THE Annual Miscellany: FOR The YEAR 1694. BEING THE FOURTH PART OF Miscellany Poems. Containing Great Variety OF NEW TRANSLATIONS AND Original Copies, BY THE Most Eminent Hands.  
LONDON: Printed by R. E. for Jacob Tonson, at the Judge's Head near the Inner Temple-Gate, in Fleetstreet. MDCXCIV.   

THE CONTENTS,  

THe Third Book of Virgil's Georgics, Englished by Mr. Dryden. Pag. 3  
A Translation of all Virgil's 4th. Georgick, except the Story of Aristeus. By Mr. Jo. Addison, of Magdalen College, Oxon. 58  
To Sir Godfrey Kneller. By Mr. Dryden. 87  
Prologue to the Queen. Upon Her Majesty's coming to see the Old Bachelor. By Mr. Congreve. 100  
To Cynthia Weeping and not Speaking. By Mr. Congreve. An Elegy. 103  
Fortuna saevo Laeta negotio, etc. Out of Horace. By the Late Duke of Buckingham. 108  
To my Lady Dursley, on her Reading Milton's Paradise Lost. By Mr. Prior. 110  
To Mr. Watson, on his Ephemeris of the Celestial Motions, presented to Her Majesty. By Mr. Yalden. 112  
The Rape of Theutilla, Imitated from the Latin of Famian. Strada. By Mr. Tho. Yalden. 115  
An Ode for St. Cecilia's Day at Oxford, 1693. Written by Mr. Tho. Yalden. 124  
A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, at Oxford. By Mr. Jo. Addison. 138  
The Story of Salmacis, from the Fourth Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses. By Mr. Jo. Addison. 139  
The Enquiry after his Mistress. Written by Aurelian Townsend. 148  
To the Honourable Mrs. Mohun, on her Recovery. By Mr. Charles Hopkins. 152  
The Force of Jealousy: To a Lady ask, if her Sex was as sensible of that Passion as Me●. An allusion to, O! Quam cruentus Foeminas stimulat Dolour. Seneca's Hercules-Oetus. By Mr. Tho. Yalden. 154  
To Mr. Dryden upon his Translation of the Third Book of Virgil's Georgics. Pindaric Ode. By Mr. John Dennis. 160  
The Enjoyment: A Song. Anonymus. 164  
The Enjoyment. 166  
In Imitation of Horace. Ode the XXII. Integer vitae, etc. Written by Mr. Tho. Yalden. 172  
To his Perjured Mistress. From Horace. Nox erat, & coelo fulgebat luna sereno, etc. By Mr. Tho. Yalden. 176  
The XVI. Ode of the 2d. Book of Horace. Translated by an unknown Hand. Beginning, Otium Divos rogat, etc. 181  
Song. Advice to Caelia. 186  
Advice to Cupid. In a Song. 187  
Cornelius Gallus Imitated. A Lyric. By my Lord R. 190  
Apollo's Grief: For having killed Hyacinth by Accident. In Imitation of Ovid. By my Lord R. 192  
Song. By my Lord R. 194  
On the Happiness of a Retired Life. By Mr. Charles Dryden. Sent to his Father from Italy. 195  
The Passion of Byblis. From the Ninth Book of Ovid Metamorphosis. By Ste. Harvey, Esq 202  
The First Book of Virgil's Georgics. Translated into English Verse, by the Right Honourable John Earl of Lauderdale. 217  
Jupiter and Europa: From the Fourth Book of Ovid Metamorphosis. By Ste. Harvey, Esq 254  
Patroclus' Request to Achilles for his Arms. Imitated from the Beginning of the 16 Iliad of Homer. By Mr. Tho. Yalden. 259  
A Song. By— 265  
An Epistle to Mr. B. By Mr. Fr. Knapp, of Magdalen College in Oxford. 266  
To Myra. A great Flood having destroyed the Fruits of the Ground, and the Corn every where in her Neighbourhood, but upon her own Land. By Mr. George Granville. 274  
Song. By Mr. George Granville. 276  
A Short Visit. 277  
A Copy of Verses Written by Mr. Edmund Waller, above Forty Years since, and never Printed in any Edition of his Poems. 279  
Cupid's Pastime. By Sidney Godolphin, Esq 282  
For the New Year: to the Sun. Intended to be Sung before Their Majesties on New-Years Day. 1694. Written by Mr. Prior at the Hague. 287  
The Duel. By Henry Savil, Esq Written soon after the Duel of the Staggs. 293  
To a Person of Honour: Upon his Incomprehesible Poems. By— 298  
Upon the same. 304  
Translated from Seneca's Troas, Act. 2. Chorus. By Mr. Glanvill. 306  
Horace B. I. Ode XIII. Cum Tu, Lydia, Telephi, etc. By Mr. Glanvill. 309  
Horace B. I. Ode XXIII. By Mr. Glanvill. 312  
B. II. Ode XII. Nolis longa ferae Bella Numantiae, etc. By Mr. Glanvill. 314  
An Account of the Greatest English Poets. To Mr. H. S. Apr. 3d. 1694. By Mr. Joseph Addison. 317    

THE THIRD BOOK OF VIRGIL's Georgics, Translated into ENGLISH VERSE BY Mr. DRYDEN.  
THE THIRD BOOK OF VIRGIL's Georgics.  

THY Fields, propitious Pales, I rehearse;  
And sing thy Pastures in no vulgar Verse,  
Amphrysian Shepherd; the Lycaean Woods;  
Arcadia's flowery Plains, and pleasing Floods.   

All other Themes, that careless Minds invite,  
Are worn with use; unworthy me to write.  
Busiri's Altars, and the dire Decrees  
Of hard Euristheus, every Reader sees:  
Hylas the Boy, Latona's erring Isle,  
And Pelops Ivory Shoulder, and his Toil  
For fair Hippodamés, with all the rest  
Of Grecian Tales, by Poets are expressed:  
New ways I must attempt, my grovelling Name  
To raise aloft, and wing my flight to Fame.   

I, first of Romans, shall in Triumph come  
From conquered Greece, and bring her Trophies home:  
With Foreign Spoils adorn my native place;  
And with Idume's Palms, my Mantua grace.  
Of Parian Stone a Temple will I raise,  
Where the slow Mincius through the Valley strays:  
Where cooling Streams invite the Flocks to drink:  
And Reeds defend the winding water's brink.  
Full in the midst shall mighty Caesar stand:  
Hold the chief Honours; and the Dome command.  
Then I, conspicuous in my Tyrian Gown,  
(Submitting to his Godhead my Renown)  
A hundred Coursers from the Goal will drive:  
The Rival Chariots in the Race shall strive.  
All Greece shall flock from far, my Games to see;  
The Whorlbat, and the rapid Race, shall be  
Reserved for Caesar, and ordained by me.  
Myself, with Olive crowned, the Gifts will bear:  
Even now methinks the public shouts I hear;  
The passing Pageants, and the Pomp's appear.  
I, to the Temple, will conduct the Crew:  
The Sacrifice and Sacrificers view;  
From thence return, attended with my Train,  
Where the proud Theatres disclose the Scene:  
Which interwoven Britain's seem to raise,  
And show the Triumph which their Shame displays.  
High o'er the Gate, in Elephant and Gold,  
The Crowd shall Caesar's Indian War behold;  
The Nile shall flow beneath; and on the side,  
His shattered Ships on Brazen Pillars ride.  
Next him Niphates with inverted Urn,  
And dropping Sedge, shall his Armenia mourn;  
And Asian Cities in our Triumph born.  
With backward Bows the Parthians shall be there;  
And, spurring from the Fight, confess their fear.  
A double Wreath shall crown our Caesar's Brows;  
Two differing Trophies, from two different Foes.  
Europe with afric in his Fame shall join;  
But neither Shore his Conquest shall confine.  
The Parian Marble, there, shall seem to move,  
In breathing Statues, not unworthy Jove.  
Resembling Heroes, whose Etherial Root  
Is Jove himself, and Caesar is the Fruit.  
Tros and his Race the Sculptor shall employ;  
And He the God who built the Walls of Troy.  
Envy herself at last, grown pale and dumb;  
(By Caesar combated and overcome)  
Shall give her Hands; and fear the curling Snakes  
Of lashing Furies, and the burning Lakes:  
The pains of Famished Tantalus shall feel;  
And Sisyphus that labours up the Hill  
The rolling Rock in vain; and cursed Ixion's Wheel.  
Mean time we must pursue the Sylvan Lands;  
(Th' abode of Nymphs,) untouched by former Hands:  
For such, Maecenas, are thy hard Commands.  
Without thee nothing lofty can I sing;  
Come then, and with thyself thy Genius bring:  
With which Inspired, I brook no dull delay.  
Cithaeron loudly calls me to my way;  
Thy Hounds, Taygetus, open and pursue their prey.  
High Epidaurus urges on my speed,  
Famed for his Hills, and for his Horses breed:  
From Hills and Dales the cheerful Cries rebound:  
For Echo hunts along; and propagates the sound.   

A time will come, when my maturer Muse,  
In Caesar's Wars, a Nobler Theme shall choose.  
And through more Ages bear my Sovereign's Praise;  
Than have from Tithon passed to Caesar's Days.   

The Generous Youth, who studious of the Prize,  
The Race of running Coursers multiplies;  
Or to the Plough the sturdy Bullock breeds,  
May know that from the Dam the worth of each proceeds:  
The Mother Cow must wear a lowering look,  
Sour headed, strongly necked, to bear they oak.  
Her double Dew-lap from her Chin descends:  
And at her Thighs the ponderous burden ends.  
Long are her sides and large, her Limbs are great;  
Rough are her Ears, and broad her horny Feet.  
Her Colour shining black, but fleaked with white;  
She tosses from the Yoke; provokes the Fight:  
She rises in her gate, is free from fears;  
And in her Face a Bull's Resemblance bears:  
Her ample Forehead with a Star is Crowned;  
And with her length of Tail she sweeps the ground.  
The Bull's Insult at Four she may sustain;  
But, after Ten, from Nuptial Rites refrain.  
Six Seasons use; but then release the Cow,  
Unfit for Love, and for the labouring Plough.   

Now while their Youth is filled with kindly Fire,  
Submit thy Females to the lusty Sire:  
Watch the quick motions of the frisking Tail,  
Then serve their fury with the rushing Male,  
Indulging Pleasure lest the Breed should fail.   

In Youth alone, Unhappy Mortals Live;  
But, ah! the mighty Bliss is fugitive;  
Discoloured Sickness, anxious Labours come,  
And Age, and Death's inexorable Doom.   

Yearly thy Herds in vigour will impair;  
Recruit and mend 'em with thy Yearly care:  
Still propagate, for still they fall away,  
'Tis prudence to prevent th' entire decay.   

Like Diligence requires the Courser's Race;  
In early choice; and for a longer space.  
The Colt, that for a Stallion is designed,  
By sure presages shows his Generous Kind,  
Of able Body, sound of Limb and Wind.  
Upright he walks, on Pasterns firm and strait;  
His motions easy; prancing in his Gate.  
The first to lead the way, to tempt the flood;  
To pass the Bridge unknown, nor fear the trembling wood.  
Dauntless at empty noises; lofty necked;  
Sharp headed, Barrel bellied, broadly backed.  
Brawny his Chest, and deep, his Colour grey;  
For Beauty dappled, or the brightest Bay:  
Faint White and Dun will scarce the Rearing pay.   

The fiery Courser when he hears from far,  
The sprightly Trumpets, and the shouts of War,  
Pricks up his Ears; and trembling with delight,  
Shifts place, and paws; and hopes the promised Fight.  
On his right shoulder his thick Mane reclined,  
Ruffles at speed; and dances in the wind.  
His horny Hoofs are jetty-black, and round;  
His Chine is double; starting with a bound  
He turns the Turf, and shakes the solid ground.  
Fire from his Eyes, Clouds from his Nostrils flow:  
He bears his Rider headlong on the Foe.   

Such was the Steed in Grecian Poets famed,  
Proud Cyllarus, by Spartan Pollux tamed:  
Such Coursers bore to Fight the God of Thrace;  
And such, Achilles, was thy Warlike Race.  
In such a Shape, grim Saturn did restrain  
His Heavenly Limbs, and flowed with such a Mane.  
When, half surprised, and fearing to be seen,  
The Lecher galloped from his Jealous Queen:  
Ran up the ridges of the Rocks amain;  
And with shrill Neighing filled the Neighbouring plain.   

But worn with Years, when dire Diseases come,  
Then hid his not Ignoble Age, at Home:  
In peace t' enjoy his former Palms and Pains;  
And gratefully be kind to his Remains.  
For when his Blood no Youthful Spirits move,  
He languishes and labours in his Love.  
And when the sprightly Seed should swiftly come,  
Dribling he drudges, and defrauds the Womb.  
In vain he burns, like hasty stubble fires;  
And in himself his former self requires.   

His Age and Courage weigh: nor those alone,  
But note his Father's Virtues and his own;  
Observe if he disdains to yield the Prize;  
Of Loss impatient, proud of Victories.   

Hast thou beheld, when from the Goal they start,  
The Youthful Charioteers with beating Heart,  
Rush to the Race; and panting, scarcely bear  
Th' extremes of feverish hope, and chilling fear;  
Stoop to the Reins, and lash with all their force;  
The flying Chariot kindles in the course:  
And now allow; and now aloft they fly,  
As born through Air, and seem to touch the Sky.  
No stop, no stay, but clouds of sand arise;  
Spurned, and cast backward on the follower's Eyes.  
The hindmost blows the foam upon the first:  
Such is the love of Praise: an Honourable Thirst.   

Bold Ericthonius was the first, who joined  
Four Horses for the rapid Race designed;  
And o'er the dusty wheels presiding sat;  
The Lapythae to Chariots, add the State  
Of Bits and Bridles; taught the Steed to bond;  
To run the Ring, and trace the mazy round.  
To stop, to fly, the Rules of War to know:  
T' obey the Rider; and to dare the Foe.   

To choose a Youthful Steed, with Courage fired;  
To breed him, break him, back him, are required  
Experienced Masters; and in sundry ways:  
Their Labours equal, and alike their Praise.  
But once again the battered Horse beware,  
The weak old Stallion will deceive thy care.  
Though Famous in his Youth for force and speed,  
Or was of Argos or Epirian breed,  
Or did from Neptune's Race, or from himself proceed.   

These things premised, when now the Nuptial time  
Approaches for the stately Steed to climb;  
With Food enable him, to make his Court;  
Distend his Chine, and pamper him for sport.  
Feed him with Herbs, whatever thou canst find,  
Of generous warmth; and of salacious kind.  
Then water him, and (drinking what he can)  
Encourage him to thirst again, with Bran.  
Instructed thus, produce him to the Fair;  
And join in Wedlock to th' expecting Mare.  
For if the Sire be faint, or out of case,  
He will be copied in his famished Race:  
And sink beneath the pleasing Task assigned;  
(For all's too little for the craving Kind.)   

As for the Females, with industrious care  
Take down their Mettle, keep 'em lean and bare;  
When conscious of their past delight, and keen  
To take the leap, and prove the sport again:  
With scanty measure then supply their food;  
And, when athirst, restrain 'em from the flood:  
Their Body's harrass, sink 'em when they run;  
And fry their melting Marrow in the Sun.  
Starve 'em, when Barns beneath their burden groan,  
And winnowed Chaff, by western winds is blown.  
For fear the rankness of the swelling Womb  
Should scant the passage, and confine the room.  
Lest the fat Furrows should the sense destroy  
Of Genial Lust; and dull the Seat of Joy.  
But let 'em suck the Seed with greedy force;  
And there enclose the Vigour of the Horse.   

The Male has done; thy Care must now proceed 
Here the Poet returns to Cows.   
To teeming Females; and the promised breed.  
First let 'em run at large; and never know  
The taming Yoke, or draw the crooked Plough.  
Let 'em not leap the Ditch, or swim the Flood;  
Or lumber o'er the Meads; or cross the Wood  
But range the Forest, by the silver side  
Of some cool Stream, where Nature shall provide  
Green Grass and fattening Clover for their fare;  
And Mossy Caverns for their Noontide lare:  
With Rocks above, to shield the sharp Nocturnal air.   

About th' Alburnian Groves, with Holly green,  
Of winged Infects mighty swarms are seen:  
This flying Plague (to mark its quality;)  
Oestros the Grecians call: Asylus, we:  
A fierce loud buzzing Breeze; their stings draw blood;  
And drive the cattle gadding through the Wood  
Seized with unusual pains, they loudly cry,  
Tanagrus hastens thence; and leaves his Channel dry.  
This Curse the jealous Juno did invent;  
And first employed for Io's Punishment.  
To shun this Ill, the cunning Leach ordains  
In Summer's Sultry Heats (for then it reigns)  
To feed the Females, ere the Sun arise,  
Or late at Night, when Stars adorn the Skies.   

When she has calved, then set the Dam aside;  
And for the tender Progeny provide.  
Distinguish all betimes, with branding Fire;  
To note the Tribe, the Lineage, and the Sire.  
Whom to reserve for Husband of the Herd;  
Or who shall be to Sacrifice preferred;  
Or whom thou shalt to turn thy Glebe allow;  
To harrow Furrows, and sustain the Plough:  
The rest, for whom no Lot is yet decreed,  
May run in Pastures, and at pleasure feed.  
The Calf, by Nature and by Genius made  
To turn the Glebe, breed to the Rural trade.  
Set him betimes to School; and let him be  
Instructed there in Rules of Husbandry:  
While yet his Youth is flexible and green;  
Nor bad Examples of the World has seen.  
Early begin the stubborn Child to break;  
For his soft Neck, a supple Collar make  
Of bending Osiers; and (with time and care  
Enured that easy Servitude to bear)  
Thy flattering Method on the Youth pursue:  
Joined with his Schoolfellows, by two and two,  
Persuade 'em first to lead an empty Wheel,  
That scarce the dust can raise; or they can feel:  
In length of Time produce the labouring Yoke  
And shining Shares, that make the Furrow smoke.  
ere the licentious Youth be thus restrained,  
Or Moral Precepts on their Minds have gained;  
Their wanton Appetites not only feed  
With delicates of Leaves, and marshy Weed,  
But with thy Sickle reap the rankest land:  
And minister the blade, with bounteous hand.  
Nor be with harmful parsimony won  
To follow what our homely Sires have done;  
Who filled the Pail with Beesting of the Cow:  
But all her Udder to the Calf allow.   

If to the War like Steed thy Studies bend,  
Or for the Prize in Chariots to contend;  
Near Pisa's Flood the rapid Wheels to guide,  
Or in Olympian Groves aloft to ride;  
The generous labours of the Courser, first  
Must be with sight of Arms and sounds of Trumpets nursed:  
Inur'd the groaning Axletree to bear;  
And let him clashing Whips in Stables hear.  
Sooth him with praise; and make him understand  
The loud Applauses of his Master's hand:  
This from his weaning, let him well be taught;  
And then betimes in a soft Snaffle wrought:  
Before his tender Joints with Nerves are knit;  
Guiltless of Arms, and trembling at the Bit.  
But when to four full Springs his years advance,  
Teach him to run the round, with pride to prance;  
And (rightly managed) equal time to beat;  
To turn, to bound in measure; and Curvet.  
Let him, to this, with easy pains be brought:  
And seem to labour, when he labours not.  
Thus, formed for speed, he challenges the wind;  
And leaves the Scythian Arrow far behind:  
He scours along the Field, with loosened Reins;  
And treads so light, he scarcely prints the plains.  
Like Boreas in his race, when rushing forth,  
He sweeps the Skies, and clears the cloudy North:  
The waving Harvest bends beneath his blast;  
The Forest shakes, the Groves their Honours cast;  
He flies aloft, and with impetuous roar  
Pursues the foaming Surges to the shore.  
Thus o'er th' Elean Plains, thy well-breathed Horse.  
Sustains the goring Spurs, and wins the Course.  
Or, bred to Belgian Wagons, leads the way;  
Untired at night, and cheerful all the Day.   

When once he's broken, feed him full and high:  
Indulge his growth, and his gaunt sides supply.  
Before his training, keep him poor and low;  
For his stout stomach with his food will grow;  
The pampered Colt will Discipline disdain,  
Impatient of the Lash, and restiff to the Rein.   

Wouldst thou their Courage and their Strength improve,  
Too soon they must not feel the stings of Love.  
Whether the Bull or Courser be thy Care,  
Let him not leap the Cow, nor mount the Mare.  
The youthful Bull must wander in the Wood;  
Behind the Mountain, or beyond the Flood:  
Or, in the Stall at home his Fodder find;  
Far from the Charms of that alluring Kind.  
With two fair Eyes his Mistress burns his breast;  
He looks, and languishes, and leaves his rest;  
Forsakes his Food, and pining for the Lass,  
Is joyless of the Grove, and spurns the growing grass.  
The soft Seducer, with enticing Looks,  
The bellowing Rivals to the Fight provokes.   

A beauteous Heifer in the Woods is bred;  
The stooping Warriors, aiming head to head,  
Engage their clashing Horns; with dreadful sound  
The Forest rattles, and the Rocks rebound.  
They fence, they push, and pushing loudly roar;  
Their Dewlaps and their sides are bathed in gore.  
Nor when the War is over, is it Peace;  
Nor will the vanquished Bull his Claim release:  
But feeding in his Breast his ancient Fires,  
And cursing Fate, from his proud Foe retires.  
Driven from his Native Land, to foreign Grounds,  
He with a generous rage resents his Wounds;  
His ignominious flight, the Victor's boast,  
And more than both, the Loves, which unrevenged he lost.  
Often he turns his Eyes, and, with a groan,  
Surveys the pleasing Kingdoms, once his own.  
And therefore to repair his strength he tries:  
Hardening his Limbs with painful Exercise,  
And rough upon the flinty Rock he lies.  
On prickly Leaves, and on sharp Herbs he feeds,  
Then to the Prelude of a War proceeds.  
His Horns, yet sore, he tries against a Tree:  
And meditates his absent Enemy.  
He snuffs the Wind, his heels the Sand excite;  
But, when he stands collected in his might,  
He roars, and promises a more successful fight.  
Then, to redeem his Honour at a blow,  
He moveth his Camp, to meet his careless Foe.  
Not with more madness, rolling from afar,  
The spumy Waves proclaim the watery War.  
And mounting upwards, with a mighty roar,  
March onwards, and insult the rocky shore.  
They mate the middle Region with their height;  
And fall no less, than with a Mountain's weight;  
The Waters boil, and belching from below  
Black Sands, as from a forceful Engine throw.   

Thus every Creature, and of every Kind,  
The secret Joys of sweet Coition find:  
Not only Man's Imperial Race; but they  
That wing the liquid Air; or swim the Sea,  
Or haunt the Desert, rush into the flame:  
For Love is Lord of all; and is in all the same.   

'Tis with this rage, the Mother Lion stung,  
Scours o'er the Plain; regardless of her young:  
Demanding Rites of Love; she sternly stalks;  
And hunts her Lover in his lonely Walks.  
'tis then the shapeless Bear his Den forsakes;  
In Woods and Fields a wild destruction makes.  
Boars whet their Tusks; to battle Tigers move;  
Enraged with hunger, more enraged with love.  
Then woe to him, that in the desert Land  
Of Lybia travels, o'er the burning Sand.  
The Stallion snuffs the well-known Scent afar;  
And snorts and trembles for the distant Mare:  
Nor Bits nor Bridles, can his rage restrain;  
And rugged Rocks are interposed in vain:  
He makes his way o'er Mountains, and contemns  
Unruly Torrents, and unfoorded Streams.  
The bristled Boar, who feels the pleasing wound,  
New grinds his arming Tusks, and digs the ground.  
The sleepy Lecher shuts his little Eyes;  
About his churning Chaps the frothy bubbles rise:  
He rubs his sides against a Tree; prepares  
And hardens both his Shoulders for the Wars.  
What did the Youth, when Love's unerring Dart 
Leander.   
Transfixed his Liver; and inflamed his heart?  
Alone, by night, his watery way he took;  
About him, and above, the Billows broke:  
The Sluices of the Sky were open spread;  
And rolling Thunder rattled o'er his head.  
The raging Tempest called him back in vain;  
And every boding Omen of the Main.  
Nor could his Kindred; nor the kindly force  
Of weeping Parents, change his fatal Course.  
No, not the dying Maid, who must deplore  
His floating Carcase on the Sestian shore.   

I pass the Wars that spotted Linx's make  
With their fierce Rivals, for the Females sake:  
The howling Wolves, the Mastiffs amorous rage;  
When even the fearful Stag dares for his Hind engage.  
But far above the rest, the furious Mare,  
Barred from the Male, is frantic with despair.  
For when her pouting Vent declares her pain,  
She tears the Harness, and she rends the Rein;  
For this; (when Venus gave them rage and power)  
Their Masters mangled Members they devour;  
Of Love defrauded in their longing Hour.  
For Love they force through Thickets of the Wood,  
They climb the steepy Hills, and stem the Flood.   

When at the Spring's approach their Marrow burns,  
(For with the Spring their Genial Warmth returns)  
The Mares to Cliffs of rugged Rocks repair,  
And with wide Nostrils snuff the Western Air:  
When (wondrous to relate) the Parent Wind,  
Without the Stallion, propagates the Kind.  
Then fired with amorous rage, they take their flight  
Through Plains, and mount the Hills unequal height;  
Nor to the North, nor to the Rising Sun,  
Nor Southward to the Rainy Regions run,  
But boring to the West, and hovering there  
With gaping Mouths, they draw prolific air:  
With which impregnate, from their Groins they shed  
A slimy Juice, by false Conception bred.  
The Shepherd knows it well; and calls by Name  
Hippomanes, to note the Mother's Flame.  
This, gathered in the Planetary Hour,  
With noxious Weeds, and spelled with words of power,  
Dire Stepdame's in the Magic Bowl infuse;  
And mix, for deadly draughts, the poisonous juice.  
But time is lost, which never will renew,  
While we too far the pleasing Path pursue;  
Surveying Nature, with too nice a view.   

Let this suffice for Herds: our following Care  
Shall woolly Flocks, and shaggy Goats declare.  
Nor can I doubt what Oil I must bestow,  
To raise my Subject from a Ground so low:  
And the mean Matter which my Theme affords,  
T'embellish with magnificence of Words.  
But the commanding Muse my Chariot guides;  
Which o'er the dubious Cliff securely rides:  
And pleased I am, no beaten Road to take:  
But first the way to new discoveries make.   

Now, Sacred Pales, in a lofty strain,  
I sing the Rural Honours of thy Reign.  
First with assiduous care, from Winter keep  
Well foddered in the Stalls, thy tender Sheep.  
Then spread with Straw, the bedding of thy fold;  
With Fern beneath, to send the bitter cold.  
That free from Gouts thou may'st preserve thy Care:  
And clear from Scabs, produced by freezing Air.  
Next let thy Goats officiously be nursed;  
And led to living Streams; to quench their thirst.  
Feed 'em with Winter-brouze, and for their lare  
A Cot that opens to the South prepare:  
Where basking in the Sunshine they may lie,  
And the short Remnants of his heat enjoy.  
This during Winter's drizly Reign be done:  
Till the new Ram receives th' exalted Sun:  
For hairy Goats of equal profit are  
With woolly Sheep, and ask an equal care.  
'tis true, the Fleece, when drunk with Tyrian Juice,  
Is dearly sold; but not for needful use:  
For the salacious Goat increases more;  
And twice as largely yields her milky store.  
The still distended Udders never fail;  
But when they seem exhausted, swell the Pail.  
Mean time the Pastor shears their hoary Beards;  
And eases of their Hair, the loaden Herds.  
Their Camelots' warm in Tents, the Soldier hold;  
And shield the wretched Mariner from cold.   

On Shrubs they browse, and on the bleaky top  
Of barren Hills, the thorny Bramble crop.  
Attended with their Family they come  
At Night unasked, and mindful of their home;  
And scarce their swelling Bags the threshold overcome.  
So much the more thy diligence bestow  
In depth of Winter, to defend the Snow.  
By how much less the tender helpless Kind,  
For their own ills, can fit Provision find.  
Then minister the browse, with bounteous hand;  
And open let thy Stacks all Winter stand.  
But when the Western Winds with vital power  
Call forth the tender Grass, and budding Flower;  
Then, at the last, produce in open Air  
Both Flocks; and send 'em to their Summer fare.  
Before the Sun, while Hesperus appears;  
First let 'em sip from Herbs the pearly tears  
Of Morning Dews: And after break their Fast  
On Green-sword Ground; (a cool and grateful taste:)  
But when the day's fourth hour has drawn the Dews,  
And the Sun's sultry heat their thirst renews;  
When the shrill Grasshoppers on Shrubs complain,  
Then lead 'em to their watering Troughs again.  
In Summer's heat, some bending Valley find,  
Closed from the Sun, but open to the Wind:  
Or seek some ancient Oak, whose Arms extend  
In ample breadth, thy Cattle to defend:  
Or solitary Grove, or gloomy Glade:  
To shield 'em with its venerable Shade.  
Once more to watering lead; and feed again  
When the low Sun is sinking in the Main.  
When rising Cynthia sheds her silver Dews;  
And the cool Evening-breeze the Meads renews:  
When Linnets fill the Woods with tuneful sound,  
And hollow shores the Halcyons Voice rebound.   

