Sometimes at Stamford take a Quart,
-Squire Sheppard's Health----With all my Heart. Thus, far from Pleasure, Sir, or Grief,
I fool away an Idle Life,
'Till Mr. Maidwell ceafe to teach;
Then I'll ferk Youth, and fay-In-Speech.
Or Shadwell from the Town retires,
(Choak'd up with Fame and Sea-coal Fires)
To bless the Woods with peaceful Lyrick;
Then hey for Praise and Panegyrick.
Justice reftor'd, and Nations freed,
And Wreaths round William's Glorious Head.
SONG of Basset, by Sir George Ethrege.
ET Equipage and Dress despair,
Since Baffet is come in,
For nothing can oblige the Fair
Like Money and Morine.
'Tis only Cony can redress
Her Grief with a Rouleau.
By this bewitching Game betray'd,
Poor Love is bought and fold:
And that which fhou'd be a free Trade,
Is now ingrofs'd by Gold.
Ev'n Senfe is brought into disgrace,
Where Company is met;
Or filent ftands, or leaves the Place,
While all the Talk's Baffet.
Where a plain Cheat is found?
You firft are rookt out of those Darts
That gave your felves the Wound.
Stand in defence of your own Charms,
Throw down this Favorite,
That threatens with his dazling Arms
Your Beauty and your Wit.
What pity 'tis, thofe conquering Eyes,
Which all the World fubdue,
Shou'd, while the Lover gazing dies,
Be only on Alpue.
SATYR.
O that prodigious height of Vice we're grown, Both in the Court, the Theatre, and Town, That 'tis of late believ'd, nay fix'd a Rule, Whoever is not vicious is a Fool: Hiss'd at by old and young, despis'd, opprest, If he be not a Villain like the rest.
Virtue and Truth are loft: Search for good Men, Among Ten Thousand you will scarce find Ten.
Half Wits, conceited Coxcombs, Cowards, Braves,
Base Flatt'rers, and the endless fry of Knaves,
Fops, Fools, and Pimps, we ev'ry where may find;
And not to meet 'em is to fhun Mankind.
The other Sex too, whom we all adore,
When fearch'd we still find rotten at the Core,
An old dry Bawd, or a young juicy Whore:
Their Love all falfe, their Virtue but a Name,
And nothing in 'em constant but their Shame.
What Satyrist then that's honest can sit still,
And unconcern'd fee fuch a Tide of Ill,
With an impetuous force o'reflow the Age,
And not strive to restrain it with his Rage;
On Sin's vast Army feize, Wing, Rear, and Van,
And, like impartial Death, not spare a Man?
For where, alas! where is that mighty He,
That is from Pride, Deceit, and Envy free,
Or rather is not tainted with all three?
Mankind is criminal, their Acts, their Thoughts;
'Tis Charity to tell 'em of their Faults,
And show their Failings in a faithful Glass:
For who wont mend who fees himself an Afs?
And this Design 'tis that employs my Muse,
That for her daily Theam fhe's proud to chuse
A Theam that she'll have daily need to use.
Let other Poets flatter, fawn, and write,
To get fome Guineas and a Dinner by❜t:
Such mercenary Wretches, fhou'd they starve,
They meet a kinder Fate than they deferve.
But She cou'd ne'er cringe to a Lord for Meat,
Or praise a profperous Villain, tho' he's great:
Quite contrary her Practice fhall appear,
Unbrib'd, impartial, pointed, and fevere:
That way my Nature leads, compos'd of Gall,
I must write sharply, or not write at all.
Tho' THIRSIS wings the Air in tow'ring Flights,
And to a wonder Panegyrick writes,
Tho' he is still exalted and fublime,
Scarce to be match'd by past or present Time;
Tho' smooth and lofty all his Lines appear,
The Thoughts all noble, the Expression clear,
With Judgment, Wit, and Fancy, fhining ev'ry
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Yet what Inftruction can from hence accrue?
'Tis Flatt'ry all; too fulfome to be true.
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