Times! O Manners! Cicero cry'd out,
But 'twas when enrag'd Catilin con-
fpir'd

To burn the City, and to cut the Throat
Of half the Senate, had his Ruffians hir'd:

When Son and Father did the World divide, And Rome for Tyrants, not for Empire fought;

When flaughter'd Citizens on either fide Cover'd that Earth,her early Valour bought.

Of Times and Men,why doft thou now complain?

What is it, Cofcus, that offends thee, fay? Our Laws the License of the Sword restrain ; And our Prince wills that his arm'd Troops obey :

His Reign, Succefs, Freedom and Plenty

crown,

Blame not our Manners then, but mend thy

Own,

SONG

SONG

Ee! Hymen comes; How his Torch blazes!
Loofer Loves, how dim they bura;

SE

No Pleafures equal chafte Embraces,

When we Love for Love return.

When Fortune makes the Match he
And forfakes th' unequal Pair;

But when Love two Hearts engages,
The kind God is ever there.

rages,

Regard not then high Blood, nor Riches;
You that would his Bleffings have,
Let untaught Love guide all your Wishes,
Hymen fhou'd be Cupid's Slave.

Young Virgins, that yet bear your Paffions,
Coldly as the Flint its Fire,

Offer to Hymen your Devotions,

He will warm you with Defire.

Young Men, no more neglect your Duty,
To the God of Nuptual Vows:
Pay your long Arrears to Beauty,
As his chafter Law allows.

ON

ON

Don ALONZO,

Who was cut in pieces for making Love to the Infanta of Portugal,

Ow cruel was Alonzo's Fate,

To fix his Love fo high,

That he muft perifh by her Hate,
Or by her Kindness dye ?

Tortur'd, and mangl'd, cut and maim'd,
If he triumpht o'er his Pain,

And with his dying Breath proclaim'd,
'Twas better than Difdain.

The gentle Nymph, long fince defign'd
For the proud Monfieurs Bed,
Now to a holy Jayle confin'd,
Drops Tears with ev'ry Bead.

Tell me, ye Gods, if where a King
Suffers for Impotence,

True Love be fuch a fatal thing,
What can be Innocence ?

SONG

SONG

PH

Hillis, Men fay that all my Vows
Are to thy Fortune paid;

Alas, my Heart he little knows
Who thinks my Love a Trade.

Were I, of all these Woods, the Lord,
One Berry from thy Hand
More real Pleasure would afford,

Than all my large Command.

My humble Love has learnt to live,
On what the nicest Maid,
Without a confcious Blush, may give
Beneath the Mirtle-fhade.

ON

ON A

COCK

ΑΤ

ROCHESTER:

TH

Hou curfed Cock, with thy perpetual Noise, May'ft thou be Capon made,and lofe thy Voice, Or on a Dunghil may'ft thou spend thy Blood, And Vermin prey upon thy craven Brood; May Rivals tread thy Hens before thy Face, Then with redoubled Courage give thee chase;

May'st thou be punish'd for St. Peter's Crime, And on Shrove-tuesday, Perifh in thy Prime; May thy bruis'd Carcafs be fome Beggar's Feast,

Thou firft and worst Disturber of Man's

Reft.

SONG.