Why should my Muse enlarge on Lybian Swains;  
Their scattered Cottages, and ample Plains?  
Where oft the Flocks, without a Leader stray;  
Or through continued Deserts take their way;  
And, feeding, add the length of night to day.  
Whole Months they wander, grazing as they go;  
Nor Folds, nor hospitable Harbour know.  
Such an extent of Plains, so vast a space  
Of Wild's unknown, and of untasted Grass  
Allures their Eyes: The Shepherd last appears,  
And with him all his Patrimony bears:  
His House and household Gods! his trade of War,  
His Bow and Quiver; and his trusty Cur,  
Thus, under heavy Arms, the Youth of Rome  
Their long laborious Marches overcome;  
Cheerly their tedious Travels undergo:  
And pitch their sudden Camp before the Foe.   

Not so the Scythian Shepherd tends his Fold;  
Nor he who bears in Thrace the bitter cold:  
Nor he, who treads the bleak Meotian Strand;  
Or where proud Ister rolls his yellow Sand.  
Early they stall their Flocks and Herds; for there  
No Grass the Fields, no Leaves the Forests wear.  
The frozen Earth, lies buried there, below  
A hilly heap, seven Cubits deep in Snow:  
And all the Western Sons of stormy Boreas' blow.   

The Sun from far, peeps with a sickly face;  
Too weak the Clouds, and mighty Fogs to chase;  
When up the Skies, he shoots his rosy Head;  
Or in the ruddy Ocean seeks his Bed.  
Swift Rivers, are with sudden Ice constrained;  
And studded Wheels are on its back sustained.  
An Hostry now for Wagons; which before  
Tall Ships of burden, on its Bosom bore.  
The brazen Cauldrons, with the Frost are flawed;  
The Garment, stiff with Ice, at Hearths is thawed.  
With Axes first they cleave the Wine, and thence  
By weight, the solid portions they dispense.  
From Locks uncombed, and from the frozen Beard,  
Long Icicles depend; and crackling sounds are heard.  
Mean time perpetual Sleet, and driving Snow,  
Obscure the Skies, and hang on Herds below.  
The starving Cattle perish in their stalls;  
Huge Oxen stand enclosed in wintry walls  
Of Snow congealed; whole Herds are buried there  
Of mighty Stags, and scarce their Horns appear.  
The dextrous Huntsman wounds not these afar,  
With Shafts or Darts; or makes a distant War,  
With Dogs; or pitches Toils to stop their flight;  
But close engages in unequal fight.  
And while they strive in vain to make their way  
Through hills of Snow, and pitifully bray;  
Assaults with dint of Sword, or pointed Spears,  
And homeward, on his back, the joyful burden bears.  
The Men to subterranean Caves retire;  
Secure from cold; and crowd the cheerful fire:  
With Trunks of Elms and Oaks, the Hearth they load,  
Nor tempt th' inclemency of Heaven abroad.  
Their jovial Nights, in frolics and in play  
They pass, to drive the tedious Hours away.  
And their cold Stomaches with crowned Goblets cheer,  
Of windy Cider, and of barmy Beer.  
Such are the cold Ryphaean Race; and such  
The savage Scythian, and unwarlick Dutch.  
Where Skins of Beasts, the rude Barbarians wear;  
The spoils of Foxes, and the furry Bear.   

Is wool thy care? Let not thy Cattle go  
Where Bushes are, where Burrs and Thistles grow;  
Nor in too rank a pasture let 'em feed:  
Then of the purest white select thy Breed.  
Even though a snowy Ram thou shalt behold,  
Prefer him not in haste, for Husband to thy Fold.  
But search his Mouth; and if a swarthy Tongue  
Is underneath his humid palate hung;  
Reject him, lest he darken all the Flock;  
And substitute another from thy Stock.  
●Twas thus with Fleeces milky white (if we  
May trust report,) Pan God of Arcady  
Did bribe thee Cynthia; nor didst thou disdain  
When called in woody shades, to cure a Lover's pain.   

If Milk be thy design, with plenteous hand  
Bring Clovergrass; and from the marshy Land  
Salt Herbage for the fodd'ring Rack provide;  
To fill their Bags, and swell the milky Tide:  
These raise their Thirst, and to the Tase restore  
The savour of the Salt, on which they fed before.   

Some, when the Kids their Dams too deeply drain,  
With gags and muzzles their soft mouths restrain.  
Their Morning Milk, the Peasants press at Night:  
Their Evening Meal, before the rising Light  
To Market bear, or sparingly they steep  
With seas'ning Salt, and stored, for Winter keep.   

Nor last, forget thy faithful Dogs: but feed  
With fattening Whey the Mastiff's Generous breed:  
And Spartan Race; who for the Folds relief  
Will prosecute with Cries the Nightly Thief:  
Repulse the prouling Wolf, and hold at Bay,  
The Mountain Robbers, rushing to the Prey.  
With cries of Hounds, thou may'st pursue the fear  
Of flying Hares, and chase the fallow Deer;  
Rouse from their desert Dens, the bristled rage  
Of Boars, and beamy Stags in toils engage.   

With smoke of burning Cedar scent thy walls:  
And fume with stinking Galbanum thy Stalls:  
With that rank Odour from thy dwelling place  
To drive the Viper's brood, and all the venomed Race.  
For often under Stalls unmoved, they lie,  
Obscure in shades, and shunning heavens broad Eye.  
And Snakes, familiar, to the Hearth succeed,  
Disclose their Eggs, and near the Chimney breed.  
Whether, to Roofy Houses they repair,  
Or Sun themselves abroad in open Air,  
In all abodes of pestilential Kind,  
To Sheep and Oxen, and the sweeting Hind.  
Take, Shepherd take, a plant of stubborn Oak;  
And labour him with many a sturdy stroke:  
Or with hard Stones, demolish from a far  
His haughty Crest, the seat of all the War.  
Invade his hissing Throat, and winding spires;  
Till stretched in length, th' unfolded Foe retires.  
He drags his Tail; and for his Head provides:  
And in some secret cranny slowly glides;  
But leaves exposed to blows, his back and battered sides.   

In fair Calabria's woods, a Snake is bred,  
With curling Crest, and with advancing Head:  
Waving he rolls, and makes a winding tract;  
His Belly spotted, burnished is his back:  
While Springs are broken, while the Southern Air  
And dropping heavens, the moistened Earth repair,  
He lives on standing Lakes, and trembling Bogs,  
And fills his Maw with Fish, or with loquacious Frogs.  
But when, in muddy Pools, the water sinks;  
And the chapped Earth is furrowed o'er with chinks;  
He leaves the Fens, and leaps upon the ground;  
And hissing, rowls his glaring Eyes around.  
With Thirst inflamed, impatient of the heats,  
He rages in the Fields, and wide destruction threats.  
Oh let not Sleep, my closing Eyes invade,  
In open Plains, or in the secret Shade,  
When he, renewed in all the speckled pride  
Of pompous Youth, has cast his slough aside:  
And in his Summer Liv'ry rowls along:  
Erect, and brandishing his forky Tongue,  
Leaving his Nest, and his imperfect Young;  
And thoughtless of his Eggs, forgets to rear  
The hopes of Poison, for the following Year.   

The Causes and the Signs shall next be told,  
Of every Sickness that infects the Fold.  
A scabby Tetter on their pelts will stick,  
When the raw Rain, has pierced 'em to the quick:  
Or searching Frosts, have eaten through the skin,  
Or burning Icicles are lodged within:  
Or when the Fleece is shorn, if sweat remains  
Unwashed, and soaks into their empty veins:  
When their defenseless Limbs, the Brambles tear;  
Short of their Wool, and naked from the Sheer.  
Good Shepherds after shearing, drench their Sheep,  
And their Flocks Father (forced from high to leap)  
Swims down the stream, and plunges in the deep.  
They 'noint their naked Limbs, with mothered Oil;  
Or from the founts, where living Sulphurs boil,  
They mix a Medicine to foment their Limbs;  
With Scum, that on the molten Silver swims.  
Fat Pitch, and black Bitumen, add to these;  
Besides the waxed labour of the Bees;  
And Hellebore, and Squills deep rooted in the Seas.  
Receipts abound; but searching all thy Store,  
The best is still at hand, to launch the Sore:  
And cut the Head; for till the Core be found,  
The secret Vice is fed, and gathers ground.  
While making fruitless moan, the Shepherd stands,  
And when the launching Knife requires his hands,  
Vain help, with idle Prayers from Heaven demands.  
Deep in their Bones, when Fevers fix their seat,  
And rack their Limbs; and lick the vital heat,  
The ready Cure to cool the raging pain,  
Is underneath the Foot to breathe a Vein.  
This Remedy the Scythian Shepherds found;  
Th' Inhabitants of Thracia's hilly ground  
And Gelons use it; when for Drink and Food  
They mix their cruddled Milk with Horses Blood.   

But where thou seest a single Sheep remain  
In shades aloof, or couched upon the Plain;  
Or listlesly to crop the tender Grass;  
Or late to lag behind, with truant pace;  
Revenge the Crime; and take the traitor's head,  
ere in the faultless Flock the dire Contagion spread.   

On Winter Seas we fewer Storms behold,  
Than foul Diseases that infect the Fold.  
Nor do those Ills, on single Body's prey;  
But oftener bring the Nation to decay;  
And sweep the present Stock, and future Hope away.   

A Dire Example of this Truth appears;  
When, after such a Length of rolling Years,  
We see the Naked Alps, and Thin Remains  
Of scattered Cotts, and yet Unpeopled Plains:  
Once filled with Grazing Flocks, the Shepherds Happy Reigns.   

Here from the vicious Air, and sickly Skies,  
A Plague did on the dumb Creation rise:  
During th' Autumnal Heats, th' Infefection grew,  
Tame Cattle, and the Beasts of Nature slew.  
Poisoning the Standing Lakes; and Pools Impure;  
Nor was the foodful Grass in Fields secure.  
Strange Death! For when the thirsty Fire had drunk  
Their vital Blood, and the dry Nerves were shrunk;  
When the contracted Limbs were cramped, even than  
A waterish Humour swelled and oozed again:  
Converting into Bane the kindly Juice,  
Ordained by Nature for a better use.  
The Victim Ox, that was for Altars pressed,  
Trimmed with white Ribbons, and with Garlands dressed,  
Sunk of himself, without the God's Command:  
Preventing the slow Sacrificer's Hand.  
Or, by the holy Butcher, if he fell,  
Th' Inspected Entrails, could not Fates Foretell.  
Nor, laid on Altars, did pure Flames arise;  
But Clouds of smouldering Smoke, forbade the Sacrifice.  
Scarcely the Knife was reddened with his Gore,  
Or the Black Poison stained the sandy floor.  
The thriven Calves in Meads their Food forsake  
And render their sweet Souls before the plenteous Rack.  
The fawning Dog runs mad; the wheasing Swine  
With Coughs is choked; and labours from the Chine:  
The Victor Horse, forgetful of his Food,  
The Palm renounces, and abhors the Flood.  
He paws the Ground, and on his hanging ears  
A doubtful Sweat in clammy drops appears:  
Parched is his Hide, and rugged are his Hairs.  
Such are the Symptoms of the young Disease;  
But in Time's process, when his pains increase,  
He rolls his mournful Eyes, he deeply groans  
With patiented sobbing, and with manly Moans.  
He heaves for Breath: which, from his Lungs supplied,  
And fetched from far, distends his labouring side.  
To his rough palate, his dry Tongue succeeds;  
And roapy Gore, he from his Nostrils bleeds.  
A Drench of Wine has with success been used;  
And through a Horn, the generous Juice infused:  
Which timely taken opened his closing Jaws;  
But, if too late, the Patient's death did cause.  
For the too vigorous Dose, too fiercely wrought;  
And added Fury to the Strength it brought.  
Recruited into Rage, he grinds his Teeth  
In his own Flesh, and feeds approaching Death.  
Ye Gods, to better Fate, good Men dispose;  
And turn that Impious Error on our Foes!   

The Steer, who to the Yoke was bred to bow,  
(Studious of Tillage; and the crooked Plough)  
Falls down and dies; and dying spews a Flood  
Of foamy Madness, mixed with clotted Blood.  
The Clown, who cursing Providence repines,  
His Mournful Fellow from the Team disjoins:  
With many a groan, forsakes his fruitless care;  
And in th' unfinished Furrow, leaves the Share.  
The pineing Steer, no Shades of lofty Woods,  
Nor floury Meads can ease; nor Crystal floods  
Rolled from the Rock: His flabby Flanks decrease;  
His Eyes are settled in a stupid peace.  
His bulk too weighty for his Thighs is grown;  
And his unwieldy Neck, hangs drooping down.  
Now what avails his well-deserving Toil  
To turn the Glebe; or smooth the rugged Soil!  
And yet he never supped in solemn State,  
Nor undigested Feasts did urge his Fate;  
Nor Day, to Night, luxuriously did join;  
Nor surfeited on rich Campanian Wine.  
Simple his Beverage; homely was his Food,  
The wholesome Herbage, and the running Flood;  
No dreadful Dreams awaked him with affright;  
His Pains by Day, secured his Rest by Night.   

'Twas then that Buffolo's ill paired, were seen  
To draw the Carr of Jove's Imperial Queen  
For want of Oxen; and the labouring Swain  
Scratched with a Rake, a Furrow for his Grain:  
And covered with his hand, the shallow Seed again.  
He Yokes himself, and up the Hilly height,  
With his own Shoulders, draws the Waggon's weight.   

The nightly Wolf, that round th' Enclosure prouled  
To leap the Fence; now plots not on the Fold.  
Tamed with a sharper Pain. The fearful do  
And flying Stag, amidst the Greyhouds go:  
And round the Dwellings roam of Man, their fiercer Foe.  
The scaly Nations of the Sea profound,  
Like Shipwrecked Carcases are driven aground:  
And mighty Sea-Calves, never seen before  
In shallow Streams, are stranded on the shore.  
The Viper dead, within her Hole is found:  
Defenceless was the shelter of the ground.  
The water-Snake, whom Fish and Paddocks fed,  
With staring Scales lies poisoned in his Bed:  
To Birds their Native heavens contagious prove,  
From Clouds they fall, and leave their Souls above.   

Besides, to change their Pasture 'tis in vain:  
Or trust to Physic; Physic is their Bane.  
The Learned Leeches in despair departed:  
And shake their Heads, desponding of their Art.   

Tisiphonè, let lose from under ground,  
Majestically pale, now treads the round:  
Before her drives Diseases, and affright;  
And every moment rises to the sight:  
Aspiring to the Skies; encroaching on the light.  
The Rivers and their Banks, and Hills around,  
With lowings, and with dying bleats resound.  
At length, she strikes an Universal blow;  
To Death at once, whole Herds of Cattle go:  
Sheep, Oxen, Horses fall; and, heaped on high;  
The differing Species in Confusion lie.  
Till warned by frequent ills, the way they found,  
To lodge their loathsome Carrion, underground.  
For, useless to the Currier were their Hides:  
Nor could their tainted Flesh, with Ocean Tides  
Be freed from filth; nor could Vulcanian flame  
The Stench abolish; or the Savour tame.  
Nor safely could they shear their fleecy store;  
(Made drunk with poisonous juice, and stiff with gore:)  
Or touch the Web: But if the Vest they wear,  
Red Blisters rising on their Paps appear:  
And flaming Carbuncles; and noisome Sweat,  
And clammy Dews, that loathsome Lice beget;  
Till the slow creeping Evil eats his way,  
Consumes the parching Limbs; and makes the Life his prey.    

A TRANSLATION OF ALL Virgil's 4th Georgick, EXCEPT THE Story of ARISTEUS.  By Mr. Io. ADDISON, of MAGDALEN College OXON. 

EThereal sweets shall next my Muse engage,  
And this, Maecenas, claims your Patronage.  
Of little Creatures wondrous Acts I treat,  
The Ranks, and mighty Leaders of their State,  
Their Laws, Employments, and their Wars relate.  
A trifling Theme provokes my Humble Lays,  
Trifling the Theme, not so the Poet's Praise:  
If Great Apollo, and the Tuneful Nine  
Join in the Piece, to make the Work Divine.   

First, for your Bees a proper Station find,  
That's fenced about, and sheltered from the Wind;  
For Winds divert 'em in their Flight, and drive  
The Swarms, when loaden homeward, from their Hive.  
Nor Sheep, nor Goats, must pasture near their Stores,  
To trample under foot the springing Flowers;  
Nor frisking Heifers bound about the place,  
To spurn the Dew-drops off, and bruise the rising Grass:  
Nor must the Lizzards painted Brood appear,  
Nor Wood-pecks, nor the Swallow harbour near.  
These waste the Swarms, and as they fly along  
Convey the tender Morsels to their Young.   

Let purling Streams, and Fountains edged with Moss,  
And shallow Rills run trickling through the Grass;  
Let Branching Olives o'er the Fountain grow,  
Or Palms shoot up, and shade the Streams below;  
That when the Youth, led by their Princes, eat  
The Crowded Hive, and sport it in the Sun,  
Refreshing Springs may tempt 'em from the Heat,  
And shady Coverts yield a Cool Retreat.   

Whether the Neighbouring Water stands or Runs,  
Lay Twigs across, and Bridge it o'er with Stones:  
That if rough Storms, or sudden Blasts of Wind  
Should Dip, or scatter those that lag behind,  
Here they may settle on the Friendly Stone,  
And Dry their reeking Pinions at the Sun.  
Plant all the flowery Banks with Lavender,  
With store of Savoury scent the fragrant Air,  
Let running Betony the Field o'erspread,  
And Fountains soak the violets Dewy Bed.   

Tho Barks, or plaited Willows make your Hive,  
A narrow Inlet to their Cells Contrive;  
For Colds congeal and freeze the Liquors up,  
And, melted down with Heat, the Waxed Buildings drop.  
The Bees, of both Extremes alike afraid,  
Their Wax around the whistling Crannies spread,  
And suck out clammy Dews from Herbs and Flowers,  
To Smear the Chinks, and Plaster up the Pores,  
For this they hoard up Glue, whose clinging drops,  
Like Pitch, or Bird-lime, hang in stringy Ropes.  
They oft, 'tis said, in dark Retirements dwell,  
And work in subterraneous Caves their Cell;  
At other times th' Industrious Infects live  
In hollow Rocks, or make a Tree their Hive.   

Point all their chinky Lodgings round with Mud,  
And leaves must thinly on your Work be strowed;  
But let no baleful Yew-tree flourish near,  
Nor rotten Marshes send out steams of Mire;  
Nor burning Crabs grow red, and crackle in the Fire.  
Nor Neighbouring Caves return the dying sound,  
Nor Echoing Rocks the doubled voice rebound.  
Things thus prepared—  
When th' under-World is seized with Cold, and Night,  
And Summer here descends in streams of Light,  
The Bees through Woods and Forests take their flight.  
They rifle every Flower, and lightly skim  
The Crystal Brook, and sip the running stream;  
And thus they feed their Young with strange delight,  
And knead the yielding Wax, and work the slimy sweet.  
Would when on high, you see the Bees repair,  
Born on the Winds through distant tracts of Air,  
And view the winged Cloud all blackening from afar;  
While shady Coverts, and fresh Streams they choose,  
Milfoil and common Honey-suckles bruise,  
And sprinkle on their Hives the fragrant juice.  
On Brazen Vessels beat a tinkling sound,  
And shake the Cymbals of the Goddess round;  
Then all will hastily retreat, and fill  
The warm resounding Hollow of their Cell.   

If ere two Rival Kings their Right debate,  
And Factions and Cabals embroil the State,  
The People's Actions will their Thoughts declare;  
All their Hearts tremble, and beat thick with War;  
Hoarse broken sounds, like Trumpets harsh Alarms,  
Run through the Hive, and call 'em to their Arms;  
All in a hurry spread their shivering Wings,  
And fit their Claws, and point their angry Stings:  
In Crowds before the King's Pavilion meet,  
And boldly challenge out the Foe to fight:  
At last, when all the heavens are warm and fair,  
They rush together out, and join; the Air  
Swarms thick, and Echoes with the Humming War.  
All in a firm round Cluster mix, and strew  
With Heaps of little Corpse, the Earth below;  
As thick as Hailstones from the Floor rebound,  
Or shaken Acorns rattle on the ground.  
No sense of Danger can their Kings Control,  
Their little Bodies lodge a mighty Soul:  
Each obstinate in Arms, pursues his Blow,  
Till shameful Flight secures the routed Foe.  
This hot Dispute, and all this mighty Fray,  
A little Dust fling upward will allay.   

But when both Kings are settled in their Hive,  
Mark him who looks the worst, and lest he live  
Idle at home in Ease and Luxury,  
The Lazy Monarch must be Doomed to Die;  
So let the Royal Insect rule alone,  
And Reign without a Rival in his Throne.  
The Kings are different; one of better Note  
All spect with Gold, and many a shining Spot,  
Looks Gay, and Glistens in a Gilded Coat;  
But love of Ease, and Sloth in One prevails,  
That scarce his Hanging Paunch behind him trails:  
The People's Looks are different as their King's,  
Some Sparkle Bright, and Glitter in their Wings;  
Others look Loathsome and diseased with Sloth,  
Like a faint Traveller whose dusty mouth  
Grows dry with Heat, and spits a maukish Froth.  
The first are Best—  
From their overflowing Combs, you'll often press  
Pure luscious Sweets, that mingling in the Glass,  
Correct the Harshness of the Racy Juice,  
And a rich Flavour through the Wine diffuse.  
But when they sport abroad, and rove from home,  
And leave the cooling Hive, and quit th'unfinished Comb;  
Their Airy Rambling are with ease confined,  
Clip their King's Wings, and if They stay behind,  
No bold Usurper dares Invade their Right,  
Nor sound a March, nor give the Sign for Flight.  
Let flowery Banks entice 'em to their Cells,  
And Gardens all Perfumed with Native Smells:  
Where Carved Priapus has his fixed abode,  
The Robber's Terror, and the Scarecrow God.  
Wild Time and Pine-Trees from their Barren Hill  
Transplant, and nurse 'em in the Neighbouring Soil,  
Set Fruit-Trees round, nor ere indulge thy Sloth,  
But Water 'em, and urge their shady Growth.   

And here, perhaps, were not I giving o'er,  
And striking Sail, and making to the Shore,  
I'd show what Art the gardeners Toils require,  
Why Rosy Paestum Blushes twice a year;  
What Streams the verdant Succory supply,  
And how the Thirsty Plant drinks Rivers dry;  
What with a cheerful Green does Parsley grace,  
And writhes the bellying cucumber along the twisted Grass;  
Nor would I pass the soft Acanthus o'er,  
Ivy nor Myrtle-Trees that love the Shore;  
Nor Daffodils, that late from Earth's slow Womb  
Unrumple their swollen Buds, and show their yellow Bloom.   

For once I saw in the Tarentine Vale,  
Where slow Galesus drenched the washy Soil,  
An old Corician Yeoman, who had got  
A few neglected Acres to his Lot,  
Where neither Corn nor Pasture graced the Field,  
Nor would the Vine her Purple Harvest-yield;  
But savoury Herbs among the Thorns were found,  
Vervain and Poppy-flowers his Garden crowned,  
And drooping Lilies whitened all the ground.  
Blessed with these Riches he could Empires slight,  
And when he rested from his Toils at Night,  
The Earth unpurchast Dainties would afford,  
And his own Garden furnish out his Board:  
The Spring did first his opening Roses blow,  
First ripening Autumn bend his fruitful Bough.  
When piercing Colds had burst the brittle Stone,  
And freezing Rivers stiffened as they run,  
He then would prune the tenderest of his Trees,  
Chide the late Spring, and lingering Western breeze:  
His Bees first swarmed, and made his Vessels foam  
With the rich squeezings of the juicy Comb.  
Here Lindons and the sappy Pine increased;  
Here, when gay Flowers his smiling Orchard dressed,  
As many Blossoms as the Spring could show,  
So many dangling Apples mellowed on the Bough▪  
In Rows his Elms and knotty Pear-trees bloom,  
And Thorns ennobled now to bear a Plumb.  
And spreading Plane-trees, where supinely laid  
He now enjoys the Cool, and quaffs beneath the Shade.  
But these for want of room I must omit,  
And leave for future Poets to recite.   

Now I'll proceed their Natures to declare,  
Which Jove himself did on the Bees confer;  
Because, invited by the Timbrel's sound,  
Lodged in a Cave th' Almighty Babe they found,  
And the young God nursed kindly under ground.   

Of all the winged Inhabitants of Air,  
These only make their young the Public Care;  
In well disposed Societies they Live,  
And Laws, and Statutes regulate their Hive;  
Nor stray, like others, unconfined abroad,  
But know set Stations, and a fixed Abode:  
Each provident of Cold, in Summer flies  
Through Fields, and Woods, to seek for new Supplies,  
And in the common Stock unlades his Thighs.  
Some watch the Food, some in the Meadows ply,  
Taste every Bud, and suck each Blossom dry;  
Whilst others, labouring in their Cells at home,  
Temper Narcissus' clammy Tears with Gum,  
For the first Groundwork of the Golden Comb;  
On this they found their Waxed Works, and raise  
The Yellow Fabric on its Glewy Base.  
Some Educate the Young, or hatch the Seed  
With vital warmth, and future Nations breed;  
Whilst others thicken all the slimy Dews,  
And into purest Honey Work the Juice;  
Then fill the Hollows of the Comb, and swell  
With luscious Nectar, every flowing Cell.  
By turns they Watch, by turns with curious Eyes  
Survey the heavens, and search the clouded Skies  
To find out breeding Storms, and tell what Tempests rise.  
By turns they ease the loaden Swarms, or drive  
The Drone, a Lazy Insect, from their Hive.  
The Work is warmly plied through all the Cells,  
And strong with Time the new-made Honey smells.   

So in their Caves the brawny Cyclops sweat,  
When with huge strokes the stubborn Wedge they beat,  
And All th' unshapen Thunder-Bolt complete;  
Alternately their Hammers rise and fall;  
Whilst Griping Tongues turn round the Glowing Ball:  
With puffing Bellows some the Flames increase,  
And some in Waters dip the hizzing Mass;  
Their beaten Anvils dreadfully resound,  
And Aetna shakes all o'er, and Thunders under Ground.   

Thus, if great Things we may with small compare,  
The busy Swarms their different Labours share.  
Desire of Profit urges all Degrees;  
The Aged Infects, by experience Wise,  
Attend the Comb, and fashion every part,  
And Shape the Waxed Fretwork out with Art:  
The young at Night, returning from their Toils,  
Bring home their Thighs clogged with the Meadows Spoils.  
On Lavender, and Saffron Buds they feed,  
On Bending Osiers, and the Balmy Reed,  
From purple Violets and the Teile, they bring  
Their gathered Sweets, and Rifle all the Spring.   

All Work together, all together Rest,  
The Morning still renews their Labours past;  
Then all rush out, their different Tasks pursue,  
Sat on the Bloom, and suck the ripening Dew;  
Again when Evening warns 'em to their Home,  
With weary Wings, and heavy Thighs they come,  
And crowd about the Chink, and mix a Drowsy Humm.  
Into their Cells at length they gently creep,  
There all the Night their peaceful Station keep,  
Wrapped up in Silence, and Dissolved in Sleep.   

None range abroad when Winds or Storms are nigh,  
Nor trust their Bodies to a faithless Sky,  
But make small journeys, with a careful Wing,  
And Fly to Water at a neighbouring Spring;  
And lest their Airy bodies should be cast  
In restless Whirls, the sport of every Blast,  
They carry Stones to Poise 'em in their Flight,  
As Ballast keeps th' unsteady Vessel right.   

But of all Customs that the Bees can boast,  
'Tis this may challenge Admiration most;  
That none will Hymen's softer Joys approve,  
Nor waste their Spirits in Luxurious Love,  
But All a long Virginity maintain,  
And bring forth Young without a Mother's Pain:  
From Herbs and Flowers they pick each tender Bee,  
And cull from Plants a Buzzing Progeny;  
From these they choose out Subjects, and Create  
A little Monarch of the Rising State;  
Then Build Wax-Kingdoms for the Infant Prince,  
And form a Palace for his Residence.   

But often in their Journeys, as they fly,  
On Flints they tear their silken Wings, or lie  
groveling beneath their flowery Load, and die.  
Thus love of Honey can an Insect fire,  
And in a Fly such generous Thoughts inspire.  
Yet by repeopling their Decaying State,  
Tho' seven short Springs conclude their vital date,  
Their Ancient Stocks Eternally remain,  
And, in an Endless Race, the children's Children Reign.   

