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THE
WORKS
OF THE
Right Honourable
JOHN Earl of Rochester.

Consisting of
Satires, Songs, Translations,
AND OTHER
Occasional POEMS.

LONDON:
Printed for the Booksellers of London and
Westminster. 1718. Price 1 s.

THE
CONTENTS.

FINIS.

[A
SATIRE
AGAINST
MANKIND.]

ere I, who to my Cost already am,
One of those strange, prodigious Creatures Man,

A Spirit free, to chuse for my own Share,
What Sort of Flesh and Blood I pleas’d to wear,
I’d be a Dog, a Monkey, or a Bear;

⎫

⎬

⎭

In hopes still to o’ertake the skipping Light,
The Vapour dances in his dazzled Sight,
Till spent, it leaves him to eternal Night.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Pleasure allures, and when the Fops escape,
’Tis not that they’re belov’d, but fortunate;
And therefore what they fear, at Heart they hate.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Perhaps my Muse were fitter for this Part;
For I profess I can be very smart
On Wit, which I abhor with all my Heart.

⎫

⎬

⎭

I long to lash it in some sharp Essay,
But your grand Indiscretion bids me stay,
And turns my Tide of Ink another Way.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Hold, mighty Man, I cry; all this we know
From the pathetick Pen of Ingelo:
From Patrick’s Pilgrim, Sibb’s Soliloquies,
And ’tis this very Reason I despise;
This supernat’ral Gift, that makes a Mite
Think he’s the Image of the Infinite;
Comparing his short Life, void of all Rest,
To the eternal and the ever-blest:
This busy, puzzling, Stirrer up of Doubt,
That frames deep Mysteries, then finds ’em out,
Filling with frantick Crouds of thinking Fools,
The rev’rend Bedlams, Colleges and Schools,
Born on whose Wings each heavy Sot can pierce
The Limits of the boundless Universe.
So charming Ointments make an old Witch fly,
And bear a crippl’d Carcase thro’ the Sky.
’Tis this exalted Pow’r whose Bus’ness lies
In Nonsense and Impossibilities:
This made a whimsical Philosopher,
Before the spacious World his Tub prefer:
And we have many modern Coxcombs who
Retire to think, ’cause they have nought to do.
But Thoughts were giv’n for Action’s Government;
Where Action ceases, Thought’s impertinent.
Our Sphere of Action is Life’s Happiness,
And he that thinks beyond, thinks like an Ass.
Thus whilst against false Reas’ning I inveigh,
I own right Reason, which I would obey;
That Reason which distinguishes by Sense,
And gives us Rules of Good and Ill from thence;
That bounds Desires with a reforming Will,
To keep them more in Vigour, not to kill:
Your Reason hinders, mine helps to enjoy,
Renewing Appetites yours would destroy.
My Reason is my Friend, yours is a Cheat,
Hunger calls out, my Reason bids my eat;
Perversly yours your Appetite do’s mock;
This asks for Food, that answers what’s’t a Clock.

This plain Distinction, Sir, your Doubt secures;
’Tis not true Reason, I despise but yours.
Thus, I think Reason righted: But for Man,
I’ll ne’er recant, defend him if you can.

For all his Pride, and his Philosophy,
’Tis evident Beasts are, in their Degree,
As wise at least, and better far than he.

⎫

⎬

⎭

[Tunbridge-WELLS:]
A
SATIRE.

At Five this Morn, when Phœbus rais’d his Head
From Thetis Lap, I rais’d my self from Bed;

And mounting Steed, I trotted to the Waters,
The Rendezvous of Fools, Buffoons, and Praters,
Cuckolds, Whores, Citizens, their Wives and Daughters.

⎫

⎬

⎭

But turning Head, a sudden cursed Crew,
That innocent Provision overthrew,
And without drinking, made me purge and spew;

⎫

⎬

⎭

The Man’s a Fool, ’tis true, but that’s no Matter,
For he’s a mighty Wit with those that flatter,
But a poor Blockhead is a wretched Creature.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Tho’ he alone was dismal Sight enough,
His Train contributed to set him off;
All of his Shape, all of the self-same Stuff:

⎫

⎬

⎭

No Spleen or Malice could on them be thrown,
Nature had done the Bus’ness of Lampoon,
And in their Looks their Characters were shewn.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Endeavouring this irksome Sight to baulk,
And a more irksom Noise, their silly Talk;
I silently slunk down to’th Lower Walk.

