A world of things must curiously be sought,
A world of things must be together brought
To make up charms which have the power to move,
Through a discerning eye, true love;
That is a master-piece above
What only looks and shape can do,
There must be wit and judgment too;
Greatness of thought, and worth which draw
From the whole world, respect and awe.
She that would raise a noble love must find
Ways to beget a passion for her mind;
She must be that, which she to be would seem;
For all true love is grounded on esteem :
Plainness and truth gain more a generous heart
Than all the crooked subtelties of art.
She must be—What, said I? She must be
None but yourself that miracle can do ;
At least, I'm sure, thus much I plainly see,
None but yourself e'er did it upon me;
"Tis you alone that can my heart subdue,
To you alone it always shall be true;
Your god-like soul is that which rules my fate,
It does in me new passions still create,
For love of you all women else I hate.
But oh! your body too is so divine,
I kill myself with wishing you all mine.
In pain and anguish night and day,
I faint, and melt away:
In vain against my grief I strive,
My entertainment now is crying,
And all the sense I have of being alive,
Is that I feel myself a dying.
NOTHING is harder in the world to do,
Than to quit that our nature leads us to,
As this our friend here proves; who, having spent
His time, and wealth, for other folks content,
Though he so much as thanks could never get,
Can't, for his life, quite give it over yet;
But, striving still to please you, hopes he may,
Without a grievance, try to mend a Play.
Perhaps, he wish'd it might have been his fate
To lend a helping hand to mend the State;
Though he conceives, as things have lately run,
"Tis somewhat hard at present to be done.
Well, let that pass, the stars that rule the rout,
Do what we can, I see, must whirl about:
But here's the Devil on't; that, come what will,
His stars are sure to make him loser still.
When all the Polls together make a din,
Some to put out, and others to put in,
And every where his fellows got, and got,
From being nothing, to be God knows what:
He, for the Publick, needs would play a game,
For which, he has been trounced by publick fame;
And, to speak truth, so he deserved to be,
For his dull, clownish singularity:
For, when the fashion is to break one's trust,
'Tis rudeness then to offer to be just,
Gentle George, and Easy Etherege, were the titles he obtained in an age of courtesy (to use a word capable of a better meaning, in its worst sense). He was a thorough libertine in speculation and in practice; and his few dramatick Pieces, notwithstanding their excellent wit, are justly and for ever banished from the stage.
Ye happy Swains, whose hearts are free
From Love's imperial chain,
Take warning, and be taught by me,
T' avoid th' enchanting pain.
Fatal, the wolves to trembling flocks,
Fierce winds to blossoms, prove,
To careless seamen hidden rocks,
To human quiet love.
Fly the fair sex, if bliss you prize;
The snake's beneath the flow'r :
Who ever gaz'd on beauteous eyes,
That tasted quiet more?
How faithless is the Lover's joy !
How constant is their care!
The kind with falshood to destroy,
The cruel with despair.
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