Of plefaunce, yet no genitours
She faw, to thrill his paramours :
Oftfithes fhe mokel mus'd theron,
Yet nift the howgates it was don.
One night, ere they to fleepen went,
Her Ifaac in her arms fhe hent,
As
As was her ufage; and did faie,
Of charite I mote thee praie,
To techen myne unconnyng wit
One thing it comprehendeth niet:
And maie the foul fiend harrow thee,
If in myne queft thou falsen me.
Our Chaunticlere loves everich hen,
Ne fewer kepes our yerd than ten;
Yet romps he ore beth grete and small,
Ne ken I what he fwinks wythall.
But on ech leg a wepon is,
Yperfent, and full starke I wys;
Doth he with hem at Pertelote play?
In footh theres werk inough for tway.
Qd. Ifaac, certes by Sainct Poule,
Myne lief thou art a fimple foule;
Foules fro the egle to the wren,
Bin harnefs'd othergife than men :
For the males engins of delite,
Ferre in theyr entrails are empight;
Els, par mifchaunce, theyr merriment
Emong the breers mought fore be fhent.
Thus woxen hote, they much avaunce
Love of venereal jouifaunce:
And in one month, the trouth to fayne,
Swink mo than manhode in yeres twaine.
O Benedicite! qd. fhe,
If kepyng hote fo kindlych be,
Hie in thyne bowcles trufs thyne gere,
And eke the skrippe that daungleth here.
Ne dame, he anfwerd, mote that bene;
For as I hope to be a dene,
Thilke Falftaffe-bellie rownd and big,
Was built for corny ale and pig
Ne in it is a chink for thefe,
Ne for a wheat-ftraw, and tway peafe.
Pardie, qd. fhe, fyth theres nat room,
Swete Nykin! chafe hem in mynę woom.
AN IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM IN HOMER.
In which the poet fuppofeth Apollo to have given
this answer to one who enquired who was the author
of the Iliad,
Ἤειδον μὲν Ἐγὼν, ἐχάρασσε δὲ θεῖΘ- ΟμηρΘ.
Hæc modulabar ego, fcripfit divinus Homerus.
WHEN Phoebus, and the nine harmonious Maids,
Of old affembled in the Thefpian fhades,
What theme, they cry'd, what high immortal air,
Bents thefe harps to found, and thee to hear
Reply'd the god, Your loftieft notes employ
To fing young Peleus, and the fall of Troy.
The wondrous fong with rapture they rehearfe,
Then ask who wrought that miracle of verfe.
He anfwer'd with a frown: I now reveal
A truth, that Envy bids me not conceal.
Retiring frequent to his laureat vale,
I warbled to the lyre that favourite tale,
Which, unobferv'd, a wandering Greek and blind,
Heard me repeat, and treasur'd in his mind;
And, fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise,
From me the god of wit ufurp'd the bays.
But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame,
Proud with celeftial fpoils to grace her name :
Yet when my arts fhall triumph in the West,
And the White Ifle with female power is bleft,
Fame, I foresee, will make reprisals there,
And the tranflator's palm to me transfer ;
With lefs regret my claim I now decline,
The world will think this English Iliad mine.
WHENE'ER I wed, young Strephon cry'd,
Ye powers that o'er the noofe prefide,
Wit, beauty, wealth, good-humour give,
Or let me still a rover live :
But if all these no nymph can share,
Let mine, ye powers! be doubly fair.
Thus pray'd the fwain in heat of blood,
Whilft nigh celestial Cupid stood;
And, tapping him, faid, Youth be wife,
And let a child for once advise.
A faultlefs make, a manag'd wit,
Humour and riches, rarely meet:
But if a beauty you'd obtain,
Court fome bright Phyllis of the brain ;
The dear idea long enjoy,
Clean is the blifs, and ne'er will cloy.
But trust me, youth, for I'm fincere,
And know the ladies to a hair;
Howe'er fmall poets whine upon it,
In madrigal, and fong, and fonnet,
Their beauty 's but a fpell, to bring
A lover to th' enchanted ring.
E'er the fack-poffet is digested,
Or half of Hymen's taper wasted,
The winning air, the wanton trip,
The radiant eye, the velvet lip,
From which you fragrant kisses stole,
And feem'd to fuck her springing foul;
These, and the reft you doated on,
Are naufeous, or infipid grown ;
The spell diffolves, the cloud is gone,
And Sachariffa turns to Joan.
OB'D like Diana, ready for the chace,
Her mind as spotlefs, and as fair her face,
Young Sylvia stray'd beneath the dewy dawn
To course th' imperial ftag o'er Windsor lawn.
There Cupid view'd her spreading o'er the plain,
The first and fairest of the rural train;
And, by a small mistake, the power of love,
Thought her the virgin-goddess of the grove :
Soon aw'd with innocence, t' evade her fight
He fled, and drop'd his quiver in the flight :
Though pleas'd, she blush'd; and, with a glowing smile
Purfued the god, and feiz'd the golden fpoil.
The nymph, refistless in her native charms,
Now reigns, poffefs'd of Cupid's dreaded arms;
And, wing'd with lightning from her radiant eyes,
Unerring in its speed each arrow flies.
No more his deity is held divine,
No more we kneel at Cytherea's fhrine;
Their various pewers, complete in Sylvia, prove
Her title to command the realms of love.
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