Examen Poeticum: BEING THE THIRD PART OF Miscellany Poems.  
Containing Variety of NEW TRANSLATIONS OF THE Ancient Poets.  
Together with many ORIGINAL COPIES, BY THE Most Eminent Hands.  
Haec potior soboles: hine Coeli tempore certo,  
Dulcia mella premes.—  Virgil. Geor 4. 
In medium quaesita reponunt.  Ibid. 
LONDON: Printed by R. E for Jacob Tonson, at the Judge's Head in Chancery-Lane, near Fleetstreet. M DC XCIII.   

THE THIRD PART OF Miscellany Poems.   

TO THE Right Honourable, MY Lord RADCLIFFE.  
My Lord,  
THese Miscellany Poems, are by many Titles yours. The first they claim from your accepttance of my Promise to present them to you; before some of them were yet in being. The rest are derived from your own Merit, the exactness of your Judgement in Poetry, and the candour of your Nature; easy to forgive some trivial faults when they come accompanied, with countervailing Beauties. But after all, though these are your equitable claims to a Dedication from other Poets, yet I must acknowledge a Bribe in the case, which is your particular liking of my Verses. 'Tis a vanity common to all Writers, to over-value their own productions; and 'tis better for me to own this failing in myself, than the World to do it for me. For what other Reason have I spent my Life in so unprofitable a Study? Why am I grown Old, in seeking so barren a Reward as Fame? The same Parts and Application, which have made me a Poet, might have raised me to any Honours of the Gown, which are often given to Men of as little Learning and less Honesty than mv self. No Government has ever been, or ever can be, wherein Time-servers and Blockheads will not be uppermost. The Persons are only changed, but the same juggle in State, the same Hypocrisy in Religion, the same Self-Interest, and Mis-mannagement, will remain for ever. Blood and Money will be lavished in all Ages, only for the Preferment of new Faces, with old Consciences. There is too often a Jaundice in the Eyesof Great Men; they see not those whom they raise, in the same Colours with other Men. All whom they affect, look Golden to them; when the Gilding is only in their own distempered Sight. These Considerations, have given me a kind of Contempt for those who have risen by unworthy ways. I am not ashamed to be Little, when I see them so Infamously Great. Neither, do I know, why the Name of Poet should be Dishonourable to me; if I am truly one, as I hope I am; for I will never do any thing, that shall dishonour it. The Notions of Morality are known to all Men: None can pretend Ignorance of those Ideas which are Inborn in Mankind: and if I see one thing, and practise the contrary, I must be Disingenuous, not to acknowledge a clear Truth, and Base to Act against the light of my own Conscience. For the Reputation of my Honesty, no Man can question it, who has any of his own: For that of my Poetry, it shall either stand by its own Merit; or shall for want of it. Ill Writers are usually the sharpest Censors: For they (as the best Poet, and the best Patron said), when in the full perfection of decay, turn Vinegar, and come again in Play. Thus the corruption of a Poet, is the Generation of a Critic: I mean of a Critic in the general acceptation of this Age: For formerly they were quite another Species of Men. They were Defendors of Poets, and Commentators on their Works: to Illustrate obscure Beauties; to place some passages in a better light, to redeem others from malicious Interpretations: to help out an Author's Modesty, who is not ostentatious of his Wit; and, in short, to shield him from the Ill-Nature of those Fellows, who were then called Zoili, and Momuses, and now take upon themselves the Venerable Name of Censors. But neither Zoilus, nor he who endeavoured to defame Virgil, were ever Adopted into the Name of Critics by the Ancients: what their Reputation was then, we know; and their Successors in this Age deserve no better. Are our Auxiliary Forces turned our Enemies? Are they, who, at best, are but Wits of the Second Order, and whose only Credit amongst Readers, is what they obtained by being subvervient to the Fame of Writers, are these become Rebels of Slaves, and Usurpers of Subjects; or to speak in the most Honourable Terms of them, are them from our Seconds, become Principals against us? Does the Ivy undermine the Oak, which supports its weakness? What labour would it cost them to put in a better Line, than the worst of those which they expunge in a True Poet? Petronius, the greatest Wit perhaps of all the Romans, yet when his Envy prevailed upon his Judgement, to fall on Lucan, he fell himself in his attempt: He performed worse in his Essay of the Civil War, than the Author of the Pharsalia: and avoiding his Errors, has made greater of his own. Julius Scaliger, would needs turn down Homer, and Abdicate him, after the possession of Three Thousand Years: Has he succeeded in his Attempt? He has indeed shown us some of those Imperfections in him, which are incident to Humane Kind: But who had not rather be that Homer than this Scaliger? You see the same Hypercritick, when he endeavours to mend the beginning of Claudian, (a faulty Poet, and Living in a Barbarous Age;) yet how short he comes of him, and substitutes such Verses of his own, as deserve the Ferula. What a Censure has he made of Lucan, that he rather seems to Bark than Sing? Would any but a Dog, have made so snarling a Comparison? One would have thought, he had Learned Latin, as late as they tell us he did Greek. Yet he came off, with a pace tuâ, by your good leave, Lucan; he called him not by those outrageous Names, of Fool, Booby, and Blockhead: He had somewhat more of good Manners, than his Successors, as he had much more Knowledge. We have two sorts of those Gentlemen, in our Nation: Some of them proceeding with a seeming moderation and pretence of Respect, to the Dramatic Writers of the last Age, only scorn and vilify the present Poets, to set up their Predecessors. But this is only in appearance; for their real design is nothing less, than to do Honour to any Man, besides themselves. Horace took notice, of such Men in his Age: Non Ingeniis favet ille, Sepultis; nostra sed impugnat; nos nostraque lividus odit. 'Tis not with an ultimate intention to pay Reverence to the Manes of Shakespeare, Fletcher, and Ben Johnson, that they commend their Writings, but to throw Dirt on the Writers of this Age: Their Declaration is one thing, and their Practice is another. By a seeming veneration to our Fathers, they would thrust out us their Lawful Issue, and Govern us themselves, under a specious pretence of Reformation. If they could compass their intent, what would Wit and Learning get by such a change? If we are bad Poets, they are worse; and when any of their woeful pieces come abroad, the difference is so great betwixt them and good Writers, that there need no Criticisms on our part to decide it. When they describe the Writers of this Age, they draw such monstrous figures of them, as resemble none of us: Our pretended Pictures are so unlike, that 'tis evident we never sat to them: They are all Grotesque; the products of their wild Imaginations, things out of Nature, so far from being Copied from us, that they resemble nothing that ever was, or ever can be. But there is another sort of Infects, more venomous than the former. Those who manifestly aim at the destruction of our Poetical Church and State. Who allow nothing to their Countrymen, either of this or of the former Age. These attack the Living by raking up the Ashes of the Dead. Well knowing that if they can subvert their Original Title to the Stage, we who claim under them, must fall of course. Peace be to the Venerable Shades of Shakespeare, and Ben Johnson: None of the Living will presume to have any competition with them: as they were our Predecessors, so they were our Masters. We trail our Plays under them: but, (as at the Funerals of a Turkish Emperor,) our Ensigns are furled, or dragged upon the ground, in Honour to the Dead; so we may lawfully advance our own, afterwards, to show that we succeed: If less in Dignity, yet on the same Foot and Title, which we think too, we can maintain, against the Insolence of our own Janissaries. If I am the Man, as I have Reason to believe, who am seemingly Courted, and secretly Undermined: I think I shall be able to defend my'self, when I am openly Attacked. And to show besides, that the Greek Writers only gave us the Rudiments of a Stage, which they never finished. That many of the Tragedies in the former Age amongst us, were without Comparison beyond those of Sophocles and Euripides. But at present, I have neither the leisure nor the means for such an Undertaking. 'Tis ill going to Law for an Estate, with him who is in possession of it, and enjoys the present Profits, to feed his Cause. But the quantum mutatus may be remembered in due time. In the mean while I leave the World to judge, who gave the Provocation.  
This, my Lord, is, I confess, a long digression, from Miscellany Poems to Modern Tragedies: But I have the ordinary Excuse of an Injured Man, who will be telling his Tale unseasonably to his Betters. Though at the same time, I am certain you are so good a Friend, as to take a Concern in all things which belong to one who so truly Honours you. And besides, being yourself a Critic of the Genuine sort, who have Read the best Authors, in their own Languages, who perfectly distinguish of their several Merits, and in general prefer them to the Moderns, yet, I know, you judge for the English Tragedies, against the Greek and Latin, as well as against the French, Italian and Spanish, of these latter Ages. Indeed there is a vast difference, betwixt arguing like Perault, in behalf of the French Poets, against Homer and Virgil, and betwixt giving the English Poets their undoubted due, of excelling AEschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles. For if we or our greater Fathers, have not yet brought the Drama to an absolute Perfection, yet at least we have carried it much farther than those Ancient Greeks; who beginning from a Chorus, could never totally exclude it, as we have done, who find it an unprofitable encumbrance, without any necessity of Entertaining it amongst us; and without the possibility of establishing it here, unless it were supported by a Public Charge. Neither can we accept of those Lay-Bishops, as some call them, who under pretence of reforming the Stage, would intrude themselves upon us, as our Superiors, being indeed incompetent Judges of what is Manners, what Religion, and least of all, what is Poetry and Good Sense. I can tell them in behalf of all my Fellows, that when they come to Exercise a Jurisdiction over us, they shall have the Stage to themselves, as they have the Laurel. As little can I grant, that the French Dramatic Writers, excel the English: Our Authors as far surpass them in Genius, as our Soldiers Excel theirs in Courage: 'Tis true, in Conduct they surpass us either way: Yet that proceeds not so much from their greaterKnowledge, as from the difference of Tastes in the two Nations. They content themselves with a thin Design, without Episodes, and managed by few Persons. Our Audience will not be pleased, but with variety of Accidents, an Underplot, and many Actors. They follow the Ancients too servilely, in the Mechanic Rules, and we assume too much Licence to ourselves, in keeping them only in view, at too great a distance. But if our Audience had their Tastes, our Poets could more easily comply with them, than the French Writers could come up to the Sublimity of our Thoughts, or to the difficult variety of our Designs. However it be, I dare establish it for a Rule of Practice on the Stage, that we are bound to please those, whom we pretend to Entertain: And that at any price, Religion and Good Manners only excepted. And I care not much, if I give this handle, to our bad Illiterate Poetasters, for the defence of their SCRIPTIONS as they call them. There is a sort of Merit in delighting the Spectators; which is a Name more proper for them, than that of Auditors: Or else Horace is in the wrong, when he commends Lucilius for it. But these common places I mean to Treat at greater leisure: In the mean time, submitting that little I have said, to your Lordship's Approbation, or your Censure, and choosing rather to Entertain you this way, as you are a Judge of Writing, than to oppress your Modesty, with other Commendations, which though they are your due, yet would not be equally received, in this Satirical, and Censorious Age. That which cannot without Injury be denied to you, is the easiness of your Conversation, far from Affectation or Pride: not denying even to Enemies, their just Praises. And this, if I would dwell on any Theme of this Nature, is no vulgar Commendation to your Lordship. Without Flattery, my Lord, you have it in your Nature, to be a Patron and Encourager of Good Poets, but your Fortune has not yet put into your Hands the opportunity of expressing it. What you will be hereafter, may be more than guessed, by what you are at present. You maintain the Character of a Nobleman, without that Haughtiness which generally attends too many of the Nobility, and when you Converse with Gentlemen, you forget not that you have been of their Order. You are Married to the Daughter of a King, who, amongst her other high Perfections, has derived from him a Charming Behaviour, a winning Goodness, and a Majestic Person. The Muses and the Graces are the Ornaments of your Family. While the Muse Sings, the Grace accompanies her Voice: even the Servants of the Muses have sometimes had the Happiness to hear her; and to receive their Inspirations from her.  
I will not give myself the liberty of going farther; for'tis so sweet to wander in a pleasing way, that I should never arrive at my Journeys end. To keep myself from being belated in my Letter, and tiring your Attention, I must return to the place where I was setting out. I humbly Dedicate to your Lordship, my own Labours in this Miscellany: At the same time, not arrogating to myself the Privilege, of Inscribing to you, the Works of others who are joined with me, in this undertaking; over which I can pretend no right. Your Lady and You have done me the favour to hear me Read my Translations of Ovid: And you both seemed not to be displeased with them. Whether it be the partiality of an Old Man to his Youngest Child, I know not: But they appear to me the best of all my Endeavours in this kind. Perhaps this Poet, is more easy to be Translated, than some others, whom I have lately attempted: Perhaps too, he was more according to my Genius. He is certainly more palatable to the Reader, than any of the Roman Wits, though some of them are more lofty, some more Instructive, and others more Correct. He had Learning enough to make him equal to the best. But as his Verse came easily, he wanted the toil of Application to amend it. He is often luxuriant, both in his Fancy and Expressions; and as it has lately been observed, not always Natural. If Wit be pleasantry, he has it to excess: but if it be propriety, Lucretius, Horace, and above all Virgil are his Superiors. I have said so much of him already, in my Preface to his Heroical Epistles, that there remains little to be added in this place. For my own part, I have endeavoured to Copy his Character what I could in this Translation, even perhaps, farther than I should have done; to his very Faults. Mr. Chapman in his Translation of Homer, professes to have done it somewhat paraphrastically; and that on set purpose; his Opinion being, that a good Poet is to be Translated in that manner. I remember not the Reason which he gives for it: But I suppose it is, for fear of omitting any of his Excellencies: sure I am, that if it be a Fault, 'tis much more pardonable, than that of those, who run into the other extreme, of a literal, and close Translation, where the Poet is confined so straight to his Author's Words, that he wants elbow-room, to express his Elegancies. He leaves him obscure; he leaves him Prose, where he sound him Verse. And no better than thus has Ovid been served by the so much admired Sandys. This is at least the Idea which I have remaining of his Translation; for I never Read him since I was a Boy. They who take him upon Content, from the Praises which their Fathers gave him; may inform their Judgement by Reading him again: And see, (if they understand the Original) what is become of Ovid's Poetry, in his Version; whether it be not all, or the greatest part of it evaporated. But this proceeded from the wrong Judgement of the Age in which he Lived: They neither knew good Verse, nor loved it; they were Scholars 'tis true, but they were Pedants. And for a just Reward of their Pedantic pains, all their Translations want to be Translated, into English.  
If I Flatter not myself, or if my Friends have not Flattered me, I have given my Author's Sense, for the most part truly: for to mistake sometimes, is incident to all Men: And not to follow the Dutch Commentatours always, may be forgiven to a Man, who thinks them, in the general, heavy gross-witted Fellows; fit only to gloss on their own dull Poets. But I leave a farther Satire on their Wit, till I have a better opportunity, to show how much I Love and Honour them. I have like wise attempted to restore Ovid to his Native sweetness, easiness, and smoothness; and to give my Poetry a kind of Cadence, and, as we call it, a run of Verse, as like the Original, as the English can come up to the Latin; As he seldom uses any Synalephas, so I have endeavoured to avoid them, as often as I could: I have likewise given him his own turns, both on the Words and on the Thought: Which I cannot say are inimitable, because I have Copied them: and so may others, if they use the same diligence: But certainly they are wonderfully Graceful in this Poet. Since I have Named the Synalepha, which is the cutting off one Vowel, immediately before another, I will give an Example of it, from Chapman's Homer which lies before me; for the benefit of those who understand not the Latin Prosodia. 'Tis in the first Line of the Argument to the First Iliad. 
Apollo 's Priest to th' Argive Fleet doth bring, etc.   
There we see he makes it not the Argive, but th' Argive, to shun the shock of the two Vowels, immediately following each other. But in his Second Argument, in the same Page, he gives a bad Example of the quite contrary kind: 
Alpha the Prayer of Chryses Sings:  
The Army's Plague, the Strife of Kings.   
In these word the Armies, the ending with a Vowel, and Armies beginning with another Vowel, without cutting off the first, which by it had been th' Armies, there remains a most horrible ill-sounding-gap betwixt those Words. I cannot say, that I have every way observed the Rule of this Synalepha, in my Translation; but wheresoever I have not, 'tis a fault in sound: The French and Italians have made it an inviolable Precept in their versification; thereinfollowing the severe Example of the Latin Poets. Our Countrymen have not yet Reformed their Poetry so far; but content themselves with following the Licentious Practice of the Greeks; who though they sometimes use Synalepha's, yet make no difficulty very often, to sound one Vowel upon another; as Homer does, in the very first line of Alpha. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. 'Tis true, indeed, that in the second line, in these words 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, and 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, the Synalepha in revenge is twice observed. But it becomes us, for the sake of Euphony, rather Musas colere severiores, with the Romans; than to give into the looseness of the Grecians.  
I have tired myself, and have been summoned by the Press to send away this Dedication; otherwise I had exposed some other faults, which are daily committed by our English Poets; which, with care and observation, might be amended. For after all, our Language is both Copious, Significant, and Majestical; and might be reduced into a more harmonious sound. But for want of Public Encouragement, in this Iron Age, we are so far from making any progress in the improvement of our Tongue, that in few years, we shall Speak and Write as Barbarously as our Neighbours.  
Notwithstanding my haste, I cannot forbear to tell your Lordship, that there are two fragments of Homer Translated in this Miscellany; one by Mr. Congreve (whom I cannot mention without the Honour which is due to his Excellent Parts, and that entire Affection which I bear him;) and the other by myself. Both the Subjects are pathetical; and I am sure my Friend has added to the Tenderness which he found in the Original; and, without Flattery, surpassed his Author. Yet I must needs say this in reference to Homer, that he is much more capable of exciting the Manly Passions, than those of Grief and Pity. To cause Admiration, is indeed the proper and adequate design of an Epic Poem: And in that he has Excelled even Virgil. Yet, without presuming to Arraign our Master, I may venture to affirm, that he is somewhat too Talkative, and more than somewhat too digressive. This is so manifest, that it cannot be denied, in that little parcel which I have Translated, perhaps too literally: There Andromache in the midst of her Concernment, and Fright for Hector, runs off her Bias, to tell him a Story of her Pedigree, and of the lamentable Death of her Father, her Mother, and her Seven Brothers. The Devil was in Hector, if he knew not all this matter, as well as she who told it him; for she had been his Bed-fellow for many Years together: And if he knew it, than it must be confessed, that Homer in this long digression, has rather given us his own Character, than that of the Fair Lady whom he Paints. His Dear Friends the Commentators, who never fail him at a pinch, will needs excuse him, by making the present Sorrow of Andromache, to occasion the remembrance of all the past: But others think that she had enough to do with that Grief which now oppressed her, without running for assistance to her Family. Virgil, I am confident, would have omitted such a work of supererrogation. But Virgil had the Gift of expressing much in little, and sometimes in silence: For though he yielded much to Homer in Invention, he more Excelled him in his Admirable Judgement. He drew the Passion of Dido for Aeneas, in the most lively and most natural Colours that are imaginable: Homer was ambitious enough of moving pity; for he has attempted twice on the same subject of Hector's death: First, when Priam, and Hecuba beheld his Corpse, which was dragged after the Chariot of Achilles; and then in the Lamentation which was made over him, when his Body was redeemed by Priam; and the same Persons again bewail his death with a Chorus of others to help the cry. But if this last excite Compassion in you, as I doubt not but it will, you are more obliged to the Translator than the Poet. For Homer, as I observed before, can move rage better than he can pity: He stirs up the irascible appetite, as our Philosophers call it, he provokes to Murder, and the destruction of God's Images; he forms and equips those ungodly Man killers, whom we Poets, when we flatter them, call Heroes; a race of Men who can never enjoy quiet in themselves, till they have taken it from all the World. This is Homer's Commendation, and such as it is, the Lovers of Peace, or at least of more moderate Heroism, will never Envy him. But let Homer and Virgil contend for the Prize of Honour, betwixt themselves, I am satisfied they will never have a third Concurrent. I wish Mr. Congreve had the leisure to Translate him, and the World the good Nature and Justice, to Encourage him in that Noble Design, of which he is more capable than any Man I know. The Earl of Mulgrave, and Mr. Waller, two the best Judges of our Age, have assured me, that they could never Read over the Translation of Chapman, without incredible Pleasure, and extreme Transport. This Admiration of theirs, must needs proceed from the Author himself: For the Translator has thrown him down as low, as harsh Numbers, improper English, and a monstrous length of Verse could carry him. What then would he appear in the Harmonious Version, of one of the best Writers, Living in a much better Age than was the last? I mean for versification, and the Art of Numbers; for in the Drama we have not arrived to the pitch of Shakespeare and Ben Johnson. But here, my Lord, I am forced to break off abruptly, without endeavouring at a Compliment in the close. This Miscellany, is without dispute one of the best of the kind, which has hitherto been extant in our Tongue. At least, as Sir Samuel Tuke has said before me, a Modest Man may praise what's not his own. My Fellows have no need of any Protection, but I humbly recommend my part of it, as much as it deserves, to your Patronage and Acceptance, and all the rest to your Forgiveness.  
I am My Lord, Your Lordship's most Obedient Servant, John Dryden.   

THE BOOKSELLER TO THE READER.  
HAving formerly Printed two Parts of Miscellany Poems, they were so very kindly received, that I had long before now Endeavoured to obtain a Third, had I not almost ever since the Publishing of the Second been Soliciting the Translating of Juvenal, and Persius. Soon after the Publishing of that Book I waited upon several Gentlemen to ask their Opinion of a Third Miscellany, who encouraged me to endeavour it, and have considerably helped me in it.  
Many very Ingenious Copies were sent to me upon my giving public notice of this Design; but had I Printed 'em all, the Book would have swelled to too great a bulk, and I must have delayed the Publishing of it till next Term: But those omitted, shall upon Order from the Authors be restored; or if the Gentlemen will be pleased to stay till next year, I shall take it as a favour to insert them in another Miscellany, which I then intent, if I find by the Sale that this proves as Entertaining as the former.  
Several Reasons encourage me to Proceed upon the endeavouring a Fourth Volume: As, That I had assurance of many Copies from Persons now out of England; which, though not yet arrived, I am confident will be sent in a short time, and they come from such Hands, that I can have no reason to doubt of their being very much esteemed.  
I would likewise willingly try if there could be an Annual Miscellany, which I believe might be an useful diversion to the Ingenious. By this means care would be taken to preserve every Choice Copy that appears; whereas I have known several Celebrated Pieces so utterly lost in three or four years' time after they were written, as not to be recoverable by all the search I could make after 'em.  
I was for some years together possessed of several Poems of Sir Carr Scrope's, written with his own Hand, which I in vain of late strove to recover; for as I forgot to whom I lent 'em, so I believe the Person to whom they were lent does not remember where they were borrowed: But if the present Possessor of them reads this, I beg their being returned.  
If I should go on with the Design of an Annual Miscellany, after I have procured some Stock to proceed upon, I will give Public Notice of it. And I hope the Gentlemen who approve of this Design, will promote it, by sending such Copies as they judge will be acceptable.  
Your very humble Servant JACOB TONSON.   

THE CONTENTS.  

THE First Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses Translated into English Verse, by Mr. Dryden. Page x  
The Golden-Age. 8  
The Silver Age. 10  
The Brazen Age 11  
The Iron Age. Ibid.  
The giant's War. 13  
The Transformation of Daphne into a Laurel. 39  
The Transformation of Io into a Heifar. 49  
The Eyes of Argos Transformed into a Peacock's Train. 58  
The Transformation of Syrinx into Reeds. 60  
The Fable of Iphis and janthe, from the Ninth Book of the Metamorphoses, Englished by Mr. Dryden. 70  
The Fable of Acis, Polyphemus, and Galatea, from the Thirteenth Book of the Metamorphoses, Englished by Mr. Dryden. 84  
On Mr. Hobbs. By the Earl of Mulgrave. 99  
On the Death of the Learned Mr. John Selden. 104  
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. 114  
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. 121  
A Hymn to the Morning. In Praise of Light. An Ode. By Mr. Yalden. 127  
A Hymn to Darkness. By Mr. Yalden. 132  
AEneas his meeting with Dido in the Elusian Fields. being a Translation of the Sixth Book of Virgil's AEnids. By Mr. Wolsley. 138  
Out of the Italian of Fulvio Testi, to Count Montecuccoli. Against Pride upon sudden Advancement. 143  
Catullus. Epig. 19 By the same Hand as the former. 148  
Out of the Greek of Menage. By the same Hand as the former. 150  
Invitation into the Country. In imitation of the 34th Epig. of Catullus. By the same Hand as the former. 151  
On Mrs. Arabello Hunt sing. A Pindaric Ode. By Mr. Congreve. 153  
To a Person of Honour. Upon his Incomparable, Incomprehensible Poem. By Mr. Waller. 159  
On the same by Dr. S— 162  
Another on the same. By Mr. Mat. Clifford. 164  
On the same. By the Ld. V.— 165  
On two Verses out of the same. By the Duke of Buckingham. 166  
To the Prince and Princess of Orange, upon their Marriage. By Nat. Lee. 168  
Against Sloath. When the King was at Oxford. 175  
What art thou Love! By Mr. J. Allestry. 178  
Verses spoken before the Duke and Duchess of York, and Lady Anne, in Oxford Theatre. By the Ld. S.— and Mr. C.— 181  
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. 188  
To Mr. Waller: Upon the Copy of Verses made by himself on the last Copy in his Book. 197  
Elegy: Occasioned by the Reading and Transcribing Mr. Edmund Waller's Poem of Divine Love, since his Death. By Mr. J. Talbot. 199  
Moschus: Idyl. 1st. Done into English by Mr. J. R. 201  
Against Enjoyment. By Mr. Yalden. 204  
Priam's. Lamentation and Petition to Achilles, for the Body of his Son Hector. Translated from the Greek of Homer. By Mr. Congreve. 207  
The Lamentations of Hecuba, Andromache, and Helen, over the dead Body of Hector. Translated from the Greek of Homer. By Mr. Congreve. 215  
Paraphrase upon Horace. Ode 19 Lib. 1. By Mr. Congreve. 227  
Horace, Lib. 2. Ode 14. Imitated by Mr. Congreve. 229  
An Ode, in Imitation of Horace, Ode 9 Lib. 1. By Mr. Congreve. 234  
To the Dut hess, on her Return from Scotland, in the Year 1682. By Mr. Dryden. 239  
A Song for St. Cecelia's Day, 1687. Written by John Dryden Esquire, and Composed by Mr. John Baptist Draghi. 242  
To Mr. Dryden: By Mr. Jo. Addison. 247  
To Mr. Dryden, on his Translation of Persius. By Mr. B. higgon's. 250  
To Sir Godfrey Kneller, drawing my Lady Hides Picture. By Mr. B. higgon's. 253  
Song on a Lady indisposed. By Mr. higgon's. 254  
Song to a Fair, young Lady. going out of the Town in the Spring. By Mr. Dryden. 255  
A Song by my Ld. R.— 258  
A Song by my Ld. R.— 259  
A Paean. or Song of Triumph, on the Translation and Apotheosis of King Charles the Second. By my Ld. R.— 260  
Out of Horace, By my Ld. R.— 262  
To a Lady, who Raffling for the King of France's Picture, flung the highest Chances on the Dice. By Mr. B. higgon's. 264  
On my Lady Sandwich's being stayed in Town by the immoderate Rain. By Mr. B. higgon's. 266  
Ovid's Love-Elegies. Bock 1. Eleg. 7. To his Mistress whom he had beaten. By Henry Cromwell, Esq 268  
Ovid's Love-Elegies. Book 1. Eleg. 8. Of Love and War. By Henry Cromwell, Esquire. 273  
Ovid's Love-Elegies. Book 1. Eleg. 10. To his Mercenary Mistress. By Henry Cromwell, Esquire. 277  
Ovid's Love-Elegies. Book 1. Eleg. 15. Of the Immortality of the Muses. Inscribed to Mr. Dryden. By Henry Cromwell, Esquire. 282  
Ovid's Love-Elegies. Book 3. Eleg. 2. To his Mistress at the Horse-Race. By Henry Cromwell, Esquire. 286  
Ovid's Love-Elegies. Book 3. Eleg. 3. Of his Perjured Mistress. By Henry Cromwell, Esq 291  
To the Lady Castlemain, upon her encouraging his first Play. By Mr. Dryden. 295  
Prologue to the University of Oxford, 1681. By Mr. Dryden. 299  
Prologue by Mr. Dryden. 302  
Considerations on the Eighty Eighth Psalm. By Mr. Prior. 305  
Veni Creator Spiritus, Translated in Paraphrase. By Mr. Dryden. 307  
The Curse of Babylon. paraphrased from the Thirteenth Chapter of Isaia. A Pindaric Ode. By Tho. Yalden. 310  
Out of Horace. Lib. 2. Ode. 3. 321  
The Grove. 325  
Love but One. 326  
To the Author of Sardanapalus; upon that and his other Writings. 328  
Of my Lady Hide. Occasioned by the sight of her Picture. By Mr. George Granville. 329  
An Imitation of the second Chorus in the second Act of Seneca's Thyestes. By Mr. George Granville. 331  
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. 335  
To Mr. Congreve. An Epistolary Ode. Occasioned by his Play. From Mr. Yalden. 343  
On his Mistress drowned. By Mr. S— 349  
To the Pious Memory of the Accomplished young Lady, Mrs. Anne Killigrew, Excellent in the two Sister-Arts of Poesy and Painting. An Ode. By Mr. Dryden. 351  
To the Earl of Carlisle, upon the Death of his Son before Luxemburgh. 364  
The Insect. Against Bulk. By Mr. Yalden. 370  
Written in a Lady's Advice to a Daughter. 373  
Written in a Lady's Waller. 375  
Written in the Leaves of a Fan 377  
An Incomparable Ode of Malherb's. Written by him when the Marriage was a foot between the King of France, and Anne of Austria. Translated by a Person of Quality, a great Admirer of the easiness of the French Poetry. 378  
On the Duchess of Portimouth's Picture. 380  
A Song. By the Earl of Rochester. 381  
Song for the King's Birth Day. 383  
A Song. 387  
A Song. 389  
Song. 391  
Song. 393  
To the King. In the Year 1686. By Mr. George Granville. 394  
Harry Martvn's Epitaph, by himself 396  
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. 397  
A Song. By a Lady. 401  
Written by a Lady. 403  
paraphrased out of Horace, the 23d Ode. of the 2d. Book. By Dr. Pope. 405  
Love's Antidote. 407  
Anachreon Imitated. 409  
Anachreon Imitated. 411  
Anachreon Imitated. 412  
From Virgil's First Georgick. Translated into English Verse, by H. Sacheverill. Dedicated to Mr. Dryden. 413  
A French Poem: With a Paraphrase on it in English. 418, 419  
A Song: by Sir John Eton. 422  
Another Song in imitation of Sir John Eaton's Songs. By the late Earl of Rochester. 424  
A Song: By Sidny Godolphin, Esquire, on Tom Killigrew, and Will Murrey. 425  
Rondelay. By Mr. Druden. 429  
In a Letter to the Honourable Mr. Charles Montague, By Mr. Prior. 431  
An Ode. By Mr. Prior. 433  
To a Lady of Quality's Playing on the Lute. By Mr. Prior. 437  
An Epitaph on the Lady Whitmore. By Mr. Dryden. 441  
An Epitaph on Sir Palms Fairborne's Tomb in Westminster-Abby. By Mr. Dryden. 442  
To the Reverend Dr. Sherlock, Dean of St. Paul's, on his Practical Discourse concerning Death. By Mr. Prior. 444  
On Exodus 3. 14. I am that I am. A Pindaric Ode. By Mr. Prior. 449  
The Last Parting of Hector and Andromache. From the Sixth Book of Homer's Iliads. Translated from the Original by Mr. Dryden. 456  
Syphilis. ult.    

THE FIRST BOOK OF Ovid's Metamorphoses, Translated into ENGLISH VERSE BY Mr. DRYDEN.   

THE FIRST BOOK OF Ovid's Metamorphoses.  


OF Bodies changed to various Forms I sing:  
Ye Gods, from whom these Miracles did spring,  
Inspire my Numbers with Celestial heat;  
Till I, my long laborious Work complete:  
And add perpetual Tenor to my Rhimes,  
Deduced from Nature's Birth, to Caesar's Times   

Before the Seas, and this Terrestrial Ball,  
And heavens high Canopy, that covers all,  
One was the Face of Nature; if a Face,  
Rather a rude and indigested Mass:  
A lifeless Lump, unfashioned, and unframed;  
Of jarring Seeds; and justly Chaos named.  
No Sun was lighted up, the World to view;  
No Moon did yet her blunted Horas renew:  
Nor yet was Earth suspended in the Sky;  
Nor poised, did on her own Foundations lie:  
Nor Seas about the Shores their Arms had thrown;  
But Earth and Air and Water were in one.  
Thus Air was void of light, and Earth unstable,  
And Waters dark Abyss unnavigable.  
No certain Form, on any was impressed;  
All were confused, and each disturbed the rest.  
For hot and cold, were in one Body fixed;  
And soft with hard, and light with heavy mixed.   

But God or Nature, while they thus contend,  
To these intestine Discords put an end:  
Then Earth from Air, and Seas from Earth were driven,  
And grosser Air, sunk from AEtherial Heaven.  
Thus disembroiled, they take their proper place;  
The next of kin, contiguously embrace;  
And Foes are sundered, by a larger space.  
The force of Fire ascended first on high,  
And took its dwelling in the vaulted Sky:  
Then Air succeeds, in lightness next to Fire;  
Whose Atoms from unactive Earth retire.  
Earth sinks beneath, and draws a numerous throng  
Of ponderous, thick, unwieldy Seeds along.  
About her Coasts, unruly Waters roar;  
And, rising on a ridge, insult the Shoar.  
Thus when the God, what ever God was he,  
Had formed the whole, and made the parts agree,  
That no unequal portions might be found,  
He moulded Earth into a spacious round:  
Then with a breath, he gave the Winds to blow;  
And bade the congregated Waters flow.  
He adds the running Springs, and standing Lakes;  
And bounding Banks for winding Rivers makes.  
Some part, in Earth are swallowed up, the most  
In ample Oceans, disimbogued, are lost.  
He shades the Woods, the Valleys he restrains  
With Rocky Mountains, and extends the Plains.   

And as five Zones th'etherial Regions bind,  
Five Correspondent, are to Earth assigned:  
The Sun with Rays, directly darting down,  
Fires all beneath, and fries the middle Zone:  
The two beneath the distant Poles, complain  
Of endless Winter, and perpetual Rain.  
Betwixt th'extremes, two happier Climates, hold  
The Temper that partakes of Hot and Cold.  
The Fields of liquid Air, enclosing all,  
Surround the Compass of this Earthly Ball:  
The lighter parts, lie next the Fires above;  
The grosser near the watery Surface move:  
Thick Clouds are spread, and Storms engender there,  
And Thunder's Voice, which wretched Mortals fear,  
And Winds that on their Wings, cold Winter bear.  
Nor were those blustering Brethren left at large,  
On Seas and Shores, their fury to discharge:  
Bond as they are, and circumscribed in place,  
They rend the World, resistless, where they pass;  
And mighty marks of mischief leave behind;  
Such is the Rage of their tempestuous kind.  
First Eurus to the rising Morn is sent,  
(The Regions of the balmy Continent;)  
And Eastern Realms, where early Persians run,  
To greet the blessed appearance of the Sun.  
Westward, the wanton Zephyr wings his flight;  
Pleased with the remnants of departing light:  
Fierce Boreas, with his Offspring, Islues forth  
T'invade the frozen Wagon of the North.  
While srowning Auster, seeks the Southern Sphere;  
And rots with endless Rain, th'unwholesome year.   

High o'er the Clouds and empty Realms of wind,  
The God a clearer space for Heaven designed;  
Where Fields of Light, and liquid AEther flow;  
Purged from the ponderous dregs of Earth below.   

Scarce had the Power distinguished these, when straight  
The Stars, no longer overlaid with weight,  
Exert their Heads, from underneath the Mass;  
And upward shoot, and kindle as they pass, place.  
And with diffasive Light, adorn their Heavenly  
Then, every void of Nature to supply,  
With Forms of Gods he fills the vacant Sky:  
New Herds of Beasts, he sends the plains to share:  
New Colonies of Birds, to people Air:  
And to their Oozy Beds, the finny Fish repair.   

A Creature of a more Exalted Kind  
Was wanting yet, and then was Man designed:  
Conscious of Thought, of more capacious Breast,  
For Empire formed, and fit to rule the rest:  
Whether with particles of Heavenly Fire  
The God of Nature did his Soul Inspire,  
Or Earth, but new divided from the Sky,  
And, pliant, still, retained the AEtherial Energy:  
Which Wise Prometheus tempered into paste,  
And mixed with living Streams, the Godlike Image cast.  
Thus, while the mute Creation downward bend  
Their Sight, and to their Earthy Mother tend,  
Man looks aloft; and with erected Eyes  
Beholds his own Hereditary Skies.  
From such rude Principles our Form began;  
And Earth was Metamorphosed into Man.    

The Golden Age.  
The Golden Age was first; when Man yet New,  
No Rule but uncorrupted Reason knew:  
And, with a Native bent, did Good pursue.  
Unforced by Punishment, un-awed by fear,  
His words were simple, and his Soul sincere:  
Needless was written Law, where none oppressed:  
The Law of Man, was written in his Breast:  
No suppliant Crowds, before the Judge appeared,  
No Court Erected yet, nor Cause was heard:  
But all was safe, for Conscience was their Guard.  
The Mountain Trees in distant prospect please,  
ere yet the Pine descended to the Seas:  
ere Sails were spread, new Oceans to explore:  
And happy Mortals, unconcerned for more,  
Confined their Wishes to their Native Shoar.  
No walls, were yet; nor sense, nor mote nor mownd,  
Nor Drum was heard, nor Trumpets angry sound:  
Nor Swords were forged; but void of Care and Crime,  
The soft Creation slept away their time.  
The teeming Earth, yet guiltless of the Plough,  
And unprovok'd, did fruitful Stores allow:  
Content with Food, which Nature freely bred,  
On Wildings, and on Strawberries they fed;  
Cornels and Bramble-berries gave the rest,  
And falling Acorns, furnished out a Feast.  
The Flowers un-sown, in Fields and Meadows reigned:  
And Western Winds, immortal Spring maintained.  
In following years, the bearded Corn ensued,  
From Earth unasked, nor was that Earth renewed.  
From Veins of Valleys, Milk and Nectar broke;  
And Honey sweeting through the pores of Oak.   

The Silver Age.  
But when Good Saturn, banished from above,  
Was driven to Hell, the World was under Jove.  
Succeeding times a Silver Age behold,  
Excelling Brass, but more excelled by Gold.  
Then Summer, Autumn, Winter, did appear:  
And Spring was but a Season of the Year.  
The Sun his Annual course obliquely made,  
Good days contracted, and enlarged the bad.  
Then Air with sultry heats began to glow;  
The wings of winds, were clogged with Ice and Snow;  
And shivering Mortals, into Houses driven,  
Sought shelter from th'inclemency of Heaven.  
Those Houses, then, were Caves, or homely Sheds;  
With twining Oziers' fenced; and Moss their Beds.  
Then Ploughs, for Seed, the fruitful furrows broke,  
And Oxen laboured first, beneath the Yoke.   

The Brazen Age.  
To this came next in course, the Brazen Age:  
A Warlike Offspring, prompt to Bloody Rage,  
Not Impious yet—   

The Iron Age.  

—— Heard Steel succeeded then:  
And stubborn as the Metal, were the Men.  
Truth, Modesty, and Shame, the World forsook,  
Fraud, Avarice, and Force, their places took.  
Then Sails were spread, to every Wind that blew.  
Raw were the Sailors, and the Depths were new:  
Trees rudely hollowed, did the Waves sustain;  
ere Ships in Triumph ploughed the watery Plain.   

Then Landmarks, limited to each his right:  
For all before was common, as the light.  
Nor was the Ground alone required to bear  
Her annual Income to the crooked share,  
But greedy Mortals, rummaging her Store,  
Digged from her Entrails first the precious Oar;  
Which next to Hell, the prudent Gods had laid;  
And that alluring ill, to sight displayed.  
Thus cursed Steel, and more accursed Gold  
Gave mischief birth, and made that mischief bold;  
And double death, did wretched Man invade  
By Steel assaulted, and by Gold betrayed.  
Now, (brandished Weapons glittering in their hands,)  
Mankind is broken loose from moral Bands;  
No Rights of Hospitality remain:  
The Guest by him who harboured him, is slain.  
The Son in Law pursues the Father's life;  
The Wife her Husband murders, he the Wife.  
The Stepdame Poison for the Son prepares;  
The Son inquires into his Father's years.  
Faith flies, and Piety in Exile mourns;  
And Justice, here oppressed, to Heaven returns.    

The Giants War.  

Nor were the Gods themselves more safe above;  
Against beleaguered Heaven, the Giants move:  
Hills piied on Hills, on Mountains, Mountains lie,  
To make their mad approaches to the Sky.  
Till Jove, no longer patient, took his time  
T'avenge with Thunder their audacious Crime;  
Red lightning played, along the Firmament,  
And their demolished Works to pieces rend.  
Singed with the Flames, and with the Bolts transfixed  
With Native Earth, their Blood, the Monsters mixed:  
The Blood, endued with animating heat,  
Did in th' Impregnant Earth, new Sons beget:  
They, like the Seed from which they sprung, accursed,  
Against the Gods, Immortal Hatred nursed.  
An Impious, Arrogant, and Cruel Brood:  
Expressing their Original from Blood.   

Which, when the King of Gods beheld from high,  
(Withal revolving in his memory,  
What he himself had found on Earth of late,  
Lycaon's Gild, and his Inhuman Treat,)  
He sighed; nor longer with his Pity strove;  
But kindled to a Wrath becoming Jove:   

Then, called a General Council of the Gods;  
Who Summoned, Issue from their Blessed Abodes,  
And fill th' Assembly, with a shining Train.  
A way there is, in Heavens expanded Plain,  
Which when the Skies are clear, is seen below,  
And Mortals, by the Name of Milky, know.  
The Groundwork is of Stars; through which the Road  
Lies open to the Thunderer's Abode;  
The Gods of greater Nations dwell around,  
And on the Right and Left, the Palace bound;  
The Commons where they can, the Nobler sort  
With Winding-doors wide open, front the Court,  
This Place, as far as Earth with Heaven may vie,  
I dare to call the Looure of the Sky.  
When all were placed, in Seats distinctly known,  
And he, their Father, had assumed the Throne,  
Upon his Ivory Sceptre first he leaned,  
Then shook his Head, that shook the Firmament:  
Air, Earth, and Seas, obeyed th' Almighty nod:  
And with a gen'ral fear, confessed the God.  
At length with Indignation, thus he broke  
His awful silence, and the Powers bespoke.   

I was not more concerned in that debate  
Of Empire, when our Universal State  
Was put to hazard, and the Giant Raze  
Our Captive Skies, were ready to embrace:  
For tho' the Foe was fierce, the Seeds of all  
Rebellion, sprung from one Original;  
Now, wheresoever ambient waters glide,  
All are corrupt, and all must be destroyed.  
Let me this Holy Protestation make,  
By Hell, and Hell's inviolable Lake,  
I tried whatever in the Godhead lay:  
But gangrened Members, must be lopped away,  
Before the Nobler Parts, are tainted to decay.  
There dwells below, a Race of Demigods,  
Of Nymphs in Waters; and of Fawns in Woods:  
Who, though not worthy yet, in Heaven to live,  
Let'em, at least, enjoy that Earth we give.  
Can these be thought securely lodged below,  
When I myself, who no Superior know,  
ay, who have Heaven and Earth at my command,  
Have been attempted by Lycaon's Hand?   

At this a murmur, through the Synod went,  
And with one Voice they vote his Punishment.  
Thus, when Conspiring Traitors dared to doom  
The fall of Caesar, and in him of Rome,  
The Nations trembled, with a pious fear;  
All anxious for their Earthly Thunderer:  
Nor was their care, O Caesar! less esteemed  
By thee, than that of Heaven for Jove was deemed,  
Who with his Hand and Voice, did first restrain  
Their Murmurs, than resumed his Speech again.  
The Gods to silence were composed, and sat  
With Reverence, due to his Superior State.   

Cancel your pious Cares; already he  
Has paid his Debt to Justice, and to me.  
Yet what his Crimes, and what my Judgements were,  
Remains for me, thus briefly to declare.  
The Clamours of this vile degenerate Age,  
The Cries of Orphans, and th'Oppressor's Rage  
Had reached the Stars; I will descend, said I,  
In hope to prove this loud Complaint a Lye.  
Disguised in Humane Shape, I Travelled round  
The World, and more than what I heard, I found.  
O'er Moenalus I took my steepy way,  
By Caverns infamous for Beasts of Prey:  
Then crossed Cyllenè, and the piny shade  
More infamous, by Cursed Lycaon made.  
Dark Night had covered Heaven and Earth, before  
I entered his Unhospitable Door.  
Just at my entrance, I displayed the Sign  
That somewhat was approaching of Divine.  
The prostrate People pray; the Tyrant grins;  
And, adding Profanation to his Sins,  
I'll try, said he, and if a God appear  
To prove his Deity, shall cost him dear.  
'twas late; the Graceless Wretch, my Death prepares,  
When I should sound Sleep, oppressed with Cares:  
This dire Experiment, he chose, to prove  
If I were Mortal, or undoubted Jove:  
But first he had resolved to taste my Power;  
Not long before, but in a luckless hour  
Some Legates, sent from the Molossian State,  
Were on a peaceful Errand come to Treat:  
Of these he Murders one, he boils the Flesh;  
And lays the mangled Morsels in a Dish:  
Some part he Roasts; then serves it up, so dressed,  
And bids me welcome to this Humane Feast.  
Moved with disdain, the Table I o'erturned;  
And with avenging Flames, the Palace burned.  
The Tyrant in a fright, for shelter, gains  
The Neighbouring Fields, and scours along the plains.  
Howling he fled, and fain he would have spoke;  
But Humane Voice, his Brutal Tongue forsook.  
About his lips, the gathered foam he churns,  
And, breathing slaughters, still with rage he burns,  
But on the bleating Flock, his fury turns.  
His Mantle, now his Hide, with rugged hairs  
Cleaves to his back, a famished face he bears.  
His arms descend, his shoulders sink away,  
To multiply his legs for chase of Prey.  
He grows a Wolf, his hoariness remains,  
And the same rage in other Members reigns.  
His eyes still sparkle in a narr'wer space:  
His jaws retain the grin, and violence of face.   

This was a single ruin, but not one  
Deserves so just a punishment alone.  
Mankind's a Monster, and th' Ungodly times  
confederate into guilt, are sworn to Crimes.  
All are alike involved in ill, and all  
Must by the same relentless Fury fall.  
Thus ended he; the greater Gods assent;  
By Clamours urging his severe intent;  
The less fill up the cry for punishment.  
Yet still with pity, they remember Man;  
And mourn as much as Heavenly Spirits can.  
They ask, when those were lost of humane birth,  
What he would do with all this waste of Earth:  
If his dispeopled World, he would resign  
To Beasts, a mute, and more ignoble Line;  
Neglected Altars must no longer smoke,  
If none were left to worship and invoke.  
To whom the Father of the Gods replied,  
Lay that unnecessary fear aside.  
Mine be the care, new People to provide.  
I will from wondrous Principles ordain  
A Race unlike the first, and try my skill again.   