⎫

⎬

⎭

A tall, stiff Fool, that walk’d in Spanish Guise,
The Buckram Poppet never stirrd his Eyes,
But grave as Owl he look’d, as Woodcock wise.

⎫

⎬

⎭

But none had Modesty enough t’explain
His Want of Learning, Honesty, or Brain,
The general Diseases of that Train.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Was grown so great, and look’d too fat and jolly
To be disturb’d with Care and Melancholly,
Tho’ Marvel had enough expos’d his Folly.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Let him drink on; but ’tis not a whole Flood
Can give sufficient Sweetness to his Blood,
To make his Nature, or his Manners good.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Tir’d with this dismal Stuff, away I ran,
Where were two Wives, with Girl just fit for Man,
Short-breath’d, and palled Lips, and Visage wan.

⎫

⎬

⎭

And now having trimm’d a Cast of spavin’d Horse,
With Three Half-Pence for Guineas in their Purse,
Two rusty Pistols, Scarf about their Arse,

⎫

⎬

⎭

[HORACE’s
Nempe incomposito dixi pede, &c.
IMITATED.]

Well, Sir, ’tis granted, I said Dryden’s Rhimes
Were stoll’n, unequal, nay, dull many Times:
What foolish Patron is there found of his
So blindly partial to deny me this?

But that his Plays embroider’d up and down
With Wit and Learning, justly please the Town,
In the same Paper I as freely own.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Nor that slow Drudge in swift Pindarick Strains,
Flatman, who Cowley imitates with Pains,
And rides a jaded Muse, whipt, with loose Reins.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Of all our modern Wits, none seem to me
Once to have touch’d upon true Comedy,
But hasty Shadwell, and slow Wycherley.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Waller, by Nature for the Bays design’d,
With Force, and Fire, and Fancy, unconfin’d,
In Panegyrick do’s excel Mankind:

⎫

⎬

⎭

For Songs and Verses mannerly obscene,
That can stir Nature up by Springs unseen,
And, without forcing Blushes, warm the Queen;

⎫

⎬

⎭

Sedley has that prevailing, gentle Art,
That can with a resistless Pow’r impart
The loosest Wishes to the chastest Heart;

⎫

⎬

⎭

Such scribb’ling Authors have been seen before,
Mustapha, the Island Princess, Forty more,
Were things, perhaps, compos’d in Half an Hour.

⎫

⎬

⎭

I’ve no Ambition on that idle Score,
But say with Betty Morris heretofore,
When a Court Lady call’d her Buckhurst’s Whore:

⎫

⎬

⎭

Should I be troubled when the purblind Knight,
Who squints more in his Judgment, than his Sight,
Picks silly Faults, and censures what I write?

⎫

⎬

⎭

Godolphin, Butler, Buckhurst, Buckingham,
And some few more, whom I omit to name,
Approve my Sense, I count their Censure Fame.

⎫

⎬

⎭

[A
SATIRE
AGAINST
MARRIAGE.]