No Prostrate Vassal of the East can more  
With slavish Fear his haughty Prince adore;  
His life unites 'em all, but when He dies,  
All in loud Tumults and Distractions rise;  
They waste their Honey, and their Combs deface,  
And wild Confusion reigns in every place.  
Him all admire, all the Great Guardian own,  
And crowd about his Courts, and buzz about his Throne.  
Oft on their backs their weary Prince they bear,  
Oft in his Cause Embattled in the Air,  
Pursue a Glorious Death, in Wounds and War.  
" Some from such Instances as these have taught  
" The Bees Extract is Heavenly; for they thought  
" The Universe alive; and that a Soul  
" Diffused throughout the Matter of the whole,  
" To all the vast unbounded Frame was given,  
" And ran through Earth, and Air, and Sea, and all the Deep of Heaven;  
" That This first kindled Life in Man and Beast,  
" Life that again flows into This at last;  
" That no compounded Animal could die,  
" But when dissolved, the Spirit mounted high,  
" Dwelled in a Star, and settled in the Sky.   

Whene'er their balmy Sweets you mean to seize,  
And take the liquid Labours of the Bees,  
Spirit Draughts of Water from your Mouth, and drive  
A loathsome Cloud of Smoke amidst their Hive.   

Twice in the Year their Flowr'y toils begin,  
And twice they fetch their Dewy Harvest in;  
Once when the lovely Pleyades arise,  
And add fresh Lustre to the Summer Skies;  
And once when hastening from the Watery Sign  
They quit their Station, and forbear to Shine.   

The Bees are prone to rage, and often found  
To Perish for Revenge, and die upon the Wound.  
Their venomed Sting produces akeing Pains,  
And swells the Flesh, and shoots among the Veins.   

When first a cold hard Winter's Storms arrive  
And threaten Death, or Famine to their Hive,  
If now their sinking State and low Affairs  
Can move your Pity, and provoke your Cares,  
Fresh burning Time before their Cells convey,  
And cut their dry and Husky Wax away;  
For often Lizzards seize the luscious Spoils,  
Or Drones that Riot on another's Toils:  
Oft Brood's of Moths infest the hungry Swarms,  
And oft the furious Wasp their Hive Alarms  
With louder Humms, and with unequal Arms;  
Or else the Spider at their Entrance sets  
Her Snares, and spins her Bowels into Nets.   

When Sickness reigns (for they as well as we  
Feel all th' Effects of frail Mortality)  
By certain Marks the new Disease is seen,  
Their Colour changes, and their Looks are thin;  
Their Funeral Rites are formed, and every Bee  
With Grief attends the sad Solemnity;  
The few Diseased survivors, hang before  
Their sickly Cells, and droop about the door,  
Or slowly in their Hives their Limbs unfold,  
Shrunk up with Hunger, and benumbed with Cold;  
In drawling hums, the feeble Infects grieve,  
And doleful buzzes echo through the Hive,  
Like Winds that softly murmur through the Trees,  
Like Flames penned up, or like retiring Seas.  
Now lay fresh Honey near their empty Rooms,  
In Troughs of hollow Reeds, whilst frying Gums  
Cast round a fragrant Mist of spicy Fumes.  
Thus kindly tempt the famished Swarm to eat,  
And gently reconcile 'em to their Meat.  
Mix Juice of Galls, and Wine, that grow in time  
condensed by Fire, and thicken to a Slime;  
To these dried Roses, Time and Sentry join,  
And Raisins ripened on the Psythian Vine.  
Besides there grows a Flower in Marshy Ground,  
Its Name Amellus, easy to be found;  
A mighty Spring works in its Roto, and cleaves  
The sprouting Stalk, and shows itself in Leaves:  
The Flower itself is of a Golden hue,  
The Leaves inclining to a darker Blue;  
The Leaves shoot thick about the Flower, and grow  
Into a Bush, and shade the Turf below;  
The Plant in holy Garlands often twines  
The Altars Posts, and beautifies the Shrines;  
Its Taste is sharp, in Vales new-shorn it grows,  
Where Mella's Stream in watery Mazes flows.  
Take plenty of its Roots, and boil 'em well  
In Wine, and heap 'em up before the Cell.   

But if the whole Stock fail, and none survive  
To raise new People, and recruit the Hive;  
I'll hear the great Experiment declare,  
That spread th' Arcadian Shepherd's Name so far,  
How Bees from Blood of slaughtered Bulls have fled,  
And Swarms amidst the Red Corruption bred.   

For where th' Egyptians yearly see their bounds  
Refreshed with floods, and sail about their grounds,  
Where Persia borders, and the rolling Nile  
Drives swiftly down the swarthy Indians soil,  
●Till into seven it multiplies its Stream,  
And fattens Egypt with a fruitful Slime.   

In this last Practice all their Hope remains,  
And long Experience justifies their Pains.   

First then a close contracted space of Ground,  
With straightened Walls and low-built Roof they bond;  
A narrow shelving Light is next assigned  
To all the Quarters, one to every Wind;  
Through these the glancing Rays obliquely pierce  
Hither they lead a Bull that's young and fierce,  
When two-years growth of Horn he proudly shows,  
And shakes the comely terrors of his Brows:  
His Nose and Mouth, the Avenues of Breath,  
They muzzle up, and beat his Limbs to death;  
With violence to life, and stifling pain  
He flings and spurns, and tries to snort in vain,  
Loud heavy Mows fall thick on every side,  
Till his bruised Bowels burst within the Hide.  
When dead, they leave him Rotting on the Ground,  
With Branches, Time and Cassia strowed around.  
All this is done when first the Western Breeze  
Becalms the Year, and smooths the troubled Seas;  
Before the chattering Swallow builds her Nest,  
Or Fields in Spring's Embroidery are dressed.  
Mean while the tainted Juice ferments within,  
And Quickens as it works: And now are seen  
A wondrous Swarm, that o'er the Carcase crawls,  
Of shapeless, rude, unfinished Animals.  
No Legs at first the Infects weight sustain,  
At length it moves its new-made Limbs with pain;  
Now strikes the Air with quivering Wings, and tries  
To lift its Body up, and learns to rise;  
Now bending Thighs and gilded Wings it wears  
Full grown, and All the Bee at length appears;  
From every side the fruitful Carcase pours  
Its swarming Brood, as thick as Summer-show'rs,  
Or flights of Arrows from the Parthian Bows,  
When twanging Strings first shoot 'em on the Foes.   

Thus have I sung the Nature of the Bee;  
Whilst Caesar, towering to Divinity,  
The frighted Indians with his Thunder awed,  
And claimed their Homage, and Commenced a God;  
I flourished all the while in Arts of Peace,  
Retired and sheltered in Inglorious Ease:  
I who before the Songs of Shepherds made,  
When gay and young my Rural Lays I played,  
And set my Tityrus beneath his Shade.    

TO Sir Godfrey Kneller.  By Mr. DRYDEN. 

ONce I beheld the fairest of her Kind;  
(And still the sweet Idea charms my Mind:)  
True she was dumb; for Nature gazed so long,  
Pleased with her work, that she forgot her Tongue:  
But, smiling, said, She still shall gain the Prize;  
〈◊〉 only have transferred it to her Eyes.  
Such are thy Pictures, Kneller. Such thy Skill,  
That Nature seems obedient to thy Will:  
Comes out, and meets thy Pencil in the draught;  
Lives there, and wants but words to speak he thought.  
At least thy Pictures look a Voice; and we  
Imagine sounds, deceived to that degree,  
We think 'tis somewhat more than just to see.   

Shadows are but privations of the Light,  
Yet when we walk, they shoot before the Sight;  
With us approach, retire, arise and fall;  
Nothing themselves, and yet expressing all.  
Such are thy Pieces; imitating Life  
So near, they almost conquered in the strife;  
And from their animated Canvas came,  
Demanding Souls; and loosened from the Frame.   

Prometheus, were he here, would cast away  
His Adam, and refuse a Soul to Clay:  
And either would thy Noble Work Inspire;  
Or think it warm enough, without his Fire.   

But vulgar Hands, may vulgar Likeness raise,  
This is the least Attendant on thy Praise:  
From hence the Rudiments of Art began;  
A Coal, or Chalk, first imitated Man:  
Perhaps, the Shadow taken on a Wall,  
Gave out-lines to the rude Original:  
ere Canvas yet was strained: before the Grace  
Of blended Colours found their use and place:  
Or Cypress Tablets, first received a Face.   

By slow degrees, the Godlike Art advanced;  
As Man grew polished, Picture was enhanced;  
Greece added posture, shade, and perspective;  
And then the Mimic Piece began to Live.  
Yet perspective was lame; no distance true;  
But all came forward in one common view:  
No point of Light was known, no bounds of Art;  
When Light was there, it knew not to departed:  
But glaring on remoter Objects played;  
Not langushed, and insensibly decayed.   

Rome raised not Art, but barely kept alive;  
And with Old Greece, unequally did strive:  
Till Goths and Vandals, a rude Northern Race,  
Did all the matchless Monuments deface.  
Then all the Muses in one ruin lie;  
And Rhyme began t' enervate Poetry.  
Thus in a stupid Military State,  
The Pen and Pencil find an equal Fate.  
Flat Faces, such as would disgrace a Screen,  
Such as in Bantam's Embassy were seen,  
Unraised, unrounded, were the rude delight  
Of Brutal Nations, only born to Fight.   

Long time the Sister Arts, in Iron sleep,  
A heavy Sabbath did supinely keep;  
At length, in Raphael's Age, at once they rise;  
Stretch all their Limbs, and open all their Eyes.   

Thence risen the Roman, and the Lombard Line:  
One coloured best, and one did best design.  
Raphael's like Homer's, was the Nobler part;  
But Titian's Painting, looked like Virgil's Art.   

Thy Genius gives thee both; where true design,  
Postures unforced, and lively Colours join.  
Likeness is ever there; but still the best,  
Like proper Thoughts in lofty Language dressed.  
Where Light to Shades descending, plays, not strives;  
Dies by degrees, and by degrees revives.  
Of various parts a perfect whole is wrought:  
Thy Pictures think, and we Divine their Thought.   


* Shakepear's Picture drawn ●y Sir God●●ey Kneller, ●nd given to ●he Author.  Shakespeare thy Gift, I place before my sight;  
With awe, I ask his Blessing ere I writ;  
With Reverence look on his Majestic Face;  
Proud to be less; but of his Godlike Race.  
His Soul Inspires me, while thy Praise I writ,  
And I like Teucer, under Ajax Fight;  
Bids thee through me, be bold; with dauntless breast  
Contemn the bad, and Emulate the best.  
Like his, thy Critics in th' attempt are lost;  
When most they rail, know then, they envy most.  
In vain they snarl a-loof; a noisy Crowed,  
Like women's Anger, impotent and loud.  
While they their barren Industry deplore,  
Pass on secure; and mind the Goal before:  
Old as she is, my Muse shall march behind;  
Bear off the blast, and intercept the wind.  
Our Arts are Sisters; though not Twins in Birth:  
For Hymns were sung in Eden's happy Earth,  
By the first Pair; while Eve was yet a Saint;  
Before she fell with Pride, and learned to paint.  
Forgive th' allusion; 'twas not meant to by't;  
But Satire will have room, where e'er I writ.  
For oh, the Painter Muse; though last in place,  
Has seized the Blessing first, like Jacob's Race.  
Apelles' Art, an Alexander found;  
And Raphael did with Leo's Gold abound;  
But Homer, was with barren Laurel Crowned.  
Thou hadst thy Charles a while, and so had I;  
But pass we that unpleasing Image by.  
Rich in thyself; and of thyself Divine,  
All Pilgrims come and offer at thy Shrine.  
A graceful truth thy Pencil can Command;  
The fair themselves go mended from thy hand:  
Likeness appears in every Lineament;  
But Likeness in thy Work is Eloquent:  
Though Nature, there, her true resemblance bears,  
A nobler Beauty in thy Piece appears.  
So warm thy Work, so glows the generous frame,  
Flesh looks less living in the Lovely Dame.   

Thou paint'st as we describe, improving still,  
When on wild Nature we engraft our skill:  
But not creating Beauties at our Will.   

Some other Hand perhaps may reach a Face;  
But none like thee, a finished Figure place:  
None of this Age; for that's enough for thee,  
The first of these Inferior Times to be:  
Not to contend with Hero's Memory.   

Due Honours to those mighty Names we grant,  
But Shrubs may live beneath the lofty Plant:  
Sons may succeed their greater Parents gone;  
Such is thy Lott; and such I wish my own.   

But Poets are confined in Narr'wer space;  
To speak the Language of their Native Place:  
The Painter widely stretches his command:  
Thy Pencil speaks the Tongue of every Land.  
From hence, my Friend, all Climates are your own;  
Nor can you forfeit, for you hold of none.  
All Nations all Immunities will give  
To make you theirs; where e'er you please to live;  
And not seven Cities; but the World would strive.   

Sure some propitious Planet than did Smile,  
When first you were conducted to this Isle:  
(Our Genius brought you here, t' enlarge our Fame)  
(For your good Stars are every where the same)  
Thy matchless hand, of every Region free,  
Adopts our Climate; not our Climate thee.   


* He travelled very ●ung into ●aly.  Great Rome and Venice early did impart  
To thee th' Examples of their wondrous Art.  
Those Masters then but seen, not understood,  
With generous Emulation fired thy Blood:  
For what in Nature's Dawn the Child admired,  
The Youth endeavoured, and the Man acquired.   

That yet thou hast not reached their high Degree  
Seems only wanting to this Age, not thee:  
Thy Genius bounded by the Times like mine,  
Drudges on petty Draughts, nor dare design  
A more Exalted Work, and more Divine.  
For what a Song, or senseless Opera  
Is to the Living Labour of a Play;  
Or, what a Play to Virgil's Work would be,  
Such is a single Piece to History.   

But we who Life bestow, ourselves must live;  
Kings cannot Reign, unless their Subjects give.  
And they who pay the Taxes, bear the Rule:  
Thus thou sometimes art forced to draw a Fool:  
But so his Follies in thy Posture sink,  
The senseless Idiot seems at least to think.   

Good Heaven! that Sots and Knaves should be so vain,  
To wish their vile Resemblance may remain!  
And stand recorded, at their own request,  
To future Days, a Libel or a Jest.  
Mean time, while just Encouragement you want,  
You only Paint to Live, not Live to Paint.   

〈…〉 should we see, your Noble Pencil trace  
Our Unities of Action, Time, and Place.  
A whole composed of parts; and those the best;  
With every various Character expressed.  
Heroes at large; and at a nearer view;  
Less, and at distance, an Ignobler Crew.  
While all the Figures in one Action join,  
As tending to Complete the main Design.   

More cannot be by Mortal Art expressed;  
But venerable Age shall add the rest.  
For Time shall with his ready Pencil stand;  
Retouch your Figures, with his ripening hand.  
Mellow your Colours, and imbrown the Teint;  
Add every Grace, which Time alone can grant:  
To future Ages shall your Fame convey;  
And give more Beauties, than he takes away.    

PROLOGUE TO THE QUEEN. UPON Her Majesty's coming to see the Old Bachelor.  By Mr. CONGREVE. 

BY this repeated act of Grace, we see  
Wit is again the Care of Majesty;  
And while thus honoured our proud Stage appears,  
We seem to rival Ancient Theatres.  
Thus flourished Wit in our Forefathers Age,  
And thus the Roman and Athenian Stage.   

Whose Wit is best, we'll, not presume to tell;  
But this we know, our Audience will excel:  
For never was in Rome, nor Athens, seen  
So Fair a Circle, and so bright a Queen.   

Long has the Muse's Land been overcast,  
And many Rough and Stormy Winter's past;  
Hid from the World, and thrown in Shades of Night,  
Of Heat deprived, and almost void of Light▪  
While Wit, a hardy Plant, of Nature bold,  
Has struggled strongly with the kill Cold:  
So does it still through Opposition grow,  
As if its Root was warmer kept by Snow:  
But when shot forth, then draws the Danger near,  
On every side the gathering Winds appear,  
And Blasts destroy that Fruit, which Frosts would spare.  
But now, new Vigour and new Life it knows,  
And Warmth that from this Royal Presence flows.   

O would she shine with Rays more frequent here!  
How Gay would then, this drooping Land appear!  
Then, like the Sun, with Pleasure might she view  
The smiling Earth, clothed by her Beams anew.  
O'er all the Meads, should various Flowers be seen,  
Mixed with the Lawrel's never-fading Green,  
The new Creation of a Gracious Queen.    

TO CYNTHIA Weeping and not Speaking.  By Mr. CONGREVE. 
ELEGY.  
WHY are these Hours, which Heaven in pity lent  
To longing Love, in fruitless Sorrow spent?  
Why sighs my Fair? why does that Bosom move  
With any Passion stirred, but rising Love?  
Can Discontent find place within that Breast,  
On whose soft Pillows even Despair might rest?  
Divide thy Woes, and give me my sad part,  
I am no stranger to an aching Heart;  
Too well I know the force of inward Grief,  
And well can bear it, to give you relief:  
All Love's severest Pangs, I can endure;  
I can bear Pain, tho' hopeless of a Cure.  
I know what 'tis to Weep, and Sigh, and Pray,  
To wake all Night, yet dread the breaking Day;  
I know what 'tis to Wish, and Hope, and all in vain,  
And meet, for Humble Love, Unkind Disdain;  
Anger, and Hate, I have been forced to bear,  
Nay Jealousy— and I have felt Despair.  
These Pains, for you I have been forced to prove,  
For Cruel you, when I began to Love.  
Till warm Compassion took at length my part,  
And melted to my Wish your yielding Heart.  
O the dear Hour, in which you did resign!  
When round my Neck your willing Arms did twine,  
And, in a Kiss, you said your Heart was mine.  
Through each returning Year, may that Hour be  
Distinguished in the Rounds of all Eternity;  
Gay be the Sun, that Hour, in all his Light,  
Let him collect the Day, to be more bright,  
Shine all, that Hour, and all the rest be Night.  
And shall I all this Heaven of Bliss receive  
From you, yet not Lament to see you grieve!  
Shall I, who nourished in my Breast desire,  
When your cold Scorn, and Frowns forbidden the Fire;  
Now, when a mutual Flame you have revealed,  
And the dear Union of our Souls are sealed,  
When all my Joys Complete in you I find,  
Shall I not share the Sorrows of your Mind?  
O tell me, tell me All— Whence does arise  
This flood of Tears? whence are these frequent Sighs?  
Why does that lovely Head, like a fair Flower  
Oppressed with Drops of a hard-falling Shower,  
bend with its weight of Grief, and seem to grow  
Downward to Earth, and kiss the Root of Woe?  
Lean on my Breast, and let me fold thee fast,  
Locked in these Arms think all thy Sorrows past;  
Or, what remain, think lighter made by me;  
So I should think, were I so held by thee.  
Murmur thy Plaints, and gently wound my Ears,  
Sigh on my Lips, and let me drink thy Tears;  
Join to my Cheek, thy Cold and Dewy Face,  
And let pale Grief to glowing Love give place.  
O speak— for Woe in Silence most appears;  
Speak, ere my Fancy magnify my Fears.  
Is there a Cause, which Words cannot express!  
Can I not bear a part, nor make it less?  
I know not what to think— Am I in Fault?  
I have not, to my Knowledge, erred in Thought,  
Nor wandered from my Love, nor would I be  
Lord of the World, to live deprived of thee.  
You weep afresh, and at that Word you start!  
Am I to be deprived then?— must we part!  
Curse on that Word so ready to be spoke,  
For through my Lips, immeant by me, it broke.  
Oh no, we must not, will not, cannot part,  
And my Tongue talks unprompted by my Heart.  
Yet speak, for my Distraction grows apace,  
And racking Fears, and restless Doubts increase;  
And Fears and Doubts to Jealousy will turn,  
The Hottest Hell, in which a Heart can burn.   

Fortuna saevo Laeta negotio, etc. OUT OF HORACE.  By the Late Duke of Buckingham. 
FOrtune, made up of Toys and Impudence,  
That Common Jade, that has not Common Sense;  
But fond of Business, insolently dares  
Pretend to Rule, and spoils the World's Affairs;  
She, fluttering up and down, her Favours throws  
On the next met, not minding what she does,  
Nor why, nor whom she helps or injures, knows.  
Sometimes she smiles, then like a Fury raves;  
And seldom truly loves, but Fools or Knaves:  
Let her love whom she please, I scorn to woe her,  
Whilst she stays with me, I'll be civil to her;  
But if she offers once to move her Wings,  
I'll fling her back all her vain Gewgaw things;  
And, armed with Virtue, will more glorious stand,  
Than if the Bitch still bowed at my Command:  
I'll marry Honesty, tho' ne'er so poor,  
Rather than follow such a dull blind Whore.   

TO MY LADY DURSLEY, On Her Reading Milton's Paradise Lost.  BY Mr. PRIOR. 

HEre reading how fond Adam was betrayed,  
And how by Sin Eve's blasted Charms decayed;  
Our common Loss unjustly you complain;  
Small is that part of it which you sustain.   

You still (fair Mother) in your Offspring trace  
The Stock of Beauty destined for our Race:  
Kind Nature, forming them, the Features took  
From heavens own Work, in Eve's original look.   

You, happy Saint, the Serpent's power control,  
Whilst scarce one actual Gild defiles your Soul:  
And Hell does o'er your Mind vain Triumphs boast,  
Which gains a Heaven, for Earthly Eden lost.   

With equal Virtue had frail Eve been armed,  
In vain the Fruit had blushed, the Serpent charmed:  
Our Bliss by Penitence had near been bought;  
Adam had never fallen, or Milton wrote.    

TO Mr. WATSON, ON HIS Ephemeris of the Celestial Motions, presented to Her Majesty.  BY Mr. YALDEN. 

ART, when in full Perfection, is designed  
To please the Eye, or to inform the Mind:  
This Nobler Piece performs the double part,  
With graceful Beauty, and instructive Art.   

Since the great Archimedes Sphere was lost,  
The noblest Labour finished Wit could boast:  
No generous hand durst that famed Model trace,  
Which Greece admired, and Rome could only praise.  
This you, with greater lustre, have restored;  
And taught those Arts we ignorantly adored:  
Motion in full Perfection here you've shown,  
And what Mankind despaired to reach, have done.   

In Artful Frames your Heavenly Bodies move,  
Scarce brighter in their beauteous Orbs above:  
And Stars▪ deprived of all malignant flames,  
Here court the Eye, with more auspicious Beams.  
In graceful order the just Planets rise,  
And here complete their Circles in the Skies:  
Here's the full consort of revolving Spheres,  
And Heaven in bright Epitome appears.   

With Charms the Ancients did invade the Moon,  
And from her Orb compelled her struggling down:  
But here she's taught a Nobler Change by you,  
And moves with pride in this bright Sphere below.  
While your Celestial Bodies thus I view,  
They give me bright Ideas of the true:  
Inspired by them, my thoughts dare upward move,  
And visit Regions of the Blessed above.   

Thus from your hand w' admire the Globe in small,  
A Copy fair as its Original:  
This Labour's to the whole Creation just,  
Second to none, and Rival to the first.  
The artful Spring, like the diffusive Soul,  
Informs the Machine, and directs the whole:  
Like Nature's self, it fills the spacious Throne,  
And unconfined sways the fair Orbs alone;  
The unactive parts, with awful silence wait,  
And from its nod their birth of Motion date:  
Like Chaos, they obey the powerful Call,  
Move to its sound, and into Measures fall.    

THE Rape of THEUTILLA, Imitated from the LATIN OF FAMIAN. STRADA.  BY Mr. THO. YALDEN. 
The Introductory Argument.  
THeutilla, a fair young Virgin, who, to avoid the Addresses of those many Admirers her Beauty drew about her; assumed the Habit of a Religious Order, and wholly withdrew herself from the Eye and Converse of the World. But the common Report of her Beauty, had so inflamed Amalis (a young Person of Quality) with Love: That one Night in a Debauch of Wine, he commands his Servants to force her Dormitary, and bear off, tho' by the lovely Votaress. Which having successfully performed, they bring Theutilla to their expecting Lord's Apartment; the Scene of the ensuing Poem.  

SOon as the Tyrant her bright Form surveyed,  
He grew Inflamed with the Fair Captive Maid:  
A graceful Sorrow in her Looks she bears,  
Lovely with Grief, and Beautiful in Tears;  
Her Mien, and Air, resistless Charms impart,  
Forcing an easy passage to his Heart.  
Long he devours her Beauties with his Eyes,  
While through his glowing Veins th' Infection flies:  
Swifter than Lightning to his Breast it came,  
Like that a Fair, but a Destructive Flame.  
Yet she, tho' in her young and blooming State,  
Possessed a Soul, beyond a Virgins, great:  
No Charms of Youth her colder Bosom move,  
chaste were her Thoughts, and most averse to Love.  
And as some timorous Hind in Toils betrayed,  
Thus in his Arms strove the resisting Maid:  
Thus did she combat with his strict Embrace,  
And spurned the guilty Cause of her Disgrace.  
Revenge she Courted, but despaired to find  
A Strength, and Vigour, equal to her Mind:  
While checks of Shame her willing Hands restrain,  
Since all a Virgin's force, is her Disdain.  
Yet her Resolus are nobly fixed to Die,  
Rather than violate her Chastity,  
Than break her Vows to Heaven, than blot her Fame,  
Or soil her Beauties with a Lustful Flame.   

The Night from its Meridian did decline,  
An Hour propitious to the black Design:  
When Sleep, and Rest, their peaceful Laws maintain,  
And o'er the Globe b' infectious Silence Reign:  
While Deathlike Slumbers every Bosom seize,  
Unbend our Minds, and wearied bodies ease.  
Now fond Amalis finds kiss drooping Breast,  
Heavy with Wine, with amorous Cares oppressed:  
Not all the Joys expecting Lovers feel,  
Can from his Breast the drowsy Charm repel;  
In vain from Wine his Passion seeks redress,  
Whose treacherous Force, the Flame it raised; betrays.  
Weak and Unnerved his useless Limbs became,  
Bending beneath their ill supported Frame;  
Vanquished by that repose from which he flies,  
Now Slumbers close his unconsenting Eyes.   

But sad Theutilla's Cares admit no rest,  
Repose is banished from her mournful Breast:  
A faithful Guard does injured Virtue keep,  
And from her weary Limbs repulses Sleep.  
Oft she reflects with Horror on the Rape,  
Oft tries each avennue for her escape:  
Tho' still repulse, upon repulse, she bears,  
And finds no passage, but for Sighs and Tears.  
Then, with the wildness of her Soul let lose,  
And all the Fury that her Wrongs infuse:  
She Weeps, she Raves, she rends her flowing Hair,  
Wild in her Grief, and raging with Despair.  
At length her restless Thoughts an utterance find,  
And vent the anguish of her labouring Mind:  
Whilst all dissolved in calmer Tears, she said,  
" Shall I again be to his Arms betrayed!  
" Again the Toil of loathed Embraces bear,  
" And for some blacker Scene of Lust prepare!  
" First may this Bed my guiltless Grave become,  
" This Marble Roof my unpolluted Tomb:  
" Then just to Honour, and unstained in Fame,  
" The Urn that hides my Dust, conceals my Shame.  
" Heaven gave me Virtue, Woman's frail defence;  
" And Beauty, to molest that Innocence:  
" In vain I call my Virtue to my aid,  
" When thus by treacherous Beauty I'm betrayed.  
" Yet to this Hour my Breast no Crime has known,  
" But coldly chaste with Virgin Brightness shone,  
" As now unsullied by a Winters Sun.  
" Not Arts, nor ruder Force of Men prevailed,  
" My Tears found pity, when my Language failed.  
" Oft have these violated Locks been torn,  
" And injured Face their savage Fury born:  
" Oft have my Bloody Robes their Crimes confessed,  
" And pointed Daggers glittered at my breast;  
" Yet free from guilt, I found some happier Charm  
" To vanquish Lust, and wildest Rage disarm.  
" But ah! the greatest Labours yet behind;  
" No Tears can soften this obdurate mind:  
" No Prayers inexorable pity move,  
" Or guard me from the worst of Ruins, Love.  
" Tho' Sleep and Wine, allow this kind reprieve,  
" yet to the Youth they'll Strength and Fury give:  
" Then wretched Maid! Then think what Artifice,  
" What Charm shall rescue from his nerved Embrace!  
" When with supplies of Vigour next he Storms,  
" And every dictate of his Lust performs.   

" But you blessed Power, that own a Virgin's name,  
" Protect my Virtue, and defend my Fame,  
" From powerful Lust, and the reproach of Shame.  
" If I a strict Religious Life have led,  
" Drank the cold Stream, and made the Earth my Bed!  
" If from the World a chaste Recluse I live,  
" Redress my Wrongs, and generous Succour give.  
" Alloy this raging Tempest of my Mind,  
" A Virgin, should be to a Virgin kind:  
" Prostrate with Tears from you I beg Defence,  
" Or take my Life, or guard my Innocence.   

While thus th' afflicted Beauty prayed, she spied  
A fatal Dagger by Amalis side:  
This Weapon's mine, she cries! (then grasped it fast)  
And now the Lustful Tyrant sleeps his last.  
With eager Hands the pointed Steel she draws,  
Even Murder pleases in so just a Cause:  
Nor Fears, nor Dangers now Resistance make,  
Since Honour, Life, and dearer Fame's at stake.   