Already had he tossed the flaming Brand;  
And rolled the Tunder in his spacious hand;  
Preparing to discharge on Seas and Land:  
But stopped, for fear thus violently driven,  
The Sparks should catch his Axletree of Heaven.  
Remembering in the Fates, a time when Fire  
Should to the Battlements of Heaven aspire.  
And all his blazing Worlds above should burn;  
And all th' inferior Globe, to Cinders turn.  
His dire Artill'ry thus dismissed, he bent  
His thoughts to some securer Punishment.  
Concludes to pour a Watery Deluge down;  
And what he durst not burn, resolves to drown.   

The Northern breath, that freezes Floods, he binds:  
With all the race of Cloud-dispelling Winds:  
The South he loosed, who Night and Horror brings;  
And Fogs are shaken from his ●laggy Wings.  
From his divided Beard, two Streams he pours,  
His head and rhumy eyes, distil in showers.  
With Rain his Robe and heavy Mantle flow:  
And lazy mists, are lowering on his brow;  
Still as he swept along, with his clenched fist  
He squeezed the Clouds, th' imprisoned Clouds resist:  
The Skies from Pole to Pole, with peals resound;  
And showers enlarged, come pouring on the ground.  
Then, clad in Colours of a various dye,  
Junonian Iris, breeds a new supply;  
To feed the Clouds: Impetuous Rain descends;  
The bearded Corn, beneath the Burden bends:  
Defrauded Clowns, deplore their perished grain;  
And the long labours of the Year are vain.   

Nor from his Patrimonial Heaven alone  
Is Jove content to pour his Vengeance down,  
Aid from his Brother of the Seas he craves;  
To help him with Auxiliary Waves.  
The watery Tyrant calls his Brooks and Floods,  
Who roll from mossy Caves (their moist abodes;)  
And with perpetual Urns his Palace fill:  
To whom in brief, he thus imparts his Will.   

Small Exhortation needs; your Powers employ:  
And this bad World, so Jove requires, destroy:  
Let lose the Reins, to all your watery Store:  
Bear down the dams, and open every door.   

The Floods, by Nature Enemies to Land,  
And proudly swelling with their new Command,  
Remove the living Stones, that stopped their way,  
And gushing from their Source, augment the Sea.  
Then, with his Mace, their Monarch struck the Ground:  
With inward trembling, Earth received the wound;  
And rising streams a ready passage found.  
Th' expanded Waters gather on the Plain:  
They float the Fields, and over-top the Grain;  
Then rushing onwards, with a sweepy sway,  
Bear Flocks and Folds, and labouring Hinds away.  
Nor safe their Dwellings were, for, sapped by Floods,  
Their Houses fell upon their Household Gods.  
The solid Piles, too strongly built to fall,  
High o'er their Heads, behold a watery Wall:  
Now Seas and Earth were in confusion lost;  
A World of Waters, and without a Coast.   

One climbs a Cliff; one in his Boat is born;  
And Ploughs above, where late he sowed his Corn.  
Others o'er Chimney tops and Turrets row,  
And drop their Anchors, on the Meads below:  
Or downward driven, they bruise the tender Vine,  
Or tossed aloft, are knocked against a Pine.  
And where of late, the Kids had cropped the Grass,  
The Monsters of the deep, now take their place.  
Insulting Nereids on the Cities ride,  
And wondering Dolphins o'er the Palace glide.  
On leaves and masts of mighty Oaks they browse;  
And their broad Finns, entangle in the Boughs,  
The frighted Wolf, now swims amongst the Sheep;  
The yellow Lion wanders in the deep:  
His rapid force, no longer helps the Boar:  
The Stag swims faster, than he ran before.  
The Fowls, long beating on their Wings in vain,  
Despair of Land, and drop into the Main.  
Now Hills and Vaies, no more distinction know;  
And levelled Nature, lies oppressed below.  
The most of Mortals perish in the Flood:  
The small remainder dies for want of Food.   

A Mountain of stupendous height there stands  
Betwixt th' Athenian and Boeotian Lands,  
The bound of fruitful Fields, while Fields they were,  
But then a Field of Waters did appear:  
Parnassus is its name; whose forky rise  
Mounts through the Clouds, and mates the lofty Skies.  
High on the Summet of this dubious Cliff,  
Deucalion wafting, moored his little Skiff.  
He with his Wife were only left behind  
Of perished Man; they two, were Humane Kind.  
The Mountain Nymphs and Themis they adore,  
And from her Oracle's relief implore.  
The most upright of Mortal Men was he;  
The most sincere and holy Woman, she.   

When Jupiter, surveying Earth from high,  
Beheld it in a Lake of Water lie,  
That where so many Millions lately lived,  
But two, the best of either Sex survived;  
He loosed the Northern Wind; fierce Boreas flies  
To puff away the Clouds and purge the Skies:  
Serenely, while he blows, the Vapours, driven,  
Discover Heaven to Earth, and Earth to Heaven.  
The Billows fall, while Neptune lays his Mace  
On the rough Seas, and smooths its furrowed face.  
Already Triton, at his call appears,  
Above the Waves; a Tyrian Robe he wears;  
And in his hand a crooked Trumpet bears.  
The Sovereign bids him peaceful sounds inspire;  
And give the Waves the signal to retire.  
His writhe Shell he takes; whose narrow vent  
Grows by degrees into a large extent,  
Then gives it breath; the blast, with doubling sound,  
Runs the wide Circuit of the World around:  
The Sun first heard it, in his early East,  
And met the rattling Echoes in the West.  
The Waters, listening to the Trumpets roar,  
Obey the Summons, and sorsake the Shoar.   

A thin Circumference of Land appears;  
And Earth, but not at once, her visage rears;  
And peeps upon the Seas from upper Grounds;  
The Streams, but just contained within their bounds,  
By slow degrees into their Channels crawl:  
And Earth increases, as the Waters fall.  
In longer time the tops of Trees appear;  
Which Mud on their dishonoured Branches bear.   

At length the World was all restored to view;  
But desolate, and of a sickly hue:  
Nature beheld herself, and stood aghast,  
A dismal Desert, and a silent waste.   

Which when Deucalion, with a piteous look  
Beheld, he wept, and thus to Pyrrha spoke:  
Oh Wife, oh Sister, oh of all thy kind  
The best and only Creature left behind,  
By Kindred, Love, and now by Dangers joined,  
Of Multitudes, who breathed the common Air,  
We two remain; a Species in a pair:  
The rest the Seas have swallowed; nor have we  
Even of this wretched life a certainty.  
The Clouds are still above; and, while I speak,  
A second Deluge, o'er our heads may break.  
Should I be snatched from hence, and thou remain,  
Without relief, or Partner of thy pain,  
How couldst thou such a wretched Life sustain?  
Should I be left, and thou be lost, the Sea  
That buried her I loved, should bury me.  
Oh could our Father his old Arts inspire,  
And make me Heir of his informing Fire,  
That so I might abolished Man retrieve,  
And perished People in new Souls might live.  
But Heaven is pleased, nor ought we to complain,  
That we, th' Examples of Mankind, remain.  
He said; the careful couple join their Tears;  
And then invoke the Gods, with pious Prayers.  
Thus, in Devotion having eased their grief,  
From Sacred Oracles, they seek relief.  
And to Cephysus Brook, their way pursue:  
The Stream was troubled, but the Ford they knew;  
With living Waters, in the Fountain bred,  
They sprinkle first, their Garments, and their Head,  
Then took the way, which to the Temple led.  
The Roofs were all defiled with Moss, and Mire,  
The Desert Altars, void of Solemn Fire.  
Before the Gradual, prostrate they adored;  
The Pavement kissed, and thus the Saint implored.   

O Righteous Themis, if the Powers above  
By Prayers are bend to pity, and to love,  
If humane Miseries can move their mind;  
If yet they can forgive; and yet be kind,  
Tell, how we may restore, by second birth,  
Mankind, and People desolated Earth.  
Then thus the gracious Goddess, nodding, said;  
Depart, and with your Vestments veil your head:  
And stooping lowly down, with loosened Zones,  
Throw each behind your backs, your mighty Mother's bones.  
Amazed the pair, and mute with wonder stand,  
Till Pyrrha first refused the dire command.  
Forbid it Heaven, said she, that I should tear  
Those Holy Relics from the Sepulchre:  
They pondered the mysterious words again,  
For some new sense; and long they sought in vain:  
At length Deucalion cleared his cloudy brow,  
And said, the dark AEnigma will allow.  
A meaning, which if well I understand,  
From Sacrilege will free the God's Command:  
This Earth our mighty Mother is, the Stones  
In her capacious Body, are her Bones.  
These we must cast behind: with hope and fear  
The Woman did the new solution hear:  
The Man diffides in his own Augury,  
And doubts the Gods; yet both resolve to try.  
Descending from the Mount, they first unbind  
Their Vests, and veiled, they cast the Stones behind:  
The Stones (a Miracle to Mortal View,  
But long Tradition makes it pass for true)  
Did first the Rigour of their Kind expel,  
And, suppled into softness, as they fell,  
Then swelled, and swelling, by degrees grew warm;  
And took the Rudiments of Humane Form.  
Imperfect shapes: in Marble such are seen  
When the rude Chisel does the Man begin;  
While yet the roughness of the Stone remains,  
Without the rising Muscles, and the Veins.  
The sappy parts, and next resembling juice,  
Were turned to moisture, for the Bodies use:  
Supplying humours, blood, and nourishment;  
The rest, (too solid to receive a bent;)  
Converts to bones; and what was once a vein  
It's former Name, and Nature did retain.  
By help of Power Divine, in little space  
What the Man threw, assumed a Manly face;  
And what the Wife, renewed the Female Race.  
Hence we derive our Nature; born to bear  
Laborious life; and hardened into care.   

The rest of Animals, from teeming Earth  
Produced, in various forms received their birth.  
The native moisture, in its close retreat,  
Digested by the Sun's AEtherial heat,  
As in a kindly Womb, began to breed:  
Then swelled, and quickened by the vital seed.  
And some in less, and some in longer space,  
Were ripened into form, and took a several face.  
Thus when the Nile from Pharian Fields is fled,  
And seeks with Ebbing Tides, his ancient Bed,  
The sat Manure, with Heavenly Fire is warmed;  
And crusted Creatures, as in Wombs are sormed;  
These, when they turn the Glebe, the Peasants find;  
Some rude; and yet unfinished in their Kind:  
Short of their Limbs, a lame imperfect Birth;  
One half alive; and one of lifeless Earth.   

For heat and moisture, when in Bodies joined,  
The temper that results from either Kind  
Conception makes; and fight till they mix,  
Their mingled Atoms in each other six.  
Thus Nature's hand, the Genial Bed prepares,  
With Friendly Discord, and with fruitful Wars.   

From hence the surface of the Ground, with Mud  
And Slime besmeared, (the faeces of the Flood)  
Received the Rays of Heaven; and sucking in  
The Seeds of Heat, new Creatures did begin:  
Some were of several sorts produced before,  
But of new Monsters, Earth created more.   

Unwillingly, but yet she brought to light  
Thee, Python too, the wondering World to fright,  
And the new Nations, with so dire a sight:  
So monstrous was his bulk, so large a space  
Did his vast Body, and long Train embrace.  
Whom Phoebus basking on a Bank espied;  
ere now the God his Arrows had not tried  
But on the trembling Deer, or Mountain Goat;  
At this new Quarry; he prepares to shoot.  
Though every Shaft took place, he spent the Store  
Of his full Quiver; and 'twas long before  
Th' expiring Serpent wallowed in his Gore.  
Then, to preserve the Fame of such a deed,  
For Python slain, he Pythian Games decreed.  
Where Noble Youths for Mastership should strive,  
To Quoit, to Run, and Steeds and Chariots drive;  
The Prize was Fame: In witness of Renown  
An Oaken Garland did the Victor crown.  
The Laurel was not yet for Triumphs born;  
But every Green, alike by Phoebus worn,  
Did with promiscuous Grace, his flowing Locks adorn.    

The Transformation of Daphne into a Laurel.  

The first and fairest of his Loves, was she  
Whom not blind Fortune, but the dire decree  
Of angry Cupid forced him to desire:  
Daphne her name, and Peneus was her Sire.  
Swelled with the Pride, that new Success attends  
He sees the Stripling, while his Bow he bends  
And thus insults him; thou lascivious Boy,  
Are Arms like these, for Children to employ?  
Know such atchivements are my proper claim;  
Due to my vigour, and unerring aim:  
Resistless are my Shafts, and Python late  
In such a feathered Death, has found his fate.  
Take up thy Torch, (and lay my Weapons by)  
With that the feeble Souls of Lovers fry.  
To whom the Son of Venus thus replied,  
Phoebus thy Shafts are sure on all beside,  
But mine on Phoebus, mine the Fame shall be  
Of all thy Conquests, when I conquer thee.   

He said, and soaring, swiftly winged his flight:  
Nor stopped but on Parnassus' airy height.  
Two different Shafts, he from his Quiver draws;  
One to repel desire, and one to cause.  
One Shaft is pointed with refulgent Gold;  
To bribe the Love, and make the Lover bold:  
One blunt, and tipped with Lead, whose base allay  
Provokes disdain, and drives desire away.  
The blunted bolt, against the Nymph he dressed:  
But with the sharp, transfixed Apollo's Breast.   

Th' enamoured Deity, pursues the Chase;  
The scornful Damsel shuns his loathed Embrace:  
In hunting Beasts of Prey, her Youth employs;  
And Phoebe Rivals in her rural Joys.  
With naked Neck she goes, and Shoulders bare;  
And with a Fillet binds her flowing Hair.  
By many Suitors sought, she mocks their pains,  
And still her vowed Virginity maintains.  
Impatient of a Yoke, the name of Bride  
She shuns, and hates the Joys she never tried.  
On wild's and Woods she fixes her desire:  
Nor knows what Youth and kindly Love inspire.  
Her Father chides her oft; thou ow'st, says he,  
A Husband to thyself, a Son to me.  
She, like a Crime, abhors the Nuptial Bed:  
She glows with blushes, and she hangs her head.  
Then casting round his Neck her tender Arms,  
Soothes him with blandishments, and filial Charms:  
Give me, my Lord, she said, to live and die  
A spotless Maid, without the Marriage Tye.  
'Tis but a small request; I beg no more  
Than what Diana's Father gave before.  
The good old Sire, was softened to consent;  
But said her Wish would prove her Punishment:  
For so much Youth, and so much Beauty joined  
Opposed the State, which her desires designed.   

The God of light, aspiring to her Bed  
Hopes what he seeks, with flattering fancies fed;  
And is, by his own Oracles misled.  
And as in empty Fields, the Stubble burns,  
Or nightly Travellers, when day returns,  
Their useless Torches, on dry Hedges throw,  
That catch the Flames, and kindle all the row,  
So burns the God, consuming in desire,  
And feeding in his Breast a fruitless Fire:  
Her well-turned Neck he viewed (her Neck was bare)  
And on her Shoulders her dishevelled Hair,  
Oh were it combed, said he, with what a grace  
Would every waving Curl, become her Face!  
He viewed her Eyes, like Heavenly Lamps that shone,  
He viewed her Lips, too sweet to view alone,  
Her taper Fingers, and her panting Breast;  
He praises all he sees, and for the rest  
Believes the Beauties yet unseen are best:  
Swift as the Wind, the Damsel fled away,  
Nor did for these alluring Speeches stay:  
Stay Nymph, he cried, I follow not a Foe.  
Thus from the Lion, trips the trembling Do;  
Thus from the Wolf the frighted Lamb removes,  
And, from pursuing Falcons, fearful Doves,  
Thou shunn'st a God, and shunn'st a God that loves.  
Ah, lest some thorn should pierce thy tender foot,  
Or thou shouldst fall in flying my pursuit!  
To sharp uneven ways thy steps decline;  
Abate thy speed, and I will bate of mine.  
Yet think from whom thou dost so rashly fly;  
Nor basely born, nor Shepherd's Swain am I.  
Perhaps thou knowst not my Superior State;  
And, from that ignorance, proceeds thy hate.  
Me Claros, Delphos, Tenedos obey,  
These Hands the Patareian Sceptre sway.  
The King of Gods begot me: What shall be,  
Or is, or ever was, in Fate, I see.  
Mine is th' invention of the charming Lyre;  
Sweet notes, and Heavenly numbers I inspire.  
Sure is my Bow, unerring is my Dart;  
But ah more deadly his, who pierced my Heart.  
Medicine is mine; what Herbs and Simples grow  
In Fields and Forests, all their powers I know;  
And am the great Physician called, below.  
Alas that Fields and Forests can afford  
No Remedies to heal their Lovesick Lord!  
To cure the pains of Love, no Plant avails:  
And his own Physic; the Physician fails.   

She heard not half; so furiously she flies;  
And on her Ear, th' imperfect accent dies.  
Fear gave her Wings; and as she fled, the wind  
Increasing, spread her flowing Hair behind:  
And left her Legs and Thighs exposed to view;  
Which made the God more eager to pursue.  
The God was young, and was too hotly bend  
To lose his time in empty Compliment.  
But led by Love, and fired with such a sight,  
Impetuously pursued his near delight.   

As when th'impatient Greyhound slipped from far,  
Bounds o'er the Glebe to coarse the fearful Hare,  
She in her speed, does all her safety lay;  
And he with double speed pursues the Prey;  
O're-runs her at the sitting turn, and licks  
His Chaps in vain, and blows upon the flux,  
She escapes, and for the neighbouring Covert strives,  
And gaining shelter, doubts if yet she lives:  
If little things with great we may compare,  
Such was the God, and such the flying Fair.  
She urged by fear, her feet did swiftly move;  
But he more swiftly, who was urged by Love.  
He gathers ground upon her in the chase:  
Now breathes upon her Hair, with nearer pace;  
And just is fastening on the wished Embrace.  
The Nymph grew pale, and in a mortal fright,  
Spent with the labour of so long a flight:  
And now despairing, cast a mournful look  
Upon the Streams of her Paternal Brook:  
Oh help, she cried, in this extremest need,  
If Water Gods are Deities indeed:  
Gape Earth, and this unhappy Wretch entomb;  
Or change my form, whence all my sorrows come.  
Scarce had she finished, when her Feet she found  
Benumbed with cold, and fastened to the Ground:  
A filmy rind about her Body grows;  
Her Hair to Leaves, her Arms extend to Boughs:  
The Nymph is all into a Laurel gone:  
The smoothness of her Skin, remains alone.   

Yet Phoebus loves her still, and casting round  
Her Bowl, his Arms, some little warmth he found.  
The Tree still panted in th' unfinished part:  
Not wholly vegetive, and heaved her Heart.  
He fixed his Lips upon the trembling Rind;  
It swerved aside, and his Embrace declined.  
To whom the God, because thou canst not be  
My Mistress, I espouse thee for my Tree:  
Be thou the prize of Honour and Renown;  
The deathless Poet, and the Poem crown.  
Thou shalt the Roman Festivals adorn,  
And, after Poets, be by Victors worn.  
Thou shalt returning Caesar's Triumph grace;  
When Pomp's shall in a long Procession pass.  
Wreathed on the Posts before his Palace wait;  
And be the sacred Guardian of the Gate.  
Secure from Thunder, and unharmed by Jove,  
Unfading as th' immortal Powers above:  
And as the locks of Phoebus are unshorn,  
So shall perpetual green thy Boughs adorn.  
The grateful Tree was pleased with what he said;  
And shook the shady Honours of her Head.    

The Transformation of Io into a Heifer.  

An ancient Forest in Thessalia grows;  
Which Tempe's pleasing Valley does enclose:  
Through this the rapid Peneus takes his course;  
From Pindus' rolling with impetuous force:  
Mists from the Rivers mighty fall arise;  
And deadly damps enclose the cloudy Skies:  
Perpetual Fogs are hanging o'er the Wood;  
And sounds of Waters deaf the Neighbourhood.  
Deep, in a Rocky Cave, he makes abode:  
(A Mansion proper for a mourning God.)  
Here he gives Audience; issuing out Decrees  
To Rivers, his dependant Deities.  
On this occasion hither they resort;  
To pay their homage and to make their Court.  
All doubtful, whether to congratulate  
His Daughter's Honour, or lament her Fate.  
Sperchaeus, crowned with Poplar, first appears;  
Then old Apidanus came crowned with years:  
Enipeus turbulent, Amphrisos tame;  
And AEas, last with lagging Waters came.  
Then, of his Kindred Brooks, a numerous throng,  
Condole his loss; and bring their Urns along.  
Not one was wanting of the watery Train,  
That filled his Flood, or mingled with the Main:  
But Inachus, who in his Cave, alone,  
Wept not another's losses, but his own.  
For his dear Io, whether strayed, or dead,  
To him uncertain, doubtful tears he shed.  
He sought her through the World; but sought in vain;  
And no where finding, rather feared her slain.   

Her, just returning from her Father's Brook,  
Jove had beheld, with a desiring look:  
And oh fair Daughter of the Flood, he said,  
Worthy alone of Jove's Imperial Bed;  
Happy whoever shall those Charms possess;  
The King of Gods, nor is thy Lover less,  
Invites thee to yond cooler Shades; to shun  
The scorching Rays of the Meridian Sun.  
Nor shalt thou tempt the dangers of the Grove  
Alone, without a Guide; thy Guide is Jove.  
No puny Power, but he whose high Command  
Is unconfined, who rules the Seas and Land;  
And tempers Thunder in his awful hand.  
Oh fly not; (for she fled from his Embrace,)  
O'er Lerna's Pastures, he pursued the Chase:  
Along the Shades of the Lyrnoean Plain;  
At length the God, who never asks in vain,  
Involved with Vapours, imitating Night,  
Both Air and Earth; and then suppressed her flight  
And mingling force with Love enjoyed the full delight.   

Mean time the jealous Juno, from on high,  
Surveyed the fruitful Fields of Arcady:  
And wondered that the mist should overrun  
The face of Daylight, and obscure the Sun.  
No Natural cause the found, from Brooks, or Bogs,  
Or marshy Lowlands, to produce the Fogs:  
Then round the Skies she sought for Jupiter;  
Her faithless Husband; but no Jove was there:  
Suspecting now the worst, or I, she said,  
Am much mistaken, or am much betrayed.  
With fury she precipitates her flight:  
Dispels the shadows of dissembled Night;  
And to the day restores his native light.  
Th' Almighty Lecher, careful to prevent  
The consequence, foreseeing her descent,  
Transforms his Mistress in a trice; and now  
In Io's place appears a lovely Cow.  
So slick her skin, so faultless was her make,  
Even Juno did unwilling pleasure take  
To see so fair a Rival of her Love;  
And what she was, and whence, enquired of Jove:  
Of what fair Herd, and from what Pedigree?  
The God, half caught, was forced upon a lie:  
And said she sprung from Earth; she took the word,  
And begged the beauteous Heifer of her Lord.  
What should he do, 'twas equal shame to Jove  
Or to relinquish, or betray his Love:  
Yet to refuse so slight a Gift, would be  
But more t' increase his Consort's Jealousy:  
Thus fear and love, by turns his heart assailed;  
And stronger love had sure, at length prevailed:  
But some faint hope remained, his jealous Queen  
Had not the Mistress through the Heifer seen.  
The cautious Goddess, of her Gift possessed,  
Yet harboured anxious thoughts within her breast;  
As she who knew the falsehood of her Jove;  
And justly feared some new relapse of Love.  
Which to prevent, and to secure her care,  
To trusty Argus, she commits the Fair.   

The head of Argus (as with Stars the Skies)  
Was compassed round, and wore an hundred eyes.  
But two by turns their lids in slumber steep;  
The rest on duty still their station keep;  
Nor could the total Constellation sleep.  
Thus, ever present, to his eyes and mind,  
His Charge was still before him, tho' behind.  
In Fields he suffered her to feed by Day,  
But when the setting Sun, to Night gave way,  
The Captive Cow he summoned with a call;  
And drove her back, and tied her to the Stall.  
On Leaves of Trees, and bitter Herbs she fed,  
Heaven was her Canopy, bare Earth her Bed:  
So hardly lodged, and to digest her Food,  
She drank from troubled Streams, defiled with Mud,  
Her woesul Story, fain she would have told  
With hands upheld, but had no hands to hold.  
Her head to her ungentle Keeper bowed,  
She strove to speak, she spoke not, but she lowed:  
Affrighted with the noise, she looked around,  
And seemed t' inquire the Author of the sound.   

Once on the Banks where often she had played,  
(Her Father's Banks) she came, and there surveyed  
Her altered visage, and her branching head;  
And starting, from herself she would have fled.  
Her fellow Nymphs, familiar to her eyes,  
Beheld, but knew her not in this disguise.  
Even Inachus himself was ignorant;  
And in his Daughter, did his Daughter want.  
She followed where her Fellows went, as she  
Were still a Partner of the Company:  
They struck her Neck, the gentle Heifer stands,  
And her Neck offers to their stroking Hands.  
Her Father gave her Grass; the Grass she took;  
And licked his Palms, and cast a piteous look;  
And in the language of her eyes, she spoke.  
She would have told her name, and asked relief,  
But wanting words, in tears she tells her grief.  
Which, with her foot she makes him understand;  
And prints the name of Io in the Sand.   

Ah wretched me, her mournful Father cried,  
She, with a sigh, to wretched me replied;  
About her Milk-white neck, his arms he threw;  
And wept, and then these tender words ensue.  
And art thou she, whom I have sought around  
The World, and have at length so sadly found?  
So found is worse than lost: with mutual words  
Thou answerest not, no voice thy tongue affords:  
But sighs are deeply drawn from out thy breast;  
And speech denied, by lowing is expressed.  
Unknowing I, prepared thy Bridal Bed;  
With empty hopes of happy Issue fed.  
But now the Husband of a Herd must be  
Thy Mate, and bell'wing Sons thy Progeny.  
Oh, were I mortal, Death might bring relief;  
But now my Godhead, but extends my grief:  
Prolongs my woes, of which no end I see,  
And makes me curse my Immortality!  
More had he said, but, fearful of her stay,  
The Starry Guardian drove his Charge away,  
To some fresh Pasture; on a hilly height  
He sat himself, and kept her still in sight.    

The Eyes of Argus Transformed into a Peacock's Train.  

Now Jove no longer could her sufferings bear;  
But called in haste his airy Messenger,  
The Son of Maya, with severe decree  
To kill the Keeper, and to set her free.  
With all his Harness soon the God was sped,  
His flying Hat was fastened on his Head,  
Wings on his Heels were hung, and in his Hand,  
He holds the Virtue of the Snaky Wand.  
The liquid Air, his moving Pinions wound,  
And, in a moment, shoot him on the ground,  
Before he came in sight, the crafty God  
His Wings dismissed, but still retained his Rod:  
That Sleep procuring Wand, wise Hermes took,  
But made it seem to sight, a Shepherd's Hook.  
With this, he did a Herd of Goat's control;  
Which by the way he met, and slily stole.  
Clad like a Country Swain, he Piped and Sung;  
And playing drove his jolly Troop along.   

With pleasure, Argus the Musician heeds;  
But wonders much at those new vocal Reeds.  
And whosoever thou art, my Friend, said he,  
Up hither drive thy Goats, and play by me:  
This Hill has browz for them, and shade for thee;  
The God, who was with ease induced to climb,  
Began Discourse to pass away the time;  
And still betwixt, his Tuneful Pipe he plies;  
And watched his Hour, to close the Keeper's Eyes.  
With much ado, he partly kept awake;  
Not suffering all his Eyes repose to take:  
And asked the Stranger, who did Reeds invent,  
And whence began so rare an Instrument?    

The Transformation of Syrinx into Reeds.  

Then Hermes thus; a Nymph of late there was,  
Whose Heavenly Form, her Fellows did surpass.  
The Pride and Joy of Fair Arcadia's plains,  
Beloved by Deities, Adored by Swains:  
Syrinx her Name, by Sylvans oft pursued,  
As oft she did the Lustful Gods delude:  
The Rural, and the Woodland Powers disdained;  
With Cynthia Hunted, and her Rites maintained:  
Like Phoebe clad, even Phoebe's self she seems,  
So Tall, so Straight, such well proportioned Limbs:  
The nicest Eye did no distinction know,  
But that the Goddess bore a Golden Bow,  
Distinguished thus, the sight she cheated too.  
Descending from Lycoeus, Pan admires  
The Matchless Nymph, and burns with new Desires.  
A Crown of Pine, upon his Head he wore;  
And thus began her pity to implore.  
But e'er he thus began, she took her flight  
So swift, she was already out of sight.  
Nor stayed to hear the Courtship of the God;  
But bent her course to Ladon's gentle Flood:  
There by the River stopped, and tired before;  
Relief from water Nymphs her Prayers implore.   

Now while the Lustful God, with speedy pace,  
Just thought to strain her in a strict Embrace,  
He filled his Arms with Reeds, new rising on the place.  
And while he sighs, his ill-success to find,  
The tender Canes were shaken by the wind:  
And breathed a mournful Air, unheard before;  
That much surprising Pan; yet pleased him more.  
Admiring this new Music, thou, he said  
Who canst not be the Partner of my Bed,  
At least shalt be the Consort of my Mind:  
And often, often to my Lips be joined.  
He formed the Reeds, proportioned as they are,  
Unequal in their length, and waxed with Care,  
They still retain the Name of his Ungrateful Fair.   

While Hermes piped and sung, and told his tale,  
The Keeper's winking Eyes began to fail;  
And drowsy slumber, on the lids to creep,  
Till all the Watchman was, at length, asleep.  
Then soon the God, his Voice and Song suppressed;  
And with his powerful Rod, confirmed his rest:  
Without delay his crooked Falchion, drew,  
And at one fatal stroke, the Keeper slew.  
Down from the Rock, fell the dissevered head,  
Opening its Eyes in Death; and falling bled:  
And marked the passage with a crimson trail;  
Thus Argus lies in pieces cold and pale:  
And all his hundred Eyes, with all their light,  
Are closed at once, in one perpetual night.  
These Juno takes, that they no more may fail,  
And spreads them in her Peacock's gaudy tail.   

Impatient to revenge her injured Bed  
She wreaks her anger, on her Rival's head;  
With furies frights her, from her Native Home;  
And drives her gadding, round the World to roam.  
Nor ceased her madness and her flight, before  
She touched the limits of the Pharian Shore.  
At length, arriving on the Banks of Nile,  
Wearied with length of ways, and worn with toil,  
She laid her down; and leaning on her Knees,  
Invoked the Cause of all her Miseries:  
And cast her languishing regards above  
For help from Heaven and her ungrateful Jove.  
She sighed, she wept, she lowed, 'twas all she could;  
And with unkindness seemed to tax the God.  
Last, with an humble Prayer, she begged Repose,  
Or Death at least, to finish all her Woes.  
Jove heard her Vows, and with a flattering look,  
In her behalf, to jealous Juno spoke.  
He cast his Arms about her Neck, and sed,  
Dame rest secure; no more thy Nuptial Bed  
This Nymph shall violate; by Styx I swear,  
And every Oath that binds the Thunderer.  
The Goddess was appeased; and at the word  
Was Io to her former shape restored.  
The rugged Hair began to fall away;  
The sweetness of her Eyes did only stay;  
Tho' not so large; her crooked Horns decrease;  
The wideness of her Jaws and Nostrils cease:  
Her Hoofs to Hands return, in little space:  
The five long taper Fingers take their place.  
And nothing of the Heifer now is seen,  
Beside the native whiteness of the Skin.  
Erected on her Feet she walks again;  
And Two the duty of the Four sustain.  
She tries her Tongue; her silence softly breaks,  
And fears her former lowings when she speaks:  
A Goddess now, through all th' Egyptian State:  
And served by Priests, who in white Linen wait.   

Her Son was Epaphus, at length believed  
The Son of Jove, and as a God received:  
With Sacrifice adored, and public Prayers,  
He common Temples with his Mother shares.  
Equal in years and Rival in Renown  
With Epaphus, the youthful Phaeton  
Like Honour claims; and boasts his Sire the Sun.  
His haughty Looks, and his assuming Air  
The Son of Isis could no longer bear:  
Thou tak'st thy Mother's word, too far, said he,  
And hast usurped thy boasted Pedigree.  
Go base Pretender to a borrowed Name.  
Thus taxed, he blushed with anger, and with shame;  
But shame repressed his Rage: the daunted Youth  
Soon seeks his Mother, and inquires the truth:  
Mother, said he, this Infamy was thrown  
By Epaphus on you, and me your Son.  
He spoke in public, told it to my face;  
Nor durst I vindicate the dire disgrace:  
Even I, the bold, the sensible of wrong,  
Restrained by shame, was forced to hold my Tongue.  
To hear an open Slander is a Curse;  
But not to find an Answer, is a worse.  
If I am Heav'n-begot, assert your Son  
By some sure Sign: and make my Father known,  
To right my Honour, and redeem your own.  
He said, and saying cast his arms about  
Her Neck, and begged her to resolve the Doubt.   

'Tis hard to judge if Climenè were moved  
More by his Prayer, whom she so dearly loved,  
Or more with fury fired, to find her Name  
Traduced, and made the sport of common Fame.  
She stretched her Arms to Heaven, and fixed her Eyes  
On that fair Planet, that adorns the Skies;  
Now by those Beams, said she, whose holy Fires  
Consume my Breast, and kindle my desires;  
By him, who sees us both, and cheers our sight,  
By him the public Minister of light,  
I swear that Sun begot thee; if I lie  
Let him his cheerful Influence deny:  
Let him no more this perjured Creature see;  
And shine on all the World, but only me:  
If still you doubt your Mother's Innocence,  
His Eastern Mansion is not far from hence,  
With little pains, you to his Leuè go,  
And from himself, your Parentage may know.  
With joy, th' ambitious Youth, his Mother heard,  
And eager, for the Journey soon prepared.  
He longs the World beneath him to survey;  
To guide the Chariot; and to give the day.  
From Meroe's burning Sands, he bends his course,  
Nor less in India, feels his Father's force:  
His Travel urging, till he came in sight;  
And saw the Palace by the Purple light.    
The End of the First Book of Ovid 's Metamorphoses.   

THE FABLE OF IPHIS and JANTHE, From the Ninth Book of the Metamorphoses.  Englished by Mr. Dryden. 

THE Fame of this, perhaps, through Crete had flown:  
But Crete had newer Wonders of her own,  
In Iphis changed: For, near the Gnossian bounds,  
(As loud Report the Miracle resounds)  
At Phoestus dwelled a man of honest blood:  
But meanly born, and not so rich as good;  
Esteemed and loved by all the Neighbourhood.  
Who to his Wife, before the time assigned  
For Childbirth came; thus bluntly spoke his mind.  
If Heaven, said Lygdus, will vouchsafe to hear;  
I have but two Petitions to prefer:  
Short pains for thee; for me a Son and Heir.  
Girls cost as many throws, in bringing forth:  
Besides when born, the Titts are little worth.  
Weak puling things, unable to sustain  
Their share of Labour, and their Bread to gain.  
If, therefore, thou a Creature shalt produce  
Of so great Charges, and so little Use,  
(Bear witness Heaven, with what reluctancy,)  
Her hapless Innocence I doom to die.  
He said, and tears the common grief display  
Of him who bade, and her who must obey.   

Yet Telethusa still persists to find,  
Fit Arguments to move a Father's mind:  
T' extend his Wishes to a larger scope;  
And in one Vessel not confine his hope.  
Lygdus continues hard: her time drew near,  
And she her heavy load could scarcely bear:  
When slumbering, in the latter shades of Night,  
Before th' approaches of returning light,  
She saw, or thought she saw, before her Bed  
A glorious Train, and Isis at their head:  
Her Moony Horns were on her Forehead placed,  
And yellow Sheaves her shining Temples graced:  
A Mitre, for a Crown, she wore on high:  
The Dog and dappled Bull were waiting by;  
Osiris, sought along the Banks of Nile;  
The silent God; the sacred Crocodile:  
And, last, a long procession moving on,  
With Timbrels, that assist the labouring Moon.  
Her slumbers seemed dispelled, and, broad awake,  
She heard a Voice, that thus distinctly spoke.  
My Votary, thy Babe from Death defend;  
Nor fear to save whate'er the Gods will send.  
Delude with Art, thy Husband's dire Decree;  
When danger calls, repose thy trust on me:  
And know thou hast not served a thankless Deity.  
This Promise made; with Night the Goddess fled:  
With joy the Woman wakes, and leaves her Bed:  
Devoutly lifts her spotless hands on high;  
And prays the Powers, their Gift to ratify.   

Now grinding pains proceed to bearing throws,  
Till its own weight the burden did disclose.  
'Twas of the beauteous Kind: and brought to light  
With secrecy, to shun the Father's sight.  
Th' indulgent Mother did her Care employ;  
And passed it on her Husband for a Boy.  
The Nurse was conscious of the Fact alone:  
The Father paid his Vows, as for a Son.  
And called him Iphis, by a common Name  
Which either Sex, with equal right may claim.  
Iphis, his Grandsire was; the Wife was pleased,  
Of half the fraud, by Fortune's favour eased:  
The doubtful Name was used without deceit,  
And Truth was covered with a pious Cheat.  
The Habit showed a Boy, the beauteous Face  
With manly fierceness mingled Female grace.   

Now thirteen years of Age were swiftly run,  
When the fond Father thought the time drew on  
Of settling in the World, his only Son,  
janthe was his choice; so wondrous fair  
Her Form alone with Iphis could compare;  
A Neighbour's Daughter of his own Degree;  
And not more blest with Fortune's Goods than he.   

They soon espoused; for they with ease were joined,  
Who were before Contracted in the Mind.  
Their Age the same, their Inclinations too:  
And bred together, in one School they grew.  
Thus, fatally disposed to mutual fires,  
They felt, before they knew, the same desires.  
Equal their flame, unequal was their care;  
One loved with Hope, one languished in Despair.  
The Maid accused the lingering days alone:  
For whom she thought a man, she thought her own.  
But Iphis bends beneath a greater grief;  
As fiercely burns, but hopes for no relief.  
Even her Despair, adds fuel to her fire;  
A Maid with madness does a Maid desire.   

And, scarce refraining tears, alas, said she,  
What issue of my love remains for me!  
How wild a Passion works within my Breast,  
With what prodigious Flames am I possessed!  
Could I the Care of Providence deserve,  
Heaven must destroy me, if it would preserve.  
And that's my Fate; or sure it would have sent  
Some usual Evil for my punishment:  
Not this unkindly Curse; to rage and burn  
Where Nature shows no prospect of return.  
Nor Cows for Cows consume with fruitless fire,  
Nor Mares when hot, their fellow Mare's desire:  
The Father of the Fold supplies his Ewes;  
The Stag through secret Woods his Hind pursues:  
And Birds for Mates, the Males of their own Species choose.  
Her Females Nature guards from Female flame,  
And joins two Sexes to preserve the Game:  
Would I were nothing, or not what I am!  
Crete famed for Monsters wanted of her Store;  
Till my new Love produced one Monster more.  
The Daughter of the Sun a Bull desired,  
And yet even then, a Male, a Female fired:  
Her passion was extravagantly new;  
But mine is much the madder of the two.  
To things impossible she was not bend;  
But found the Means to compass her Intent.  
To cheat his Eyes, she took a different shape:  
Yet still she gained a Lover, and a leap.  
Should all the Wit of all the World conspire,  
Should Doedalus assist my wild desire,  
What Art can make me able to enjoy,  
Or what can change janthe to a Boy?  
Extinguish then thy passion, hopeless Maid,  
And recollect thy Reason for thy aid.  
Know what thou art, and love as Maidens ought;  
And drive these Golden Wishes from thy thought.  
Thou canst not hope thy fond desires to gain;  
Where Hope is wanting, Wishes are in vain.   

And yet no Guards, against our Joys conspire;  
No jealous Husband, hinders our desire:  
My Parents are propitious to my Wish  
And she herself consenting to the bliss.  
All things concur, to prosper our Design:  
All things to prosper any Love but mine.  
And yet I never can enjoy the Fair:  
'Tis past the Power of Heaven to grant my Prayer.  
Heaven has been kind, as far as Heaven can be;  
Our Parents with our own desires agree,  
But Nature, stronger than the Gods above,  
Refuses her assistance to my love.  
She sets the Bar, that causes all my pain:  
One Gift refused, makes all their Bounty vain.  
And now the happy day is just at hand,  
To bind our Hearts in Hymen's Holy Band:  
Our Hearts, but not our Bodies: thus, accursed,  
In midst of water, I complain of thirst.  
Why comest thou, Juno, to these barren Rites,  
To bless a Bed, defrauded of delights?  
Or why should Hymen lift his Torch on high,  
To see two Brides in cold Embraces lie?   

Thus lovesick Iphis her vain Passion mourns:  
With equal ardour fair janthe burns:  
Invoking Hymen's Name and Juno's Power  
To speed the work, and haste the happy hour.   

She hopes, while Telethusa fears the day;  
And strives to interpose some new delay:  
Now feigns a sickness, now is in a fright  
For this bad Omen, or that boding sight.  
But having done whate'er she could devise,  
And emptied all her Magazine of lies,  
The time approached: the next ensuing day  
The Fatal Secret must to light betray.  
Then Telethusa had recourse to Prayer,  
She and her Daughter with dishevelled hair:  
Trembling with fear, great Isis they adored;  
Embraced her Altar, and her aid implored.   

Fair Queen, whodost on fruitful Egypt smile,  
Who sway'st the Sceptre of the Pharian Isle,  
And sev'n-fold falls of disimbogueing Nile;  
Relieve, in this our last distress, she said,  
A suppliant Mother, and a mournful Maid.  
Thou Goddess, thou wert present to my sight;  
Revealed I saw thee, by thy own fair light:  
I saw thee in my Dream, as now I see  
With all thy marks of awful Majesty:  
The Glorious Train, that compassed thee around;  
And heard the hollow Timbrels holy sound.  
Thy Words I noted, which I still retain;  
Let not thy Sacred Oracles be vain.  
That Iphis lives, that I myself am free  
From shame and punishment, I owe to thee.  
On thy Protection, all our hopes depend:  
Thy Counsel saved us, let thy Power defend.   

Her tears pursued her words; and while she spoke  
The Goddess nodded, and her Altar shook:  
The Temple doors, as with a blast of wind,  
Were heard to clap; the Lunar Horns that bind  
The brows of Isis, cast a blaze around;  
The trembling Timbrel, made a murmuring sound.   

Some hopes these happy Omens did impart;  
Forth went the Mother with a beating Heart:  
Not much in fear, nor fully satisfied;  
But Iphis followed with a larger stride:  
The whiteness of her Skin forsook her Face;  
Her looks emboldened, with an awful Grace;  
Her Features and her Strength together grew;  
And her long Hair, to curling Locks withdrew.  
Her sparkling Eyes, with Manly Vigour shone,  
Big was her Voice, Audacious was her Tone.  
The latent Parts, at length revealed, began  
To shoot, and spread, and burnish into Man.  
The Maid becomes a Youth; no more delay  
Your Vows, but look, and confidently pay.  
Their Gifts, the Parents to the Temple bear:  
The Votive Tables, this Inscription wear;  
Iphis the Man, has to the Goddess paid,  
The Vows that Iphis offered, when a Maid.   

Now, when the Star of Day had shown his face,  
Venus and Juno with their Presence grace  
The Nuptial Rites, and Hymen from above  
Descending to complete their happy Love:  
The Gods of Marriage, lend their mutual aid;  
And the warm Youth enjoys the lovely Maid.    

THE FABLE OF ACIS, POLYPHEMUS, AND GALATEA, From the Thirteenth Book of the Metamorphoses,  By Mr. DRYDEN. 
GALATEA relates the Story.  

ACIS, the Lovely Youth, whose loss I mourn,  
From Faunus and the Nymph Symethis born,  
Was both his Parent's pleasure: but, to me  
Was all that Love could make a Lover be.  
The Gods our Minds in mutual Bands did join;  
I was his only Joy, as he was mine.  
Now sixteen Summers the sweet Youth had seen;  
And doubtful Down, began to shade his Chin:  
When Polyphemus first disturbed our Joy;  
And loved me fiercely, as I loved the Boy.  
Ask not which passion in my Soul was high,  
My last Aversion, or my first Desire:  
Nor this the greater was, nor that the less:  
Both were alike; for both were in excess.  
Thee, Venus, thee, both Heaven and Earth obey;  
Immense thy Power, and boundless is thy Sway.  
The Cyclops, who defi'd th' AEtherial Throne,  
And thought no Thunder louder than his own,  
The terror of the Woods, and wilder far  
Than Wolves in Plains, or Bears in Forests are,  
Th' Inhuman Host, who made his bloody Feasts  
On mangled Members, of his butchered Guests,  
Yet felt the force of Love, and fierce Desire,  
And burnt for me, with unrelenting Fire.  
Forgot his Caverns, and his woolly care,  
Assumed the softness of a Lover's Air;  
And combed, with Teeth of Rakes, his rugged hair.  
Now with a crooked Sith his Beard he sleeks;  
And mows the stubborn Stubble of his Cheeks:  
Now, in the Crystal Stream he looks, to try  
His Simagres, and rowls his glaring eye.  
His Cruelty and thirst of Blood are lost;  
And Ships securely sail along the Coast.   

The Prophet Telemus (arrived by chance  
Where AEtna's Summets to the Seas advance,  
Who marked the Tracts of every Bird that flew,  
And sure Presages from their flying drew,)  
Foretold the Cyclops, that Ulysses hand  
In his broad eye, should thrust a flaming Brand.  
The Giant, with a scornful grin replied,  
Vain Augur, thou hast falsely prophesied;  
Already Love, his flaming Brand has tossed;  
Looking on two fair Eyes, my sight I lost.  
Thus, warned in vain, with stalking pace he strode,  
And stamped the Margin of the briny Flood,  
With heavy steps: and weary, sought again,  
The cool Retirement of his gloomy Den.   

A Promontory sharp'ning by degrees,  
Ends in a Wedge, and overlooks the Seas:  
On either side, below, the water flows;  
This airy walk, the Giant Lover chose.  
Here, on the midst he sat: his Flocks, unled,  
Their Shepherd followed, and securely fed.  
A Pine so burly, and of length so vast,  
That sailing Ships required it for a Mast,  
He wielded for a Staff; his steps to guide:  
But laid it by, his Whistle while he tried.  
A hundred Reeds, of a prodigious growth,  
Scarce made a Pipe, proportioned to his mouth:  
Which, when he gave it wind, the Rocks around,  
And watery Plains, the dreadful hiss resound.  
I heard the Ruffian-Shepherd rudely blow  
Where, in a hollow Cave, I sat below;  
On Acis bosom I my head reclined:  
And still preserve the Poem in my mind.   

