than that of a Cannon, and Lay a Devil better than all Trismegistus's Charms; it blufters in her Nose, like the Wind in a foul Chimney, and by its Violence, has not only spoil'd her Brains, but blown off the Hair of her Pericranium, which The now fupplies with borrow'd Towers and artificial Borders. By one word fhe is able to blaft a Rofe at Three Score Yards distance: And her SOUL, if she has one, (which farely was only given to Dam her more compleatly) feems compofed of Affafætida and Brimstone.

Witches of old us'd to Pifs in a Hole in the Earth, and by padling in' 'rais'd Storms and Tempefts; but this wayward Sifter, refolving upon fome greater Exploit, has, as it is faid, fent to Scotland for a Silver Chamber-pot and if ever it thould arrive, 'tis to be fear'd, wou'd do more mifchief than all their Poifons at Paris: To prevent which, if any Perfon can make a Difcovery, and bring her to her Old Rendez Douz, at the Palace before mentioned, he shall have One Thousand Pound Scotch for his pains and alfo be cured of an Old Pox, or Young Gonorrhea, which he pleases, by her Worshipful Daddy, Gratis.

The Loft MISTRESS, A Complaint against the Countess of

By the Duke of Buckingham, in the Year 1675. June the 12th.

Fo

Orfaken Strephon in a lonesome glade, By Nature for despairing Sorrows made, Beneath a blasted Oak had laid him down, By lightning that, as he by Love o'er thrown. Upon the moffy Root he lean'd his Head, While at his Feet a murmurring Current led Her Streams, that sympathiz'd with his fad Moans The neigh bring Echoes anfwer'd all his Groans. Then as the Dewy Morn reftor'd the Day, Whilst stretcht on Earth the filent Mourner lay, At laft into thefe doleful Sounds he broke, Obdurate Rocks diffolving whilft he spoke. What Language can my injur'd Paffion frame, That knows not how to give its wrongs a Name; My fuff'ring Heart can all Relief refufe, Rather than Her, it did adore, accufe. Teach me, ye Groves, fome Art to eafemy Pain, Some foft Refentments that may leave no Stain On her lov'd Name, and then I will complain. Till then to all my Wrongs I will be blind, And whilst she's cruel, call her but unkind. As all my Thoughts to please her were imploy'd, When of her Smiles the Bleffing I enjoy'd, So now by her forfaken and forlorn, I'll rack Invention to excufe her Scorn.

While the to Truth and me unjuft does prove,
From her to Fate the blame I will remove;
Say, 'twas a Destiny fhe could not shun,
Fate made her change that I might be undone.
E'er with perfidious Guilt her Soul I'll tax,
I'll charge it on the Frailty of her Sex,
Doom'd her firft Mothers Error to pursue:
She ne'er was falfe, cou'd Woman have been

true.

Let all her Sex henceforth be ever so.

She had the power to make my Bliss or Woe,
And he has given my Heart its mortal Blow.
In Love the Bleffing of my Life I clos'd,
And in her Cuftody that Love difpos'd.
In one dear Fraight all's loft! Of her bereft,
I have no Hope, no fecond Comfort left.
If fuch another Beauty I could find,
A Beauty too that bore a conftant Mind,
Ev'n that could bring Me Med'cine for my Pain,
I lov'd not at a Rate to love again.

No Change can Ease for my fick Heart prepare,
Widow'd to Hope, and Wedded to Difpair.
Thus figh'd the Swain, at length his o'er-
watch'd Eyes

A foft beguiling Slumber did furprize; Whofe flatt'ring Comfort prov'd both short and vain,

Refresh'd, like Slaves from Racks, to greater

Pain.

Upon