Nor would I thus the task give o'er;

Curious new fecrets to explore,

I'd never reft till I had found

Which globe was fofteft, which most round-
Which was most yielding, fmooth, and white,
Or the left bofom or the right;

Which was the warmeft, eafieft bed,

And which was tip'd with pureft red.
Nor cou'd I leave the beauteous fcene,
Till I had trac'd the path between,
That milky way fo fmooth and even,
That promifes to lead to heav'n:
Lower and lower I'd defcend,

To find where it at laft wou'd end;
Till fully bleft I'd wand'ring rove
O'er all the fragrant Cyprian grove.

But ah! those wishes all are vain,
The fair one triumphs in my pain;
To flow'rs that know not to be bleft,
The nymph unveils her fnowy breast;
While to her flave's defiring eyes,
The heav'nly prospect she denies :

O fortem nimis afperam atque iniquam ! Tantillum illa negat mihi petenti,

Tantillum illa negat mihi scienti;

Quæ tantum huic tribuit nec id petenti,

Quæ tantum huic tribuit nec id fcienti.

Too cruel fate, too cruel Fair,
To place a fenfeless nofegay there,
And yet refuse my lips the bliss

To taste one dear transporting kiss.

A N

EPISTLE,

Written in the COUNTRY,

то THE

Right Hon. the Lord LOVELACE* then in Town.

SEPTEMBER, 1735.

N days, my Lord, when mother Time,

IN

Tho' now grown old, was in her prime,

When SATURN first began to rule,
And Jove was hardly come from school,
How happy was a country life!

How free from wickedness and ftrife!

*Nevil Lord Lovelace was one of those with whom the author made a friendship on his firft coming into the world, uninterrupted till his death, which happened at an early period of his life.-There appear ftrong marks of his affection for him, in fome letters wrote to his lordship's fifter, the late Lady Harry Beauclerc, now in the poffeffion of her descendants.-He was a man of letters, a friend to the Muses, and highly fashioned according to the breeding of those days.

Then

Then each man liv'd

upon his farm,

And thought and did no mortal harm ;
On moffy banks fair virgins flept,

As harmless as the flocks they kept;
Then love was all they had to do,

And nymphs were chafte, and swains were true.
But now, whatever poets write,
'Tis fure the cafe is alter'd quite,
Virtue no more in rural plains,
Or innocence, or peace remains ;
But vice is in the cottage found,
And country girls are oft unfound;
Fierce party rage each village fires,
With wars of juftices and 'fquires;
Attorneys, for a barley-straw,
Whole ages hamper folks in law,
And ev'ry neighbour's in a flame
About their rates, or tythes, or game:
Some quarrel for their hares and pigeons,
And fome for diff'rence in religions:
Some hold their parfon the best preacher,
The tinker fome a better teacher;

Thefe,