Oh lovely Galatea, whiter far  
Than falling Snows, and rising Lilies are;  
More flowery than the Meads, as Crystal bright,  
Erect as Alders, and of equal height:  
More wanton than a Kid, more sleek thy Skin  
Than Orient Shells, that on the Shores are seen.  
Than Apples fairer, when the boughs they lad,  
Pleasing as Winter Suns or Summer Shade:  
More grateful to the sight, than goodly Planes;  
And softer to the touch, than down of Swans;  
Or Curds new turned: and sweeter to the taste  
Than swelling Grapes, that to the Vintage haste:  
More clear than Ince, or running Streams, that stray  
Through Garden Plots, but ah more swift than they.   

Yet, Galatea, harder to be broke,  
Than Bullocks, unreclaimed to bear the Yoke,  
And far more stubborn, than the knotted Oak:  
Like sliding Streams, impossible to hold;  
Like them fallacious, like their Fountains cold.  
More warping than the Willow, to decline  
My warm Embrace, more brittle than the Vine;  
immovable and fixed in thy disdain;  
Rough as these Rocks, and of a harder grain.  
More violent than is the rising Flood;  
And the praised Peacock is not half so proud.  
Fierce as the Fire, and sharp as Thistles are,  
And more outrageous than a Mother-Bear:  
Deaf as the billows to the Vows I make;  
And more revengeful, than a trodden Snake.  
In swiftness fleeter, than the flying Hind;  
Or driven Tempests, or the driving Wind.  
All other faults, with patience I can bear;  
But swiftness is the Vice I only fear.   

Yet if you knew me well, you would not shun  
My Love, but to my wished Embraces run:  
Would languish in your turn, and court my stay;  
And much repent of your unwise delay.   

My Palace, in the living Rock, is made  
By Nature's hand; a spacious pleasing Shade:  
Which neither heat can pierce, nor could invade.  
My Garden filled with Fruits you may behold,  
And Grapes in clusters, imitating Gold;  
Some blushing Bunches of a purple hue:  
And these and those, are all reserved for you.  
Red Strawberries, in shades, expecting stand,  
Proud to be gathered by so white a hand.  
Autumnal Cornels, latter Fruit provide;  
And Plumbs to tempt you, turn their glossy side:  
Not those of common kinds; but such alone  
As in Phoeacian Orchards might have grown:  
Nor Chestnuts shall be wanting to your Food,  
Nor Garden-fruits, nor Wildings of the Wood;  
The laden Boughs for you alone shall bear;  
And yours shall be the product of the Year.   

The Flocks you see, are all my own; beside  
The rest that Woods, and winding Valleys hide;  
And those that folded in the Caves abide.  
Ask not the numbers of my growing Store;  
Who knows how many, knows he has no more.  
Nor will I praise my cattle, trust not me;  
But judge yourself, and pass your own decree:  
Behold their swelling Dugs; the sweepy weight  
Of Ewes that sink beneath the Milky freight;  
In the warm Folds, their tender Lambkin's lie;  
Apart from Kids, that call with humane cry.  
New Milk in Nut-brown Bowls, is duly served  
For daily Drink; the rest for Cheese reserved.  
Nor are these household Dainties all my Store:  
The Fields and Forests will afford us more;  
The Deer, the Hare, the Goat, the Savage Boar.  
All sorts of Venison; and of Birds the best;  
A pair of Turtles taken from the Nest.  
I walked the Mountains, and two Cubs I found,  
(Whose Dam had left 'em on the naked ground,)  
So like, that no distinction could be seen:  
So pretty, they were Presents for a Queen;  
And so they shall; I took 'em both away;  
And keep, to be Companions of your Play.   

Oh raise, fair Nymph, your Beauteous Face above  
The Waves; nor scorn my Presents, and my Love.  
Come, Galatea, come, and view my face;  
I late beheld it, in the watery Glass;  
And found it lovelier than I feared it was.  
Survey my towering Stature, and my Size:  
Not Jove, the Jove you dream that rules the Skies  
Bears such a bulk, or is so largely spread:  
My Locks, (the plenteous Harvest of my head)  
Hang o'er my Manly Face; and dangling down  
As with a shady Grove, my shoulders crown.  
Nor think, because my limbs and body bear  
A thick set underwood of bristling hair,  
My shape deformed; what fouler sight can be  
Than the bald Branches of a leafless Tree?  
Foul is the Steed, without a flowing Main:  
And Birds without their Feathers and their Train.  
Wool decks the Sheep; and Man receives a Grace  
From bushy Limbs, and from a bearded Face.  
My forehead, with a single eye is filled,  
Round as a Ball, and ample as a Shield.  
The Glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Radiant Sun  
Is Nature's eye; and is content with one.  
Add, that my Father sways your Seas, and I  
Like you am of the watery Family.  
I make you his, in making you my own;  
You I adore; and kneel to you alone:  
Jove, with his Fabled Thunder I despise,  
And only fear the lightning of your eyes.  
Frown not, fair Nymph; yet I could bear to be  
Disdained, if others were disdained with me.  
But to repulse the Cyclops, and prefer  
The Love of Acis, (heavens) I cannot bear.  
But let the Stripling please himself; nay more,  
Please you, tho' that's the thing I most abhor,  
The Boy shall find, if e'er we cope in Fight,  
These Giant Limbs, endued with Giant Might.  
His living Bowels, from his Belly torn,  
And scattered Limbs, shall on the Flood be born:  
Thy Flood, ungrateful Nymph, and fate shall find  
That way for thee, and Acis to be joined.  
For oh I burn with Love, and thy Disdain  
Augments at once my Passion, and my pain.  
Translated AEtna flames within my Heart,  
And thou, Inhuman, wilt not ease my smart.   

Lamenting thus in vain, he rose, and strode  
With furious paces to the Neighbouring Wood:  
Restless his feet, distracted was his walk;  
Mad were his motions, and confused his talk.  
Mad as the vanquished Bull, when forced to yield  
His lovely Mistress, and forsake the Field.   

Thus far unseen I saw: when fatal chance  
His looks directing, with a sudden glance,  
Acis and I, were to his sight betrayed;  
Where nought suspecting we securely played.  
From his wide mouth, a bellowing cry he cast  
I see, I see; but this shall be your last:  
A roar so loud made AEtna to rebound;  
And all the Cyclops laboured in the sound.  
Affrighted with his monstrous Voice, I fled,  
And in the Neighbouring Ocean, plunged my head.  
Poor Acis turned his back, and help, he cry'a;  
Help, Galatea, help, my Parent Gods,  
And take me dying, to your deep Abodes.  
The Cyclops followed: but he sent before  
A Rib, which from the living Rock he tore,  
Though but an Angle reached him of the Stone,  
The mighty Fragment was enough alone  
To crush all Acis; 'twas too late to save,  
But what the Fates allowed to give, I gave:  
That Acis to his Lineage should return;  
And roll, among the River Gods, his Urn.  
Strait issued from the Stone, a Stream of blood;  
Which lost the Purple, mingling with the Flood.  
Then, like a troubled Torrent, it appeared:  
The Torrent too, in little space was cleared.  
The Stone was cleft, and through the yawning chink,  
New Reeds arose on the new River's brink.  
The Rock, from out its hollow Womb, disclosed  
A sound like Water in its course opposed.  
When, (wondrous to behold,) full in the Flood,  
Up starts a Youth, and Navel high he stood.  
Horns from his Temples rise; and either Horn  
Thick Wreaths of Reeds (his Native growth) adorn.  
Were not his Stature taller than before,  
His bulk augmented, and his beauty more:  
His colour blue, for Acis he might pass:  
And Acis changed into a Stream he was.  
But mine no more; he rowls along the Plains  
With rapid motion, and his Name retains.    

ON Mr. HOBBS.  Written by The E. of MULGRAVE. 

SUCH is the mode of these censorious days,  
The Art is lost of knowing how to praise;  
Poets are envious now, and Fools alone  
Admire at Wit, because themselves have none.  
Yet, whatsoever is by vain Critics thought,  
Praising is harder much, than finding fault;  
In homely pieces even the Dutch excel,  
Italians only can draw Beauty well.   

As Strings alike wound up, so equal prove,  
That one resounding makes the other move;  
From a like cause Satyrs have pleased so much,  
We sympathize with each ill-natured touch:  
And, as the sharp Infection spreads about,  
The Reader's Malice helps the Writer out.  
To blame, is easy; to commend, is bold;  
Yet, if the Muse inspires it, who can hold?  
To Merit we are bound to give applause,  
Content to suffer in so just a Cause.   

While in dark Ignorance Men lay afraid  
Of Fancies, Ghosts, and every empty Shade;  
Great Hobbs appeared, and by his Reason's light  
Put such Fantastic Forms to shameful flight:  
Fond is their fear, who think we needs must be  
To Vice enslaved, if from vain Terrors free;  
The Wise and Good Morality will guide,  
And Superstition all the World beside.   

In other Authors, though the sense be good,  
'Tis not sometimes so easily understood,  
That Jewel oft unpolished has remained,  
Some words should be left out, and some explained:  
So that in search of sense we either stray,  
Or else grow weary in so rough a way:  
But here bright Eloquence does always smile  
In such a choice, yet unaffected stile,  
As does both Knowledge and Delight impart,  
The force of Reason with the Flowers of Art;  
Clear as a beautiful transparent Skin,  
Which never hides the Blood, yet holds it in:  
Like a delicious Stream it ever ran,  
As smooth as Woman, but as strong as Man.   

Bacon himself, whose Universal wit  
Does admiration through the World beget,  
Not more his Age's Ornament is thought,  
Nor has more credit to his Country brought.   

While Fame is young, too weak to fly away,  
Envy pursues her, like some Bird of Prey;  
But once on wing, than all the dangers cease,  
Envy herself is glad to be at peace;  
Gives over, wearied with so high a flight,  
Above her reach, and scarce within her sight:  
He, to this happy pitch arrived at last,  
Might have looked down with Pride, on Dangers past.   

But such the frailty is of Humane Kind,  
Men toil for Fame, which no Man lives to find;  
Long ripening under ground this China lies;  
Fame bears no Fruit, till the vain Planter dies.   

And Nature, tired with his unusual length  
Oflife, which put her to her utmost strength,  
So vast a Soul unable to supply,  
To save herself, was forced to let him die.    

ON THE DEATH Of the LEARNED Mr. JOHN SELDEN.  

So fell the Sacred Sibyl, when of old  
Inspired with more than Mortal Breast could hold,  
The gazing Multitude stood doubtful by  
Whether to call it Death, or Ecstasy:  
She silent lies, and now the Nations find  
No Oracles but the Leaves she left behind.   

Monarch of Time and Arts, who travel'd'st o'er  
New Worlds of Knowledge, undescryed before,  
And hast on Everlasting Columns writ  
The utmost Bounds of Learning and of Wit.  
Hadst thou been more like us; or we like thee,  
We might add something to thy memory.  
Now thy own Tongues must speak thee, and thy Praise  
Be from those Monuments thyself didst raise;  
And all those 
* Titles of Honour.  Titles thou didst once display  
Must yield thee Titles greater far than they.   

Time which had Wings till now, and was not known  
To have a Being but by being gone,  
You did arrest his Motion, and have lent  
A way to make him fixed and permanent;  
Whilst by your Labours Ages passed appear,  
And all at once we view a Plato's year.   

Actions and Fables were retrieved by you;  
All that was done, and what was not done too.  
Which in your Breast did comprehended lie,  
As in the Bosom of Eternity;  
You purged Records and 
* Edmerus, Fleta.  Authors from their rust,  
And sifted Pearls out of Rabinick dust.  
By you the 
† De diis Syris.  Syrian Gods do live and grow  
To be Immortal, since you made them so.  
Inscriptions, Medals, 
‖ Marmora Arundeliana.  Statues look fresh still,  
Taking new Brass and Marble from your Quill;  
Which so unravels time, that now we do  
Live our own Age, and our Forefathers too,  
And, thus enlarged, by your discoveries, can  
Make that an Ell, which Nature made a Span.   

If then we judge, that to preserve the State  
Of things, is every moment to create,  
The World's thus half your Creature, whilst it stands  
Rescued to memory by your Learned Hands.  
And unto you, now fearless of decay,  
Times past owe more, than Times to come can pay.   

How might you claim your Country's just applause,  
When you stood square and upright as your Cause  
In doubtful times, nor ever would forego  
Fair Truth and Right, whose Bounds you best did know.   

You in the Tower did stand another Tower,  
Firm to yourself and us, whilst jealous Power  
Your very Soul imprisoned, that no thought  
By Books might enter, nor by Pen get out;  
And, stripped of all besides, left you confined  
To the one Volume of your own vast Mind;  
There Virtue and strict Honour past the Guard,  
Your only Friends that could not be debarred;  
And dwelled in your Retirement; armed with these  
You stood forth more than Admiral of our Seas.  
Your Hands enclosed the 
* Mare Clausum.  Watery Plains, and thus  
Was no less Fence to them, than they to us;  
Teaching our Ships to conquer, while each fight  
Is but a Comment on those Books you write.   

No foul Disgraces, nor the worst of things,  
Made you like him (whose Anger Homer sings)  
Slack in your Country's Quarrel, who adore  
Their Champion now, their Martyr heretofore:  
Still with yourself contending, whether you  
Could bravelier suffer, or could bravelier do.  
We ask not now for Ancestors, nor care  
Tho Selden do nor Kindred boast, nor Heir,  
Such worth best stands alone, and joys to be  
To th' self at once both Founder and Posterity.  
As when old Nilus who with bounteous flows  
Waters an hundred Nations as he goes,  
Scattering rich Harvest keeps his Sacred Head  
Amongst the Clouds still undiscovered.   

Be't now thy Oxford's Pride, that having gone  
Through East and West, no Art, nor Tongue unknown;  
Laden with Spoils thou hangest thy Arms up here,  
But settest thy great Example every where.   

Thus when thy Monument shall itself lie dead,  
And thy, 
* His Epitaph made by himself in the Temple Chappel.  own Epitaph no more be read,  
When all thy Statues shall be worn out so,  
That even Selden should not Selden know;  
Ages to come shall in thy Virtue share:  
He that dies well makes all the World his Heir.   
R. B. T. Co. Oxon. Decemb. 19 54.   

AGAINST Immoderate GRIEF. TO A young LADY weeping. AN ODE In Imitation of CASIMIRE.  By Mr. YALDEN. 

Could mournful Sighs, or floods of Tears prevent  
The ills, unhappy Men lament:  
Could all the anguish of my Mind,  
Remove my Cares, or make but Fortune kind;  
Soon I'd the grateful Tribute pay,  
And weep my troubled Thoughts away:  
To Wealth and Pleasure every Sigh prefer,  
And more than Gems esteem each falling Tear.   

2.  
But since insulting Cares are most inclined  
To triumph o'er th' afflicted Mind:  
Since Sighs can yield us no Relief,  
And Tears, like fruitful Showers, but nourish Grief;  
Then cease, fair Mourner, to complain,  
Nor lavish, such bright Streams, in vain:  
But still with cheerful thoughts thy Cares beguile,  
And tempt thy better Fortunes with a Smile.   

3.  
The generous Mind is by its Sufferings known,  
Which no Affliction tramples down:  
But when oppressed will upward move,  
Spurn down its clog of Cares, and soar above.  
Thus the young Royal Eaglet tries  
On the Sunbeams his tender eyes:  
And if he shrinks not at th' offensive light,  
He's then for Empire fit, and takes his soaring flight.   

4.  
Tho' Cares assault thy Breast on every side,  
Yet bravely stem th' impetuous Tide:  
No tributary Tears to Fortune pay,  
Nor add to any loss a nobler Day.  
But with kind hopes support thy mind,  
And think thy better Lot behind:  
Amidst afflictions let thy Soul be great,  
And show thou dar'st deserve a better State.   

5.  
Then, lovely Mourner, wipe those Tears away,  
And Cares that urge thee to decay:  
Like Ravenous Age thy Charms they waste,  
Wrinkle thy youthful Brow, and blooming Beauties blast.  
But keep thy looks, and mind serene,  
All gay without, and calm within:  
For Fate is awed, and adverse Fortunes fly,  
A cheerful look, and an unconquered Eye.    

TO THE Returning SUN.  By J. H. 

Welcome thou glorious Spring of light, and heat,  
Where hast thou made thy long Retreat?  
What Lands thy warmer Beams possessed,  
Whàt happy Indian Worlds thy fruitful Presence blest?  
Where deep in the dark bosom of the Ground,  
Thy wondrous Operation's found,  
Even there thy Beams the Earth refine,  
And mix, and stamp thy Lustre through the dazzling Mine.  
Since thy retreat so far from our cold Isle,  
She never wore a lovely Smile,  
No joy her withered Brow adorned,  
In dark unlovely Days, and in long Nights she mourned.  
The poor dejected Beasts hung down their heads,  
And trembled on their naked Beds;  
No footsteps of green life remain,  
But dying Fields, and Woods, and a bare, bleaky Plain.  
The drooping Birds were silent in the Groves,  
They quite forgot their Songs and Loves,  
Their feeble Mates sat sullen by,  
We thought the feathered World resolved their Kind should die.  
But see the Land revives at thy approach,  
She blooms and quickens at thy touch,  
Her kindled Atoms life receive,  
The Meadows, and the Groves, begin to stir and live.  
Mixed with thy Beams the Southern breezes blow,  
And help the sproutng Births below,  
The Infant Flowers in haste appear,  
And gratefully return Perfumes to the kind Air.  
The Trees, and Fields again look fresh and gay,  
The Birds begin their softer Play,  
Thou hast their Life, nay more, their Love restored,  
Their late, and early Hymns praise thee, their welcome Lord.  
The spreading Fire glides through the Plains, and Woods,  
It even pierces the cold Floods:  
The duller Brutes feel the soft Flame,  
The Fishes leap for joy, and wanton in their Stream.    

AGAINST THE FEAR OF DEATH. BY A Person of HONOUR.  

SINCE all must certainly to Death resign,  
Why should we make it dreadful, or repine?  
How vain is Fear where nothing can prevent  
The loss, which he, that loses, can't lament.  
The Fear of Death is by our Folly brought,  
We fly th' acquaintance of it, in a thought;  
From Something into Nothing is a change  
Grown terrible, by making it so strange.  
We always should remember, Death is sure,  
What grows familiar most, we best endure;  
For Life and Death succeed like Night and Day,  
And neither gives increase, nor brings decay.  
No more or less by what takes Birth or dies,  
And the same Mass the teeming World supplies.  
From Death we rose to Life; 'tis but the same,  
Through Life again to pass, from whence we came.  
With shame we see our Passions can prevail,  
Where Reason, Certainty, and Virtue fail.  
Honour, that Empty Name, can Death despise,  
Scorned Love to Death as to a Refuge flies,  
And Sorrow waits for Death with longing Eyes.  
Hope triumphs o'er the thought of Death, and Fate  
Cheats Fools, and flatters the Unfortunate.   

Perhaps, deceived by Lust-supplying Wealth,  
New enjoyed Pleasures, and a present Health,  
We fear to lose, what a small time must waste,  
Till Life itself grows the Disease at last:  
Begging for Life, we beg for more decay,  
And to be long a dying only pray.   

No just and temperate thought can tell us why,  
We should fear Death, or grieve for them that die;  
The Time we leave behind, is ours no more,  
Nor our concern, than Time that was before.   

'Twere a fond fight, if those that stay behind  
For the same passage, waiting for a wind  
To drive them to their Port, sho'ud on the Shore  
Lamenting stand, for those that went before.   

We all must pass through Death's dead Sea of Night  
To reach the Haven of Eternal Light.    

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. 

IF Righteous Souls in their blessed Mansions know,  
Or what we Do, or Suffer here below,  
And any leisure from their Joys can find,  
To visit those whom they have left behind,  
To view our endless Griefs, our groundless Fears,  
Our hopeless Sorrows, and our fruitless Tears,  
With pity, sure, they see the kind mistake,  
Which weeping Friends at their departure make:  
They wonder why at their Release we grieve,  
And mourn their Death, who then begin to Live.   

Tired with the Care and Sorrow of the day,  
In silent night the sad Maecenas lay,  
His mind still labouring with the deadly weight  
Of his dear Parent's much lamented Fate;  
Till weary Nature with its Load oppressed,  
Composed the tempest of his troubled Breast,  
And borrowed from his Grief some time for rest:  
When Sleep (Death's Image) to his fancy brought  
The hourly Object of his waking Thought;  
And lo! his Mother's awful Shade appears,  
Not pale and ghastly, as the sullen Fears  
Of brainsick Minds their dismal Phantomes paint,  
But bright and joyful as a new-made Saint.  
A Crown of Glories shone around her Head;  
She smiled, and thus the happy Spirit said.   

Hail, Noble Son, whom powerful Fates design  
To fill the Glories of thy mighty Line,  
In whom the Good is mingled with the Great,  
As generous Light unites with active heat:  
For thee I thought Life pleasant, and for thee  
I after Death endured this World to see,  
And leave a while the Dwellings of the Blessed,  
Where Heavenly Minds enjoy Eternal Rest;  
Where having reached the Universal Shore,  
I fear the Winds and Billows now no more;  
No more in anguish draw a painful Breath,  
Nor wrestle with that mighty Tyrant, Death,  
Who cannot boast he gave the Fatal blow,  
I conquered Sin, from whence his Power did flow:  
The proud Insulter threatened me in vain,  
For Heaven increased my Patience with my Pain,  
Till my unfettered Soul at last took Wing,  
The Grave its Conquest lost, and Death its Sting.   

No longer than these Pious Sorrows shed,  
Nor vainly think thy happy Parent dead;  
Whose deathless Mind from its weak Prison free,  
Enjoys in Heaven its Native Liberty:  
I soon distinguished in that blissful Place  
Thy Godlike Ancestors, a numerous Race;  
There placed among the Stars, in them I see  
A Glorious Destiny reserved for thee.   

Then weep no more; even here I still survive  
In thee, and in thy Virtuous Fair I live:  
I saw her happy Mother shine on high,  
A brighter Spirit ne'er adorned the Sky;  
With Joy she met me at the Crystal Gate,  
And much enquired her beauteous Daughter's State,  
She Wished her there; but Heaven ordains it late,  
And long defers her Joys, that she may be  
A mighty Blessing to this World, and Thee.  
Long shall she live, and Ages yet to come  
Shall bless the happy Burden of her Womb:  
Still shall her Offspring, with her Years, increase,  
With both, her Virtues, and thy Happiness.  
In all thy Race the wondering World shall find  
The Noble Image of each Parent's Mind.  
Thus blessed in her and hers, thou shalt receive  
The richest Bounties Heaven and Earth can give.  
Nor shall my Care be wanting to your aid,  
My faithful Spirit shall hover o'er thy head,  
And round thy lovely Fair alargeProtectionspread:  
Till crowned with Years and Honours here below,  
And every Gift kind Nature can bestow,  
You both retire to Everlasting Rest,  
And late increase the Joys and number of the Blessed.   

She spoke: her Fellow-Angels all around  
With joyful Smiles the happy Omen owned;  
All blessed the Noble Pair, and took their flight  
To the bright Regions of unfading Light.    

A HYMN TO THE MORNING. IN Praise of Light. AN ODE.  By Mr. YALDEN. 

1.  
PArent of Day! whose beauteous Beams of Light  
Spring from the darksome Womb of Night:  
And midst their Native horrors show,  
Like Gems adorning of the Negroes Brow.  
Not Heaven's fair Bow can equal thee,  
In all its gaudy Drapery:  
Thou first Essay of Light, and pledge of Day!  
That usherest in the Sun, and still preparest his way.   

2.  
Rival of Shade, Eternal Spring of Light!  
Thou art the Genuine Source of it:  
From thy bright unexhausted Womb,  
The beauteous Race of Days and Seasons come.  
Thy Beauty Ages cannot wrong,  
But spite of Time thou'rt ever young:  
Thou art alone Heavens modest Virgin light,  
Whose Face a Veil of blushes hides from human sight.   

3.  
Like some fair Bride thou risest from thy Bed,  
And dost around thy Lustre spread:  
Around the Universe dispense  
New life to all, and quick'ning influence.  
With gloomy Smiles thy Rival Night  
Beholds thy glorious dawn of Light:  
Not all the Wealth she views in Mines below,  
Can match thy brighter Beams, or equal Lustre show.   

4.  
At thy approach Nature erects her head,  
The smiling Universe is glad:  
The drowsy Earth and Seas awake,  
And, from thy Beams, new life and vigour take.  
When thy more cheerful Rays appear,  
Even Gild and Women cease to fear:  
Horror, Despair, and all the Sons of Night,  
Retire before thy Beams, and take their hasty flight.   

5.  
To Thee, the grateful East their Altars raise,  
And sing with early Hymns thy praise:  
Thou dost their happy Soil bestow,  
Enrich the heavens above, and Earth below.  
Thou rifest in the fragrant East,  
Like the fair Phoenix from her balmy Nest:  
No Altar of the Gods can equal Thine,  
The Air is richest Incense, the whole Land thy Shrine.   

6.  
But yet thy fading Glories soon decay,  
Thine's but a momentary stay:  
Too soon thou'rt ravished from our sight,  
Bore down the stream of day, and overwhelmed with light.  
Thy Beams to their own ruin haste,  
They're sramed too exquisite to last:  
Thine is a glorious, but a short-lived State,  
Pity so fair a Birth should yield so soon to Fate.   

7.  
Before the Almighty Artist framed the Sky,  
Or gave the Earth its Harmony:  
His first Command was for thy Light,  
He viewed the lovely Birth, and blessed it.  
In purple Swadling-bands it struggling lay,  
Not yet maturely bright for Day:  
Old Chaos than a cheerful Smile put on,  
And from thy beauteous Form, did first presage its own.   

8.  
Let there be Light, the Great Creator said,  
His Word the active Child obeyed:  
Night did her teeming Womb disclose,  
And then the blushing Morn, its brightest Off spring rose.  
A while the Almighty wondering viewed,  
And then himself pronounced it good:  
With Night, said He, divide the Imperial Sway,  
Thou my first Labour art, and thou shalt bless the Day.    

A HYMN TO DARKNESS.  BY Mr. YALDEN. 

1.  
DARKNESS, thou first kind Parent of us all,  
Thou art our great Original:  
Since from thy Universal Womb,  
Does all thou shad'st below, thy numerous Offspring come.   

2.  
Thy wondrous Birth is even to Time unknown,  
Or like Eternity thou'dst none:  
Whilst Light did its first Being owe,  
Unto that awful Shade, it dares to rival now.   

3.  
Say in what distant Region dost thou dwell!  
To Reason inaccessible:  
From Form, and duller Matter, free,  
Thou soar'st above the reach of Man's Philosophy.   

4.  
Involved in thee, we first receive our breath,  
Thou art our Refuge too in Death:  
Great Monarch of the Grave and Womb,  
Where e'er our Souls shall go, to thee our Bodies come.   

5.  
The silent Globe is struck with awful fear,  
When thy Majestic Shades appear:  
Thou dost compose the Air and Sea;  
And Earth a Sabbath keeps, Sacred to Rest, and Thee.   

6.  
In thy serener Shades our Ghosts delight,  
And court the umbrage of the Night:  
In Vaults, and gloomy Caves, they stray,  
But fly the Morning's beams, and sicken at the day.   

7  
Tho' solid Bodies dare exclude the light,  
Nor will the brightest Ray admit:  
No Substance can thy Force repel,  
Thou reign'st in depths below, dost at the Centre dwell.   

8.  
The sparkling Gems, and Oar in Mines below,  
To thee their beauteous lustre owe:  
Tho' formed within the Womb of Night,  
Bright as their Sire they shine, with Native Rays of Light.   

9  
When thou dost raise thy venerable head,  
And art in genuine Night arrayed:  
Thy Negro Beauties than delight,  
Beauties like polished Jet, with their own Darkness bright.   

10.  
Thou dost thy Smiles impartially bestow,  
And knowst no difference here below:  
All things appear the same by thee,  
Tho' Light distinction makes, thou giv'st Equality.   

11.  
Thou Darkness art the Lovers kind retreat,  
And dost the Nuptial Joys complete:  
Thou dost inspire them with thy Shade,  
Giv'st vigour to the Youth, and warmest the yielding Maid.   

12.  
Calm, as the blessed above, the Ancorites dwell,  
Within their peaceful gloomy Cell:  
Their minds with Heavenly Joys are filled,  
The Pleasure's Light deny, thy Shades for ever yield.   

13.  
In Caves of Night, the Oracles of old,  
Did all their Mysteries unfold:  
Darkness did first Religion grace,  
Gave terrors to the God, and reverence to the place.   

14.  
When the Almighty did on Horeb stand,  
Thy Shades enclosed the Hallowed Land:  
In Clouds of Night, he was arrayed,  
And venerable Darkness his Pavilion made.   

15.  
When he appeared armed in his Power and Might,  
He veiled the beatific Light:  
When terrible with Majesty,  
In tempests he gave Laws, and clad himself in Thee.   

16.  
ere the Foundation of the Earth was laid,  
Or brighter Firmament was made:  
e'er Matter, Time, or Place were known,  
Thou Monarch Darkness sway'dst these spacious Realms alone.   

17.  
But now the Moon, (tho' gay with borrowed light)  
Invades thy scanty Lot of Night:  
By Rebel Subjects thou'rt betrayed,  
The Anarchy of Stars depose their Monarch shade.   

18.  
Yet fading Light its Empire must resign,  
And Nature's Power submit to Thine:  
An Universal ruin shall erect thy Throne,  
And Fate confirm thy Kingdom, evermore thy own.    

AENEAS HIS Meeting with DIDO In the ELYZIAN FIELDS. Being a Translation of part of the sixth Book of Virgil's AEneids, beginning at Hic quoque durus Amor, etc.  By Mr. WOLSLEY. 

HERE those, who by Love's Cruelty have died,  
Thick Myrtle Groves, and dark Retirements hide;  
Vexed with old Griefs, and pale with long Despairs,  
Death cannot free them from their lasting Cares.  
Among the Trees Pasiphae does appear,  
Phedra, and Procris, and Evadne, here,  
Sad Eriphyle makes unpityed moan,  
Pointing to Wounds, that still accuse her Son.  
For her lost Honour, Coeneus mourns in vain,  
By Death transformed to her own Sex again.  
And Laodamia, with the numerous throng  
Of hapless Lovers, weeping goes along.  
Among the rest sorsaken Dido, round  
The Desert wanders, with a gaping Wound,  
Whom soon as near the Trojan Hero drew,  
And that upbraiding injured Ghost through glimmering Shadows knew.  
(As he who sees by the faint gloomy Light  
A rising Moon half hid in Clouds and Night)  
Strait into Tears his penitent Pity broke,  
And to her, in the kindest terms of Love unfeigned he spoke.   

The kill News that did my flight pursue  
I find, alas, (unhappy Queen) is true!  
Your mark still fresh upon your Breast I see,  
That bleeding Wound you gave yourself for Me.  
Ah, 'tis too true! I was th' unlucky Cause  
Of your hard fate! cursed wretched Man! I was.  
By all the Gods, who rule above, I vow,  
And by that Faith (if any be) which Sacred is below,  
Compelled, and threatened, sad, and discontent,  
From your loved Shore, and dear Embrace, I went:  
That awful Power, whose high Will to obey,  
Even now through these Infernal Shades and dismal paths I stray;  
Through endless Night, and unknown Desert Lands  
Force me, delaying, by his dread Commands.  
Nor could I think the loss of me would touch  
Your Heart so deep!— You valued me too much!  
Oh stay, and take not from my Eyes, unkind,  
A Face for ever present to my mind!  
Whom do you fly? see him you held so dear!  
His just defence and last farewell do not refuse to hear.   

With such soft words th' afflicted Hero strove  
To soothe her Anger, and revive her Love.  
While rising Sighs oft stopped him as he spoke,  
And falling tears the tender accents broke.   

The Queen, who still resented his last flight,  
Now turns her Eyes from his unwelcome sight,  
And on the ground, with sad remembrance struck,  
She fixed a sullen and dejected look.  
Deaf to his Vows, regardless of his Tears,  
Hard as a Rock her once kind Heart appears,  
And his vain Courtship unconcerned she hears.  
Frowning at length, averse to all he said,  
Into the thickest of the Wood she fled;  
Where her first Love attracts her just desires,  
Shares all her Griefs, and burns in equal Fires.   

Wounded afresh with that reproachful sight,  
Afar the Prince pursues her scornful flight,  
And long lamenting her unhappy Fate,  
With fruitless Sorrow pities her too late.    

Out of the ITALIAN OF FULVIO TESTI. TO Count Montecuccoli. AGAINST Pride upon sudden Advancement.  Ruscelletto Orgoglioso, & C. 

1.  
PRoud and foolish noisy Stream!  
Who to some muddy Plash thy Birth dost owe,  
Which casually a Brook became,  
Assisted by the Rain, and melting Snow:  
Tho' now thou boasts thy swelling Tide,  
August will soon be here, and end thy short-lived Pride.   

2.  
The Thames, great King of Floods! the Thames  
With peaceful Course hastes gently to the Main;  
Yet He upon his silent Streams  
The tallest Vessels does with ease sustain:  
And while one Summer Thee devours,  
His Flood shall ne'er decrease, not Time contract his Shores.   

3.  
Thou foam'st, and boil'st along the Plain,  
The Flocks, and Shepherds threatening by the way;  
Through borrowed Waters basely vain,  
List'st up thy head, and dost regardless stray,  
Troubled, Oblique, and this alone,  
Thy noisy Pride is All which thou canst call Thy own.   

4.  
I know, Sir, you may well admire,  
To hear me Reason with a deaf'ning Stream,  
But thus the Muse oft strikes the Lyre,  
When she'd most Lofty, and Majestic seem,  
And in Mysterious Numbers shroud  
Deep Oracles, too deep, for the unthinking Crowd.   

5.  
While thus I spoke, there did appear,  
Phoebus the God of every tuneful Lay,  
A Laurel crowned his beamy Hair,  
Which with a brighter Light improved the Day;  
And thus he, what I saw, applied,  
Short is th' incertain Reign, and Pomp of Mortal Pride.   

6.  
New turns, and changes every day,  
Are of inconstant Chance the constant Arts,  
Soon she gives, soon takes away,  
She comes, embraces, nauseates you, and parts;  
But if she stays, or if she goes,  
The wise Man little Joy, or little Sorrow shows.   

7.  
Good is the Pilot, who preserves  
His shattered Vessel on the Stormy Main;  
But he no leass applause deserves,  
Who fears the Flattery of the Watery Plain;  
Who never trusts the fairest Gale,  
But dreads to be o'reset, and spreads but little Sail.   

8.  
Of all the Heroes known of old,  
I honour most Agathocles' Name;  
Who, tho' he made the sparkling Gold  
In polished Goblets on his Table flame:  
To temper, and rebate its Ray,  
He mixed his Father's Trade, the good old Potter's Clay.   

9  
While thus the Charming God went on,  
And fixed in Wonder, and Delight I stood:  
Behold! the Upstart Stream was gone,  
No drop remained of its insulting Flood:  
But the worst Cattle of the Plain,  
Trod o'er the thirsty Sand, and spurned it with disdain.    

CATULLUS. EPIG. 19 Suffenus iste, Vare, quem probè nôsti.  BY The same Hand as the former. 

SUFFENUS whom you know, the Witty,  
The Gay, the Talkative, and Pretty;  
And, all his Wonders to rehearse,  
The THING which makes a World of Verse,  
I'm certain I should not belly him,  
To say he has several thousands by him,  
Yet none deformed with Critic blot,  
Or wrote on Vellum to rub out.  
Royal Paper! Scarlet Strings!  
Gilded Backs! and such fine things!  
But— When you read 'em, than the Witty,  
The Gay Suffenus, and the Pretty:  
Is the dullest, heaviest Clown,  
So altered, he can scarce be known.  
This is strange! that he who now  
Could so flatter, laugh, and bow,  
So much Wit, such breeding show,  
Should be so ungenteel a Wight,  
Whenever he attempts to write,  
And yet the Wretch is ne'er so pleased,  
As when he's with this madness seized.   

Faith, Sir, weare all deceived alike,  
All Labour in the same mistake,  
Nor is the best of Men so clear  
From every Folly, but somewhere  
Still the Suffenus will appear.  
Quickly we others Errors find,  
But see not our own Load behind.    

Out of the GREEK OF MENAGE. BY THE Same Hand as the former.  
WHile here for the fair Amarillis I die,  
She o'er Rocks, and o'er Streams from my Passion does fly;  
O bring her, kind Venus! bring her here back again,  
And the best of my Heifers on thy Altar lies slain:  
But if she's appeased, if to Love she incline,  
Take all my whole Herd, my little Herd is all thine.   

Invitation into the COUNTRY. IN Imitation of the 34th EPIG. OF CATULLUS.  By the same Hand as the former. 
GO— for I'm impatient grown,  
Bid him leave the noisy Town.  
Charge him he no longer stay,  
But with haste devour the way.  
Tho' a thousand times he's stayed  
By that fond, bewitching Maid:  
Tho' she summon all her Charms,  
Kiss him, press him in her Arms.  
Let him not the Siren mind,  
Tears are Water, Sighs are Wind.  
Tell him how kind Nature here,  
Dresses up the Youthful Year,  
Strowing on the thoughtless Hours,  
Opening Buds, and newborn Flowers;  
Tell him underneath this Shade,  
Innocence and Mirth are laid;  
Not without forbidden Claret,  
Books or Music, if he'll hear it.  
See the Laurel, and the Vine,  
Round about that Arbour twine,  
So we Wit, and Pleasure join;  
So Horace, and Anacreon meet  
The Jolly God, within that Seat.  
Thus from Noise and Care set free,  
The snares of Beauty we defy.  
Let him them no longer stay,  
But with haste devour the way.   

On Mrs. Arabella Hunt Singing. PIN DARIC ODE,  By Mr. CONGREVE. 

I.  
LEt all be hushed, each softest Motion cease,  
Be every loud tumultuous Thought at Peace,  
And every ruder Gasp of Breath  
Be calm, as in the Arms of Death.  
And thou most fickle, most uneasy Part,  
Thou restless Wanderer, my Heart,  
Be still; gently, ah gently, leave,  
Thou busy, idle thing, to heave.  
Stir not a Pulse; and let my Blood,  
That turbulent, unruly Flood,  
Be softly stayed:  
Let me be all, but my attention, dead.  
Go, rest, y'unnecessary Springs of Life,  
Leave your officious Toil and Strife;  
For I would hear her Voice, and try  
If it be possible to die.   

II.  
Come all ye Lovesick Maids and wounded Swains,  
And listen to her Healing Strains.  
A wondrous Balm, between her Lips she wears,  
Of sovereign Force to soften Cares;  
'Tis piercing as your Thoughts, and melting as your Tears:  
And this, through every Ear she does impart,  
(By tuneful Breath diffused) to every Heart.  
Swiftly the gentle Charmer Flies,  
And to the tender Grief soft Air applies,  
Which, warbling Mystic Sounds,  
Cements the bleeding Panter's Wounds.  
But ah! beware of clamorous Moan:  
Let no unpleasing Murmur or harsh Groan,  
Your slighted Loves declare:  
Your very tenderest moving Sighs forbear,  
For even they will be too boisterous here.  
Hither let nought but Sacred Silence come,  
And let all saucy Praise be dumb.   

III.  
And lo! Silence himself is here;  
Methinks I see the Midnight God appear,  
In all its downy Pomp arrayed,  
Behold the reverend Shade:  
An ancient Sigh he sits upon,  
Whose Memory of Sound is long since gone,  
And purposely annihilated for his Throne:  
Beneath two soft transparent Clouds do meet,  
In which he seems to sink his softer Feet.  
A melancholy Thought, condensed to Air,  
Stolen from a Lover in Despair,  
Like a thin Mantle, serves to wrap  
In Fluid Folds, his visionary Shape.  
A wreath of Darkness round his Head he wears,  
Where curling Mists supply the want of Hairs:  
While the still Vapours, which from Poppies rise,  
Bedew his hoary Face, and lull his Eyes.   

IV.  
But hark! the heavenly Sphere turns round,  
And Silence now is drowned  
In Ecstasy of Sound.  
How on a sudden the still Air is charmed,  
As if all Harmony were just alarmed!  
And every Soul with Transport filled,  
Alternately is thawed and Chilled.  
See how the Heavenly Choir  
Come flocking, to admire,  
And with what Speed and Care,  
Descending Angels cull the thinnest Air!  
Haste then, come all th' immortal Throng,  
And listen to her Song;  
Leave your loved Mansions, in the Sky,  
And hither, quickly hither fly;  
Your Loss of Heaven, nor shall you need to fear,  
While she sings, 'tis Heaven here.   

V.  
See how they crowd, see how the little Cherubs skip!  
While others sit around her Mouth, and sip  
Sweet Hellelujahs from her Lip.  
Those Lips, where in Surprise of Bliss they rove;  
For ne'er before were Angels blest  
With such a luscious Feast  
Of Music and of Love.  
Prepare then, ye immortal Choir,  
Each sacred Minstrel tune his Lyre,  
And with her Voice in Chorus join,  
Her Voice, which next to yours is most divine.  
Bless the glad Earth with heavenly Lays,  
And to that Pitch th' eternal Accents raise,  
Which only Breath inspired can reach,  
To Notes, which only she can learn, and you can teach:  
While we, charmed with the loved Excess,  
Are wrapped in sweet Forgetfulness  
Of all, of all, but of the present Happiness:  
Wishing, for ever in that State to lie,  
For ever to be dying so, yet never die.    

TO A Person of HONOUR: UPON HIS Incomparable, Incomprehensible Poem.  By Mr. Waller. 

SIR.  
YOU have obliged the British Nation more  
Than all their Bards could ever do before:  
And (at your own Charge) Monuments as hard  
As Brass, or Marble, to your Fame, have reared.  
For as all Warlike Nations take Delight  
To hear how their brave Ancestors could fight,  
You have advanced to Wonder their Renown,  
And no less Virtuously improved your own;  
That 'twill be doubtful, whether you do write,  
Or they have acted, at a Nobler height.  
You (of your Ancient Princes) have retrieved  
More than the Ages knew in which they lived;  
Explained their Customs, and their Rights anew,  
Better than all their Druids ever knew:  
Unriddled those dark Oracles as well  
As those that made'em, could themselves foretell.  
For as the Britain's long have hoped in vain,  
Arthur would come to Govern them again:  
You have fulfilled that Prophecy alone,  
And in your Poem placed him on his Throne.  
Such Magic Power has your prodigious Pen,  
To raise the Dead, and give new Life to Men;  
Make Rival Princes meet in Arms, and Love,  
Whom distant Ages did so far remove.  
For as Eternity has neither past,  
Nor future, (Authors say) nor first, nor last;  
But is all instant: Your Eternal Muse  
All Ages can to any one reduce.  
Then why should You (whose Miracles of Art  
Can Life at Pleasure to the Dead impart)  
Trouble in vain your better busied Head,  
T' observe what times they lived in, or were dead.  
For, since you have such Arbitrary Power,  
It were defect in Judgement to go lower;  
Or stoop to things so pitifully lewd,  
As use to take the Vulgar Latitude.  
For no Man's fit to read what you have writ,  
That holds not some proportion with your Wit.  
As Light can no way but by Light appear,  
He must bring Sense, that understands it here.    

On the Same.  By Dr. S— 

YOur Book our old Knight Errants Fame revives,  
Writ in a Style agreeing with their Lives.  
All Rumours strength their Prowess did outgo,  
All Rumours Skill your Verses far outdo:  
To praise the Welsh the World must now combine,  
Since to their Leeks you do your Laurel join:  
Such lofty strains your Country's Story fit,  
Whose Mountains nothing equals, but your Wit.   

Bonduca, were she such, as here we see  
(In British Paint) none could more dreadful be:  
With naked Armies she encountered Rome,  
Whose Strength with naked Nature you o'ercome.  
Nor let small Critics blame this mighty Queen,  
That in King Arthur's time she here is seen:  
You that can make immortal by your Song,  
May well one Life four hundred Years prolong.  
Thus Virgil bravely dared for Dido's Love,  
The settled course of Time and Years to move.  
Though him you imitate in this alone,  
In all things else you borrow help from none:  
No Antic Tale of Greece or Rome you take,  
Their Fables and Examples you forsake.  
With true Heroic Glory you display  
A Subject new, writ in the newest way.   

Go forth, great Author, for the World's delight;  
Teach it, what none e'er taught you, how to write:  
They talk strange things that Ancient Poets did;  
How Trees, and Stones they into Buildings lead:  
For Poems to raise Cities, now, 'tis hard,  
But yours, at least, will build half Paul's Churchyard.    

Another on the same.  By Mr. Mat. Clifford. 
With Envy, Critics, you'll this Poem read,  
Whose Author's Wit does more than Man exceed;  
Where all's so good alike, no Man can say  
This may be added, or that pared away:  
Where all's so new, no search can ever trace  
The Persons mentioned, in their Time, or Place.  
Great Soul of Nature, which dost Books defy,  
And their weak aid in this thy History:  
Thou art no Slave to Rule, or Precedent;  
Where others imitate, thou dost invent.  
It is, we grant, all thy Invention;  
The Language too, entirely is thy own:  
Thou leav'st as Trash, below thy great pretence,  
Grammar to Pedants; and to plain Men, Sense:  
But as, in this thy matchless Poetry,  
Thou follow'st none, so none can follow Thee.   

On the same.  By the Ld. V. 
WOnder not, Sir, that Praises yet ne'er due  
To any other, are yet heaped on You:  
'Twas Envy robbed you of your Praise before;  
Men fee their faults, and Envy now no more.  
'Tis but your Merit, nor can justly such,  
Which gave too little once, now give too much.  
Your Princes do all Poetry surpass  
As much as Pen-main-maur exceeds Parnass.  
It is so great a Prodigy of Wit,  
That Art and Nature both fall short of it:  
For leaving Art, and left of Nature too,  
Your Poem has no other Muse than You.   

On these two Verses.  
Out of the same.  
But Fame had sent forth all her nimble Spies  
To blaze this Match, and lend to Fate some Eyes.  By the Duke of Buckingham. 
BUT wherefore all this pother about Fame?  
A Man might say, says one: the very same  
Demand might well be made, another cries,  
Of Fate; and how it got, from Fame, such Eyes?  
'Tis well; you're witty Persons both, say I;  
Yet to your Wit this boldly I'll reply:  
Fate is the Twin of Chance, by which you find  
Fate must needs see, except that Chance were blind:  
For, among Friends, 'twere Inequality  
To think one should be blind, and t'other see.  
Now tell me, Critics, do not all the Wise  
Profess that which they see, they see with Eyes?  
And the same Figure do not I advance,  
When I protest, I saw a thing by Chance?  
Since than so various things by Chance we see,  
Fate might have Eyes to multiplicity;  
But our mild Author says, it has but some;  
Thus, Critic vile, thus I have struck thee dumb:  
And thus subscribe myself, with Heart, and Hand,  
The Author's Friend, most Humble Servant, and  
Buckingham.   

