A FAREWELL TO CONCEIPT

Farewell Conceit: Coceit no more wel fare:
Hope feeds the heart with humours, to no end:
Fortune is false, in dealing of her share:
Virtue in heauen must only seeke a friend.

Adieu, Desire. Desire, no more adieu
Will hath no leasure to regard desart:
Love findes, too late, the prouerbe all too true,
That Beauties eyes stoode neuer in her heart.

Away, poore Loue. Loue, seek no more a way
Vnto thy woe, where wishing is no wealth:
In nightes deepe darkenesse neuer looke for day

AD ISPLEASURE AGAINST L OUE .

Love is witty, but not wise,
When he stares on Beauties eyes;
Finding wonders in conceit
That doe fall out but deceit.

Wit is stable, but not staied,
When his senses are betraied;
Where too late Sorrow doth proue
Beauty makes a foole of Loue.

Youth is forward, but too fond.
When he falles in Cupids bond;
Where repentance lets him see
Fancy fast is neuer free.

Age is cunning, but vnkinde,
When he once growes Cupid -blinde:
For when Beauty is vntoward,

A FAREWELL TO LOUE

Farewell Loue, and louing folly
All thy thoughts are too vnholly:
Beauty strikes thee full of blindenesse
And then kils thee with vnkindnesse.

Farewell wit, and witty reason
All betrai'd by Fancies treason:
Loue hath of all joy bereft thee.
And to Sorrow only left thee.

Farewell will, and wilfull fancy,
All in daunger of a frenzy,
Love to Beauties bowe hath wonne thee
And togither all vndone thee.

Farewell Beauty Sorrowes agent;
Farewell Sorrow, Patience pagent;

Inscrib'd to the Right Honourable the Lady ELIZABETH GERMAIN .

I Sought a patroness, but sought in vain,
Apollo whisper'd in my ear — " Germain . —
I know her not — " Your reason's somewhat odd;
" Who knows his patron, now! reply'd the God.
" Men write, to me , and to the world , unknown;
" Then steal great names to shield them from the Town.
" Detected worth , like beauty disarray'd,
" To covert flies, of praise itself afraid;
" Should she refuse to patronize your lays,
" In vengeance write a Volume in her praise .

Nor reigns Ambition in bold man alone;
Soft female hearts the rude Invader own,
But, there indeed, it deals in nicer things
Than routing armies , and dethroning kings .
Attend, and you discern it in the Fair
Conduct a finger , or reclaim a hair ;
Or roll the lucid orbit of an eye ;
Or in full joy elaborate a sigh .

The Sex we honour, tho' their faults we blame;
Nay thank their faults for such a fruitful theme.
A theme, fair — — ! doubly kind to me,
Since fatarizing those , is praising thee;

To the Right Honourable

Sir Spencer compton.

Round some fair tree th' ambitious wood bine grows,
And breathes her sweets on the supporting boughs:
So sweet the verse , th' ambitious verse, should be,
(O! pardon mine) that hopes support from Thee,
Thee, Compton , born o'er Senates to preside,
Their dignity to raise, their councils guide;
Deep to discern, and widely to survey,
And Kingdoms fates, without ambition, weigh;
Of distant Virtues nice extremes to blend,
The crown's asserter, and the people 's Friend:

To the Right Honourable

Mr. Dodington .

Long, Dodington, in debt, I long have sought
To ease the burden of my grateful thought;
And now a poet's gratitude you see,
Grant him two favours, and he'll ask for three ;
For whose the present glory, or the gain?
You give protection, I a worthless strain.
You love, and feel the poet's sacred flame,
And know the basis of a solid fame;
Tho' prone to like, yet cautious to commend,
You read with all the malice of a friend ;
Nor favour my attempts that way alone,

My Muse, proceed, and reach thy destin'd end;
Tho' toil , and danger the bold task attend.
Heroes , and Gods make other poems fine,
Plain Satire calls for sense in ev'ry line;
Then, to what swarms thy faults I dare expose?
All friends to vice and folly , are thy foes;
When such the Foe, a war eternal wage,
'Tis most Ill-nature to repress thy rage;
And if these strains some nobler Muse excite,
I'll glory in the Verse I did not write.

So weak are human kind by nature made,
Or to such weakness by their vice betray'd,

To His Grace the

DUKE of Dorset .

M Y Verse is Satire; D ORSET , lend your ear,
And patronize a Muse you cannot fear ;
To Poets sacred is a D ORSET 's name,
Their wonted passport thro' the gates of Fame;
It bribes the partial reader into praise,
And throws a Glory round the shelter'd lays;
The dazzled Judgment fewer faults can fee,
And gives applause to B — e , or to Me.
But you decline the mistress we pursue;
Others are fond of Fame , but Fame of You.

THE Church is fill'd; so great the faith
That City in its Bishop hath;
And now the Congregation
Are waiting there in trembling prayer
And terrible expectation.

Emmelia and her sisterhood
Have taken there their seat;
And Choristers, and Monks, and Priests
And Psalmists there, and Exorcists,
Are station'd in order meet.

In sackcloth clad, with ashes strown
Upon his whiter hair,