So harlots dress: They can appear Sweet, modest, cool, divinely fair,

To charm a Cato's eye; but all within,

Stench, impudence, and fire, and ugly raging sin.
Die, Flora, die in endless shame,

Thou prostitute of blackest fame,
Stript of thy false array.

Ovid, and all ye wilder pens

Of modern lust, who gild our scenes,

Poison the British stage, and paint damnation gay, Attend your mistress to the dead;

[shade.

When Flora dies, her imps should wait upon her

Strephon,1 of noble blood and mind, (For ever shine his name!)

As death approach'd, his soul refin'd, And gave his looser sonnets to the flame. "Burn, burn," he cried with sacred rage, "Hell is the due of every page,

"Hell be the fate. (But O indulgent heaven! "So vile the muse, and yet the man forgiven!) "Burn on, my songs: For not the silver Thames "Nor Tyber, with his yellow streams,

"In endless currents rolling to the main, "Can e'er dilute the poison, or wash out the stain.” So, Moses, by divine command,

Forbade the leprous house to stand

When deep the fatal spot was grown;

"Break down the timber, and dig up the stone."

1 Earl of Rochester.

AGAINST TEARS.

TO MRS. B. BENDISH.

MADAM, persuade me tears are good To wash our mortal cares away: These eyes shall weep a sudden flood, And stream into a briny sea.

Or if these orbs are hard and dry, (These orbs that never use to rain) Some star direct me where to buy

One sovereign drop for all my pain.

Were both the golden Indies mine,
I'd give both Indies for a tear:
I'd barter all but what's divine:
Nor shall I think the bargain dear.

But tears, alas! are trifling things,
They rather feed than heal our woe;
From trickling eyes new sorrow springs,

As weeds in rainy seasons grow.

Thus weeping urges weeping on;
In vain our miseries hope relief,
For one drop calls another down,
Till we are drown'd in seas of grief.

Then let these useless streams be staid,
Wear native courage on your
face:

These vulgar things were never made
For souls of a superior race.

If 'tis a rugged path you go,

And thousand foes your steps surround,
Tread the thorns down, charge through the foe;
The hardest fight is highest crown'd.

FEW HAPPY MATCHES.

SAY, mighty Love, and teach my song,
To whom my sweetest joys belong,
And who the happy pairs

Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands,
Find blessings twisted with their bands,
To soften all their cares.

Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains
That thoughtless fly into thy chains,

As custom leads the way:

If there be bliss without design,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,
And be as blest as they.

Not sordid souls of earthly mould,
Who, drawn by kindred charms of gold,
To dull embraces move;

So two rich mountains of Peru

May rush to wealthy marriage too,
And make a world of love.

Not the mad tribe that hell inspires

With wanton flames; those raging fires

The purer bliss destroy:

On Ætna's top let furies wed,

And sheets of lightning dress the bed
To improve the burning joy.

Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms
None of the melting passions warms,
Can mingle hearts and hands:
Logs of green wood that quench the coals
Are married just like Stoic souls,

With osiers for their bands.

Not minds of melancholy strain,
Still silent, or that still complain,
Can the dear bondage bless:

As well may heavenly consorts spring

From two old lutes with ne'er a string, Or none besides the bass.

Nor can the soft enchantments hold
Two jarring souls of angry mould,
The rugged and the keen;
Samson's young foxes might as well
In bands of cheerful wedlock dwell,
With firebrands tied between.

Nor let the cruel fetters bind
A gentle to a savage mind;

For love abhors the sight:
Loose the fierce tiger from the deer,
For native rage and native fear
Rise and forbid delight.

Two kindest souls alone must meet,
'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet,
And feeds their mutual loves:

Bright Venus on her rolling throne
Is drawn by gentlest birds alone,
And Cupids yoke the doves.