Well, since thou wilt not here remain,
I'll e'en to live without thee try ;
My head shall take the greater pain,
And all thy duties shall supply:
I can more easily live, I know,
Without thee, than without a mistress thou.

WOMEN'S SUPERSTITION.

OR I'm a very dunce, or woman-kind
Is a most unintelligible thing:
I can no sense nor no contexture find,
Nor their loose parts to method bring:
I know not what the learn'd may see,
But they're strange Hebrew things to me.
By customs and traditions they live,
And foolish ceremonies of antique date;
We lovers new and better doctrines give,
Yet they continue obstinate:

Preach we, Love's prophets, what we will,
Like Jews, they keep their old law still.
Before their mothers' Gods they fondly fall,
Vain idol-gods, that have no sense nor mind:
Honour's their Ashtaroth, and pride their Baal,
The thundering Baal of woman-kind:
With twenty other devils more,
Which they, as we do them, adore.

But then, like men both covetous and devout,
Their costly superstition loath to' omit-
And yet more loath to issue moneys out,
At their own charge to furnish it—
To these expensive Deities

The hearts of men they sacrifice.

THE SOUL.

SOME dull philosopher-when he hears me say
My soul is from me fled away,
Nor has of late inform'd my body here,
But in another's breast does lie,

That neither is, nor will be, I,

As a form servient and assisting there

Will cry,
"Absurd!" and ask me how I live;
And syllogisms against it give.
A curse on all your vain philosophies,
Which on weak Nature's law depend,
And know not how to comprehend
Love and Religion, those great mysteries!

Her body is my soul; laugh not at this,
For by my life I swear it is.

'Tis that preserves my being and my breath;
From that proceeds all that I do,

Nay, all my thoughts and speeches too; And separation from it is my death.

ЕСНО.

TIRED with the rough denials of my prayer,
From that hard she whom I obey,

I come, and find a nymph much gentler here,
That gives consent to all I say.

Ah, gentle nymph! who likest so well In hollow, solitary caves to dwell;

Her heart being such, into it go,

And do but once from thence answer me so!

Complaisant nymph! who dost thus kindly share
In griefs whose cause thou dost not know;
Hadst thou but eyes, as well as tongue and ear,
How much compassion wouldst thou show!
Thy flame, whilst living, or a flower,
Was of less beauty, and less ravishing power.
Alas! I might as easily

Paint thee to her, as describe her to thee.

By repercussion beams engender fire;
Shapes by reflection shapes beget;

The voice itself, when stopp'd, does back retire,
And a new voice is made by it.
Thus things by opposition

The gainers grow; my barren love alone
Does from her stony breast rebound,
Producing neither image, fire, nor sound,

THE RICH RIVAL.

THEY say you're angry, and rant mightily,
Because I love the same as you:

Alas! you're very rich, 'tis true;

But, pr'ythee, fool! what's that to Love and me? You 'ave land and money, let that serve;

And know you 'ave more by that than

you deserve.

When next I see my fair-one, she shall know
How worthless thou art of her bed;

And, wretch! I'll strike thee dumb and dead, With noble verse not understood by you; Whilst thy sole rhetoric shall be

"Jointure" and "jewels," and "our friends agree."

Pox o' your friends, that dote and domineer!
Lovers are better friends than they :
Let's those in other things obey;

The Fates, and Stars, and Gods, must govern here.
Vain names of blood! in love let none
Advise with any blood, but with their own.

'Tis that which bids me this bright maid adore; No other thought has had access!

Did she now beg, I'd love no less,

And, were she an empress, I should love no more: Were she as just and true to me,

Ah, simple soul! what would become of thee?

AGAINST HOPE.

HOPE! whose weak being ruin'd is, Alike, if it succeed, and if it miss; Whom good or ill does equally confound, And both the horns of Fate's dilemma wound: Vain shadow! which dost vanish quite, Both at full noon and perfect night!

The stars have not a possibility

Of blessing thee;

If things then from their end we happy call, 'Tis Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.

Hope! thou bold taster of delight,

Who, whilst thou shouldst but taste, devour'st it

quite!

Thou bring'st us an estate, yet leavest us poor,

By clogging it with legacies before!

The joys which we entire should wed,
Come deflower'd virgins to our bed;

Good fortunes without gain imported be,
Such mighty custom's paid to thee.

For joy, like wine, kept close does better taste; If it take air before, its spirits waste.

Hope! Fortune's cheating lottery!

Where for one prize an hundred blanks there be ;
Fond archer, Hope! who takest thy aim so far,
That still or short or wide thine arrows are!
Thin, empty cloud, which the' eye deceives
With shapes that our own fancy gives!
A cloud, which gilt and painted now appears,
But must drop presently in tears!

When thy false beams o'er Reason's light prevail,
By Ignes Fatui for North-stars we sail.

Brother of Fear, more gayly clad!

The merrier fool o' the' two, yet quite as mad: Sire of Repentance! child of fond Desire! That blow'st the chemics', and the lovers', fire, Leading them still insensibly on

By the strange witchcraft of " Anon!”

By thee the one does changing Nature, through Her endless labyrinths, pursue;

And the' other chases Woman, whilst she

goes

More ways and turns than hunted Nature knows.

FOR HOPE.

HOPE! of all ills that men endure,

The only cheap and universal cure!

Thou captive's freedom, and thou sick man's health; Thou loser's victory, and thou beggar's wealth!