To hang fo dull a Clog upon his Wit,
And make his Reason to his Rhime fubmit.
Without this Plague, I freely might have

spent

60 My happy Days with Leisure and Content; Had nothing in the World to do, or think, Like a fat Priest, but whore, and eat, and drink ;

Had past my Time as pleasantly away,

Slept all the Night, and loiter'd all the Day. 65 My Soul, that's free from Care, and Fear, and Hope,

70

Knows how to make her own Ambition ftoop,

T'avoid uneafy Greatness, and Refort,
Or for Preferment following the Court.
How happy had I been, if, for a Curse,
The Fates had never sentenc'd me to Verfe?
But, ever fince this peremptory Vein
With restless Frenzy firft poffefs'd my Brain,
And that the Devil tempted me, in spite
Of my own Happiness, to judge, and write,
75 Shut up against my Will, I waste my Age

In mending this, and blotting out that Page;
And grow fo weary of the flavish Trade,

I

envy their Condition, that write bad.

O happy Scudery! whofe eafy Quill

89 Çan, once a Month, a mighty Volume fill.

For, though thy Works are written in despite
Of all good Senfe, impertinent, and flight,
They never have been known to ftand in need
Of Stationer to fell, or Sot to read.

85 For, fo the Rhime be at the Verfe's End,
No matter whither all the reft do's tend.
Unhappy is that Man, who, fpite of's Heart,
Is forc'd to be ty'd up to Rules of Art.
A Fop that fcribbles, does it with Delight,
90 Takes no Pains to confider, what to write;
But, fond of all the Nonsense he brings forth,
Isravifh'dwith his own greatWit and Worth.
While brave and noble Writers vainly strive
To fuch a Height of Glory to arrive:
95 But ftill, with all they do unfatisfy'd,
Ne'er please themselves, though all the
World befide.

And those, whom all Mankind admire for
Wit,

Wifh for their own Sakes, they had never
writ,

Thou then, that fee'ft how ill I spend my
Time,

100 Teach me for Pity, how to make a Rhime;

And, if th' Inftructions chance to prove in vain,

Teach-how ne'er to write again.

And Sleep, Death's Brother, yet a Friend to Life,

Gave weary'd Nature a Restorative:

5 When Pufs, wrapt warm in his own native Furs,

Dreamt foundly of as foft and warmAmours,

Repartees between Cat and Pufs, &c.] This Poem is a fatyrical Banter upon thofe Heroic Plays which were fo much in Vogue at the Time our Author liv'd. The Dialogues of which, having what they call'd Heroic Love for their Subject, are carried on exactly in this Strain, as any one may perceive, that will confult the Dramatick Pieces of Dryden, Settle, and others.

Of making Galantry in Gutter-tiles, And sporting on delightful Fagot-piles; Of bolting out of Bufhes in the dark, 10 As Ladies use at Midnight in the Park; Or feeking in tall Garrets an Alcove, For Affignations in th' Affairs of Love. At once his Paffion was both false and true, And the more falfe, the more in earnest grew. 15 He fancy'd, that he heard those amorous Charms,

That us'd to fummon him to foft Alarms,
To which he always brought an equalFlame,
To fight a Rival, or to court a Dame:
And, as in Dreams Love's Raptures are more
taking,

20 Than all their actual Enjoyments waking,

His amorous Paffion grew to that Extream,
His Dream itself awak'd him from his Dream.
Thought he, what Place is this! or whither

ar't

Thou vanifh'd from me, Miftrefs of my
Heart?

25 But now, I had her in this very Place,

Here, faft imprifon'd in my glad Embrace, And, while my Joys beyond themfelves were rapt,

I know not how, nor whither thou'rt efcap'd:

Stay, and I'll follow thee-With that he leap'd

30 Up from the lazy Couch on which he slept ; And, wing'd with Paffion, through his known Purlieu,

Swift as an Arrow from a Bow, he flew, Nor stop'd, until his Fire had him convey'd, Where many Affignation h' had enjoy'd; 35 Where finding, what he fought, a mutual Flame,

That long had stay'd and call'd, before he

came,

Impatient of Delay, without one Word, To lofe no further Time, he fell aboard; But grip'd fo hard, he wounded what he lov'd; 40 While fhe, in Anger, thus his Heat reprov'd. C. Forbear, foul Ravisher, this rude Address, Can ft thou at once both injure and carefs? P. Thou haft bewitch'd me with thy pow'rful Charms,

And I, by drawing Blood, would cure my
Harms.

45 C.He,that does love, would fet his Heart a Tilt, Ere one Drop of his Lady's fhould be fpilt. P. Your Wounds are but without, and mine within ;

You wound my Heart, and I but frick your