TO THE PRINCE and PRINCESS OF ORANGE, Upon Their MARRIAGE.  Written by Mr. NAT. LEE. 

HAIL, happy Warrior! hail! whose Arms have won  
The fairest Jewel in the English Crown.  
Happy in famous Dangers in the Field,  
Happy in Courts which brightest Beauties yield.  
Oh Prince! whose Soul is known so justly great,  
As if that Heaven took leisure to create;  
First, the rich Oar refined, then did allay,  
Stamped thee his own, not shuffled thee away.  
With wonder thus we all thy temper prize,  
Not but th'u'rt bold and brave, as thou art wise.  
Like the cool English, who approach their Fate  
With awe, and gravely first with Death debate.  
They kindle slowly, but when once on Fire,  
Burn on, and in the blaze of Fame expire.   

Hail Princess! hail! thou fairest of thy Kind!  
Thou shape of Angels, with an Angel's Mind!  
Whose Virtues shine, but so as to be born,  
Clear as the Sun, and gentle as the Morn.  
Whose brighter Eyes like lambent Glories move,  
And every glance wounds like a Dart of Love.  
How well, oh Prince, how nobly hast thou fought,  
Since to thy Arms the Fates such Beauty brought!  
Methinks I hear thee in thy Nuptial Bed,  
When o'er the Royal Maid thy Arms were spread.   

Enough, kind Heaven, well was my Sword employed,  
Since all the Bliss Earth holds shall be enjoyed.  
Pains I remember now with vast delight,  
Well have I braved the thundering French in fight,  
My hazards now are Gains, and if my Blood  
In Battle mix and raise the vulgar Flood,  
Her Tears (for sure she'll be so good to mourn)  
Like Balm shall heal the Wounds when I return.   

But hark, 'tis rumoured that this happy pair  
Must go, the Prince for Holland does declare,  
Called to the Business of Important War.  
Go then, if thy Departure be agreed,  
Your Friends must weep, your Enemies shall bleed.   

And if in Poet's minds, those vaster Souls,  
Where all at once the vast Creation rolls,  
To whom the Warrior is as much obliged,  
As to Relievers Towns that are besieged.  
(For Death would to their Acts an end afford,  
Did not Immortal Verse outdo the Sword)  
If aught of Prophesy their Souls inspire.  
And if their fury gives a solid Fire,  
Soft shall the Waftage be, the Seas and Wind,  
Calm as the Prince, and as the Princess kind.  
The World, why should not Dreams of Poets take,  
As well as Prophets who but dream awake?  
I saw them launch, the Prince the Princess bore,  
While the sad Court stood crowding on the Shore.  
The Prince still bowing on the Deck did stand,  
And held his weeping Princess by the hand.  
Which waving oft, she bid them all farewell,  
And wept as if she would the Ocean swell.   

Farewell! thou best of Fathers, best of Friends!  
While the moved Duke, with a heaved Sighs, commends  
To Heaven the Care; in Tears his Eyes would swim,  
But Manly Virtue binds them to the brim.  
Farewell (she cried) my Sister, thou dear part,  
Thou sweetest part, of my divided Heart.  
To whom I all my Secrets did unfold,  
Dear Casket! who did all my Treasures hold.  
My little Love! her Sighs she did renew,  
Once more (oh Heavens) a long and last adieu!  
Part! must I ever lose those pretty Charms?  
Then swoons, and sinks into the Prince's Arms.  
The Court beheld, and wept.   

Straight from their Griefs the pompous Navy fled  
So fast, as if our Sighs increased their speed.  
When of a sudden, from the Reedy Court,  
The Tritons all with their grieved God resort;  
In Troops upon the wand'ring Waves they glide,  
And round their lifted Lord in Triumph ride.  
At their first call the singing Mermaids come,  
While the crowned Dolphins lash the Silver Foam.   

Thus waited, the glad Prince beheld from far  
The Belgic Shore, and heard the sound of War.  
Some Hand unseen heavens Azure Curtains drew  
To make this Mighty Triumph Great and New,  
A thousand Golden Heads peeped forth to view.  
Cries, Shouts, and clapping Hands, all Ecstasy,  
A hundred Cannons thundered to the Sky.  
The Thunder answering did my Dream destroy,  
And waked me from the Visionary Joy.    

AGAINST SLOTH. When the King was at Oxford.  
Hocagite, o Juvines, circumspicit, & stimulat vos,  
Materiámque sibi Ducis indulgentia quoerit.  

1.  
HEnce, vain Attempter of the Good and Great;  
Be gone from our secure Retreat,  
With all thy dull unwieldy Train  
That clog and curb the active Brain,  
Which else would, like a metalled Steed, run o'er  
Vast Nature's yet unnumbered Store;  
O'er flowery Meads, and painted Fields,  
And all the pleasant Scenes that beauteous Learning yields.   

2.  
We're doubly armed against thy Cheats, and Thee,  
(Thy Cheats which only find a place  
Among the Ignorant and Base,)  
By Knowledge, and by Majesty.  
Thou, constant Guest of every Popish Cell,  
Which dost with Monks and Hermits dwell,  
Must leave, with them, this Sacred Ground;  
Banished from King and Court, at least, for ten Miles round.   

3.  
She's gone; and now, methinks, an active fire  
Does all my willing Veins inspire:  
My drowsy Senses all anew  
Are wakened by His powerful view.  
The Glorious Ruler of the Morning, so,  
But looks on Flowers, and straight they grow:  
And when his Beams their Light unfold,  
Ripens the dullest Earth, and warms it into Gold.    

What art thou, Love!  Written by Mr. J. ALLESTRY. 

1.  
WHat art thou Love! whence are those Charms!  
That thus thou bearest an Universal Rule!  
For thee the Soldier quits his Arms,  
The King turns Slave, the wise Man Fool.   

2.  
In vain we chase thee from the Field,  
And with cool thoughts resist thy Yoke:  
Next Tide of Blood, alas! we yield,  
And all those high Resolves are broke.   

3.  
Can we e'er hope thou shouldst be true,  
Whom we have found so often base?  
Cozened, and cheated, still we view,  
And fawn upon the treacherous Face.   

4.  
In vain our Nature we accuse;  
And dote, because she says we must:  
This for a Brute were an excuse,  
Whose very Soul and Life is Lust.   

5.  
To get our likeness! what is that!  
Our likeness is but Misery;  
Why should I toil to propagate  
Another thing as vile as I?   

6.  
From Hands Divine our Spirits came,  
And Gods, that made us, did inspire  
Something more Noble in our Frame,  
Above the Dregs of Earthly Fire.    

VERSES Spoken before the Duke and Duchess of YORK, AND Lady AND, In Oxford Theatre, May the 21st. 1683.  By the Ld. S— and Mr. C—. Ld. S— 
Great Sir,  
WHen last your Royal Brother blest this Place,  
And all about did his kind Beams dispense;  
A Joy Divine was seen in every Face,  
Till Faction drove our Guardian Angel hence.  Mr. C— 
Heaven well did know how much our Frame could bear;  
Mingling our Rapture with some fit allay;  
And that, for future Bliss, we might prepare:  
Wisely reserved the Blessing of this day.  
To the Duke.  
We miss a Royal Brother by his side;  Ld. S— 
We longed to see those Charms which him o'ercome,  Mr. C— 
To the Duchess.  
You, Madam, was our only Joy and Pride,  
To the Lady Ann  
Who represented half the Stuarts Name.  Ld. S— 
Would you then know how much you're welcome here?  
Think what a Joy in Loyal Breasts did flow,  
When fatal Gloster all our hopes did bear,  
Which the Gods lost to show their Care of Tou.  
When Fears and Jealousies ran high, and loud;  
And Zeal mistaken, blinded wilful Eyes,  
Heaven shook the Rod to the Rebellious Crowd,  
threatening to snatch the Gem, they could not prise.  Mr. C— 
Oxford (we hope) will not displease your view,  
Where Tork first learned the Rudiments of War;  
Those early Virtues here in Blossom grew,  
Which now in growth, and full Perfection, are.  
Tho' here new Towers and Buildings daily rise;  
And Arms thrown off, we wear the peaceful Gown:  
Our Breasts admit no change, know no disguise;  
Prepared with Swords and Pens t' assert the Crown.  Ld. S— 
This is the place, in which the Sacred Names  
Of Kings and Heroes annually resound;  
The Triumphs, War and Peace, of Charles and James,  
From Age to Age, are with fresh Laurels Crowned.  Mr. C— 
As when a Prince's long expected Birth,  
Glads every Heart, and each Muse tunes her Voice:  
Or when the Captive Monarches of the Earth  
To the Lady Ann.  
Beg to be Slaves, and in Your Chains rejoice.  Ld. S— 
But why, in lazy Numbers, do we bind  
Our thoughts? which should in active Raptures fly;  
As the Celestial Circles unconfined,  
And tuned to their Eternal Harmony.  
music's the Dialect of happy Souls,  
When severed from the Earth's unwieldy Load;  
The Universal Language of both Poles,  
Of the vast distant Natives understood.  
Let Instruments and Voices both combine  
To Celebrate the Glories of this Day:  
Let Art and Ecstasies their Forces join,  
And in melodious Paths of Error stray.  Here they fate down, and Music played; which being ended, they stood up again, and spoke by way of Pastoral. 
Ld. S— Damon.  
Mr. C— Thyrsis.  Damon. 
AH! Thyrsis, how shall humble Swains,  
As thou and I, perform such strains?  
Can we a fitting Present make  
For us to give, or These to take?  Thyrsis. 
The Garland, Chloris made, I'll bring,  
When I threw Strephon from the Ring:  
Though it should Caesar is Birthday Crown,  
Fresh Roses will for that be blown.  Damon. 
I have a Lamb as white as Snow,  
Though half engaged to Pan by Vow:  
I'll sacrifice it here, for He  
Pan, or some greater God must be.  Thyrsis. 
Why dost thou talk of Sacrifice,  
These seem no angry Deities.  
Would cruel Sylvia were here,  
She'd learn to think herself less fair,  
And, in a Noble mixture, find  
Humility with Beauty joined.  Damon. 
Then may it please the Royal Three  
T' accept one hearty Wish from me:  
By all true Swains be Daphnis feared,  
And no Whig-Wolves come nigh his Herd.  Both together. 
Then Tearly Hecatombs we'll pay,  
If every Spring bring such a May.   

HUMAN 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. 

1.  
THen will penurious Heaven no more allow!  
No more on its own Darling Man bestow!  
Is it for this he Lord of all appears,  
And his great Maker's Image bears!  
To toil beneath a wretched State,  
Oppressed with Miseries and Fate:  
Beneath his painful Burden groan,  
And, in this beaten Road of Life, drudge on!  
Amidst our Labours we possess  
No kind allays of Happiness:  
No softening Joys can call our own,  
To make this bitter Drug go down;  
Whilst Death an easy Conquest gains,  
And the insatiate Grave in endless Triumph Reigns.  
With Throes, and Pangs, into the World we come,  
The Curse and Burden of the Womb:  
Nor wretched to ourselves alone,  
Our Mother's Labours introduce our own.  
In Cries and Tears our Infancy we waste,  
Those sad Prophetic Tears that flow,  
By instinct of our future Woe;  
And even our dawn of Life with Sorrow's overcast.  
Thus we toil out a restless Age,  
Each his laborious part must have,  
Down from the Monarch to the Slave,  
Act o'er this Farce of Life, then drop beneath the Stage.   

2.  
From our first drawing Vital breath,  
From our first starting from the Womb,  
Until we reach the destined Tomb,  
We all are posting on, to the dark Goal of Death.  
Life, like a Cloud that fleets before the Wind,  
No Mark, no kind Impression, leaves behind;  
'Tis scattered like the Winds that blow,  
Boisterous as them, full as inconstant too,  
That know not whence they come, nor where they go.  
Here we're detained a while, and then  
Become Originals again:  
Time shall a Man to his first self restore,  
And make him entire nothing, all he was before.  
No part of us, no remnant shall survive!  
And yet we impudently say, we live:  
No! we but ebb into ourselves again,  
And only come to be, as we had never been.   

3.  
Say, learned Sage, thou that art mighty wise!  
Unriddle me these Mysteries:  
What is the Soul, the Vital Heat  
That our mean Frame does animate?  
What is our breath, the breath of Man,  
That buoys his Nature up, and does even Life sustain?  
Is it not Air, an empty Fume,  
A Fire that does itself consume?  
A warmth that in a Heart is bred,  
A lambent Flame with heat and motion fed.  
Extinguish that, the whole is gone,  
This boasted Scene of Life is done:  
Away the Phantom takes its flight,  
Damned to a loathsome Grave, and an Eternal Night.  
The Soul, th' Immortal part we boast,  
In one consuming Minute's lost:  
To its first Source it must repair,  
Scatter with Winds, and flow with common Air.  
Whilst the fallen Body, by a swift decay,  
Resolves into its Native Clay:  
For Dust and Ashes are its second Birth,  
And that incorporates too, with its great Parent Earth.   

4.  
Nor shall our Names, or Memories survive,  
Alas, no part of Man can live!  
The empty blasts of Fame shall die,  
And even those Nothings taste Mortality.  
In vain, to future Ages, we transmit  
Heroic Acts, and Monuments of Wit:  
In vain, we dear-bought Honour's leave,  
To make our Ashes gay, and furnish out a Grave.  
Ah Treacherous Immortality!  
For thee, our stock of Youth we waste,  
And urge on Life, that ebbs too fast;  
To purchase thee with Blood, the Valiant fly,  
And to survive in Fame, the Great and Glorious die.  
Lavish of Life, they squander this Estate,  
And for a poor Reversion wait:  
Bankrupts and Misers, to themselves they grow,  
Embitter wretched Life, with Toils and Woe,  
To hoard up endless Fame, they know not where, or how.   

5.  
Ah think, my Friends, how swift the Minute's haste!  
The present Day entirely is our own,  
Then seize the Blessing ere 'tis gone:  
To Morrow, fatal sound! since this may be our last.  
Why do we boast of Years, and sum up Days!  
'Tis all imaginary space:  
To day, to day is our Inheritance,  
'Tis all penurious Fate will give,  
Posterity'll to Morrow live, hence.  
Our Sons crowd on behind, our Children drive us  
With Garlands then your Temple's Crown,  
And lie on Beds of Roses down:  
Beds of Roses we'll prepare,  
Roses that our Emblems are.  
A while they flourish on the Bough,  
And drink large draughts of Heavenly Dew:  
Like us, they smile, are young, and gay,  
And like us too, are Tenants for a day,  
Since with Night's blasting breath, they vanish swift away.   

6.  
Bring cheerful Wine, and costly Sweets prepare!  
'Tis more than frenzy now to spare:  
Let cares and business wait a while,  
Old Age affords a thinking Interval;  
Or if they must a longer hearing have,  
Bid them attend below, adjourn into the Grave.  
Then gay and sprightly Wine produce,  
Wines that Wit and Mirth infuse:  
Thàt feed, like Oil, th'expiring Flame,  
Revive our drooping Souls, and prop this tottering Frame.  
That when the Grave our Bodies has engrossed,  
When Virtues shall forgotten lie,  
With all their boasted Piety,  
Honours, and Titles, like ourselves, be lost;  
Then our Recorded Vice shall flourish on,  
And our Immortal Riots be for ever known.  
This, this is what we ought to do,  
The great Design, the grand Affair below!  
Since bounteous Nature's placed our Stuard here,  
Then Man his Grandeur should maintain,  
And in excess of Pleasure Reign,  
Keep up his Character, and Lord of all appear.    

TO Mr. WALLER, UPON THE Copy of Verses made by himself on the last Copy in his Book.  

1.  
WHen Shame, for all my foolish Youth had writ,  
Advised, 'twas time the Rhyming Trade to quit,  
Time to grow wise, and be no more a Wit—  
The Noble Fire, that animates thy Age,  
Once more inflamed me with Poetic Rage.   

2.  
Kings, Heroes, Nymphs, the Brave, the Fair, the Young,  
Have been the Theme of thy Immortal Song;  
A Nobler Argument, at last, thy Muse,  
Two things Divine; Thee, and Herself, does choose.   

3.  
Age, whose dull weight makes vulgar Spirits bend,  
Gives Wings to thine, and bids it upward tend.  
No more confined, above the Starry Skies,  
Out, from the Body's broken Cage, it flies.   

4.  
But oh! vouchsafe, not wholly to retire,  
To join with, and complete th' Etherial Choir!  
Still here remain! still on the Threshold stand;  
Still at this distance view the promised Land,  
Tho' thou may'st seem, so Heavenly is thy Sense,  
Not going thither, but new come from thence.    

ELEGY: Occasioned By the Reading and Transcribing Mr. Edmund Waller's Poem, OF DIVINE LOVE, Since his Death.  By Mr. J. TALBOT. 

SUch were the last, the sweetest Notes that hung  
Upon our dying Swan's melodious Tongue:  
Notes, whose strong Charms the dullest Ear might move,  
And melt the hardest Heart in flames of Love:  
Notes, whose Seraphic Raptures speak a mind  
From Human Thoughts, and Earthly Dross refined;  
So just their Harmony, so high their flight,  
With Joy I read them, and with Wonder write.   

Sure, happy Saint, this Noble Song was given  
To fit Thee for th'approaching Joys of Heaven:  
Love, wondrous Love, whose Conquest was thy Theme,  
Has taught thy Soul the airy way to climb;  
Love snatched Thee, like Elijah to the Sky,  
In Flames that not consume, but purify:  
There with thy Fellow-Angels mixed, and free  
From the dull load of dim Mortality;  
Thou feelest new Joys, and feedest thy ravished sight  
With unexhausted Beams of Love and Light:  
And sure, blessed Spirit, to complete thy Bliss,  
In Heaven thou singest this Song, or one like This.    

MOSCHUS: IDYL 1st. Done into ENGLISH  BY Mr. J. R. 
HER Son not heard of, and by none descried,  
In a shrill voice thus pensive Venus cried.  
He who can News of a stray Cupid tell,  
My Runaway, shall be rewarded well.  
His Fee for the obliging News is this,  
He may come hither, and demand a Kiss.  
But if he can the Vagabond restore;  
He shall have Kisses, and have somewhat more.  
Amongst a Hundred you the Boy may know,  
Large are his Tokens, and his Marks enough.  
Not white his body, but resembling Flame;  
His Eyes all cruel, and his Heart the same:  
Soft are his words, where he designs no Love,  
Nor do his Heart and Tongue together move.  
Sweet is his Voice as Honey when he's pleased,  
But when enraged, how hard to be appeased!  
He always lies: 'tis a pernicious Boy,  
Fraud is his Sport, and Tyranny his Joy.  
Bold are his Eyes, divinely curled his Hair;  
Small are his Hands, but oh! they kill from far!  
How great, how large is their extensive Power,  
From which great Pluto's self is not secure!  
Close are his Thoughts and Soul, his Body bare:  
Swift as a Bird, he strikes an amorous Pair,  
Invades the inmost Fortress of the Fair.  
Small is his Bow, nor are his Arrows great,  
And yet even These have reached the Heavenly Seat.  
A Golden Quiver on his back he ties,  
Where his Artillery in dreadful order lies.  
All cruel, all— but oh! the cruel Boy  
Does with his Taper Phoebus' self annoy;  
Torments even me, his Mother, ruins all my Joy.  
Charge him from me, if seen, with an arrest;  
Let pity be a Stranger to your breast.  
If you can seize him, lead the Captive bound,  
Let no compassion for his tears be found.  
Avoid his kisses, and his amorous wiles,  
There's worse than Poison in his treacherous smiles.  
Nay, should he offer you his arms, beware,  
Of Arrows tipped with Fire have a care.   

AGAINST ENJOYMENT.  By Mr. YALDEN. 

WE Love and Hate, as restless Monarches fight,  
Who boldly dare invade another's Right:  
Yet when through all the dangerous toils they've run,  
Ignobly quit, the Conquests they have won;  
Those charming hopes that made them valiant grow,  
palled with Enjoyment, makes them Cowards now.   

Our Passions only form our Happiness,  
Hopes still enlarge, as Fears contract it less:  
Hope with a gaudy Prospect feeds the Eye,  
Soothes every sense, does with each wish comply;  
But false Enjoyment, the kind Guide destroys,  
We lose the Passion in the treacherous Joys.  
Like the gay Silkworm, when it pleases most,  
In that ungrateful Web it spun, 'tis lost.   

Fruition only cloys the Appetite,  
More does the Conquest, than the prize delight:  
One Victory gained, another fills the mind,  
Our restless Wishes cannot be confined.  
Like boisterous waves, no settled bounds they know,  
Fix at no point, but always ebb or flow.   

Who most expects, enjoys the pleasure most,  
'tis raised by Wishes, by Fruition lost:  
We're charmed with distant views of happiness,  
But near approaches make the prospect less.  
Wishes, like painted Landscapes, best delight,  
Whilst distance recommends them to the sight:  
Placed afar off, they beautiful appear,  
But show their course, and nauseous colours, near.   

Thus the famed Midas, when he found his Store,  
Increasing still, and would admit of more:  
With eager arms his swelling bags he pressed,  
And expectation only made him blest:  
But when a boundless Treasure he enjoyed,  
And every wish was with fruition cloyed:  
Then damned to heaps, and surfeited with Oar,  
He cursed that Gold, he doted on before.    

PRIAM's Lamentation and Petition TO ACHILLES, For the Body of his Son HECTOR. Translated from the Greek of Homer, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  By Mr. CONGREVE. 
Beginning at this Line, 
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉:—   
ARGUMENT Introductory to this Translation.  
Hector 's Body, (after he was slain) remained still in the Possession of Achilles; for which, Priam made great Lamentation. Jupiter had pity on him, and sent Iris to comfort and direct him, after what manner he should go to Achilles 's Tent, and how he should there ransom the Body of his Son. Priam accordingly order his Chariot to be got ready, and preparing rich Presents for Achilles, sets forward to the Grecian Camp, accompanied by no body but his Herald Idaeus. Mercury, at Jupiter 's Command, meets him by the way, in the Figure of a young Grecian, and, after bemoaning his misfortunes, undertakes to drive his Chariot, unobserved, through the Guards, and to the door of Achilles 's Tent: which having performed, he discovered himself a God, and giving him a short Instruction, how to move Achilles to Compassion, flew up to Heaven.  

SO spoke the God, and Heav'nward took his flight:  
When Priam from his Chariot did alight;  
Leaving Idoeus there, alone he went  
With Solemn pace, into Achilles Tent.  
Heedless, he passed through various Rooms of State,  
Until approaching where the Hero sat;  
There at a Feast, the good old Priam found  
Jove's best belov'd, with all his Chiefs around:  
Two only were t' attend his Person placed,  
Automedon and Alcymus; the rest  
At greater distance, greater State expressed.   

Priam, unseen by these, his entrance made,  
And at Achilles' Feet his Aged Body laid,  
About his Knees, his trembling Arms he threw,  
And clasped 'em hard, as, they together grew;  
Then, caught his Hands, and pressed, and kissed 'em close,  
Those Hands, th' inhuman Authors of his Woes;  
Those Hands, whose unrelenting Force had cost  
Much of his blood, (for many Sons he lost)  
Now bathed in tears, he to his Cheeks did lay,  
As if he meant to wash their Gild away.   

But, as a Wretch who has a Murder done,  
And seeking Refuge, does from Justice run;  
Entering some House, in haste, where he's unknown,  
Creates amazement in the lookers on:  
So did Achilles gaze, surprised to see  
The Godlike Priam's Royal Misery;  
All on each other gazed, all in surprise  
And mute, yet seemed to question with their Eyes.  
Till he at length the Solemn silence broke;  
And thus the venerable Suppliant spoke.   

Divine Achilles, at your Feet behold  
A prostrate King, in wretchedness grown old:  
Think on your Father, and then, look on me,  
His hoary Age and helpless person see;  
So furrowed are his Cheeks, so white his Hairs,  
Such, and so many his declining Years;  
Could you imagine (but that cannot be)  
Could you imagine such, his Misery!  
Yet it may come, when, he shall be oppressed,  
And Neighbouring Princes lay his Country waste;  
Nay, at this time perhaps some powerful Foe,  
Who will no Mercy, no Compassion show,  
Ent'ring his Palace, sees him feebly fly,  
And seek Protection, where no help is nigh.  
In vain, he may your fatal absence mourn,  
And wish in vain for your delayed return;  
Yet, that he hears you live, some comfort gives,  
And while he hopes (tho' vainly) he believes:  
It glads his Soul to think, he once may see  
His much-loved Son; would that were granted me!  
But I, most wretched I! of all bereft!  
Of all my Royal Sons, how few are left!  
Yet fifty goodly Youths I had to boast,  
When firsts the Greeks invaded Ilion's Coast:  
Nineteen, the joyful Issue of one teeming Womb,  
Are now, alas! a mournful Tribute to one Tomb:  
Merciless War, this devastation wrought,  
And their strong Nerves to Dissolution brought.   

Still one was left, in whom was all my hope,  
My Age's comfort, and his Country's prop;  
Hector, my Darling, and my last Defence,  
Whose life alone, their deaths could recompense:  
And, to complete my store of countless Woe,  
Him you have slain— of him bereaved me too!   

For his sake only, hither am I come;  
Rich Gifts I bring, and Wealth, an endless Sum;  
All to redeem that fatal Prize you won,  
A worthless Ransom for so brave a Son.   

Fear the just Gods, Achilles; and on me  
With pity look, think you your Father see;  
Such as I am, he is, alone in this,  
I can no equal have in Miseries;  
Of all Mankind, most wretched and forlorn,  
Bowed with such weight, as never has been born;  
Reduced to kneel and pray to you, from whom  
The Spring and Source of all my Sorrows come;  
With Gifts, to court mine and my Country's Bane,  
And kiss those hands, which have my Children slain.  
He spoke.—   

Now, sadness o'er Achilles' face appears,  
And viewing Priam, for his Father fears;  
That, and Compassion melt him into Tears.  
Then, gently with his hand he put away  
Old Priam's Face, but he, still prostrate lay,  
And there with tears, and sighs, afresh did moan  
Th' untimely death, of his beloved Son.  
But Passion different ways, Achilles turns,  
Now, he Patroclus, now, his Father mourns:  
Thus both with Lamentations filled the place,  
Till Sorrow seemed to wear one common face.    

THE LAMENTATIONS OF Hecuba, Andromache, and Helen, Over the Dead Body of HECTOR. Translated from the Greek of Homer. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  By Mr. CONGREVE. 
Beginning at this Line, 
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.   
Connexion of this with the former Translation.  
Priam, at last, moveth Achilles to Compassion, and after having made him Presents of great value, obtains the Body of his Son. Mercury awakens Priam early in the Morning, and advises him to haste away with the Body, lest Agamemnon should be informed of his being in the Camp: He himself helps to harness the Mules and Horses, and conveys him safely, and without noise, Chariot and all, from among the Grecian Tents; then flies up to Heaven, leaving Priam and Idaeus to travel on with the Body toward Troy.  

Now, did the Saffron Morn her beams display,  
Gild the Face of Universal Day;  
When mourning Priam to the Town returned;.  
Slowly his Chariot moved, as that had mourned;  
The Mules, beneath the mangled Body go,  
As bearing (now) unusual weight of Woe.  
To Pergamus high top, Cassandra fly's,  
Thence, she afar, the sad Procession spies:  
Her Father and Idoeus first appear,  
Then Hector's Corpse extended on a Bier;  
At which, her boundless grief, loud Cries began,  
And, thus lamenting, thro' the Streets she ran:  
Hither, ye wretched Trojans, hither all!  
Behold the Godlike Hector's Funeral!  
If e'er you went with Joy, to see him come  
Adorned with Conquest and with Laurels home,  
Assemble now, his Ransomed Body see,  
What once was all your Joy, now, all your Misery!   

She spoke, and straight the numerous Crowed obeyed,  
Nor Man, nor Woman, in the City stayed;  
Common consent of Grief had made 'em one,  
With clamorous moan to Scoeas Gate they run,  
There, the loved Body of their Hector meet,  
Which they, with loud and fresh lament, greet.  
His Reverend Mother, and his Tender Wife,  
Equal in Love, in Grief had equal strife:  
In Sorrow, they no Moderation knew,  
But wildly wailing, to the Chariot flew;  
There, strove the rolling Wheels to hold, while each  
Attempted first his breathless Corpse to reach;  
Aloud they beat their Breasts, and tore their Hair,  
Rending around with shrieks the suffering air.   

Now had the throng of People stopped the way,  
Who would have there lamented all the day,  
But Priam from his Chariot rose, and spoke,  
Trojans enough; Truce with your Sorrows make;  
Give way to me, and yield the Chariot room,  
First let me bear my Hector's Body home,  
Then mourn your fill. At this the Crowd gave way,  
Opening a Pass, like Waves of a divided Sea.   

Idoeus to the Palace drove, then laid,  
With care, the Body on a Sumptuous Bed,  
And round about were skilful Singers placed,  
Who wept, and sighed, and in sad notes expressed  
Their Moan; All, in a Chorus did agree  
Of Universal, Mournful Harmony.   

Andromache alone, no Notes could find,  
No Music wild enough for her distracted Mind;  
Her Grief, long smothered, now from silence broke,  
And thus (close pressing his pale Cheeks) she spoke.   

Andromache 's Lamentation.  

O my lost Husband! let me ever mourn  
Thy early Fate, and too untimely Urn:  
In the full Pride of Youth thy Glories fade,  
And thou in ashes must with them be laid.   

Why is my Heart thus miserably torn!  
Why am I thus distressed! why thus forlorn!  
Am I that wretched thing, a Widow left?  
Why do I live, who am of Life bereft!  
Yet I were blest, were I alone undone;  
Alas, my Child! where can an Infant run?  
Unhappy Orphan! thou in Woes art nursed;  
Why were you born?— I am with blessings cursed!  
For long ere thou shalt be to Manhood grown,  
Wide Desolation will lay waste this Town:  
Who is there now, that can Protection give,  
Since He, who was her strength, no more doth live?  
Who, of her Reverend Matrons; will have care?  
Who, save her Children from the Rage of War?  
For He to all Father and Husband was,  
And all are Orphans now, and Widows by his loss.  
Soon will the Grecians, now, insulting come  
And bear us Captives to their distant home;  
I, with my Child, must the same Fortune share,  
And all alike, be Prisoners of the War;  
Amongst base-born Wretches, he, his Lot must have,  
And be to some inhuman Lord, a Slave.  
Else some avenging Greek, with Fury filled,  
Or for an only Son, or Father killed  
By Hector's hand, on him will vent his Rage,  
And, with his Blood, his thirsty grief assuage;  
For many fell by his relentless hand,  
Biting that ground, which, with their Blood was stained.   

Fierce was thy Father (O my Child) in War,  
And never did his Foe in Battle spare;  
Thence come these sufferings, which, so much have cost,  
Much woe to all, but sure, to me the most.  
I saw him not, when in the pangs of Death,  
Nor did my Lips receive his latest breath;  
Why held he not to me his dying hand?  
And why received not I his last Command?  
Something he would have said, had I been there,  
Which I should still in sad remembrance bear;  
For I could never, never words forget,  
Which, Night and Day, I would with Tearsrepeat.   

She spoke, and wept afresh, when all around,  
A gen'ral Sigh, diffused a mournful sound.   

Then, Hecuba, who long had been oppressed  
With boiling Passions, in her Aged Breast,  
Mingling her words with sighs and tears, begun  
A Lamentation for her Darling Son.    

Hecuba 's Lamentation.  

Hector, my Joy, and to my Soul more dear  
Than all my other numerous Issue were;  
O my last Comfort, and my best belov'd!  
Thou, at whose fall, even Jove himself was moved  
And sent a God his dread Commands to bear,  
So far thou wert High heavens peculiar care!  
From fierce Achilles' Chains thy Corpse was freed;  
So kind a Fate was for none else decreed:  
For all my other Sons, ta'en by his hands,  
Were sold like Slaves, and shipped to Foreign Lands.  
Thou too wert sentenced by his barbarous Doom,  
And dragged when dead, about Patroclus' Tomb,  
His loved Patroclus whom thy hands had slain:  
And yet that Cruelty was used in vain,  
Since all could not restore his life again.  
Now fresh and glowing, even in death thou art,  
And fair as he who fell by Phoebus Dart.  
Here weeping Hecuba her Passion stayed,  
And Universal moan, again was made;  
When Helen's Lamentation, hers supplied,  
And thus, aloud, that fatal Beauty cried.    

Helen 's Lamentation.  

O Hector, thou wert rooted in my Heart,  
No Brother there had half so large a part:  
Scarce my own Lord, to whom such love I bore,  
That I forsook my Home; scarce he had more!   

O would I ne'er had seen that fatal day,  
Would I had perished, when I came away.  
Now, twenty Years are past, since that sad hour,  
When first I landed on this ruin'd Shoar.  
For Ruin (sure) and I, together came!  
Yet all this time, from thee I ne'er had blame,  
Not one ungentle word, or look of Scorn,  
Which I too often have from others born;  
When you from their Reproach have set me free,  
And kindly have reproved their Cruelty:  
If by my Sisters, or the Queen reviled,  
(For the good King, like you, was ever mild)  
Your kindness still, has all my grief beguiled.  
Ever in tears let me your loss bemoan,  
Who had no Friend alive, but you alone:  
All will reproach me now, where e'er I pass,  
And fly with Horror from my hated Face.  
This said; she wept, and the vast throng was moved,  
And with a gen'ral Sigh her Grief approved.  
When Priam (who had heard the mourning Crowd)  
Rose from his Seat, and thus he spoke aloud.   

Cease your Lament, Trojans, for a while,  
And fell down Trees to build a Funeral Pile;  
Fear not an Ambush by the Grecians laid,  
For with Achilles, twelve days Truce I made.   

He spoke, and all obeyed as with one mind,  
Chariots were brought, and Mules and Oxen joined;  
Forth from the City all the People went,  
And nine days space was in that labour spent:  
The tenth, a most stupendious Pile they made,  
And on the top the Manly Hector laid,  
Then gave it fire, while all, with weeping eyes  
Beheld the rolling Flames and Smoke arise.  
All night they wept, and all the night it burned,  
But when the Rosy Morn with day returned,  
About the Pile the thronging People came,  
And with black Wine quenched the remaining Flame.  
His Brothers then, and Friends searched every where,  
And gathering up his Snowy Bones with care,  
Wept o'er 'em; when an Urn of Gold was brought,  
Wrapped in soft purple Palls, and richly wrought,  
In which the Sacred Ashes were interred;  
Then o'er his Grave a Monument they reared.  
Mean time, strong Guards were placed, and careful Spies,  
To watch the Grecians, and prevent surprise.  
The Work once ended, all the vast resort  
Of mourning People, went to Priam's Court;  
There, they refreshed their weary Limbs with rest,  
Ending the Funeral with a Solemn Feast.     

PARAPHRASE UPON Horace. Ode. 19 Lib. I.  By Mr. CONGREVE. Mater soeva Cupidinum, etc. 

1.  
THe Tyrant Queen of soft desires,  
With the resistless aid of sprightly Wine  
And wanton Ease, conspires  
To make my Heart its peace resign,  
And re-admit Loves long rejected Fires.  
For beauteous Glycera, I burn,  
The Flames so long repelled with double force return:  
Endless her Charms appear, and shine more bright  
Than polished Marble when reflecting light;  
With winning coyness, she my Soul disarms,  
And when her looks are coldest, most she warms:  
Her Face darts forth a thousand Rays,  
Whose Lustre, an unwary sight betrays,  
My Eyeballs swim, and I grow giddy while I gaze.   

2.  
She comes! she comes! she rushes in my Veins!  
At once all Venus enters and at large she reigns!  
Cyprus, no more with her abode is blest,  
I am her Palace, and her Throne my Breast.  
Of Savage Scythian Arms, no more I write,  
Or Parthian Archers, who in flying fight  
And make rough War their sport;  
Such idle. Themes, no more shall move,  
Nor any thing but what's of high import:  
And what's of high import, but Love?  
Vervain and Gums, and the green Turf prepare;  
With Wine of two years old, your Cups be filled:  
After our Sacrifice and Prayer,  
The Goddess may incline her Heart to yield.    

HORACE, Lib. II. Ode 14.  Imitated by Mr. Congreve. Eheu Fugaces, Posthume, Posthume, Labuntur Anni, etc. 

I.  
AH! No, 'tis all in vain, believe me 'tis  
‛ This Pious Artifice.  
Not all these Prayers and Alms, can Buy  
One Moment towered Eternity.  
Eternity! that boundless Race,  
Which, Time himself can never run:  
(Swift, as he flies, with an unwearied pace,)  
Which, when Ten Thousand, Thousand Years are done,  
Is still the same, and still to be begun.  
Fixed are those Limits, which prescribe  
A short Extent to the most lasting Breath,  
And though thou couldst for Sacrifice, lay down  
Millions of other Lives to save thine own;  
'Twere fruitless all; not all would bribe  
One Supernumerary Gasp from Death.   

II.  
In vain's thy Inexhausted Store  
Of Wealth, in vain thy Power,  
Thy Honours, Titles; all must fail,  
Where Piety itself does nought avail.  
The Rich, the Great, the Innocent and Just,  
Must all be huddled to the Grave,  
With the most Vile and Ignominious Slave,  
And undistinguished lie in Dust.  
In vain, the Fearful, flies Alarms,  
In vain, he is secure, from wounds of Arms,  
In vain, avoids the Faithless Seas,  
And is confined to Home and Ease,  
Bounding his Knowledge, to extend his Days.  
In vain, are all those Arts we try,  
All our Evasions, and Regret to Die:  
From the Contagion of Mortality,  
No Clime is pure, no Air is free:  
And no Retreat  
Is so Obscure, as to be hid from Fate.   

III.  
Thou must, alas! thou must my Friend;  
(The very Hour thou now dost spend  
In studying to avoid, brings on thine end,)  
Thou must forego the dearest Joys of Life;  
Leave the warm Bosom of thy tender Wife,  
And all the much loved Offspring of her Womb,  
To moulder in the Cold Embraces of a Tomb.  
All must be left, and all be lost;  
Thy House, whose stately Structure so much cost,  
Shall not afford  
Room for the stinking Carcase of its Lord.  
Of all thy pleasant Gardens, Grots, and Bowers,  
Thy Costly Fruits, thy far-fetched Plants and Flowers:  
Nought shalt thou save;  
Unless a sprig of Rosemary thou have,  
To wither with thee in the Grave:  
The rest shall live and flourish, to upbraid  
Their Transitory Master Dead.   

IV.  
Then shall thy long-expecting Heir,  
A Joyful Mourning wear:  
And Riot in the waste of that Estate  
Which thou hast taken so much pains to get.  
All thy hid Stories he shall unfold,  
And set at large thy Captived Gold.  
That precious Wine, condemned by thee  
To Vaults and Prisons, shall again be free:  
Buried alive, tho' now it lies,  
Agained shall rise,  
Again its sparkling Surface show,  
And free as Element, profusely flow.  
With such choice Food he shall set forth his Feasts,  
That Cardinals shall wish to be his Guests;  
And pampered Prelates see  
Themselves outdone in Luxury.    

An ODE, In imitation of HORACE, Ode IX. Lib. 1.  By Mr. CONGREVE. Vides ut alta, etc.— 

I.  
BLess me, 'tis cold! how I'll the Air!  
How naked does the World appear!  
But see (big with the Offspring of the North)  
The teeming Clouds bring forth.  
A Shower of soft and fleecy Rain,  
Falls, to new cloth the Earth again.  
Behold the Mountain-Tops, around,  
As if with Fur of Ermines crowned:  
And lo! how by degrees  
The universal Mantle hides the Trees,  
In hoary Flakes, which downward fly,  
As if it were the Autumn of the Sky,  
Whose Fall of Leaf would theirs supply:  
Trembling, the Groves sustain the Weight, and bow  
Like aged Limbs, which feebly go  
Beneath a venerable Head of Snow.   

II.  
Diffusive Cold does the whole Earth invade,  
Like a Disease, through all its Veins 'tis spread,  
And each late living Stream, is numbed and dead.  
Le's melt the frozen Hours, make warm the Air:  
Let cheerful Fires Sol's feeble Beams repair;  
Fill the large Bowl with sparkling Wine;  
Let's drink, till our own Faces shine,  
Till we like Suns appear,  
To light and warm the Hemisphere.  
Wine can dispense to all both Light and Heat,  
They are with Wine ineorporate:  
That powerful Juice, with which no Cold dares mix,  
Which still is fluid, and no Frost can fix:  
Let that but in abundance flow,  
And let it storm and thunder, hail and snow,  
'Tis heavens Concern; and let it be  
The Care of Heaven still for me:  
These Winds, which rend the Oaks and plough the Seas;  
Great Jove can, if he please,  
With one commanding Nod appease.   

III.  
Seek not to know to Morrows Doom;  
That is not ours, which is to come.  
The present Moment's all our Store:  
The next, should Heaven allow,  
Then this will be no more:  
So all our Life is but one instant Now.  
Look on each Day you've past  
To be a mighty Treasure won:  
And lay each Moment out in haste;  
We're sure to live too fast,  
And cannot live too soon.  
Youth does a thousand Pleasures bring,  
Which from decrepit Age will fly;  
Sweets that wanton i'th' Bosom of the Spring.  
In Winter's cold Embraces die.   

IV.  
Now, Love, that everlasting Boy, invites  
To revel while you may, in soft Delights:  
Now, the kind Nymph yields all her Charms,  
Nor yields in vain to youthful Arms.  
Slowly she promises at Night to meet,  
But eagerly prevents the Hour with swifter Feet.  
To gloomy Groves and obscure Shades she flies,  
There vails the bright Confession of her Eyes.  
Unwillingly she stays,  
Would more unwillingly depart,  
And in soft Sighs conveys  
The Whispers of her Heart.  
Still she invites and still denies,  
And vows she'll leave you if y'are rude;  
Then from her Ravisher she flies,  
But flies to be pursued:  
If from his Sight she does herself convey,  
With a feigned Laugh she will herself betray,  
And cunningly instruct him in the way.    

TO The Duchess, On Her Return from SCOTLAND, In the Year 1682.  By Mr. DRYDEN. 
WHen Factious Rage to cruel Exile, drove  
The Queen of Beauty, and the Court of Love;  
The Muses drooped, with their forsaken Arts,  
And the sad Cupids broke their useless Darts.  
Our fruitful Plains to wild's and Deserts turned,  
Like Eden's Face when banished Man it mourned:  
Love was no more when Loyalty was gone,  
The great Supporter of his awful Throne.  
Love could no longer after Beauty stay,  
But wandered Northward to the verge of day,  
As if the Sun and He had lost their way.  
But now th' Illustrious Nymph returned again,  
Brings every Grace Triumphant in her Train:  
The wondering Nereids, tho' they raised no storm,  
Foreslowed her passage to behold her form:  
Some cried a Venus, some a Thetis passed:  
But this was not so fair, nor that so chaste.  
Far from her sight flew Faction, Strife and Pride:  
And Envy did but look on her, and died.  
What e'er we suffered from our sullen Fate,  
Her sight is purchased at an easy rate:  
Three gloomy Years against this day were set:  
But this one mighty Sum has cleared the Debt.  
Like Joseph's Dream, but with a better doom;  
The Famine past, the Plenty still to come.  
For Her the weeping heavens become serene,  
For Her the Ground is clad in cheerful green:  
For Her the Nightingales are taught to sing,  
And Nature has for Her delayed the Spring.  
The Muse resumes her long-forgotten Lays,  
And Love, restored, his Ancient Realm surveys;  
Recalls our Beauties, and revives our Plays.  
His Waste Dominions peoples once again,  
And from Her Presence dates his second Reign.  
But awful Charms on her fair Forehead sit,  
Dispensing what she never will admit.  
Pleasing, yet cold, like Cynthia's silver Beam,  
The People's Wonder, and the Poet's Theme.  
Distempered Zeal, Sedition, cankered Hate,  
No more shall vex the Church, and tear the State;  
No more shall Faction civil Discords move,  
Or only Discords of too tender Love:  
Discord like that of music's various parts,  
Discord that makes the harmony of Hearts,  
Discord that only this dispute shall bring,  
Who best shall love the Duke, and serve the King.   

A SONG FOR St. CECILIA's Day, 1687.  Written by John Dryden, Esq And Composed by Mr. John Baptist Draghi. 

1.  
FRom Harmony, from Heavenly Harmony  
This Universal Frame began.  
When Nature underneath a heap  
Of jarring Atoms lay,  
And could not heave her Head,  
The tuneful Voice was heard from high,  
Arise ye more than dead.  
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,  
In order to their stations leap,  
And MUSICK'S Power obey.  
From Harmony, from Heavenly Harmony  
This Universal Frame began:  
From Harmony to Harmony  
Through all the compass of the Notes it ran,  
The Diapason closing full in Man.   

2.  
What Passion cannot MUSIC raise and quell!  
When Jubal struck the corded Shell,  
His listening Brethren stood around  
And wondering, on their Faces fell  
To worship that Celestial Sound.  
Less than a God they thought there could not dwell  
Within the hollow of that Shell  
That spoke so sweetly and so well.  
What Passion cannot MUSIC raise and quell!   

3.  
The TRUMPETS loud Clangor  
Excites us to Arms  
With shrill Notes of Anger  
And mortal Alarms.  
The double double double beat  
Of the thundering DRUM  
Cries, hark the Foes come;  
Chare, Charge, 'tis too late to retreat.   

4.  
The soft complaining FLUTE  
In dying Notes discovers  
The Woes of hopeless Lovers,  
Whose Dirge is whispered by the warbling LUTE.   

5.  
Sharp VIOLINS proclaim  
Their jealous Pangs, and Desperation,  
Fury, frantic Indignation,  
Depth of Pains, and height of Passion,  
For the fair, disdainful Dame.   

6.  
But oh! what Art can teach  
What human Voice can reach  
The sacred ORGANS praise?  
Notes inspiring holy Love,  
Notes that wing their Heavenly ways  
To mend the Choires above.   

7.  
Orpheus could lead the savage race;  
And Trees unrooted left their place;  
Sequacious of the Lyre:  
But bright CECILIA raised the wonder high;  
When to her ORGAN, vocal Breath was given  
An Angel heard, and strait appeared  
Mistaking Earth for Heaven.  
Grand CHORUS  
As from the power of Sacred Lays  
The Spheres began to move,  
And sung the great Creator's praise  
To all the blessed above;  
So when the last and dreadful hour  
This crumbling Pageant shall devour,  
The TRUMPET shall be heard on high,  
The Dead shall live, the Living die,  
And MUSIC shall untune the Sky.    

