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Her dugs were mark'd by every collier's hand;
Her mouth was black as bull-dogs at the stall:
She scratched, bit, and spar'd ne lace ne band,
And bitch and rogue her answer was to all;
Nay, ev'n the parts of shame by name would call:
Yea, when she passed by or lane or nook,
Would greet the man who turn'd him to the wall,
And by his hand obscene the porter took,
Nor ever did askance like modest virgin look.



Such place hath Deptford, navy-building town,
Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch;
Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown,
And Twickenham such, which fairer scenes enrich,
Grots, statues, urns, and Jo-n's dog and bitch, 50
Ne village is without, on either side,

All up the silver Thames, or all adown ;

Ne Richmond's self, from whose tall front are ey'd Vales, spires, meandering streams, and Windsor's towery pride.



FAIR charmer! cease; nor make your voice's prize
A heart resign'd the conquest of your eyes:
Well might, alas! that threaten'd vessel fail,
Which winds and lightning both at once assail.
We were too bless'd with these enchanting lays,
Which must be heavenly when an angel plays:
But killing charms your lover's death contrive,
Lest heavenly music should be heard alive.
Orpheus could charm the trees; but thus a tree,
Taught by your hand, can charm no less than he. 10
A poet made the silent wood pursue;

This vocal wood had drawn the poet too.

ON A FAN OF THE AUTHOR'S DESIGN, In which was painted the story of Cephalus and Procris, with the motto, "Aura veni."

COME, gentle air, th' Æolian shepherd said,
While Procris panted in the secret shade:
Come, gentle air! the fairer Delia cries,
While at her feet her swain expiring lies.
Lo! the glad gales o'er all her beauties stray,
Breathe on her lips, and in her bosom play!
In Delia's hand this toy is fatal found,

Nor could that fabled dat more surely wound:
Both gifts destructive to the givers prove;
Alike both lovers fall by those they love.
Yet guiltless too this bright destroyer lives,



At random wounds, nor knows the wound she gives:
She views the story with attentive eyes,
And pities Procris while her lover dies.



FAIN would my Muse the flowery treasure sing,
And humble glories of the youthful Spring;
Where opening roses breathing sweets diffuse,
And soft carnations shower their balmy dews;
Where lilies smile in virgin robes of white,
The thin undress of superficial light,
And varied tulips show so dazzling gay,
Blushing in bright diversities of day.
Each painted floweret in the lake below
Surveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow;
And pale Narcissus, on the bank in vain
Transformed, gazes on himself again.
Here aged trees cathedral walks compose,
And mount the hill in venerable rows;
There the green infants in their beds are laid,
The garden's hope, and its expected shade.



Here orange-trees with blooms and pendants shine,
And vernal honours to their autumn join;
Exceed their promise in the ripen'd store,
Yet in the rising blossom promise more.
There in bright drops the crystal fountains play,
By laurels shielded from the piercing day:
Where Daphne, now a tree as once a maid,
Still from Apollo vindicates her shade;

Still turns her beauties from th' invading beam,
Nor seeks in vain for succour to the stream.
The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves,
At once a shelter from her boughs receives,
Where summer's beauty midst of winter stays,
And winter's coolness spite of summer's rays.


WHILE Celia's tears make sorrow bright,
Proud grief sits swelling in her eyes;
The sun, next those the fairest light,

Thus from the ocean first did rise:
And thus through mists we see the sun,
Which else we durst not gaze upon.

These silver drops, like morning dew,
Foretell the fervour of the day:
So from one cloud soft showers we view,
And blasting lightnings burst away.

The stars that fall from Celia's eye
Declare our doom in drawing nigh.

The baby in that sunny sphere

So like a Phaeton appears,

That Heav'n, the threaten'd world to spare,
Thought fit to drown him in her tears;
Else might th' ambitious nymph aspire
To set, like him, heav'n too on fire.









SILENCE! Coeval with eternity,

Thou wert ere Nature's self began to be;

'Twas one vast nothing all, and all slept fast in thee.


Thine was the sway ere heav'n was form'd, or earth,
Ere fruitful thought conceiv'd creation's birth,
Or midwife word gave aid, and spoke the infant forth.

Then various elements against thee join'd,
In one more various animal combin'd,

And fram'd the clamorous race of busy human-kind.

The tongue mov'd gently first, and speech was low, 10
Till wrangling science taught it noise and show,
And wicked wit arose, thy most abusive foe.

But rebel wit deserts thee oft in vain:
Lost in the maze of words he turns again,

And seeks a surer state, and courts thy gentle reign.

Afflicted sense thou kindly dost set free,


Oppress'd with argumental tyranny,

And routed reason finds a safe retreat in thee.

With thee in private modest dulness lies,
And in thy bosom lurks in thought's disguise;


Thou varnisher of fools, and cheat of all the wise!

Yet thy indulgence is by both confest;
Folly by thee lies sleeping in the breast,

And 'tis in thee at last that wisdom seeks for rest.


Silence! the knave's repute, the whore's good name,
The only honour of the wishing dame;
The very want of tongue makes thee a kind of fame

But couldst thou seize some tongues that now are free,
How church and state should be oblig'd to thee!
At senate and at bar how welcome wouldst thou be!


Yet speech ev'n there submissively withdraws
From rights of subjects, and the poor man's cause:
Then pompous Silence reigns, and stills the noisy laws.

Past services of friends, good deeds of foes,
What favourites gain, and what the nation owes, 35
Fly the forgetful world, and in thy arms repose.

The country wit, religion of the town,
The courtier's learning, policy o' th' gown,

Are best by thee express'd, and shine in thee alone.

The parson's cant, the lawyer's sophistry,
Lord's quibble, critic's jest, all end in thee;
All rest in peace at last, and sleep eternally.



THOUGH Artemisia talks by fits
Of councils, classics, fathers, wits;

Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Locke;
Yet in some things methinks she fails;
"Twere well if she would pare her nails,
And wear a cleaner smock.

Haughty and huge as High-Dutch bride,
Such nastiness and so much pride

Are oddly join'd by fate:



On her large squab you find her spread,


Like a fat corpse upon a bed,

That lies and stinks in state.

She wears no colours (sign of grace)
On any part except her face;

All white and black beside:


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