"Dear gentle youth, is 't none but thee? With innocence I dare be free;

By so much truth and modesty

No nymph was e'er betray'd. "Come lean thy head upon my lap; While thy smooth cheeks I stroke and clap, Thou may'st securely take a nap ;"

Which he, poor fool, obey'd.

She saw him yawn, and heard him snore,
And found him fast asleep all o'er.
She sigh'd, and could endure no more,
But starting up, she said:

"Such virtue shall rewarded be:
For this thy dull fidelity,

I'll trust you with my flocks, not me,
Pursue thy grazing trade;

"Go, milk thy goats, and shear thy sheep, And watch all night thy flocks to keep; Thou shalt no more be lull'd asleep

By me, mistaken maid."

THE ANTIQUATED COQUET,

A SATIRE ON A LADY OF IRELAND',

PHYLLIS, if you will not agree
To give me back my liberty,
In spite of you, I must regain

My loss of time, and break your chain.
You were mistaken, if you thought
I was so grossly to be caught;
Or that I was so blindly bred,
As not to be in woman read.
Perhaps you took me for a fool,
Design'd alone your sex's tool;
Nay, you might think so mad a thing,
That, with a little fashioning,

I might in time, for your dear sake,
That monster call'd a husband make:
Perhaps I might, had I not found
One darling vice in you abound;
A vice to me, which e'er will prove
An antidote to banish love.
O! I could better bear an old,
Ugly, diseas'd, mis-shapen scold,
Or one who games, or will be drunk,
A fool, a spendthrift, bawd, or punk,
Than one at all who wildly flies,
And, with soft, asking, giving eyes,
And thousand other wanton arts,
So meanly trades in begging hearts.

How might such wondrous charms perplex,
Give chains, or death, to all our sex,
Did she not so unwisely set,
For every fluttering fool, her net!

So poorly proud of vulgar praise,

Her very look her thoughts betrays;

She never stays till we begin,
But beckons us herself to sin.
Ere we ean ask, she cries consent,
So quick her yielding looks are sent,
They hope forestal, and even desire prevent.
But Nature's turn'd when women woo,

We hate in them what we should do;

Desire 's asleep, and cannot wake,
When women such advances make:
Both time and charms thus Phyllis wastes,
Since each must surfeit ere he tastes.
Nothing escapes her wandering eyes,
No one she thinks too mean a prize;
Ev'n Lynch 2, the lag of human kind,
Nearest to brutes by God design'd,
May boast the smiles of this coquet,
As much as any man of wit.

The signs hang thinner in the Strand,
The Dutch scarce more infest the land,
Though Egypt's locusts they outvie,
In number and voracity.

Whores are not half so plenty found,
In play-house, or that hallow'd ground
Of Temple-walks or Whetstone's Park;
Caresses less abound in Spark 3.
Then with kind looks for all who come,
At bawdy-house, the drawing-room:
But all in vain she throws her darts,
They hit, but cannot hurt our hearts:
Age has enerv'd her charms so much,
That fearless all her eyes approach;
Each her autumnal face degrades
With "Reverend Mother of the Maids !"
But 'tis ill-natur'd to run on,

Forgetting what her charms have done;
To Teagueland we this beauty owe,
Teagueland her earliest charms did know:
There first her tyrant beauties reign'd;
Where'er she look'd, she conquest gain'd.
No heart the glances could repel,
The Teagues in shoals before her fell;
And trotting bogs was all the art
The Sound had left to save his heart.
She kill'd so fast, by my salvation,
She near dispeopled half the nation:
Though she, good soul, to save took care
All, all she could from sad despair.
From thence she hither came to prove
If yet her charms could kindle love:
But, ah! it was too late to try,

For Spring was gone, and Winter nigh:
Yet though her eyes such conquests made,
That they were shunn'd, or else obey'd,
Yet now her charms are so decay'd,
She thanks each coxcomb that will deign
To praise her face, and wear her chain.
So some old soldier, who had done
Wonders in youth, and battles won,
When feeble years his strength depose,
That he too weak to vanquish grows,
With mangled face and wooden leg,
Reduc'd about for alms to beg,
O'erjoy'd, a thousand thanks bestows
On him who but a farthing throws.

SONG TO CHLORIS,

FROM THE BLIND ARCHER.