Yet in her Breast does kind Compassion plead,  
And fills her Soul with horror of the Deed:  
Her Sex's tenderness resumes its place,  
And spreads in conscious Blushes o'er her Face.  
Now stung with the remorse of Gild, she cries,  
" Ah frantic Girl, what wild Attempt is this!  
" Think, think Theutilla, on the Murderer's Doom,  
" And tremble at a Punishment to come:  
" Slain not thy Virgin Hands with guilty Blood,  
" And dread to be so criminally good.  
" Lay both thy Courage and thy Weapon down,  
" Nor fly to Aids a Maid must blush to own:  
" Nor Arms, nor Valour with thy Sex agree,  
" They wound thy Fame, and taint thy Modesty.  
Thus different Passions combat in her Mind,  
Oft she's to Pity, oft to Rage's inclined:  
Now from her hand the hated Weapon's cast,  
Then seized again with more impetuous haste:  
Unfixed her Wishes, her Resolves are vain,  
What she attempts, she straight rejects again;  
Her looks, the Emblems of her Thoughts appear,  
Varied with Rage, with Pity and Despair:  
Alone her Fears incline to no Extreme,  
Equally poised, betwixt Revenge and Shame.  
At length, with more prevailing Rage possessed,  
Her jealous Honour steels her daring Breast:  
The thoughts of injured Fame new Courage gave,  
And nicer Virtue now confirms her brave.  
Then the famed Judith her whole mind employs,  
Urges her hand, and soothes the fatal Choice:  
This great Example pleased, inflamed by this,  
With wild disorder to the Youth she flies;  
One hand she wreaths within his flowing Hair,  
The other does the ready Weapon bear:  
" Now guide me, cries, fair Hebrew, now look down,  
A" and pity Labours thou hast undergone.  
" Direct the Hand that takes thy Path to Fame,  
" And be Propitious to a Virgin's Name,  
" Who's Glory's but a Refuge from her shame.  
Thus raised by Hopes, and armed with Courage now,  
She with undaunted Looks directs the Blow:  
Deep in his Breast the spacious Wound she made,  
And to his Heart dispatched th' unerring Blade.   

When their expiring Lord the Servants heard,  
Whose dying Groans the fatal Act declared:  
Like a fierce Torrent with no Bounds they're stayed,  
But vent their Rage on the defenceless Maid:  
Not Virtue, Youth, nor Beauty in distress,  
Can move their savage Breasts to tenderness:  
But Death, with horrid Torments they prepare,  
And to her Fate th' undaunted Virgin bear.  
Tortures and Death seem lovely in her Eyes,  
Since she to Honour falls a Sacrifice:  
Amidst her Sufferings, still her Mind is great,  
And, free from guilt, she triumphs o'er her Fate.   

But Heaven, that's suffering virtue's sure Reward,  
Exerts its Power, and is itself her Guard:  
Amalis, conscious of his black Offence,  
Now feels remorse for her wronged Innocence;  
Tho' now he's struggling in the pangs of death,  
And all life's purple Stream is ebbing forth:  
Yet, raising up his pale and drooping head,  
He recollects his Spirits as they fled,  
And, with his last remains of Voice, he said,  
" Spare the chaste Maid, your impious hands restrain,  
" Nor Beauty with such Insolence profane:  
" Learn by my Fate wronged Innocence to spare,  
" Since injured virtue's heavens peculiar Care.   

But you, brave Virgin, now shall stand enrolled.  
Amongst the Noblest Heroines of old:  
Thy famed Attempt, and celebrated Hand,  
Shall lasting Trophies of thy Glory stand;  
And, if my Verse the just Reward can give,  
Thutilla's Name shall to new Ages live.  
For to thy Sex thou hast new Honours won,  
And France now boasts a Judith of its own.    

An ODE, FOR St. Cecilia's Day, 1693.  Written by Mr. THO. YALDEN. And Composed by Mr. Daniel Purcell. 

1.  
BEgin, and strike th' harmonious Lyre!  
Let the loud Instruments prepare  
To raise our Souls, and charm the Ear,  
With Joys which Music only can inspire;  
Hark how the willing Strings obey!  
To consecrate this happy Day,  
Sacred to Music, Love, and blessed Cecilia.  
In lofty Numbers, Tuneful Lay,  
We'll celebrate the Virgin's Praise:  
Her skilful Hand first taught our Strings to move,  
To her this sacred Art we own,  
Who first anticipated Heaven below,  
And played the Hymns on Earth, that she now sings Above.   

(2)  
What moving Charms each Tuneful Voice contains,  
Charms that through the willing ear,  
A Tide of pleasing Raptures bear,  
And, with diffusive Joys, run thrilling through our Veins,  
The listening Soul does Sympathise,  
And with each varied Note complies:  
While gay and sprightly Airs Delight,  
Then free from Cares, and unconfined,  
It takes, in pleasing Extacies, its flight.  
With mournful Sounds, a sadder Garb it wears,  
Indulges Grief, and gives a lose to Tears.   

(3)  
music's the Language of the Blessed above,  
No Voice but music's can express,  
The Joys that happy Souls possess,  
Nor in just Raptures tell the wondrous Power of Love.  
'Tis Nature's Dialect, designed  
To charm, and to instruct the Mind;  
music's an Universal Good!  
That does dispense its joys around,  
In all the Elegancy of Sound,  
To be by Men admired, by Angels understood.   

(4)  
Let every restless Passion cease to move!  
And each tumultuous thought obey  
The happy influence of this Day,  
For music's Unity and Love.  
music's the soft indulger of the mind,  
The kind diverter of our care,  
The surest Refuge mournful grief can find;  
A Cordial to the Breast, and Charm to every Ear.  
Thus, when the Prophet struck his Tuneful Lyre,  
Saul's evil Genius did retire:  
In vain were Remedies applied,  
In vain all other Arts were tried;  
His Hand and Voice alone the Charm could find,  
To heal his Body, and compose his Mind.   

(5)  
Now let the Trumpets louder Voice proclaim A solemn Jubilee:  
For ever Sacred let it be,  
To Skilful Jubals, and Cecilia's, Name▪  
Great Jubal Author of our Lays,  
Who first the hidden charms of Music found:  
And through their Airy Paths did trace,  
The secret Springs of Sound.  
When from his hollow chorded Shell,  
The Soft melodious Accents fell:  
With Wonder, and Delight he played,  
While the Harmoneous Strings his Skilful Hand obeyed.   

(6)  
But fair Cecilia to a pitch Divine  
Improved her artful Lays:  
When to the Organ she her Voice did Join,  
In the Almighty's Praise;  
Then Choirs of Listening Angels stood around,  
Admired her Art, and blest the Heavenly Sound.  
Her Praise alone no Tongue can reach,  
But in the Strains herself did teach:  
Then let the Voice and Lyre combine,  
And in a Tuneful Consort join;  
For music's her Reward and Care,  
Above she enjoys it, and protects it here.   

Grand Chorus.  
Then kindly treat this happy Day,  
And grateful Honours to Cecilia pay:  
To her these loved harmonious Rites belong,  
To her that Tunes our Strings, and still Inspires our Song.  
Thus may her Day for ever be  
Blest with Love and Harmony:  
Blest as its great Saint appear,  
Still may fair Cecilia's prove  
A Day of Harmony and Love,  
T'atone for all the Discords of the Year.    

A SONG. FOR St. CECILIA'S Day, At OXFORD.  By Mr. Jo. Addison. 

(1)  
CEcilia, who's Exalted Hymns  
With joy and wonder fill the Blessed,  
In Quires of warbling Seraphims.  
Known and distinguished from the rest,  
Attend, Harmonious Saint, and see  
Thy vocal Sons of Harmony;  
Attend, Harmonious Saint, and hear our Prayers;  
Enliven all our Earthy Airs,  
And, as thou Singest thy God, teach us to Sing of Thee:  
Tune every String and every Tongue,  
Be thou the Muse and Subject of our Song.   

2.  
Let all Cecilia's Praise proclaim,  
Employ the Echo in her Name.  
Hark how the Flutes and Trumpets raise,  
At bright Cecilia's Name, their Lays,  
The Organ labours in her Praise.  
Cecilia's Name does all our Numbers grace,  
From every Voice the Tuneful Accents fly,  
In soaring Trebles, now it rises high.  
And now it sinks, and dwells upon the Bass.  
Cecilia's Name through all the Notes we Sing,  
The work of every skilful Tongue,  
The Sound of every trembling String,  
The Sound and Triumph of our Song.   

3.  
For ever Consecrate the day,  
To Music and Cecilia;  
Music, the greatest Good that Mortals know▪  
And all of Heaven we have below.  
Music can noble hints impart,  
Engender Fury, kindle Love;  
With unsuspected Eloquence can move,  
And manage all the Man with secret Art.  
When Orpheus strikes the trembling Lyre,  
The Streams stand still, the Stones admire;  
The listening Savages advance,  
The Wolf and Lamb around him trip,  
The Bears in awkward measures leap,  
And Tigers mingle in the Dance.  
The moving Woods attended as he played,  
And Rhodope was left without a shade.   

4.  
Music, Religious Heats inspires,  
It wakes the Soul, and lifts it high,  
And wings it with sublime desires,  
And fits it to bespeak the Deity.  
Th' Almighty listens to a Tuneful Tongue,  
And seems well-pleased, and Courted with a Song.  
Soft moving Sounds, and Heavenly Airs,  
Give force to every word, and recommend our Prayers.  
When Time itself shall be no more,  
And all things in confusion hurled,  
Music shall then exert its power,  
And Sound survive the Ruins of the World:  
Then Saints and Angels shall agree  
In one eternal Jubilee:  
All Heaven shall Echo with their Hymns Divine,  
And God himself with pleasure see  
The whole Creation in a Chorus join.   

Chorus.  
Consecrate the Place and Day,  
To Music and Cecilia.  
Let no rough Winds approach, nor dare  
Invade the hallowed bounds,  
Nor rudely shake the Tuneful Air,  
Nor spoil the fleeting Sounds.  
No Mournful Sigh nor Groan be heard,  
But Gladness dwell on every Tongue;  
Whilst all, with Voice and Strings prepared,  
Keep up the loud harmonious Song,  
And imitate the Blest above  
In Joy, and Harmony, and Love.    

The STORY of SALMACIS: From the Fourth Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses.  By Mr. Jo. ADDISON. 

HOw Salmacis, with weak enfeebling Streams  
Softens the Body, and unnerves the Limbs,  
And what the secret Cause, shall here be shown;  
The Cause is secret, but th' Effect is known.   

The Naids nursed an Infant heretofore,  
That Cytherea once to Hermes bore:  
From both th' Illustrious Authors of his Race  
The Child was named; nor was it hard to trace  
Both the bright Parents through the Infant's face.  
When fifteen years, in Ida's cool Retreat,  
The Boy had told, he left his Native Seat,  
And sought fresh Fountains in a Foreign Soil:  
The Pleasure lessened the attending Toil.  
With eager steps the Lycian Fields he crossed,  
And Fields that border on the Lycian Coast;  
A River here he viewed so lovely bright,  
It showed the Bottom in a fairer Light,  
Nor kept a Sand concealed from Human sight.  
The Stream produced nor slimy Ooze, nor Weeds,  
Nor miry Rushes, nor the spiky Reeds;  
But dealt enriching Moisture all around,  
The fruitful Banks with cheerful Verdure crowned,  
And kept the Spring Eternal on the Ground.  
A Nymph presides, nor practised in the Chase,  
Nor skilful at the Bow, nor at the Race;  
Of all the Blue-eyed Daughters of the Main,  
The only Stranger to Diana's Train:  
Her Sisters often, as 'tis said, would cry  
" Fie Salmacis, what always Idle! fie,  
" Or take thy Quiver, or thy Arrows seize,  
" And mix the Toils of Hunting with thy Ease.  
Nor Quiver she nor Arrows e'er would seize,  
Nor mix the Toils of Hunting with her Ease.  
But oft would Bathe her in the Crystal Tide,  
Oft with a Comb her dewy Locks divide;  
Now in the Limpid Streams she views her Face,  
And dressed her Image in the Floating Glass:  
On Beds of Leaves she now reposed her Limbs,  
Now gathered Flowrs that grew about her Streams,  
And then by chance was gathering, as she stood  
To view the Boy, and Longed for what she viewed.   

Fain would she meet the Youth with hasty Feet,  
She fain would meet him but refused to meet  
Before her looks were set with nicest Care,  
And well deserved to be reputed Fair.  
" Bright Youth, she cries, whom all thy Features prove  
" A God, and, if a God, the God of Love;  
" But if a Mortal, Blessed thy Nurse's Breast:  
" Blessed are thy Parents, and thy Sisters Blest:  
" But oh how Blest! how more than Blessed thy Bride,  
" Allied in Bliss! if any yet allied,  
" If so, let mine the Stolen Enjoyments be,  
" If not, behold a willing Bride in me.   

The Boy knew nought of Love, and touch with Shame,  
He strove, and Blushed, but still the Blush became:  
In rising Blushes still fresh Beauties' rose;  
The Sunny Side of Fruit such Blushes shows,  
And such the Moon, when all her Silver White  
Turns in Eclipses to a Ruddy Light.  
The Nymph still begs, if not a nobler Bliss,  
A cold Salute at least, a Sister's Kiss:  
And now prepares to take the lovely Boy  
Between her Arms. He, Innocently Coy,  
Replies," Or leave me to myself alone,  
" You rude uncivil Nymph, or I'll be gone.  
" Fair Stranger then, says she, it shall be so;  
And, for she feared his Threats, she feigned to go:  
But hid within a Coverts Neighbouring Green,  
She kept him him still in sight, herself unseen.   

The Boy now fancy's all the Danger o'er,  
And innocently sports about the Shore,  
Payful and Wanton to the Stream he Trips,  
And dips his Foot, and Shivers as he dips.  
The Coolness pleased him, and with eager haste  
His airy Garments on the Banks he cast;  
His Godlike Features, and his Heavenly Hue,  
And all his Beauties were exposed to View.  
His naked Limbs the Nymph with rapture spies,  
While hotter Passions in her Bosom rise,  
Flush in her Cheeks, and sparkle in her Eyes.  
She Longs, she Burns to clasp him in her Arms,  
And Looks, and Sighs, and Kindles at his Charms.   

Now all undressed upon the Banks he stood,  
And clapped his Sides, and leapt into the Flood,  
His Lovely Limbs the Silver Waves divide,  
His Limbs appear more Lovely through the Tide;  
As Lillys shut within a Crystal Case,  
Receive a Glossy Lustre from the Glass.  
He's mine, he's all my own the Naid Cries,  
And flings off all, and after him she Flies.  
And now she fastens on him as he Swims,  
And holds him close, and wraps about his Limbs.  
The more the Boy resisted, and was coy,  
The more she Clipped, and Kissed, the struggling Boy.  
So when the wriggling Snake is snatched on high  
In Eagles' Claws, and hisses in the Sky,  
Around the Foe his twirling Tail he flings,  
And twists her Legs, and writhes about her Wings.   

The restless Boy still obstinately strove  
To free himself, and still refused her Love.  
Amidst his Limbs she kept her Limbs entwined,  
" And why, coy Youth, she cries, why thus unkind?  
" Oh may the Gods thus keep us ever joined!  
" Oh may we never, never, part again!  
So prayed the Nymph, nor did she pray in vain:  
For now she finds him, as his Limbs she pressed,  
Grow nearer still and nearer to her Breast;  
Till, piercing each the others Flesh, they run  
Together, and Incorporate in One:  
Last in a common Face their Faces join,  
As when the Stock and Grafted Sprigs combine,  
They grow the same, and wear a common Rind:  
Both Bodies in a single Body mix,  
A single Body with a double Sex.   

The Boy, thus lost in Woman, now surveyed  
The Rivers guilty Streams, and thus he Prayed.  
(He Prayed, but wondered at his softer Tone,  
Surprised to hear a Voice but half his own)  
You Parent-Gods, whose Heavenly Names I bear,  
Hear your Hermaphrodite, and grant my Prayer;  
Oh grant, that whomsoever these Streams contain,  
If Man he entered, he may rise again  
Supple, Unsinewed, and but half a Man!   

The Heavenly Parents answered, from on high,  
Their two-shaped Son, the double Votary;  
And gave a secret Tincture to the Flood,  
To weaken it, and make his Wishes good.    

THE ENQUIRY After his MISTRESS  Written by HORATIO TOWNSEND. 

THou Shepherd whose intentive Eye,  
O'er every Lamb, is such a Spy,  
No Wily Fox can make 'em less,  
Where may I find my Shepherdess?   

2  
A little pausing, then said he,  
How can that Jewel stray from thee?  
In Summer's Heat, in Winter's Cold,  
I thought thy Breast had been her Fold.   

3  
That is indeed the constant Place,  
Wherein my Thoughts still see her Face;  
And print her Image in my Heart,  
But yet my fond Eyes crave a part.   

4  
With that he smiling said, I might  
Of Chloris partly have a sight,  
And some of her Perfections meet,  
In every Flower was Fresh and Sweet.   

5  
The growing Lilies bear her Skin,  
The Violets her blue Veins within;  
The blushing Rose new blown and spread  
Her sweeter Cheeks her Lips the Red.   

6  
The Winds that wanton with the Spring,  
Such Odours as her Breathing bring.  
But the resemblance of her Eyes,  
Was never found beneath the Skies.   

7  
Her charming Voice who strives to hit,  
His Object must be Higher yet;  
For Heaven, and Earth, and all we see  
Dispersed, Collected is but she.   

8  
Amazed at this Discourse, methought  
Love both Ambition in me wrought,  
And made me cover to engross  
A Wealth would prove a public Loss.   

9  
With that I sighed, ashamed to see  
Such worth in her, such want in me;  
And closing both mine Eyes, forbidden  
The World my sight, since she was hid.    

To the Honourable Mrs. MOHUN. ON HER RECOVERY.  By Mr. Charles Hopkins. 
AS when the Queen of Love, engaged in War,  
Was rashly wounded with a Grecian's Spear.  
All Parties were concerned to see her bleed,  
And he himself, did first repent the deed.  
He left th' inglorious Field, with grief and shame,  
Where his late Conquest, had destroyed his Fame▪  
So Sickness flies from you, with such a grief,  
Ashamed that ever she began the strife.  
Better than Venus, in the Fight you far,  
For tho' more wounded, you're without a Scar.  
All Claim to you, th' Invader has resigned,  
And left no marks of Hostile Rage behind.  
No signs, no tracks of Tyranny, remain,  
But exiled Beauty, is restored again.  
Fixed in a Realm, which was before her own,  
More firm than ever, she secures the Throne.  
Mildly, ah! mildly then, your Power maintain,  
And take Example from Maria's Reign.  
Wide, may your Empire, under Hers, be seen,  
The fair Vicegerent of the fairest Queen.  
Through you, may all our Prayers to her, be heard,  
Our humble Verse, be all, by you preferred.  
No Blessing, can the Pious Suppliant want,  
Where she the Goddess is, and you the Saint.   

THE Force of JEALOUSY. TO A LADY ASK, If her Sex was as sensible of that Passion as Men. An Allusion to O! Quam cruentus Foeminas stimulat Dolour. Seneca's Hercules-OEtus.  By Mr. THO. YALDEN. 

WHat raging Thoughts transport the Woman's Breast,  
That is with Love, and Jealousy possessed!  
More with Revenge, than soft Desires she Burns,  
Whose slighted Passion meets no kind returns;  
That courts the Youth with long neglected Charms,  
And finds her Rival happy in his Arms.   

Dread Scilla's Rocks 'tis safer to engage,  
And trust a Storm, than her destructive Rage:  
Not Waves contending with a boisterous Wind,  
Threaten so loud, as her tempestuous Mind:  
For Seas grow calm, and raging Storms abate,  
But most implacable's a Woman's hate:  
Tigers, and Savages less wild appear,  
Than that fond Wretch abandoned to Despair.   

Such were the transports Deianira felt,  
Stung with a Rival's Charms, and Husband's Gild:  
With such despair she viewed the captive Maid,  
Whose fatal Love her Hercules betrayed;  
Th' unchaste jole, but divinely Fair!  
In Love Triumphant, tho' a Slave in War:  
By Nature lewd, and formed for soft delight,  
Gay as the Spring, and Fair as Beams of Light;  
Whose blooming Youth would wildest Rage's disarm,  
And every Eye, but a fierce Rival's, Charm.   

Fixed with her Grief the Royal Matron stood,  
When the fair Captive in his Arms she viewed:  
With what regret her Beauties she surveyed,  
And cursed the Power of the too Lovely Maid,  
That reaped the Joys of her abandoned Bed!  
Her furious Looks with wild Disorder glow,  
Looks that her Envy and Resentment show!  
To blast that Fair detested Form she tries,  
And Lightning darts from her distorted Eyes.   

Then o'er the Palace of false Hercules,  
With Clamour, and impetuous Rage she flies;  
Late a Dear Witness of their Mutual Flame,  
But now th'unhappy Object of her Shame;  
Whose conscious Roof can yield her no Relief;  
But with polluted Joys upbraids her Grief.   

Nor can the spacious Court contain her now;  
It grows a Scene too narrow for her Woe:  
Lose and undressed all Day she strays alone,  
Does her Abode, and loved Companions shun.  
In Woods complains, and Sighs, in every Grove,  
The mournful Tale of her forsaken Love.  
Her Thoughts, to all th' extremes of Frenzy fly,  
Vary, but cannot ease her Misery:  
Whilst in her Looks the lively Forms appear,  
Of Envy, Fondness, Fury and Despair.   

Her Rage, no constant Face of Sorrow wears,  
Oft scornful Smiles succeed loud Sighs and Tears:  
Oft o'er her Face the rising Blushes spread,  
Her glowing Eyeballs turn with fury red;  
Then pale and wan her altered Looks appear,  
Paler than Gild, and drooping with despair.  
A tide of Passions ebb and flow within,  
And oft she shifts the Melancholy Scene:  
Does all th' excess of Woman's Fury show,  
And yields a large variety of Woe.   

Now calm as Infants at the Mother's Breast,  
Her Grief in softest Murmurs is expressed:  
She speaks the tenderest Things that Pity move,  
Kind are her Looks, and Languishing with Love.  
Then loud as Storms, and raging as the Wind,  
She gives a lose to her Distempered Mind:  
With Shrieks and Groans she fills the Air around,  
And makes the Palace her loud Griefs resound.   

Wild with her Wrongs, she like a Fury strays,  
A Fury more, than Wife of Hercules:  
Her motion, looks, and voice, proclaim her Woes,  
While Sighs, and broken Words, her wilder Thoughts disclose.    

TO Mr. DRYDEN, UPON His Translation OF THE THIRD BOOK OF VIRGIL's Georgics▪ Pindaric ODE.  By Mr. John Dennis. 

WHile mounting with expanded Wings  
The Mantuan Swan unbounded Heaven explores;  
While with Seraphic Sounds he Towering Sings,  
Till to Divinity he Soars:  
Mankind stands wondering at his Flight,  
Charmed with his Music, and his Height:  
Which both transcend our Praise.  
Nay Gods incline their ravished Ears,  
And tune their own harmonious Spheres  
To his Melodious Lays.  
Thou, Dryden, canst his Notes recite  
In modern Numbers, which express  
Their Music, and their utmost Might:  
Thou, wondrous Poet, with Success  
Canst emulate his Flight.   

2.  
Sometimes of humble Rural Things,  
Thy Muse, which keeps great Maro still in Sight,  
In middle Air with varied Numbers Sings;  
And sometimes her sonorous Flight  
To Heaven sublimely Wings.  
But first takes time with Majesty to rise,  
Then, without Pride, Divinely Great,  
She Mounts her Native Skies;  
And, Goddess-like, retains her State  
When down again she flies.  
Commands, which Judgement gives, she still obeys,  
Both to depress her Flight, and raise.  
Thus Mercury from Heaven descends,  
And to this under World his Journey bends,  
When Jove his dread Command has given.  
But, still, Descending, Dignity maintains,  
As much a God upon our humble Plains,  
As when he Towering, reascends to Heaven.   

3.  
But when thy Goddess takes her Flight,  
With so much Majesty, to such a Height  
As can alone suffice to prove,  
That she descends from mighty Jove:  
Gods! how thy Thoughts then rise, and soar, and shine!  
Immortal Spirit animates each Line,  
Each with bright Flame that Fires our Souls is Crowned,  
Each has magnificence of Sound,  
And Harmony Divine.  
Thus the first Orbs in their high Rounds,  
With Shining Pomp advance;  
And to their own Celestial Sounds  
Majestically Dance.  
On, with eternal Symphony they roll,  
Each turned in its harmonious Course,  
And each informed, by the prodigious Force  
Of an Empyreal Soul.    

THE ENJOYMENT A SONG.  Anonymus. 
YE Gods! the Raptures of that Night!  
What Fierce Convulsions of Delight!  
How in each others Arms involved,  
We lay Confounded, and Dissolved!  
Bodies mingling, Sex's blending,  
Which should most be lost contending.  
Darting fierce, and flaming Kisses,  
Plunging into boundless Blisses;  
Our Bodies, and our Soul's on Fire,  
Tossed by a Tempest of Desire;  
Till with utmost Fury driven  
Down, at once we sunk to Heaven.   

The Enjoyment.  

GO, Love, thy Banners round the World display,  
And teach Rebellious Mortals to obey;  
Triumph o'er those, who proudly slight thy Power,  
And make them, what they now Deride, Adore.  
If any yet can be so senseless grown,  
To scorn thy Pleasures, and approve their own:  
To Conquer, only bid 'em Taste, and Know,  
And soon their fancied Pleasures they'll forego,  
And soon acknowledge thee, the Lord of all below.  
Convince the reading Sots, who would seem Wise,  
And cloak their Follies by a grave Disguise;  
The Learned Ignorants will strait lay by  
Their useless Books, and, Joyful, follow thee.   

Blessed be the Day, when first Celinda came  
To me Despairing, and revealed her Flame;  
When blushing she her Passion did disclose,  
And softest Words, and tenderest Accents chose  
To make me Happy, and complete my Joys.  
Oh! what a Rapture did my Soul surround,  
When first I heard the dear transporting Sound!  
" Now, Youth, said she, your Fears and Doubts remove,  
" For know 'tis you, and only you I Love;  
" And that you may my Love unfeigned believe,  
" Take all that you can ask, or I can give.  
While tell-tale Blushes toll me what she meant,  
And wishing Looks betrayed her kind intent.   

Encouraged thus, I boldly did invade  
With eager ardour the forgiving Maid;  
But when I clasped her Body close to mine,  
'Twas more than Rapture all! 'twas all Divine!  
Such Joys I knew, as Words want Power to tell,  
Joys! which the feeble reach of Thoughts excel:  
My Soul, surprised at the excess of Joy,  
Unable to sustain it, winged away,  
Whilst all entranced, and Ecstasied I lay.   

Tell me, ye mighty Learned, (if you know)  
Where did my Soul in that short Transport go?  
Did it with willing haste to her depart?  
It did, I'm sure it did, and fluttered round her Heart;  
Blest with the unknown Beauties of the Fair,  
It heaved, it trembled, and it panted there.  
Unwilling to departed, 'twould still remain,  
But all the weak Efforts to stay were vain,  
A Kiss restored the Fugitive again;  
That Kiss which would a long Dead Corpse revive,  
Reverse its Doom, and kindly make it live;  
My Soul re-entered, we repeated o'er  
A Thousand Joys, unknown to both before.   

Pardon me, Love, (thou Powerful Deity)  
That I so long abstained from tasting thee:  
I thought indeed (vain Fool!) in Books to meet  
With solid Wisdom, and with true Delight:  
To noisy Nothings I betrayed my Ease,  
And idly dreamt away my sprightly Days;  
But now, (though late) my Errors I perceive,  
And know, I only now begin to Live:  
Hence, ye usurping Whimsies, hence retreat,  
Whilst exiled Love regains its lawful Seat;  
Love, whose bewitching Dictates I'll obey,  
For I, with Titus, should repenting say,  
Those Blessings wanting, I have lost a Day:  
No time shall pass without that dear Delight,  
I'll talk of Love all Day, and act it all the Night;  
Pleasure and I, as to one Goal designed,  
Will run with equal pace, while Sorrows flag behind.   

O that I had but Jove's unbounded Might,  
To lengthen Pleasures, and extend a Night!  
Three trivial Nights should not my Wish confine,  
Whole Years themselves, and Ages should combine  
To make my Joys as lasting, as Divine.  
Then would I lie enclosed within her Arms,  
Fierce as my Love, and vigorous as her Charms;  
And both should be, (could I decree their State)  
As fixed, and as immutable as Fate:  
Then wondering Mortals should with Envy see,  
That only those were blest who Loved like me;  
And Gods themselves should at my Bliss repine,  
And learn to mend their now imperfect Joys by mine.    

In Imitation of HORACE. ODE the XXII. Integer vitae, etc.  Written by Mr. THO. YALDEN. 

