Did fear but reach thy heart, how good it were!
Hadst thou but pity on poor me, how good it were!
I that for love of thee stand at the door lamenting,
Did thy ears but hear my pleading, how good it were!
Were they who blame me for my love of thee
But acquainted with thy beauty, how good it were!
Whoever to-day of purity boasts in this world,
Did he but see thy face, pure indeed would he be and chaste!
After death, were my grave in such a place,
That o'er it lay my loved one's path, how good it were!
At thy gateway many hounds and spaniels lie,

I.

Hail, formidable KING!
 My Muse thy dreadful Fame shall sing.
 Why should old H OMER'S pompous Lays
 Immortalize A CHILLES' Praise!
Or why should A DDISON'S harmonious Verse
 Our M ARLBRO'S nobler Deeds rehearse?
 Alas! no more these Heroes shine;
 Their Pow'r is all subdu'd by Thine .
 Where are these mighty Leaders now,
Great Pompey , C ÆSAR , and Young A MMON too,
 Who thought he drew immortal Breath?
 These bold ambitious Sons of M ARS ,
 Who dy'd the Globe with bloody Wars,
Are vanquish'd all by thee, victorious Death !

My D EAR

As those who ask Relief,
By Letter Patent, call'd a Brief,
Their broken Fortunes to recruit,
First state their Case, then make their Suit:
So in the last, or first, I sent,
(By either Word the same is meant)
As I describ'd my sad Disaster,
This comes to beg a proper Plaister.

And, as when People first grow sad,
Preparative to running mad,
No Med'cine in the World can hit 'em
Like Liver of the Dog that bit 'em:
So whence th' Infection first I drew,
My Cure must come, that is from you;

Glad to me the time when I fly to my beloved one;
It is to me as though to Spring's gardens I betook me;
Her hair has she unbound, I am sprinkled with fragrant musk:
How shall I now again to any perfumer ever betake me?
May God grant me in my home that peerless black-eyed beauty,
Now that she has favoured me; to Farkhar why should I betake me?
The plaints of wounded hearts grieve those at ease and happy;
My anxiety is in this, lest to my grief I now betake me.
Wheresoe'er the thorn is, there's the place of blooming roses;

Illustrious Nymph! whose Art could raise
This skilful Monument of Praise,
Forgive the Bard, who strikes the Lyre;
Accept the Verse, your Toils inspire:
For, when your Labours strike my Eyes,
The voluntary Numbers rise.
Who can be silent, when they view
This fair Creation, wrought by You?
Each Flow'r does with such Lustre shine,
Such Beauties crown the gay Design;
That Nature fix'd in Wonder stands,
To see she's rival'd by your Hands;
And, jealous of your Art, displays
A Blush, when she the Work surveys.

Saidst thou, " Grieve not, for I am thine, and thou art mine, "
Me in truth hast thou waked to life, whether thou treat me fair or foul.
What a lovely torment art thou, without rival is my loved one —
Hadst thou not that one defect, that thy heart is hard as stone?
Were the world made up of beauties, on every side were fair ones;
Still were it astounding such a lovely one as thou shouldst be born!
With so great slaughter art thou indeed not wearied?
What heeds the Executioner, if a thousand lives he takes?

Too long mere words have thralled us. Let us think!
O ponder, are we “free and equal” yet?
That July bombast, writ with blood for ink,
Is blurred with floods of unavailing sweat!

An empty sound we won from Royal George!
Yea, till a greater fight be fought and won,
A sentimental show was Valley Forge,
A mawkish, tawdry farce was Lexington!

No longer blindfold Justice reigns; but leers
A barefaced, venal strumpet in her stead!
The stolen harvests of a hundred years
Are lighter than a stolen loaf of bread!

M ADAM

Accept this Billetdoux;
'Tis meant in earnest, and to you — —
Believe for once what's writ in Rhime,
And pardon my presumptuous Crime.

The Proverb says, 'Tis wrong to sport
With what may give a serious Hurt;
And Men below, and Gods above,
All own th' Omnipotence of Love — —
Love, long the Subject of my Jest,
But now the Tyrant of my Breast,
But now enabled to controul,
As thy Vice-gerent, all my Soul. — —

'Twas at my Aunts one Ev'ning late
Upon thy Knees the Rover sate — —

You knew me of old and feared me,
Dreading my face revealed;
Temples and altars you reared me,
Wooed me with shuddering names;
Masking your fear in meekness,
You pæaned the doom I wield,
Wrought me a robe of your weakness,
A crown of your woven shames.

Image of all earth's error,
Big as the bulk of its guilt,
Lo, I darkled with terror,
A demon of spite and grudge;
You made me a vessel of fury
Brimmed with the blood you spilt;
With devils of hell for jury,
You throned me a pitiless judge.

For ever the wage of sorrow

Fair Lady, take a special Care,
This pleasing Toy become no Snare;
The subtle God is full of Wiles,
And mischieves most, when most he smiles.
Beware to clasp him in your Arms,
Nor gaze too much upon his Charms;
Left in a borrow'd Shape he wound,
As once unhappy Dido found;
For while she view'd his smiling Look,
Her Heart receiv'd a fatal Stroke.