TO Mr. DRYDEN.  BY Mr. JO. ADDISON. 

How long, Great Poet, shall thy Sacred Lays,  
Provoke our Wonder, and transcend our Praise?  
Can neither Injuries of Time, or Age,  
Damp thy Poetic Heat, and quench thy Rage?  
Not so thy Ovid in his Exile wrote,  
Grief chilled his Breast, and checked his rising Thought;  
Pensive and sad, his drooping Muse betrays  
The Roman Genius in its last Decays.   

Prevailing Warmth has still thy Mind possessed,  
And second Youth is kindled in thy Breast.  
Thou mak'st the Beauties of the Romans known,  
And England boasts of Riches not her own;  
Thy Lines have heightened Virgil's Majesty,  
And Horace wonders at himself in Thee.  
Thou teachest Persius to inform our Isle  
In smother Numbers, and a clearer Style;  
And Juvenal instructed in thy Page,  
Edges his Satire, and improves his Rage.  
Thy Copy casts a fairer Light on all,  
And still outshines the bright Original.   

Now Ovid boasts th' advantage of thy Song,  
And tells his Story in the British Tongue;  
Thy charming Verse, and fair Translations show  
How thy own Laurel first began to grow;  
How wild Lycaon changed by angry Gods,  
And frighted at himself, ran howling through the Woods.   

O may'st thou still the Noble Tale prolong,  
Nor Age, nor Sickness interrupt thy Song:  
Then may we wondering read how Human Limbs,  
Have watered Kingdoms, and dissolved in Streams;  
Of those rich Fruits that on the Fertile Mould  
Turned yellow by degrees, and ripened into Gold:  
How some in Feathers, or a ragged Hide  
Have lived a second Life, and different Natures tried.  
Then will thy Ovid, thus transformed, reveal  
A Nobler Change than he himself can tell.   
Mag. Coll. Oxon, June 2. 1693.   

TO Mr. DRYDEN, On His TRANSLATION OF PERSIUS.  BY Mr. B. higgon's. 

AS Mariners at Sea, far off descry  
Some unknown Land, and pass regardless by,  
Their Charts some eminent Cape, or Mountain tell,  
And all the rest but Blanks and Ciphers fill;  
So we at distance gloomy Persius viewed,  
But none approached, and his rough Tracts pursued,  
Till mighty Dryden ventured first on Shoar,  
And the dark unknown Region did explore:  
Dressed by thy artful Hand, he does appear  
Bright and perspicuous, as he is severe:  
With this rich Present you oblige our Isle,  
And in his Urn make Persius' Ashes smile;  
By thee preserved from the ignoble Grave,  
Whose Reputation will his Credit save.  
If with another's Arms so keen you fight,  
How will your own well-pointed Satire bite?  
Our Vices, as old Rome's, are not so few,  
And we do wait to be chastised by you;  
To see unchained thy Generous Muse's Rage,  
At once t' oblige, and lash an Impious Age:  
What done't the wondering World expect from thee?  
Thou hast more cause, a greater Persius we.   

Nor is thy Talon to our Art confined,  
But Universal as thy boundless Mind:  
Thy knowing Muse all sorts of Men does teach,  
Philosophers instructs to live, Divines to preach,  
Statesmen to govern, Generals to fight,  
At once Mankind you profit and delight.  
Virtue so lovely dressed by thee, doth shine,  
So bright appears in each instructing Line:  
Vast the Ideas which from thee we take,  
While the dull Pulpits no impression make.   

But where to Love thy softer thoughts unbend,  
There all the Graces on thy Muse attend.  
Thy charming Numbers do our Souls enthral,  
The Rigid melt, and we turn Lovers all;  
The Cupids dance in every Lady's eye,  
Who reading Love as they were acting, die.    

TO Sir GODFREY KNELLER, Drawing My Lady Hide's Picture.  By Mr. B. higgon's. 
THe Cyprian Queen drawn by Apelles' hand,  
Of perfect Beauty did the Pattern stand,  
But then bright Nymphs from every part of Greece,  
Did all contribute to adorn the Piece,  
From each a several Charm the Painter took,  
(For no one Mortal so divine could look)  
But, happier Kneller, Fate presents to you  
In one that finished Beauty, which he drew.  
But oh, take heed, for vast is the design,  
And Madness were for any Hand but thine.  
For mocking Thunder bold Salmoneus dies,  
And 'tis as rash to imitate her Eyes.   

SONG on a LADY Indisposed.  By Mr. B. higgon's. 

Flavia's Eyes, like Fires suppressed,  
More fiercely flame again,  
Nor can her Beauty be decreased,  
Nor altered by her Pain;   

Those various Charms which round her play,  
And do her Face adorn,  
Still as they ripened fall away,  
Fresh Beauties still are born:   

So doth it with the Lovers fare,  
Who do the Dame adore,  
One fit of Love killed by Despair,  
Another rages more.    

SONG TO A Fair, Young LADY, Going out of the TOWN In the SPRING.  By Mr. DRYDEN. 

1.  
ASK not the Cause, why sullen Spring  
So long delays her Flowers to bear;  
Why warbling Birds forget to sing,  
And Winter Storms invert the Year?  
Chloris is gone; and Fate provides  
To make it Spring, where she resides.   

2.  
Chloris is gone, the Cruel Fair;  
She cast not back a pitying Eye:  
But left her Lover in Despair;  
To sigh, to languish, and to die:  
Ah, how can those fair Eyes endure  
To give the Wounds they will not cure!   

3.  
Great God of Love, why hast thou made  
A Face that can all Heart's command,  
That all Religions can invade,  
And change the Laws of every Land?  
Where thou hadst placed such Power before,  
Thou shouldst have made her Mercy more.   

4.  
When Chloris to the Temple comes,  
Adoring Crowds before her fall;  
She can restore the Dead from Tombs,  
And every Life but mine recall.  
I only am by Love designed  
To be the Victim for Mankind.    

A SONG.  BY My Ld. R. 

WHile in Divine Panthea's Charming Eyes,  
I view the naked Boy, that basking lies,  
I grow a God; so blest, so blest am I,  
With Sacred Rapture, and Immortal Joy,   

But absent, if she shines no more,  
And hides the Suns that I adore;  
Strait, like a Wretch, despairing I  
Sigh, Languish in the Shade, and die.   

Oh, I were lost in endless Night,  
If her bright Presence brought not Light!  
Then I revive, blest as before;  
The Gods themselves can be no more.    

A SONG.  BY My Ld. R. 
PITY, Fair Sappho, one that dies  
A Victim to your beauteous Eyes:  
For while on them I dare to gaze,  
Their dazzling Glories so amaze,  
My Soul does melt with new Desire,  
I rave, I burn with secret Fire,  
And, Blessing the dear Cause, expire.   

A PAEAN, or SONG OF TRIUMPH, ON THE Translation and Apotheosis OF King Charles the Second.  By my Ld. R. 
OMuse, to whom the Glory does belong,  
To make Great Men live in Immortal Song!  
In lofty Numbers, teach me how to sing,  
To tune the Lyre, and strike the sounding String:  
Good Kings are numbered with Immortal Gods,  
When hence translated to the blessed Abodes;  
For Princes (truly Great) can never die,  
They only lay aside Mortality:  
So Charles the Gracious is not dead,  
But to his Kindred Stars is fled;  
There happy, and Supremely blest,  
With Mighty Jove, his Sire, does feast.  
See how with Majesty Divine,  
And dazzling Glory, his bright Temples shine:  
He now an equal God, by Gods is Crowned,  
While Golden Harps and Trumpets sound,  
And to his Health the Nectar-Bowl goes round:  
Celestial Concerts jo-poean sing,  
And heavens grand Chorus makes Olympus' ring.   

OUT OF HORACE.  BY My Ld. R. HERALD 
WHile I was Monarch of your Heart,  
Crowned with a Love, where none had part,  
Each Mortal did with Envy die,  
No God but wished, that he were I.  SHE. 
While you adored no Charms but mine,  
And vowed that they did all outshine;  
More Celebrated was my Name,  
Than that of the bright Grecian Dame.  HERALD 
Chloes the Saint that I implore,  
Chloes the Goddess I adore;  
For whom to die the Gods I prayed,  
If Fates would spare the Charming Maid.  SHE. 
Amyntas is my Lover's Name,  
For whom I burn with mutual Flame;  
For whom I twice would die with Joy,  
If Fates would spare the Charming Boy.  HERALD 
If I once more should wear your Chain,  
And take my Lydia back again;  
If banish Chloe from my Breast,  
That you may there for ever rest.  SHE. 
Tho he is Charming as a God,  
Serene and Gay, Divinely good,  
You rough as Billows raging high,  
With you I choose to live, and die,   

TO A LADY, WHO Raffling for the King of France 's Picture, flung the highest Chances on the Dice.  BY Mr. B. higgon's. 
FOrtune exerts her utmost power for you,  
Nor could she more for her own Lovis do;  
She thought some mighty Kingdom was the Stake,  
And did this throw for the great Monarch make;  
But as all Princes at far distance woe,  
First send their Image where their Heart is due:  
So now, thrice happy Nymph, would you resort,  
Where Fate invites you, to the gallic Court:  
That lucky Genius which the Picture gave,  
Would make the great Original your Slave;  
He, like the Piece, can only be your Prize,  
Who never yields, but to the brightest Eyes.   

ON My Lady SANDWICH's Being stayed in TOWN BY THE Immoderate Rain.  BY Mr. B. higgon's. 
THE Charming Sandwich would from Cities fly,  
While at her Feet adoring Princes lie;  
And all her Nobler Conquests would forego,  
Less glorious Slaves, and Peasants to subdue:  
Thus Conquering Monarches who have Kingdoms won,  
And all their Neighbouring States with Arms o'errun;  
For want of work, their Armies to employ,  
Remote and Savage Provinces destroy:  
But Heaven in pity weeps, while we complain,  
Or else our tears exhaled, drop down in Rain.  
The darkened Sun does scarce through Clouds appear,  
And Tempests rage to keep our Wishes here.  
The Floods free passage to her Scorn deny,  
And Nature disobeys her Cruelty.  
But could the Waves rise equal to our Flame,  
We'd drown the World, to stop the flying Dame.   

OVID's Love-Elegies. BOOK I. ELEG. VII. To his Mistress whom he had beaten.  By Henry Cromwell, Esq 
COme, if y'are Friends, and let these hands be bound,  
Which could with impious Rage a Mistress wound;  
What more did Ajax in his fury do?  
When all the Sacred grazing Herd he slew;  
Or 
* Orestes.  He who spared not her who gave him breath;  
So ill the Son revenged his Father's death!  
Then I had broke the most Religious Ties  
Both to my Parents, and the Deities:  
I tore (oh Heavens) her finely braided Hair;  
How charming then looked the disordered Fair!  
So Atalanta in her Chase is drawn  
Where the Arcadian Beasts her Empire own:  
So Ariadne, left upon the Shore,  
Does all alone her lost Estate deplore,  
Curses the Winds and Seas which perjured Theseus bore:  
Who would not then have railed and talked aloud?  
(Which to the helpless Sex might be allowed;)  
She only did upbraid me with her Eye,  
Whose speaking Tears did want of words supply,  
'Twas but too much (ye Gods) to make me die:  
O that some merciful Superior Power  
Had struck me lame before that fatal hour,  
And not have suffered me to pierce my Heart  
So deeply, in the best and tenderest part;  
To make a Lady that Subjection own,  
Which is not to the meanest Roman known;  
'Twas Diomedes, who first a Goddess struck,  
I from his hand that cursed Example took;  
But he was far less Criminal than I,  
I was a Lover, He an Enemy:  
March like a Conqueror in Triumph now,  
With Lawrel-wreaths encompassing your brow,  
And render to the mighty Gods your Vow;  
So, as you pass, th' attending gazing Crowd,  
By their applause shall speak your Courage loud;  
Let your sad Captive in the Front appear  
With streaming Cheeks, and with dishevelled Hair,  
Through all her Griefand Wounds most eminently fair.  
Such Lips were formed for kinder wounds than these,  
Wounds made by Lovers furious Ecstasies:  
Though like a Torrent I was hurried on,  
A Slave to Passion, which I could not shun;  
I might have only pierced her tender Ear  
With threatening Language, such as Virgin's fear:  
Fear having chilled the current of her blood,  
Pale as a Parian Marble Statue stood  
The senseless Frame— Then shook her trembling Knees,  
As when the Winds do whistle through the Trees,  
Or softly curl the surface of the Seas:  
So slender Rushes, easily inclined  
By every blast, are ruffled by the Wind;  
Tears, which suspense did for a while restrain,  
Gushed forth, and down her Cheeks the Deluge ran,  
As when the Sun does by a powerful Beam  
Dissolve the Frost, it runs into a Stream:  
The lamentable Object struck me dead,  
And tears of Blood to quench those tears I shed:  
Thrice at her feet the prostrate Suppliant fell,  
And thrice did she repulse the Criminal:  
What would I not, your anger to abate,  
Redeem your favour,— or remove your hate?  
To your revenge no means or method spare;  
Revenge, alas! is easy to the Fair:  
But lest some eloquent remaining Sign  
Should still reproach me with so black a Crime,  
Let no disorder in your Face appear,  
From your bright eyes let there not escape a tear,  
And once again compose your scattered hair.   

OVID's Love-Elegies. BOOK I. ELEG. VIII. Of Love and War.  By Henry Cromwell, Esquire. 
TRust me, my Atticus, in Love are Wars;  
And Cupid has his Camp, as well as Mars:  
The Age that's fit for War best suits with Love,  
The old in both unserviceable prove,  
Infirm in War, and impotent in Love:  
The Soldiers which a General does require  
Are such as Ladies would in Bed desire:  
Who, but a Soldier and a Lover, can  
Bear the Night's cold in showers of Hail and Rain?  
One in continual Watch his station keeps,  
Or on the Earth in broken slumbers sleeps;  
The other takes his still repeated round  
By's Mistress' House— then lodges on the ground:  
The Soldiers long and tedious Marches make:  
The active Lover, for his Mistress sake,  
Will any toils and dangers undergo;  
Not rugged Mountains, nor untrodden Snow,  
Rivers by Floods increased, no raging Sea,  
Nor adverse Winds can ever make him stay,  
When Love commands, and Beauty leads the way.  
Soldiers and Lovers, with a careful Eye,  
Observe the motions of the Enemy:  
One to the Walls makes his approach in form,  
Pushes the Siege, and takes the Town by Storm;  
The other lays his close to Celia's Fort,  
Presses his point, and gains the wished-for Port:  
As Soldiers, when the Foe securely lies  
In Sleep and Wine dissolved, the Camp surprise  
So when the jealous to their rest remove,  
And all is hushed,— the others steal to Love:  
Uncertain is the State of Love and War,  
The vanquished rally, and their loss repair,  
Regain the ground, and rout the Conqueror.  
You then, who think that Love's an idle fit,  
Know, that it is the exercise of Wit:  
In flames of Love the fierce Achilles burns,  
And quitting Arms, absent Briseis mourns:  
From the Embraces of Andromache  
Went Hector armed for War and Victory:  
As Agamemnon saw Cassandra pass  
With Hair dishevelled, and disordered Dress,  
H'admired the Beauties of the Prophetess:  
The God of War was caught in th'act of Love;  
A Story known to all the Court above:  
Once did I pass my hours in sloth and ease,  
Cool Shades, and Beds of Down could only please;  
When a commanding Beauty raised my mind,  
I left all little trifling thoughts behind,  
And to her Service all my Heart refigned:  
Since, like an active Soldier, have I spent  
My time, in toils of War, in Beauty's Tent;  
And for so sweet a pay all dangers underwent:  
You see, my Atticus, by what I prove,  
Who would not live in Idleness,— must love.   

OVID's Love-Elegies. BOOK I. ELEG. X. To his Mercenary Mistress.  By Henry Cromwell, Esquire. 
As Helen, when to Troy she did escape,  
And Greeks with Fire and Sword pursued the Rape;  
As Leda, when the God his Love trick played,  
Under the Figure of a Swan, betrayed;  
As Amymone, wand'ring o'er the Plains,  
That rural Fair, admired by all the Swains;  
So fair was You, so much in Love was I,  
I ran to the extremes of Jealousy,  
Feared Eagles, Bulls, and every shape that Jove  
Had e'er transformed himself into, for Love:  
Now free from Love or Fears, my Mind's at ease,  
Nor does that Beauty any longer please:  
This humour, you may say, is wondrous strange,  
And ask the reason of this sudden change;  
Once, when your undesigning Heart was kind,  
Fair was your Face, and perfect was your Mind;  
But now the slighter Beauties of the Skin  
Do yield to the prevailing Vice within:  
Love is a Child, who uses no deceit,  
Nor wears he clothes to cover any cheat,  
Accepts no bribes;— why for a wretched Fee  
Should you then prostitute his Deity?  
Make Venus to her Son serve every day,  
And drudge i'th' meanest Offices, for pay?  
They're softly bred, and would not work, but play:  
The Whore, to whom each Purchaser has right,  
Forces for gain decaying appetite,  
Yet there's a Bawd to whom the Spoils accrue;  
She fain would shun what you by choice pursue:  
These sordid ways the very Brutes reprove,  
Who by their practice teach you how to love;  
The lusty Bull his Female does enjoy,  
Nor can a bribe their mutual Loves destroy:  
Woman alone rejoices in the Spoil,  
And makes advantages of every smile,  
Rates at her pleasure the high-prized delight,  
And Men must purchase every happy night;  
Yet does she meet him with as much desire,  
And no less fierce and raging is the fire;  
Since with an equal pace our passions move,  
Why should one buy, and th' other sell in Love?  
Why, since the pleasures mutual, should it be  
To you advantage, and a loss to me?  
The way is infamous a Witness takes,  
Who of his Perjury a living makes;  
So for the raising of a low Estate  
To set your Body at a common rate!  
Can you to such mean ends as these employ  
The gifts by Nature's bounty you enjoy?  
Grant but the Blessing freely, and you may  
An everlasting Obligation lay;  
But where's the mighty favour, when we pay?  
Forbear, ye fair, to make a Trade of Love,  
The Wealth that's got so ill can ne'er improve;  
Justly the 
* Tarpeia.  Vestal by their Armour fell,  
Who would her Honour for their Bracelets sell:  
The rich your Wishes are obliged to meet,  
And lay their frequent Presents at your feet;  
Alcinous Orchards Fruit enough can spare,  
From the full Vines the Grapes in clusters tear,  
And ease th' o're-loaded boughs which numerous  
Apples bear:  
Let Faith and Love supply my little Store,  
The Will shall ne'er be wanting to the Power:  
Verse is the greatest Tribute I can bring;  
Your Charms I could to future Ages sing;  
Jewels and Gold will perish,— but the Fame  
The Muses give shall ever be the same:  
You check my generous passion when you crave,  
Not that I'm loath to part with what I have,  
Had you not asked me, I had freely gave.   

OVID's Love-Elegies. BOOK I. ELEG. XV. Of the Immortality of the Muses. Inscribed to Mr. DRYDEN.  By Henry Cromwell, Esquire. 
THY well known malice, fretful Envy, cease,  
Nor tax the Muse and me—  
With a weak Genius, and inglorious ease;  
What— I should then, whilst Youth does vigour yield,  
Pursue the dusty Glories of the Field:  
Our Father's praise! or bend my utmost care  
To the dull noise of the litigious Bar;  
No! these must die;— but the most noble Prize,  
That which alone can Man immortalize,  
Must from the Muse's Harmony arise:  
Homer shall live, whilst Tenedos shall stand,  
Or Ida's top survey the Neighbouring Strand,  
Whilst Simois Streams along the Valleys glide,  
And in the Sea discharge their rapid tide:—  
Hesiod shall live, till Corn is not in use,  
Till the plump Grape denies its wealthy juice:—  
The World Callimachus shall ever prise,  
For what his Fancy wants, his Art supplies:—  
The Tragedies of Mighty Sophocles  
Shall in no Age their just applauses miss:—  
So well Aratus of the Planets wrote,  
That Sun and Moon must fail when he's forgot:—  
When crafty Davus a hard Father cheats  
To serve the Son,— when easy Cully treats  
The jilting Whore and Bawd, the figures show,  
The Comic from Menander's Model drew:—  
Ennius, whose Muse by Nature was designed  
Complete, had Art with bounteous Nature joined;—  
And Tragic Accius, of Style sublime,  
And weighty words, shall stand the shock of time:—  
Whilst Jason's Golden Fleece shall have a Name,  
Who shall a Stranger be to Varro's Fame?—  
Lucretius Nature's Causes did rehearse  
In such a lofty and commanding Verse,  
As shall remain till that one fatal day,  
Which must the World itself in ruins lay:—  
Virgil, thy Works Divine shall Patterns stand  
For each succeeding Age's copying Hand,  
Whilst Rome shall all its conquered World command:—  
Whilst Capid shall be armed with Bow and Dart,  
And flaming Shafts shall pierce the Lover's Heart;  
Shall we, O sweet Tibullus, love each line  
That comes from that soft moving Pen of thine:—  
Both East and West resound with Gallus Fame,  
Gallus and his Lycoris are their Theme:—  
Statues and Tombs with Age consume and die;  
'Tis Verse alone has Immortality:  
To Verse must yield the greatest acts of Kings;  
Riches and Empire are but empty things,  
Without the lasting Fame a Poet brings:  
Let vulgar Spirits trivial Blessings choose;  
May thy Castalian Spring inspire my Muse,  
O God of Wit! and Myrtles wreathe my hair;  
Then the too fearful Lover may repair  
To what I write, to free his Breast from care:  
As living worth Detraction still attends,  
Which after death a juster Fame defends;  
So I shall my last Funeral flame survive,  
And in my better part for ever live.   

OVID's Love-Elegies. BOOK III. ELEG. II. To his Mistress at the Horse-Race.  By Henry Cromwell, Esquire. 

NOT in the Circus do I sit to view  
The running Horses, but to gaze on you;  
Near you I choose an advantageous place,  
And whilst your eyes are fixed upon the Race,  
Mine are on you— Thus do we feast our sight,  
Each alike pleased with Objects of delight;  
In softest whispers I my Passion move,  
You of the Rider talk, but I of Love.  
When, to please you, I straight my Subject quit,  
And change my Wishes to your Favourite;  
Oh might I ride, and be so much your care,  
I'd start with courage from the Barrier,  
And with a swift short compass brush the Goal—  
Unless the sight of you my course restrains,  
And makes my hands forgo the loosened Reins;  
As Pelops gazed on Hippodamia's face,  
Till he had almost lost th' important Race;  
Yet he his Mistress by her Favour won;  
So may our Prize assist us when we run.   

What mean these starts? you must not, can't remove;  
This kind auspicious place was framed for Love.  
I fear you're crowded,— Gentlemen, forbear,  
Pray let your Arms and Knees the Lady spare;  
Madam, your Gown hangs down— nay, pray let me—  
Oh Heavens! what fine, what curious Legs I see!  
Sure, who Diana in a Forest drew,  
Copied in this, the gracefull'st part from you;  
Such Atalant discovering as she ran,  
What rapt'rous Wishes seized Minalion.  
I burned and raged before— what then are these,  
But Flames on Flames, and Waters to the Seas?  
By these a thousand other Charms are guest,  
Which are so advantageously suppressed.  
Oh for some air! this scorching heat remove,  
Your Fan would do't— but 'tis the heat of Love.   

But now the Pomp appears, the Sacred throng,  
Command applauses from the Heart and Tongue;  
First Victory with expanded Wings does move,  
Be near (O Goddess!) to assist my Love;  
To Mars let Warriors Acclamations raise,  
The Merchant's Tongues resound with Neptune's Praise;  
Whilst I, whom neither Seas nor Arms invite,  
In Love alone, the fruit of Peace delight;  
To their Apollo let the Prophets pray,  
And Hunters to Diana Homage pay,  
Let the Mechanics to Minerva vow,  
Rustics to Ceres and to Bacchus' bow;  
Whilst I devote myself to thee alone,  
Kind Venus, and the powerful God thy Son;  
O be propitious to my Enterprise,  
Inform with all thy softness these fair Eyes,  
And to Love's Cause her gentle Breast incline;  
She grants, and has confirmed it with a Sign;  
Do you assure it too, you who'd to me;  
(With Venus' leave) the mightier Deity.  
By all these Heavenly Witnesses, to you  
Will I be ever faithful, ever true.   

Now in the open Cirque the Game's begun,  
The Praetor gives the signal, now they run;  
I see which way your Wishes are inclined,  
To him a certain Conquest is designed,  
For even the Horses seem to know your mind.  
He takes too large a compass to come in,  
And lets his Adversary get between;  
Recall him, Romans, for a second heat,  
And clear the Course,—  
Now see your ground you better do maintain,  
This Lady's Favour and your Fame regain;  
The Prize is his,— As yours successful prove,  
So let my Wishes, which are all for Love;  
I'm yet to conquer, and your Heart's the Prize;  
Something she promised with her sparkling Eyes,  
And smiled;— Enough, did I transported cry,  
The rest I'll leave to Opportunity.    

OVID's Love-Elegies. BOOK III. ELEG. III. Of his Perjured Mistress.  By Henry Cromwell, Esquire. 
CAn there be Gods?— has she not falsely swore?  
Yet is the Beauty that she was before!  
The curious Tresses of her dangling Hair,  
As long and graceful still as e'er they were;  
That same inimitable White and Red,  
Which o'er her Face was so distinctly spread,  
The Roses and the Lilies keep their place,  
And every Feature still as justly grace,  
Her sparkling Eyes their Lustre still retain,  
That form, that perfect shape does still remain,  
As if she ne'er had sinned:— And Heaven, ('tis plain)  
Suffering the fairer Sex to break their Vows,  
To the Superior Power of Beauty bows.  
T'inforce my credit to her Perjuries,  
Oft would she swear by those persuasive Eyes;  
As if that Charm, had been too weak to move,  
Sh'as added mine;— tell me, ye Powers above,  
Why all this pain? why are these guiltless Eyes,  
For her Offence th' atoning Sacrifice?  
Was't not enough Andromeda has died,  
An Expiation for her Mother's pride?  
Is't not enough that unconcerned you see,  
(Vain Witnesses for Truth, for Faith, for me,)  
Such an affront put on Divinity?  
Yet no Revenge the daring Crime pursue,  
But the deceived must be her Victim too.  
Either the Gods are empty Notions, crept  
Into the minds of Dreamers as they slept,  
In vain are feared, are but the tricks of Law,  
To keep the foolish credulous World in awe;  
Or, if there be a God, he loves the Fair,  
And all things at their sole disposal are.  
For us are all the Instruments of War  
Designed, the Sword of Mars, and Pallas Spear,  
Against us alone Apollo's Bows are bend,  
And at our Heads Jove's brandished Thunder sent;  
Yet of the Ladies, oh! how fond are they!  
Dare not the Injuries, they receive, repay,  
But those, who ought to fear 'em, they obey.  
Jove to his Votaries is most severe,  
Temples nor Altars does his Lightning spare,  
Obliging Semele in Flames expires,  
But those who merit, can escape the Fires;  
Is this the justice of your Powers Divine?  
Who then will offer Incense at a Shrine?  
Why do we thus reproach the Deities?  
Have they not Hearts?— and surely they have Eyes,  
Nay had I been a God, I had believed  
The lovely Criminals, and been deceived,  
Had waved the Judgements to their Perj'ries due,  
And sworn myself that all they spoke was true;  
Since then the Gods such ample Gifts bestow,  
As make you absolute o'er Men below;  
Pray let me find some Mercy in your Reign;  
Or spare at least your Lover's Eyes from pain.   

TO THE Lady CASTLEMAIN, UPON Her encouraging his first Play.  BY Mr. DRYDEN. 
AS Seamen, Shipwrecked on some happy Shore,  
Discover Wealth in Lands unknown before;  
And, what their Art had laboured long in vain,  
By their Misfortunes happily obtain;  
So my much envied Muse, by storms long tossed,  
Is thrown upon your hospitable Coast,  
And finds more favour by her ill success,  
Than she could hope for by her Happiness.  
Once Cato's Virtue did the Gods oppose;  
While they the Victor, He the Vanquished chose:  
But you have done what Cato could not do,  
To choose the Vanquished, and restore him too.  
Let others still Triumph, and gain their Cause  
By their Deserts, or by the World's Applause;  
Let Merit Crowns, and Justice Laurels give,  
But let me happy by your Pity live.  
True Poets empty Fame, and Praise despise,  
Fame is the Trumpet, but your Smile the Prize:  
You sit above, and see vain Men below  
Contend, for what you only can bestow:  
But those great actions, others do by chance,  
Are, like your Beauty, your Inheritance:  
So great a Soul, such sweetness joined in one,  
Could only spring from Noble Grandison:  
You, like the Stars, not by Reflection bright,  
Are born to your own Heaven, and your own light;  
Like them are good, but from a Nobler Cause,  
From your own Knowledge, not from Nature's Laws.  
Your Power you never use, but for Defence,  
To guard your own, or others Innocence:  
Your Foes are such, as they, not you, have made,  
And Virtue may repel, tho' not invade.  
Such Courage did the Ancient Heroes show,  
Who, when they might prevent, would wait the blow:  
With such assurance as they meant to say,  
We will o'ercome, but scorn the safest way.  
What further fear of danger can there be,  
Beauty, which captives all things, sets me free?  
Posterity will judge by my success,  
I had the Grecian Poet's happiness,  
Who, waving Plots, found out a better way,  
Some God descended, and preserved the Play.  
When first the Triumphs of your Sex were sung  
By those old Poets, Beauty was but young,  
And few admired the native Red and White,  
Till Poets dressed them up, to charm the fight;  
So Beauty took on trust, and did engage  
For Sums of Praises, till she came to Age.  
But this long growing Debt to Poetry  
You justly (Madam) have discharged to me,  
When your Applause and Favour did infuse  
New life to my condemned and dying Muse.   

PROLOGUE TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, 1681.  BY Mr. DRYDEN. 
THE famed Italian Muse, whose Rhymes advance  
Orlando, and the Paladins of France,  
Records, that when our Wit and Sense is flown,  
'Tis lodged within the Circle of the Moon  
In Earthen Jars, which one, who thither soared,  
Set to his Nose, snuffed up, and was restored.  
What e'er the Story be, the Moral's true,  
The Wit we lost in Town, we find in you.  
Our Poets their fled Parts mày draw from hence,  
And fill their windy Heads with sober Sense.  
When London Votes with Southwark's disagree,  
Here they may find their long lost Loyalty.  
Here busy Senates, to th' old Cause inclined,  
May snuff the Votes their Fellows left behind:  
Your Country Neighbours, when their Grain grows dear,  
May come and find their last Provision here:  
Whereas we cannot much lament our loss,  
Who neither carried back, nor brought one Cross;  
We looked what Representatives would bring,  
But they helped us, just as they did the King.  
Yet we despair not, for we now lay forth  
The sybil's Books, to those who know their worth:  
And though the first was Sacrificed before,  
These Volumes doubly will the price restore.  
Our Poet bade us hope this Grace to find,  
To whom by long Prescription you are kind.  
He, whose undaunted Muse, with Loyal Rage,  
Has never spared the Vices of the Age,  
Here finding nothing that his Spleen can raise,  
Is forced to turn his Satire into Praise.   

PROLOGUE.  BY Mr. DRYDEN. 
GAllants, a bashful Poet bids me say  
He's come to lose his Maidenhead to day.  
Be not too fierce, for he's but green of Age;  
And ne'er, till now, debauched upon the Stage.  
He wants the suffering part of Resolution;  
And comes with blushes to his Execution.  
ere you deflow'r his Muse, he hopes the Pit  
Will make some Settlement upon his Wit.  
Promise him well, before the Play begin;  
For he would fain be cozened into Sin.  
'Tis not but that he knows you mean to fail;  
But, if you leave him after being frail,  
He'll have, at least, a fair pretence to rail;  
To call you base, and swear you used him ill,  
And put you in the new Deserters Bill:  
Lord, what a Troop of perjured Men we see;  
Enough to fill another Mercury!  
But this the Ladies may with patience brook:  
Theirs are not the first Colours you forsook!  
He would be loath the Beauties to offend;  
But, if he should, he's not too old to mend.  
He's a young Plant, in his first Year of bearing,  
But his Friend swears, he will be worth the reering.  
His gloss is still upon him: tho 'tis true  
He's yet unripe, yet take him for the blue.  
You think an Apricot half green is best;  
There's sweet and sour: and one side good at least.  
Mangoes and Limbs, whose nourishment is little,  
Tho' not for Food, are yet preserved for Pickle.  
So this green Writer, may pretend, at least,  
To whet your Stomaches for a better Feast.  
He makes this difference in the Sexes too,  
He sells to Men, he gives himself to you.  
To both, he would contribute some delight;  
A mere Poetical Hermaphrodite.  
Thus he's equipped, both to be wooed, and woe;  
With Arms offensive, and defensive too;  
'Tis hard, he thinks, if neither part will do.   

CONSIDERATIONS ON THE Eighty Eighth Psalm.  BY Mr. PRIOR. 

Heavy, O Lord, on me thy Judgements lie,  
And cursed I am; for God neglects my cry.  
O Lord, in Darkness and Despair I groan;  
And every place is Hell; for God is gone.  
O Lord, arise, and let thy Beams control  
Those horrid Clouds, that press my frighted Soul:  
O rise, and save me from Eternal Night,  
Thou that art the God of Light.   

Downward I hasten to my destined place;  
There none obtain thy Aid, none sing thy Praise.  
Soon I shall lie in Death's deep Ocean drowned:  
Is Mercy there; is sweet Forgiveness found?  
O save me yet, whilst on the brink I stand;  
Rebuke the Storm, and set me safe to Land.  
O make my Longings and thy Mercy sure,  
Thou that art the God of Power.   

Behold the wearied Prodigal is come  
To Thee, his Hope, his Harbour, and his Home:  
No Father he could find, no Friend abroad,  
Deprived of Joy, and destitute of God.  
O let thy Terrors and his Anguish end!  
Be thou his Father, and be thou his Friend:  
Receive the Son thou didst so long reprove,  
Thou that art the God of Love.    

Veni Creator Spiritus, Translated in PARAPHRASE.  BY Mr. DRYDEN. 

CReator Spirit, by whose aid  
The World's Foundations first were laid,  
Come visit every pious Mind;  
Come pour thy Joys on Human Kind:  
From Sin, and Sorrow set us free;  
And make thy Temples worthy Thee,   

O, Source of uncreated Light,  
The Father's promised Paraclite!  
Thrice Holy Fount, thrice Holy Fire,  
Our Hearts with Heavenly Love inspire;  
Come, and thy Sacred Unction bring  
To Sanctify us, while we sing!   

Plenteous of Grace, descend from high,  
Rich in thy sev'n-fold Energy!  
Thou strength of his Almighty Hand,  
Whose Power does Heaven and Earth command:  
Proceeding Spirit, our Defence,  
Who dost the Gift of Tongues dispense,  
And crownest thy Gift, with Eloquence!   

Refine and purge our Earthy Parts;  
But, oh, inflame and fire our Hearts!  
Our Frailties help, our Vice control;  
Submit the Senses to the Soul;  
And when Rebellious they are grown,  
Then, lay thy hand, and hold 'em down.   

Chase from our Minds th' Infernal Foe;  
And Peace, the fruit of Love, bestow:  
And, lest our Feet should step astray,  
Protect, and guide us in the way.   

Make us Eternal Truths receive,  
And practise, all that we believe:  
Give us thyself, that we may see  
The Father and the Son, by thee.   

Immortal Honour, endless Fame  
Attend th' Almighty Father's Name:  
The Saviour Son, be glorified,  
Who for lost Man's Redemption died:  
And equal Adoration be  
Eternal Paraclete, to thee.    

The CURSE of BABYLON. paraphrased From the Thirteenth Chapter OF ISAIA. A Pindaric ODE.  BY THO. YALDEN. 

1.  
NOw let the fatal Banner be displayed!  
Upon some lofty Mountain's top,  
Go set the dreadful Standard up!  
And all around the Hills, the bloody Signals spread.  
Forlo, the numerous Hosts of Heaven appear!  
Th'embattled Legions of the Sky,  
With all their dread Artillery,  
Draw forth in bright Array, and muster in the Air.  
Why do the Mountains tremble with the noise!  
And Valleys echo back their Voice:  
The Hills, tumultuous grow and loud,  
The Hills that groan beneath the gathering Multitude.  
Wide as the Poles of heavens extent,  
So far's the dreadful Summons sent:  
Kingdoms, and Nations, at his Call appear,  
For even the Lord of Hosts commands in Person there.   

2.  
Start from thy Lethargy, thou drowsy Land,  
Awake, and hear His dread Command!  
Thy black tempestuous Day comes louring on,  
O fatal Light! O inauspicious Hour!  
Was ever such a Day before!  
So stained with Blood, by marks of Vengeance  
Nature shall from her steady Course remove,  
The well-fixed Earth be from its Basis rend,  
Convulsions shake the Firmament,  
Horror seize all below, Confusion reign above.  
The Stars of Heaven shall sicken at the sight,  
Nor shall the Planets yield their light:  
But from the wretched Object fly,  
And like extinguished Tapers, quit the darkened Sky.  
The rising Sun as he was conscious too,  
As he the fatal business knew:  
A deep, a bloody Red shall slain,  
And at his early dawn shall set in Night again.   

3.  
To the destroying Sword I've said, Go forth,  
Go fully execute my Wrath!  
Command my Hosts, my willing Armies lead,  
For this Rebellious Land and all therein shall bleed.  
They shall not grieve me more, no more transgress,  
I will consume the stubborn Race:  
Yet Brutes and Savages I justly spare,  
Useless is all my Vengeance there,  
Ungrateful Man's the greater Monster far.  
On guiltless Beasts I will the Land bestow,  
To them th'Inheritance shall go,  
Those elder Brothers now, shall Lord it here below.  
And if some poor remains escape behind,  
Some Relics left of lost Mankind:  
The astonished Herds shall in their City's cry,  
When they behold a Man, Lo there's a Prodigy!   

4.  
The Medes I call to my assistance here,  
A People that delight in War:  
A generous Race of Men, a Nation free  
From Vicious Ease, and Persian Luxury.  
Silver is despicable in their Eyes,  
Contemned the useless Metal lies:  
Their conquering Iron they prefer before  
The finest Gold, even Ophir's tempting Oar.  
By these the Land shall be subdued,  
Abroad their Bows shall overcome,  
Their Swords and Flames destroy at home,  
For neither Sex nor Age shall be exempt from Blood.  
The Nobles, and the Princes of thy State,  
Shall on the Victor's Triumphs wait:  
And those that from the Battle fled,  
Shall be with Chains oppressed, in cruel Bondage led.   

5.  
I'll visit their Distress with Plagues and Miseries,  
The throws that women's Labours wait,  
Convulsive Pangs, and bloody Sweat,  
Their Beauty shall consume, and vital Spirits seize.  
The ravished Virgins shall be born away,  
And their dishonoured Wives be led,  
To the insulting Victor's Bed,  
To brutal Lusts exposed, to Fury left a Prey.  
Nor shall the teeming Womb afford  
Its forming Births a Refuge from the Sword:  
The Sword, that shall their pangs increase,  
And all the throws of Travel, curse with Barrenness.  
The Infants shall expire with their first breath  
And only live in pangs of death:  
Live, but with early cries to curse the Light,  
And at the dawn of Life, set in Eternal Night.   

6.  
Even Babylon adorned with every grace,  
The Beauty of the Universe:  
Glory of Nations! the Chaldeans pride,  
And joy of all th' admiring World beside.  
Thou Babylon! before whose Throne  
The Empires of the Earth fall down:  
The prostrate Nations Homage pay,  
And Vassal Princes of the World obey.  
Thou that with Empire art exalted now,  
Shalt in the dust be trampled low:  
Abject and low upon the Earth be laid,  
And deep in ruins hide thy ignominious Head.  
Thy strong amazing Walls, whose impious height  
The Clouds conceal from human sight:  
That proudly now their polished Turrets rear,  
Which bright as Neighbouring Stars appear,  
Diffusing Glories round th' enlightened Air;  
In flames shall downwards to their Centre fly,  
And deep within the Earth as their Foundations lie.   

7.  
Thy beauteous Palaces (tho' now thy Pride!)  
Shall be in heaps of Ashes hid:  
In vast surprising heaps shall lie,  
And even their ruins bear the Pomp of Majesty.  
No bold Inhabitant shall dare,  
Thy razed Foundations to repair:  
No pitying hand exalt thy abject State;  
No! to succeeding Times thou must remain,  
An horrid exemplary Scene,  
And lie from Age to Age, ruined and desolate.  
Thy falls decreed, (amazing turn of Fate!)  
Low as Gomorrah's wretched State:  
Thou Babylon shalt be like Sodom cursed,  
Destroyed by flames from Heaven, and thy more burning Lust.   

8.  
The day's at hand, when in thy sruitful Soil,  
No Labourer shall reap, no Mower toil:  
His Tent the wand'ring Arab shall not spread,  
Nor make thy cursed Ground his Bed;  
Thou faint with Travel, tho' oppressed with thirst,  
He to his drooping Herds shall cry aloud,  
Taste not of that imbittered Flood,  
Taste not Euphrates Streams, they're poisonous all and cursed.  
The Shepherd to his wand'ring Flocks shall say,  
When o'er thy Battlements they stray:  
When in thy Palaces they graze,  
Ah fly unhappy Flocks! fly this infectious place.  
Whilst the sad Traveller that passes on,  
Shall ask, lo where is Babylon!  
And when he has thy small remainder found,  
Shall say I'll fly from hence, 'tis sure accursed ground.   

9  
Then shall the Savages and Beasts of Prey,  
From their deserted Mountains haste away;  
Every obscene and vulgar Beast,  
Shall be to Babylon a Guest:  
Her Marble Roofs, and every Cedar Rome,  
Shall Dens, and Caves of State to Nobler Brutes become.  
Thy Courts of Justice, and Tribunals too,  
(O Irony to call them so!)  
There, where the Tyrant and Oppressor bore  
The Spoils of Innocence and Blood before;  
There shall the Wolf and Savage Tiger meet,  
And griping Vulture shall appear in State,  
There Birds of prey shall rule, and ravenous Beasts be great.  
Those uncorrupted shall remain,  
Those shall alone their genuine use retain,  
There Violence shall thrive, Rapine and Fraud shall reign.  
Then shall the melancholy Satyrs groan,  
O'er their lamented Babylon;  
And Ghosts that glide with horror by,  
To view where their unburied bodies lie;  
With doleful cries shall fill the Air,  
And with amazement strike the affrighted Traveller.  
There the obscener Birds of Night,  
Birds that in gloomy Shades delight,  
Shall solitude enjoy, live undisturbed by light.  
All the ill Omens of the Air,  
Shall scream their loud presages there.  
But let them all their dire Predictions tell,  
Secure in ills, and fortified with woe,  
Heaven shall in vain its future vengeance show:  
For Thou art happily insensible,  
Beneath the reach of Miseries fell,  
Thou needest no desolation dread, no greater Curses fear.    

Out of Horace, Lib. II. Ode 3.  AEquam Memento— 

I.  
BE calm, my Delius, and serene,  
However Fortune change the Scene!  
In thy most dejected state,  
Sink not underneath the weight;  
Nor yet, when happy Days begin,  
And the full Tide comes rolling in,  
Let a fierce unruly Joy  
The settled quiet of thy Mind destroy:  
However Fortune change the Scene,  
Be calm, my Delius, and serene!   

II.  
Be thy Lot good, or be it ill,  
Life ebbs out at the same rate still:  
Whether with busy Cares oppressed,  
You wear the sullen time away;  
Or whether to sweet Ease and Rest,  
You sometimes give a day;  
Carelessly laid,  
Underneath a friendly Shade  
By Pines, and Poplars, mixed embraces made;  
Near a River's sliding Stream,  
Fettered in Sleep, blessed with a Golden Dream.   

III.  
Here, here, in this much envied state,  
Let every Blessing on thee wait;  
Bid the Syrian Nard be brought,  
Bid the Hidden Wine be sought,  
And let the Roses short-lived Flower,  
The smiling Daughter of an Hour,  
Flourish on thy Brow:  
Enjoy the very, very now!  
While the good Hand of Life is in,  
While yet the Fatal Sisters spin.   

IV.  
A little hence my Friend, and Thou  
Must into other hands resign  
Thy Gardens and thy Parks, and all that now  
Bears the pleasing name of Thine!  
Thy Meadows, by whose planted Tides,  
Silver Tiber gently glides!  
Thy pleasant Houses; all must go,  
The Gold that's hoarded in 'em too;  
A jolly Heir shall set it free,  
And give th' Imprisoned Monarches Liberty.   

V.  
Nor matters it, what Figure here,  
Thou dost among thy Fellow Mortals bear;  
How thou wert born, or how begot;  
Impartial Death matters it not:  
With what Titles Thou dost shine,  
Or who was First of all thy Line:  
Life's vain amusements! amidst which we dwell;  
Not weighed, nor understood, by the grim God of  
Hell!   

VI  
In the Same Road (alas!) All Travel on!  
By All alike, the Same sad Journey must be gone!  
Our blended Lots together lie,  
Mingled in One common Urn;  
Sooner or Later out they fly:  
The fatal Boat than wafts us to the Shore,  
Whence we never shall return,  
Never!— never more!    

The GROVE.  
SEe how Damon's Age appears,  
This Grove declares his fading years:  
For this he planted once, and eat  
The Maiden Fruits of what he set.  
Young It was then, like him; but now,  
Sapless, and old, is every Bow.  
Thus, my Lesbian, will it be  
In time to come with Thee, and Me.  
Come then, in Love, and youthful play  
Let's pass the smiling Hours away,  
Before this tender Amorous Mark  
Grow wide upon its fading Bark;  
And show, like Damon's Grove, that We  
Are Old, and Grace, as well as Herald   

Love but one.  

1.  
SEE these two little Brooks that slowly creep,  
In Snaky Writhings through the Plains,  
I knew them once one River swift and deep,  
Blessing and blest by Poet's strains.   

2.  
Then touched with awe, we thought some God did pour  
Those Floods out of his Sacred Jar;  
Transforming every Weed into a Flower,  
And every Flower into a Star.   

3.  
But since it broke itself, and double glides,  
The Naked Banks no dress have worn;  
And yond dry barren Mountain now derides  
These Valleys, which lost Glories mourn.   

4.  
Such, Chloris, is thy Love; which, while it ran,  
Confined within a single Stream,  
Fired every tuneful Son of mighty Pan;  
And thou wert mine, and all men's Theme.   

5.  
But when imparted to one Lover more,  
It in two Streams did faintly creep;  
The Shepherds common Muse grew low and poor,  
And Mine, as lean as these my Sheep.   

6.  
Alas! that Honour, Chloris, thou hast lost,  
Which we to thy full Flood did pay!  
While now, that Swain, that swears he loves thee most,  
Slakes but his thirst, and goes away!    

