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Yet in such Charities she pass'd the Day,
'Twas wondrous how she found an Hour to Pray.
A Soul so calm, it knew not Ebbs or Flows,
Which Passion cou'd but curl; not discompose.
A Female Softness, with a Manly Mind:
A Daughter duteous, and a Sister kind:
In Sickness patient; and in Death resign'd.
LD as I am, for Ladies Love upfit,
ThePow'r of BeautyIremember yet,
Which once inflam'd my Soul, and
still inspires my Wit.
If Love be Folly, the severe Divine
Has felt that Folly, tho'he censures mine;
Pollutes the Pleasures of a chast Embrace,
Acts what I write, and propagates in Grace,
With riotous Excess, a Priestly Race:
Suppose him free, and that I forge th’Offence,
He shew'd the way, perverting first my Sense:
In Malice witty, and with Venom fraught,
He makes me speak the Things I never thought.
Compute the Gains of his ungovern'd Zeal;
Ill sutes his Cloth the Praise of Railing well!
The World will think that what we loosly write,
Tho’now arraign'd, he read with some delight;
Because he seems to chew the Cud again,
When his broadComment makes the Text too plain:
And teaches more in one explaining Page,
E. Than all the double Meanings of the Stage.
What needs he Paraphrafe on what we mean? We were at worst but Wanton; he's Obscene, un I, nor my Fellows, nor my Self excuse;
But Love's the Subject of the Comic Muse:
Nor can we write without it, nor would you,
A Tale of only dry Instruction view;
Nor Love is always of a vicious Kind,
But oft to yirtuous Acts inflames the Mind.
Awakes the sleepy Vigour of the Soul,
And, brushing o'er, adds Motion to the Pool.
Love, studious how to please, improves oựr Parts
With polish'd Manners, and adorns with Arts.
Love first invented Verse, and form'd the Rhime,
The Motion measur’d, harmoniz'd the Chime;
To lib'ral Acts enlarg'd the narrow-Soul'd:
Soften'a the Fierce, and made the Coward Bold:
The World when waste, he Peopled with Increase,
And warring Nations reconcil'd in Peace.
Ormond, the first, and all the Fair may find,
In this one Legend, to their Fame design'd,
When Beauty fires the Blood, how Love ex-f
alts the Mind.
N that sweet Isle, where Venus keeps her Court,
And ev'ry Grace, and all the Loves, resort; Where either Sex is form’d of softer Earth, And takes the bent of Pleasure from their Birth; There liv'd a Cyprian Lord, above the rest, Wise, Wealthy, with a num'rous Issue blest.
But as no Gift of Fortune is fincere, Was only wanting in a worthy Heir: His eldest Born, a goodly Youth to view, Excell'd the rest in Shape, and outward Shew; Fair, Tall, his Limbs with due Proportion join'd, But of a heavy, dull, degenerate Mind.
His Soul bely'd the Features of his Face;
Beauty was there, but Beauty in Disgrace.
A clownish Mien, a Voice with rustick Sound,
And stupid Eyes, that ever lov’d the Ground.
He look'd like Nature's Error; as the Mind
And Body were not of a Piece design'd,
But'made for two, and by Mistake in one were
The ruling Rod, the Father's forming Care,
Were exercis’d in vain, on Wit's Despair ;
The more inform’d the less he understood,
And deeper funk by flound'ring in the Mud.
Now scorn'd of all, and grown the publick Shame,
The People from Gale fus chang’d his Name,
And Cymon call’d, which fignifies a Brute;
So well his Name did with his Nature fute.
His Father, when he found his Labour lost,
And Care employ'd, that answer'd not the Cost,
Chose an ungrateful Object to remove,
And loath'd to see what Nature made him love;
So to his Country-Farm the Fool confin'd:
Rude Work well suted with a rustick Mind.