On the Author of that Excellent Book Intituled The Way to Health, Long Life, and Happiness. By Mrs. A. B.

Hail, Learned Bard! who dost thy power dispence, And show'st us the first State of Innocence In that blest golden Age, when Man was young, When the whole Race was Vigorous and strong; When Nature did her wond'rous dictates give, And taught the Noble Savage how to live; When Christal Streams, and every plenteous Wood Afforded harmless drink, and wholsom food; E'er that ingratitude in Man was found, His Mother Earth with Iron Ploughs to wound; When unconfin'd, the spacious Plains produc'd What Nature crav'd, and more than Nature us'd; When every Sense to innocent delight Th' agreeing Elements unforc'd invite; When Earth was gay, and Heaven was kind and bright, And nothing horrid did perplex the sight; Unprun'd the Roses and the Jes'min grew, } Nature each day drest all the World anew, } And Sweets without Mans aid each Moment grew; } Till wild Debauchery did Mens minds invade, And Vice, and Luxury became a Trade; Surer than War it laid whole Countrys wast, Not Plague nor Famine ruins half so fast; By swift degrees we took that Poison in, Regarding not the danger, nor the sin; Delightful, Gay, and Charming was the Bait, While Death did on th' inviting Pleasure wait, And ev'ry Age produc'd a feebler Race, } Sickly their days, and those declin'd apace, } Scarce Blossoms Blow, and Wither in less space. } Till Nature thus declining by degrees, We have recourse to rich restoratives, By dull advice from some of Learned Note, We take the Poison for the Antidote; Till sinking Nature cloy'd with full supplys, O'er-charg'd grows fainter, Languishes and dies. These are the Plagues that o'er this Island reign, And have so many threescore thousands slain; Till you the saving Angel, whose blest hand Have sheath'd that Sword, that threatned half the Land; More than a Parent, Sir, we you must own, They give but life, but you prolong it on; You even an equal power with Heav'n do shew, Give us long life, and lasting Vertue too: Such were the mighty Patriarchs, of old, Who God in all his Glory did behold, Inspir'd like you, they Heavens Instructions show'd, And were as Gods amidst the wandring Croud; Not he that bore th' Almighty Wand cou'd give Diviner Dictates, how to eat, and live. And so essential was this cleanly Food, For Mans eternal health, eternal good, That God did for his first-lov'd Race provide, What thou by Gods example hast prescrib'd: O mai'st thou live to justifie thy fame, To Ages lasting as thy glorious Name! May thy own life make thy vast Reasons good, (Philosophy admir'd and understood,) To every sense 'tis plain, 'tis great, and clear, And Divine Wisdom does o'er all appear; Learning and Knowledge do support the whole, And nothing can the mighty truth controul; Let Fools and Mad-men thy great work condemn, I've tri'd thy Method, and adore thy Theme; Adore the Soul that you'd such truths discern, And scorn the fools that want the sense to learn.

This Little, Silent, Gloomy Monument, Contains all that was sweet and innocent; The softest pratler that e'er found a Tongue, His Voice was Musick and his Words a Song; Which now each List'ning Angel smiling hears, Such pretty Harmonies compose the Spheres; Wanton as unfledg'd Cupids, ere their Charms Had learn'd the little arts of doing harms; Fair as young Cherubins, as soft and kind, And tho translated could not be refin'd; The Seventh dear pledge the Nuptial Joys had given, Toil'd here on Earth, retir'd to rest in Heaven; Where they the shining Host of Angels fill, Spread their gay wings before the Throne, and smile.

And how, and how, Mesieurs! what do you say To our good Moderate, Conscientious Play? Not Whig, nor Tory, here can take Offence; It Libels neither Patriot, Peer, nor Prince, Nor Shrieve, nor Burgess, nor the Reverend Gown. } Faith here's no Scandal worth eight hundred pound; } Your Damage is at most but half-a-Crown. } Only this difference you must allow, } 'Tis you receive th' Affront and pay us too, } Wou'd Rebell WARD had manag'd matters so. } Here's no Reflections on Damn'd Witnesses, } We scorn such out-of-Fash'on'd Things as These; } They fail to be believ'd, and fail to please. } No Salamanca Doctor-ship abus'd, Not a Malicious States-man here accus'd; No Smutty Scenes, no intrigues up Stairs, That make your City Wives in Love with Players. But here are fools of every sort and Fashion, } Except State-Fools, the Tools of Reformation, } Or Cullys of the Court—Association. } And those Originals decline so fast We shall have none to Copy by at last; Here's Jo, and Jack a pair of whining Fools, And L[e]igh and I brisk Lavish keeping Fools, He's for Mischief all, and carry's it on With Fawne and Sneere as Jilting Whigg has done. And like theirs too his Projects are o'rethrown.

Why, Amarillis, dost thou walk alone, And the gay pleasures of the Meadows shun? Why to the silent Groves dost thou retire, When uncompell'd by the Suns scorching fire? Musing with folded Arms, and down-cast look, Or pensive yield to thy supporting Hook: Is Damon false? and has his Vows betray'd, And born the Trophies to some other Maid?