1.  
THE Man that's uncorrupt, and free from guilt,  
That the Remorse of secret Crimes ne'er felt:  
Whose Breast was ne'er debauched with Sin,  
But finds all calm, and all at peace within:  
In his Integrity secure,  
He fears no danger, dreads no power:  
Useless are Arms for his Defence,  
That keeps a faithful guard of Innocence.   

2.  
Secure the happy Innocent may rove,  
The Care of every Power above:  
Although unarmed he wanders o'er  
The treacherous Libia's Sands, and faithless Shore.  
Tho' o'er th' inhospitable brows  
Of savage Caucasus he goes:  
Through Africk's Flames, through Scythia's Snows,  
Or where Hydaspes, famed for Monsters, flows.   

3.  
For as within an unfrequented Grove,  
I tuned my willing Lyre to love:  
With pleasing amorous thoughts betrayed,  
Beyond my Bounds insensibly I strayed.  
A Wolf that viewed me fled away,  
He fled, from his defenceless prey:  
When I invoked Maria's aid,  
Although unarmed, the trembling Monster fled.   

4.  
Not Daunia's teeming Sands, nor barbarous Shore,  
ere such a dreadful Native bore:  
Nor Africk's nursing Caves brought forth,  
So fierce a Beast, of such amazing growth.  
Yet vain did all his Fury prove,  
Against a Breast that's armed with Love:  
Tho' absent, fair Maria's Name  
Subdues the fierce, and makes the savage tame.   

5.  
Commit me now to that abandoned place,  
Where cheerful light withdraws its rays:  
No beams on barren Nature smile,  
Nor fruitful Winds refresh th' intemperate Soil.  
But Tempests, with eternal Frost,  
Still rage's around the gloomy Coast:  
Whilst angry Jove infests the air,  
And, black with Clouds, deforms the sullen year.   

6.  
Or place me now beneath the torrid Zone,  
To live a Borderer on the Sun:  
Send me to scorching Sands, whose heat  
Guards the destructive Soil from Humane feet.  
Yet there I'll sing Maria's Name,  
And sport, uninjured, midst the Flame:  
Maria's Name! that will create, even there,  
A milder Climate, and more temperate Air.    

TO His Perjured Mistress. From HORACE.  
Nox erat, & coelo fulgebat luna sereno, etc.  By Mr. T. YALDEN. 

IT was one Evening, when the rising Moon  
Amidst her Train of Stars distinctly shone:  
Serene and calm was the inviting Night,  
And Heaven appeared in all its lustre bright;  
When you, Neaera, you my perjured Fair,  
Did, to abuse the Gods and me, prepare.  
'twas then you swore, remember faithless Maid,  
With what endearing Arts you then betrayed:  
Remember all the tender things that past,  
When round my neck your willing arms were cast  
The circling Ivys when with Oaks they join,  
Seem lose, and coy, to those fond Arms of thine.   

Believe, you cried, this solemn Vow believe,  
The noblest Pledge that Love and I can give:  
Or if there's aught more sacred here below,  
Let that confirm my Oath to Heaven and you.  
If e'er my Breast a guilty Flame receives,  
Or covets Joys, but what thy presence gives:  
May every injured Power assert thy Cause,  
And Love avenge his violated Laws:  
While cruel Beasts of Prey infest the Plain,  
And Tempests rage upon the faithless Main:  
While Sighs and Tears shall listening Virgins move,  
So long, ye Powers, will fond Neoera Love.   

Ah faithless Charmer, lovely perjured Maid!  
Are thus my Vows, and generous Flame repaid?  
Repeated slights I have too tamely bore,  
Still doted on, and still been wronged the more.  
Why do I listen to that Sirens Voice,  
Love even thy Crimes, and fly to guilty Joys!  
Thy fatal Eyes my best Resolves betray,  
My Fury melts in soft desires away:  
Each look, each glance, for all thy Crimes atone,  
Elude my Rage, and I'm again undone.   

But if my injured Soul dares yet be brave,  
Unless I'm fond of Shame, confirmed a Slave:  
I will be deaf to that enchanting Tongue,  
Nor on thy Beauties gaze away my Wrong.  
At length I'll loathe each prostituted Grace,  
Nor court the leave of a cloyed Embrace;  
But show, with manly Rage, my Soul's above  
The cold returns of thy exhausted Love.  
Then, thou shalt justly Mourn at my disdain,  
Find all thy Arts, and all thy Charms in vain:  
Shalt Mourn, whilst I, with nobler Flames, pursue  
Some Nymph as fair, tho' not unjust, as you;  
Whose Wit, and Beauty, shall like thine excel,  
But far surpass in Truth, and loving well.   

But wretched thou who ere my Rival art,  
That fond boasts an Empire o'er her Heart:  
Thou that enjoyest the fair inconstant Prize,  
And vainly triumphest with my Victories;  
Unenvied now, o'er all her Beauties rove,  
Enjoy thy Ruin, and Neoera's Love:  
Tho' Wealth, and Honours grace thy nobler Birth,  
To bribe her Love, and fix a wandering Faith:  
Tho' every Grace, and every Virtue join,  
T' enrich thy Mind, and make thy Form divine:  
Yet blest with endless Charms, too soon you'll prove  
The Treacheries of false Neoeras Love.  
Lost, and abandoned by th' ungrateful Fair,  
Like me you'll Love, be Injured, and Despair.  
When left th' unhappy Object of her Scorn,  
Then shall I smile to see the Victor mourn,  
Laugh at thy Fate, and triumph in my turn.    

The XVI. ODE of the 2d. Book of HORACE.  Translated by an unknown Hand. Beginning, Otium Divos rogat, etc. 

1  
WHen stormy Winds begin to rise,  
And Moon and Stars do disappear;  
Then to the Gods the Seaman cries,  
Wishing himself at Quiet here.   

2  
For Peace the Soldier takes up Arms;  
For Peace he boldly ventures Life:  
For that he follows War's Alarms:  
Hoping to gain by Toil and Strife.   

3  
That Quiet, and Content of Mind,  
Which is not to be bought or Sold;  
Quiet, which none as yet could find  
In Heaps of Jewels, or of Gold.   

4  
For neither can Wealth, Power, or State  
Of Courtiers, or of Guards the Rout,  
Or Gilded Roof, or Brazen Gate,  
The Troubles of the Mind keep out.   

5  
That Man alone is happy here,  
Whose All will just himself maintain:  
His sleep is not disturbed with Fear,  
Or broke with sordid Thirst of Gain.   

6  
Then why do we, since Life's so short,  
Lay out Designs for what's to come?  
Why to another Air resort,  
Forsaking this our Native Home.   

7  
Trouble will at our Heels be still,  
Swift as the Roebuck, or the Wind;  
'Twill follow us against our will,  
For none can leave himself behind.   

8  
What does our Wand'ring then avail,  
Care will not be forgot, or lost;  
'Twill reach us tho' we're under Sail;  
And find us on another Coast.   

9  
Man, with his present state content,  
Should leave to Providence the rest:  
Using the time well Heaven has lent,  
For no one here's entirely blest.   

10  
Achilles yielding soon to Fate,  
Was snatched from off this Mortal Stage.  
Tithon enjoyed a longer Date,  
And laboured under lingering Age.   

11  
So if it please the Fates, you may  
Resign your Soul to sudden Death;  
Whilst I, perhaps, behind must stay,  
To breathe a longer share of Breath.   

12  
You round you daily do behold  
Your thriving Flocks, and fruitful Land;  
Which bounteous Fortune has bestowed  
On you, with no Penurious Hand.   

13  
A little Country Seat by Heaven  
Is what's allotted unto me:  
A Genius too the Gods have given,  
Not quite averse to Poetry:  
And a firm steady Soul, that is above  
Either the Vulgar's hatred, or their love.    

SONG. Advice to CAELIA.  

1  
IS it not madness thus to be  
Coy, and your Minute's waste;  
To let the World be envying me  
Pleasures I ne'er did taste?   

2  
Since this foul Scandal we have got,  
Consent, and yield for shame;  
For all your Virtue now will not  
Patch up your broken Fame.   

3  
Why should our Bliss then be delayed?  
The World can say no more  
Than what it has already said,  
And that is, thou'rt a Whore.    

Advice to CUPID. IN A SONG.  

1  
THo' I'm a Man in every Part,  
And much inclined to Change;  
Yet I must stop my wandering Heart,  
When it desires to Range.   

2  
I must indeed my Caelia love,  
Although I have enjoyed;  
And make that Bliss still pleasant prove,  
With which I have been cloyed.   

3  
I must that fair one Justice do,  
I must still constant be;  
For 'twere unkind to be untrue,  
Whilst she is true to me.   

4  
Then, Cupid, I must teach you how  
To make me still her Slave;  
That Food to make me relish now,  
Which once a Surfeit gave.   

5  
You must, to play this Game at first,  
Some Jealousy contrive;  
That she may vow I am the worst,  
And falsest Man alive.   

6  
Let her in Anger persevere,  
Be Jealous as before;  
Till I begin to huff, and swear  
I'll never see her more.   

7  
Then let her use a little Art,  
And lay aside her Frown;  
Let her some amorous Glances dart,  
To bring my Passion down.   

8  
Thus whilst I am again on Fire,  
Make me renew my Pain:  
Make her consent to my desire,  
And me still hug my Chain.    

Cornelius Gallus Imitated A LYRIC.  By my Ld. R. 

1  
MY Goddess, Lydia, Heavenly Fair!  
As Lillys sweet, as soft as Air:  
Let lose thy Tresses, spread thy Charms,  
And to my Love give fresh Alarms.   

2  
O let me gaze on those bright Eyes;  
Tho' sacred Lightning from 'em flies:  
Show me that soft, that modest Grace,  
Which paints with charming Red thy Face.   

3  
Give me Ambrosia in a Kiss,  
That I may Rival Jove in Bliss;  
That I may mix my Soul with thine,  
And make the Pleasure all Divine.   

4  
O hid thy Bosom's killing White,  
(The Milky-way is not so Bright;)  
Left you my ravished Soul oppress  
With Beauty's Pomp, and sweet Excess.   

5  
Why drawest thou from the Purple Flood  
Of my kind Heart, the vital Blood?  
Thou art all over Endless Charms!  
O take me, Dying, to thy Arms.    

APOLLO's Grief, For having Killed HYACINTH by Accident. In Imitation of OVID.  By my Ld. R. 
SWeet Hyacinth, my Life! my Joy!  
What have I done! my lovely Boy!  
With Kisses I would stop thy Soul;  
But Oh! the Fates my Bliss control.  
For thee I Languish, wish to Die,  
And weary grow of Immortality.  
Yet with my Harp I'll sound thy Praise,  
And to the Stars thy Beauties raise.  
Strait thou shalt rise with Purple Grace,  
And with the same Inviting Face:  
Thy Blood shall turn the Lily Red;  
(Mourning) I'll wear it on my Head.  
The World shall Celebrate thy Fame,  
And Feasts be called by thy dear Name;  
With Hyacinth Heaven shall resound,  
While Echoes catch the Charming Sound.  
The fatal Loss, thus sad Apollo mourned,  
Of the fair Boy, for whom so much he burned.   

SONG.  By my Ld. R. 

WHere is he gone whom I Adore?  
That Godlike Man I see no more:  
Yet, without rest, his Tyrant Charms  
Beat in my Heart still new Alarms.   

2.  
Assist dear Honour, take my part,  
Or I am lost, with all my Art;  
Tear his Idea from my Breast,  
Tho', with it, I am more than Blessed.   

3.  
My Reason too, prepare your Arms,  
Lest he return with greater Charms;  
Love's fatal and empoisoned Dart,  
Draw from my Tender, Bleeding Heart.    

ON THE Happiness of a Retired Life.  By Mr. CHARLES DRYDEN. Sent to his Father from ITALY. 

AS in a Shipwreck some poor Sailer tossed,  
By the rude Ocean, on a Foreign Coast;  
Vows to the Gods, he never more for Gain  
Will tempt the Danger of the Faithless Main:  
But hugs himself upon the friendly Shoar,  
And loves to hear the raging Billows Roar,  
That spend their Malice, and can hurt no more.  
Just so the Wretch, who can no longer stand  
The Shocks of Fortune, and is wrecked at Land;  
Lays down the Burden of his Cares, to find  
A Solitary Place, and Quiet Mind:  
Choosing Content with Poverty to meet,  
Before a Fortune, infamously great.  
Thus, in respect of Gold and Silver, Poor,  
But Rich in Soul, and Virtues better Store:  
He Digs in Nature's Mines, and from her Soil  
He Reaps the noble Harvest of his Toil;  
His Thoughts mount upward to their Mother Sky,  
And, purged from Dross, exert th' Etherial Energy;  
The dusky prospect of his Life grows Clear,  
And Golden Scenes of Happiness appear.   

Then from the Summer of Philosophy,  
Secure himself, Mankind he may descry,  
Industrious in the search of their own Misery.  
Like moiling Aunts, in various paths they run,  
And strive in vain the Rubs of Life of shun.  
To different Ends their Actions they Address,  
Which meet, and centre in Unhappiness.  
One Toils, and Struggles, in pursuit of Fame,  
And grasps, with greediness, an empty Name:  
Winged with Ambition, others soar so high,  
They fall, and cannot bear so thin a Sky:  
This Wretch, like Croesus, in the midst of Store  
Sits sadly Pining, and believes he's Poor.   

The Wise Man Laughs at all their Pains, secure  
From Lording Passions, which those Fools endure.  
Despair and Hope are banished from his Breast;  
Agues, and Fevers that allow no Rest:  
And Lust, and Pride, the Mother of Disdain,  
And Thirst of Honour, with her anxious Train,  
No longer Warring, Peace of Soul deny,  
But Exiles of the Mind their once loved Mansions fly.  
Nor Love misplaced, nor Malice now control,  
Right Reason's use, the Guardian of the Soul.  
His Thoughts unbiass'd, and no longer tossed,  
Of Solid Judgement now securely Boast.  
The fierce, unruly Race of Passions die,  
And the freed Soul asserts her Liberty.  
Instead of inward War, Sweet Peace of Mind,  
And silent ease, with all their quiet Kind,  
The noble Regions of his Heart regain;  
And with a Calm, and gentle Empire Reign.  
Silence becomes an Amicable Guest,  
And Peace, with downy Wings, sits brooding on his Breast:  
Soft Hours pass over, void of Noise, and Strife,  
And gently Waft him to the Verge of Life:  
While in a slow, and regular Decay,  
Death steals, unfelt, upon his setting Day:  
As Mellow Fruits, ungathered, drop away.   

Blessed Solitude! O harmless, easy State!  
Entrenched in Wisdom, from the Storms of Fate.  
Thus on a Bleaky Cliff, the Regal Tree,  
Assailed by Winds, and heavens Inclemency,  
Expands his Branches o'er the Clouds, above  
Their Blasts, unmoved as his Immortal Jove.  
The God's smile on us, and propitious are,  
When Prudence does our Actions first prepare.  
The Strokes of Fortune Fools alone endure;  
The Wise and Virtuous can themselves secure.   

This Charles of Spain, and Dioclesian knew,  
Who timely from the conquered World withdrew;  
Oppressed with Fame, they laid the Burden down,  
And wisely, for Content exchanged a Crown.  
Lords of themselves, and of their Passions grown,  
They made new Realms and Conquests of their own:  
Nor had they need more Nations to Subdue,  
Themselves were Emperors and Empires too:  
Th' exterior Shows of Greatness they declined,  
And for an Eden lost, gained Paradise of Mind.   

Elysium justly was by Poets feigned,  
A Seat which none but quiet Souls obtained.  
Sweet Myrtle Groves (where Birds for ever Sing)  
And Meadows Smiling with Immortal Spring;  
Were secret Mansions of Eternal Rest,  
And made Retirements for the Pious Blessed.   

O! that kind Heaven would grant me a Retreat  
(before I die) in some sweet Country Seat:  
Or (if my Wishes have too large a Bound)  
An humble Cottage fenced with Osiers round;  
Where Silver Streams in Flowery Valleys glide,  
And rows of Willows deck the River's side.  
O with what Pleasure would my Soul forego  
This Riot of a Life! this Pomp of Woe!  
Supplied with Food, which Nature's Bounty gave,  
In need of nothing, nothing would I crave:  
My future Actions should my past Redeem,  
And all my Life be suited to my Theme.    

The Passion Of BYBLIS. From the ninth Book of OVID Metamorphosis.  By Ste. Harvey Esq 

LET the sad Fate of wretched Byblis prove  
A dismal Warning to Unlawful Love;  
One Birth gave being to the hapless Pair,  
But more was Caunus than a Sister's Care;  
Unknown she Loved, for yet the gentle Fire  
Risen not in Flames, nor kindled to desire;  
'Twas thought no Sin to wonder at his Charms,  
Hang on his Neck, and Languish in his Arms;  
Thus winged with Joy, fled the soft Hours away,  
And all the fatal Gild on harmless Nature lay.  
But Love (too soon from Piety declined)  
Insensibly depraved her yielding Mind.  
Dressed she appears, with nicest Art adorned,  
And every Youth, but her loved Brother, scorned;  
For him alone she laboured to be Fair,  
And cursed all Charms that might with hers compare.  
'Twas she, and only she, must Caunus please,  
Sick at her Heart, yet knew not her Disease:  
She called him Lord, For Brother was a Name  
Too cold and dull for her aspiring Flame;  
And when he spoke, if Sister, he replied,  
For Byblis change that frozen Word, she cried;  
Yet waking still she watched her struggling Breast,  
And Love's Approaches were in vain addressed,  
Till gentle Sleep an easy Conques made,  
And in her Soft embrace the Conqueror was laid;  
But oh too soon the pleasing Vision fled,  
And left her Blushing on the conscious Bed,  
Ah me! (she cried) how monstrous do I seem?  
Why these wild Thoughts? and this incestuous Dream?  
Envy herself ('tis true) must own his Charms,  
But what is Beauty in a Sister's Arms?  
Oh were I not that despicable she!  
How Blest, how Pleased, how Happy should I be!  
But unregarded now must bear my Pain,  
And, but in Dreams, my wishes can obtain:   

O Sea-Born Goddess! with thy wanton Boy!  
Was ever such a charmiug Scene of Joy?  
Such perfect Bliss! such ravishing Delight!  
ne'er hide before in the kind Shades of Night.  
How pleased my Heart! in what sweet Raptures tossed?  
Even Life itself in the soft Combat lost,  
While breathless he, on my heaved Bosom lay,  
And snatched the Treasures of my Soul away.   

If the bare Fancy so affects my Mind,  
How should I rave if to the Substance joined?  
Oh, gentle Caunus! quit thy hated Line,  
Or let thy Parents be no longer mine!  
Oh that in Common all things were enjoyed,  
But those alone who have our hopes destroyed.  
Were I a Princess, thou an Humble Swain,  
The Proudest Kings should Rival thee in vain:  
It cannot be, alas! the dreadful Ill  
Is fixed by Fate, and he's my Brother Still:  
Hear me, ye Gods! I must have Friends in Heaven,  
For Jove himself was to a Sister given:  
But what are their Prerogatives above  
To the short Liberties of Humane Love?  
Fantastic thoughts! down, down, forbidden Fires,  
Or instant Death extinguish my desires;  
Strict Virtue, then, with thy malicious leave,  
Without a Crime I may a Kiss receive:  
But say should I in spite of Laws comply,  
Yet cruel Caunus might himself deny,  
No Pity take of an afflicted Maid,  
(For Loves sweet Game must be by Couples played)  
Yet why should Youth, and Charms like mine despair?  
Such Fears ne'er startled the Aeolian Pair,  
No ties of Blood could their full hopes destroy,  
They broke through all, for the prevailing Joy;  
And who can tell but Caunus too may be  
Racked and Tormented in his Breast for me?  
Likes me, to the extremest Anguish drove,  
Like me, just waking from a Dream of Love▪  
But stay! Oh whither would my Fury run!  
What Arguments I urge to be undone!  
Away fond Byblis, quench these guilty Flames;  
Caunus thy Love but as a Brother claims;  
Yet had he first been touched with Love of me,  
The charming Youth could I despairing see?  
Oppressed with Grief, and Dying by Disdain?  
Ah no! too sure I should have eased his pain:  
Since then, if Caunus asked me, it were done,  
Ask myself, what dangers can I run?  
But canst thou ask? and see that right betrayed  
From Pyrrha down to thy whole Sex conveyed?  
That selfdenying Gift we all enjoy,  
Of wishing to be won, yet seeming to be coy:  
Well then, for once, let a fond Mistress woe,  
The force of Love no Custom can subdue;  
This frantic Passion he by words shall know,  
Soft as the melting Heart from whence they flow.  
The Pencil then in her fair Hand she held,  
By Fear discouraged, but by Love compelled;  
She Writes, than Blots, Writes on, and Blots again,  
Like it as fit, then razes it as vain;  
Shame, and Assurance in her Face appear,  
And a faint Hope just yielding to Despair;  
Sister was Wrote, and Blotted as a Word  
Which she, and Caunus too (she hoped) abhorred,  
But now resolved to be no more controlled,  
By Scrupulous Virtue, thus her Grief she told.   

" Thy Lover (gentle Caunus) wishes thee  
" That health, which thou alone canst give to me.  
" O charming Youth, the Gift I ask bestow,  
" ere thou the Name of the fond Writer know;  
" To thee without a Name I would be known,  
" Since knowing that, my Frailty I must own;  
" Yet why should I my wretched Name conceal?  
" When thousand Instances my Flames reveal:  
" Wan Looks, and weeping Eyes, have spoke my Pain;  
" And Sighs discharged from my heaved Heart in vain;  
" Had I not wished my Passion might be seen,  
" What could such Fondness and Embraces mean?  
" Such Kisses too! (Oh heedless lovely Boy)  
" Without a Crime no Sister could Enjoy:  
" Yet (tho' extremest Rage has racked my Soul,  
" And raging Fires in my parched Bosom Roul)  
" Be Witness, Gods! how piously I strove  
" To rid my Thoughts of this enchanting Love.  
" But who could scape so fierce, and sure a Dart,  
" Aimed at a Tender and Defenceless Heart?  
" Alas! what Maid could suffer, I have born,  
" ere the dire secret from my Breast was torn,  
" To thee a helpless vanquished Wretch I come,  
" 'Tis you alone can save, or give my Doom,  
" My Life or Death, this Moment you may choose,  
" Yet think, Oh think, no hated Stranger sues,  
" No Foe, but one, Alas! too near allied,  
" And wishing still much nearer to be tied.  
" The Forms of Decency let Age debate,  
" And Virtues Rules by their Cold Morals state,  
" Their ebbing Joys give Leisure to inquire,  
" And blame those noble Flights our Youth inspire:  
" Where Nature kindly summons let us go,  
" Our sprightly Years no bounds in Love should know,  
" Should feel no check of Gild, and fear no Ill,  
" Lovers and Gods act all things at their Will:  
" We gain one Blessing from our hated Kin,  
" Since our Paternal Freedom hides the Sin,  
" Uncensured in each others Arms we lie,  
" Think then how easy to complete our Joy:  
" Oh pardon and oblige a blushing Maid,  
" Whose Rage the pride of her vain Sex betrayed,  
" Nor let my Tomb thus mournfully complain,  
" Here Byblis lies, by her loved Caunus Slain.   

Forced here to end, she with a falling Tear  
Tempered the pliant Wax, which did the Signet bear:  
The curious cipher was impressed by Art,  
But Love had stamped one deeper in her Heart;  
Her Page, a Youth of Confidence and Skill,  
(Secret as Night) stood waiting on her Will,  
Sighing (she cried) bear this (thou faithful Boy)  
To my sweet partner in eternal Joy:  
Here a long pause her secret Gild confessed,  
And when at length she would have spoke the rest,  
Half the dear Name lay buried in her Breast.   

Thus as he listened to her vain Command,  
Down fell the Letter from her trembling Hand  
The Omen shocked her Soul: Yet go (she cried)  
Can a Request from Byblis be denied?   

To the Maeandrian Youth's this Message born,  
The half-read Lines by his fierce Rage were torn;  
Hence, hence, he cried, thou Pander to her Lust,  
Bear hence the Triumph of thy Impious Trust:  
Thy Instant Death will but divulge her Shame,  
Or thy Life's Blood should quench the Guilty Flame▪  
Frighted, from threatening Caunus he withdrew,  
And with the dreadful News to his lost Mistress flew.  
The sad Repulse so struck the Wounded Fair,  
Her Sense was buried in her wild Despair,  
Pale was her Visage as the Ghastly Dead,  
And her scared Soul from the sweet Mansion fled;  
Yet with her Life renewed, her Love returns,  
And faintly thus her cruel Fate she mourns:  
'Tis just, ye Gods! was my false Reason blind?  
To Write a secret of this tender kind?  
With Female Craft I should at first have striven,  
By dubious Hints to Sound his distant Love,  
And tried those useful (tho' dissembled) Arts  
Which Women Practise on disdainful Hearts;  
I should have watched whence the Black Storm might rise,  
ere I had trusted the unfaithful Skies,  
Now on the rolling Billows I am tossed,  
And with extended Sails, on the blind Shelves am lost.  
Did not indulgent Heaven my Doom foretell,  
When from my Hand the fatal Letter fell?  
What Madness seized my Soul? And urged me on  
To take the only Course to be undone?  
I could myself have told the moving Tale  
With such alluring Grace as must prevail;  
Then had his Eyes beheld my blushing Fears,  
My rising Sighs, and my descending Tears;  
Round his dear Neck these Arms I then had spread,  
And, if rejected, at his Feet been Dead:  
If singly these had not his Thoughts inclined,  
Yet all united would have shocked his Mind.  
Perhaps, my careless Page might be in Fault,  
And in a luckless Hour the fatal Message brought,  
Business and Worldly Thoughts might fill his Breast,  
Sometimes even Love itself may be an Irksome Guest:  
He could not else have treated me with Scorn,  
For Caunus was not of a Tygress born,  
Not Steel nor Adamant has fenced his Heart,  
Like mine 'tis naked to the burning Dart.   

Away false Fears! he must, he shall be mine,  
In Death alone I will my Claim resign;  
'Tis vain to wish my written Crime unknown,  
And for my Gild much vainer to atone.  
Repulsed, and hafled, fiercer still she Burns,  
And Caunus with Disdain her impious Love returns.  
He saw no end of her injurious Flame,  
And fled his Country to avoid the Shame;  
Forsaken Byblis, who had hopes no more,  
Burst out in Rage, and her lose Robes she tore,  
With her fair Hands she smote her tender Breast,  
And to the wondering World her Love confessed;  
O'er Hills and Dales, o'er Rocks and Streams she flew,  
But still in vain did her wild Lust pursue;  
Wearied at length on the cold Earth she fell,  
And now in Tears alone could her sad Story tell.  
Relenting Gods, in Pity, fixed her there,  
And to a Fountain turned the weeping Fair.    

