MUSES MERCURY, _June, 1707_. _The Complaint of the poor_ Cavaliers. I. Give me the Man that’s hollow Since he is the only Fellow, For Honesty’s out of Date; And he’s the only Gallant That shew’d himself so Valiant, To cut off his Master’s Pate. These--these be the Men that flaunt, As if they were Sons of Gaunt, And ev’ry Knave Is Fine and Brave, While the poor _Cavalier’s_ in want. II. The Man that chang’d his Note, And he who has turn’d his Coat, Shall now have a good Reward; He’s either made a Knight, Or else by this good Light, A very Reverend Lord: And let him be so for me, I’m as gay and as good as he. III. Hang Sorrow, why should we repine, We’ll drive down our Grief with good Wine, Not caring for those that rise; For had they been but true Men, They never had been new Men, And we had ne’er been wise. The Blockhead that merits most, That has all his Fortune lost, Must now be turn’d out And a new-found Rout, Of Courtiers rule the Roast. The next Verses are so tender, that one may see the Author writ ‘em with no affected Passion. And indeed she had no need to affect what was so natural to her. _On a Pin that hurt_ Amintas’ _Eye_. Injurious Pin, how durst thou steal so nigh? To touch, nay worse, to hurt his precious Eye. Base Instrument, so ill thou’st play’d thy part, Wounding his Eye, thou’st wounded my poor Heart, And for each pity’d Drop his Eye did shed, My sympathizing Heart a thousand bled: Too daring Pin, was there no Tincture good, To bath thy Point, but my _Amintas’. Blood? Cou’d thy Ambition teach thee so to sin? Was that a Place for thee to revel in? ‘Twas there thy Mistress had design’d to be, And must she find a Rival too in thee? Curs’d Fate! that I shou’d harbour thee so long, And thou at last conspire to do me wrong: Tho well I knew thy Nature to be rude, And all thy Kin full of Ingratitude, I little thought thou wouldst presume so far, To aim thy Malice at so bright a Star. Now all the Service thou canst render me Will never recompense this Injury. Well, get thee gone--for thou shalt never more Have Power to hurt what I so much adore. Hence from my Sight, and mayst thou ever lie A crooked Object to each scornful Eye. _To Mrs._ Harsenet, _on the Report of a Beauty, which she went to see at Church._ As when a Monarch does in Triumph come, And proudly leads the vanquish’d Captive home, The joyful People swarm in ev’ry Street, And with loud Shouts the glorious Victor meet.