Sylvia makes a sad complaint she has lost her lover; Why nothing strange I in that news discover. Nay, then thou’rt dull; for here the wonder lies, She had a lover once!―Don’t that surprise? _On a Painter, who stabbed a man fastened to a Cross, that he might draw the picture of the Crucifixion more naturally._ While his Redeemer on his canvas dies, Stabbed at his feet his brother weltering lies. The daring artist, cruelly serene. Views the pale cheek, and the distorted mien; He drains off life by drops, and deaf to cries, Examines every spirit as it flies; He studies torment, dives in mortal woe, To rouse up every pang repeats his blow; Each rising agony, each dreadful grace, Yet warm transplanting to his Saviour’s face. Oh, glorious theft! O nobly wicked draught! With its full charge of death each feature fraught! Such wondrous force the magic colours boast, From his own skill he starts, in horror lost. _On a handsome Idiot._ BY MR. CONGREVE. When Lesbia first I saw, so heavenly fair, With eyes so bright, and with that awful air, I thought my heart, which durst so high aspire, As bold as his who snatched celestial fire; But soon as e’er the beauteous idiot spoke, Forth from her coral lips such folly broke, Like balm the trickling nonsense healed my wound, And what her eyes enthralled, her tongue unbound. _On a dumb Boy, very beautiful, and of great quickness of parts._ WRITTEN BY A LADY. I sing the boy, who, gagged and bound, Has been by nature robbed of sound; Yet has she found a generous way, One loss by many gifts to pay. His voice, indeed, she close confined, But blest him with a speaking mind; And every muscle of his face Discourses with peculiar grace: The ladies tattling o’er their tea, Might learn to charm by copying thee. If silence thus can man become, All women beauties would be dumb. Then, happy boy, no more complain, Nor think thy loss of speech a pain: Nature has used thee like good liquor, And corked thee but to make thee quicker. _Written on the Chamber Door of King Charles II._ BY THE EARL OF ROCHESTER. Here lies the mutton-eating king, Whose word no man relies on; Who never said a foolish thing, Nor ever did a wise one. _Mankind Punished._ The crimes of men began to grow so great, That how to punish justly puzzled Fate; Heaven sighed at last, that to his sons so dear A punishment’s decreed, and so severe: Go, says eternal justice, hell-hounds, go, And execute my dread commands below; Fix your rapacious claws on every door, Despoil the rich, and poorer make the poor; Pity not age, add to his weight of years, And fill the wretched widow’s eyes with tears; Disturb their sleep, and poison every dish, Nor let them taste, without a doubt, a wish: The judge supreme, who each effect foresaw, Cried, Havock, and let loose the dogs of law.