Husband, thou dull unpitied Miscreant,
Wedded to Noise, to Misery and Want:
Sold an eternal Vassal for thy Life,
Oblig’d to cherish, and to hate thy Wife:
Drudge on till Fifty at thy own Expence,
Breathe out thy Life in one Impertinence:
Repeat thy loath’d Embraces every Night,
Prompted to act by Duty, not Delight:
Christen thy froward Bantling once a Year,
And carefully thy spurious Issue rear:
Go once a Week to see the Brat at Nurse,
And let the young Impostor drain thy Purse:
Hedge-Sparrow-like, what Cuckows have begot,
Do thou maintain, incorrigible Sot.
O! I could curse the Pimp, (who could do less?)
He’s beneath Pity, and beyond Redress.
Pox on him, let him go, what can I say?
Anathema’s on him are thrown away:
The Wretch is marry’d and hath known the worst;
And his great Blessing is, he can’t be curst.
Marriage! O Hell and Furies! name it not;
Hence, ye holy Cheats, a Plot, a Plot!
Marriage! ’Tis but a licens’d Way to sin;
A Noose to catch religious Woodcocks in:
Or the Nick-Name of Love’s malicious Fiend,
Begot in Hell to persecute Mankind:
’Tis the Destroyer of our Peace and Health,
Mispender of our Time, our Strength and Wealth;
The Enemy of Valour, Wit, Mirth, all
That we can virtuous, good, or pleasant call:
By Day ’tis nothing but an endless Noise,
By Night the Eccho of forgotten Joys:
Abroad the Sport and Wonder of the Crowd,
At Home the hourly Breach of what they vow’d:
In Youth it’s Opium to our lustful Rage,
Which sleeps awhile, but wakes again in Age:
It heaps on all Men much, but useless Care;
For with more Trouble they less happy are.
Ye Gods! that Man, by his own Slavish Law,
Should on himself such Inconvenience draw.
If he would wiser Nature’s Laws obey,
Those chalk him out a far more pleasant Way,
When lusty Youth and fragrant Wine conspire
To fan the Blood into a gen’rous Fire.
We must not think the Gallant will endure
The puissant Issue of his Calenture,
Nor always in his single Pleasures burn,
Tho’ Nature’s Handmaid sometimes serves the Turn:
No: He must have a sprightly, youthful Wench,
In equal Floods of Love his Flames to quench:
One that will hold him in her clasping Arms,
And in that Circle all his Spirits charms;
That with new Motion and unpractis’d Art,
Can raise his Soul, and reinsnare his Heart.
Hence spring the Noble, Fortunate, and Great,
Always begot in Passion and in Heat:
But the dull Offspring of the Marriage-Bed,
What is it! but a human Piece of Lead;
A sottish Lump ingender’d of all Ills;
Begot like Cats against their Fathers Wills.
If it be bastardis’d, ’tis doubly spoil’d,
The Mother’s Fear’s entail’d upon the Child.
Thus whether illegitimate, or not,
Cowards and Fools in Wedlock are begot.
Let no enabled Soul himself debase
By lawful Means to bastardise his Race;
But if he must pay Nature’s Debt in Kind,
To check his eager Passion, let him find
Some willing Female out, who, tho’ she be
The very Dregs and Scum of Infamy:
Tho’ she be Linsey-Woolsey, Bawd, and Whore,
Close-stool to Venus, Nature’s Common-Shore,
Impudent, Foolish, Bawdy, and Disease,
The Sunday Crack of Suburb-Prentices;
What then! She’s better than a Wife by half;
And if thour’t still unmarried, thou art safe.
With Whores thou canst but venture; what thou’st lost,
May be redeem’d again with Care and Cost;
But a damn’d Wife, by inevitable Fate,
Destroys Soul, Body, Credit, and Estate.

[A
LETTER
FROM
Artemisa in the Town,
TO
CLOE in the Country.]

Cloe, by your Command, in Verse I write:
Shortly you’ll bid me ride astride, and fight:
Such Talents better with our Sex agree,
Than lofty Flights of dangerous Poetry.
Among the Men, I mean the Men of Wit,
(At least, they past for such before they writ)
How many bold Advent’rers for the Bays,
Proudly designing large Returns of Praise;

Who durst that stormy, pathless World explore,
Were soon dash’d back, and wreck’d on the dull Shore,
Broke of that little Stock they had before.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Dear Artemisa! Poetry’s a Snare:
Bedlam has many Mansions; have a Care:
Your Muse diverts you, makes the Reader sad:
You think your self inspir’d, he thinks you mad:
Consider too, ’twill be discreetly done,
To make your self the Fiddle of the Town:
To find th’ ill-humour’d Pleasure at their Need;
Curst when you fail, and scorn’d when you succeed.

Thus, like an arrant Woman, as I am,
No sooner well convinc’d Writing’s a Shame,
That Whore is scarce a more reproachful Name

⎫

⎬

⎭

Y’expect to hear, at least, what Love has past
In this lewd Town, since you and I saw last;
What Change has happen’d of Intrigues, and whether
The old ones last, and who and who’s together.
But how, my dearest Cloe, shou’d I set
My Pen to write, what I wou’d fain forget?
Or name that lost thing Love without a Tear,
Since so debauch’d by ill-bred Customs here?
Love, the most gen’rous Passion of the Mind;
The softest Refuge Innocence can find;
The safe Director of unguided Youth;
Fraught with kind Wishes, and secur’d by Truth:
That Cordial-drop Heav’n in our Cup has thrown,
To make the nauseous Draught of Life go down:
On which one only Blessing God might raise,
In Lands of Atheists, Subsidies of Praise:
For none did e’er so dull and stupid prove,
But felt a God, and bless’d his Pow’r in Love:
This only Joy, for which poor we are made,
Is grown, like Play, to be an arrant Trade:
The Rooks creep in, and it has got of late,
As many little Cheats and Tricks as that.
But, what yet more a Woman’s Heart wou’d vex,
’Tis chiefly carry’d on by our own Sex.