To the AUTHOR of SARD AN AP ALUS; UPON That, and His other Writings.  
THo' Teaching thy peculiar business be,  
Learn this one Lesson, Schoolmaster, of me;  
Where good Sense fails, the best Description's vile;  
And a rough Verse the noblest Thoughts will spoil.  
Think it not Genius, to know how to scan,  
Nor great, to show a Monster for a Man.  
Wound not the Ear with ill-turned Prose in Rhyme;  
Nor mistake furious Fustian for Sublime:  
Believe this truth, and thy vain tumbling quit:  
What is not Reason, never can be Wit.  
From the BoysBoys hand, take Horace into thine,  
And thy rude Satyrs by his Rules refine.  
See thy gross faults in Boy leave's faithful Glass,  
And get the sense, to know thyself an Ass.   

OF My Lady HYDE. Occasioned by The sight of Her PICTURE.  BY Mr. George Granville. 

THe Painter with Immortal Skill may trace  
A Beauteous Form, or show a Heavenly Face;  
The Poet's Art, less straitened and confined,  
Can draw the Virtues, and describe the Mind,  
Unlock the Shrine, and to the sight unfold  
The Secret Gems, and all the inside Gold.   

This dazzling Beauty is a lovely Case  
Of shining Virtues, spotless as her Face;  
With Graces that attract, but not ensnare,  
Divinely Good, as she's Divinely Fair.   

Two only Patterns do the Muse's name,  
Of perfect Beauty, but of guilty Fame;  
A Venus and a Helen have been seen,  
Both perjured Wives, the Goddess and the Queen;  
In this the third, are reconciled at last  
Those jarring Attributes of Fair and chaste;  
This matchless Charmer is a beam of Light,  
Without a Cloud or spot, for ever bright,  
With Beauty, nor affected, vain, nor proud,  
With greatness, easy, affable, and good,  
The Soul, and Source of all that we admire,  
Of every Joy, but hope to our desire:  
Like the chaste Moon, she shines to all Mankind,  
But to Endymion is her Love confined;  
What cruel Destiny on Beauty waits,  
When on one Face depend so many Fates;  
Obliged by Honour, to relieve but One,  
By thousands we despair, and are undone.    

An Imitation Of the second Chorus, in the second Act of Seneca's Thyestes.  By Mr. George Granville. 

AT length the Gods, propitious to our Prayers,  
Compose our Tumults, and conclude our Wars,  
The Sons of Inachus repent the Gild  
Of Crowns usurped, and blood of Parents spilt;  
For Impious Greatness, Vengeance is in store,  
Short is the date of all ill-gotten Power.  
Give ear, ambitious Princes, and be wise,  
Listen, and learn wherein true Greatness lies;  
Place not your Pride in Roofs that shine with Gems,  
In purple Robes, nor sparkling Diadems,  
Nor in Dominion, nor extent of Land;  
He's only Great who can himself command.  
Whose Guard is peaceful Innocence, whose Guide  
Is faithful Reason, who is void of Pride,  
Checking Ambition, nor is idly vain  
Of the false Incense of a popular Train.   

Who without strife or envy can behold  
His Neighbour's Plenty, and his heaps of Gold,  
Nor covets other Wealth, but what we find  
In the Possessions of a Virtuous Mind.   

Fearless he sees, who is with Virtue crowned,  
The Tempest rage, and hears the Thunder sound,  
Most truly Noble, who contemning Fate,  
In midst of Spears and Javelins keeps his State,  
Composed and firm he stands, nor shrinks to feel  
The piercing Arrow, or the pointed Steel;  
Disdaining Chance, regardless he looks down,  
Ever the same, whether she smile, or frown:  
Serenely as he lived, resigns his breath,  
Meets Destiny half way, nor grieves at Death.   

Ye Sovereign Lords, who sit like Gods in State,  
Awing the World, and bustling to be Great;  
Boast not of Power, nor of Imperial Sway,  
Vassals yourselves, who every Lust obey;  
The Reins of Empire, ill befit those Hands,  
Where Passion governs, and where Rage commands.   

What is this Fame, for which our Kings are Slaves?  
The breath of Fools, and blast of flattering Knaves.  
A peaceful Conscience, and a generous Breast,  
Of all the Gifts of Fortune are the best.   

What need of Arms, and Instruments of War,  
Or battering Engines which destroy from far?  
Who Lord of his own Appetites can be,  
The greatest King and Conqueror is He,  
Blest with a Power, which nothing can destroy,  
And each is his own Master to enjoy.   

Whom worldly Luxury, and Pomp's allure,  
They tread on Ice, and find no footing sure;  
Place me, ye Gods, in some obscure retreat,  
Oh! keep me innocent, make others Great:  
In quiet shades, content with Rural Sports,  
Give me a Life, remote from guilty Courts,  
Where free from Hopes or Fears, in humble Ease,  
Unheard of I may live, and die in Peace.   

Happy the Man, who thus retired from sight,  
Studies himself, and seeks no other Light!  
But most unhappy He, who sits on high,  
Exposed to every Tongue, and every Eye,  
Whose Follies blazed about, to all are known,  
And are a secret to himself alone:  
Worse is an Evil Fame, much worse, than none.    

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.  

WHether the nobler Horses breed you raise,  
Or duller Herds your fertile Pastures graze;  
Nothing will more a vigorous strength produce,  
Than to forbid them the licentious use  
Of Love's enfeebling Rites: Be therefore sure,  
Your Bulls are pastured by themselves secure;  
Let some broad River, or a rising Hill  
Be interposed; or let them take their fill  
In closer Stalls: For wanton Love's desire  
Is kindled at the Eyes; whose wasteful fire  
Consumes them by degrees, and makes them slight  
Their Food, while they behold the pleasing sight.  
Besides the fierce Encounters that ensue,  
When Rival Bulls th' alluring Object view:  
Who, both inspired with Jealousy and Rage,  
For the fair Female bloody Battles wage:  
Till with black Blood their sides are covered o'er,  
And their curled Foreheads meet with hideous roar,  
Which neighbouring Groves, and distant Caves rebound,  
And great Olympus echoes back the sound,  
Whilst the glad Victor does the Spot maintain,  
And of his warlike hazards reaps the gain:  
The conquered Foe forsakes the Hostile place,  
With deep Resentments of his past Disgrace:  
The ignominious Wounds the Conqueror gave,  
In his grieved mind no slight Impression leave:  
Departing he his absent Love does moan,  
Looks back with longing Eyes, and many a Groan  
On those his ancient Realms, where once he  
Ruled alone.  
Then with redoubled Care his Strength supplies,  
Rough on the flinty Ground all Night he lies,  
And Shrubs, and prickling Thistles for his Food suffice.  
Then runs his Horns into some solid Oak,  
Whose reeling Trunk does scarce sustain the stroke.  
With vain Assaults provokes the yielding Air,  
And makes his Flourishes before the War.  
Then with his Force and Strength prepared, does go  
With headlong Rage against th'unwary Foe:  
Like a white Wave that is defcryed from far  
Rolling its Vastness towards the frighted Shore;  
Till with loud Noise against the pointed Beaks  
Of solid Rocks, the moving Mountain breaks;  
Whilst the chafed Billows from the bottom throw  
The rising Sands, that on the Surface flow.   

All Creatures thus the Force of Love do find;  
For, whether they be those of Human Kind,  
Or Savage Beasts, or Neptune's spawning Fry,  
Or wanton Herds, or painted Birds that fly,  
They all the like transporting Fury try.  
'Tis with this Rage the Lioness is stung,  
When o'er the Forest (mindless of her Young)  
She sternly stalks: 'Tis then the shapeless Bear  
With fierce desire does to the Woods repair,  
And wide Destruction makes: 'Tis then we see  
The Savage Boar's and Tyger's Cruelty.  
Let then the Sunburnt Traveller forbear  
In Lybia's Sandy Deserts to appear.   

See how the Winds the trembling Stallions fray,  
When first to their sagacious Nostrils they  
The distant Female's well-known scent convey!  
Then no restraining Curbs, nor cruel blows  
Nor hollow Caves, nor obvious Rocks oppose  
Their passage, nor the Sea's objected Force,  
That bears the Mountains down its violent Course.  
The Sabine Boar does then prepare to wound,  
And whets his foamy Tusks, and paws the Ground:  
His Sides against the rugged Trees does tore,  
And hardens both his Shoulders for the War.   

What does the 
* Leander.  Youth in whose enraged Veins  
The heat of Love's distempered Fever reigns?  
Through stromy Seas he his bold Fortune tries,  
Tho' in his Face the obvioús Billows rise,  
And dash him back to Shore; whilst from the Throne  
Of Heaven its loud Artillery rattles down  
On his devoted Head: Nor can the sound  
Of Waters which against the Rocks rebound  
Recall his desperate Course, nor all the Tears  
Occasioned by his careful Parents fears,  
Nor his loved 
* Hero.  Nymph who soon the selfsame Fortune shares.   

'Twere long to tell the spotted Linx's Wars,  
By Love excited: Or the furious Jars  
Of prowling Wolves, or Mastiffs headstrong Rage:  
Even timorous Stags will for their Hinds engage.   

But most of all in Mares the amorous Fire  
Appears; whom Venus did Herself inspire.  
What time that Potnian Glaucus (to improve  
Their speed) withheld them from the Rites of Love;  
With Rage incensed they struck their Master dead,  
And on his mangled Limbs by piecemeal fed.  
O'er craggy Mountains Love their way does guide,  
And spurs them through the depths of Rivers wide:  
When Spring's soft Fire their melting Marrow burns  
(For 'tis in Spring the lusty warmth returns)  
They to the tops of steepest Hills repair,  
And with wide Nostrils snuff the Western Air,  
Wherewith conceiving, (wonderful to tell)  
Without the Stallions help their Bellies swell:  
Whose frantic Fury makes them scour amain  
O'er solid Rocks, and through the liquid Plain,  
Nor Hills, nor straightening Vales their giddy Course restrain:  
Nor do they towards the Sun's uprising steer  
Their headstrong way, nor towards the frozen Bear,  
Nor towards the place where tepid Auster pours  
Upon the pregnant Earth his plenteous Showers:  
Till from their lustful Groins at last does fall  
Their Offspring, which the Shepherds rightly call  
Hippomanes: A slimy, poisonous Juice,  
Which muttering Stepdames in Enchantments use,  
And in the mystic Cup their powerful Herbs infuse.  
But time is lost, which never will renew,  
Whilst ravished, we the pleasing Theme pursue.    

TO Mr. CONGREVE. AN EPISTOLARY ODE. Occasioned by his late Play. From Mr. YALDEN.  

I.  
Famed Wits and Beauties, share this common fate,  
To stand exposed to public Love and Hate,  
In every Breast They different Passions raise,  
At once provoke our Envy, and our Praise.  
For when, like you, some noble Youth appears,  
For Wit and Humour famed above his Years:  
Each emulous Muse, that views the Laurel won,  
Must praise the worth so much transcends their own,  
And, while his Fame they envy, add to his renown.  
But sure like you, no youth, could please,  
Nor at his first attempt boast such success:  
Where all Mankind have failed, you glories won:  
Triumphaut are in this alone,  
In this, have all the Bards of old outdone.   

II.  
Then may'st thou rule our Stage in triumph long,  
May'st Thou its injured Fame revive,  
And matchless proofs of Wit, and Humour, give,  
Reforming with thy Scenes, and Charming with thy Song.  
And tho' a Curse ill-fated Wit pursues,  
And waits the Fatal Dowry of a Muse:  
Yet may thy rising Fortunes be  
Secure from all the blasts of Poetry;  
As thy own Laurels flourishing appear,  
Fear.  
Unsullied still with Cares, nor clogged with Hope and  
As from its vows be from its Vices free,  
From nauseous servile Flattery:  
Nor to a Patron prostitute thy Mind,  
Tho'like Augustus Great, as Famed Moecenae kind.   

III.  
Tho' great in Fame! believe me generous Youth,  
Believe this oft experienced Truth,  
From him that knows thy Virtues, and admires their worth.  
Tho' thou'rt above what vulgar Poets fear,  
Trust not the ungrateful World too far;  
Trust not the Smiles of the inconstant Town:  
Trust not the Plaudits of a Theatre,  
(Which D—fy shall, with Thee, and Dryden share)  
Nor to a Stages interest Sacrifice thy own.  
Thy Genius, that's for Nobler things designed,  
May at loose Hours oblige Mankind:  
Then great as is thy Fame, thy Fortunes raise,  
Join thriving interest to thy barren Bays,  
And teach the World to envy, as thou dost to praise  
The World, that does like common Whores embrace,  
Injurious still to those it does caress:  
Injurious as the tainted Breath of Fame,  
That blasts a Poet's Fortunes, while it sounds his Name.   

IV.  
When first a Muse inflames some Youthful Breast,  
Like an unpractised Virgin, still she's kind:  
Adorned with Graces then, and Beauties blest,  
She charms the Ear with Fame, with Raptures fills the Mind.  
Then from all Cares the happy Youth is free,  
But those of Love and Poetry:  
Cares, still allayed with pleasing Charms,  
That Crown the Head with Bays, with Beauty fill the Arms.  
But all a Woman's Frailties soon she shows,  
Too soon a stale domestic Creature grows:  
Then wedded to a Muse that's nauseous grown,  
We loathe what we enjoy, drudge when the Pleasure's gone.  
For tempted with imaginary Bays,  
Fed with immortal Hopes, and empty Praise:  
He Fame pursues, that fair, but treacherous, bait,  
Grows wise, when he's undone, reputes when'tis too   

V.  
Small are the Trophies of his boasted Bays,  
The Great Man's promise, for his flattering Toil,  
Fame in reversion, and the public smile,  
All vainer than his Hopes, uncertain as his Praise.  
'Twas thus in Mournful Numbers heretofore,  
Neglected Spencer did his Fate deplore:  
Long did his injured Muse complain,  
Admired in midst of Wants, and Charming still in vain  
Long did the Generous Cowley Mourn,  
And long obliged the Age without return:  
Denied what every Wretch obtains of Fate,  
An humble Roof, and an obscure retreat,  
Condemned to needy Fame, and to be miserably great.  
Thus did the World thy great Forefathers use,  
Thus all the inspired Bards before,  
Did their hereditary Ills deplore:  
From tuneful Chaucer's, down to thy own Dryden's Muse.   

VI  
Yet pleased with gaudy ruin Youth will on,  
As proud by public Fame to be undone:  
Pleased tho'he does the worst of Labours choose,  
To serve a Barbarous Age, and an ungrateful Muse.  
Since Dryden's self, to Wit's great Empire born,  
Whose Genius and exalted Name,  
Triumph with all the Spoils of Wit and Fame;  
Must midst the loud Applause his barren Laurels mourn.  
Even that Famed Man whom all the World admires,  
Whom every Grace adorns, and Muse inspires:  
Like the great injured Tasso shows,  
Triumphant in the midst of Woes;  
In all his Wants Majestic still appears,  
Charming the Age to which he owes his Cares,  
And cherishing that Muse whose fatal Curse he bears.  
From Mag. Col. Oxon.    

ON His Mistress drowned.  BY Mr. S— 

SWeet Stream, that dost with equal pace  
Both thyself fly, and thyself chase,  
Forbear a while to flow,  
And listen to my Woe,   

Then go, and tell the Sea that all its brine  
Is fresh, compared to mine;  
Inform it that the gentler Dame,  
Who was the life of all my Flame,  
In the Glory of her Bud  
Has passed the fatal Flood.  
Death by this only stroke triumphs above  
The greatest power of Love:  
Alas, alas! I must give o'er,  
My sighs will let me add no more.  
Go on, sweet Stream, and henceforth rest  
No more than does my troubled Breast;  
And if my sad Complaints have made thee stay,  
These tears, these tears shall mend thy way.    

To the Pious Memory Of the Accomplished Young LADY Mrs. ANNE KILLIGREW. EXCELLENT In the two Sister-Arts of Poesy, and Painting. An ODE.  BY Mr. DRYDEN. 

1.  
THou youngest Virgin-Daughter of the Skies,  
Made in the last Promotion of the Blessed;  
Whose Palms, new plucked from Paradise,  
In spreading Branches more sublimely rise,  
Rich with Immortal Green above the rest:  
Whether, adopted to some Neighbouring Star,  
Thou rol'st above us, in thy wandering Race,  
Or, in Procession fixed and regular,  
Moved with the Heavens Majestic Pace;  
Or, called to more Superior Bliss,  
Thou treadest, with Seraphims, the vast Abyss.  
What ever happy Region is thy place,  
Cease thy Celestial Song a little space;  
(Thou wilt have time enough for Hymns Divine,  
Since heavens Eternal Year is thine.)  
Hear then a Mortal Muse thy Praise rehearse,  
In no ignoble Verse;  
But such as thy own voice did practise here,  
When thy first Fruits of Poesy were given;  
To make thyself a welcome Inmate there:  
While yet a young Probationer,  
And Candidate of Heaven.   

2.  
If by Traduction came thy Mind,  
Our Wonder is the less to find  
A Soul so charming from a Stock so good;  
Thy Father was transfused into thy Blood:  
So wert thou born into the tuneful strain,  
(An early, rich, and inexhausted Vein.)  
But if thy Praeexisting Soul  
Was formed, at first, with Myriad more,  
It did through all the Mighty Poet's roll,  
Who Greek or Latin Laurels wore.  
And was that Sapph last, which once it was before.  
If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born Mind!  
Thou hast no Dross to purge from thy Rich Ore:  
Nor can thy Soul a fairer Mansion find,  
Than was the Beauteous Frame she left behind:  
Return, to fill or mend the Choir, of thy Celestial kind.   

3.  
May we presume to say, that at thy Birth,  
New joy was sprung in Heaven, as well as here on Earth.  
For sure the Milder Planets did combine  
On thy Auspicious Horoscope to shine,  
And even the most Malicious were in Trine.  
Thy Brother-Angels at thy Birth  
Strung each his Lyre, and tuned it high,  
That all the People of the Sky  
Might know a Poetess was born on Earth.  
And then if ever, Mortal Ears  
Had heard the Music of the Spheres!  
And if no clust'ring Swarm of Bees  
On thy sweet Mouth distilled their golden Dew,  
'Twas that, such vulgar Miracles,  
Heaven had not Leisure to renew:  
For all the Blessed Fraternity of Love  
Solemnised there thy Birth, and kept thy Holiday above.   

4.  
O Gracious God How far have we  
Profaned thy Heavenly Gift of Poesy?  
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,  
Debased to each obscene and impious use,  
Whose Harmony was first ordained Above  
For Tongues of Angels, and for Hymns of Love?  
O wretched We! why were we hurried down  
This lubrique and adulterate age,  
(Nay added fat Pollutions of our own)  
T'increase the steaming Ordures of the Stage?  
What can we say t'excuse our Second Fall?  
Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all!  
Her Arethusian Stream remains unsoiled,  
Unmixed with Foreign Filth, and undefiled,  
Her Wit was more than Man, her Innocence a Child!   

5.  
Art she had none, yet wanted none:  
For Nature did that Want supply,  
So rich in Treasures of her Own,  
She might our boasted Stores defy:  
Such Noble Vigour did her Verse adorn,  
That it seemed borrowed, where'twasonly born.  
Her Morals too were in her Bosom bred  
By great Examples daily fed,  
What in the best of Books, her Father's Life, she read.  
And to be read herself she need not fear,  
Each Test, and every Light, her Muse will bear,  
Though Epictetus with his Lamp were there.  
Even Lóve (for Love sometimes her Muse expressed)  
Was but a Lambent-flame which played about her Breast:  
Light as the Vapours of a Morning Dream,  
So cold herself, whilst she such Warmth expressed,  
'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's Stream.   

6.  
Born to the Spacious Empire of the Nine,  
One would have thought, she should have been content  
To manage well that Mighty Government;  
But what can young ambitious Souls confine?  
To the next Realm she stretched her Sway,  
For Painture near adjoining lay,  
A plenteous Province, and alluring Prey.  
A Chamber of Dependences was framed,  
(As Conquerors will never want Pretence,  
When armed, to justify th' Offence)  
And the whole Fief, in right of Poetry she claimed.  
The Country open lay without Defence:  
For Poets frequent Inroads there had made,  
And perfectly could represent  
The Shape, the Face, with every Lineament;  
And all the large Demains which the Dumb-sister swayed,  
All bowed beneath her Government,  
Received in Triumph wheresoever she went.  
Her Pencil drew, what e'er her Soul designed,  
And oft the happy Draught surpassed the Image in her Mind.  
The Sylvan Scenes of Herds and Flocks,  
And fruitful Plains and barren Rocks,  
Of shallow Brooks that flowed so clear,  
The bottom did the top appear;  
Of deeper too and ampler Floods,  
Which as in Mirrors, showed the Woods;  
Of lofty Trees, with Sacred Shades,  
And Perspectives of pleasant Glades,  
Where Nymphs of brightest Form appear,  
And shaggy Satyrs standing near,  
Which them at once admire and fear.  
The Ruins too of some Majestic Piece,  
Boasting the Power of ancient Rome or Greece.  
Whose Statues, Freezes, Columns broken lie,  
And tho' defaced, the Wonder of the Eye,  
What Nature, Art, bold Fiction e'er durst frame,  
Her forming Hand gave Feature to the Name.  
So strange a Concourse ne'er was seen before,  
But when the peopled Ark the whole Creation bore.   

7.  
The Scene then changed, with bold Erected Look  
Our Martial King the sight with Reverence struck:  
For not content t'express his Outward Part,  
Her hand called out the Image of his Heart,  
His Warlike Mind, his Soul devoid of Fear,  
His High-designing Thoughts, were figured there,  
As when, by Magic, Ghosts are made appear.  
Our Phoenix Queen was portrayed too so bright,  
Beauty alone could Beauty take so right:  
Her Dress, her Shape, her matchless Grace,  
Were all observed, as well as heavenly Face.  
With such a Peerless Majesty she stands,  
As in that Day she took the Crown from Sacred hands:  
Before a Train of Heroines was seen,  
In Beauty foremost, as in Rank, the Queen!  
Thus nothing to her Genius was denied,  
But like a Ball of Fire the further thrown,  
Still with a greater Blaze she shone,  
And her bright Soul broke out on every side.  
What next she had designed, Heaven only knows,  
To such immoderate Growth her Conquest rose,  
That Fate alone its Progress could oppose.   

8.  
Now all those Charms, that blooming Grace,  
The well-proportioned Shape, and beauteous Face,  
Shall never more be seen by Mortal Eyes;  
In Earth the much lamented Virgin lies!  
Not Wit, nor Piety could Fate prevent;  
Nor was the cruel Destiny content  
To finish all the Murder at a blow,  
To sweep at once her Life, and Beauty too;  
But, like a hardened Felon, took a pride  
To work more Mischievously slow,  
And plundered first, and then destroyed.  
O double Sacrilege on things Divine,  
To rob the Relic, and deface the Shrine!  
But thus Orinda died:  
Heaven, by the same Disease, did both translate,  
As equal were their Souls, so equal was their Fate.   

9  
Mean time her Warlike Brother on the Seas  
His waving Streamers to the Winds displays,  
And vows for his Return, with vain Devotion, pays.  
Ah, Generous Youth, that Wish forbear,  
The Winds too soon will waft thee here!  
Slack all thy Sails, and fear to come,  
Alas, thou knowst not, thou art wrecked at home!  
No more shalt thou behold thy Sister's Face,  
Thou hast already had her last Embrace.  
But look aloft, and if thou ken'st from far,  
Among the Pleiad's a New-kindled Star,  
If any sparkles, than the rest, more bright,  
'Tis she that shines in that propitious Light.   

10.  
When in mid-Air, the Golden Trump shall sound,  
To raise the Nations under ground;  
When in the Valley of Jehosaphat,  
The Judging God shall close the book of Fate;  
And there the last Assizes keep,  
For those who Wake, and those who Sleep;  
When rattling Bones together fly,  
From the four Corners of the Sky,  
When Sinews o'er the Skeletons are spread,  
Those clothed with Flesh, and Life inspires the Dead;  
The Sacred Poets first shall hear the Sound,  
And foremost from the Tomb shall bond:  
For they are covered with the lightest Ground,  
And straight, with in born Vigour, on the Wing,  
Like mounting Larks, to the New Morning sing.  
There Thou, sweet Saint, before the Choir shalt go,  
As Harbinger of Heaven, the Way to show,  
The Way which thou so well hast learned below.    

TO THE Earl of CARLISLE, UPON THE DEATH of His SON BEFORE LUXEMBURG.  

HE's gone, and was it then by your Decree,  
Ye envious Powers, that we should only see  
This Copy of your own Divinity?  
Or thought ye it surpassing Human State,  
To have a Blessing lasting as 'twas Great?  
Your cruel Skill you better ne'er had shown,  
Since you so soon designed him all your own.  
Such torturing Favours to the Damned are given,  
When to increase their Hell, you show 'em Heaven,  
Was it too Godlike, he should long inherit  
At once his Father's, and his Uncle's Spirit?  
Yet as much Beauty, and as calm a Breast  
As the mild Dame, whose teeming Womb he blest.  
HE had all the Favours Providence could give,  
Except its own Prerogative to live:  
Reserved in Pleasures, and in Dangers bold,  
Youthful in Action, and in Prudence old:  
His humble Greatness, and submissive State,  
Made his Life full of Wonder, as his Fate.  
One, who to all the heights of Learning bred,  
Read Books, and Men, and practised what he read.  
Round the wide Globe searce did the busy Sun  
With greater haste, and greater Lustre run.  
True Gallantry and Grandeur he descried  
From the French Fopperies, and Germane Pride.  
And like th'industrious Bee, where e'er he flew,  
Gathered the Sweets which on sweet Blossoms grew.  
Babel's confused Speeches on his Tongue,  
With a sweet Harmony and Concord hung.  
More Countries than for Homer did contest,  
Do strive who most were by his Presence blest.  
Nor did his Wisdom damp his Martial Fire,  
Minerva both her Portions did inspire,  
Use of the Warlike Bow, and Peaceful Lyre.  
So Caesar doubly triumphed when he wrote,  
Showing like Wit, as Valour, when he fought.   

If God (as Plato taught) Example takes  
From his own Works, and Souls by Patterns makes,  
Much of himself in him he did unfold,  
And cast him in his Darling Sidney's Mould,  
Of too refined a Substance to be old.  
Both did alike disdain an Hero's Rage,  
Should, come like an Inheritance by Age.  
Ambitiously did both conspire to twist  
Bays with the Ivy, which their Temples kissed:  
Scorning to wait the slow advance of Time,  
Both fell like early Blossoms in their Prime,  
By blind Events, and Providence's Crime.  
Yet both, like Codrus, o'er their yielding Foe  
Obtained the Conquest, in their Overthrow;  
And longer Life do purchase by their Death,  
In Fame completing what they want in breath.  
Oh! had kind Fate stretched the contracted Span,  
To the full Glories of a perfect Man;  
And as he grew could every rolling Year  
A new addition to our Wonder bear,  
H'had paid to his Illustrious Line that Stock  
Of ancient Honour, which from thence he took.  
But oh!  
So hasty Fruits, and too ambitious Flowers,  
Scorning the Midwifery of ripening Showers,  
In spite of Frosts, spring from th' unwilling Earth,  
But find a nip untimely as their birth.  
Abortive Issues so delude the Womb.  
And scarce have Being, ere they want a Tomb.   

Forgive (my Lord) the Muse that does aspire  
With a new breath to fan your raging Fire;  
Whose each officious and unskilful sound  
Can with fresh Torture but enlarge the wound.  
Could I, with David, curse the guilty Plain  
Where one more loved than Jonathan was slain:  
Or could I flights high as his Merits raise,  
Clear as his Virtue, deathless as his Praise,  
None who (tho' Laurels crowned their aged Head)  
Admired him living, and adored him dead,  
With more Devotion should enrol his Name  
In the long Consecrated List of Fame.  
But since my artless and unhallowed Strain  
Will the high worth, it should commend, profane;  
Since I despair my humble Verse should prove  
Great as your loss, or tender as your Love;  
My Heart with sigh, and with tears mine Eye,  
Shall the defect of written Grief supply.    

THE INSECT. AGAINST BULK.  
Inest sua gratia parvis.  By Mr. YALDEN. 

WHere Greatness is to Nature's Works denied,  
In Worth and Beauty it is well supplied:  
In a small space the more Perfection's shown,  
And what is exquisite, in Little's done.  
Thus Beams contracted in a narrow Glass,  
To Flames convert their larger useless Rays.   

'Tis Nature's smallest products please the Eye,  
Whilst greater Births pass unreguarded by:  
Her Monsters seem a Violence to sight,  
They're formed for Terror, Infects to delight.  
Thus when she nicely frames a piece of Art,  
Fine are her strokes, and small in every part;  
No Labour can she boast more wonderful,  
Than to inform an Atom with a Soul:  
To animate her little beauteous Fly,  
And clothe it in her gaudy'ft Drapery.   

Thus does the little Epigram delight,  
And charm us with its minature of Wit:  
Whilst tedious Authors give the Reader pain,  
Weary his thoughts, and make him toil in vain;  
Whenin less Volumes we more pleasure find,  
And what diverts, still best informs the Mind.   

'Tis the small Infect looks correct and fair,  
And seems the product of her nicest Care.  
When wearied out with the stupendious weight,  
Of forming Prodigies, and Brutes of State:  
Then she the Infect frames, her Masterpiece,  
Made for Diversion, and designed to please.   

Thus Archimedes, in his Crystal Sphere,  
Seemed to correct the World's Artificer:  
Whilst the large Globe moves round with long delay,  
His beauteous Orbs in nimbler Circles play;  
This seemed the Nobler Labour of the two,  
Great was the Sphere above, but fine below.   

Thus smallest things have a peculiar Grace,  
The great w' admire, but 'tis the little please;  
Then since the least so beautifully show,  
be advised in time, my Muse, and learn to know  
A Poet's Lines should be correct, and few.    

Written in a LADY's Advice TO A DAUGHTER.  
'TIs true— in these well-polished Lines,  
The Author's Noble Genius shines:  
A happy Wit, a thought well weighed,  
And in a Charming Dress conveyed,  
Adorn each curious Page— 'tis true:  
But what's all this, fair Maid, to You?  
Have lovely Faces need of Paint?  
Are Manuals useful to a Saint?  
Let careless Nymphs be plied with Rules,  
Let Wit be thrown among the Fools:  
In both of these You boast a Store,  
Compared with which, our Author's poor.  
Alas! as He directs his Pen  
To Maids, should You advise the Men;  
Should You your easy Minutes vex,  
To make Reprisals on the Sex,  
We great Pretenders than should find  
Ourselves, our Darling Selves, outshined,  
Not more in Body, than in Mind:  
She-Wit and Sense would mount the Throne,  
And our loved Salic-Law be gone.   

Written in a LADY's WALLER.  
THE Lovely Owner of this Book  
Does here on her own Image look:  
Each happy Page, each finished Line  
Does with Her matchless Graces shine;  
And is, with Common Verse compared,  
What She is among Beauty's Herd.  
The Poet boasts a Lofty thought,  
In Softest Numbers Smoothly wrought;  
Has all that pleases the Severe,  
And all that charms a Listening Ear.  
And such the Nymph is— blest with all  
That we can Sweet, or Noble call:  
For never sure was any Mind,  
Of all that from heavens Treasury came  
Of better Make, and more Refined,  
Or lodged within a Fairer Frame.  
Such Angels seem, when pleased to wear  
Some lovely Dress of coloured Air!  
Oh! had she lived, before the old  
Bard had so many Winters told;  
Then, when his Youthful Veins ran high,  
Inflamed with Love, and Poetry;  
He only to This shining Maid  
The Tribute of his Verse had paid:  
No meaner Face, no lesser Name  
Had fixed his Eyes, or fed his Flame;  
Her Beauties had employed his Tongue,  
And Sacharissa died unsung.   

Written in the Leaves of a FAN.  
FLAVIA the least and slightest Toy  
Can, with resistless Art, employ.  
This Fan, in meaner Hands, would prove  
An Engine, of small Force, in Love.  
Yet she, with Graceful Air and Mien,  
(Not to be told! or safely seen!)  
Directs its wanton Motions so,  
That it wounds more than Cupid's Bow:  
Gives Coolness to the matchless Dame,  
To every other Breast a Flame.   

AN Incomparable ODE OF MALHERB's.  Written by Him when the Marriage was afoot between this King of France, and Arm of Austria. Translated by a Person of Quality, a great Admirer of the easiness of the French Poetry. 
CEtte Anne si belle, THis Anna so Fair, Qu'on vaunt sifort, So talked of by Fame, Pourquoy ne vient Elle? Why don't she appear? Vrayment, Elle a tort! Indeed, she's to blame! Son Loüis soûpire Lewis sighs for the sake Apres set Appas: Of her Charms, as they say: Que veut elle dire, What excuse can she make, Que elle ne vient pas? For not coming away? Si il ne la possêde, If he does ned possess, Il s'en va Mourir; He dies with Despair; Donnons y remedy, Let's give him redress, Allons la Querir. And go find out the Fair. 

NOTE.  
The Translator proposed to turn this Ode with all imaginable Exactness; and he hopes he has been pretty just to Malherb, only in the sixth Line he has made a small Addition of these three words — as they say— which he thinks is excusable, if we consider that the French Poet there talks a little too familiarly of the King's Passion, as if the King himself had owned it to him. The Translator thinks it more mannerly and respectful in Malherb to preterd to have the Account of it only by Hear-say.     

On the Duchess of Portsmouth's PICTURE.  
HAD she but lived in Cleopatra's Age,  
When Beauty did the Earth's great Lords engage,  
Britain, not Egypt, had been Glorious made;  
Augustus then, like Julius, had obeyed:  
A Nobler Theme had been the Poet's boast,  
That all the World for Love had well been lost.   

A SONG.  By the Earl of Rochester. 

Insulting Beauty, you misspend  
Those Frowns upon your Slave;  
Your Scorn against such Rebels bend,  
Who dare with confidence pretend,  
That other Eyes their Hearts defend,  
From all the Charms you have.   

Your conquering Eyes so partial are,  
Or Mankind is so dull,  
That while I languish in Despair,  
Many proud senseless Hearts declare,  
They find you not so killing Fair,  
To wish you merciful.   

They an Inglorious Freedom boast;  
I triumph in my Chain;  
Nor am I unrevenged, though lost;  
Nor you unpunished, though unjust,  
When I alone, who love you most,  
Am killed with your Disdain.    

SONG For the KING's Birthday.  

SHine forth, bright Sun, and gild the Day,  
With a more than common Ray.  
The Day that gave us more,  
Than all the rolling Years that Thou  
Hast numbered out, could e'er bestow,  
Or Britain wish before.   

From greenness of Touth, to ripeness of Age,  
With what dangers, what troubles did Caesar engage.  
In the Field, on the Flood,  
Through the Waves, and through Blood,  
The Race of bright Honour he ran!  
How Great in Distress,  
How Calm in Success!  
In both, how much more than Man!  
CHORUS.  
Where'er his Birth had been by Fortune placed,  
Such Virtue Heaven must needs have crowned at last.   

Heaven has been just, and Right has prevailed,  
Tho' by Hell's Malice and Forces assailed;  
Rebellion and Faction are sunk whence they rose,  
And Caesar the Wounds of his Nation does close,  
Rewarding his Friends, and forgiving his Foes.  
In the Glory gained by War,  
Vulgar Hands and Fortune share;  
But the more Noble and Solid Renown  
That arises from Pardon to Penitents shown,  
All render to Caesar, 'tis Caesar's alone.   

Caesar nobly does disdain  
Over less than Hearts to Reign;  
Let Tyrants force th' ignobler part,  
God and Caesar claim the Heart.   

Hark how the Nation United rejoices  
In the glad Consort of Hearts and of Voices!  
What Thanks they express  
For their Plenty and Peace,  
And the long desired Blessings of Freedom and Ease.   

Hark, the joyful Song goes round,  
'Tis the Universal Sound:  
Long may Heaven and Caesar smile,  
Heaven on Him, and He on us;  
Long, long may he Rule our Isle,  
And long, long Rule it thus!  
As loved in Peace, as feared in Arms,  
And ever blest in Gloriana's Charms.    

A SONG.  

1.  
AFter the fiercest Pangs of hot Desire,  
Between Panthoea's rising Breasts,  
His bending Breast Philander rests:  
And vanquished, yet unknowing to retire,  
Close hugs the Charmer, and ashamed to yield,  
Tho' he has lost the day, yet keeps the Field.   

2.  
When, with a sigh, the fair Panthoea said,  
What Pity 'tis, ye Gods, that all  
The Noblest Warriors soon fall:  
Then with a Kiss she gently reared his Head;  
Armed him again to fight, for nobly she  
More loved the Combat than the Victory.   

3.  
But more enraged, for being beat before,  
With all his strength he does prepare  
More fiercely to renew the War;  
Nor ceased he till the Noble Prize he bore:  
Even her much wondrous Courage did surprise,  
She hugs the Dart that wounded her, and dies.    

A SONG.  

1.  
THrough mournful Shades, and solitary Groves,  
Fanned with the sighs of unsuccessful Loves,  
Wild with Despairs, young Thyrsis strays,  
Thinks over all Amyra's Heavenly Charms,  
Thinks he now sees her in another's Arms;  
Then at some Willow's Root himself he lays,  
The Loveliest, most unhappy Swain;  
And thus to the wild Woods he does complain.   

2.  
How art thou changed, O Thyrsis, since the time  
When thou couldst love, and hope without a Crime;  
When Nature's Pride, and Earth's Delight,  
As through her shady Evening Grove she passed,  
And a new day did all around her cast;  
Could see, nor be offended at the sight:  
The melting, sighing, wishing Swain,  
That now must never hope to wish again.   

3.  
Riches and Titles! why should they prevail,  
Where Duty, Love, and Adoration fail?  
Lovely Amyra, shouldst thou prise  
The empty noise that a fine Title makes;  
Or the vile Trash that with the Vulgar takes,  
Before a Heart that bleeds for thee, and dies:  
Unkind! but pity the poor Swain  
Your Rigour kills, nor Triumph in the Slain.    

SONG.  

YOU say you love! Repeat again,  
Repeat th' amazing Sound;  
Repeat the ease of all my pain,  
The Cure of every Wound.   

What you to thousands have denied,  
To me you freely give;  
Whilst I in humble Silence died,  
Your Mercy bids me live.   

So on cold Latmos top each Night,  
Endymion sighing lay,  
Gazed on the Moon's transcendent Light,  
Despaired, and durst not Pray.   

But Divine Cynthia saw his Grief,  
Th'effect of conquering Charms;  
Unasked, the Goddess brings relief,  
And falls into his Arms.    

SONG.  

FAirest of thy Sex, and best,  
Admit my humble Tale;  
'Twill ease the Torment of my Breast,  
Tho' I shall ne'er prevail.   

No fond Ambition me does move  
Your Favour to implore,  
I ask not for return of Love,  
But Freedom to adore.    

To the King. In the Year 1686.  BY Mr. George Granville. 
HEroes of old, by Rapine and by Spoil,  
In search of Fame, did all the World embroil,  
Thus to their Gods each then allied his Name,  
This sprang from Jove, and that from Titan came;  
With equal Valour, and with like Success,  
Dread King, mightst thou the Universe oppress;  
But Christian Rules constrain thy Martial Pride;  
Peace is thy Choice, and Piety thy Guide:  
By thy Example Kings may learn to sway,  
Heroes are taught to fight, and Saints to pray.  
The Grecian Chiefs had Virtue but in share;  
Nestor was wise, but Ajax brave in War:  
Their very Deities were graced no more,  
Mars had the Courage, Jove the Thunder bore:  
But all Perfections meet in James alone,  
And Brittain's King is all the Gods in one.   

HARRY MARTEN's EPITAPH, BY HIMSELF.  
HEre, or elsewhere (all's one to you, to me)  
Earth, Air, or Water gripes my Ghostless Dust,  
None knowing when brave Fire shall set it free;  
Reader, if you an oft tried Rule will trust,  
You'll gladly Do and Suffer what you must.   

To his Friend Captain Chamberline; In Love with a Lady he had taken in an Algeriene Prize at Sea. In Allusion to the 4th Ode of Horace, Lib. the 2d.  BY Mr. YALDEN. 

1.  
'TIs no disgrace (brave Youth) to own  
By a fair Slave you are undone:  
Why dost thou blush to hear that Name!  
And stifle thus a Generous Flame!  
Did not the fair Briseis heretofore  
With powerful Charms subdue?  
What tho' a Captive, still she bore  
Those Eyes that Freedom could restore,  
And make her haughty Lord, the proud Achilles' bow.   

2.  
Stern Ajax, tho' renowned in Arms,  
Did yield to bright Tecmessa's Charms:  
And all the Laurels he had won,  
As Trophies at her Feet were thrown.  
When beautiful in tears, he viewed the mourning Fair,  
The Hero felt her Power:  
Tho' great in Camps, and fierce in War,  
Her softer looks he could not bear,  
Proud to become her Slave, tho'late her Conqueror.   

3.  
When Beauty in Distress appears,  
An irresistless Charm it bears:  
In every Breast does pity move,  
Pity the tenderest part of Love.  
Amidst his Triumphs great Atrides showed  
Unto a Weeping Maid:  
Tho' Troy was by his Arms subdued,  
And Greece the bloody Trophies viewed,  
Yet at a Captive's feet the imploring Victor laid.   

4.  
Think not, thy Charming Maid can be  
Of a base Stock, a mean Degree:  
Her Shape, her Air, her every Grace,  
A more than Vulgar Birth confess.  
Yes, yes, my Friend, with Royal Blood she's great,  
Sprung from some Monarch's bed:  
Now mourns her Family's hard Fate,  
Her mighty Fall, and abject State,  
And her Illustrious Race conceals with Noble Pride.   

5.  
Ah think not an Ignoble House!  
Could such a Heroine produce:  
Nor think such generous sprightly Blood,  
Could flow the corrupted Crowd.  
But view her Courage, her undaunted Mind,  
And Soul with Virtues crowned:  
Where dazzling Interest cannot blind,  
Nor Youth, nor Gold admittance find,  
But still her Honour's fixed, and Virtue keeps its Ground.   

6.  
View well her great Majestic Air,  
And modest Looks Divinely Fair:  
Too bright for Fancy to improve,  
And worthy of thy Noblest Love.  
But yet suspect not thy officious Friend,  
All jealous thoughts remove:  
Tho' I with Youthful heat commend,  
For Thee I all my Wishes send,  
And if she makes Thee blest, 'tis all I ask of Love,    

A SONG.  BY A LADY. 

1.  
YE Virgin Powers, defend my Heart  
From amorous Looks and Smiles,  
From saucy Love, or nicer Art,  
Which most our Sex beguiles;   

2.  
From Sighs and Vows, from awful Fears,  
That do to pity move;  
From speaking Silence, and from Tears,  
Those Springs that water Love.   

3.  
But if through Passion I grow blind,  
Let Honour be my Guide;  
And where frail Nature seems inclined,  
There place a Guard of Pride.   

4.  
An Heart whose Flames are seen, tho' pure,  
Needs every Virtue's aid;  
And she who thinks herself secure,  
The soon is betrayed.    

Written by a LADY.  

STREPHON hath Fashion, Wit, and Youth,  
With all things else that please;  
He nothing wants but Love and Truth  
To ruin me with ease.   

But he is Flint, and bears the Art  
To kindle fierce Desire,  
Whose Power inflames another's Heart,  
And he ne'er feels the Fire.   

O how it does my Soul perplex,  
When I his Charms recall,  
To think he should despise our Sex;  
Or, what's worse, love 'em all.   

So that my Heart, like Noah's Dove,  
In vain has sought for rest,  
Finding no hopes to fix my Love,  
Returns into my Breast.    

paraphrased Out of Horace, the 23d Ode of the 2d Book.  BY Dr. POPE. 
THe wary Gods lock up in Cells of Night  
Future Events, and laugh at Mortals here.  
If they to pry into 'em take delight,  
If they too much presume, or too much fear.  
O Man! for thy short time below  
Enjoy thyself, and what the Gods bestow:  
Unequal Fortunes here below are shared,  
Life to a River's course may justly be compared:  
Sometimes within its bed,  
Without an angry Curl or Wave,  
From the Spring head  
It gently glides to the Ocean, its Grave.  
Then unawares, upon a sudden Rain,  
It madly overflows the Neighbouring Plain:  
It ploughs up beauteous Ranks  
Of Trees, that shaded and adorned its Banks;  
Overturns Houses, Bridges, Rocks,  
Drowns Shepherds and their Flocks:  
Horror and Death rage all the Valley o'er,  
The Forests tremble, and the Mountains roar.   

LOVE's Antidote.  
WHen I sigh by my Mistress, and gaze on those Eyes  
Where all-conquering Love in Garrison lies.  
When her Nose I commend with a true Roman bend,  
And run on in Flattery World without end:  
On her ample high Forehead, and her little soft hand,  
To which, if compared, the best Ivory is tanned:  
On the words which with Grace from her Rosy Lips flow,  
And such Harmony make, as was ne'er heard below,  
Then she bridles the Pride, and swells with Disdain,  
And slights her Adorer, now fast in her Chain.  
With Scorn in her haughty looks, and in her words Thunder,  
Then drunken with Love do I reel to the Wonder:  
Then with three or four Glasses my languishing passes,  
And off slides the Load, Love lays on his Asses.  
Then I swear I'll for ever keep out of the scrape,  
Love's Sovereign Antidote is the blood of the Grape.   

Anacreon imitated.  
OFT the Reverend Dotards cry,  
Why so loving, Daphnis, why?  
Love's a thing for Age alone:  
Love's a God, and you're too young.  
Let the Harvest crown your Brow,  
And adorn your Head with Snow:  
Love may boldly enter then:  
Years will countenance your Flame.  
Fruits, unripe, disgust the taste;  
Falling ripe they please us best.  
Colt's are skittish; but the Dam,  
(Once a Colt) is still and tame:  
Reverend Dotards, why so wise?  
Why these Reverend Fooleries?  
Who neglects to back the Horse,  
Till his Years compute him worse?  
Generous Brutes that latest die,  
Early to Enjoyment fly:  
Vigorous Nature scorns a Tie.  
Gathered Fruit are best of all;  
We despise them when they fall.  
Thus your Follies show to me,  
What my Reverend Age shall be.  
Bring the Glass then, bring the Fair,  
Fill it, 'tis a Health to her.  
For experimental I  
Will a great Example be  
To convince such Reverend Fools  
Of their own mistaken Rules.   

Anacreon imitated.  
OH how pleasant is't! how sweet!  
While with Beauties exquisite  
Nature paints the fragrant Grove,  
Thus to walk and talk of Love.  
Here no envious Eastern Gale  
Sells us Pleasure by Retail.  
Western breezes here dispense  
Joys so full, they cloy the sense.  
Gods! oh Gods! how sweet a Shade  
Has that Honey-Suckle made,  
Clasping round that spreading Tree,  
Clasping fast, and apeing me.  
Me who, there with Celia laid,  
First informed this lovely Maid  
So to clasp, and so to twine.  
Oh! how sweet a life is mine!   

