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Had thy flesh, O Green, been pamper'd
Hadft thou fweetned thy gums
With pottage of plums,
Or profane minc'd pÿe hadst swallow'd :
Roll'd up in wanton fwine's flesh,
The fiend might have crept into thee;
Might have caus'd thee to rut,
And the devil have fo rid through thee.
For if no refpect of perfons
Be due 'mongst sons of Adam,
In a large extent,
Thereby may be meant
That a Mare 's as good as a Madam.
Then without more ceremony,
But took her by force,
For better for worse,
And us'd her like a fifter.
Now when in fuch a faddle
A faint will needs be riding,
May there not be fome back-sliding?
But when him we enrol
For a Saint, Filly Foal
Shall pass herself for a Martyr.
Rome, that fpiritual Sodom,
A SON G.
MORPHEUS, the humble God, that dwells
In Cottages and fmoaky Cells,
Hates gilded roofs and beds of down;
Come, I fay, thou powerful God,
O'er his wakeful temples shake,
Left he should fleep, and never wake.
Nature (alas) why art thou fo
Obliged to thy greatest foe?
On Mr. JOHN FLETCHER's Works.
So fhall we joy, when all whom beats and worms
Have turn'd to their own fubftances and forms:
Whofe fcatter'd parts from thy own race, more wounds
Which cafts thy praise on them, to whom thy wit
Add treason to it, and debase the coin.
From thence a thousand leffer poets sprung,
On Shakespeare's gentler Muse, in thee full grown
None, this mere Nature, that mere Art can name :
TO SIR RICHARD FANSHAW,
Upon his Translation of
PASTOR FID O.
UCH is our pride, our folly, or our fate,
That few but fuch as cannot write, translate.
But what in them is want of art or voice,
In thee is either modesty or choice.
While this great piece, restor'd by thee, doth stand
Secure of fame, thou justly dost esteem