THE FIRST BOOK OF VIRGIL's Georgics. Translated into ENGLISH VERSE  By the Right Honourable JOHN Earl of LAUDERDALE. 
FIelds to improve, and when to till the Ground,  
How creeping Vines to lofty Elms are bound,  
To breed great Cattle, and the bleating kind,  
What Art or Nature has for Bees designed:  
My Muse Maecenas now gins to sing.  
Fountains of Light, from whom the Seasons spring,  
Bacchus, and Ceres, since your Power Divine,  
For Acorns gave us Grain, for Water Wine,  
Ye Fauns propitious to the labouring Swain,  
I sing your Gifts, ye Dryads of the Plain;  
Favour my Lays great Neptune on the Main,  
Who by your mighty Power, and Tridents Force,  
Raised from th' Athenian Shore the Warlike Horse.  
You Guardian of the Woods and Sylvan Toil,  
Whose Milky Droves crop Caea's fertile Isle,  
If Menalus and Tegea be your Care,  
Great Pan leave thy Lycaean Groves, and to my Aid repair.  
Minerva (for to you we Olives own)  
Osiris who invented first the Plough,  
Sylvanus who makes Cypress Trees to grow,  
You Rural Gods who Guard the Teeming Earth,  
By Nursing showers can new-formed Grain bring forth.  
Caesar, since you, with Fate, and Powers above,  
Conceal the Sphere, your Deity shall move;  
Shall you to Cities and to Thrones give Law?  
Or Corn, and Corn-producing Seasons awe?  
With Myrtle crowned, to Thule o'er the Main,  
With Thetis' Rule, and over Seamen Reign:  
Would you a Heavenly Sign the Zodiaque grace,  
Betwixt Erigone, and Scorpion's place?  
Who now to straighter Bounds his Claws confines,  
And more than half of all his Heaven resigns.  
What, God above, you are designed to be,  
For Hell dares never hope a King like thee,  
Nor thy great Soul with such a Throne agree.  
Tho' dreaming Greeks Elysian Fields admire,  
And Trivia slights her Mother's kind desire.  
Prosper my Bold attempt, and ease my Pains,  
Both Pity me, and the laborious Swains:  
Conduct us safe through the unbeaten way,  
And use yourself to hear us when we pray.  
The Spring returning when the Snowy Hills  
Unveil their tops, and swell the gentle Rills;  
When Western Winds dissolve the mellow Soil,  
My well-fed Bullocks than begin your Toil,  
Then to the Yoke your Brawny Shoulders yield,  
Then let the Shining Plowshares cleave the Field.  
From Winter Grain, that's sown in Fallow Mould,  
Twice warmed by Summer, and twice nipped by Cold,  
Your Granaries shall scarce the product hold.  
But e'er you untried Grounds begin to Plough,  
The reigning Winds, and Climates temper know:  
Find out the Nature of the Mould with Care,  
And what is proper for each Soil to bear:  
This Corn produces, there rich Wines abound,  
Here Fruit Trees loaded Branches hid the Ground,  
(Without Manuring) there kind Nature yields  
Luxuriant Pastures, and the Grassy Fields.  
On Tmolus' Hill you see the Saffron grow,  
And Ivory, where Indus Streams o'erflow,  
Sabean Shrubs weep Incense, Balsam, Gums;  
The Martial Steel from Chalybs River comes;  
The Beaver-Stones on Pontus' Shores are found,  
Olimpick-Mares Feed on Epirus Ground.  
To every Land great Nature has assigned  
A certain Lot, which Laws eternal Bind.  
ere since Deucalion through the empty Space  
Threw Stones, and raised Mankind's obdurate Race.  
Rich Grounds plough strongly, when the Year's begun,  
Expose the Clods to dry with Summer's Sun.  
In Autumn slightly till your Barren Land,  
Lest choking Weeds the springing Seed command,  
Or nursing Sap forsake th' unfruitful Sand.  
By Intervals your Ground forbear to Sow,  
That so the Mould by rest may harder grow,  
Or change your Seed, and for each Crop of Wheat,  
A Crop of Vetches, Pease, or Beans repeat.  
Flax, Oats, and Poppy, burn the tender Soil,  
Yet Sow by turns, they'll recompense your Toil.  
Throw Dung and Ashes, on your hungry Fields,  
As rest, the change of Seed advantage yields:  
From burning of the Soil great Profit's found,  
When crackling stubble, Flames through barren Ground,  
The Earth from thence, (by Nature's secret Laws)  
Some strengthening Nourishment or Virtue draws,  
Or purged by Fire, which hurtful Moisture drains,  
Or for the fruitful Sap unlocks her Veins,  
Or if too wide by raging Flames confined,  
Resist Apollo's Beams, and Blasting Wind.  
He who with Rakes and Harrows breaks the Clods,  
Is Blest by Ceres, and the Rural Gods:  
Who with a constant and unwearied Hand  
Manures the furrowed Ground, then smooths the Land,  
Shall Monarch-like the stubborn Soil command.  
To Powers Divine ye Ploughman make your Prayer,  
That Summer's Moist, that Winters may be Fair;  
For Dusty Winter's cheer the teeming Earth,  
Which Loads, instead of Crops of Wheat bring forth.  
Such kindly Seasons are to Mysia given,  
Thus Gargara's Fields are Blest by bounteous Heaven.  
Shall I next sing the Swain? the Seed once Sown,  
Who breaks less Fertile Clods. And then sets on  
The gentle Streams, or from a Hillocks Brow  
(In burning Heats) makes rapid Torrents flow,  
Through Pebbles rolling with a murmuring Sound;  
The Corn refresh, and cool the thirsty Ground.  
Or Sing of him, who when the Furrows height  
The Corn hath reached, lest bounteous Nature's Weight  
O'er charge the Root, with careful Hand he tares;  
And in the Blade Crops off Luxuriant Ears.  
Or here relate the Ploughman's Toil and Pains;  
Who from his stagnate Ground the Moisture drains  
In Spring and Harvest, when the swelling Floods  
With Muddy Slime o'erflow the tepid Clods.  
While Men and Cattle thus bestow their Pains;  
The bitter Endius shade, Strymonian Cranes,  
And ravenous Geese are hurtful to the Grains.  
The Tillage first great Jove uneasy made,  
And turned the Gift of Nature to a Trade,  
He mortal Breasts provoked to Care and Pain,  
And banished Sloth from his more active reign:  
Before his time the Ground no Ploughman tilled,  
The Land no Masters knew, nor Bounds the Field.  
For all lay common, and the Liberal Earth  
Solicited by none, for all brought forth.  
He stings to Serpents gave, made Wolves to prey,  
And raised loud Storms and Tempests on the Sea.  
Honey which dropped before from leaves of Trees,  
He hide in Flowers, new Labour for the Bees.  
He harmless Fire to flinty Rocks did bind,  
And streams of Wine to clustered Grapes confined.  
Arts to invent, inur'd Mankind to Toil,  
To earn their Living from the stubborn Soil.  
Then Boats of hollow Trees depressed the Streams,  
New Stars the Seamen numbered, gave them Names,  
These which compose the Bull, and these the Bear.  
Men then found out for smaller Beasts the Snare,  
Hounds for the nobler Game the Woods beset,  
With Bird-lime caught the Fowl, for Fish the Net  
In Pools they threw, or in the Ocean wet.  
Men than found out the use of murdering Steel,  
And Oaks the rugged Saw for Wedges feel.  
Thus useful Arts were first found out of old,  
And Want and Labour made Invention bold.  
When to Mankind Dodona Aid denied,  
Nor Fruit, nor Acorns for their Food supplied,  
Then bounteous Ceres' Mortals Tillage taught,  
That heavenly Blessing Curse and Labour brought.  
For Mildews blast the Stalks, and rot the Seeds,  
The Lands oppressed with Thistles, Burrs, and Weeds,  
Thick Briers, and Brambles choke the rising Grain,  
And o'er the Fields wild Oats, and Darnel reign.  
With Rakes, and Harrows Ceres' Foes pursue,  
Implore the Gods for Rain, and kindly Dew,  
And fright with sounds the Birds which Corn invade:  
With Pruning-hooks lop off the leafy Shade,  
Or you in vain your Neighbour's Wealth shall mourn,  
And for your former Food to Oaks return.  
Next sturdy ploughmen's needful Tools I show,  
(For without these they neither Reap, nor Sow)  
And first of all, the Ploughs unwieldy Load,  
Next Ceres Wains, which slowly beat the Road,  
Flails, Sleads, and Hurdles by King Celeus found,  
And Harrows dragged with toil through laboured Ground,  
With Bacchus' mystic Vans, all these prepare  
In time, would you the Rural Glories share.  
Young Elms with mighty force in Copses bow,  
To shape them for the handles guide the Plough,  
To which the Beam of Eight Foot long is joined,  
The Head the massive Sock and mould-board bind:  
Plough Tails which turn the Wheels of Beech, of Lime the Yoke  
Is made, and both are tried by Fire and Smoak.  
Most of the Ancient Rules I can declare,  
Unless you eat those meaner Cares to hear.  
Your threshing Floar delve, mix with Clay, and beat  
With Rolers smooth, lest parched with Summer Heat  
It chap and cleave, or noisome Weeds arise,  
(For crowds of Foes invade the Ploughman's Joys)  
There Field-mices keep their Stores, and there the Mole  
(Condemned to darkness) blindly works her Hole.  
Such Earthborn Vermin ev'ry where abound,  
The Toad in little Caverns taints the Ground;  
The Corn-devouring Weasels here reside,  
And Aunts, foreseeing Age, for want provide.  
Consider well the Almonds in the Wood,  
If Buds and Flowers the fragrant Branches load,  
Your seed that Summer yields a mighty Crop:  
But if superfluous leaves the Boughs o'retop,  
That Year your Threshing-Floar you beat in vain,  
And nought but Chaff and Straw expect for Grain.  
Many, I see, to aid the tardy Soil,  
Their Seed with Nitre mix, and Lees of Oil,  
To fill the Husks, deceive the Lab'rours' toil;  
Then pick with labour, and expose to heat  
At gentle Fires, the hurtful Sap to sweat,  
Yet still degenerates, unless with care  
You cull the fairest Seed for every Year.  
Thus cruel Fate on all things here below  
Imprints decay, and all must backwards go,  
To stem a Tide, thus eager Seamen row;  
But if they slack their Hands, in vain they strive,  
For down the Stream with Violence they drive.  
Besides the Swains I equally advise,  
To mark the Days the Kids and Dragon rise,  
And when Arcturus Shines in Northern Skies:  
As those who homewards make their foaming way,  
Through Hellespontus' Oyster-breeding Sea.  
When Libra holds the Beam of equal height,  
Weighs Shades with Day, and Darkness with the Light:  
Then till your Ground, your Winter Corn then Sow,  
Till cold December's blust'ring Tempests blow.  
Poppey and Line-seed, when the Gleeb is dry,  
Be sure to sow, and catch a settled Sky.  
Sow Beans and Cinquefoin in a Mellow Soil,  
And Millet rising from your Annual Toil;  
Then when the Bull unlocks the springing Year,  
When backward Argos Star forsakes the Sphere.  
If you design a mighty Crop of Wheat,  
First in the West let fairest Maja set:  
With rising Phoebus let her Sisters hid,  
And the bright Crown adorns Great Bacchus' Bride;  
(The Harvest ended) sow, and trust your hope  
To lingering Clods, for the succeeding Crop.  
Who sow before the Pleyades go down,  
Shall see to Chaff their Expectation blown.  
But would you Fasel, and poor Fitches sow,  
Or would you have Egyptian Lentils grow;  
Begin when fair Calisto downward bends,  
And then continue till midwinter ends.  
The Sun the World by equal shares maintains,  
And through Twelve Signs, enshrined with Glory reigns;  
The heavens five Zones divide, the midmost burns  
With glowing heat, while scorching Phoebus turns;  
On either hand, the two Extremes bend low,  
Still stiff with Ice, and spread Eternal Snow.  
From bounds of chilling Cold, to fiery Heat,  
The Gods have for poor Mortals fixed a Seat.  
The Zodiaque Cross these two in Obliqne Line,  
Where Twelve Celestial Signs in order Shine.  
Two Poles the Globe turn round, this seen to rise  
O'er Scythian Hills, and that in Africk's Skies:  
This shines o'er head, to those in Europe devil,  
That to th' Antipodes, and shades of Hell.  
Round this the Dragon's spiral Volumes glide,  
Which, River-like, the Northern Bears divide,  
Who dread their Bodies in the Waves to hid.  
Round that uninterrupted Night sustains  
Her gloomy Empire, and in Silence reigns;  
Or when Aurora from our Heaven declines,  
She thither flies, in Rosy splendour shines:  
And when her Courser's breath our Morning Rays,  
There Hesperus pale Fire shuts up the Days.  
From hence we may uncertain Seasons know,  
Both when to reap the Grain, and when to sow;  
When we may trust the raging of the Sea,  
When well-armed Navies may their Sheets display:  
The proper time to fell and tumble down  
Tall Pines, which shade the lofty Mountain's Crown.  
Observe the Planets, and the Stars, with care,  
Both when they rise, and when they disappear.  
Mark how the Seasons in their turns succeed,  
Which in four parts the circling Year divide.  
By Winter kept at home, the Swains prepare  
To save their labour, when the days are fair;  
He Ploughshares grinds, he hollows Troughs and Barks,  
His Sacks he Numbers, and his Cattle marks:  
Some Hedge-Poles make, some Forks, some tye the Vines,  
And he, for Baskets, bending Willows twines.  
Now dry your Wheat, and now with Marble grind.  
Nor are the Swains on Holy days confined  
From all their Toils, Law and Religion yield,  
Your Grounds to Water, and to fence your Field;  
To set the Snares for Birds, or Brambles Fire,  
Or wash your Sheep, if so their Health require;  
Or drive your Ass to Town, with Fruit and Oil,  
Whence Pitch, and Hand-mills, load him home with Toil.  
For work, and labour, every changing Moon  
Gives lucky days, the Fifth be sure to shun:  
It gave to Pluto, and the Furies Birth,  
On it Typhaeus (born of teeming Earth)  
With Caeus and Japetus, were brought forth:  
And Titan's cruel Race, so bold to dare  
Invade the Skies, and with the Gods make War.  
Ossa by them on Pelion thrice was thrown,  
Olympus thrice did lofty Ossa Crown,  
Jove thrice with Thunder struck the Mountains down.  
Next to the Tenth, the seventh to plant the Vine  
Is lucky, then unbroken Bullocks join;  
Then Weavers stretch your Stays upon the Waft.  
The Ninth for Trav'ling's good, and ill for Theft.  
Some works by cool of Night are better done,  
Or when the Dew prevents the rising Sun;  
Parched Meadows, and dry Stubble Mow by Night,  
Then moisture reigns, which flies Apollo's light.  
Some watch, and Torches sharp with cleaving Knives,  
Till late by Winter Fires; their careful Wives  
To ease their Labour, glad the homely Rooms  
With cheerful Notes, while Weaving on their Looms:  
Or else in Kettles boil New-Wine, and skim  
The Dregs with Leaves, when they o'erflow the brim.  
But reap your Yellow Grain with glowing heat,  
And on your Floar, with scorching Phoebus beat.  
When days are clear, then naked Till and Sow,  
In lazy Winter, labourers lazy grow:  
For that's a jovial time, when jovial Swains  
Meet, and in Feasting waste their Summer's Gains.  
(As Seamen come to Port from stormy Seas,  
First Crown their Vessels, then indulge their ease.)  
Yet that's the time to gather in the Wood,  
Berries of Bays, or Myrtles stained with Blood;  
Olives, or Acorns, your Forefathers Food.  
Set Gins for Cranes, with Toils the Staggs enclose.  
The Hunt the Hare, with Slings pursue the Does;  
Then when the Fields are covered o'er with Snow,  
And Icy Crusts on rapid Rivers grow.  
Shall I Autumnal Stars and Signs relate?  
When days grow shorter, and the Heats abate.  
Or shall I here instruct the Labouring Swain,  
How to foresee what Storms in Harvest reign?  
Or when their Showers the Springing Seasons end,  
And standing Corn like waving Surges bend,  
And Ears of Wheat their Husks with Milk distend.  
Oft have I seen the Farmer to the Field  
His Reapers lead, while they crooked Sickles wield,  
And grasp the brittle Stalks, with dreadful sound  
The jarring Winds range the whole compass round,  
And by the Roots the Stem tear from the Ground:  
While Eddy-Winds with tow'ring Whirlings bear  
A loft the lighter Straw, through troubled Air;  
Then a prodigious Plump of Shoarless Floods  
Breaks from the Sky, and bursts high gathered Clouds.  
The Heaven descends, and deluges the plain,  
And renders all the Bullocks Labour vain,  
The unreaped Seed is buried once again.  
Torrents and Rivers swell with hideous roars,  
The boiling Ocean beats the trembling Shores;  
Amidst the gloomy horror, Jove from high  
His Lightning flings through the tempestuous Sky,  
And shakes the mighty Globe, while Man and Beast  
Fly or fall down, with sudden fear oppressed;  
Against Rhodope he flaming Thunders throws,  
Thus strikes Epirus Hills, and steep Mount Athos glows.  
The Winds and Rain increase, the Forest's round  
And neighbouring Shores repeat the dismal sound.  
If this you fear, observe the Monthly Signs,  
And Planets Aspects, thus their Virtue shines,  
Joined in direct, opposed in obliqne Lines.  
See to what House cold Saturn's Beams repair,  
Or how Cyllenius points his erring Star.  
But first of all Immortal Powers adore,  
With grateful Victims Ceres aid implore,  
And joyful on the Grass her Annual Rites restore.  
Then Lambs are fat, and the delicious Wine,  
And shady Hills, to pleasing Sleep incline.  
When grizly Winter with his Storms is gone,  
And Spring returns, with the returning Sun:  
Then you, and all your Village-Neighbours join,  
And offer Honey, mixed with Milk and Wine,  
To Ceres' mighty Name, in solemn guise  
Conduct thrice round your Fields the destined Sacrifice.  
With all your Rural Train in Chorus sing;  
And to your homes with Vows the Goddess bring.  
Nor is it Lawful to unload the Ground,  
Till you these Rites perform with joyful sound;  
And Dance, and sing her Praise, with Oaken-Garlands Crowned.  
Yet that you may by sure Remarks foresee  
Heat, Rain, and blustering Winds by Jove's decree;  
The Monthly Circlings of the Moon foreshow,  
The signs forerun, when Winds desist to blow;  
And if the prudent Farmer heed this Law,  
He will his Cattle near his Stables draw.  
But e'er the Winds extend their Threatening Voice,  
From Lofty Mountains comes a rushing noise,  
The Ocean works, and swells, and beats the shore  
From far, the Forests send a murmuring roar.  
Then Ships can scarcely live in rolling Waves,  
Soon as the Ducker distant Billows leaves;  
And stretches to the Land with piercing cry.  
When to the Sandy Shoar the Fen-ducks ply,  
Or when the Hern her fenny Marsh forsakes,  
And through the Clouds her airy Journey takes.  
Oft you shall see, before great Winds arise,  
(What we call) falling Stars, shoot through the Skies;  
Leaving behind a gleam of trailing light  
Through gloomy Air, and humid shades of Night.  
Dry Leafs and Straw, whisk through the Air by day,  
And on the Water Feathers swim and play.  
If Thunder from fierce Boreas' Empire sound,  
Then all the Villages and Fields are drowned.  
If when two Winds from several Coasts contest,  
At once it Thunder, both from East and West:  
The Mariners at Sea hand in their Sails.  
Rain unprepared no Mortal ere assails,  
The Cranes from Fens and Valleys see it rise,  
And cut their Airy flight through liquid Skies.  
Bullocks turn up their Noses in the Air,  
And snuff, and smell it coming from afar.  
Circling the Ponds and Lakes, shrill Swifts ye● view;  
Frogs croak in Mud, and their old Plaints renew.  
The Aunts through narrow paths their Eggs convey:  
And, at both ends, the Rainbow drinks the Sea.  
The Rav'ns, from feeding, in great flocks appear,  
And croak with noisy fluttering through the Air.  
Most Waterfowl, but above all the rest  
The Swans in Ana's Lake who build their Nest,  
Who Worms and Infects pick, and seek their Food  
In Flowery Meadows, near Caystrus Flood;  
With Sable Oars they cut the Silver Wave,  
Their Snowy Backs, their rustling Pennons lave;  
Now to the Stream they throw their Arched Crests,  
Then rush through Billows with their downy Breasts;  
And now they dive, now clap their Wings, in vain  
They strive to wash their Plumes, still pure from stain,  
But still they bathe, and that's a sign of Rain.  
The sullen Rook steps on dry Sand alone,  
And bawls for Rain, in a hoarse-sounding tone.  
Maids Rain foresee, who work their nightly lots,  
From sparkling Lamps, and Smoak congealed to knots.  
As these of Rain, so Rain once past appear  
Sure signs of Sunshine, and of settled fair:  
The Stars than shine with smarter Fires by Night,  
And rising Phoebe shows so flaming bright,  
As not depending on her Brother's light.  
No streaming Clouds in thin extended streaks  
Fly through the Azure Sky like Woolly flakes.  
Nor Thetis Halcyons bask upon the Sand,  
Nor to the Sun, their glistering Wings expand.  
The Hog forgets to shred and toss about  
Bundles of Straw, with his polluted Snout.  
The Rack flies lower; and the Clouds descend,  
And o'er the Grassy Plains and Vales impend.  
The shrieking Owl, on lofty Roofs alone,  
With silence views Apollo's Beams go down.  
Nisus appears aloft in open Air,  
Poor Scylla dearly pays his fatal Hair,  
Where'er to shun her Mortal Foe she flies,  
Nisus pursues her whizzing through the Skies;  
Where'er he cuts his way through fleeting Air,  
She flies him still, her hasts inspired by fear.  
Next Rooks on Trees, with strained and croaking Throats,  
Redouble oft their shrill resounding Notes;  
Struck with unusual Joy, (the Rain now past)  
They chatter through the Boughs, and then in haste  
Review their Callow young, and pleasing Nest:  
I cannot think, their Breasts from Heaven are fired,  
Or with Foresight above their Fate inspired.  
But when the temper of the Elements,  
By moistening Winds, to moist from dry relents,  
That turn of Nature has the influence,  
Thick to dissolve, and what was thin condense:  
This frequent Change, all that has Life inspires  
With other motions, and with new desires,  
Than when the Air was rend with Storms and Fires.  
From hence these Concerts, Bird with Bird agrees,  
Sheep sport in Fields, and Rooks who perch on Trees.  
Observe th' all-liv'ning Sun, who in a Year  
His Cycle runs around the Starry Sphere;  
The Moon in every Month performs the same,  
With motions jousted to his brighter Flame:  
To Morrow's dawn shall never cause your fear,  
Or Night deceive you, when Stars twinkle clear.  
When Phoebe first new-borrowed Light receives,  
And in her Orb her Brother's Coursers leaves,  
If she round gloomy Air dull Horns display,  
It surely Rains, both on the Land, and Sea;  
But if a glowing Red o'erspread her Face,  
Then Winds prepare their Coursers for the Race:  
That Virgin Goddess is to blush inclined,  
Before the rising of Tempestuous Wind.  
If the fourth Night a clear and Silver Face,  
And pointed Horns, the changing Goddess grace;  
Next day, and all its Race, shall calmly shine,  
Till she again her Brother's Globe conjoin.  
This is the surest Rule, heed well this day  
Ye Seamen, and to Panopea pay  
And Glaucus Vows, for Dangers scaped at Sea.  
The Sun declares the temper of the Air,  
Both when he sets, and when his Beams appear:  
And Signs infallible attend his way,  
From Orient Floods, to Thetis Western Sea.  
If when he rises from the Eastern Main,  
Dull Cloudy Spots his Glorious Face distain;  
Or yet behind a darkening Cloud retire,  
Obscuring half of his encircled Fire;  
Then Rainy South-Winds from the Billows spring,  
Ruin to Corn, to Trees, and Cattle bring.  
If Clouds disjoined on the Celestial Blue  
Leave voids, by which his straggling Beams strike through;  
If leaving Tithon's Bed, the Rosy Morn  
With paler Rays her fainting Looks adorn,  
Alas that day! how shall Vine Leaves defend  
The clustered Grapes, which nursing Branches bend,  
When storms of Hail on Towns their Fury spend.  
But it behoves thee more to view the Sun,  
When he his Course has round Olympus run;  
For oft his Glorious Visage changes Hue,  
It Rain denotes, if it decline to Blue;  
And Wind foretelleth, if of a fiery Red:  
If dusky spots with fiery streaks o'erspread  
His radiant Looks, such dismal Signs declare  
Winds, Rain, and Tempest, Elemental War.  
For Sea, (that threatening Night) no Earthly Power  
Shall tempt to haul my Cables from the Shoar.  
If the all-chearing God shine Native bright,  
Both when he brings the Day, and yields the Sky to Night,  
In vain the thoughts of Storms your Mind affright.  
Fair Aquilonius from the North shall fly,  
And gently move the Wood, and breathe an Azure Sky.  
Besides the Sun shall Hesperus direct,  
And show what from his Power you may expect;  
If from the South it blows, a Rainy Sky,  
Or from what Quarter drier Vapours fly;  
And who dares give the source of Light the lie?  
Besides all these the Sun ofttimes declares  
Murders, Seditions, Tumults, Treasons, Wars.  
He, pitying Rome, when mighty Caesar's Blood  
By murdering Hands was shed; within a Cloud  
Of Iron hue did all his Luster shroud:  
Hid from ungrateful Men his Heavenly Light,  
That impious Age feared an Eternal Night.  
These Wounds even hurt the Sea, made Earth to bleed,  
Dogs, and ill-boding Birds, foretold the deed.  
How oft from Aetna's thundering Caverns came  
Vast Globes of Fire, and Subterranean Flame,  
From its torn Entrails fiery Torrents soar  
Of melted Rock, and make the Clouds their Shoar  
Clanging of Arms all round the Germane Air,  
Amazed their stubborn Hearts with Ghastly Fear.  
The frozen Alps a dreadful Earthquake moves,  
Loud Cries were heard in sacred silent Groves.  
Pale Ghosts and Spectres with surprising fright  
Were seen to walk, through gloomy shades of Night.  
What's more prodigious, Beasts like Men brought forth  
A human Voice, then yawned the gaping Earth,  
The Rivers stopped, the Statues of the Gods  
(Of Ivory) for Grief wept Briny Floods.  
Cold Sweat in drops from Holy Altars fell.  
Above his Banks Po's raging Waters swell;  
He o'er the Fields with boundless Fury strayed,  
And Flocks and Houses to the Sea conveyed.  
In every Victim some Portent appeared,  
Blood sprang in Wells, by Night the Wolves were heard  
Howling in Towns. Almighty Jove from high  
ne'er threw such Lightnings through an azure Sky;  
Such Thunder ne'er was heard, nor ever seen  
So many, and so dreadful Comets shine.  
Then cursed Philippi's Fields saw once again  
Pile against Pile, by Romans Romans slain.  
For to the Powers Immortal it seemed just,  
That Roman Blood twice stained Pharsalian dust.  
The time shall come, that the laborious Swain  
Shall Plough up rusty Piles in Haemus' Plain,  
And when void Casques are by his Harrow raised,  
To view Gygantick Bones shall stand amazed.  
O Roman Gods! (who once were Mortal) hear;  
Great Mother Vesta to our Prayers give Ear:  
You who defend the Roman State and towers,  
You who protect Etrurian Tyber's Shores;  
O do not then your mighty Power engage,  
To hinder Caesar to relieve the Age.  
Too oft, alas! have Romans been undone,  
For perjured falsehood of Laomedon.  
Caesar the Gods your absence long complain,  
And envy Mortals your Triumphant Reign:  
Since Force, and Treason, Just, and Right confound,  
And o'er the Globe, Blood, War, and Rapine sound,  
And Villainy in all its Shapes is Crowned.  
Now surly Ploughman Ceres' Garlands scorn,  
For Wreaths of Laurel must their Brows adorn;  
The bending Sythes to killing Fauchion's turn.  
Euphrates and the Rhine with Warlike Ardour burn,  
And Neighbouring Cities War, (all Treaties broke)  
And Cruel Mars Triumphs in Blood and Smoak.  
Thus in the Lists four fiery Steeds appear,  
And spring with Fury through the vast Carrier,  
And force along th' unwilling Chariotier;  
In vain he pulls, they scour the dusty Plain,  
They know no check, and mock the Kerbing Rein.   

Jupiter and Europa: FROM THE FORTH BOOK OF OVID Metamorphoses.  By Ste. Harvey, Esquire. 

SO sweet the Joys by Love and Beauty given,  
They draw down Gods from their neglected Heaven;  
Even Jove himself, the Sovereign of the Skies,  
Saw brighter Glories in Europa's Eyes;  
He saw, he loved, and looked with wonder down,  
On Darts of Lightning, keener than his own;  
With all his Clouds he could not quench the Fire,  
And thus enjoined the God of his desire.   

See'st thou on Sydon Hills yon Cattle feed?  
Descend, Cyllenius, with thy swiftest speed,  
Nigh to the Shoar the thoughtless Herd convey  
(Great business waits on this Important Day:)  
Already the winged Messenger was there,  
And faithfully had laid the fatal Snare:  
That Shoar it was, where oft this Royal Maid  
With Tyrian Virgins, her Companions, played;  
Secure she played, and safe from human Spies,  
But who could shield her from Immortal Eyes!  
Jove watched the time, and Love had formed a Thought  
Well weighed, and fitted to the Ends he sought;  
Love's Laws Complacency, and Freedom claim,  
Distance and State keep down the rising Flame;  
And Jove his awful Being must disguise  
In less than human Form, to gain the Prize;  
'Twas done; this dreadful, this avenging God,  
Who shakes the trembling World at every Nod;  
(So far th' engaging force of Love extends)  
Put off his Godhead, and a Bull descends;  
Unseen he light on the smooth Flowery Plain,  
Near the fair Princess, who had caused his Pain;  
His Hair was whiter than untrodden Snow,  
A gentle sweetness dwelled upon his Brow;  
A Charming Grace his every part adorns,  
And shining Glories played about his Horns:  
No fierceness there; for through the strange disguise  
He viewed Europa with a Lover's Eyes;  
Her bright Companions fled, but she would stay,  
With each repeated Look her fears decay;  
And Fate with Love conspired, the Virgin to betray.  
A Bribe she proffered of the choicest Flowers,  
Which happy He with eager Joy devours;  
And from her Hands, as he received the Bliss,  
Blessed that Occasion to return a Kiss;  
A melting Kiss, which might the Mistress warm,  
Had it been given her in a human Form:  
Impetuous Fires now struggled in his Breast,  
And hardly, hardly he forbore the rest;  
Success in Love is ushered by delight▪  
Nimbly he frisks and dances in her sight;  
Then gently rolled on the soft Golden Sand,  
Yielding his Breast to her officious Hand:  
Fonder she grows, blind to her ruin led,  
And Weaves fresh Garlands to adorn his Head;  
Kneeling he took these Favours from the Fair  
(So humble and so meek expecting Lovers are.)  
Now on his back her busy Hand she laid,  
Which gently born, down sat the hapless Maid;  
With his Rich burden, the impatient God  
Now risen, and through the gazing Herd she road;  
Thus to the Sea advancing by degrees,  
First dips his Hoofs, then ventured to his Knees;  
And now no longer could his Joy delay  
Plunged in the deep, and bore the trembling Prize away.    