Anacreon imitated.  
COme fill't up, and fill it high,  
The barren Earth is always dry;  
But we'll steeped in kindly Showers,  
It laughs in Dew, and smiles in Flowers.  
The Jovial Gods did, sure, design,  
By the Immortal Gift of Wine,  
To drown our Sighs, and ease our Care,  
And makes content to Revel here.  
To Revel, and to reign in Love,  
And be throughout like those above.   

FROM Virgil's 1st Georgick,  
Beginning at 
Imprimis venerare Deos, etc.   Translated into ENGLISH VERSE BY H. SACHEVERILL. 
Dedicated to Mr. DRYDEN.  
FIrst let thy Altar's smoke with Sacred Fire,  
Thy Earthly Labours the just Gods require.  
Let Ceres Blessings usher in the Year,  
To give an Omen to thy future Care.  
With Sacrifice adorn her Grassy Shrine,  
With Milk, with Honey, and with flowing Wine.  
Then go, the mighty Goddess to adore,  
When Spring buds forth, and Winter is no more.  
Then well fed Lambs thy plenteous Tables load,  
And mellow Wines give appetite to Food.  
Whilst the cool Shade by small refreshing Streams  
Invite soft Sleep, and gentle pleasing Dreams.  
The Rustic Youth the Goddess should implore  
To bless their Fruits, and to increase their Store.  
Thrice let the Sacrifice in Triumph led  
Crown the new Offspring of her fruitful Bed.  
A joyful Choir shall sing her Praises round,  
And with unequal Motions beat the Ground.  
Whilst Oaken Branches on their Temples twine,  
To show the better use of Corn and Wine.  
The Goddess thus appeased, will bend her Ear,  
And with a plenteous Harvest will reward your Care.  
The certain Seasons of the Year to know  
Great Jove has taught us, and from whence they flow,  
Droughts, Rains, and Winds their certain Signs forego,  
Those Messengers of Fate fly to provide the way,  
To give the Signal of a gloomy Day.  
The Moon her Tokens constantly fulfils,  
And with her Beams points out th' approaching Ills.  
Her waning Orb puts on a various Form  
To give the Sign of an impending Storm.  
When South Winds rise the Herdsmen justly fear,  
And seek a Shelter when the Tempest's near.  
First from a gentle blast the Winds arise,  
Whose Infant Voice in whispering Murmurs flies,  
Then with loud Clamours fills the troubled Skies.  
By small degrees advanced, it stronger grows,  
Till every Point each other does oppose.  
Then through the jarring Zones it frets and roars,  
And lifts the swelling Billows to the Shores.  
Vast watery Mountains roll upon the Sand,  
And angry Surges beat the trembling Land.  
A harsh, shrill noise the echoing Caverns fills,  
And strikes the Ear from the resounding Hills;  
Whose Reverend Tops, with aged Pine-trees crowned,  
Rock with the Wind, and tremble with the sound.  
Then threatening Surges hardly can forbear  
The tattered Vessel, while the Seamen fear  
Each rolling Billow should their last appear.  
The frighted Native of the troubled Waves  
His long accustomed Habitation leaves.  
Now born aloft a winged Army soar  
To seek for safety on a calmer Shore.  
The More-Hen, conscious of the Tempest near,  
Plays on the Sand, and so prevents her fear.  
The Hern forsakes his ancient marshy Bed,  
And towers to Heaven while Clouds bedew his head.  
Sometimes he's met by a descending Star,  
Which warns the Tempest rushing from afar.  
The headlong Planet glides in fiery Streams,  
And shoots through Darkness with its Radiant Beams.  
It cuts the Shadows with a Train of Light,  
And makes a Medley of the Day and Night.  
A sportive Whirlwind lifts the moving Sand,  
In my stick Circles dancing on the Land.  
Now wanton Feathers whiten all the Flood;  
And sapless Leaves fly o'er the shaken Wood,  
At distance black'ning in a dusky Cloud.  
But when a new-fledged Storm comes blust'ring forth,  
And quits the thundering Regions of the North:  
When East and West in distant Poles conspire,  
Uniting Rage, to swell the Deluge higher,  
With rapid Streams the full-charged Channels flow,  
Collecting Forces as they farther go.  
Th' unruly Tide no sturdy Banks control,  
O'er unknown Plains the furious Torrents roll.  
The Reapers mourn to see the Deluge bear  
Their long expected Labours of the Year.   



LA jeune Iris aux cheveux gris  
Disoit à Theodate,  
Retournons, mon cher à Paris,  
Avant que l'on combatte;   

Vous me donnés trop de souci,  
Car Guillaume ne raille.  
Helas! que feriez-vous icy?  
Le jour d'une bataille.   

Il est uray que vous partirés  
Sans Lauriers & sans Gloire,  
Et que vous Embarrasserés  
Ceux qui font Vôtre Histoire;   

Mais vous deués laisser ces soins  
A D'Espreaux & Corneille;  
Vous ne les payeriés pas moins,  
Quand vous feriés merveille,   

Vous punirez une autre fois  
Ces gens qui m'ont pillée.  
Qu'elle honte qu'à Charleroy  
Ils m'ûssent ameneé!   

Quoy que je sois ainée de vous,  
Et que je sois bien sage,  
Jaurois passé parmy ces fous  
Pour un Rebut de Page.    

A Paraphrase on the French.  

IN Gray-haired Celia's withered Arms  
Whilst Mighty Lewis lay,  
She cried, if I have any Charms,  
My Dearest let's away.   

I tremble for you when I hear  
Of Drums the dreadful Rattle:  
Alas, Sir! what should you do here  
In dreadful day of battle.   

Perhaps you'll ask what can repair  
The Ruins of your Glory:  
'Tis fit you leave so mean a Care  
To those who Pen your Story.   

Are not D'Espreaux and Corneile paid  
For Panegyric writing?  
They know how Heroes may be made  
Without the help of fight.   

Your Foes too saucily approach,  
'Tis best to leave them fairly:  
Put six good Horses in your Coach,  
And carry Me to Marly.   

Let Bousters, to secure your Fame,  
Go take some Town, or buy it;  
Whilst you, great Sir, at Notre dame,  
Te Deum sing in quiet.     

A SONG  BY Sir JOHN ETON. 

1.  
TEll me not I my time misspend,  
'Tis time lost to reprove me;  
Pursue thou thine, I have my end  
So Chloris only love me.   

2.  
Tell me not others Flocks are full,  
Mine poor, ' let them despise me  
Who more abound with Milk and Wool, '  
So Chloris only prise me.   

3.  
Tyre others easier Ears with these  
Unappertaining Stories;  
He never felt the World's Disease  
Who cared not for its Glories.   

4.  
For pity Thou that wiser art,  
Whose thoughts lie wide of mine;  
Let me alone with my own Heart,  
And I'll ne'er envy thine.   

5.  
Nor blame him who e'er blames my Wit,  
That seeks no higher Prize,  
Than in unenvied Shades to sit,  
And sing of Chloris Eyes.    

Another SONG In Imitation of Sir JOHN EATON's Songs.  By the Late Earl of ROCHESTER. 

TOO late, alas! I must confess  
You need no Arts to move me:  
Such Charms by Nature you possess,  
'Twere madness not to love you.   

Then spare a Heart you may surprise,  
And give my Tongue the Glory  
To boast, tho' my unfaithful Eyes  
Betray a kinder Story.    

A SONG  BY SIDNY GODOLPHIN, Esq ON Tom. Killigrew and Will. Murrey. 

1.  
TOM and Will were Shepherds twain,  
Who Lived and Loved together,  
Till Fair Pastora crossed the Plain,  
Alack, why came the thither!  
Pastora's Fair and Lovely Locks  
Set both their Hearts on fire,  
Although they did divide their Flocks,  
They had but one desire.   

2.  
Tom came of a Gentile Race,  
By Father and by Mother,  
Will was Noble, but alas,  
He was a Younger Brother.  
Neither of them no Huntsman was,  
No Fisher, nor no Fowler;  
Tom was styled the properer Lad,  
But Will the better Bowler.   

3.  
Tom would Drink her Health and Swear,  
The Nation could not want her;  
Will would take her by the Ear,  
And with his Voice Enchant her.  
Tom was always in her sight,  
And ne'er forgot his Duty;  
Will was Witty, and could write  
Sweet Sonnets on her Beauty.   

4.  
Which of them she Loved most,  
Or whither she Loved either;  
'twas thought they found it to their cost,  
That she indeed Loved neither.  
And yet she was so sweet a She,  
So comely of behaviour;  
That Tom thought He, and Will thought He,  
Was greatest in her Favour.   

5.  
Pastora was a Beauteous Lass,  
Of a charming sprightly Nature,  
Divinely Good and Kind she was,  
And smiled on every Creature.  
Of Favours she was provident,  
But yet not over sparing,  
She gave no loose Encouragement,  
Yet kept Men from despairing.   

6.  
Now flying Fame had made report  
Of Fair Pastora's Beauty,  
That she must needs unto the Court,  
There to perform her Duty.  
Unto the Court Pastora's gone,  
(It were no Court without her,)  
The Queen herself, with all her Train,  
Had none so Fair about her.   

7.  
Tom hung his Dog, and flung away  
His Sheephook and his Wallet;  
Will broke his Pipes, and cursed the day  
That e'er he made a Ballet.  
Their Ninepins and their Bowls they broke,  
Their Tunes were turned to Tears,  
'Tis time for me to make an end,  
Let them go shake their Ears.    

RONDELAY.  BY Mr. DRYDEN. 

1.  
CHLOE found Amyntas lying  
All in Tears, upon the Plain;  
Sighing to himself, and crying,  
Wretched I, to love in vain!  
Kiss me, Dear, before my dying;  
Kiss me once, and ease my pain!   

2.  
Sighing to himself, and crying  
Wretched I, to love in vain:  
Ever scorning and denying  
To reward your faithful Swain:  
Kiss me, Dear, before my dying;  
Kiss me once, and ease my pain!   

3.  
Ever scorning, and denying  
To reward your faithful Swain;  
Chloe, laughing at his crying,  
Told him that he loved in vain:  
Kiss me, Dear, before my dying;  
Kiss me once, and ease my pain!   

4.  
Chloe, laughing at his crying,  
Told him that he loved in vain:  
But repenting, and complying,  
When he kissed, she kissed again:  
Kissed him up, before his dying;  
Kissed him up, and eased his pain.    

In a Letter to the Honourable Mr. Charles Montague.  By Mr. PRIOR. 

1.  
Howe'er, 'tis well, that whilst Mankind,  
Through Fate's Fantastic Mazes errs,  
He can imagined Pleasures find,  
To combat against real Cares.   

2.  
Fancies and Notions we pursue,  
Which ne'er had Being but in thought;  
And like the doting Artist woe,  
The Image we ourselves have wrought.   

3.  
Against Experience we believe,  
And argue against Demonstration;  
Pleased that we can ourselves deceive,  
And set our Judgement by our Passion.   

4.  
The hoary Fool, who, many Days,  
Has struggled with continued Sorrow,  
Renews his Hope, and blindly lays  
The desperate Bet upon to Morrow.   

5.  
To Morrow comes, 'tis Noon, 'tis Night,  
This day like all the former fled;  
Yet on he runs to seek Delight  
To Morrow, till too Night he's dead.   

6.  
Our Hopes, like towering Falcons, aim  
At Objects in an Airy height,  
But all the Pleasure of the Game,  
Is afar off to view the Flight.   

7.  
The worthless Prey but only shows,  
The Joy consisted in the Strife;  
whate'er we take, as soon we lose,  
In Homer's Riddle, and in Life.   

8.  
So whilst in Fev'rish Sleeps we think  
We taste what waking we desire,  
The Dream is better than the Drink,  
Which only feeds the sickly Fire.   

9  
To the Minds Eye things well appear,  
At distance through an artful Glass;  
Bring but the flattering Objects near,  
They're all a senseless gloomy Mass.   

10.  
Seeing aright, we see our Woes,  
Than what avails it to have Eyes?  
From Ignorance our Comfort flows,  
The only wretched are the Wise.   

11.  
We wearied should lie down in Death,  
This Cheat of Life would take no more;  
If you thought Fame but stinking Breath,  
I, Phillis but a perjured Whore.    

An ODE.  By Mr. PRIOR 

1.  
WHilst blooming Youth and gay Delight  
In all thy Looks and Gestures shine;  
Thou hast, my Dear, undoubted Right  
To Rule this destined Heart of mine;  
My Reason bends to what your Eyes ordain,  
For I was born to love, and you to reign.   

2.  
But would you meanly then rely  
On Power, you know I must obey;  
'Tis but a Legal Tyranny  
To do an Ill, because you may.  
Why must I thee, as Atheists Heaven adore,  
Not see thy Mercy, and but dread thy Power.   

3.  
Take heed, my Dear, Youth flies apace,  
Time equally with Love is blind;  
Soon must those Glories of thy Face  
The Fate of Vulgar Beauty find.  
The thousand Loves that arm thy potent Eye,  
Must drop their Quivers, flag their Wings, and die.   

4.  
Then thou wilt sigh, when in each Frown  
A hateful wrinkle more appears;  
And putting peevish humours on,  
Seems but the sad effect of Years:  
Even Kindness then too weak a Charm will prove  
To raise the Ghost of my departed Love.   

5.  
Forced Compliments and formal Bows  
Will show Thee Just above Neglect,  
The heat with which thy Lover glows  
Will settle into cold Respect;  
A talking dull Platonic I shall turn,  
Learn to be civil, when I cease to burn.   

6.  
Then eat the ill, and know, my Dear,  
Kindness and Constancy will prove  
The only Pillars fit to bear  
So vast a weight as that of Love:  
If thou canst wish to make my Flames endure,  
Thine must be very fierce, and very pure.   

7.  
Haste Celia, haste, whilst Love invites,  
Obey the Godhead's gentle Voice,  
Fill every Sense with soft Delights,  
And give thy Soul a loose to Joys;  
Let millions of repeated Blisses prove  
That thou art Kindness all, and I all love.   

8.  
Be mine, and only mine, take care to guide  
Your Looks, your Thoughts, your Dreams  
To me alone, nor come so far,  
As liking any Youth beside:  
What Men ere court thee, fly 'em, and believe  
They're Serpents all, and thou the tempted Eve.   

9  
So shall I court thy dearest Truth  
When Beauty ceases to engage;  
And thinking on thy charming Youth,  
I'll love it o'er again in Age.  
So time itself our Raptures shall improve,  
And still we'll wake to Joy, and live to Love.    

TO A LADY of Quality's Playing on the Lute.  By Mr. PRIOR. 

WHat Charms you have, from what high Race you sprung,  
Have been the Subject of our Daring Song;  
But when you pleased to show the labouring Muse  
What greater Themes your Music could produce;  
Our Babbling Praises we repeat no more,  
But hear, rejoice, stand silent, and adore.   

The Persians thus, first gazing on the Sun,  
Admired how high 'twas placed, how bright it shone;  
But, as his Power was known, their Thoughts were raised,  
And soon they worshipped, what at first they praised.   

Eliza's Glory lives in Spencer's Song,  
And Cowley's Verse keeps fair Orinda young:  
That you in Beauty, and in Birth excel,  
The Muse might dictate, and the Poet tell;  
Your Art, no other Art can speak, and you,  
To show how well you play, must play anew:  
Your music's power your Music must disclose,  
For what Light is, 'tis only Light that shows.  
Strange force of Harmony that thus Controls  
Our inmost Thoughts, and sanctifies our Souls:  
Whilst with its utmost Art your Sex could move  
Our Wonder only, or at'best our Love.  
You far beyond both these your God did place,  
That your high power might worldly thoughts destroy,  
That with your Numbers you our Zeal might raise,  
And, like himself, Communicate your Joy.  
When to your Native Heaven you shall repair,  
And with your Presence Crown the Blessings there  
Your Lute may wind its strings but little higher,  
To tune their Notes to that Immortal Quire.  
Your Art is perfect here, your Numbers do,  
More than our Books, make the rude Atheist know  
That there's a Heaven, by what he heàrs below.  
As in some Piece, whilst Luke his Skill expressed,  
A Cunning Angel came and drew the rest:  
So, whilst you play, some Godhead does impart  
Harmonious aid, Divinity helps Art;  
Some Cherub finishes what you begun,  
And to a Miracle improves a Tune.   

To burning Rome when frantic Nero played,  
Viewing your Face, no more he had surveyed  
The reigning flames, but struck with strange surprise,  
Confess 'em less than those of Anna's Eyes.  
But, had he heard thy Lute, he soon had found  
His Rage eluded, and his Crime atoned;  
Thine, like Amphion's Hand had raised the Stone,  
And from Destruction called a Fairer Town;  
Malice to Music had been forced to yield,  
Nor could he Burn so fast, as thou couldst Build.    

An EPITAPH ON THE Lady WHITMORE.  BY Mr. DRYDEN. 

FAir, Kind, and True, a Treasure each alone;  
A Wife, a Mistress, and a Friend in one;  
Rest in this Tomb, raised at thy Husband's cost,  
Here sadly summing, what he had, and lost.   

Come Virgins, e'er in equal Bands you join,  
Come first and offer at her Sacred Shrine;  
Pray but for half the Virtues of this Wife,  
Compound for all the rest, with longer Life,  
And wish your Vows, like hers may be returned,  
So Loved when Living, and when Dead so Mourned.    

AN EPITAPH, ON Sir Palms Fairborne's TOMB IN Westminster - Abbey.  By Mr. DRYDEN. 
Sacred To the Immortal Memory of Sir Palms Fairborne, Knight, Governor of Tangier; in execution of which Command he was mortally wounded by a Shot from the Moors, then Besieging the Town, in the 46th. year of his Age. October 24th. 1680.  
YE Sacred Relics which your Marble keep,  
Here undisturbed by Wars in quiet sleep:  
Discharge the trust which when it was below  
Fairborne's undaunted Soul did undergo,  
And be the Towns Palladium from the Foe.  
Alive and dead these Walls he will defend,  
Great Actions great Examples must attend.  
The Candian Siege his early Valour knew,  
Where Turkish Blood did his young hands imbrue.  
From thence returning with deserved Applause,  
Against the Moors his well-fleshed Sword be draws;  
The same the Courage, and the same the Cause.  
His Youth and Age, his Life and Death combine,  
As in some great and regular design,  
All of a Piece throughout, and all Divine.  
Still nearer Heaven his Virtues shone more bright,  
Like rising flames expanding in their height,  
The Martyr's Glory Crowned the Soldiers Fight.  
More bravely British General never fell,  
Nor General's Death was e'er revenged so well,  
Which his pleased Eyes beheld before their close,  
Followed by thousand Victims of his Foes.  
To his lamented loss for time to come,  
His pious Widow Consecrates this Tomb.   

To the Reverend Dr. SHERLOCK, Dean of St. Paul's; ON His Practical Discourse Concerning DEATH.  BY Mr. PRIOR. 

FOrgive the Muse, who in unhallowed Strains  
The Saint one Moment from his God detains:  
For sure, what e'er you do, where e'er you are,  
'Tis all but one good Work, one constant Prayer.  
Forgive her: and entreat that God, to whom  
Thy favoured Vows with kind acceptance come,  
To raise her Numbers to that blessed Degree  
That suits a Song of Piety and Thee.   

Wondrous good Man! whose Labours may repel  
The force of Sin, may stop the Rage of Hell:  
Who, like the Baptist, from thy God wert sent  
To be the Voice, and bid the World repent:  
Thee, Youth shall study; and no more engage  
His flattering Wishes for uncertain Age;  
No more, with fruitless Care, and cheated Strife,  
Chase fleeting Pleasure through this Maze of Life;  
Finding the wretched All He here can have  
But present Food, and but a future Grave;  
Each, great as Philip's Son, shall sit and view  
This sordid World, and, weeping, ask a New.  
Decrepit Age shall read Thee, and confess  
Thy Labours can assuage, where medicine's cease:  
Shall bless thy Words, their wounded Souls relief  
The drops that sweeten their last Dregs of Life;  
Shall look to Heaven, and laugh at all beneath,  
Own Riches gathered Trouble; Fame, a breath;  
And Life an Ill, whose only Cure is Death.  
Thy even thoughts with so much plainness flow,  
Their Sense untutored Infancy may know,  
Yet to that height is all that plainness wrought,  
Wit may admire, and lettered Pride be taught:  
Easie in words thy Style, in Sense sublime,  
On its blessed Steps each Age and Sex may rise,  
'Tis like the Ladder in the Patriarch's Dream,  
Its foot on Earth, its height beyond the Skies.  
Diffused its Virtue, boundless is its Power,  
'Tis public Health, and Universal Cure:  
Of Heavenly Manna 'tis a second Feast,  
A Nation's Food, and All to every taste.   

To its last height mad Brittain's Gild was reared,  
And various Deaths for various Crimes she feared;  
With your kind Works her drooping Hopes revive,  
You bid her read, repent, adore, and live.  
You wrest the Bolt from heavens avenging hand,  
Stop ready Death, and save a sinking Land.  
O save us still! still bless us with thy stay!  
O want thy Heaven, till we have learned the way!  
Refuse to leave thy destined Charge too soon,  
And for the Church's good, defer thy own!  
O live! and let thy Works urge our belief!  
Live to explain thy Doctrine by thy Life;  
Till future Infancy, baptised by thee,  
Grow ripe in Years, and old in Piety,  
Till Christians, yet unborn, be taught to die;  
Then in full Age, and hoary Holiness  
Retire, great Teacher, to thy promised Bliss:  
Untouched thy Tomb, uninjured be thy Dust,  
As thy own Fame amongst the future Just,  
Till in last Sounds the dreaded Trumpet speaks,  
Till Judgement calls, and quickened Nature wakes,  
Till through the utmost Earth, and deepest Sea  
Our scattered Atoms find their hidden way,  
In haste to clothe their Kindred Souls again,  
Perfect our State, and build Immortal Man:  
Then fearless, Thou, who well sustain'dst the Fight,  
To Paths of Joy, and Worlds of endless Light,  
Led up all those who heard thee, and believed;  
'Midst thy own Flock, great Shepherd, be received,  
And glad all Heaven with Millions thou hast saved.    

ON EXODUS 3. 14. I am that I am. A Pindaric ODE.  BY Mr. PRIOR. 

MAN! foolish Man!  
Scarce knowst thou how thyself began,  
Scarce hast thou Thought enough to prove Thou art,  
Yet steeled with studied boldness, thou dar'st try  
To send thy doubting Reason's dazzled Eye  
Through the mysterious Gulf of vast Immensity.  
Much thou canst there discern, and much impart,  
Vain Wretch! suppress thy knowing Pride,  
Mortify thy Learned Lust;  
Vain are thy thoughts, whilst thou thyself art Dust.  
Wisdom her Oars, and Wit her Sails may lend,  
The Helm let Politic Experience guide,  
Yet cease to hope, thy short-lived Bark shall ride  
Down spreading Fate's unnavigable Tide.  
What tho' still it farther tend?  
Still 'tis further from its end,  
And in the bosom of that boundless Sea  
Loses itself, and its increasing way.   

2.  
With daring Pride and insolent Delight  
You boast your Doubts resolved, your Labours crowned,  
And 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 your God, forsooth, is found  
Incomprehensible and Infinite.  
But is he therefore found? Vain Searcher! no:  
Let your imperfect Definition show  
That nothing less than nothing you the weak Definer know.   

3.  
Say why should the collected Main  
Itself within itself contain?  
Why to its Caverns should it sometimes creep,  
And with delighted Silence sleep  
On the loved Bosom of its Parent Deep?  
Why should its numerous Waters stay  
In comely Discipline, and fair Array,  
Prepared to meet its high Commands,  
And with diffused Obedience spread  
Their opening Ranks o'er Earth's submissive head:  
And march through different Paths to different Lands?  
Why should the constant Sun  
With measured steps his Radiant Journeys run?  
Why does he order the Diurnal Hours  
To leave Earth's other part, and rise in ours?  
Why does he wake the correspondent Moon,  
And, filling her willing Lamp with liquid Light,  
Commanding her with delegated Power  
To beautify the World, and bless the Night?  
Why should each animated Star  
Love the just Limits of its proper Sphere?  
Why should each consenting Sign  
With prudent Harmony combine  
To keep in order, and gird up the regulated Year?   

4.  
Man does with dangerous Curiosity  
These unfathomed Wonders try,  
With fancied Rules and Arbitrary Laws,  
Matter and Motion he restrains,  
And studied Lines and fictious Circles draws;  
Then with imagined Sovereignty  
Lord of his new Hypothesis he reigns.  
He reigns: how long? till some Usurper rise,  
And he too, mighty Thoughtful, mighty Wise,  
Studies new Lines, new Circles feigns,  
On tother's Ruin rears his Throne,  
And showing his mistakes, maintains his own.  
Well then! from this new toil what Knowledge flows!  
Just as much, perhaps, as shows  
That former Searchers were but bookish Fools,  
Their choice Remarks, their Darling Rules,  
But canting Error all, and Jargon of the Schools.   

5.  
Through the aerial Seas, and watery Skies,  
Mountainous heaps of Wonders rise;  
Whose towering Strength will ne'er submit  
To Reason's Batteries, or the Mines of Wit.  
Yet still Enquiring, still Mistaking Man,  
Each hour repulsed, each hour dare onward press,  
And levelling at God his wand'ring Guests,  
(That feeble Engine of his Reasoning War,  
Which guides his Doubts, and combats his  
Despair,)  
Laws to his Maker the learned Wretch can give,  
Can bond that Nature, and prescribe that Will,  
Whose pregnant Word did either Ocean fill,  
And tell us how all Being's are, and how they move and live.  
Vain Man! that pregnant Word sent forth again,  
Through either Ocean,  
Might to a World extend each Atom there;  
And for each drop call forth a Sea, a Heaven for every Star.   

6.  
Let cunning Earth her fruitful Wonders hide,  
And only lift thy staggering Reason up  
To trembling Calvary's astonished top;  
The mock thy Knowledge, and confound thy Pride,  
By telling thee, Perfection suffered Pain,  
An Eternal Essence died;  
Death's Vanquisher by vanquished Death was slain,  
The promised Earth profaned with Deicide.  
Then down with all thy boasted Volumes down,  
Only reserve the Sacred One;  
Low, reverently low,  
Make thy stubborn Knowledge bow;  
Weep out thy Reason's, and thy Body's Eyes,  
Deject thyself, that thou may'st rise;  
And to see Heaven be blind to all below.  
Then Faith, for Reason's glimmering light, shall give  
Her Immortal Perspective;  
And Grace's presence Nature's loss retrieve:  
Then thy enlivened Soul shall know  
That all the Volumes of Philosophy,  
With all their Comments, never could invent  
So politic an Instrument,  
So fit, as Jacob's Ladder was to scale the distant Sky.    

THE Last parting OF Hector and Andromache. FROM THE six BOOK OF Homer's Iliads. Translated from the Original  BY Mr. DRYDEN. 
ARGUMENT.  
Hector, returning from the Field of Battle, to visit Helen his Sister-in-Law, and his Brother Paris, who had fought unsuccessfully hand to hand, with Menelaus', from thence goes to his own Palace to see his Wife Andromache, and his Infant Son Astyanax. The description of that Interview, is the Subject of this Translation.  

THus having said, brave Hector went to see  
His Virtuous Wife, the fair Andromache.  
He found her not at home; for she was gone  
(Attended by her Maid and Infant Son,)  
To climb the steepy Tower of Ilium.  
From whence with heavy Heart she might survey  
The bloody business of the dreadful Day.  
Her mournful Eyes she cast around the Plain,  
And sought the Lord of her Desires in vain.   

But he, who thought his peopled Palace bare,  
When she, his only Comfort, was not there;  
Stood in the Gate, and asked of every one,  
Which way she took, and whither she was gone:  
If to the Court, or with his Mother's Train,  
In long Procession to Minerva's Fane?  
The Servants answered, neither to the Court  
Where Priam's Sons and Daughters did resort,  
Nor to the Temple was she gone, to move  
With Prayers the blue-eyed Progeny of Jove;  
But, more solicitous for him alone,  
Than all their safety, to the Tower was gone,  
There to survey the Labours of the Field;  
Where the Greeks conquer, and the Trojans yield.  
Swiftly she passed, with Fear and Fury wild,  
The Nurse went lagging after with the Child.   

This heard, the Noble Hector made no stay;  
Th'admiring Throng divide, to give him way:  
He passed through every Street, by which he came,  
And at the Gate he met the mournful Dame.   

His Wife beheld him, and with eager pace,  
Flew to his Arms, to meet a dear Embrace:  
His Wife, who brought in dower Cilicia's Crown;  
And, in herself, a greater dower alone:  
Aëtion's heir, who on the Woody Plain  
Of Hippoplacus did in Thebes reign.  
Breathless she flew, with Joy and Passion wild,  
The Nurse came lagging after with her Child.   

The Royal Babe upon her Breast was laid;  
Who, like the Morning Star, his beams displayed.  
Scamandrius was his Name which Hector gave,  
From that fair Flood which Ilion's Wall did lave:  
But him Astyanax the Trojans call,  
From his great Father who defends the Wall.   

Hector beheld him with a silent Smile,  
His tender Wife stood weeping by, the while:  
Pressed in her own, his Warlike hand she took,  
Then sighed, and thus Prophetically spoke.   

Thy dauntless Heart (which I foresee too late,)  
Too daring Man, will urge thee to thy Fate:  
Nor dost thou pity, with a Parent's mind,  
This helpless Orphan whom thou leav'st behind;  
Nor me, th' unhappy Partner of thy Bed;  
Who must in Triumph by the Greeks be led:  
They seek thy Life; and in unequal Fight,  
With many will oppress thy single Might:  
Better it were for miserable me  
To die before the Fate which I foresee.  
For ah what comfort can the World bequeath  
To Hector's Widow, after Hector's death!   

Eternal Sorrow and perpetual Tears  
Began my Youth, and will conclude my Years:  
I have no Parents, Friends, nor Brothers left;  
By stern Achilles all of Life bereft.  
Then when the Walls of Thebes he o'erthrew,  
His fatal Hand my Royal Father slew;  
He slew Action, but despoiled him not;  
Nor in his hate the Funeral Rites forgot;  
Armed as he was he sent him whole below;  
And reverenced thus the Manes of his Foe:  
A Tomb he raised; the Mountain Nymphs around,  
Enclosed with planted Elms the Holy Ground.   

My seven brave Brothers in one fatal Day  
To Death's dark Mansions took the mournful way:  
Slain by the same Achilles, while they keep  
The bellowing Oxen and the bleating Sheep.  
My Mother, who the Royal Sceptre swayed,  
Was Captive to the cruel Victor made:  
And hither led: but hence redeemed with Gold,  
Her Native Country did again behold.  
And but beheld: for soon Diana's Dart  
In an unhappy Chase transfixed her Heart.   

But thou, my Hector, art thyself alone,  
My Parents, Brothers, and my Lord in one:  
O kill not all my Kindred o'er again,  
Nor tempt the Dangers of the dusty Plain;  
But in this Tower, for our Defence, remain.  
Thy Wife and Son are in thy Ruin lost:  
This is a Husband's and a Father's Post.  
The Scoean Gate commands the Plains below;  
Here marshal all thy Soldiers as they go;  
And hence, with other Hands, repel the Foe.  
By yond wild Figtree lies their chief ascent,  
And thither all their Powers are daily bend:  
The two Ajaces have I often seen,  
And the wronged Husband of the Spartan Queen:  
With him his greater Brother; and with these  
Fierce Diomedes and bold Meriones:  
Uncertain if by Augury, or chance,  
But by this easy rise they all advance;  
Guard well that Pass, secure of all beside.  
To whom the Noble Hector thus replied.   

That and the rest are in my daily care;  
But should I shun the Dangers of the War,  
With scorn the Trojans would reward my pains,  
And their proud Ladies with their sweeping Trains.  
The Grecian Swords and Lances I can bear:  
But loss of Honour is my only Fear.  
Shall Hector, born to War, his Birthright yield,  
Belie his Courage and forsake the Field?  
Early in rugged Arms I took delight;  
And still have been the foremost in the Fight:  
With dangers dearly have I bought Renown,  
And am the Champion of my Father's Crown.   

And yet my mind forebodes, with sure presage,  
That Troy shall perish by the Grecian Rage.  
The fatal Day draws on, when I must fall;  
And Universal Ruin cover all.  
Not Troy itself, tho' built by Hands Divine,  
Nor Priam, nor his People, nor his Line,  
My Mother, nor my Brothers of Renown,  
Whose Valour yet defends th' unhappy Town,  
Not these, nor all their Fates which I foresee,  
Are half of that concern I have for thee.  
I see, I see thee in that fatal Hour,  
Subjected to the Victor's cruel Power:  
Led hence a Slave to some insulting Sword:  
Forlorn and trembling at a Foreign Lord.  
A spectacle in Argos, at the Loom,  
Gracing with Trojan Fights, a Grecian Room;  
Or from deep Wells, the living Stream to take,  
And on thy weary Shoulders bring it back.  
While, groaning under this laborious Life,  
They insolently call thee Hector's Wife.  
Upbraid thy Bondage with thy Husband's name;  
And from my Glory propagate thy Shame.  
This when they say, thy Sorrows will increase  
With anxious thoughts of former Happiness;  
That he is dead who could thy wrongs redress.  
But I oppressed with Iron Sleep before,  
Shall hear thy unavailing Cries no more.  
He said.  
Then, holding forth his Arms, he took his Boy,  
(The Pledge of Love, and other hope of Troy;)  
The fearful Infant turned his Head away;  
And on his Nurse's Neck reclining lay,  
His unknown Father shunning with affright,  
And looking back on so uncouth a fight.  
Daunted to see a Face with Steel o'erspread,  
And his high Plume, that nodded o'er his Head.  
His Sire and Mother-smiled with silent Joy;  
And Hector hastened to relieve his Boy;  
Dismissed his burnished Helm, that shone afar,  
(The Pride of Warriors, and the Pomp of War:)  
Th' Illustrious Babe, thus reconciled, he took:  
Hugged in his Arms, and kissed, and thus he spoke.   

Parent of Gods, and Men, propitious Jove,  
And you bright Synod of the Powers above;  
On this my son your Gracious Gifts bestow;  
Grant him to live, and great in Arms to grow:  
To Reign in Troy; to Govern with Renown:  
To shield the People, and assert the Crown:  
That, when hereafter he from War shall come,  
And bring his Trojans Peace and Triumph home,  
Some aged Man, who lives this act to see,  
And who in former times remembered me,  
May say the Son in Fortitude and Fame  
Outgoes the Mark; and drowns his Father's Name:  
That at these words his Mother may rejoice:  
And add her Suffrage to the public Voice.  
Thus having said,  
He first with suppliant Hands the Gods adored:  
Then to the Mother's Arms the Child restored:  
With Tears and Smiles she took her Son, and pressed  
Th'Illustrious Infant to her fragrant Breast.  
He wiping her fair Eyes, indulged her Grief,  
And eased her Sorrows with this last Relief.   

My Wife and Mistress, drive thy fears away;  
Nor give so bad an Omen to the Day:  
Think not it lies in any Grecian's Power,  
To take my Life before the fatal Hour.  
When that arrives, nor good nor bad can fly  
Th' irrevocable Doom of Destiny.  
Return, and to divert thy thoughts at home,  
There task thy Maids, and exercise the Loom,  
Employed in Works that Womankind become.  
The Toils of War, and Feats of Chivalry  
Belong to Men, and most of all to me.  
At this, for new Replies he did not stay,  
But laced his Crested Helm, and strode away:   

His lovely Consort to her House returned:  
And looking often back in silence mourned:  
Home when she came, her secret Woe she vents,  
And fills the Palace with her loud Laments:  
Those loud Laments her echoing Maids restore,  
And Hector, yet alive, as dead deplore.    

SYPHILIS.  
Written (IN LATIN) By that Famous POET and PHYSICIAN Fracastorius.  
ENGLISHED BY Mr. TATE.   

THE TRANSLATOR TO Dr. THO. HOBBS.  
ACcept, great Son of Art, this faint effect  
Of a most active, and unfeigned Respect:  
Numbers that yield (Alas!) too just survey  
Of Physic's growth and Poetry's decay.  
That show a generous Muse impaired by Me,  
As much as th' Author's skills outdone by Thee.  
This Indian Conqu'rer's fatal March he sung,  
To the same Lyre his own Apollo strung;  
Whose Notes yet failed the Monster to assuage,  
Revenging Here, invading Spaniard's Rage.  
Dear was the Conquest of a new found World,  
Whose Plague e'er since through all the Old is hurled.  
Had Fracastorius, who in Numbers told  
(Numbers more rich than those new Lands of Gold)  
This great Destroyer's Progress, seen this Age  
And thy Success against the Tyrant's Rage,  
Bembus, had then been no immortal Name,  
Thou and thy Art had challenged all his Flame!  
Thou driv'st th' Usurper to his last Retreats,  
Repairing as Thou go'st the ruin'd Seats:  
Thus while the Foe is by thy Art removed,  
The Holds are strengthened, and the Soil improved.  
Thy happy Conquest does at once Expel  
Th' Invader's force, and inbred Factions quell.  
Thy Patients and Augusta's fate's the same,  
To rise more fair and lasting for the Flame:  
While meaner Artists this bold Task essay,  
I'th' little World of Man they lose their way.  
Thou knowst the secret Passes to each Part,  
And, skilled in Nature, canst not fail in Art.   

THE LIFE OF Fracastorius.  
FRacastorius was descended from the Fracastorian Family of great Antiquity in Verona. He seemed not only to rival the Fame of Catullus and Pliny, who had long before made that City renowned, but to have very far exceeded all his Contemporaries, for Learning and Poetry. His Parents were Paulo-Philippus Fracastorius, and Camilla Mascarellia, both of great Reputation. He was so well educated by his Father, that he gave early proofs of a great Genius, so that in his Childhood all men conceived hopes of an extraordinary man. Nor was Providence wanting to give him a signal Testimony, forasmuch as when he was an Infant in the Arms of his Mother, a sudden Tempest arising, in which the Mother was struck dead by Lightning, the Child received no harm. He was sent for literature while very young to Milan, where even in that Age with indefatigable labour, he opened his way to that height of Glory which he afterwards attained: After the initiatory Arts he applied himself to the secrets of distinct Sciences, but infinitely delighted with the Mathematics, in all, assisted by a Memory equal to his Ingenuity. After several years spent in Philosophical studies under the Tutorship of Peter Pomponatius of Mantua; he devoted himself by the dictates of his Genius to Physic, with such resolution and success, that in the School disputations, not only his fellow Students, but most experienced Doctors, were sensible that he was designed by Providence for great Undertake. Accordingly they then gave him the honour of the Pulpit, which had never before been permitted to any person till they had perfected their studies, and were arrived to the years of Manhood. This School being dissolved by the breaking out of the War, while he had thoughts of returning to his Country (his Father being then dead) he was on honourable conditions invited by Livianus, General of the Venetian Forces, and a noble Patron of Wit, to the College Forojuliensis, etc.— and lodged in the same apartment of Andrea Naugerus and Johannes Cottac, two excellent Poets. He had not long resided here before he published Verses on every extraordinary Occasion that happened, which were received with such general applause throughout Italy, that their fame has to this day stifled the performances of his Companions. Having afterwards accompanied Livianus through many Wars, the General being at last overthrown and taken Prisoner by the French at Abdua; he returned late into his native Country, where in the general devastation he found his Patrimony almost utterly destroyed.  
He married, but was soon unhappy in the loss of two Sons, whose untimely Death he bewailed in a most passionate Elegy. He was low of Stature, but of good bulk, his Shoulders broad, his Hair black and long, his Face round, his Eyes black, his Nose short and turning upwards by his continual contemplation of the Stars, a lively air was spread over his Countenance, that displayed the Serenity and Ingenuity of his Mind. He affected a quiet and private life, as being a Man free from abmitious desires; contenting himself with a moderate fortune, and placing his happiness in improvement of his knowledge. He was cheerful though frugal at his Table, having a constant regard to his health; his Wit being always the best part of his Banquet. He was notwithstanding sparing in his Speech, and affecting no vanity in his Dress: he was never censorious of other men's performances, but always glad of an occasion to commend; for which he was deservedly celebrated by Johannes Baptista in a noble Epigram. He spent his time in curing the diseased, a divine Power seeming always to attend his endeavours, above the sordid desire of gain, and thought himself best rewarded in the health of his Patient. By these means he contracted many friendships, and had (deservedly) no Enemy.  
He was not only esteemed for his skill in his own Country, but was sought to by foreign Princes in desperate sickness, for which though vast rewards were offered, he brought nothing home beside their Friendship.  
In his leisure he diverted himself with reading History, at which time Polybius, or Plutarch were never out of his hands. He sometimes relieved his Studies with Mathematics and Music, and made no ●mall performances in Cosmography. He was much alone, yet always employed; and though by reason of his backwardness to discourse, he seemed of a Saturnine Temper, yet none were more cheerful and pleasant when entered into Conversation. He performed wonders by his exact knowledge of Herbs and Simples, by searching the best Books of the Ancients. That most excellent Antidote called Diascordium, was of his preparing; we are likewise beholding to his judgement for specifying many useful Herbs, of which the Ancients had left uncertain description. The Age in which he lived saw nothing equal to his Learning, but his honesty. In his retreat from the City, while the Pestilence raged, he found leisure to compose the following Poem, a work of such elegance, that Sanazarius freely acknowledged it to excel his own, De partu Virgins, that had cost him above twenty years' labour and correction. His Treatises in Prose and efforts of Poetry are too numerous to be recited on this occasion.  
In all which he affected so little vanity, that he never preserved a Copy; and we are beholding for what are extant, to the Industry of his Friends that collected them after his death.  
He was above 70 years old when he died, which was by an Apoplexy that seized him while he was at Dinner at his Country seat. He was Sensible of his malady, though speechless, often putting his Hand upon the top of his Head, by which sign he would have had his Servants administer a Cupping-Glass to the part affected, by which he had formerly cured a Nun in Verona, labouring under the same Distemper. But his Domestics, not conceiving his meaning, applied first one thing and then another, till in the Evening he gently Expired. He was Interred at Verona: His Statue, together with that of Andrea Naugerus, delicately cast in Brass, was erected in the School of Milan by Johannes Baptista Rhamnusius. His fellow Citizens of Verona, not to be behind Rhamnusius in respect (two years after the erecting the brazen Statue in Milan) set up his Image in marble at Verona, in imitation of their Ancestors, who had performed the same honour to their Catullus and Pliny; with Laurel round their Heads.   

TO His Friend, The Writer of the ENSUING TRANSLATION.  
WEll has thy Fate directed thee to choose  
An Author, worthy of the noblest Muse:  
His learned Pen has, what was long unknown,  
In Roman language, like a Roman shown.  
And thine as sweet, in British numbers taught  
The Labours of his vast Poetic thought.  
Of Earth, of Seas, of putrid Air He sung,  
To search from whence that dire Contagion sprung,  
Which now does worse than fellest Plagues deface  
The beauteous Form of God's resembling Race.  
From the Malignant influence of the Skies,  
'Tis sure the Seeds of most Diseases rise.  
But if this merciless, consuming Flame,  
From Vapours, or infectious Planets came;  
Why raged it not much more in ancient Times,  
From Exhalations of impurer Climes?  
Besides; no settled Consequence can spring  
From whatsoever contingent Causes bring.  
The raging Pestilence, that long lays waste  
The spotted Prey, devours itself at last.  
And sure had this been ne'er so strong entailed,  
The vile succession must e'er now have failed.  
Blame not the Stars; 'tis plain it neither fell  
From the distempered Heavens, nor rose from Hell.  
Nor need we to the distant Indies room;  
The cursed Originals are nearer home.  
Whence should that foul infectious Torment flow,  
But from the baneful source of all our woe?  
That wheedling, charming Sex, that draws us in  
To every punishment and every sin.  
While Man, by heavens command, and Nature led,  
Through this vast Globe his Maker's Image spread;  
The Godlike Figure formed in every Womb  
Prolific stems, for Ages yet to come.  
Uncurst, because he did not vainly toil,  
On barren Mountains, or impregnant soil;  
Healthful and vigorous, He, o'er the face  
Of the wide Earth, dispersed the Sacred race.  
But now, that Tribe, who all our Rights invade,  
Pervert the wise Decrees which Nature made.  
Prompt to all ill, Insatiately they fire  
At every pampered Brutes untamed desire:  
And while they prostitute themselves to more  
Than Eastern Kings had concubines before;  
The foul Promiscuous Coition breeds,  
Like jarring Elements, those poisonous seeds,  
Which all the dreadful host of Symptoms bring;  
And with one cursed Disease a Legion spring.  
Were the decayed, degenerate race of Man,  
Untainted now, as when it first began;  
And there were no such torturing Plague on Earth,  
The first inconstant Wretch would give it birth.  
eat her, as you would fly from splitting Rocks;  
Not Wolves so fatal are to tender Flocks:  
Though round the world the dire Contagion flew,  
She'll poison more, than e'er Pandora slew.   