Our silly Sex, who, born like Monarchs, free,
Turn Gypsies for a meaner Liberty;
And hate Restraint, tho’ but from Infamy:

⎫

⎬

⎭

They call whatever is not common nice,
And, deaf to Nature’s Rule, or Love’s Advice,
Forsake the Pleasure to pursue the Vice.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Bovy’s a Beauty, if some few agree
To call him so, the rest to that Degree
Affected are, that with their Ears they see.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Where I was visiting the other Night,
Comes a fine Lady with her humble Knight,
Who had prevail’d with her, thro’ her own Skill,
As his Request, tho’ much against his Will,
To come to London—
As the Coach stopt, I heard her Voice, more loud
Than a great bellied Woman’s in a Crowd;
Telling the Knight that her Affairs require
He, for some Hours, obsequiously retire.

I think she was asham’d he shou’d be seen,
Hard Fate of Husbands! the Gallant has been,
Tho’ a diseas’d, ill-favour’d Fool, brought in.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Slow of Belief, and fickle in Desire,
Who, e’er they’ll be persuaded, must enquire;
As if they came to spy, and not to admire.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Inquisitive, as jealous Cuckolds, grow;
Rather than not be knowing, they will know,
What being known, creates their certain Woe.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Woman, who is an arrant Bird of Night,
Bold in the dusk, before a Fool’s dull sight,
Must fly, when Reason brings the glaring Light.

⎫

⎬

⎭

But the kind easie Fool, apt to admire
Himself, trusts us, his Follies all conspire
To flatter his, and favour our Desire.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Heavy to apprehend; tho’ all Mankind
Perceive us false, the Fop, himself, is blind.
Who, doating on himself,—
Thinks every one that sees him of his Mind.

⎫

⎩

⎧

⎭

Kiss me, thou curious Miniature of Man;
How odd thou art, how pretty, how japan:
Oh! I could live and die with thee: Then on,
For half an Hour, in Complements she ran.

I took this Time to think what Nature meant,
When this mixt Thing into the World she sent,
So very wise, yet so impertinent.

⎫

⎬

⎭

All the good Qualities that ever blest
A Woman so distinguish’d from the rest,
Except Discretion only, she possest.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Thus she ran on two Hours, some Grains of Sense
Still mixt with Follies of Impertinence.

But now ’tis Time I shou’d some Pity show
To Cloe, since I cannot chuse but know,
Readers must reap what dullest Writers sow.

⎫

⎬

⎭

Farewel.

[An EPISTOLARY
ESSAY
From M.G. to O.B.
Upon their mutual POEMS.]

Dear Friend,

I hear this Town does so abound
With saucy Censurers, that Faults are found
With what of late we (in poetick Rage)
Bestowing threw away on the dull Age.
But (howsoe’er Envy their Spleens may raise,
To rob my Brows of the deserved Bays)
Their Thanks at least I merit; since thro’ me
They are Partakers of your Poetry:

And this is all I’ll say in my Defence,
T’obtain one Line of your well-worded Sence,
I’ll be content t’have writ the British Prince.

⎫

⎬

⎭

And if exposing what I take for Wit,
To my dear self a Pleasure I beget,
No Matter tho’ the cens’ring Criticks fret.

⎫

⎬

⎭

The first’s unnatural, therefore unfit;
And for the second, I despair of it,
Since Grace is not so hard to get as Wit.

⎫

⎬

⎭

In Wit, alone, ’t has been Magnificent,
Of which so just a Share to each is sent,
That the most avaricious are content.

⎫

⎬

⎭

[THE
Maim’d Debauchee.]

I.

