The fruits of conquest now begin ;

Iö triumph! Enter in.

What's this, ye Gods! what can it be?

Remains there still an enemy?

Bold Honour ftands up in the gate,

And would yet capitulate;

Have I o'ercome all real foes,
And shall this phantom me oppose?

Noify nothing! ftalking fhade!
By what witchcraft wert thou made?
Empty cause of folid harms!
But I fhall find out counter-charms,
Thy airy devilship to remove
From this circle here of love.

Sure I fhall rid myself of thee
By the night's obfcurity,
And obfcurer fecrecy !

Unlike to every other sprite,

Thou attempt'it not men t' affright,
Nor appear'ft but in the light,

THE

INNOCENT

IL L.

TH

HOUGH all thy geftures and difcourfes be
Coin'd and stamp'd by modefty;

Though from thy tongue ne'er flipp'd away
One word which nuns at th' altar might not say;

Yet

Yet such a sweetness, fuch a grace,

In all thy fpeech appear,

That what to th' eye a beauteous face,
That thy tongue is to th' car :

So cunningly it wounds the heart,
It strikes fuch heat through every part,
That thou a tempter worse than Satan art.

Though in thy thoughts scarce any tracks have been So much as of original fin,

Such charms thy beauty wears as might

Defires in dying confefs'd faints excite :
Thou, with ftrange adultery,

Dost in each breast a brothel keep ;
Awake all men do luft for thee,

And fome enjoy thee when they fleep.
Ne'er before did woman live,

Who to fuch multitudes did give
The root and caufe of fin, but only Eve.

Though in thy breast so quick a pity be,

That a fly's death 's a wound to thee ;
Though favage and rock-hearted thofe
Appear, that weep not ev'n Romance's woes;
Yet ne'er before was tyrant known,
Whose rage was of fo large extent;
The ills thou doft are whole thine own;
Thou 'rt principal and inftrument:
In all the deaths that come from you,

You do the treble office do

Of judge, of torturer, and of weapon too.

Thou

Thou lovely inftrument of angry Fate,

Which God did for our faults create!

Thou pleasant, univerfal ill,

Which, fweet as health, yet like a plague dost kill !
Thou kind, well-natur'd tyranny!

Thou chafte committer of a rape!
Thou voluntary destiny,

Which no man can, or would, escape !

So gentle, and fo glad to fpare,

So wondrous good, and wondrous fair, (We know) ev'n the deftroying-angels are.

DIALOGUE.

She. WHAT have we done? what cruel paffion

mov'd thee,

Thus to ruin her that lov'd thee?

Me thou 'ft robb'd; but what art thou
Thyself the richer now?

Shame fucceeds the fhort-liv'd pleasure;

So foon is spent, and gone, this thy ill-gotten treasure !

He. We 'ave done no harm; nor was it theft in me, But nobleft charity in thee.

I'll the well-gotten pleasure

Safe in my memory treasure :

What though the flower itself do wafte,

The effence from it drawn does long and fweeter last.

She

She. No: I'm undone; my honour thou hast slain,

And nothing can restore 't again.
Art and labour to bestow,

Upon the carcafe of it now,

Is but t' embalm a body dead;

The figure may remain, the life and beauty 's fled.

He. Never, my dear, was honour yet undone

By Love, but Indifcretion.

To th' wife it all things does allow;
And cares not What we do, but How.

Like tapers shut in ancient urns,

Unless it let-in air, for ever fhines and burns.

She. Thou firft, perhaps, who didft the fault commit, Wilt make thy wicked boast of it;

For men,

with Roman pride, above

The conqueft do the triumph love;

Nor think a perfect victory gain'd,

Unless they through the streets their captive lead en

chain'd.

He. Whoe'er his fecret joys has open laid,
The bawd to his own wife is made;
Befide, what boaft is left for me,
Whose whole wealth's a gift from thee?
'Tis you the conqueror are, 'tis you

Who have not only ta'en, but bound and gagg'd

me too.

She. Though public punishment we efcape, the fin
Will rack and torture us within:

Guilt and fin our bofom bears;

And, though fair yet the fruit appears,

That worm which now the core does wafte,

When long 't has gnaw'd within, will break the skin at laft.

He. That thirsty drink, that hungry food, I fought, That wounded balm is all my fault;

And thou in pity didst apply,

The kind and only remedy:

The caufe abfolves the crime; fince me

So mighty force did move, so mighty goodness thee.

She. Curfe on thine arts! methinks I hate thee now; And yet I 'm fure I love thee too!

I'm angry; but wrath will prove

my

More innocent than did thy love.

Thou haft this day undone me quite ;

Yet wilt undo me more fhould'ft thou not come at night.

VERSES LOST UPON A WAGER.

S foon hereafter will I wagers lay

AS

'Gainft what an oracle shall say;

Fool that I was, to venture to deny

A tongue fo us'd to victory!

A tongue so blest by nature and by art,
That never yet it spoke but gain'd an heart:

Though