We deem them moderate, but _Enough_ implore, What barely will suffice, and ask no more: Who say, (O Jove) _a competency give, Neither in Luxury, or Want we'd live_. But what is that, which these _Enough_ do call? If both the _Indies_ unto some should fall, Such Wealth would yet _Enough_ but onely be, And what they'd term not Want, or Luxury. Among the Suits, _O Jove_, my humbler take; _A little give, I that Enough will make_. _The Second_ EPIGRAM. _On_ BILLINDA. Wanton _Billinda_ loudly does complain, I've chang'd my Love of late into disdain: Calls me unconstant, cause I now adore The chast _Marcella_, that lov'd her before. Sin or Dishonour, me as well may blame, That I repent, or do avoid a shame. The Third EPIGRAM. _On an_ ATHEIST. _Posthumus_ boasts he does not Thunder fear, And for this cause would Innocent appear; That in his Soul no Terrour he does feel, At threatn'd Vultures, or _Ixion_'s Wheel, Which fright the Guilty: But when _Fabius_ told What Acts 'gainst Murder lately were enrol'd, 'Gainst Incest, Rapine,----straight upon the Tale His Colour chang'd, and _Posthumus_ grew pale. His Impious Courage had no other Root, But that the Villaine, Atheist was to boot. _The Fourth_ EPIGRAM. _On_ GALLA. Now liquid Streams by the fierce Cold do grow As solid as the Rocks from whence they flow; Now _Tibers_ Banks with Ice united meet, And it's firm Stream may well be term'd its Street; Now Vot'ries 'fore the Shrines like Statues show, And scarce the Men from Images we know; Now Winters Palsey seizes ev'ry Age, And none's so warm, but feels the Seasons Rage; Even the bright Lillies and triumphant Red Which o're _Corinna_'s youthful cheeks are spred, Look pale and bleak, and shew a purple hew, And Violets staine, where Roses lately grew. _Galla_ alone, with wonder we behold, Maintain her Spring, and still out-brave the Cold; Her constant white does not to Frost give place, Nor fresh Vermillion fade upon her face: Sure Divine beauty in this Dame does shine? Not Humane, one reply'd, yet not Divine. A Farewel To Worldly Joys. Farewel ye Unsubstantial Joyes, Ye Gilded Nothings, Gaudy Toyes, Too long ye have my Soul misled, Too long with Aiery Diet fed: But now my Heart ye shall no more Deceive, as you have heretofore: For when I hear such _Sirens_ sing, Like _Ithacas_'s fore-warned King, With prudent Resolution I Will so my Will and Fancy tye, That stronger to the Mast not he, Than I to Reason bound will be: And though your Witchcrafts strike my Ear, Unhurt, like him, your Charms I'll hear. THE Complaint of a Lover.