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(Written at the Hague, in the year 1696.)

While with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix,
And in one day atone for the business of six ;
In a little Dutch-chaise on a Saturday night,
On my left hand my Horace, a Nymph on my right ;
No Mémoire to compose and no Post-boy to move
That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love ;
For her, neither visits, nor parties at tea,
Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee :
This night and the next shall be hers, shall be mine,
To good or ill fortune the third we resign :
Thus scorning the world and superior to fate
I drive on my car in processional state.
So with Phia through Athens Pisistratus rode ;
Men thought her Minerva, and him a new God.
But why should I stories of Athens rehearse
Where people knew love, and were partial to verse ;
Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose,
In Holland half-drowned in interest and prose ?
By Greece and past ages what need I be tried,
When the Hague and the present are both on my side ?
And is it enough for the joys of the day
To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say,
When good Vandergoes and his provident Vrouw,
As they gaze on my triumph, do freely allow,
That, search all the province, you'll find no man dar is
So blessed as the Englishen Heer Secretar' is.


Lords, knights, and 'squires, the numerous band,

That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, Were summoned by her high command,

To show their passions by their letters.

My pen among the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look

The power they have to be obeyed.

Nor quality, nor reputation,

Forbid me yet my flame to tell ;
Dear five years old befriends my passion,

And I may write till she can spell.
For, while she makes her silk-worms beds

With all the tender things I swear ;
Whilst all the house my passion reads,

In papers round her baby's hair ; She may receive and own my flame,

For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She 'll pass for most virtuous dame,

And I for an unhappy poet.

Then too, alas ! when she shall tear

The lines some younger rival sends ; She 'll give me leave to write, I fear,

And we shall still continue friends.

For, as our different ages move,

'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love,

When she begins to comprehend it.


In vain you tell your parting lover,
You wish fair winds may waft him over.
Alas! what winds can happy prove,
That bear me far from what I love ?
Alas! what dangers on the main
Can equal those that I sustain,
From slighted vows, and cold disdain?

Be gentle, and in pity choose
To wish the wildest tempests loose :
That thrown again upon the coast,
Where first my shipwrecked heart was losi,
I may once more repeat my pain;
Once more in dying notes complain
Of slighted vows, and cold disdain.

TO A LADY : she refusing to continue a dispute with me, and

leaving me in the argument.

Spare, generous Victor, spare the slave,

Who did unequal war pursue ;
That more than triumph he might have,

In being overcome by you.

In the dispute whate'er I said,

My heart was by my tongue belied ;
And in my looks you might have read

How much I argued on your side.

You, far from danger as from fear,

Might have sustained an open fight:
For seldom your opinions err ;

Your eyes are always in the riga

Why, fair one, would you not rely

On Reason's force with Beauty's joined ? Could I their prevalence deny,

I must at once be deaf and blind.
Alas! not hoping to subdue,

I only to the fight aspired :
To keep the beauteous foe in view

Was all the glory I desired.
But she, howe'er of victory sure,

Contemns the wreath too long delayed ; And, armed with more immediate power,

Calls cruel silence to her aid.
Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight :

She drops her arms, to gain the field : Secures her conquest by her flight ;

And triumphs, when she seems to yield. So when the Parthian turned his steed,

And from the hostile camp withdrew; With cruel skill the backward reed

He sent; and as he fled, he slew.


The merchant, to secure his treasure,

Conveys it in a borrowed name :
Euphelia serves to grace my measure ;

But Chloe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre

Upon Euphelia's toilet lay;
When Chloe noted her desire,

That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise ;

But with my numbers mix my sighs : And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,

I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.

Fair Chloe blushed : Euphelia frowned :

I sung and gazed : I played and trembled :
And Venus to the Loves around

Remarked, how ill we all dissembled.


As after noon, one summer's day,

Venus stood bathing in a river;
Cupid a-shooting went that way,

New-strung his bow, new-filled his quiver.
With skill he chose his sharpest dart :

With all his might his bow he drew :
Swift to his beauteous parent's heart

The too-well-guided arrow flew.
I faint ! I die! the goddess cried ;

O cruel, could'st thou find none other
To wreck thy spleen on? Parricide !

Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.
Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak ;

Indeed, mamma, I did not know ye :
Alas! how easy my mistake!

I took you for your likeness, Chloe.


Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face !

Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled : Prythee quit this caprice ; and (as old Falstaff says)

Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world. How can'st thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy

The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping ? Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy :

More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping. 11.c. than the · Answer to Chloe jealous,' which usually precedes it.

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