Short Poems

Why all this Stir at Myra's House?
She took last Night a second Spouse.
Then why that Hatchment , Friend, I pray?
Her first was bury'd but to Day.

Geron at Fourscore marry'd! 'tis too late.
No; he but wants an Heir to his Estate .

Sly keeps a Mistress of his own .
You jest; she's kept for half the Town .

Hamor in Six Months Time, no more,
Has almost travel'd Europe o'er:
Hamor must then be chang'd , no Doubt?
No; he's come Home, as he went out.

Why Doctor , cure that pleasing Ill?
He had been Mad ; but Wealthy still:
He feels, and owns he now is poor.
Better for Gripus do as much,
Who starves , yet is afraid to touch
The useless Hoards , he keeps in store.

Collin , for Love expiring, crys,
To see the Nymph , before he dies .
She went in Pity , 'tis confess'd,
She went; but deck'd in all her Best .

Do, what you can; say, what you will,
You must be curs'd , and hated still,
In spite of Fortune, Sense, or Wit;
While Florus , profligate, and vain,
Without the least Pretence , or Pain
Does ev'ry Mortal's Fancy hit.

Yet in a Sling you bear your Arm?
The Duel , Friend, was close, and warm,
Nor is my Wound so very flight.
Good Captain , do your Honour Right!
'Tis all Pretence , your Foes declare,
And that this Scarf you only wear,
That you may not be forc'd , to Fight .

You think, in yon inchanting Dome ,
Cupid , and Psyche have their Home:
Alas! my Friend , 'tis no such case.
Draw nigh, and hear the Strife and Din,
My Lord , and Lady have within,
You'll swear, Love never knew the Place.

What strange Device is this ye've made,
The Bonds of Hymen to evade,
And drive alone a sep'rate Trade?
Mourn then, ye Beaux , mourn every Swain!
The Arts of Love ye Learn in vain:
The Fair are to the Fair grown true,
And Beauty does it self subdue!