Are in no plots; but fairly drive at
The public welfare, in your private:
And will, for England's glory, try
Turks, Jews, and Jefuits to defy,
And keep your places till you die.

For me, whom wandring Fortune threw
From what I lov'd, the town and you;
Let me juft tell you how my time is
Past in a country-life.—Imprimis,
As foon as Phoebus' rays infpect us,
- First, Sir, I read, and then I breakfast;
So on, 'till forefaid God does fet,
I fometimes ftudy, fometimes eat.
Thus, of your heroes and brave boys,
With whom old Homer makes fuch noife,
The greatest actions I can find,

Are, that they did their work, and din'd.
The books of which I'm chiefly fond,
Are fuch, as you have whilom con'd;
That treat of China's civil law,
And fubjects rights in Golconda ;
Of highway-elephants at Ceylan,

That rob in clans, like men o' th' Highland;

Of

apes that ftorm, or keep a town,

As well almoft, as count Lauzun ;

Of unicorns and alligators,

Elks, mermaids, mummies, witches, fatyrs,
And twenty other ftranger matters;

}

}

Which, though they 're things I 've no concern in, Make all our grooms admire my learning.

Criticks

Criticks I read on other men, And hypers upon them again;

From whofe remarks I give opinion

On twenty books, yet ne'er look in one.
Then all your wits, that flear and sham,
Down from Don Quixote to Tom Tram;
From whom I jefts and puns purloin,
And flily put them off for mine:

Fond to be thought a country wit:
The reft,-when fate and you think fit.
Sometimes I climb my mare, and kick her
To bottl'd ale, and country vicar;
Sometimes at Stamford take a quart,
'Squire Shephard's health,-with all my heart.
Thus, without much delight, or grief,
I fool away an idle life;

'Till Shadwell from the town retires,
(Choak'd up with fame and fea-coal fires,)
To blefs the wood with peaceful lyric;
Then hey for praise and panegyric;
Juftice reftor'd, and nations freed,

And wreaths round William's glorious head.

то

то тНЕ

COUNTESS OF DORSE T,

WRITTEN IN HER MILTON,

BY MR. BRADBURY.

SEE here how bright the first-born virgin fhone,

And how the firft fond lover was undone.

Such charming words our beauteous mother spoke,
As Milton wrote, and fuch as yours her look.
Yours, the best copy of th' original face,
Whose beauty was to furnish all the race:
Such chains no author could escape but he
There's no way to be safe, but not to fee.

T@

LADY

TO THE

DURSLEY:

ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

HERE reading how fond Adam was betray'd,

And how by fin Eve's blafted charms decay'd; Our common lofs unjustly you complain; So fmall that part of it, which you fuftain. You ftill, fair mother, in your offspring trace The ftock of beauty deftin'd for the race : Kind nature, forming them, the pattern took For Heav'n's first work, and Eve's original look. You, happy faint, the ferpent's pow'r controul: Scarce any actual guilt defiles your foul: And hell does o'er that mind vain triumph boast, Which gains a Heav'n, for earthly Eden loft. With virtue ftrong as yours had Eve been arm'd, In vain the fruit had blufh'd, or ferpent charm'd; Nor had our blifs by penitence been bought; Nor had frail Adam fall'n, nor Milton wrote,

Elizabeth, daughter of Baptift Noel, Viscount Campden. She died 30 July, 1719. Her husband, Charles Earl of Berkeley (when Lord Durfley), had been envoy extraordinary and plenipotentiary to the States of Holland, from

whence he returned in 1695.

VOL. I.

D

то

MY LORD BUCKHURST.

VERY YOUNG.

PLAYING WITH A САТ.

THE am'rous youth, whose tender breast

Was by his darling cat poffeft,
Obtain'd of Venus his defire,
Howe'er irregular his fire;
Nature the pow'r of love obey'd:
The cat became a blufhing maid;
And, on the happy change, the boy
Employ'd his wonder, and his joy.

Take care, O beauteous child, take care,

Left thou prefer fo rafh a pray'r :

Nor vainly hope, the queen of love
Will e'er thy fav'rite's charms improve,
O quickly from her shrine retreat;
Or tremble for thy darling's fate,

The queen of love, who foon will fee
Her own Adonis live in thee,

Will lightly her first lofs deplore;

Will eafily forgive the boar:

*

*Lionel, afterwards Duke of Dorfet, to whom Prior

afterwards dedicated his poems.

Her