But as his Gold he weigh'd, grim Death in spight, Caft in his Dart, which made three Moydores light; And as he faw his darling Money fail,

Blew his laft Breath to fink the lighter Scale.

HE, who fo long was current, 'twould be strange If he fhou'd now be cry'd down fince his Change.

THE Sexton fhall green Sods on thee beftow
Alas the Sexton is thy Banker now!

A difmal Banker must that Banker be,
Who gives no Bills, but of Mortality.

B

The EPITAPH,

ENEATH this verdant Hillock lies
Demar the Wealthy, and the Wife.
His Heirs, that he might fafely reft,
Have put bis Carcafs in a Cheft:
The very Cheft, in which, they say,
His other Self, bis Money, lay.
And if his Heirs continue kind
To that dear Self he left behind,
I dare believe, that Four in Five
Will think his better Self alive.

Το

To STELLA, who collected and transcribed his POEMS.

A

Written in the Year 1720.

S when a lofty Pile is rais'd,

We never hear the Workmen prais'd,
Who bring the Lime, or place the Stones;
But all admire Inigo Jones:

So if this Pile of scatter'd Rhymes
Should be approved in After-times;
If it both pleases and endures,

The Merit and the Praise are yours.

THOU Stella, wert no longer young, When first for thee my Harp I ftrung: Without one Word of Cupid's Darts, Of killing Eyes, or bleeding Hearts: With Friendship and Esteem poffeft,

I ne'er admitted Love a Gueft.

I

In all the Habitudes of Life,

The Friend, the Miftrefs, and the Wife,

Variety we still pursue,

In Pleasure seek for fomething new:
Or elfe, comparing with the reft,
Take Comfort, that our own is beft:
(The best we value by the worst,
As Tradesmen fhew their Trash at first :)
But his Purfuits are at an End,
Whom Stella chufes for a Friend.

A POET, ftarving in a Garret, Conning old Topicks like a Parrot, Invokes his Mistress and his Mufe, And stays at home for want of Shoes : Should but his Muse descending drop A Slice of Bread, and Mutton-Chop, Or kindly when his Credit's out, Surprize him with a Pint of Stout; Or patch his broken Stocking Soals; Or fend him in a Peck of Coals; Exalted in his mighty Mind

He flies, and leaves the Stars behind;

* A Cant Word For Strong-Beer.

Counts

Counts all his Labours amply paid,

Adores her for the timely Aid.

OR, fhould a Porter make Enquiries
For Chloe, Sylvia, Phillis, Iris;

Be told the Lodging, Lane, and Sign;
The Bow'rs that hold thofe Nymphs divine;
Fair Chloe would perhaps be found

With Footmen tippling under Ground;

The charming Sylvia beating Flax,

Her Shoulders mark'd with bloody Tracks ;

Bright Phillis mending ragged Smocks;
And radiant Iris in the Pox.

THESE are the Goddeffes enroll'd

In Curl's Collections, new and old,
Whofe fcoundrel Fathers would not know 'em,
If they should meet 'em in a Poem.

TRUE Poets can deprefs and raise ; Are Lords of Infamy and Praise : They are not fcurrilous in Satire,

Nor will in Panegyrick flatter.

Unjustly Poets we asperse;

Truth shines the brighter, clad in Verse;

And

And all the Fictions they pursue,

Do but infinuate what is true.

Now, fhould my Praises owe their Truth
To Beauty, Drefs, or Paint, or Youth,

What Stoicks call without our Power;
They could not be infur'd an Hour:
'Twere grafting on an annual Stock,
That muft our Expectation mock,
And making one luxuriant Shoot,
Die the next Year for want of Root:
Before I could my Verses bring,

Perhaps you're quite another Thing.

So Mavius, when he drain'd his Skull

To celebrate fome Suburb Trull;

His Similies in Order fet,

And ev'ry Crambo he could get;

Had gone through all the common Places,
Worn out by Wits who rhyme on Faces;
Before he could his Poem close,
The lovely Nymph had loft her Nose.

YQUR Virtues fafely I commend;

They on no Accidents depend :

Let