TO ONE MARRIED TO AN OLD MAN.

Since thou wouldst needs (bewitch’d with some ill charms!)
Be buried in those monumental arms,
All we can wish is, may that earth lie light
Upon thy tender limbs! and so good night.

AN EPIGRAM ON A PAINTED LADY WITH ILL TEETH.

Were men so dull they could not see
That Lyce painted; should they flee,
Like simple birds, into a net
So grossly woven and ill set,
Her own teeth would undo the knot,
And let all go that she had got. 
Those teeth fair Lyce must not show
If she would bite; her lovers, though
Like birds they stoop at seeming grapes,
Are disabused when first she gapes;
The rotten bones discover’d there,
Show ’tis a painted sepulchre.

EPIGRAM UPON THE GOLDEN MEDAL.[1]

Our guard upon the royal side! 
On the reverse our beauty’s pride! 
Here we discern the frown and smile,
The force and glory of our isle. 
In the rich medal, both so like
Immortals stand, it seems antique;
Carved by some master, when the bold
Greeks made their Jove descend in gold,
And Danae[2] wond’ring at their shower,
Which, falling, storm’d her brazen tower. 
Britannia there, the fort in vain
Had batter’d been with golden rain;
Thunder itself had fail’d to pass;
Virtue’s a stronger guard than brass.

[1] ‘Golden Medal’:  it is said that a Miss Stewart, the favourite of the
    unprincipled king, is the original of the figure of Britannia on the
    medals to which the poet here alludes.
[2] Transcriber’s note:  The original text has a single dot over the
    second “a” and another over the “e”, rather than the more
    conventional diaresis shown here.

WRITTEN ON A CARD THAT HER MAJESTY TORE AT OMBRE.

The cards you tear in value rise;
So do the wounded by your eyes. 
Who to celestial things aspire,
Are by that passion raised the higher.

TO MR GRANVILLE (NOW LORD LANSDOWNE), ON HIS VERSES TO KING JAMES II.

An early plant! which such a blossom bears,
And shows a genius so beyond his years;
A judgment! that could make so fair a choice;
So high a subject to employ his voice;
Still as it grows, how sweetly will he sing
The growing greatness of our matchless king!

LONG AND SHORT LIFE.

Circles are praised, not that abound
In largeness, but th’exactly round: 
So life we praise that does excel
Not in much time, but acting well.

TRANSLATED OUT OF SPANISH.

Though we may seem importunate,
  While your compassion we implore;
They whom you make too fortunate,
  May with presumption vex you more.