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What do I mean! What thoughts do me misguide! As well upon a staff may witches ride

Their fancied journeys in the air,

As I sail round the ocean in this Chair!

'Tis true! But yet this Chair, which here you see, (For all its quiet now, and gravity)

Has wandered, and has travelled more

Than ever beast, or fish, or bird, or ever tree, before! In every air, and every sea, 't has been!

'T has compassed all the earth; and all the heavens 't has seen!

Let not the Pope's itself, with this compare!
This is the only Universal Chair !

The pious Wand'rers' fleet, saved from the flame,
(Which still the relics did of Troy pursue
And took them for its due)

A squadron of immortal Nymphs became !
Still, with their arms, they row about the seas;
And still make new and greater voyages.

Nor has the first poetic ship of Greece

(Though now a star she so triumphant show, And guide her sailing successors below; Bright as her ancient freight, the shining Fleece !) Yet, to this day, a quiet harbour found! The tide of heaven still carries her around. Only DRAKE'S sacred vessel (which before

Had done, and had seen, more

Than these have done, or seen,

E'en since they goddesses, and this a star has been),
As a reward, for all her labour past,

Is made the seat of rest at last!
Let the case now quite altered be!
And as thou went'st abroad the world to see;
Let the World now come to see thee!

The World will do 't! For Curiosity
Does, no less than Devotion, pilgrims make!
And I myself (who now love quiet too,
As much almost as any chair can do!)
Would yet a journey take,

An old wheel of that chariot to see;
Which PHAETON so rashly brake:

Yet what could that say more, than these remains of

Great relic! Thou too, in this port of ease,
Hast still one way of making voyages!

The breath of Fame, like an auspicious gale,
(The great Trade Wind, which ne'er does fail!)
Shall drive thee round the world; and thou shalt run
As long around it, as the sun!

The Straits of Time too narrow are for thee!
Launch forth into an undiscovered sea;

And steer the endless course of vast Eternity!
Take for thy Sail, this Verse! and for thy Pilot, me!


TELL me not of a face that 's fair,
Nor lip and cheek that 's red,
Nor of the tresses of her hair,
Nor curls in order laid,
Nor of a rare seraphic voice
That like an Angel sings;

Though, if I were to take my choice,
I would have all these things!
But if that thou wilt have me love,
And it must be a She!

The only argument can move
Is, That She will love me!

The glories of you Ladies be
But metaphors of things;
And but resemble what we see
Each common object brings.
Roses out-red their lips and cheeks!
Lilies, their whiteness stain!
What fool is he, that shadows seeks,
And may the substance gain!
Then, if thou'lt have me love a Lass;
Let it be one that 's kind!

Else I'm a Servant to the Glass

That's with Canary lined!


WHY 's my friend so melancholy?
Prithee, why so sad? why so sad?
Beauty's vain; and Love 's a folly!

Wealth and women make men mad!
To him, that has a heart that 's jolly,
Nothing's grievous! nothing 's sad!
Come, cheer up, my Lad!

Does thy Mistress seem to fly thee?
Prithee, don't repine! don't repine!

If, at first, She does deny thee
Of her love; deny her thine!

She shews her coyness but to try thee;
And will triumph, if thou pine.

Drown thy thoughts in wine!

Try again; and don't give over!

Ply her! She's thine own! She 's thine own! Cowardice undoes a Lover!

They are tyrants, if you moan!

If not thyself, nor love, can move her;
But She'll slight thee, and be gone:
Let her then alone!

If thy courtship can't invite her Nor to condescend, nor to bend; Thy only wisdom is to slight her, And her beauty discommend. Such a niceness will requite her! Yet if thy love will not end; Love thyself, and friend!

'Tis true, I never was in love;

But now I mean to be!

For there's no art

Can shield a heart

From love's supremacy.

Though, in my nonage, I have seen
A world of taking faces;

I had not age, nor wit, to ken
Their several hidden graces.

Those virtues which, though thinly set, In others are admired,

In thee, are all together met;

Which make thee so desired,

That though I never was in love,
Nor never meant to be;

Thyself and parts,

Above my arts,

Have drawr. my heart to thee.

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