Patroclus' Request TO ACHILLES For his Arms. Imitated from the Beginning of the 16 Iliad of Homer.  By Mr. THO. YALDEN. 

DIvine Achilles, with Compassion moved,  
Thus to Patroclus spoke, his best beloved.   

Why like a tender Girl dost thou complain!  
That strives to reach the Mother's Breast in vain:  
Mourns by her side, her Knees embraces fast,  
Hangs on her Robes, and interrupts her haste;  
Yet when with fondness to her Arms she's raised,  
Still Mourns, and Weeps, and will not be appeased?  
Thus my Patroclus in his Grief appears,  
Thus like a froward Girl profuse of Tears.   

From Pthia dost thou Mournful tidings hear,  
And to thy Friend some fatal Message bear?  
Thy Valiant Father (if we Fame believe,)  
The good Menaetius he is yet alive:  
And Peleus, tho' in his declining days,  
Reigns o'er his Myrmidons in Health and Peace;  
Yet, as their latest Obsequies we paid,  
Thou Mournest them living, as already dead.  
Or thus with Tears the Grecian Host deplore,  
That with their Navy perish on the Shore:  
And with Compassion their Misfortune's view,  
The just Reward to Gild and Falsehood due;  
Impartial Heaven avenges thus my Wrong,  
Nor suffers Crimes to go unpunished long.  
Reveal the Cause so much afflicts thy Mind,  
Nor thus conceal thy Sorrows from thy Friend?   

When, gently raising up his drooping Head,  
Thus, with a Sigh, the sad Patroclus said.   

Godlike Achilles, Peleus' valiant Son!  
Of all our Chiefs, the greatest in Renown:  
Upbraid not thus th' afflicted with their Woes,  
Nor Triumph now the Greeks sustain such loss!  
To pity let thy generous Breast incline,  
And show thy Mind is, like thy Birth, Divine,  
For all the valiant Leaders of their Host,  
Or Wounded lie, or are in Battle lost.  
Ulysses' great in Arms, and Diomedes,  
Languish with Wounds, and in the Navy bleed▪  
This common Fate great Agamemnon shares,  
And stern Euripylus, renowned in Wars.  
Whilst powerful Drugs th' experienced Artists try,  
And to their Wounds apt Remedies apply:  
Easing th' afflicted Heroes with their skill,  
Thy Breast alone remains implacable!   

What, will thy Fury thus for ever last!  
Let present Woes atone for Injury past:  
How can thy Soul retain such lasting hate!  
Thy Virtues are as useless, as they're great.  
What injured Friend from thee shall hope redress!  
That will not aid the Greeks in such distress:  
Useless is all the Valour that you boast,  
Deformed with Rage, with sullen Fury lost.   

Can Cruelty like thine from Peleus come,  
Or be the Offspring of fair Thetis Womb!  
Thee raging Seas, thee boisterous Waves brought forth,  
And to obdurate Rocks thou ow'st thy Birth!  
Thy stoubborn Nature still retains their Kind,  
So hard thy Heart, so savage is thy Mind.   

But if thy boding Breast admits of fear,  
Or dreads what sacred Oracles declare!  
What awful Thetis in the Courts above,  
Received from the unerring Mouth of Jove!  
If so— Let me the threatening Dangers face,  
And Head the Warlike Squadrons in thy place:  
Whilst me thy valiant Myrmidons obey,  
We yet may turn the Fortune of the day.  
Let me in thy distinguished Arms appear,  
With all thy dreadful Equipage of War:  
That when the Trojans our approaches view,  
Deceived, they shall retreat, and think 'tis you.   

Thus from the rage of an insulting Host,  
We may retrieve that Fame the Greeks have lost.  
Vigorous, and fresh, th' unequal Fight renew,  
And from our Navy force the drooping Foe;  
O'er harras'd Men an easy Conquest gain,  
And drive the Trojans to their Walls again.    

A SONG. By—  

MAY the Ambitious ever find  
Success in Crowds and Noise,  
While gentle Love does fill my Mind  
With silent real Joys.   

2.  
May Knaves and Fools grow Rich and Great,  
And the World think 'em wise;  
While I lie dying at her Feet,  
And all that World despise.   

3.  
Let Conquering Kings new Triumphs raise,  
And melt in Court Delights:  
Her Eyes can give much brighter days,  
Her Arms much softer Nights.    

AN Epistle to Mr. B—  By Mr. Fr. Knapp, of Magdalen College in Oxford. 
Dear Friend,  

I Hear that you, of late, are grown  
One of those squeamish Critics of the Town,  
That think they have a Licence to abuse  
Each honest Author, that pretends to Muse.  
But be advised; why should you spend your time  
In Heath'nish satire, 'cause a Fool will Rhyme?  
Poor harmless W—ly! let him write again,  
Be pitied in his old Heroic Strain;  
Let him in Reams proclaim himself a Dunce,  
And break a dozen Stationers at once.  
What is't to you? Why should you take't amiss  
If Grubstreet's stocked with Tenants, if the Press  
Is hugely plied, and labours to produce  
Some mighty Folio, for the Chandler's use?  
Let Grubstreet scribble on, nor need you care  
Tho' every Garret held a Poet there.   

You know, that are acquainted with the Town,  
How the poor Tribe are worried up and down:  
How pensively the hungry Authors sit,  
And, in their upper Regions, strain for Wit.  
Such a poor tattered Small-Beer Herd they're grown,  
That scarce an Author from his Hawker's known:  
No jolly Carbuncle through all the Race  
Appears, to justify a Poet's Face.  
This a sufficient Penance seems to me  
For H— den's Droll, or S— tle's Tragedy.  
Is't not enough to starve for Writing ill,  
That they ne'er Dine, but when they Smoke a Meal;  
That their Works only serve to wipe, or twine  
A Candle, or some feeble Bandbox line?  
Consider, and let Charity prevail,  
What Christian Critic can have heart to Rail  
At such poor Rogues as these? Besides you know  
A true staunch Poet can't Reform, what tho'  
His Works have furnished a Lampoon or two?  
They that have once in Print proclaimed their Name,  
Are senseless all of Justice, as of Shame,  
And none but Stationers should Rail at Them.  
Had e'er the Lewdest of 'em all the Grace  
Or Conscience, to Repent of making Verse?  
For other Sins they feel Remorse sometimes,  
But sure no Poet e'er had Qualms for Rhimes;  
Alas! no wholesome Counsel can be used  
By a poor hardened Wretch, when once Bemused:  
Then done't inhumanly your Pains misspend  
On Reprobates, that you can never mend.   

Had we a Parliament disposed to lay  
A Tax on Metre, or invent some way,  
In Grand Committee called, to regulate  
This among other Grievances of State;  
Then you might hope to hear an Act would pass  
To limit all this Hackney jingling Race,  
And order some Commissioners to find  
Which way their Genius chief is inclined,  
See how it stands affected to a Muse,  
And as their Talents lie their Business choose.  
When a poor Thief to Tyburn's drawn, to be  
There made a Pendulum for Gallow Tree,  
Let D D —y then his woeful Exit sing,  
And with, Good People all give ear, begin.  
In gentle Ditty tenderly relate  
The inconvenience of his sudden Fate.  
Nor must judicious R— r be forgot,  
Let him for Madrigals compose a Plot.  
Let Jonny C— n in mild Acrostics deal,  
His wondrous Skill in Anagram reveal;  
Let him in pretty Verse describe his Flame,  
And edge his Sonnet with his Mistress Name;  
Stop Thief the Warbling Music shall prolong,  
Stop Thief shall be the Burden of the Song.  
And R— r too (for he above the rest  
Is richly with a double Talon blest,)  
Let him, for deep Reflections long renowned,  
Be lawful Critic through all Grubstreet owned,  
To be the Judge of each Suburban Lay,  
If their Acrostics all the Rules obey,  
Composed according to the Ancient way;  
●f Felon does with as much decence swing  
In Metre, as he did before in String.   

I grant you such a Course as this might do,  
To make 'em humbly Treat of what they know,  
Not venturing further than their Brains will go.  
But what should I do then, for ever spoiled  
Of this Diversion which frail Authors yield?  
I should no more on D— n Counter meet  
Bards that are deeply skilled in Rhyme and Feet;  
For I am Charmed with easy Nonsense more,  
Than all the Wit that Men of Sense adore:  
With fear I view Great Dryden's hallowed Page,  
With fear I view it, and I read with Rage.  
I'm all with Fear, with Grief, with Love possessed,  
Tears in my Eyes, and Anguish in my Breast;  
While I with Mourning Antony repine▪  
And all the Hero's Miseries are mine.  
If I read Edgar, than my Soul's at peace,  
Lulled in a lazy state of thoughtless ease.  
No Passion's ruffled by the peaceful Lay▪  
No Stream, no Depth, to hurry me away;  
R— r in both Professions harmless proves;  
Nor Wounds when Critic, nor when Poet moves:   

But you condemn such lifeless Poetry,  
And wildly talk of nothing else to me  
But Spirit, Flame, Rapture, and Ecstasy;  
Strange Mystic things, I understand no more  
Than Laity Pax Tecum did of Yore.  
Therefore pray pardon, if I rail at Sense▪  
And plead for Blockheads in my own defence;  
For whom I have a thousand things to say,  
Which you must wait for till another day.  
Forgive me if I'm too abrupt, you know  
I never was Methodical like you;  
I have no Rule to make an end but one,  
For when my Paper's out, my Letter's done.  
So once Lay-vicars', in the Days of Noll,  
When saintly Peter did in Pulpits droll;  
By Hourglass set their Sermons, and the Flock  
Might safely snore in spite of Zealous Knock;  
Till the last kind releasing Sand was run,  
But when the Glass was out, the Cant was done.    

To MYRA.  
A great Flood having destroyed the Fruits of the Ground, and the Corn every where in her Neighbourhood, but upon her own Land.  By Mr. George Granville. 
WHat Hands Divine have planted and protect,  
The Torrent spares, and Deluges respect;  
So when the Water o'er the World were spread,  
Covering the Oaks, and every Mountain's Head;  
The chosen Noah sailed within his Ark,  
Nor durst the Waves overwhelm the Sacred Bark.  
The Charming Myra is no less we find  
The Favourite of Heaven, than of Mankind,  
The Gods like Rivals, imitate our care,  
And vie with Mortals to oblige the Fair;  
These Favours thus bestowed on her alone,  
Are but the Homage which they sent her down.  
Oh Myra, may thy Virtue from above  
Be Crowned with Blessings, endless as my Love.   

SONG.  By Mr. George Granville. 

IMpatient with desire, at last  
— I ventured to lay Forms aside,  
'Twas I was Modest, not she chaste,  
The Nymph as soon as asked complied.   

With Amorous awe, a silent Fool,  
I gazed upon her Eyes with fear,  
Speak Love, how came your Slave so dull  
To Read no better there?   

Thus, to ourselves the greatest Foes,  
Although the Fair be well inclined,  
For want of Courage to propose,  
By our own folly, she's unkind.    

A Short VISIT.  

1.  
SO the long absent Winter-Sun,  
— When of the Cold we most complain,  
Comes slow, but swift away does run;  
Just shows the Day, and sets again.   

2.  
So the prime Beauty of the Spring,  
The Virgin Lilly, works our Eyes;  
No sooner blown, but the gay thing  
Steals from th' Admirers sight, and dies.   

3.  
The gaudy Sweets o'th' Infant Year,  
That ravish both the smell, and view,  
Do thus, deceitfully appear,  
And fade as soon as smelled unto.   

4.  
Aminta; tho' she be more Fair  
Than untouched Lillys, chaste as those;  
Welcome as Suns in Winter are,  
And sweeter than the blowing Rose.   

5.  
Yet when she brought, as late she did,  
All that a dying Heart could ease,  
And by her swift return forbidden  
The Joys to last, she's too like these.   

6.  
Ah Tyrant Beauty! do you thus  
Increase our Joy to make it less?  
And do you only show to us  
A Heaven, without design to bless?   

7.  
This was unmercifully kind,  
And all our Bliss too dear has cost:  
For is it not a Hell to find  
We had a Paradise that's lost?    

A Copy of Verses Written by Mr. Edmund Waller, above Forty Years since, and never Printed in any Edition of his Poetry.  

1.  
CLoris farewell; I now must go:  
For if with thee I longer stay,  
Thy Eyes prevail upon me so,  
I shall prove Blind, and lose my way.   

2.  
Fame of thy Beauty, and thy Youth,  
Among the rest, me hither brought:  
Finding this Fame fall short of truth,  
Made me stay longer than I thought.   

3.  
For I'm engaged by Word, and Oath,  
A Servant to another's Will;  
Yet, for thy Love, would forfeit both,  
Could I be sure to keep it still.   

4.  
But what assurance can I take?  
When thou, foreknowing this abuse,  
For some more worthy Lover's sake,  
May'st leave me with so just excuse.   

5.  
For thou may'st say 'twas not thy fault  
That thou didst thus inconstant prove,  
Being by my Example taught  
To break thy Oath, to mend thy Love.   

6.  
No Cloris, no; I will return,  
And raise thy Story to that height,  
That Strangers shall at distance burn,  
And she distrust me Reprobate.   

7.  
Then shall my Love this doubt displace,  
And gain such trust that I may come  
And banquet sometimes on thy Face,  
But make my constant Meals at home.    

CUPID's Pastime.  By Sidney Godolphin, Esquire. 

1.  
IT chanced of late a Shepherd Swain,  
That went to seek his wandered Sheep,  
Within a thicket, on a Plain,  
Espied a dainty Nymph asleep.   

2.  
Her Golden Hair o'erspread her Face,  
Her careless Arms abroad were cast;  
Her Quiver had her Pillows place,  
Her Breast lay bare to every Blast.   

3.  
The Shepherd stood and gazed his fill;  
Nought durst he do, nought durst he say:  
While Chance, or else perhaps his will,  
Guided the God of Love that way.   

4.  
The crafty Boy thus sees her sleep,  
Whom if she waked he durst not see▪  
Behind her closely seeks to creep,  
Before her Knap should ended be.   

5.  
There come, he steals her Shafts away,  
And put his own into their place:  
Nor dares he any longer stay,  
But, ere she wakes, hies thence apace.   

6.  
Scarce was he gone, but she awakes;  
And spies the Shepherd gazing by.  
Her bended Bow in haste she takes,  
And at the simple Swain let's fly.   

7.  
Forth flew the Shaft and pierced his Heart,  
That to the Ground he fell, with pain:  
Yet soon he up again did start,  
And to the Nymph he ran amain.   

8.  
Amazed to see so strange a sight,  
She Shot, and Shot, but all in vain:  
The more his Wounds, the more his might,  
Love yielding Strength amidst his Pain.   

9  
Her angry Eyes were big with Tears;  
She blames her Hand, she blames her Skill;  
The bluntness of her Shafts she fears,  
And try them on herself she will.   

10.  
Take heed, fair Nymph, try not thy Shaft,  
Each little touch will pierce thy Heart.  
Alas thou knowst not Cupid's craft,  
Revenge is Joy, the end is Smart.   

11.  
Yet she will try, and pierce some bare:  
Her Hands were gloved, but next to hand  
Was that fair Breast, that Breast so rare  
That made the Shepherd senseless stand.   

12.  
That Breast she pierced, and through that Breast,  
Love found an entry to her Heart:  
At feeling of this new-come Guest,  
Lord, how this gentle Nymph did start.   

13.  
She runs not now, she Shoots no more:  
Away she throws both Shaft and Bow,  
She seeks for what she shunned before,  
She thinks the Shepherd's haste too slow.   

14.  
Though Mountains meet not, Lovers may;  
What others did▪ just so did they.  
The God of Love sat on a Tree,  
And laughed, the pleasing sight to see.    

FOR THE NEW YEAR: TO THE SUN. INTENDED To be Sung before Their Majesties on New-Years Day. 1693-94.  Written by Mr. Prior at the Hague. 

LIght of the World, and Ruler of the Year,  
With happy Speed begin thy great Career;  
And as the Radiant Journey's run  
Where e'er thy Beams are spread, where e'er thy  
Power is known,  
Through all the distant Nations own,  
That in Fair Albion thou hast seen  
The Greatest Prince, the Brightest Queen,  
That ever Saved a People, ever Graced a Throne.   

So may Thy Godhead be confessed,  
So the returning Year be Blest,  
As its Infant Months bestow  
Springing Wreaths for William's Brow;  
As its Summer's Youth shall shed  
Eternal Sweets round Mary's Head:  
From the Blessings They shall know,  
Our Times are Dated, and our Aeras move,  
They Govern, and Enlighten all below  
As Thou dost all above.   

Let our Hero in the War  
Active and Fierce like Thee, appear;  
Like Thee, Great Son of Jove, like Thee,  
When clad in rising Majesty  
Thou Marchest down o'er Delos Hills confessed,  
With all thy Arrows Armed, with all thy Glory Dressed.  
Like Thee, the Hero, does his Arms employ,  
The raging Python to destroy,  
Cho. And give the injured Nations Peace and Joy.   

From Ancient Times Historic Stores  
Gather all the smiling Hours,  
All that with Friendly Care have guarded  
Patriots and Kings in Rightful Wars,  
All that with Conquest have rewarded  
His Great Forefathers Pious Cares,  
All that Story have Recorded  
Sacred to Nassau's long Renown,  
For Countries Sacked and Battles Won.  
Cho. March Them again in fair Array,  
And bid Them form the Happy Day,  
The Happy Day designed to wait  
On William 's Fame, and Europe 's Fate,  
Let the Happy Day be Crowned  
With great Event and fair Success,  
No brighter in the Year be found,  
But that which brings the Victor home in Peace.   

Again Thy Godhead we implore,  
(Great in Wisdom as in Power)  
Again for Mary's sake and ours,  
Choose out other smiling Hours,  
Such as with lucky Wings have fled  
When Happy Counsels were advising,  
Such as have glad Omens shed  
O'er forming Laws and Empires rising;  
Such as many Lustres ran  
Hand in Hand a goodly Train,  
To bless the Great Eliza's Reign,  
And in the Typic Glory show  
The fuller Bliss which Mary should bestow.   

As the Graver Hours advance,  
Mingled send into the Dance,  
Many fraught with all the Treasures  
Which the Eastern Travel views,  
Many winged with all the Pleasure's  
Man can ask, or Heaven diffuse.  
To ease the Cares which for her Subject's sake  
The Pious Queen does with glad Patience take▪  
Cho. To let Her all the Blessings know  
Which from those Cares upon Her Subjects flow.   

For Thy own Glory Sing our sovereign's Praise  
(God of Verses and of Days)  
Let all Thy Tuneful Sons adorn  
Their lasting Work with William's Name,  
Let chosen Muses yet unborn  
Take Mary's Goodness for their Theme:  
Eternal Structures let Them raise  
On William's and on Mary's Praise,  
Nor want new Subjects for the Song,  
Nor fear They can exhaust the Store,  
Till Nature's Music lies unstrung,  
Till Thou shalt shine no more.    

The DUEL.  By Henry Savil, Esquire. Written soon after the Duel of the Staggs. 
IN Milford-Lane, near to St. Clement's Steeple,  
There lived a Nymph, kind to all Christian People.  
A Nymph she was, whose comely Mean and Feature  
Did Wound the Heart of every Manlike Creature.  
Under her Beauteous Bosom there did lie  
A Belly smooth as any Ivory.  
Yet Nature, to declare her various Art,  
Had placed a Tuft in one convenient part.  
No Park, with smoothest Lawn, and highest Wood,  
Can e'er compare with this admired abode;  
Here all the Youth of England did repair,  
To take their Pleasure, and to ease their Care.  
Here the Distressed Lover, that had born  
His haughty Mistress Anger, or her Scorn,  
Came for Relief, and, on this pleasant Shade,  
Forgot the former, and this Lass obeyed.  
But yet what corner of the World is found,  
Where Pain our Pleasure doth not still surround?  
One would have thought that in this shady Grove,  
Nought could have dwelled but quiet Peace, and Love;  
But Heaven directed otherwise, for here  
In midst of plenty Bloody Wars appear.  
The Gods will frown wherever they do smile;  
The Crocodile infests the fertile Nile:  
Lions, and Tigers, in the Lesbian Plains,  
Forbidden all Pleasures to the fearful Swains.  
Wild Beasts in Forests do the Hunter's fright,  
They fear their ruin, midst of their delight.  
Thus, in the Shade of this dark silent Bower,  
Strength strives with Strength, and Power does vie with Power.  
Two mighty Monsters did the Wood infest,  
And struck such awe and terror in the rest;  
That no Sicilian Tyrant e'er could boast  
He e'er with greater vigour ruled the roast.  
Each had his Empire which he kept in awe,  
Was by his Will obeyed; allowed not Law.  
Nature so well divided had their States,  
Nought but Ambition could have claimed their Seats.  
For 'twixt their Empires stood a Briny Lake,  
Deep as the Poet's do the Centre make.  
But here Ambition will admit no Bounds,  
There are no Limits to aspiring Crowns.  
The Spaniard, by his Europe Conquests bold,  
Sails o'er the Ocean for the Indian Gold.  
The Carthaginian Hero did not stay  
Because he met vast Mountains in his way.  
He passed the Alps, like Molehills, such a mind  
As thinks on Conquests will be unconfined.  
Both with these haughty Thoughts one course do bend,  
To try if this vast Lake had any end;  
Where finding Countries yet without a Name,  
They might by Conquest get eternal Fame:  
After long Marches, both their Armies tired,  
At length they find the place so much admired.  
When, in a little time, each doth descry  
The glimpse of an approaching Enemy:  
Each at the sight with equal Pleasure move,  
As we should do in well rewarded Love.  
Bloodthirsty Souls, whose only perfect joy  
Consists in what their Fury can destroy.  
And now both Armies do prepare to fight,  
And each the other unto War incite.  
In vain, alas! for all their force and strength  
Was now consumed by their Marches length;  
But the great Chiefs, impatient of delay,  
Resolve by single fight to try the Day.   

TO A Person of Honour: UPON HIS Incomprehensible Poems.  By— 
COme on you Critics, find one fault who dares,  
Or read it backwards, like a Witches Prayers,  
'Twill do as well; Throw not away your jests  
On solid Nonsense that abides all Tests.  
Wit, like Terse Claret, when't gins to pall,  
Neglected lies, and's of no use at all:  
But in its full perfection of decay  
Turns Vinegar, and comes again in play.  
Thou hast a Brain, such as it is indeed,  
Or what else should thy Worm of fancy feed!  
Yet in a filbert I have often known  
Maggots survive, when all the Kernel's gone.  
This Simile shall stand in thy defence,  
Against those dull Rogues that now and then write Sense.  
Thy Wit's the same, whatever be thy Theme,  
As some digestions turn all Meat to Pnlegn.  
They lie, dear Ned, that say thy Brain is barren,  
Where deep Conceits like Maggots breed in Carrion;  
Thy stumbling foundered Muse can troth as high  
As any other Pegasus can fly.  
So the dull Eel moves nimbler in the Mud,  
Than all the swift Finned Racers of the Flood.  
As skilful Divers to the bottom fall  
Sooner than those who cannot swim at all;  
So in this way of Writing, without thinking,  
Thou hast a strange agility in sinking.  
Thou writest below even thy own Natural parts,  
And with acquired dulness and new Arts  
Of Nonsense, seisest on kind Readers Hearts.  
Therefore, dear Rogue, at my advice forbear  
Such loud Complaints against Critics to prefer,  
Since thou art turned an arrant Libeler.  
Thou sett'st thy hand to what thyself does write,  
Did ever Libel yet more sharply by't.   

Upon the same.  
THou damned Antipodes to Common Sense,  
Thou Foil to Fleckno, prithee tell from whence  
Does all this mighty Stock of dullness spring.?  
Is it thy own, or hast it from Snow-Hill,  
Assisted by some ballad-making Quill?  
No, they fly higher yet, thy Plays are such  
I'd swear they were Translated out of Dutch.  
Fain would I know what Diet thou dost keep,  
If thou dost always, or dost never sleep?  
Sure Hasty-Pudding is thy chiefest Dish,  
With Bullocks Liver, or some stinking Fish:  
Garbage, Oxcheeks, and Tripes, do feast thy Brain,  
Which nobly pays this Tribute back again.  
With Dazy Roots thy Dwarfish Muse is fed,  
A Giant's Body with a Pigmy's head.  
Canst thou not find among thy numerous Race  
Of Kindred, one to tell thee, that thy Plays  
Are laughed at by the Pit, Box, Galleries, nay, Stage?  
Think on't a while, and thou wilt quickly find  
Thy Body made for Labour, not thy Mind.  
No other use of Paper thou shouldst make,  
Than carrying Loads and Reams upon thy back.  
Carry vast Burdens till thy Shoulders shrink,  
But Cursed be he that gives thee Pen and Ink.  
Such dangerous Weapons should be heaped from Fools,  
As Nurses from their Children keep edge-Tools.  
For thy dull Fancy a Muckender is fit  
To wipe the Slabberings of thy Snotty Wit;  
And though 'tis late, if Justice could be found,  
Thy Plays like blind-born Puppies should be drowned:  
For were it not that we respect afford  
Unto the Son of an Heroic Lord,  
Thine in the Ducking-Stool should take her seat,  
Dressed like herself in a great Chair of State;  
Where, like a Muse of Quality she'd die,  
And thou thyself shalt make her Elegy,  
In the same strain thou writ'st thy Comedy.   

Upon the same.  

AS when a Bully draws his Sword,  
Tho' no Man gives him a cross word;  
And all Persuasions are in vain,  
To make him put it up again:  
Each Man draws too, and falls upon him:  
Even so, dear Ned, thy desperate Pen  
No less disturbs all Witty Men,  
And makes them wonder what a Devil  
Provokes Thee to be so uncivil.  
When thou, and all thy Friends must know 'em,  
Thou yet wilt dare to Print thy Poem.   

That poor Cur's Fate and thine, are one  
Who has his Tail Peged in a Bone;  
About he runs, no body'l own him,  
Men, Boys, and Dogs; are all upon him:  
And first the greater Wits were at thee,  
Now every little Fool will pat thee.  
Fellows that ne'er were heard, or read of,  
If thou writ'st on, will write thy Head off.   

Thus Mastiffs only have a knack,  
To cast the Bear upon his back;  
But when th' unwieldy Beast is thrown,  
Mongrels will serve to keep him down.    

TRANSLATED FROM Seneca's Troas. Act. 2. Chorus.  By Mr. Glanvill. Verum est? & timidos fabula decipit? 

IS't True that Souls their Bodies do survive?  
Or does a Flame that timorous World deceive?  
When some dear Friend our dying Eyes has closed,  
And Life's last Day, Death's endless Night imposed;  
When the eased Corpse, like an o're-jaded Slave  
At length set free, lies quiet in the Grave;  
Were it not wise the Soul too to Entomb!  
But must we still endure Life's wretched Doom?  
Or happier do we die entire and whole,  
Leave no continuing Relict of a Soul?  
But when the vital Vapour of our Breath  
Gasped into Air, is lost in Clouds and Death,  
We're gone, and all that was of us before  
To any thing of Life is then no more?  
Yes, thus we Perish, and thus undergo  
Th' approaching Lot of all things here below.  
Time flies, and all the Sea or Sun goes round  
With sure and quick destruction shall confound.  
Swift as above the Stars, and Moon, and Sun,  
In hurrying Orbs their hasty Courses run;  
We Post to Fate, nor when we disappear  
Are we, or ever shall be, any where.  
As short-lived Smoke, ascending from the Flame,  
Hovers, dissolves, and ne'er shall be again.  
As gathered Clouds by scattering Blasts disjoined,  
Disperse and fly before the Hostile Wind:  
So that thin fleeting thing Life passes o'er,  
So flows our Spirit out, and then's no more.   

After Death's Nothing; Death itself is nought,  
Th' extremest Bound of a short Race of Thought.  
Let Slaves and Fools their Fears and Hopes give o'er,  
Solicit and delude themselves no more.  
Would you know where you shall be after Death?  
There, where you were before you sucked in Breath.  
The Dead and the unborn are just the same,  
The Dead returning whence the Living came.  
Time takes us whole, throws all into the Grave;  
Death will no more the Soul than Body save.  
For Hell and the damned Fiend that Lords it there,  
With all the Torments we so vainly fear,  
Are empty Rumours, Melancholy Whims,  
Fantastic Notions, idle, frightful Dreams.    

Horace B. I. Ode XIII  
Cum Tu, Lydia, Telephi, etc.  By Mr. Glanvill. 

1.  
WHen happy Strephon's too prevailing Charms,  
His rosy Neck, and his soft waxed Arms,  
Inhuman Lydia wantonly you praise,  
How cruelly my Jealous Spleen you raise!  
Anger boils up in my hot labouring Breast,  
Not to be hid, and less to be suppressed.   

