But oh! what need have we abroad to roam,

Who feel too much the fad effects at home,
Of wild excefs? which we fo plainly find
Decays the body, and impairs the mind.
But yet grave fops must not prefume from hence
To flight the facred pleasures of the sense:
Our appetites are Nature's laws, and given
Under the broad authentic feal of heaven.
Let pedants wrangle, and let bigots fight,
To put restraint on innocent delight,
But heaven and nature's always in the right;
They would not draw poor wretched mortals in,
Or give defires that shall be doom'd for fin.
Yet, that in height of harmless joy we may
Laft to old age, and never lofe a day;
Amidst our pleasures we ourselves should spare,
And manage all with temperance and care.
The gods forbid but we fometimes may steep
Our joys in wine, and lull our cares asleep:
It raises nature, ripens feeds of worth,
As moistening pictures calls the colours forth;
But if the varnish we too oft' apply,

Alas! like colours, we grow faint and die.
Hold, hold, impetuous Mufe: I would restrain
Her over-eager heat, but all in vain ;

Abandon'd to delights, the longs to rove;

I check'd her here, and now fhe flies to love;
Shews me fome rural nymph, by fhepherd chac'd,
Soon overtaken, and as foon embrac'd:

}

The

The grafs by her, as the by him is prefs'd;
For fhame, my Mufe, let fancy guess the reft:
At fuch a point fancy can never stay,
But flies beyond whatever you can say.
Behold the filent fhades, the amorous grove,
The dear delights, the very act of love.
This is his lowest sphere, his country scene,
Where love is humble, and his fare but mean;
Yet fpringing up without the help of art,
Leaves a fincerer relish in the heart,

More healthfully, though not fo finely fed,
And better thrives than where more nicely bred.
But 'tis in courts where moft he makes a fhow,
And, high enthron'd, governs the world below;
For though in histories learn'd ignorance
Attributes all to cunning or to chance,

Love will in those disguises often smile,

And knows the caufe was kindness all the while. What story, place, or perfon, cannot prove The boundless influence of mighty love? Where-e'er the fun can vigorous heat infpire, Both fexes glow, and languish with defire. The weary'd fwain, fast in the arms of fleep, Love can awake, and often fighing keep ; And bufy gown-men, by fond love disguis'd, Will leifure find to make themselves despis'd. The proudest kings fubmit to beauty's sway; Beauty itself, a greater prince than they, Lies fometimes languishing with all its pride By a belov'd, though fickle lover's side.

I mean to flight the foft enchanting charm,
But, oh! my head and heart are both too warm.
I doat on woman-kind with all their faults,
Love turns my fatire into fofteft thoughts;
Of all that paffion which our peace destroys
Instead of mischiefs, I describe the joys.
But short will be his reign (I fear too short)
And present cares fhall be my future sport.

Then love's bright torch put out, his arrows broke,
Loofe from kind chains, and from th' engaging yoke,
To all fond thoughts I'll fing fuch counter-charms,
The fair fhall liften in their lovers arms.

Now the enthusiastic fit is spent,

I feel my weakness, and too late repent.

As they who walk in dreams oft' climb too high
For fenfe to follow with a waking eye;

And in fuch wild attempts are blindly bold,
Which afterwards they tremble to behold:
So I review thefe fallies of my pen,
And modeft reason is return'd again;
My confidence I curfe, my fate accuse,
Scarce hold from cenfuring the facred Mufe.
No wretched poet of the railing pit,
No critic curs'd with the wrong fide of wit,
Is more fevere from ignorance and spite,
Than I with judgment against all I write.

ON

O N

MR. HOBBES, AND HIS WRITINGS.

S

UCH is the mode of these cenforious days,

The art is loft of knowing how to praise ;
Poets are envious now, and fools alone
Admire at wit, because themselves have none.
Yet whatfoe'er is by vain critics thought,
Praifing is harder much than finding fault;
In homely pieces ev'n the Dutch excel,
Italians only can draw beauty well.

As ftrings, alike wound up, fo equal prove,
That one refounding makes the other move;
From fuch a caufe our fatires please so much,
We fympathize with each ill-natur'd touch;
And as the sharp infection spreads about,
The reader's malice helps the writer out.
To blame, is eafy; to commend, is bold;
Yet, if the Muse inspires it, who can hold ?
To merit we are bound to give applaufe,
Content to fuffer in fo juft a cause.

While in dark ignorance we lay afraid
Of fancies, ghofts, and every empty shade;
Great Hobbes appear'd, and by plain reafon's light
Put fuch fantastic forms to fhameful flight.
Fond is their fear, who think men needs must be

To vice enflav'd, if from vain terrors free;

The

The wife and good, morality will guide,
And fuperftition all the world befide.

In other authors, though the thought be good,
'Tis not fometimes fo easily understood;

That jewel oft' unpolish'd has remain'd;

Some words should be left out, and some explain'd;
So that, in fearch of fenfe, we either stray,
Or elfe grow weary in fo rough a way.
But here sweet eloquence does always smile,
In fuch a choice, yet unaffected style,
As must both knowledge and delight impart
The force of reafon, with the flowers of art;
Clear as a beautiful transparent skin,

Which never hides the blood, yet holds it in:
Like a delicious ftream it ever ran,

As fmooth as woman, but as ftrong as man.
Bacon himself, whofe univerfal wit

Does admiration through the world beget,
Scarce more his age's ornament is thought,
Or greater credit to his country brought.

While fame is young, too weak to fly away,
Malice purfues her, like fome bird of prey;
But once on wing, then all the quarrels cease;
Envy herself is glad to be at peace,

Gives over, weary'd with so high a flight,
Above her reach, and scarce within her fight.

Hobbes, to this happy pitch arriv'd at last,

Might have look'd down with pride on dangers past:
But fuch the frailty is of human-kind,

Men toil for fame, which no man lives to find;

Long