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Get him a poet's name, and so ne'er come
Into a ferjeant's or dead judge's room!
May he become fome poor physician's prey,
Who keeps men with that conscience in delay
As he his client doth, till his health be
As far-fetcht as a Greek noun's pedigree !
Nay, for all that, may the disease be gone
Never but in the long vacation!
May neighbours ufe all quarrels to decide;
But if for law any to London ride,
Of all thofe clients let not one be his,
Unless he come in Forma Pauperis !

Grant this, ye Gods that favour poetry!
That all these never-ceafing tongues may be
Brought into reformation, and not dare

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To quarrel with a thead-bare black but fpareThem who bear fcholars' names, left fome one take Spleen, and another Ignoramus make.


FI fhould fay, that in your face were feen


Nature's beft picture of the Cyprian Queen ;.
If I fhould fwear, under Minerva's name,
Poets (who prophets are) foretold your fame
The future age would think it flattery;
But to the prefent, which can witness be,
'Twould feem beneath your high deferts, as far
As you above the rest of women are.


When Manners' name with Villiers' join'd I fee,
How do I reverence your nobility!

But when the virtues of your stock I view,
(Envy'd in your dead lord, admir'd in you)
I half adore them; for what woman can,
Befides yourself (nay, I might fay what man)
But fex, and birth, and fate, and years excel
In mind, in fame, in worth, in living well?
Oh, how had this begot idolatry,

If you had liv'd in the world's infancy,
When man's too much religion made the best
Or deities, or femi-gods at least!
But we, forbidden this by piety,

Or, if we were not, by your modefty,

Will make our hearts an altar, and there pray
Not to, but for, you; nor that England may
Enjoy your equal, when you once are gone,
But, what's more poffible, t' enjoy you long.

To his very much honoured GODFATHER,
Mr. A. B.

I Love (for that upon the wings of fame

Shall perhaps mock Death or Time's darts) my Name.

I love it more, because 'twas given by you;

I love it most, because 'twas your name too;
For if I chance to flip, a conscious shame
Plucks me, and bids me not defile your name.


I'm glad that city, t' whom I ow'd before
(But, ah me! Fate hath croft that willing score)
A father, gave me a godfather too ;

And I'm more glad, because it gave me you;
Whom I may rightly think, and term, to be
Of the whole city an epitome.

I thank my careful Fate, which found out one
(When Nature had not licensed my tongue
Farther than cries) who fhould my office do ;
I thank her more, because fhe found out you:
In whofe each look I may a fentence fee;
In whofe each deed, a teaching homily.

How fhall I pay this debt to you? My fate
Denies me Indian pearl or Perfian plate;
Which though it did not, to requite you thus,
Were to fend apples to Alcinous,

And fell the cunning'ft way.-No! when I can,
In every leaf, in every verfe, write Man;

When my quill relisheth a school no more;
When my pen-feather'd Muse hath learnt to foar,
And gotten wings as well as feet; look then
For equal thanks from my unwearied pen :
Till future ages fay, 'twas you did give
A name to me, and I made yours to live.



On the Death of JOHN LITTLETON, Efquire, Son and Heir to Sir THOMAS LITTLETON, Who was drowned leaping into the Water to fave his younger Brother.

AND muft these waters fmile again, and play.

About the fhore, as they did yesterday ?

Will the fun court them still ? and shall they show
No confcious wrinkle furrow'd on their brow,
That to the thirsty traveller may say,

I am accurft; go turn fome other way?

It is unjuft: black flood! thy guilt is more,
Sprung from his lofs, than all thy watery store
Can give thee tears to mourn for birds fhall be,
And beafts, henceforth afraid to drink of thee.

What have I faid? my pious rage hath been
Too hot, and acts, whilft it accufeth, fin.
Thou 'rt innocent, I know, ftill clear and bright,
Fit whence fo pure a foul should take its flight.
How is angry zeal confin'd! for he

Muft quarrel with his love and piety,

That would revenge his death. Oh, I shall fin,
And wifh anon he had lefs virtuous been.
For when his brother (tears for him I'd spill,
But they 're all challeng'd by the greater ill)
Struggled for life with the rude waves, he too
Leapt in, and when hope no faint beam could show,



His charity fhone moft: "Thou shalt," said he,
"Live with me, brother, or I'll die with thee;"
And fo he did! Had he been thine, O Rome!
Thou would'st have call'd this death a martyrdom,
And fainted him. My eonfcience give me leave,
I'll do fo to: if Fate will us bereave

Of him we honour'd living, there must be
A kind of reverence to his memory,

After his death; and where more just than here,
Where life and end were both fo fingular?
He that had only talk'd with him, might find
A little academy in his mind;

Where Wisdom mafter was, and fellows all
Which we can good, which we can virtuous, call:
Reafon, and Holy Fear the proctors were,

To apprchend those words, those thoughts, that err.
His learning had out-run the rest of heirs,

Stol'n beard from Time, and leapt to twenty years.
And, as the fun, though in full glory bright,
Shines upon all men with impartial light,
And a good-morrow to the beggar brings
With as full rays as to the mightiest kings :
So he, although his worth just state might claim,
And give to pride an honourable name,

With courtesy to all, cloath'd virtue so,

'That 'twas not higher than his thoughts were low.
In 's body too no critique eye could find
The smallest blemish, to belye his mind;
He was all purenefs, and his outward part
But represents the picture of his heart,

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