As some brave Admiral in former War
Depriv’d of Force, but prest with Courage still,
Two rival Fleets appearing from afar,
Crawls to the Top of an adjacent Hill.

II.

From whence (with Thoughts full of Concern) he views
The wise, and daring Conduct, of the Fight:
And each bold Action to his Mind renews,
His present Glory, and his past Delight.

III.

From his fierce Eyes flashes of Rage he throws,
As from black Clouds when Lightning breaks away,
Transported thinks himself amidst his Foes,
And absent yet enjoys the bloody Day.

IV.

So when my Days of Impotence approach,
And I’m by Love and Wine’s unlucky Chance,
Driv’n from the pleasing Billows of Debauch,
On the dull Shore of lazy Temperance.

V.

My Pains at last some Respite shall afford,
While I behold the Battels you maintain;
When Fleets of Glasses sail around the Board,
From whose Broad-sides Vollies of Wit shall rain.

VI.

Nor shall the Sight of honourable Scars,
Which my too forward Valour did procure,
Frighten new-listed Soldiers from the Wars,
Past Joys have more than paid what I endure.

VII.

Shou’d some brave Youth (worth being drunk) prove nice,
And from his fair Inviter meanly shrink,
’Twould please the Ghost of my departed Vice,
If at my Counsel he repent and drink.

VIII.

Or shou’d some cold complexion’d Sot forbid,
With his dull Morals, our Nights brisk Alarms,
I’ll fire his Blood by telling what I did,
When I was strong, and able to bear Arms.

IX.

I’ll tell of Whores attack’d their Lords at home,
Bawds Quarters beaten up, and Fortress won;
Windows demolish’d, Watches overcome,
And handsome Ills by my Contrivance done.

X.

With Tales like these I will such Heat inspire.
As to important Mischief shall incline;
I’ll make him long some ancient Church to fire,
And fear no Lewdness they’re call’d to by Wine.

XI.

Thus Statesman-like I’ll saucily impose,
And safe from Danger valianly advise;
Shelter’d in Impotence urge you to Blows,
And being good for nothing else be wise.

[Upon NOTHING.]

I.

Nothing! thou elder Brother ev’n to Shade,
Thou hadst a Being e’er the World was made,
And (well fix’d) art alone, of ending not afraid.

II.

E’er Time and Place were, Time and Place were not,
When primitive Nothing something straight begot,
Then all proceeded from the great united—What.

III.

Something the gen’ral Attribute of all,
Sever’d from thee, it’s sole Original,
Into thy boundless self must undistinguish’d fall.

IV.

Yet something did thy mighty Pow’r command,
And from thy fruitful Emptiness’s Hand,
Snatch’d Men, Beasts, Birds, Fire, Air, and Land.

V.

Matter, the wicked’st Off-spring of thy Race,
By Form assisted, flew from thy Embrace,
And rebel Light obscur’d thy rev’rend dusky Face.

VI.

With Form and Matter, Time, and Place did join,
Body, thy Foe, with thee did Leagues combine
To spoil thy peaceful Realm, and ruin all thy Line.

VII.

But turn-coat Time assists the Foe in vain,
And, brib’d by thee, assists thy short-liv’d Reign.
And to thy hungry Womb drives back thy Slaves again.

VIII.

Tho’ Mysteries are barr’d from Laick Eyes,
And the Divine alone, with Warrant, pries
Into thy Bosom, where the Truth in private lies.

IX.

Yet this of thee the Wise may freely say,
Thou from the Virtuous nothing tak’st away,
And to be part with thee the Wicked wisely pray.

X.

Great Negative, how vainly wou’d the Wise
Enquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise?
Didst thou not stand to point their dull Philosophies.

XI.

Is, or is not, the two great Ends of Fate,
And, true or false, the Subject of Debate,
That perfect, or destroy, the vast Designs of Fate.

XII.

When they have rack’d the Politician’s Breast,
Within thy Bosom most securely rest,
And, when reduc’d to thee, are least unsafe and best.

XIII.

But, Nothing, why does Something still permit,
That sacred Monarchs should at Council sit,
With Persons highly thought at best for nothing fit.

XIV.

Whilst weighty Something modestly abstains,
From Princes Coffers, and from Statesmens Brains,
And nothing there like stately Nothing reigns.

XV.