2  
Then 'twixt the Rage, the Fondness, and the Shame,  
Nor Speech, nor Thoughts, nor Looks remain the same.  
Fickle as my Mind my various Colour shows,  
And with my Tide of Passion Ebbs and Flows:  
Tears stealing fall distilled by soft Desire,  
To show the melting slowness of the Fire.   

3  
Ah! when I see that livid Neck betray  
The drunken Youth's too rudely Wanton Play;  
When on those passive Lips the marks I find  
Of frantic boiling Kisses left behind;  
I rave to think these cruel Tokens show  
Things I cannot mistake, and would not know.   

4  
How fond's the Hope, how foolish and how vain,  
Of lasting Love from the ungrateful Swain!  
Who that soft Lip so roughly can invade?  
Hurting with cruel Joy the tender Maid.  
Quickly they're glutted who so fierce devour;  
They suck the Nectar, and throw by the Flower.   

5  
But oh thrice happy they that equal move  
In an unbroken Yoke of faithful Love!  
Whom no Complaint, no Srife, no Jealousy  
Sets from their gentle, grateful Bondage free;  
But still they dear fast mutual Slaves remain,  
Till unkind Death breaks the unwilling Chain.    

Horace B. 1 Ode XXIII.  By Mr. Glanvill. Vitas Hinnuleo me similis Chloe. 

WHen, Chloe, by your Slave pursued,  
Why should you fly so fast?  
So the strayed Fawn i'th' pathless Wood  
To her lost Dam makes haste.   

Each Noise Alarms, and all things add  
New Terror to her Fear;  
She starts at every Dancing shade,  
Each Breath of singing Air.   

With every Leaf, each Bush that shakes,  
Throughout the murmuring Grove;  
Her Sympathetick Heart partakes,  
She trembles as they move.   

Fond Maid, unlike the Wolf and Boar,  
I Hunt not to destroy;  
My utmost Prey would be no more  
Than you might give with Joy.   

Urged on by soft and gentle Love,  
I harmlessly pursue,  
Your Flight to me may Cruel prove,  
But not my Chase to you.   

Cease idle Dreams of fancied Harms,  
To Childish Fears Trapanns;  
Leave running to thy Mother's Arms  
Who now art fit for Man's.    

B. II. Ode XII. Nolis longa feroe Bella Numantioe, etc.  By Mr. Glanvill. 

URge me no more to Writ of Martial things,  
Of fight Heroes, and of conquering Kings:  
Our brave Forefathers Glory to advance,  
Show subdued Ireland, and sing vanquished France;  
Tell how Spain's Blood the British Ocean swelled,  
With Shame Invading, and with more Repelled.  
No, these high Themes of the Heroic strain  
Suit ill with my low feeble Vein:  
To equal Numbers I'd in vain aspire,  
How should I make a Trumpet of a Lyre?  
Much less dare I, in an unhallowed Strain,  
Great Nassau's Wars and Victories Profane.  
You better may in lasting Prose rehearse  
Things which defy my humble Verse.  
'Tis a fond think to think to reconcile  
Such Glorious Actions with so mean a Style.   

2.  
Me fair Lycinnia's softer Praise,  
Her Native Charms, and winning ways,  
The Muse ordained to sing in gentle Lays.  
Me the sweet Song, which Siren's Art defies,  
Me the serenely shining Eyes,  
And, above all, the generous grateful Heart  
True to the mutual Love, and faithful to its part.  
Lycinnia whose becoming Dance  
With Airy motion does Love's fire advance,  
Whose wanton Wit wild as her Eyes  
The tickled Mind does pleasantly surprise;  
Whose various Arts all our lose Powers Alarm,  
A Grace each Action, and each word's a Charm.   

3.  
Ah! when her willing Head she greatly bends,  
And fragrant Kisses Languishingly lends:  
When with fond artful Coyness she denys,  
More glad to lose, than we to win the Prize,  
Or when the Wanton in a Toying Vein  
Snatches the Kiss from the prevented Swain;  
Would you then give one Bracelet of her Hair  
For the poor Crowns that Monarches wear?  
Would you exchange for all those favourite Isles  
The Sun laughs on, one of her pleasing Smiles?  
Would you for both the Indies Wealth decline,  
The hidden Treasures of her richer Mine?  
Not I, for such vain Toys I'd ne'er remove,  
My wealth, my Pomp, my Heaven should all be Love.    

AN ACCOUNT OF THE Greatest English Poets To Mr. H. S. Ap. 3d. 1694.  By Mr. Joseph Addison. 

SInce, Dearest, Harry, you will needs request  
A short Account of all the Muse possessed;  
That, down from Chaucer's days to Dryden's Times,  
Have spent their Noble Rage in British Rhimes;  
Without more Preface, wrote in Formal length,  
To speak the Undertakers want of strength,  
I'll try to make they're several Beauties known,  
And show their Verses worth, tho' not my Own.   

Long had our dull Forefathers slept Supine,  
Nor felt the Raptures of the Tuneful Nine;  
Till Chaucer first, a merry Bard, arose;  
And many a Story told in Rhyme and Prose.  
But Age has Rusted what the Poet writ,  
Worn out his Language, and obscured his Wit:  
In vain he jests in his unpolished strain,  
And tries to make his Readers laugh in vain.   

Old Spencer next, warmed with Poetic Rage,  
In Antic Tales amused a Barbarous Age;  
An Age that yet uncultivate and Rude,  
Where e'er the Poet's Fancy led, pursued  
Through pathless Fields, and unfrequented Floods,  
To Dens of Dragons, and Enchanted Woods.  
But now the Mystic Tale, that pleased of Yore,  
Can Charm an understanding Age no more;  
The long-spun Allegories fulsome grow,  
While the dull Moral lies too plain below.  
We view well-pleased at distance all the sights  
Of Arms and Palfreys, Cattels, Fields and Fights,  
And Damsels in Distress, and Courteous Knights.  
But when we look too near, the Shades decay,  
And all the pleasing Lanskip fades away.   

Great Cowley then (a mighty Genius) wrote;  
O'errun with Wit, and lavish of his Thought:  
His Turns too closely on the Reader press;  
He more had pleased us had he pleased us less.  
One glittering Thought no sooner strikes our Eyes  
With silent wonder, but new wonders rise.  
As in the Milky way a shining White,  
Overflows the heavens, with one continued Light;  
That not a single Star can show his Rays,  
Whilst jointly all promote the Common-Blaze.  
Pardon, Great Poet, that I dare to name  
Th' unnumbered Beauties of thy Verse with blame;  
Thy fault is only Wit in its Excess,  
But Wit like thine in any shape will please.  
What Muse but thine could equal Hints inspire;  
And fit the Deepmouthed Pindar to thy Lyre:  
Pindar, whom others in a Laboured strain,  
And forced Expression, imitate in vain?  
Well-pleased in thee he Soars with new delight,  
And Play's in more unbounded Verse, and takes a nobler flight.  
Blessed Man! who's spotless Life and Charming Lays  
Employed the Tuneful Prelate in thy Praise:  
Blessed Man! who now shall be for ever known,  
In Sprat's successful Labours and thy own.   

But Milton next, with high and haughty stalks,  
Unfettered in Majestic Number's walks;  
No vulgar Hero can his Muse engage;  
Nor Earth's wide Scene confine his hallowed Rage,  
See! see, he upward Springs, and Towering high  
Spurns the dull Province of Mortality;  
Shakes heavens Eternal Throne with dire Alarms,  
And sets the Almighty Thunderer in Arms.  
Whate'er his Pen describes I more than see,  
Whilst every Verse, arrayed in Majesty,  
Bold, and sublime, my whole attention draws,  
And seems above the Critics nicer Laws.  
How are you struck with Terror and Delight,  
When Angel with Archangel Cope's in Fight!  
When Great Messiah's out-spread Banner shines,  
How does the Chariot rattle in his Lines!  
What sounds of Brazen Wheels, what Thunder, soar,  
And stun the Reader with the Din of War!  
With fear my Spirits and my Blood retire  
To see the Seraphs sunk in Clouds of Fire;  
But when, with eager steps, from hence I rise,  
And view the first gay Scenes of Paradise;  
What Tongue, what words of Rapture can express  
A Vision so profuse of pleasantness.  
Oh had the Poet ne'er profaned his Pen▪  
To varnish o'er the Gild of Faithless Men;  
His other works might have deserved applause▪  
But now the Language can't support the Cause;  
While the clean Current, tho' serene and bright,  
Betray's a bottom odious to the sight.   

But now my Muse a softer strain rehearse.  
Turn every Line with Art, and smooth thy Verse;  
The Courtly Waller next Commands thy Lays,  
Muse Tune thy Verse, with Art, to Waller's Praise.  
While tender Airs and lovely Dames inspire  
Soft melting Thoughts, and propagate Desires;  
So long shall Waller's strains our Passion move,  
And Sacharissa's Beauties kindle Love.  
Thy Verse, Harmonious Bard, and flattering Song▪  
Can make the Vanquished Great, the Coward strong.  
Thy Verse can show even Cromwell's innocence,  
And Compliment the Storms that bore him hence.  
Oh had thy Muse not come an Age too soon,  
But seen Great Nassaw on the British Throne!  
How had his Triumphs glittered in thy Page,  
And warmed Thee to a more Exalted Rage!  
What Scenes of Death and Horror had we viewed,  
And how had Boins wide Current Reeked in Blood!  
Or if Maria's Charms thou wouldst rehearse,  
In smother Numbers and a softer Verse;  
Thy Pen had well described her Graceful Air,  
And Gloriana would have seemed more Fair.   

Nor must Roscommon pass neglected by,  
That makes even Rules a Noble Poetry:  
Rules who's deep Sense and Heavenly Numbers show,  
The best of Critics, and of Poets too.  
Nor Denham must we e'er forget thy Strains,  
While Cooper's Hill Commands the Neighbouring Plains.   

But see where artful Dryden next appears,  
Grown old in Rhyme, but Charming even in Years.  
Great Dryden next! who's Tuneful Muse affords  
The sweetest Numbers, and the fittest words.  
Whether in Comic sounds or Tragic Airs  
She form her voice, she moves our Smiles or Tears.  
If Satire or Heroic Strains she writes,  
Her Hero pleases, and her Satire Bites.  
From her no harsh, unartful Numbers fall,  
She wears all Dresses, and she Charms in all:  
How might we fear our English Poetry,  
That long has flourished, should decay with Thee;  
Did not the Muses other Hope appear,  
Harmonious Congreve, and forbidden our Fear.  
Congreve! who's Fancies unexhausted Store  
Has given already much, and promised more.  
Congreve shall still preserve thy Fame alive,  
And Dryden's Muse shall in his Friend survive.   

I'm tired with Rhyming, and would fain give o'er,  
But Justice still demands one Labour more:  
The Noble Montague remains unnam'd,  
For Wit, for Humour, and for Judgement famed;  
To Dorset he directs his Artful Muse,  
In numbers such as Dorset's self might use.  
Now negligently Graceful he unrein's  
His Verse, and writes in lose Familiar strains;  
How Nassau's Godlike Acts adorn his Lines,  
And all the Hero in full Glory Shines.  
We see his Army set in just Array,  
And Boins D●●d Waves run purple to the Sea.  
Nor Simois choked with Men, and Arms, and Blood;  
Nor rapid Xanthu's celebrated Flood:  
Shall longer be the Poet's highest Themes,  
Tho Gods and Heroes fought, Promiscuous in they're streams.  
But now, to Nassau's secret Councils raised,  
He Aids the Hero, whom before he Praised.   

I've done, at length, and now, Dear Friend, receive  
The last poor Present that my Muse can give.  
I leave the Arts of Poetry and Verse  
To them that practise 'em with more success.  
Of greater Truths I'll now prepare to tell,  
And so at once, Dear Friend and Muse, Farewell.   
THE END.   

I have here inserted a Catalogue of what Poems are contained in the three former Miscellanies.  

A Table to the first part of Miscellany Poems.  

MAc Flecno Absolom and Achitophel.  
The Medal By Mr. Dryden.   

Several of Ovid's Elegies, Book the First.  
Elegy the first, By Mr. Cooper.  
The second Elegy, By Mr. Creech.  
The fourth Elegy, By Sir Car. Scrope.  
The fifth, By Mr. Duke.  
The eighth Elegy, By Sir Ch. Sidley.   

Out of the Second Book.  
Elegy the first, By Mr. Adam's.  
Elegy the fifth, By Sir Ch. Sidley.  
Elegy the sixth, By Mr. Creech.  
Elegy the seventh, By Mr. Creech.  
Elegy the eighth, By Mr. Creech.  
The same by another Hand.  
Elegy the ninth, By the late Earl of Rochester.  
Ellegy the twelfth, by Mr. Creech.  
Elegy the fifteenth, by Mr. Adam's.  
Elegy the nineteenth, By Mr. Dryden.   

Out of the Third Book.  
Elegy the fourth, By Sir Ch. Sidley.  
Elegy the fifth.  
Elegy the sixth, By Mr. Rhymer.  
Elegy the ninth, By Mr. Stepny.  
Elegy the thirteenth, By Mr. Tate.  
The same by another Hand.  
Part of Virgil's fourth Georgic, Englished by the E. of M.  
The parting of Sireno and Diana, By Sir Car. Scrope.  
Lucretia out of Ovid de Fastis.  
On Mr. Dryden's Religio Laici, By the Earl of Roscomon.  
Upon Mr. Dryden's Religio Laici.   

Odes of Horace.  
The twenty second Ode of the first Book, by the Earl of Roscomon.  
The sixth Ode of the third Book, By the Earl of Roscomon.  
The fourth Ode of the first Book.  
The fourth Ode of the second Book, By Mr. Duke.  
The eighth Ode of the second Book, By Mr. Duke.  
The ninth Ode of the third Book, By Mr. Duke.  
The same by another Hand.  
The ninth Ode of the fourth Book, By Mr. Stepny.  
The fifteenth Ode of the second Book.  
The sixteenth Ode of the second Book, by Mr. Otway.  
The first Epode of Horace.  
The third Elegy of the first Book of Propertius, By Mr. Adam's.  
Faeda est in Coitu, etc. out of Petronius.  
Epistle from R. D. to T. O.  
A letter to a friend.  
An Elegy; out of the Latin of Francis Remond.  
Amarillis, or the third Idyllium of Theocritus paraphrased, by Mr. Dryden.  
Pharmacutria, out of Theocritus, By Mr. Bowles.  
The Cyclops, the eleventh Idyllium of Theocritus, Englished by Mr. Duke: To Dr. Short.  
To absent Caelia.  
Prologue to the University of Oxford, By Mr. Dryden.  
Epilogue to the same, By Mr. Dryden.  
Prologue at Oxford in 1674 By Mr. Dryden.  
The Epilogue  
Prologue at Oxford.  
Prologue at Oxford, By Mr. Dryden.  
Prologue at Oxford, 1680. By Mr. Dryden.  
Prologue to Albumazar Revived, By Mr. Dryden.  
Prologue to Arviragus, By Mr. Dryden  
Prologue spoken the first day of the King's House acting after the Fire, By Mr. Dryden.  
Prologue for the Women at the Old Theatre. By Mr. Dryden.  
Prologue at the opening the New House, By Mr. Dryden.  
Epilogue by the same Author.  
An Epilogue, By Mr. Dryden  
An Epilogue spoken at the King's House.  
Prologue to the Princess of Cleves.  
Epilogue to the same, Written by Mr. Dryden.  
Epilogue for Calisto, when acted at Court.  
A Poem spoken to thy Queen at Trinity College in Cambridge.  
Floriana a Pastoral, upon the Death of the Duchess of Southampton, By Mr. Duke.  
The Tears of Amynta for the Death of Damon, By Mr. Dryden.  
The praises of Italy, out of Virgil's second Georgick, By Mr. Chetwood. 303  
Virgil's Eclogues, Translated by several Hands.  
THE first Eclogue, by John Caril, Esq  
The second, By Mr. Tate.  
The same By Mr. Creech.  
The third Eclogue, By Mr. Creech.  
The fourth, By Mr. Dryden.  
The fifth, By Mr. Duke.  
The sixth, By the Earl of Roscomon.  
The seventh, By Mr. Adam's.  
The eighth, By Mr. Stafford.  
The same by Mr. Chetwood.  
The ninth Eclogue, By Mr. Dryden.  
The tenth Eclogue, By Mr. Stafford.  
The last Eclogue, Translated, or rather imitated, in the Year, 1666.    

A Table to the Second Part of Miscellany Poems.  

THe entire Episode of Nisus and Euryalus, Translated from the 5th. and 9th. Books of Virgil's Aeneids, by Mr. Dryden.  
The entire Episode of Mezentius and Lausus, Translated out of the 10th. Book of Virgil's Aeneids, by Mr. Dryden.  
The Speech of Venus to Vulcan, Translated out of the the 8th. Book of Virgil's Aeneids, by Mr. Dryden.  
The beginning of the First Book of Lucretius, Translated by Mr. Dryden.  
The beginning of the Second Book of Lucretius, Translated by Mr. Dryden.  
The Translation of the latter part of the Third Book of Lucretius, Against the Fear of Death, by Mr. Dryden.  
Lucretius the Fourth Book, concerning the Nature of Love; beginning at this Line,  
Sic igitur Veneris qui telis accipit ictum, etc. by Mr. Dryden.  
From Lucretius, Book the Fifth, Tum porro puer▪ etc. by Mr. Dryden.  
Theocrit. Idyllium. the 18. the Epithalamium of Helen and Menelaus, by Mr. Dryden.  
Theocrit. Idyllium the 23 d. the Despairing Lover, by Mr. Dryden.  
Daphnis from Theocritus, Idyll. 27. by Mr. Dryden.  
The Third Ode of the first Book of Horace, Inscribed to the Earl of Roscomon, on his intended Voyage to Ireland, by Mr. Dryden.  
The 9th. Ode of the first Book of Horace, by Mr. Dryden.  
The 29th. Ode of the Third Book of Horace, paraphrased in Pindaric Verse, and inscribed to the Right Honourable Laurence E. of Rochester, by Mr. Dryden.  
From Horace Epode 2d. by Mr. Dryden.  
Part of Virgil's 4th. Georgick, Englished by an unknown Hand.  
The Sixth Elegy of the First Book of Tibullus.  
Ovid's Dream.  
A Prologue intended for the Play of Duke and no Duke.  
The Fourteenth Ode of the Second Book of Horace.  
The First Idyllium of Theocritus, Translated into English.  
The Reapers, the 10th. Idyllium of Theocritus, Englished by William Bowles Fellow of Kings-Colledge in Cambridge.  
The 12th. Idyllium of Theocritus.  
The 19th. Idyllium of Theocritus.  
The Complaint of Ariadna out of Catullus, by Mr. William Bowles.  
The 20th. Idyllium of Theocritus, by Mr. William Bowles.  
To Lesbian out of Catullus.  
The Lesbian.  
To Lesbian, A Petition to be freed from Love.  
The 12th. Elegy of the 2d. Book of Ovid,  
The 16th. Elegy of the 2d. Book of Ovid.  
The 19th. Elegy of the Third Book.  
Of Nature's Changes from Lucretius, Book the 5th. by a Person of Quality.  
The 7th. Ode of the 4th. Book of Horace, Englished by an unknown Hand.  
The 10th. Ode of the 2d. Book of Horace.  
The 18th. Epistle of the first Book of Horace.  
The 2d. satire of the first Book of Horace, Englished by Mr. Stafford.  
The 4th. Elegy of the 2d. Book of Ovid.  
Elegy the 11th. Lib. 5. De Trist. Ovid complains of his 3 years Banishmen.  
An Ode Sung before the King on New-Years Day.  
Upon the late Ingenious Translation of P. Simons Critical History, by H. D. Esq:  
Horti Arlingtonianis, ad Clarissimum Dominum, Henricum, Comitem Arlingtoniae, etc. by Mr. Charles Dryden.  
A New Song, by Mr. Dryden.  
A Song by Mr. Dryden.  
On the Death of Mr. Oldham.  
On the Kings-House now Building at Winchester.  
The Episode of the Death of Camilla, etc. by Mr. Stafford.    

A Table to the Third Part of the Miscellany Poems.  

THE First Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses Transl into English Verse, by Mr. Dryden.  
The Golden Age. By the fame.  
The Silver Age. By the same.  
The Brazen Age. By the same.  
The Iron Age, By the same.  
The giant's War. By the same.  
The Transformation of Daphne into a Laurel. By the same.  
The Transformation of Io into a Heifar. By the same.  
The Eyes of Argos Transformed into a Peacock's Train. By the same.  
The Transformation of Syrinx into Reeds. By the same.  
The Phable of Iphis and Janthe, from the Ninth Book of the Metamorphoses, Englished by Mr. Dryden.  
The Fable of Acis, Polyphemus, and Galatea, from the Thirteenth Book of the Metamorphoses, Englished by Mr. Dryden.  
On Mr. Hobbs. By the Earl of Mulgrave.  
On the Death of the Learned Mr. John Selden.  
Against Immoderate Grief. To a young Lady weeping. An Ode in imitation of Casimire. By Mr. Yalden. 111  
To the Returning Sun. By J. H.  
Against the Fear of Death. By a Person of Honour. 117  
The Dream: Occasioned by the Death of the most Noble and Virtuous Lady, Elizabeth Seymour, Mother to his Grace the Duke of Somerset. By Mr. J. Talbot.  
A Hymn to the Morning. In Praise of Light. An Ode. By Mr. Yalden.  
A Hymn to Darkness. By Mr Yalden.  
Aeneas his meeting with Dido in the Elysian Fields Being a Translation of the Sixth Book of Virgil's Aenids. By Mr. Wolsley.  
Out of the Italian of Fulvio Testi, to Count Montecuccoli. Against Pride upon sudden Advancement.  
Catullus. Epig. 19 By the same Hand as the former.  
Out of the Greek of Menage. By the same Hand as the former.  
Invitation into the Country. In imitation of the 34th Epig. of Catullus. By the same Hand as the former.  
On Mrs. Arabella Hunt Singing. A Pindaric Ode. By Mr. Congreve.  
To a Person of Honour. Upon his Incomparable, Incomprehensible Poem. By Mr. Waller.  
On the same by Dr. S.— Another on the same. By Mr. Mat. Clifford.  
On the same. By the Ld. V—  
On two Verses out of the same. By the Duke of Buckingham.  
To the Prince and Princess of Orange, upon their Marriage. By Nat. Lee.  
Against Sloath. When the King was at Oxford. What art thou Love! By Mr J. Allestry.  
Verses spoken before the Duke and Duchess of York, and Lady Anne, in Oxford Theatre. By the Ld. S— and Mr. C.—  
Humane Life, supposed to be spoken by an Epicure, in imitation of the second Chapter of the Wisdom of Solomon. A Pindaric Ode. Inscribed to the Lord Hunsdon. By Mr. Yalden.  
To Mr. Waller: Upon the Copy of Verses made by himself on the last Copy in his Book.  
Elegy: Occasioned by the Reading and Transcribing Mr. Edmund Waller's Poem of Divine Love, since his Death. By Mr. J. Talbot.  
Moschus: Idyl. 1st. Done into English by Mr. J. R. Against Enjoyment. By Mr. Yalden.  
Priam's Lamentation and Petition to Achilles, for the Body of his Son Hector. Translated from the Greek of Homer. By Mr. Congreve.  
The Lamentations of Hecuba, Andromache, and Helen, over the dead Body of Hector. Translated from the Greek of Homer. By Mr. Congreve.  
Paraphrase upon Horace. Ode. 19 Lib. 1. By Mr. Congreve.  
Horace, Lib. 2. Ode 14. Imitated by Mr. Congreve.  
An Ode, in Imitation of Horace, Ode 9 Lib. 1. By Mr. Congreve.  
To the Duchess, on her Return from Scotland, in the Year 1682. By Mr. Dryden▪  
A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687. Written by John Dryden Esquire, and Composed by Mr. John Baptist Draghi.  
To Mr. Dryden: By Mr. Jo. Addison.  
To Mr. Dryden, on his Translation of Persius. By Mr. B. higgon's.  
To Sir Godfrey Kneller, drawing my Lady Hides Picture. By Mr. B. higgon's.  
Song on a Lady indisposed. By Mr. higgon's.  
Song to a Fair, young Lady, going out of the Town in the Spring. By Mr. Dryden.  
A Song by my Ld. R—  
A Song by my Ld. R—  
A Paean, or Song of Triumph, on the Translation and Apotheosis of King Charles the Second. By my Ld. R—  
Out of Horace. By my Ld. R.—  
To a Lady, who Raffling for the King of France's Picture, fling the highest Chances on the Dice. By Mr. B. higgon's.  
On my Lady Sandwich's being stayed in Town by the immoderate Rain. By Mr. B. higgon's.  
Ovid's Love-Elegies. Book 1. Eleg. 7. To his Mistress whom he had beaten. By Henry Cromwell. Esq  
Ovid's Love-Elegies. Book 1. Eleg. 8. Of Love and War. By Henry Cromwell, Esquire.  
Ovid's Love-Elegies. Book 1. Eleg. 10. To his Mercenary Mistress. By Henry Cromwell, Esquire.  
Ovid's Love-Elegies. Book 1. Eleg. 15. Of the Immortality of the Muses. Inscribed to Mr. Dryden. By Henry Cromwell, Esquire.  
Ovid's Love-Elegies. Book 3. Eleg. 2. To his Mistress at the Horse-Race. By Henry Cromwell Esquire.  
Ovid's Love-Elegies. Book 3. Eleg. 3. Of his Perjured Mistress. By Henry Cromwell, Esq  
To the Lady Castlemain, upon her encouraging his first Play. By Mr. Dryden.  
Prologue to the University of Oxford, 1681. By Mr. Dryden.  
Prologue by Mr. Dryden.  
Considerations on the Eighty Eighth Psalm. By Mr. Prior.  
Veni Creator Spiritus. Translated in Paraphrase. By Mr. Dryden.  
The Curse of Babylon. paraphrased from the Thirteenth Chapter of Isaia. A Pindaric Ode. By Tho-Yalden.  
Out of Horace. Lib. 2. Ode. 3.  
The Grove.  
Love hut One.  
To the Author of Sardanapalus; upon that and his other Writings.  
Of my Lady Hid. Occasioned by the sight of her Picture. By Mr. George Granville.  
An Imitation of the second Chorus in the second Act of Senaca's Thyestes. By Mr. George Granville.  
Amor omnibus idem: Or the Force of Love in all Creatures; being a Translation of some Verses in Virgil's third Georgick, from verse 209. to verse 285.  
To Mr. Congreve. An Epistolary Ode. Occasioned by his Play. From Mr. Yalden.  
On his Mistress drowned. By Mr. S—  
To the Pious memory of the Acclomplisht Young Lady, Mrs. Ann Killigrew, Excellent in the two Sister Arts of Poesy and Painting. An Ode. By Mr Dryden.  
To the Earl of Carlisle, upon the Death of his Son before Luxemburgh.  
The Insect. Against Bulk. By Mr. Yalden.  
Written in a Lady's Advice to a Daughter  
Written in a Lady's Waller.  
Written in the Leaves of a Fan  
An Incomparable Ode of Malherb's. Written by him when the Marriage was a foot between the King of France, and Ann of Austria. Translated by a Person of Quality, a great Admirer of easiness of the French Poetry.  
On the Duchess of Portsmouth's Picture.  
A Song, by the Earl of Rochester.  
Song for the King's Birthday.  
A Song.  
A Song.  
Song.  
Song.  
To the King in the Year 1686 By Mr. George Granville.  
Harry Martin's Epitaph, by himself.  
To his Friend Captain Chamberlain; in Love with a Lady he had taken in an Algerine Prize at Sea. In Allusion to the 4th Ode of Horace, Lib. 2. By Mr. Yalden.  
A Song, By a Lady.  
Written by a Lady.  
paraphrased out of Horace, the 23d Ode. of the 2d. Book By Dr. Pope.  
Love's Antidote.  
Anachreon Imitated.  
Anachreon Imitated.  
Anachreon Imitated.  
From Virgil's first Georgick. Translated into English Verse, by H. Sacheverill: Dedicated to Mr. Dryden.  
A French Poem with a Paraphrase on it in English  
A Song: by Sir John Eton.  
Another Song in imitation of Sir John Eaton's Songs. By the late earl of Rochester.  
A Song: By Sidny Godolphin, Esq on Tom. Kilegrew, and Will. Murrey.  
Rondelay. By Mr. Dryden.  
In a Letter to the Honourable Mr. Charles Montague. By Mr. Prior.  
An Ode. By Mr. Prior.  
To a Lady of Quality's Playing on the Lute. By Mr. Prior  
An Epitaph on the Lady Whitmore. By Mr. Dryden.  
An Epitaph on Sir Palms Fairborne ' s Tomb in Westminster-Abby. By Mr. Dryden  
To the Reverend Dr. Sherlock, Dean of St. Paul's, on his Practical Discourse concerning Death. By Mr. Prior.  
On Exodus 3. 14. I am that am. A Pindaric Ode. By Mr. Prior.  
The last parting of Hector and Andromache. From the Sixth Book of Homer's Iliads Translated from the Original by Mr. Dryden. Syphilis.   
FINIS