Why fo dull and mute, young Sinner!
Prithee why fo mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?

Quit, quit for fhame, this will not move,
This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her :
The Devil take her.

Tell me then the Reafon, why
Love from Hearts in Love does fly?
Why the Bird will build a Neft,
Where he ne'er intends to rest?
Love like other little Boys;
Cries for Hearts, as they for Toys :
Which, when gain'd in childish Play,
Wantonly are thrown away.
Still on Wing, or on his Knees,
Love does nothing by Degrees:
Bafely flying when most priz'd;
Meanly fawning when despis'd,
Flatt'ring or infulting ever,
Generous and grateful never :
All his Joys are fleeting Dreams,
All his Woes fevere Extreams.

Oh Love! How are thy precious sweetest Minutes
Thus ever crofs'd, thus vex'd with Difappointments!
Now Pride, now Fickleness, fantastick Quarrels,
And fullen Coldnefs, give us Pain by Turns:
Malicious medling Chance is ever bufy
To bring us Fears, Difquiets, and Delays ;
And ev❜n at laft, when after all our Waiting,
Eager we think to fnatch our dear-bought Blife,
Ambition calls us to its fullen Cares;
And Honour ftern, impatient of Neglect,
Commands us to forget our Eafe and Pleasures ;
As if we had been made for nought but Toil,
And Love were not the Bus'nefs of our Lives.

Ah! cruel Heav'n, that made no Cure for Love!
Love has no Bounds in Pleasure or in Pain.

What prieftly Rites, alas! what pious Art What Vows avail to cure a bleeding Heart? A gentle Fire the feeds within her Veins, Where the foft God fecure in Sile ce reigns : Sick with Defire, and feeking him he loves, From Street to Street the raging Dido roves;

Sack!,

Rock.

Row. Uly

Dryd. Virg.

Se

So when the watchful Shepherd, from the Blind,
Wounds with a random Shaft the careless Hind;
Diftracted with her Pain fhe flies the Woods,
Bounds o'er the Lawn, and feeks the filent Floods,
With fruitless Care; for ftill the fatal Dart
Sticks in her Side, and rankles in her Heart.
Anger in hafty Words or Blows

It felf discharges on our Foes;
And Sorrow too finds fome Relief
In Tears, which wait upon our Grief:
So ev'ry Paffion, but fond Love,
Unto its own Redress does move:
But that alone the Wretch inclines
To what prevents his own Designs;
Makes him lament, and figh, and weep,
Disorder'd, tremble, fawn, and creep:
Poftures which render him defpis'd,
Where he endeavours to be priz'd.
But I muft rowze my felf, and give a Stop
To all those Ills by headlong Paffion caus'd
In Minds refolv'd weak Love is put to flight,
And only conquers when we dare not fight.
But we indulge our Harms, and while he gains
An Entrance, please our felves into our Pains.

Rowze to the Combat,

:

Dryd. Virg.

Wall:

Dryd. Sec. Lovë,

And thou art fure to conquer: Wars fhall reftore thee,
The Sound of Arms fhall wake thy martial Ardour,
And cure this am'rous Sickness of thy Soul,

Begun by Sloth, and nurs'd by too much Eafe.
The idle God of Love fupinely dreams
Amidft inglorious Shades of purling Streams;
In rofy Fetters and fantaftick Chains

He binds deluded Maids and fimple Swains:
With foft Enjoyments wooes them to forget
The hardy Toils and Labours of the Great:
But if the warlike Trumpet's loud Alarms,
To virtuous A&s excite and manly Arms;
The Coward Boy avows his abject Fear,
On filken Wings fublime he cuts the Air,

Scar'd at the noble Noife,and Thunder of theWar.Rom.Tamerl
Away then, feeble God,.

I banish thee my Bofom: Hence, I fay,

Be gone; or I will tear the Strings that hold thee,
And ftab thee in my Heart. The Wars come on:

By Heav'n I'll drown thy laughing Deity

In Blood, and drive thee with my brandish'd Sword.Lee Mithrid.

Yes!

Yes! I will fhake this Cupid' from my Arms,
If all the Rages of the Earth can fright him
Drown him in the deep Bowl of Hercules;
Make the World drunk, and then like Eolus,
When he gave Paffage to the ftruggling Winds,
I'll stick my Spear into the reeling Globe

To let it Blood: Set Babylon in a Blaze,

(Lee Alex

And drive this God of Flames with more confuming Fire.
LOYALTY. See Subject.
For Loyalty is ftill the fame,
Whether it win or lofe the Game;
True as the Dial to the Sun,
Altho' it be not fhin'd upon.

But True and Faithful's fure to lofe,
Which Way foever the Game goes;
And whether Parties lofe or win,
Is always nick'd, or elfe hedg'd in:
While Pow'r ufurp'd, like ftoll'n Delight,
Is more bewitching than the right;
And when the Times begin to alter,
None rife fo high as from the Halter.

Hud.

The Faith of moft with Fortune does decline,

Duty's but Fear, and Confcience but Defign.
Let Fools the Name of Loyalty divide;

How

Wife Men and Gods are on the ftrongeft Side. Sedl. Ant.&Cleep

For whom fhould we effeem above

The Men whom Gods do love.