Nothing, who dwell’st with Fools in grave Disguise,
For whom they rev’rend Shapes and Forms devise,
Lawn Sleeves, and Furs, and Gowns, when they like thee look wise.

XVI.

French Truth, Dutch Prowess, British Policy,
Hibernian Learning, Scotch Civility,
Spaniards Dispatch, Danes Wit, are mainly seen in thee.

XVII.

The Great Man’s Gratitude to his best Friend,
King’s Promises, Whores Vows tow’rds thee they bend,
Flow swiftly into thee, and in thee ever end.

[The ADVICE.]

All Things submit themselves to your Command,
Fair Cælia, when it does not Love withstand:
The Pow’r it borrows from your Eyes alone;
All but the God must yield to, who has none.
Were he not blind, such are the Charms you have,
He’d quit his Godhead to become your Slave:
Be proud to act a mortal Hero’s Part,
And throw himself for Fame on his own Dart.
But Fate has otherwise dispos’d of Things,
In different Bands subjected Slaves and Kings:
Fetter’d in Forms of Royal State are they,
While we enjoy the Freedom to obey.
That Fate like you resistless does ordain,
To Love, that over Beauty he shall reign.
By Harmony the Universe does move,
And what is Harmony but mutual Love?
Who would resist an Empire so divine,
Which universal Nature does enjoin?
See gentle Brooks, how quietly they glide,
Kissing the rugged Banks on either Side.
While in their Crystal Streams at once they show,
And with them feed the Flow’rs which they bestow:
Tho’ rudely throng’d by a too near Embrace,
In gentle Murmurs they keep on their Pace
To the lov’d Sea; for Streams have their Desires;
Cool as they are, they feel Love’s powerful Fires;
And with such Passion, that if any Force
Stop or molest them in their amorous Course;
They swell, break down with Rage, and ravage o’er
The Banks they kiss’d, and Flow’rs they fed before.
Submit then, Cælia, e’er you be reduc’d;
For Rebels, vanquish’d once, are vilely us’d.
Beauty’s no more but the dead Soil, which Love
Manures, and does by wise Commerce improve:
Sailing by Sighs, thro’ Seas of Tears, he sends
Courtships from foreign Hearts, for your own Ends:
Cherish the Trade, for as with Indians we
Get Gold and Jewels for our Trumpery:
So to each other for their useless Toys,
Lovers afford whole Magazines of Joys.
But if you’re fond of Baubles, be, and starve,
Your Guegaw Reputation still preserve:
Live upon Modesty and empty Fame,
Foregoing Sense for a fantastick Name.

[The DISCOVERY.]

Cælia, that faithful Servant you disown,
Would in Obedience keep his Love his own:
But bright Ideas, such as you inspire,
We can no more conceal, than not admire.
My Heart at home in my own Breast did dwell,
Like humble Hermit in a peaceful Cell.
Unknown and undisturb’d it rested there,
Stranger alike to Hope and to Despair.
Now Love with a tumultuous Train invades
The sacred Quiet of those hollow’d Shades.
His fatal Flames shine out to ev’ry Eye,
Like blazing Comets in a Winter Sky.
How can my Passion merit your Offence,
That challenges so little Recompence?
For I am one, born only to admire;
Too humble e’er to hope, scarce to desire.
A Thing whose Bliss depends upon your Will,
Who wou’d be proud you’d deign to use him ill.
Then give me leave to glory in my Chain,
My fruitless Sighs, and my unpitied Pain.
Let me but ever Love, and ever be
Th’ Example of your Pow’r and Cruelty.
Since so much Scorn does in your Breast reside,
Be more indulgent to its Mother Pride.
Kill all you strike, and trample on their Graves;
But own the Fates of your neglected Slaves:
When in the Croud yours undistinguish’d lies,
You give away the Triumph of your Eyes.
Perhaps (obtaining this) you’ll think I find
More Mercy than your Anger has design’d:
But Love has carefully design’d for me,
The last Perfection of Misery.
For to my State the Hopes of Common Peace,
Which ev’ry Wretch enjoys in Death, must cease:
My worst of Fates attend me in my Grave,
Since, dying, I must be no more your Slave.

[THE NINTH
ELEGY,
In the Second Book of Ovid’s
Amours, translated.]
To LOVE.