How fhould either Art avail us ?
Fancy here itself muft fail us?

In her Looks, and in her Mien,
Such a graceful Air is seen,
That if you, with all your Art,
Can but reach the smallest part;

Next to her, the matchlefs She,

We fhall wonder moft at Thee.

Then her Neck, and Breafts, and Hair,

And her but my charming Fair

Does in a thousand things excel,

Which I must not, dare not tell.
How go on then? Oh, I fee
A lovely VENUS drawn by thee;
Oh how fair fhe does appear!

Touch it only here and there,

Make her yet seem more divine,

Your VENUS then may look like mine,
Whose bright Form, if once you saw,

You by her would VENUS draw.

On Don ALONZO's being kill'd in Portugal upon Account of the Infanta, in the Year 1683.

N fuch a Caufe no Mufe should fail

IN

To bear a mournful Part;

'Tis juft and noble to bewail

The Fate of fall'n Defert.

In vain ambitious Hopes defign'd
To make his Soul aspire,

If Love and Beauty had not join'd

To raise a brighter Fire.

I

Amidst so many dang'rous Foes

How weak the wifeft prove!

Reafon itself would scarce oppofe,
And feems agreed with Love.

If from the glorious Height he falls,

He greatly daring dies;

Or mounting where bright Beauty calls,
An Empire is the Prize.

VOL. I.

F

The

The SURPRIZE.

Afely perhaps dull Crowds admire ;

Safely

But I, alas, am all on fire.

Like him who thought in Childhood paft
That dire Disease which kill'd at last,

I durft have fworn I lov'd before,
And fancy'd all the danger o'er;
Had felt the Pangs of jealous Pain,
And born the Blafts of cold Difdain 5
Then reap'd at length the mighty Gains,
That full Reward of all our Pains!

But what was all fuch Grief or Joy,
That did my heedlefs Years employ?
Mere Dreams of feign'd fantastick Pow'rs,
But the Difcafe of idle Hours;

Amusementy

Amusement, Humour, Affectation,
Compar'd with this fublimer Paffion,

Whofe Raptures, bright as thofe above,
Outfhine the Flames of Zeal, or Love.

Yet think not, Faireft, what I fing,

Can from a Love Platonick spring;
That formal Softness (false and vain)
Not of the Heart, but of the Brain.
Thou art indeed above all Nature;
But I, a wretched human Creature,
Wanting thy gentle, gen'rous Aid,
Of Husband, Rivals, Friends afraid!
Amidst all this Seraphic Fire,

Am almost dying with Defire,

With eager Wishes, ardent Thoughts,

Prone to commit Love's wildeft Faults!

And (as we are on Sundays told

The lufty Patriarch did of old)

Would force a Bleffing from thofe Charms,

And grafp an Angel in my Arms.