Nicholas Amhurst Poems

In the County of Norfolk, that Paradise Land,
Whose Riches and Power doth all Europe command,
There stands a great House (and long may it stand)
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Crassus, the Poet's and the Villain's Tool,
Just Wise enough to think himself a Fool,
Swears that in each Lampoon he sees his Face,
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At length, Catullus, give thy Follies o'er,
Nor vainly wish lost Pleasures to restore;
Thou hast indeed been blest with golden Days,
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Since, Sir, on the Alphabet, lately 'tis grown
The Fashion to spread our Wit about Town,
My Horn--book once more I shall take into Hand,
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As from the Honeycomb one Day,
Young Cupid filch'd the Sweets away,
Intent on the felonious Wrong,
A watchful Bee his Fingers stung.
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Be not vain of your fancy'd Success I desire you,
Nor think that Lords love you, because they admire you;
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No Stone was dug from under Ground,
That Wolsey's Infamy display'd;
Nor the least Likeness can be found
Between the Living and the Dead.
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What strange Resemblance can your Fancy see
'Twixt W---'s Fame and Wolsey's Infamy?
In vain through Greece and Italy you roam,
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Young Cloe, frolicksome and gay,
Was reading, once upon a Day,
How Jove, as Ovid's Lines record
(And Ladies will take Ovid's Word)
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Let Bards with Honour old Alcides dub,
Who slew the Hydra with his Sword or--Club.
Our English Hercules is greater far;
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