So when the Parthian turned his steed
  And from the hostile camp withdrew,
  With cruel skill the backward reed
  He sent, and as he fled he slew.

  [THE DYING HADRIAN TO HIS SOUL]

  Poor, little, pretty, fluttering thing,
  Must we no longer live together? 
  And dost thou prune thy trembling wing,
  To take thy flight, thou know’st not whither? 
  Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly,
  Lies all neglected, all forgot: 
  And pensive, wavering, melancholy,
  Thou dread’st and hop’st, thou know’st not what.

  A BETTER ANSWER

  Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face! 
  Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled! 
  Prithee quit this caprice, and (as old Falstaff says)
  Let us e’en talk a little like folks of this world.

  How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy
  The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping? 
  Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy;
  More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping.

  To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ,
  Your judgment at once and my passion you wrong;
  You take that for fact which will scarce be found wit: 
  Od’s life! must one swear to the truth of a song?

  What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows
  The difference there is betwixt nature and art: 
  I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose;
  And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.

  The god of us verse-men (you know, child), the sun,
  How after his journeys he sets up his rest;
  If at morning o’er earth ’tis his fancy to run,
  At night he reclines on his Thetis’s breast.

  So when I am wearied with wandering all day,
  To thee, my delight, in the evening I come: 
  No matter what beauties I saw in my way;
  They were but my visits, but thou art my home.

  Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war,
  And let us like Horace and Lydia agree;
  For thou art a girl as much brighter than her
  As he was a poet sublimer than me.

BERNARD DE MANDEVILLE

FROM THE GRUMBLING HIVE; OR, KNAVES TURNED HONEST

A spacious hive, well stocked with bees,
That lived in luxury and ease;
And yet as famed for laws and arms,
As yielding large and early swarms;
Was counted the great nursery
Of sciences and industry.

* * * * *

Vast numbers thronged the fruitful hive;
Yet those vast numbers made ’em thrive;
Millions endeavouring to supply
Each others lust and vanity,
While other millions were employed
To see their handiworks destroyed;
They furnished half the universe,
Yet had more work than labourers. 
Some with vast stocks, and little pains,
Jumped into business of great gains;