The Laws of Friendship we our felves create,

And 'tis but fimple Villany to break 'em.

But Faith to Princes broke is Sacrilege,

An Injury to the Gods; and that loft Wretch,

Whofe Breaft is poifon'd with fo vile a Purpose,

Roch. Valent.

Tears Thunder down from Heav'n on his own Head,
And leaves a Curfe to his Pofterity.

LUST.

As Virtue never will be mov'd,

Tho' Lewdnefs court it in a Shape of Heav'n:

So Luft, tho' to a radiant Angel joyn'd,

Will feat it felf in a celeftial Bed,

And pray on Garbage.

To a Lady playing on the LUTE.

Shak. Ham?

The trembling Strings about her Fingers crowd,

And tell their Joy for ev'ry Kifs aloud:

Small Force there needs to make them tremble fo;
Touch'd by that Hand, who would not tremble too?
Here Love takes Stand, and while the charms the Ear,
Empties his Quiver on the lift'ning Deer:

Mufick fo foftens and difarms the Mind,
That not one Arrow does Refiftance find:
Thus the fair Tyrant celebrates the Prize,
And acts her felf the Triumph of her Eyes.
So Nero once with Harp in Hand furvey'd
His flaming Rome, and as that burn'd he play'd.
To burning Rome when frantick Nero play'd,
Had he but heard thy Lute, he foon had found
His Rage eluded, and his Crime atton'd:

Wall.

Thine, like Amphion's Hand, had rais'd the Stone,
And from Deftru&tion call'd a fairer Town:
Malice to Mufick had been forc'd to yield,

Nor could he burn fo faft as thou could'ft build.

Prier.

LYRE.

Awake, awake, my Lyre,

And tell thy filent Mafter's humble Tale,
In Sounds that may prevail;

Sounds that gentle Thoughts infpire:
Tho' fo exalted the,

And I fo lowly be,

Tell her fuch different Notes make all thy Harmony.
Hark how the Strings awake,

And tho' the moving Hand approach not near,
Themselves with awful Fear,

A kind of num'rous Trembling make :
Now all thy Forces try,

Now all thy Charms apply;

Revenge upon her Ear the Conquefts of her Eye.
Weak Lyre, thy Virtue fure

Is useless here, fince thou art only found
To cure, but not to wound,

And the to wound, but not to cure.

Too weak too wilt thou prove
My Paffion to remove:

Phyfick to other Ills, thou'rt Nourishment to Love.

Sleep! fleep again, my Lyre;

For thou canft never tell my humble Tale

In Sounds that will prevail,

Nor gentle Thoughts in her inspire:

All thy vain Mirth lay by,

Bid thy Strings filent lie,

Sleep, fleep again, my Lyre, and let thy Master die.

MAD.

Now fee that noble and moft fov'raign Reafon, Like sweet Bells jangled out of Tune and harsh Mad as the Seas and Winds, when both contend Which is the mightier.

She hems, and beats her Breast,

Spurns enviously at Straws; fpeaks things in Doubt,

That carry but half Senfe:

Yet her unfhap'd Ufe of Speech does move

The Hearers to Collection: They aim at it,

And her Words up-fit to their own Thoughts;

Which as her Winks, and Nods, and Geftures yield them,
Indeed would make one think there would be Thoughts;
Tho' nothing fuit, yet much, unhappily.

Behold her lying in her Cell,

Her unregarded Locks

Matted like Furies Treffes; her poor Limbs

Shak. Haml.

Chain'd to the Ground; and ftead of thofe Delights,

Which happy Lovers tafte, her Keeper's Stripes,

A Bed of Straw, and a coarse wooden Dish

Of wretched Suftenance.

Obferve the Gallantry of her Distraction:

Otw. Orph

Hark how the mouths the Heav'ns, and mates the Gods;
Her blazing Eyes darting the wand'ring Stars,

While with her thund'ring Voice fhe threatens high,
And ev'ry Accent twangs with fmarting Sorrow.
He raves: His Words are loofe

As Heaps of Sand, and featt'ring wide from Senfe.
So high he's mounted in his airy Throne,
That now the Wind is got into his Head,
And turns his Brains to Frenzy.

Wild

As a robb'd Tigrefs bounding o'er the Woods.

Wild as Winds,

That sweep the Defarts of our moving Plains.
There is a Pleafure fure in being mad,
Which none but Madmen know.

Madmen ought not to be mad,

But who can help their Frenzy ?

A Woman! If you love my Peace of Mind,

Name not a Woman to me: But to think

Of Woman were enough to taint my Brains

Lee Oedip.

Dryd, Span. Fry.

'Lee Oedip.

Dryd. Don Seb.

Dryd. Span. Fry.

Dryd. Span. Fry.

Till they ferment to Madness. A Woman is the thing
I would forget, and blot from my Remembrance. Otw: Orph.
To my charm'd Ears no more of Woman tell;

Name not a Woman and I shall be well:
Like a poor Lunatick that makes his Moan,
And for a while beguiles his Lookers on;
He reasons well, his Eyes their Wildness lofe,
He vows the Keepers his wrong'd Senfe abuse:

Bat