The Gods forbid I should survive to see The fatal day he were unjust to me. Nor is my Courage, or my Love so poor } T' out-live that Scorn'd, and miserable hour; } Rather let Wolves my new-yean'd Lambs devour, } Wither ye Verdant Grass, dry up ye Streams, And let all Nature turn to vast extreams: In Summer let the Boughs be cale and dry, } And now gay Flowers the wandring Spring supply, } But with my Damons Love, Let all that's charming die. }

Why then this dull retreat, if he be true, Or, Amarillis, is the change in you? You love some Swains more rich in Herds and Flocks, For none can be more powerful in his looks; His shape, his meen, his hair, his wondrous face, And on the Plaines, none dances with his Grace; 'Tis true, in Piping he does less excell.

The Musick of his Voice can Charm as well, When tun'd to words of Love, and sighs among, With the soft tremblings of his bashful tongue, And, Thirsis, you accuse my Faith in vain, To think it wavering, for another Swain; 'Tis admiration now that fills my soul, And does ev'n love suspend, if not controul. My thoughts are solemn all, and do appear With wonder in my Eyes, and not despair! My heart is entertain'd with silent Joys, And I am pleas'd above the Mirth of Noise.

What new-born pleasure can divert you so? Pray let me hear, that I may wonder too.

Last night, by yonder purling stream I stood, Pleas'd with the murmurs of the little Flood, Who in its rapid glidings bore away The Fringing Flow'rs, that made the Bank so gay, Which I compar'd to fickle Swains, who invade First this, then that deceiv'd, and yielding Maid: Whose flattering Vows an easie passage find, } Then unregarded leave 'em far behind, } To sigh their Ruin to the flying Wind. } So the soild flow'rs their rifled Beaut[i]es hung, While the triumphant Ravisher passes on. This while I sighing view'd, I heard a voice That made the Woods, the Groves, and Hills rejoyce. Who eccho'd back the charming sound again, } Answering the Musick of each softning strain, } And told the wonder over all the Plain. } Young Silvio 'twas that tun'd his happy Pipe, The best that ever grac'd a Shepherds Lip! Silvio of Noble Race, yet not disdains To mix his harmony with Rustic Swains, To th' humble Shades th' Illustrious Youth resorts, } Shunning the false delights of gaudy Courts, } For the more solid happiness of Rural sports. } Courts which his Noble Father long pursu'd, And Serv'd till he out-serv'd their gratitude.

Oh Amarillis, let that tale no more Remembred be on the Arcadian Shore, Lest Mirth should on our Meads no more be found, But Stafford's Story should throughout resound, And fill with pitying cryes the Echoes all around.

Arcadia, keep your peace, but give me leave, Who knew the Heroes Loyalty, to grieve; Once, Thirsis, by th' Arcadian Kings Commands, I left these Shades, to visit foreign Lands; Imploy'd in public toils of State Affairs, Unusual with my Sex, or to my Years; There 'twas my chance, so Fortune did ordain, To see this great, this good, this God-like Man: Brave, Pious, Loyal, Just, without constraint, The Soul all Angell, and the Man a Saint; His temper'd mind no Passion e'er inflam'd, But when his King and Countrey were profan'd; Then oft I've seen his generous blood o'er spread His awful face, with a resenting Red, In Anger quit the Room, and would disdain To herd with the Rebellious Publican. But, Thirsis, 'twould a worship'd Volume fill, If I the Heroes wondrous Life should tell; His Vertues were his Crime, like God he bow'd A necessary Victim to the frantick Croud; So a tall sheltring Oak that long had stood, The mid-days shade, and glory of the Wood; Whose aged boughs a reverence did command, Fell lop'd at last by an Ignoble hand: And all his branches are in pieces torn, That Victors grac'd, and did the Wood adorn. —With him young Silvio, who compos'd his Joys, The darling of his Soul and of his Eyes, Inheriting the Vertues of his Sire, But all his own is his Poetic fire; When young, the Gods of Love, and Wit did grace The pointed, promis'd Beautys of his face, Which ripening years did to perfection bring, And taught him how to Love, and how to Sing.

But what, dear Amarillis, was the Theam The Noble Silvio Sung by yonder Stream?

Not of the Shepherds, nor their Rural Loves. The Song was Glorious tho 'twas sung in Groves! Camilla's Death the skilful Youth inspir'd, As if th' Heroic Maid his Soul had fir'd; Such life was in his Song, such heat, such flight, As he had seen the Royal Virgin fight. He made her deal her wounds with Graceful Art, } With vigorous Air fling the unfailing Dart, } And form'd her Courage to his own great heart. } Never was fighting in our Sex a Charm, Till Silvio did the bright Camilla Arm; With Noble Modesty he shews us how To be at once Hero and Woman too. Oh Conquering Maid! how much thy Fame has won, } In the Arcadian Language to be sung, } And by a Swain so soft, so sweet, so young. }

Well hast thou spoke the noble Silvio's Praise, For I have often heard his charming lays; Oft has he blest the Shades with strains Divine, Took many a Virgins heart, and Ravish'd mine. Long may he sing in every Field and Grove, And teach the Swains to Pipe, the Maids to Love.

Daphnis, and Colin Pipe not half so well, E'en Dions mighty self he does excell; As the last Lover of the Muses, blest, The last and young in Love are always best; And She her darling Lover does requite With all the softest Arts of Noblest Wit.

Oh may he dedicate his Youth to her! Thus let 'em live, and love upon the square, But see Alexis homeward leads his Flock, And brouzing Goats descend from yonder Rock; The Sun is hasting on to Thetis Bed, See his faint Beams have streak'd the Sky with Red. Let's home e'er night approach, and all the way You shall of Silvio sing, while I will play.