Her body is my foul; laugh not at this,

For by my life I fwear it is.

'Tis that preserves my being and my breath; From that proceeds all that I do,

Nay all my thoughts and speeches too ; And feparation from it is my death.

TIR

ECH O..

IR'D with the rough denials of my prayer,
From that hard the whom I obey;

I come, and find a nymph much gentler here,
That gives consent to all I say.

Ah, gentle nymph! who lik'ft fo well
In hollow, folitary caves to dwell i

Her heart being fuch, into it go,

And do but once from thence anfwer me fo!

Complaifant nymph! who doft thus kindly share
In griefs whose cause thou doft not know;
Hadit thou but eyes, as well as tongue and ear,
How much compaffion wouldst thou show!
Thy flame, whilft living, or a flower,
Was of lefs beauty, and less ravishing power.
Alas! I might as easily

Paint thee to her, as defcribe her to thee.

By repercuffion beams engender fire;

Shapes by reflection shapes beget;

The voice itself, when ftopt, does back retire,
And a new voice is made by it..

Thus

Thus things by oppofition

The gainers grow; my barren love alone
Does from her stony breast rebound,
Producing neither image, fire, nor found.

TH

THE

RICH RIVAL.

'HEY fay you 're angry, and rant mightily,
Because I love the fame as you :

Alas! you 're very rich, 'tis true ;

But, pr'ythee, fool! what's that to Love and me?
You 'ave land and money, let that serve ;

And know you 'ave more by that than you deferve.

When next I fee my fair-one, the shall know
How worthlefs thou art of her bed;

And, wretch! I'll strike thee dumb and dead,
With noble verfe not understood by you;
Whilft thy fole rhetorick shall be

"Jointure" and " jewels," and "our friends agree."
Pox o' your friends, that doat and domineer;
Lovers are better friends than they :

Let's thofe in other things obey;

The Fates, and Stars, and Gods, mult govern here.
Vain names of blood! in love let none

Advise with any blood, but with their own.

'Tis that which bids me this bright maid adore ; No other thought has had access !

Did the now beg, I 'd love no less,

And, were she an emprefs, I should love no more;

VOL. I.

T

Were

Were she as juft and true to me,

Ah, fimple foul! what would become of thee?

OPE! whose weak being ruin'd is,
Alike, if it fucceed, and if it mifs;
Whom good or ill does equally confound,
And both the horns of Fate's dilemma wound:
Vain fhadow! which doft vanish quite,
Both at full noon and perfect night!
The stars have not a poffibility

Of bleffing thee;

If things then from their end we happy call, 'Tis Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.

Hope! thou bold taster of delight,

Who, whilst thou should'st but taste, devour'st it quite! 'Thou bring'ft us an estate, yet leav`ft us poor,

By clogging it with legacies before !

The joys which we entire should wed,
Come deflower'd virgins to our bed;
Good fortunes without gain imported be,
Such mighty cuftom 's paid to thee.
For joy, like wine, kept clofe does better tafte
If it take air before, its spirits waste.

Hope Fortune's cheating lottery!

Where for one prize an hundred blanks there be ;
Fond archer, Hope! who tak'st thy aim so far,
That still or short or wide thine arrows are!

Thin, empty cloud, which th' eye deceives
With shapes that our own fancy gives!
A cloud, which gilt and painted now appears,
But muft drop presently in tears!
When thy falfe beams o'er Reafon's light prevail,
By Ignes Fatui for North-ftars we fail.

Brother of Fear, more gayly clad!

The merrier fool o' th' two, yet quite as mad:
Sire of Repentance! child of fond Defire !
That blow'ft the chemics', and the lovers', fire,
Leading them ftill infenfibly' on

By the strange witchcraft of "anon !”
By thee the one does changing Nature, through
Her endless labyrinths, pursue;

And th' other chaces Woman, whilft fhe goes
More ways and turns than hunted Nature knows.

FOR HOPE.

HOPE! of all ills that men endure,

The only cheap and universal cure!

Thou captive's freedom, and thou fick man's health!
Thou lofer's victory, and thou beggar's wealth!
Thou manna, which from heaven we eat,
To every taste a feveral meat!

Thou ftrong retreat! thou fure-entail'd estate,
Which nought has power to alienate!
Thou pleasant, honeft flatterer! for none
Flatter unhappy men, but thou alone!

Hope! thou firft-fruits of happiness !
Thou gentle dawning of a bright fuccefs!
Thou good preparative, without which our joy
Does work too strong, and, whilst it cures, destroy!
Who out of Fortune's reach dost stand,
And art a bleffing still in hand!

Whilst thee, her earnest-money, we retain,
We certain are to gain,

Whether the 'her bargain break, or else fulfil;
Thou only good, not worse for ending ill!

Brother of Faith! 'twixt whom and thee
The joys of heaven and earth divided be!
Though Faith be heir, and have the fixt estate,
Thy portion yet in moveables is great.
Happiness itself 's all one

In thee, or in poffeffion!

Only the future 's thine, the present his !
Thine's the more hard and noble blifs :
Beft apprehender of our joys! which hast
So long a reach, and yet canft hold so fast!

Hope! thou fad lovers' only friend!
Thou Way, that may'st dispute it with the End
For Love, I fear, 's a fruit that does delight
The taste itself less than the smell and fight.

Fruition more deceitful is

Than thou canft be, when thou doft mifs; Men leave thee by obtaining, and strait flee Some other way again to thee;

And