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And Pleasure's porter was devis’d to be,
Holding a staffe in hand for more formalitie.

Thus being entred, they behold around
A large and spatious plaine on ev'ry side

Strow'd with pleafaunce, whose faire graffie ground Mantled with green, and goodly beatifide With all the ornaments of Floraes pride,

Wherewith her mother Art, as half in scorne
Of niggard Nature, like a pompous bride,

Did deck her, and 100 lavishly adorne,
When forth from virgin bowre lhe comes in th’ early

morne.

Thereto the heavens alway joviall,
Lookt on them lovely, fill in stedfast state,

Ne suffer'd florme nor frost on them to fall,
Their tender buds or leaves to violate,
Nor scorching heat, "nor cold intemperate,

T'affli&t the creatures which therein did dwell;
But the milde air with season moderate

Gently attempred and dispos’d so well,
That fill it breathed forth sweet spirit and wholesome

smell,
More sweet and wholesome than the pleasant hill
OF Rhodope, on which the nymph that bore

A giant-babe, her selfe for griefe did kill; Or the Theffalian Tempe, where of yore

Faire

Faire Daphne Phæbus' heart with love did gore,

Or Ida, where the Gods lov’d to repaire,
When-ever they their heavenly bowres forlore ;

Or sweet Parnasse, the haunt of muses faire ;
Or Eden, if that aught with Eden mote com

compares
Till that he came unto another gate,
No gate, but like one, being goodly dight

With boughes and branches, which did broad dilate Their clafping armes, in wanton wreathings intricate,

So fashioned a porch with rare divise,
Archt over head with an embracing vine,

Whose bunches hanging downe, seem'd to entice
All passers by to taste their lushious wine,
And did themselves into their hands incline,

As freely offering to be gathered :
Some deep empurpled as the hyacint,

Some as the rubine, laughing sweetly red,
Some like faire emerauldes not yet ripened,

And them amongst, some were of burnicht gold,
So made by art, to beautifie the rest,

Which did themselves emongst the leaves enfold,
As lurking from the view of covetous guelt,
That the weak boughes, with so rich load oppreit,

Did bow adown as over-burthened.

There the most dainty paradise on ground, It self doth offer to his sober eye,

In which all pleasures plentioufly abound, And none does other happiness envie :

The

The painted flowres, the trees upshooting hie.

The dales for shade, the hills for breathing place;
The trembling groves, the cryftall running by;
And that which all fair works doth most

aggrace, The art which wrought it all appeared in no places.

One would have thought (fo cunningly the rude And scorned parts were mingled with the fine)

That Nature had for wantonness ensude. Art, and that Art at Nature did repine ; So ftriveing each the other to undermine,

Each did the other's worke more beautify :
So differing both in willes, agreed'in fine :.

So all agreed through sweet diversitie,
This garden to adorne with all varietie.

And in the midst of all, a fountaine stood, Of richest fubstance that on earth might be, So

pure and shiny, that the silver flood Through every channel running, one might see ; Moft goodly it with pure imageree

Was over-wrought, and shapes of naked boyes,
Of which some seemd with lively jollitee

To fly about, playing their wanton toy.es,
Whiles others did themselves embay in liquid joyes..

And over all, of purest gold, was spred. A tray le of ivie in its native hew :

For the rich metall was so coloured, That wight that did not well advised view,

Would!

Would surely deem it to be ivie true :

Lowe his lascivious armes adowne did creepg
That themselves dipping in the silver dew,

Their sleccie flowres they tenderly did steepe,
Which drops of crystall seem'd for wantonness to

weépe.

Infinite freames continually did well
Out of this fountaine, sweet and fair to sce,

The which into an ample laver fell,
And shortly grew to so great quantitie,
That like a little lake it seem'd to bee :

Whofe depth exceeded not three cubits height,
That through the waves one might the botto:n fec,

All pav'd beneath with jasper shining bright
That seem'd the fountaine in that sea did sayle upright"

And all the margent round about was set
With shady lawrell-trees, thence to defend

Tho funny beames, which on the billows bet, And those which therein bathed, mote offend.

Etiftle

Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, being the Prologue to

the Satires.

Pope.

SHUT;

4

P. HUT, shut the door, good John ! fatigued I said,

Tye up the knocker ; say I'm fick, I'm dead.
The Dog-star rages ! nay 'tis paft a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide ?
They pierce my thickets, thro' my grot they glide ;
By land, by water, they renew the charge ;
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the Church is free,
E’en Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me :
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhync,
Happy ! to catch me just at Dinner-time.

Is there a Parson, much bemus’d in beer,
A maudlin Poetess, a rhyming Peer,
A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to crofs,
Who
pens

Stanza when he should engrofs ?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and

paper,

scrawls
With defp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls
All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws,
Inputes to me and my damn'd works the cause :

Poor

a

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