ruin of the great!
Thou fure prefage of ill-approaching fates,
The bane of empires, and the change of states!
Armies in vain refift thy mighty power;

Not the worst conduct would confound them more.
Thus Rome herself, while o'er the world the flew,
And did by virtue all that world fubdue,
Was by her own victorious arms oppress'd,
And catch'd infection from the conquer'd Eaft;
Whence all thofe vices came, which foon devour
The beft foundations of renown and power.

But

But oh what need have we abroad to roam,

Who feel too much the fad effects at home,
Of wild excefs? which we fo plainly find
Decays the body, and impairs the mind.
But yet grave fops must not presume from hence
To flight the facred pleasures of the fense:
Our appetites are Nature's laws, and given
Under the broad authentic feal of heaven.
Let pedants wrangle, and let bigots fight,
To put restraint on innocent delight,
But heaven and nature's always in the right;
They would not draw poor wretched mortals in,
Or give defires that fhall be doom'd for fin.
Yet, that in height of harmless joy we may
Laft to old age, and never lofe a day;
Amidst our pleasures we ourselves should spare,
And manage all with temperance and care.
The gods forbid but we fometimes may steep
Our joys in wine, and lull our cares asleep:
It raifes nature, ripens feeds of worth,
As moistening pictures calls the colours forth;
But if the varnish we too oft' apply,

Alas! like colours, we grow faint and die.
Hold, hold, impetuous Mufe: I would restrain
Her over-eager heat, but all in vain;

Abandon'd to delights, the longs to rove;

I check'd her here, and now fhe flies to love;
Shews me fome rural nymph, by fhepherd chac'd,
Soon overtaken, and as soon embrac’d: -

}

The

The grafs by her, as fhe by him is prefs'd;

For fhame, my Mufe, let fancy guess the rest:
At fuch a point fancy can never stay,
But flies beyond whatever you can say.
Behold the filent fhades, the amorous grove,
The dear delights, the very act of love.
This is his loweft fphere, his country scene,
Where love is humble, and his fare but mean;
Yet fpringing up without the help of art,
Leaves a fincerer relish in the heart,

More healthfully, though not fo finely fed,
And better thrives than where more nicely bred.
But 'tis in courts where most he makes a fhow,
And, high enthron'd, governs the world below;
For though in hiftories learn'd ignorance
Attributes all to cunning or to chance,

Love will in thofe difguifes often smile,

And knows the caufe was kindness all the while.
What ftory, place, or perfon, cannot prove
The boundless influence of mighty love?
Where-e'er the fun can vigorous heat inspire,
Both fexes glow, and languish with defire.
The weary'd fwain, fast in the arms of sleep,
Love can awake, and often fighing keep ;
And bufy gown-men, by fond love disguis'd,
Will leifure find to make themselves defpis'd.
The proudest kings fubmit to beauty's fway;
Beauty itself, a greater prince than they,
Lies fometimes languishing with all its pride
By a belov'd, though fickle lover's side.

I mean to flight the foft enchanting charm,
But, oh! my head and heart are both too warm.
I doat on woman-kind with all their faults,
Love turns my fatire into softest thoughts;
Of all that paffion which our peace destroys
Instead of mifchiefs, I defcribe the joys.
But fhort will be his reign (I fear too fhort)
And prefent cares shall be my future sport.

Then love's bright torch put out, his arrows broke,
Loofe from kind chains, and from th' engaging yoke,
To all fond thoughts I'll fing fuch counter-charms,
The fair fhall liften in their lovers arms.

Now the enthufiaftic fit is spent,

I feel my weakness, and too late repent.
As they who walk in dreams oft' climb too high
For fenfe to follow with a waking eye;

And in fuch wild attempts are blindly bold,
Which afterwards they tremble to behold:
So I review these fallies of my pen,
And modest reason is return'd again;
My confidence I curfe, my fate accuse,
Scarce hold from cenfuring the facred Muse.
No wretched poet of the railing pit,
No critic curs'd with the wrong fide of wit,
Is more fevere from ignorance and fpite,
Than I with judgment against all I write.

ΟΝ

O N

MR. HOBBES, AND HIS WRITINGS,

S

UCH is the mode of thefe cenforious days,

The art is loft of knowing how to praise ;
Poets are envious now, and fools alone
Admire at wit, because themselves have none.
Yet whatfoe'er is by vain critics thought,
Praising is harder much than finding fault;
In homely pieces ev'n the Dutch excel,
Italians only can draw beauty well.

As ftrings, alike wound up, fo equal prove,
That one refounding makes the other move;
From fuch a caufe our fatires please so much,
We fympathize with each ill-natur'd touch;
And as the fharp infection fpreads about,
The reader's malice helps the writer out.
To blame, is easy; to commend, is bold
Yet, if the Mufe infpires it, who can hold ?
To merit we are bound to give applaufe,
Content to fuffer in fo juft a cause.

While in dark ignorance we lay afraid

;

Of fancies, ghofts, and every empty fhade;
Great Hobbes appear'd, and by plain reafon's light
Put fuch fantastic forms to fhameful flight.
Fond is their fear, who think men needs must be

To vice enflav'd, if from vain terrors free;

The