АH! Chloris, 'tis time to disarm your bright eyes,
And lay by those terrible glances;

We live in an age that 's more civil and wise,
Than to follow the rules of romances,

2 A notorious debauchee.

3 Elizabeth Spark, a noted courtezan.

But her round swelling thighs can scarce be embrac'd: Her belly is soft, not a word of the rest:

But I know what I think, when I drink to the best.

The ploughman and 'squire, the arranter clown,
At home she subdued in her paragon gown;
But now she adorns both the boxes and pit,
And the proudest town gallants are forc'd to submit ;
All hearts fall a-leaping wherever she comes,
And beat day and night, like my lord Craven's drums.

I dare not permit her to come to Whitehall,
For she'd outshine the ladies, paint, jewels, and all;
If a lord should but whisper his love in the crowd,
She'd sell him a bargain, and laugh out aloud:
Then the queen, overhearing what Betty did say,
Would send Mr. Roper to take her away.

But to those that have had my dear Bess in their

arms,

She's gentle, and knows how to soften her charms;
And to every beauty can add a new grace,
Having learn'd how to lisp, and to trip in her pace;
And with head on one side, and a languishing eye,
To kill us by looking as if she would die.

"For you, my love, is all my fear!
Hark, how the drums do rattle!
Alas, sir! what should you do here
In dreadful day of battle?

"Let little Orange stay and fight,
For danger 's his diversion;
The wise will think you in the right,
Not to expose your person:

"Nor vex your thoughts how to repair The ruins of your glory;

You ought to leave so mean a care

To those who pen your story.

"Are not Boileau and Corneille paid
For panegyric writing?
They know how heroes may be made,
Without the help of fighting.

"When foes too saucily approach,

'Tis best to leave them fairly: Put six good horses to your coach, And carry me to Marly.

"Let Bouflers, to secure your fame, Go take some town or buy it; Whilst you, great sir, at Nôtre Dame, Te Deum sing in quiet."

SONG.

PHYLLIS, the fairest of Love's foes,
Though fiercer than a dragon,
Phyllis, that scorn'd the powder'd beaux,
What has she now to brag on?
So long she kept her legs so close,

Till they had scarce a rag on.
Compell'd through want, this wretched maid
Did sad complaints begin;
Which surly Strephon hearing, said,
"It was both shame and sin,
To pity such a lazy jade,

As will neither play nor spin."

SONG.

MAY the ambitious ever find

Success in crowds and noise,

While gentle Love does fill my mind

With silent real joys!

May knaves and fools grow rich and great, And the world think them wise,

While I lie dying at her feet,

And all the world despise.

Let conquering kings new triumphs raise,
And melt in court delights;
Her eyes can give much brighter days,
Her arms much softer nights.

SONG.

DORINDA'S Sparkling wit and eyes,
United, cast too fierce a light,
Which blazes high, but quickly dies,
Pains not the heart, but hurts the sight,

Love is a calmer gentler joy,

Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace; Her Cupid is a blackguard boy, That runs his link full in your face.

A FRENCH SONG PARAPHRASED.

IN grey-hair'd Cælia's wither'd arms

As mighty Lewis lay,

She cry'd," If I have any charms,
My dearest, let's away.

SONG.

SYLVIA, methinks you are unfit For your great lord's embrace; For though we all allow you wit, We can 't a handsome face.

SONG.

PHYLLIS, for shame, let us improve, thousand different ways,

Those few short moments snatch'd by love, From many tedious days.

If you want courage to despise

The censure of the grave,
Though Love's a tyrant in your eyes,
Your heart is but a slave.

My love is full of noble pride,
Nor can it e'er submit,

To let that fop, Discretion, ride
In triumph over it.

False friends I have, as well as you,

Who daily counsel me

Fame and Ambition to pursue,
And leave off loving thee.

But when the least regard I show

To fools who thus advise, May I be dull enough to grow Most miserably wise!

SONG.

CORYDON beneath a willow,

By a murmuring current laid,
His arm reclin'd, the lover's pillow,
Thus address'd the charming maid.
"O! my Sacharissa, tell

How could Nature take delight,
That a heart so hard should dwell
In a frame so soft and white.
"Could you feel but half the anguish,
Half the tortures that I bear,
How for you I daily languish,
You'd be kind as you are fair.
"See the fire that in me reigns,
O! behold the burning man;
Think I feel my dying pains,

And be cruel if you can."

With her conquest pleas'd, the dame
Cry'd, with an insulting look,
"Yes, I fain would quench your flame;"

She spoke, and pointed to the brook.