A POETICAL HISTORY OF THE FRENCH DISEASE.  
THrough what adventures this unknown Disease  
So lately did astonished Europe seize,  
Through Asian Coasts and Libyan Cities ran,  
And from what Seeds the Malady began,  
Our Song shall tell: To Naples first it came  
From France, and justly took from France his Name,  
Companion of the War—  
The Methods next of Cure we shall express,  
The wondrous Wit of Mortals in distress:  
But when their Skill too faint Resistance made,  
We'll show the Gods descending to their aid.  
To reach the secret Causes we must rise  
Above the Clouds, and travel o'er the Skies.  
The daring Subject let us then pursue,  
Transported with an Argument so new,  
While springing Groves and tunefuli Birds invite,  
And Muses that in wondrous Themes delight.  
O Bembus, Ornament of Italy,  
If yet from Cares of State thou canst be free,  
If Leo's Councils yet can spare thy skill,  
And let the Business of the World stand still;  
O steal a visit to those cool retreats,  
The Muse's dearest most frequented Seats;  
And, gentle Bembus, do not there disdain  
A Member of the Esculapian Train,  
Attempting Physics practice to rehearse,  
And clothing low Experiments in Verse.  
A God instructs, these mysteries of old  
By great Apollo's self in equal strains were told.  
The smallest objects oft attract our Eyes,  
But here, beneath a small appearance, lies  
A Source, that greatest wonder will create,  
Of Nature much and very much of Fate.  
But thou, Urania, who alone canst trace  
First Causes, measure out the Starry space;  
That knowst the Planet's number, force and use,  
And what Effects the varied Orbs produce:  
So may the Spheres thy Heavenly Course admire,  
The Stars with envy at thy Beams retire;  
As thou a while shalt Condescend to dwell,  
With me on Earth, and make this Grove thy Cell;  
While Zephyrus, can my head, with Myrtle bound,  
And imitating Rocks my Song resound.  
Say, Goddess, to what Cause we shall at last  
Assign this Plague, unknown to Ages past;  
If from the Western Climes 'twas wafted o'er,  
When daring Spaniards left their Native shore;  
Resolved beyond th' Atlantic to descry,  
Conjectured Worlds, or in the search to die.  
For Fame Reports this Grief perpetual there,  
From Skies infected and polluted Air:  
From whence 'tis grown so Epidemical,  
Whole Cities Victims to its Fury fall;  
Few escape, for what relief where vital Breath,  
The Gate of Life, is made the Road of death?  
If then by Traffic thence this Plague was brought,  
How Dear Dear was that Traffic bought!  
This Prodigy of sickness, weak at first,  
(Like Infant Tyrants and in secret Nursed)  
When once confirmed, with sudden rage breaks forth  
And scatters desolation through the Earth.  
So while the Shepherd travelling through the dark  
Strikes his dim Torch, some unsuspected Spark  
Falls in the Stubble, where it smothers long  
But by degrees becomes at last so strong,  
That now it spreads o'er all the Neighbouring soil,  
Devours at once the Ploughman's hope and Toil;  
The sacred Grove next Sacrifice must be,  
Nor Jove can save his dedicated Tree;  
The Grove Foments its Rage from whence it flies  
In curling flames and seems to fire the Skies.  
Yet observation rightly taken draws  
This new Distemper from some newer Cause;  
Nor Reason can allow that this Disease,  
Came first by Commerce from beyond the Seas;  
Since instances in divers Lands are shown,  
To whom all Indian Traffic is unknown:  
Nor could th' Infection from the Western Clime  
Seize distant Nations at the self same time;  
And in Remoter parts begin its Reign,  
As fierce and early as it did in Spain.  
What slaughter in our Italy was made  
Where Tiber's Tribute to the Oceans paid;  
Where Poe does through a hundred Cities glide,  
And pours as many Streams into the Tide.  
All at one Season, all without relief,  
Received and languished with the common grief.  
Nor can th' Infection first be charged on Spain,  
That sought new Worlds beyond the Western Main.  
Since from Pyrene's foot, to Italy,  
It shed its Bane on France, while Spain was free.  
As soon the fertile Rhine its fury found,  
And Regions with eternal Winter bound:  
Nor yet did Southern Climes its vengeance shun,  
But felt a flame more scorching than the Sun.  
The Palms of Ida now neglected stood,  
And Egypt languished while her Nile overflowed;  
From whence 'tis plain this Pest must be assigned  
To some more powerful Cause and hard to find.  
In all productions of wise Nature's hand,  
Whether Conceived in Air on Sea or Land;  
No constant method does direct her way,  
But various Being's various Laws obey;  
Such things as from few Principles arise,  
In every place and season meet our eyes;  
But what are framed of Principles abstruse,  
Such places only and such times produce.  
Effects of yet a more stupendious Birth,  
And such as Nature must with pangs bring forth,  
Where violent and various Seeds unite,  
Break slowly from the Bosom of the Night;  
Long in the Womb of Fate the Embryo's worn,  
Whole Ages pass before the Monster's born.  
Diseases thus which various Seeds compound,  
As various in their Birth and date are found.  
Some always seen, some long in darkness hurled,  
That break their chains at last to scourge the World.  
To which black List this Plague must be assigned,  
Night's foulest Birth and Terror of Mankind.  
Nor must we yet think this escape the first,  
Since former Ages with the like were cursed.  
Long since he scattered his Infernal flame,  
And always Being had, though not a Name,  
At lest what Name it bore is now unfound:  
Both Names and things in times Abyss lie drowned,  
How vainly then do we project to keep  
Our Names remembered when our Bodies sleep?  
Since late Succession searching their descent,  
Shall neither find our dust nor Monument.  
Yet where the Western Ocean finds its bound  
(The World so lately by the Spaniards found)  
Beneath this Pest the wretched Natives groan  
In every Nation there and always known,  
Such dire Effects depend upon a Clime,  
On varying Skies and long Revolving time:  
The temper of their Air this Plague brought forth,  
The Soil itself disposed for such a Birth.  
All things conspired to raise the Tyrant there,  
But time alone could fix his Conquest here.  
If therefore more distinctly we would know  
Each Source from whence this deadly Bane did flow,  
His Progress in the Earth we must survey  
How many City's groan beneath his sway.  
And when his great Advancement we have traced,  
We must allow his Principles as vast.  
That Earth nor Sea th' Ingredients could prepare  
And wholly must ascribe it to the Air,  
The Tyrant's seat, his Magazine is there.  
The Air that does both Earth and Sea surround,  
As easily can Earth and Sea confound;  
What Fence for Bodies when at every poor  
The soft Invader has an open door?  
What fence, where poison's's drawn with vital Breath,  
And Father Air the Author proves of Death?  
Of subtle substance that with ease receives  
Infection, which as easily it gives.  
Now by what means this dire Contagion first,  
Was formed aloft, by what Ingredients nursed,  
Our Song shall tell; and in this wondrous Course,  
Revolving times and varying Planets force.  
First then the Sun with all his train of Stars,  
Amongst our Elements raise endless Wars;  
And when the Planets from their Stations Range,  
Our Orb is influenced, and feels the Change.  
The chiefest instance is the Sun's retreat,  
No sooner he withdraws his vital heat,  
But fruitless Fields with Snow are covered over,  
The pretty Fountains run and talk no more.  
Yet when his Chariot to the Crab returns,  
The Air, the Earth, the very Ocean burns.  
The Queen of Night can boast no less a sway,  
At least all humid things her power obey.  
Malignant Saturn's Star as much can claim,  
With friendly Jove's, bright Mars, and Venus' flame,  
And all the host of Lights without a Name.  
Our Elements beneath their influence lie,  
Slaves to the very Rabble of the Sky.  
But most when many meet in one abode,  
Or when some Planet enters a new road,  
Far distant from the Course he used to run,  
Some mighty work of Fate is to be done.  
Long tracts of time indeed must first be spent,  
Before completion of the vast event;  
But when the Revolution once is made  
What mischiefs Earth and Sea at once Invade!  
Poor Mortals then shall all extremes sustain  
While Heaven dissolves in Deluges of Rain;  
Which from the mountains with impetuous course,  
And headlong Rage, Trees, Rocks and Towns shall force,  
O'er swelling Ganges then shall sweep the Plain,  
And peaceful Poe outroar the Stormy Main.  
In other parts the Springs as low shall lie,  
And Nymphs with Tears, exhausted streams supply.  
Where neither Drought nor Deluges destroy,  
The winds their utmost fury shall employ;  
Whlie Hurricans whole Cities shall overthrow,  
Or Earthquakes Gorge them in the depths below.  
Perhaps the Season shall arrive (if Fate  
And Nature once agree upon the date)  
When this most cultivated Earth shall be  
Unpeopled quite, or drenched beneath the Sea;  
When even the Sun another Course shall steer,  
And other Seasons constitute the year:  
The wondering North shall see the springing Vine,  
And Moors admire at Snow beneath the Line.  
New Species then of Creatures shall arise  
A new Creation Nature's self surprise.  
Then Youth shall lend fresh vigour to the Earth,  
And give a second breed of Giant's birth.  
By whom a new assault shall be performed,  
Hills heaped on Hills, and Heaven once more be stormed.  
Since Nature's then so liable to change,  
Why should we think this late Contagion strange;  
Or that the Planets where such mischiefs grow,  
Should shed their poison on the Earth below?  
Two hundred rolling years are passed away,  
Since Mars and Saturn in Conjunction lay.  
When through the East an unknown Fever Raged,  
Of strange Effects and by no Arts Assuaged;  
From suffocated Lungs with pain they drew  
Their breath, and blood for spittle did ensue;  
Four days the wretches with this Plague were grieved,  
(Oh dismal sight) and then by death relieved.  
From thence to Persia the Contagion came,  
Of whom th' Assyrians catched the spreading flame.  
Euphrates next and Tigris did complain,  
Arabia too styled happy now in vain;  
Then Phrygia mourned, from whence it crossed the Sea  
(Too small to quench its flame) to Italy.  
Then from this lower Orb with me remove  
To view the Starry Palaces above,  
Through all the Roads of wand'ring Planets rove.  
To search in what position they have stood,  
And what Conjectures were from them made good.  
To find what Signs did former times direct,  
And what the present Age is to expect:  
From hence perhaps we shall with ease descry  
The Source of this stupendious Malady.  
Behold how Cancer with portentous harms  
Before heavens Gate unfolds his threatening Arms;  
Prodigious ills must needs from thence ensue,  
In which one House we may distinctly view  
A numerous Cabal of Stars conspire,  
To hurl at once on Air their bainsull fire.  
All this the Reverend Artist did descry  
Who nightly watched the Motions of the Sky,  
Ye Gods (he cried) what does your rage prepare,  
What unknown Plague engenders in the Air?  
Besides, I see dire Wars on Europe shed,  
Ausonian Fields with Native Gore overspread.  
Thus Sung the Sage, and to prevent debate,  
In writing left the Story of our Fate.  
When any certain Course of years is run  
E'er the next Revolution be begun,  
Heaven's Method is, for Jove in all his State,  
To weigh Events and to determine Fate;  
To search the Book of destiny and show  
What change shall rise in Heaven or Earth below.  
Behold him then in awful Robes arrayed,  
And calling his known Counsel to his aid;  
Saturn and Mars the Thundering Summons call,  
The Crab's portentous Arms unlock the Hall,  
Mark with what various mien the God's repair,  
First Mars with sparkling Eyes and flaming Hair,  
So furious and addicted to Alarms,  
He dreams of Battles, though in Venus' Arms.  
But see with what august and peaceful brow  
(Of Gold his Chariot if the Fates allow)  
Great Jove appears, who does to all extend  
Impartial Justice, Heaven and Nature's friend.  
Old Saturn last with heavy pace comes on,  
Loath to obey the Summons of his Son;  
Oft going stopped, oft pendered in his mind  
Heaven's Empire lost, oft to return inclined;  
Thus, much distracted, and arriving late,  
Sits grudging down beside the Chair of State.  
Jove now unfolds what Fate's dark laws contain,  
Which Jove alone has Wisdom to Explain:  
Sees ripening Mischiefs ready to be hurled,  
And much Condoles the Sufferings of the World:  
Unfolded views deaths Adamantine Gates,  
War, Slaughters, Factions and subverted States.  
But most astonished at a new Disease,  
That must forthwith on helpless Mortals seize,  
These secrets he unfolds, and shakes the Skies:  
The Gods Condole and from the Council rise.  
Hell's Agent thus no sooner quits his Cage,  
But on the starting Spheres he hurls his rage:  
The purer Orbs disdain th' Infernal foe,  
And shake the Taint upon the Air below.  
The grosser Air receives the baneful Seeds,  
Converting to the Poison which it feeds:  
Whether the Sun from Earth this Vapour drew,  
In late Conjunction with his fiery Crew;  
Or from Fermenting Seas by Neptune sent  
In Envy to the higher Element,  
Is hard to say; or if more Powers combined,  
Sent forth this Prodigy to fright Mankind.  
The Offices of Nature to define,  
And to each Cause a true effect assign,  
Must be a Task both hard and doubtful too,  
Since various consequences oft ensue:  
Nor Nature always to herself is true.  
Some Principles shall on the Instant work,  
Whilst others shall for tedious Ages lurk:  
Besides the Power of Chance shall oft prevail,  
On Nature's force, and cause Events to fail.  
Nor is the influence of Maladies  
Less various than the Seeds from whence they rise.  
Sometimes th' infected Air hurts Trees alone,  
To grass and tender flowers pernicious known.  
The blast sometimes destroys the furrowed soil,  
With mildewed Ears not worth the Reaper's toil.  
Or if some Dale with Grain seems more enriched,  
It moulds and rots before the sheaves are pitched.  
When Earth yields store, yet oft some strange Disease  
Shall fall and only on poor cattle seize.  
Here it shall sweep the Stock, while there it sheds  
Its fury only on devoted Heads.  
My own Remembrance to this hour retains,  
An Autumn drowned with never ceasing Rains:  
Yet this Malignant Luxury the breed  
Of Goats alone did rue, the rest were freed.  
See how at break of day their number's told,  
See how the Keeper drives them from the Fold:  
Behold him next beneath a hanging Rock,  
And cheering with his Reed the browzing Flock,  
While them he charms nor is himself less pleased,  
With a sharp sudden Cough some darling Kid is seized  
The Cough his knell, for with a giddy round  
He whirls, and straight falls dead upon the ground.  
This fever thus to Goats and Kids severe  
While Autumn held, confined his Vengeance there;  
Next Spring, both lowing Herd and Bleating Flock  
At once it seized, spared none but swept the Stock:  
With such uncertainty from tainted Skies  
In Bodies placed on Earth effects arise.  
Since then by dear experiment we find  
Diseases various in their Rise and Kind:  
Of this Contagion let us take a view,  
More terrible for being Strange and new,  
That with the proudest Son of Slaughter vies,  
And claims no lower kindred than the Skies;  
And as he did aloft conceive his Flame,  
The proud Destroyer seeks no common Game,  
He scorns the well finned Sporters of the Flood,  
He scorns the well plumed Singers of the wood;  
Disdains the wanton Browzers of the Rock,  
Disdains the lowing Herd and bleating Flock;  
With Wolf or Bear, despizes to engage,  
Nor can the generous Horse provoke his rage:  
The Lords of Nature only he annoys,  
And humane frame, heavens Images, destroys.  
The blood's black viscous parts he seizes first,  
By whose malignant Aliments he's nursed;  
And e'er he can the fierce Assault begin,  
Factions of humours take his part within;  
The strongest Holds of nature thus he gains,  
Quar'tring his cruel Troops throughout the veins,  
While some more noble Seat the Tyrant's Throne contains.  
Such principles brought this Distemper forth,  
Such Aliments maintained the dreadful Birth.  
His certain signs and symptoms to rehearse,  
Is the next task of our instructing Verse.  
O, may it prove of such a lasting date,  
To conquer Time, and Triumph over Fate.  
Apollo's self inspires the useful Song,  
And all that to Apollo does belong,  
Like him, should ever, live and be for ever young.  
How shall Posterity admire our skill,  
Taught by our Muse to know the lurking ill,  
And when his dreadful Visage they behold,  
Cry, this is the Disease whose Signs of old  
Th'inspired Physician in bright numbers told.  
For though th' infernal Pest should quit the Earth,  
Absconding in the Hell, that gave it Birth;  
Yet after lazy Revolutions past  
The unsuspected Prodigy at last,  
Shall from the womb of Night once more be hurled,  
T' infect the Skies, and to amaze the World.  
What therefore seems most wondrous in his course  
Is that he should so long conceal his Force;  
For when the Foe his secret way has made,  
And in our Entrails strong detachments laid;  
Yet oft the Moon four monthly rounds shall steer  
Before convincing Symptoms shall appear;  
So long the Malady shall lurk within,  
And grow confirmed before the danger's seen;  
Yet with Disturbance to the wretch diseased,  
Who with unwonted heaviness is seized,  
With drooping Spirits, his affairs pursues,  
And all his Limbs their offices refuse,  
The cheerful glories of his Eyes decay,  
And from his Cheeks the Roses fade away,  
A leaden hue o'er all his Face is spread,  
And greater weights depress his drooping Head;  
Till by degrees the Secret parts shall show,  
By open proofs the undermining Foe;  
Who now his dreadful ensigns shall display,  
Devour, and harass in the sight of day.  
Again, when cheerful Light has left the Skies,  
And Night's ungrateful shades and Vapours rise;  
When Nature to our Spirits sounds retreat,  
And to the Vitals calls Her straggling Heat;  
When th'out works are no more of warmth possessed,  
Bloudless, and with a load of humours pressed;  
When every kind Relief's retired within,  
'Tis then the Execrable Pains begin;  
Arms, Shoulders, Legs, with restless Arches vexed,  
And with Convulsions every Nerve perplexed;  
For when through all our Veins th' Infection's spread,  
And by what e'er should feed the Body fed;  
When Nature strives the Vitals to defend,  
And all destructive humours outward send:  
These being viscous, gross and loath to start,  
In its dull March shall torture every Part;  
Whence to the Bloudless Nerves dire Pains ensue,  
At once contracted, and extended too;  
The thinner Parts will yet not stick so fast,  
But to the Surface of the Skin are cast,  
Which in foul Botches o'er the Body spread,  
Profane the Bosom, and deform the Head:  
Here Puscles in the form of Achorns swelled,  
In form alone, for these with Stench are filled,  
Whose Ripeness is Corruption, that in time,  
Disdain confinement, and discharge the slime;  
Yet oft the Foe would turn his Forces back,  
The Brawn and inmost Muscles to attack,  
And pierce so deep, that the bare Bones have been  
Betwixt the dreadful fleshy Breaches seen;  
When on the vocal parts his Rage was spent,  
Imperfect sounds, for tuneful Speech was sent.  
As on a springing Plant, you have beheld  
The juice that through the tender Bark has swelled,  
That from the Sap's more viscous part did come,  
Till by the Sun condensed into a Gumm:  
So when this Bane is once received within,  
With such Eruptions he shall force the Skin;  
And when the Humour for a time has flowed,  
Grow fixed at last, and harden to a Node.  
Hence some young Swain, as on the Rocks he stood,  
To view his Picture in the crystal Flood,  
And finding there his lovely Cheeks deformed,  
Against the Stars, against the Gods he stormed:  
Mean while the Sable Wings of Night are spread,  
And balmy Sleep on every creature shed.  
These wretches only no Repose could take,  
By this tormenting Fiend still kept Awake;  
Impatient till the Morn restored the Light,  
Then cursed her Beams, and wished again for Night.  
Ceres in vain her blessings did afford,  
In vain the flowing Goblet crowned the Board;  
No comfort they in large Possessions had,  
Of Farms, or Towns, but even in Banquets sad:  
In vain the Streams, and Meads they did frequent,  
The dismal Thought pursued wheree'er they went;  
And when for Prospect they would climb the Hill,  
The dire Remembrance Hagged their Fancy still:  
In vain the Gods themselves they did invoke,  
Adorned their Shrines, and made their Altar's smoke:  
They Bribed and Prayed, yet still reliefless lay,  
Their offered Gums consumed less fast than they.  
Shall I relate what I myself beheld,  
Where Ollius stream with gentle plenty swelled?  
In those fair Meads where Ollius cuts his way,  
A Youth of Godlike form I did survey,  
By all the World besides unparallelled,  
And even in Italy by none excelled;  
First Signs of Manhood on his Cheeks were shown,  
A tender Harvest, and but thinly sown,  
Besides those charms that did his Person grace,  
Descended from a rich and noble Race:  
What transport in Spectators did he breed,  
Mounted, and managing the fiery Steed,  
What Joy at once, and Terror did we feel,  
When he prepared for Field, and shone in Steel?  
Of equal Strength and Skill for Exercise,  
All conflicts tried, but never lost a Prize;  
Oft in the Chase his Courser he'd forgo,  
Trust his own Feet, and turn the swiftest Roe.  
For him each Nymph, for him each Goddess strove,  
Of Hill, of Plain, of Meadow, Stream and Grove;  
Nor can we doubt that in this numerous Train,  
Some One (neglected) did to Heaven complain  
Who though in vain She loved, yet did not Curse in vain;  
For whilst the Youth did to his Strength confide,  
And Nerves in every Task of hardship tried.  
This finished Piece, this celebrated Frame,  
The Mansion of a loathed Disease became:  
But of such baneful, and malignant Kind,  
As Ages passed ne'er knew, and future ne'er shall find.  
Now might you see his Spring of Youth decay,  
The Verdure die, the Blossoms fall away;  
The foul Infection o'er his Body spread,  
Profanes his Bosom, and deforms his Head;  
His wretched Limbs with filth and stench o'er flow,  
While Flesh divides, and shows the Bones below.  
Dire Ulcers (can the Gods permit them) prey  
On his fair Eyeballs, and devour their Day,  
Whilst the neat Pyramid below, falls Moulding quite away.  
Him neighbouring Alps bewailed with constant Dew  
Ollius; no more his wont Passage knew,  
Hills, Valleys, Rocks, Streams, Groves, his Fate Bemoaned,  
Sebinus Lake from deepest Caverns groaned.  
From hence malicious Saturn's Force is known,  
From whose malignantOrbthisPlague was thrown,  
To whom more cruel Mars assistence lent,  
And clubbed his Influence to the dire Event:  
Nor could the malice of the Stars suffice,  
To make such execrable Mischief rise;  
For certainly e'er this Disease began,  
Through Hell's dark Courts the cursing Furies ran,  
Where to astonished Ghosts they did relate,  
In dreadful Songs, the Burden of our Fate;  
The Stygian Pool did to the bottom rake,  
And from its Dregs the cursed Ingredients take,  
Which scattered since through Europe wide and far,  
Bred Pestilence, and more consuming War.  
Ye Deities who once our Guardians were,  
Who made th' Ausonian fields your special Care,  
And thou O Saturn, Father of our Breed,  
From whence does this unwonted Rage proceed  
Against thy ancient Seats?  
Has Fate's dark Store a Plague yet left, which we  
Have not sustained even to Extremity?  
First let Parthenope her griefs declare,  
Her Kings destroyed her Temples sacked in War.  
Who can the Slaughter of that Day recite,  
When hand to hand we joined the Gauls in fight,  
When Tarrus Brook was so o'er-swelled with Blood  
Men, Horses, Arms, rolled down th' impetuous Flood?  
Eridanus in wand'ring Banks receives  
The purple Stream, and for our Fate with Brother Tarrus grieves.  
To what estate, O wretched Italy  
Has civil Strife reduced, and mouldered Thee!  
Where now are all thy ancient Glories hurled?  
Where is thy boasted Empire of the World?  
What nook in Thee from barbarous Rage is freed,  
And has not seen her captive Children bleed?  
That was not first to savage Arms a Prey,  
And does not yet more savage Laws obey?  
Answer ye Hills where peaceful Clusters grew,  
And never till this hour disturbance knew,  
Calm as the Flood which at your Feet ye View;  
Calm as Erethenus who on each side,  
Beholds your Vines, and ravished with their Pride,  
Moves slowly with his Tribute to the Tide.  
O Italy, our Ancient happy Seat,  
Glory of Nations, and the God's Retreat,  
Whose fruitful Fields for peopled Towns provide,  
Where Athesis, and smooth Benacus glide,  
What words have force, thy Sufferings to relate,  
Thy servile Yoke, and ignominious Fate.  
Now dive, Benacus, thy famed course give over  
And lead thy Streams through Laurel-Banks no more.  
Yet, when our miseries thus were at their height,  
As if our Sorrows still had wanted weight,  
As if our former Plagues had been too small,  
We saw our Hope, Minerva's Darling fall,  
Thy Funeral, Marcus, we did then survey  
Snatched from the Muse's Arms before thy day,  
Benacus Banks at thy Interment groaned,  
And neighbouring Athesis thy Fate bemoaned;  
Where by the Moon's pale Beams, Catullus came,  
And nightly still was heard to sound thy Name,  
His Songs once more his native Seats inspire,  
The Groves were charmed, and knew their Master's Lyre.  
‛ I was now the Galls began their fierce Alarms,  
And crushed Liguria with victorious Arms,  
While other Provinces as fast expire  
By Caesar's Sword, and more destructive Fire;  
No Latian Seat was free from Slaughter found,  
But all alike with Tears and Blood were drowned.  
Now for our second Task, and what Relief  
Our Age has found against this raging Grief,  
The Methods now of Cure we will express,  
The wondrous Wit of Mortals in distress.  
Astonished long they lay, no Remedy  
At first they knew, nor Courage had to try,  
But learned by slow Experience to appease,  
To check, and last to vanquish the Disease.  
Yet after all our Study we must own  
Some Secrets were by Revelation known:  
For though the Stars in dark Cabals combined,  
And for our Ruin with the Furies joined,  
Yet were we not to last Destruction left,  
Nor of the God's Protection quite bereavest.  
If strange and dreadful Maladies have reigned,  
If Wars, dire Massacres we have sustained,  
If Flames have laid our Fields and Cities waste,  
Our Temples too in common Rubbish cast;  
If swelling Streams no more in Banks were kept,  
But Men, Herds, Houses with theFlood were swept;  
If few survived these Plagues, and Famine slew,  
The greater Part of that surviving Few.  
Yet of such great Adventures we are proud,  
As Fate had to no former Age allowed.  
For, what no Mortals ever dared before,  
We have the Ocean stemmed from sight of Shore;  
Nor was't enough, by Atlas' farthest bound,  
That we the fair Hesperian Gardens found,  
That we t' Arabia a new Passage sought,  
While Ships for Camels the rich Lading brought:  
To th' outmost East, we since a Voyage made,  
And in the rising Sun our Sails displayed,  
Beyond the Ind large tracts of Land did find,  
And left the World's reputed bounds behind,  
To pass the World's reputed bounds was small  
Performances, of greater Glory call  
Our famed Adventures on the western Shore,  
Discovering Stars, and Worlds unknown before;  
But waving these, our Age has yet beheld  
An inspired Poet, and by none excelled,  
Parthenope extolled the Songs he made,  
Sebethe's God, and Virgil's sacred Shade,  
From Gardens to the Stars his Muse would rise,  
And made the Earth acquainted with the Skies.  
His Name might well the Age's pride sustain,  
But many more exalted Souls remain;  
Who, when Expired, and Envy with them dead  
To equal the best Ancients shall be said:  
But, Bembus, while this List we do unfold,  
In which heavens blessings on the Age are told,  
Leo, the most illustrious place does claim,  
The great Restorer of the Roman Name;  
By whose mild Aspects, and auspicious Fire,  
Malignant Planets to their Cells retire.  
Jove's friendly Star once more is seen to rise  
And scatters healing Lustre through the Skies,  
He, only He, our Losses could repair,  
And call the Muses to their native Air,  
Restore the ancient Laws of Right and Just,  
Polish Religion, from Barbarian Rust.  
For Heaven, and Rome engaged in fierce Alarms,  
With pious Vengeance, and with sacred Arms,  
Whose terror to Euphrates Banks was spread,  
While Nile retired t'his undiscovered Head,  
And frighted Doris dived into hisoozy Bed.  
While some more able Muse shall fing his Name,  
In Numbers equal to his Deeds and Fame.  
While Bembus thou shalt this great Theme rehearse,  
And wove his Praises in eternal Verse,  
Let me, in what I have proposed, proceed  
With Subject suited to my slender Reed.  
First, than your Patient's Constitution learn,  
And well the Temper of his Blood discern,  
If that be pure, with so much greater ease  
You will engage, and vanquish the Disease,  
Whose venom, where black Choler chokes the Veins,  
Takes firmer hold, and will exact more Pains  
More violent Assaults you there must make,  
And on the battered Frame no pity take.  
Who e'er can soon discern the lurking Grief,  
With far less labour may expect Relief;  
But when the Foe has deeper inroads made,  
And gained the factious humours to his Aid,  
What Toil, what Conflicts must be first sustained  
Before he's dispossessed, and Health regained;  
Therefore with Care his first approaches find,  
And hoard these useful Precepts in thy Mind.  
From noxious Winds preserve yourself with care,  
And such are all that from the South repair  
Of Fens and Lakes, avoid th'unwholesome Air.  
To open fields and sunny Mountains fly  
Where Zephyr fans, and Boreas sweeps the Sky:  
Nor must you there indulge Repose, but stray,  
And in continued actions spend the Day;  
With every Beast of Prey loud Warproclaim,  
And make the grizly Boar your constant Game,  
Nor yet amongst these great Attempts disdain,  
To rouse the Stag, and force him to the Plain.  
Some I have known to th'Chase so much inclined,  
That in the Woods they left their Grief behind,  
Nor yet think fcorn the sordid Blow to guide,  
Or with the ponderous Rake the Clods divide,  
With heavy Axe, and many weary blow,  
The towering Pine, and spreading Oak overthrow;  
The very House yields Exercise, the Hall  
Has room for Fencing, and the bounding Ball.  
Rouse, rouse, shake off your fond desire of Ease,  
For Sleep foments and feeds the foul Disease,  
'Tis then th'invade does the Vitals seize.  
But chiefly from thy Thoughts all sorrows drive.  
Nor with Minerva's knotty Precepts strive,  
With lighter Labours of the Muse's sport,  
And seek the Plains where Swains and Nymphs resort.  
Abstain however from the Act of Love,  
For nothing can so much destructive prove:  
Bright Venus hates polluted Mysteries,  
And every Nymph from foul Embraces flies.  
Dire practice! Poison with Delight to bring,  
And with the Lovers Dart, the Serpent's sting.  
A proper Diet you must next prepare,  
Than which there's nothing more requires your care;  
All Food that from the Fens is brought resuse,  
Whate'er the standing Lakes or Seas produce,  
Nor must long Custom pass for an Excuse;  
Therefore from Fish in general I dissuade,  
All these are of a washy Substance made,  
Which though the luscious Palate they content,  
Convert to Humours more than Nourishment;  
Even Giltheads, though most tempting to the sight,  
And sharp-fined Perch that in the Rocks delight.  
All sorts of Fowl that on the Water prey,  
By the same Rule I'd have removed away,  
Forbear the Drake, and leave Rome's ancient Friend  
The Capitol and City to Defend.  
No less the Bustard's luscious Flesh decline,  
Forbear the Back and Entrails of the Swine,  
Nor with the hunted Boar thy Hunger stay,  
Enjoy the Sport, but still forbear the Prey.  
I hold nor Cucumber nor Mushrooms good,  
And Artichoke is too salacious Food:  
Nor yet the use of Milk would I enjoin,  
Much less of Vinegar or eager Wine,  
Such as from Rhaetia comes, and from the Rhine;  
The Sabine Vintage is of safer Use,  
Which mellow and Well-watered fields produce:  
But if your Banquets with the Gods you'd make  
Of Herbs and Roots the unbought Dainties take;  
Be sure that Mint and Endive still abound,  
And Sowthistle, with leaves in Winter crowned.  
And Sian by clear Fountains always found;  
To these add Calamint, and Savery  
Borage and Balm, whose mingled sweets agree,  
Rochet and Sorrel I as much approve:  
The climbing Hop grows wild in every Grove,  
Take thence the infant Buds, and with them join  
The curling tendrils of the springing Vine,  
Whose Arms have yet no friendly shade allowed,  
Nor with the weight of juicy Clusters bowed.  
Particulars were endless to rehearse,  
And weightier Subjects now demand our Verse.  
We'll draw the Muses from Aonian Hills,  
To Nature's Garden, Groves and humble Rills,  
Where if no Laurels spring, or if I find  
That those are all for Conquerors designed;  
With Oaken Leaves at least I'll bind my Brow,  
For millions saved you must that Grace allow.  
At first approach of Spring, I would advise,  
Or even in Autumn months if strength suffice,  
To bleed your Patient in the regal Vein,  
And by degrees th' infected Current drain:  
But in all Seasons fail not to expel,  
And purge the noxious Humours from their Cell;  
But fit Ingredients you must first collect,  
And then their different Qualities respect,  
Make firm the Liquid and the Gross dissect.  
Take, therefore, care to gather, in their prime,  
The sweet Corycian and Pamphilian Time,  
These you must boil, together with the Rest  
In this ensuing Catalogue expressed;  
Fennell and Hop that close Embraces weaves,  
Parsley and Fumitory's bitter Leaves;  
Wild Fern on every Down and Heath you'll meet  
With Leaves resembling Polypus' shagged feet,  
And Maydenhair, of virtue strange, but true  
For dipped in Fountains, it reteins no Dew:  
Hart's-tongue and Citarch must be added too.  
The greater Part, and with success more sure,  
By Mercury perform the happy Cure;  
A wondrous virtue in that Mineral lies,  
Whether by force of various Qualities  
Of Cold and Heat, it flies into the Veins,  
And with a fiercer Fire their Flame restrains,  
Conquering the raging Humours in their Seat,  
As glowing Steel exceeds the Forge's heat,  
Or whether his keen Particles (combined  
With strange connexion) when th' are once disjoined,  
Disperse, all Quarters of the Foe to seize,  
And burn the very Seeds of the Disease;  
Or whether 'tis with some more hidden force  
Endowed by Nature to perform its Course,  
Is hard to say, but though the Gods conceal  
The virtual Cause, they did its use reveal.  
Now by what mean 'twas found our Song shall show,  
Nor may we let heavens Gifts in Silence go.  
In Syrian Vales where Groves of Osier grow,  
And where Callirrhoe's sacred Fountains flow.  
Ilceus the Huntsman, who with Zeal adored  
The rural Gods, with Gifts their Altars stored;  
Was yet afflicted with this restless Grief,  
And, if Tradition may obtain belief,  
As he was watering there each spicy Bed,  
Thus to entreat the Sylvan Powers, is said.  
You Deities by me adored, and Thou,  
Callirrhoe, who dost Relief allow  
Against all Diseases, as I slew for. Thee  
The Stag, and fixed his Head upon a Tree;  
A Tree that does with lesser Branches spread,  
Than those that join to that most horrid Head:  
You sacred Powers if you'll remove away  
This plague that Racks my Frame all Night and Day,  
I, all the mingled glories of the Spring,  
Lilies and Violets to your Seats will bring,  
With Daffodils first budding Roses wove,  
And on your Shrines the fragrant Garland leave.  
He said, and down upon the Herbage lay,  
Tired with the raging Pain, and raging Day.  
Callirrhoe (bathing in the neighbouring Well,  
With Musk that grew in Plenty round the Cell)  
Herd the Youth's prayer and straight in soft repose,  
Th'indulgent Nymph his heavy Eyes did close,  
Then to his Fancy, from her sacred Streams,  
Appeared and charmed him with prophetic Dreams.  
Ilceus (said she) my Servant, and my Care,  
The Gods at last have harkened to thy Prayer;  
Yet, on the Earth, as far as Sol can spy,  
For thy Disease remains no Remedy.  
Cynthia and Phoebus too at her Request,  
Into thy tortured Veins have sent this Pest,  
The Stag to her was sacred which you slew,  
And this the Punishment that did ensue,  
For which the Earth, as far as Sol can see,  
The spacious Earth, affords no Remedy:  
Then since her Surface no relief canlend,  
To her dark Entrails for thy Cure descend;  
A Cave there is its self an awful shade,  
But by Jove's spreading Tree more dreadful made,  
Where mingling Cedars wanton with the Air,  
Thither at first approach of Day repair;  
A jet-black Ram before the Entrance slay,  
And cry, these Rites great Ops to Thee I pay.  
The lesser Powers, pale Ghosts and Nymphs of Night,  
The Smoke of Yew and Cypress shall invite;  
These Nymphs shall at the outmost Entrance stay,  
And through the dark Retreats conduct thy way.  
Rise, rise, nor think all this an idle Dream,  
For know I am the Goddess of this Stream.  
This for thy pious Homage to my Cell—  
So spoke the Nymph, and dived into the Well.  
The Youth starts up astonished, but restored,  
With grateful prayers th'obliging Nymph adored:  
Thy Voice, bright Goddess, I'll with speed Obey,  
O still assist and bless me on my Way.  
With the next Dawn the sacred Cave he found,  
With spreading Oaks and towering Cedars crowned;  
A jet-black Ram did at the Entrance slay,  
And cried these Rites, great Ops, to thee I pay:  
The lesser Powers, pale Ghosts and Nymphs of Night,  
The Smoke of Yew and Cypress did invite.  
His Voice resounding through the hollow Seats,  
Disturbed the Nymphs within their deep Retreats.  
Those Nymphs that toil in Metals underground,  
Gave o'er their Work at th' unexpected Sound;  
Some Quicksilver and Sulphur others brought,  
From which calcined, the golden Oar was wrought;  
Of pure AEtherial Light a hundred beams,  
Of Subterranean fire a hundred Streams,  
With various seeds of Earth and Sea they joined,  
For humane Eyes too subtle and refined.  
But Lipare who forms the richer Oar,  
And to the Furnace brings the Sulphurous store,  
To Ilceus through the dark Recesses broke,  
And in these words the trembling Youth bespoke.  
Ilceus (for I have heard your Name and Grief)  
Callirrhoe sends you hither for relief;  
Nor has the Goddess counselled you in vain,  
These Cells afford a Medicine for your Pain;  
Take courage therefore, and the Charge obey,  
She said, and through the Cavern leads the way  
He follows wondering at the dark abodes,  
The spacious Voids and Subterranean Roads;  
Astonished there to see those Rivers move,  
Which he observed to lose themselves above:  
Each Cave, cried Lipare, some Power contains,  
I'th' lowest Mansion Proserpina remains;  
The middle Regions Pluto's Treasure hold,  
And Nymphs that work in Silver, Brass and Gold,  
Of which rich Train am I, whose Veins extend,  
And to Callirrhoe's Stream the smoking Sulphur send.  
Thus through the Realms of Night they took their way,  
And heard from far the Forge and Furnace play.  
These (said the Nymph) the Beds of Metals are,  
That give you wretched Mortals so much Care.  
By thousand Nymphs of Earth and Night enjoyed,  
Who yet in various Tasks are all employed.  
Some turn the Current, some the Seeds dissect  
Of Earth and Sea, which some again collect,  
That, mixed with Lightning, make the golden Oar,  
While others quench in Streams the shining store.  
Not far from hence the Cyclops Cave is found,  
See how it glows, hark how their Anvils sound.  
But here turn off, and take the right-hand way,  
This Path does to that sacred Stream convey,  
In which thy only Hope remains: She said,  
And under golden Roofs her Patient led,  
Hard by, the Lakes of liquid Silver slowed,  
Which to the wondering Youth the Goddess showed;  
Thrice washed in these (said she) thy Pains shall end,  
And all the Stench into the Stream descend.  
Thrice with her Virgin hands the Goddess threw  
On all his suffering Limbs the healing Dew:  
He, at the falling Filth admiring stood,  
And scarce believed for joy, the virtue of the Flood.  
When therefore you return to open Day,  
With Sacrifice Diana's Rage allay,  
And Homage to the Fountain's Goddess pay.  
Thus spoke the Nymph, and through the Realms of Night,  
Restored the grateful Youth to open Light.  
This strange Invention soon obtained belief,  
And flying Fame divulged the sure Relief.  
But first Experiments did only join,  
And for a Vehicle use lard of Swine:  
Larch-gum and Turpentine were added next,  
That wrought more safe and less the Patient vexed;  
Horse-grease and Bears with them they did compound,  
Bdellium and Gum of Cedar useful found;  
Then Myrrh, and Frankincense were used by some,  
With living Sulphur and Arabian Gum;  
But if black hellebore be added too,  
With Rainbow Flowers your Method I allow;  
Benzoin and Galbanum I next require,  
Lint-Oil, and Sulphur's ever it feels the Fire.  
With these Ingredients mixed, you must not fear  
Your suffering Limbs and Body to besmear,  
Nor let the foulness of the Course displease,  
Obscene indeed, but less than your Disease:  
Yet when you do anoint, take special care  
That both your Head and tender Breast you spare  
This done, wrapped close and swathed, repair to Bed,  
And there let such thick coverings be o'erspred,  
Till streams of Sweat from every poor you force:  
For twice five Days you must repeat this Course;  
Severe indeed but you your Fate must bear,  
And signs of coming Health will straight appear.  
The Mass of Humours now dissolved within,  
To purge themselves by spital shall begin,  
Till you with wonder at your feet shall see,  
A tide of Filth, and bless the Remedy.  
For Ulcers that shall then the Mouth offend,  
Boil Flowers that Privet and Pomgranets send.  
Now, only now, I would forbid the Use  
Of generous Wine that noble Soils produce;  
All sorts without distinction you must fly,  
The sparkling Bowl with all its Charms deny.  
Rise, now victorious, Health is now at hand,  
One labour more is all I shall command,  
Easie and pleasant; you must last prepare  
Your Bath, with Rosemary and Lavender,  
Vervain and Yarrow too must both be there;  
Amongst these your steeping Body you must lay,  
To cheer you, and to wash all dregs away.  
But now the verdant Blessings that belong  
To new discovered Worlds demand our Song.  
Beyond Herculean bounds the Ocean roars  
With loud applause to those far distant Shores.  
The sacred Tree must next our Muse employ,  
That only could this raging Plague destroy;  
Just Praise (Urania) to this Plant allow,  
And with its happy Leaves upon thy Brow,  
Through all our Latian Cities take thy way,  
And to admiring Crowd the healing Boughs display;  
Even I may self shall prise my Strains the more,  
For Blessings never Seen nor Sung before.  
Perhaps some more exalted Poet (warmed,  
For Martial Strains) with this new subject Charmed  
Shall quit the noble business of the Field,  
Bequeath to Rust the Sword and polished Shield,  
Leave wrangling Heroes that overcome or Dye,  
Both shrouded in the same obscurity;  
Pass over the harast Soil and bloody Stream,  
To prosecute this more delightful Theme;  
To tell how first auspicious Navies made  
More bold attempts, and th'Ocean's bounds essayed;  
To sing vast Tracts of Land beyond the Main,  
By former Ages guessed, and wished in Vain,  
Strange Regions, Floods and Cities to rehearse,  
And with true Prodigies adorn their Verse;  
New Lands, new Seas, and still new Lands to spy,  
Another Heaven, and other Stars descry.  
When this is done resume their Martial Strain,  
And crown our Conquests in each savage Plain,  
That even from Vanquishment advantage draws,  
Enriched with European Arts and Laws,  
Shall sing (what future Ages will confound)  
How Earth and Sea one Vessel did Surround.  
Thrice happy to Bard whom indulgent Heaven,  
A Soul capacious of this Work has given.  
My weaker Muse shall think her Office done,  
Of all these wonders to record but one:  
One single Plant which these glad Lands produce  
To specify and show its sovereign Use,  
By what adventures found, and wasted over  
From unknown Worlds to Europe's wondering shore.  
Far Westward hence where th' Ocean seems to boil  
Beneath fierce Cancer, lies a spacious Isle,  
Descried by Spaniard's roving on the Main,  
And justly honoured with the Name of Spain.  
Fertile in Gold but far more blest to be,  
The Garden of this consecrated Tree:  
Its Trunk erect, but on his Top is seen,  
A spreading Grove with Branches ever Green;  
Upon his Boughs a little Nut is found,  
But poignant and with Leaves encompassed round;  
The stubborn Substance toothless makes the Saw,  
And scarcely from the Axe receives a flaw;  
Dissected, various Colours meet your view,  
The outward Bark is of the Laurel hue;  
The next like Box, the parts more inwards set,  
Of dusky grain but not so dark as Jet;  
If to these mixtures you will add the Red,  
All colours of the gaudy Bow are spread.  
This Plant the Natives conscious of its use  
Adore, and with religious Care produce;  
On every Hill, in every Vale 'tis found,  
And held the greatest Blessing of the ground  
Against this Pest that always Rages there,  
From Skies infected and polluted Air:  
The outward Bark as useless they refuse,  
But with their utmost force the Timber bruise,  
Or break in Splinters, which they steep a while  
In fountains, and when soaked, in Vessels boil,  
Regardless how too fierce a fire may make  
The juice run over, whose healing Froth they take,  
With which they Bathe their Limbs where Pustles breed,  
And heal the Breaches where dire Ulcers feed.  
Half boiled away the Remnant they retain,  
And adding Hony boil the Chips again:  
To use no other Liquor when they Dine,  
Their Country's Law, and greater Priest enjoin:  
The first Decoction with the rising Light  
They drink, and once again at fall of Night;  
This course they strictly hold when once begun,  
Till Cynthia has her monthly Progress run,  
Housed all the while where no offensive Wind,  
Nor the least breath of Air can entrance find.  
But who will yield us credit to proceed,  
And tell how wondrous slenderly they Feed;  
Just so much Food as can bare Life preserve,  
And to its joint connect each seeble Nerve:  
Yet let not this strange Abstinence deter,  
And make you think the Method too severe.  
This Drink itself will wasted Strength repair,  
For Nectar and Ambrosia too are there;  
All offices of Nature it maintains,  
The Heart refreshes, and recruits the Veins.  
When the Draught's ta'en, for two hours and no more  
The Patient on his Couch is covered over;  
For by this means the Liquor with more ease,  
Expels in streams of Sweat the foul Disease.  
All Parts (O prodigy!) grow found within,  
Nor any Filth remains upon the Skin;  
Fresh youth in every Limb, fresh vigours found,  
And now the Moon has run her monthly Round.  
What God did first the wondrous use display,  
Of this blessed Plant, what chance did first convey  
Our European Fleet to that rich shore,  
That for their Toil so rich a Traffic bore,  
Our Song shall now unfold; a Navy bound  
For no known Port nor yet discovered Ground,  
Resolved the secrets of the Main to find,  
And now they leave their Native shore behind,  
Clap on more Sail and skudd before the Wind.  
Thus on the spreading Ocean they did stray,  
For many Weeks uncertain of their way:  
The thronging Sea-Nymphs wondering at the Pride,  
Of each tall Ship appear above the Tide,  
And with proportioned speed around them glide,  
Charmed with each painted Stern and golden Prow,  
With each gay Streamer, striving as they go  
To catch their Pictures in the Flood below.  
'Twas night, but Cynthia did such beams display.  
So strong as more than half restored the Day.  
When the bold Leader of this roving Train,  
(The bravest Youth that ever stemmed the Main;)  
As on the Decks he lay with anxious care,  
And watchful o'er his charge, conceived this Prayer;  
Bright Goddess of the night (said he) whose sway,  
All humid Things and these vast Seas obey;  
Twice have we seen thy infant Crescents spring,  
And twice united in a glorious Ring,  
Since first this Fleet commenced her restless toil,  
Nor yet have gained the Sight of any Soil.  
O Virgin Star, of nightly Planets chief,  
Vouchsafe your weary Wanderers relief;  
Let some fair Continent at last arise,  
Or some less distant Isle salute our Eyes;  
At least some Rock with one small Rill and Port,  
For these o'er-laboured Boats and Youths support.  
The Goddess heard not this Address in Vain,  
But leaves to her nocturnal Steeds the Rein,  
And like a Sea-Nymph floats upon the Main:  
So well disguised That Clotho's self might be  
Deceived, and take her for Cymothoe;  
With such a mien she cut the yielding Tide,  
And in these words bespoke the wand'ring Guide;  
Take courage, for the next approaching Day,  
Shall see these Ships safe riding in the Bay;  
But stay not long where first your Anchors fall,  
The Fates to yet more distant Regions call;  
Find Ophyre high-seated in the Main;  
Those Seats for you the Destinies ordain.  
She said, and pushed the Keel; a brisker Gale  
Forthwith descends and pregnates every Sail:  
Now from the East the Sun invites their Eyes,  
As fast they westward see the Mountains rise  
Like clouds at first, but as they nearer drew,  
Rocks, Groves and Springs were opened to their View;  
High on the Decks the joyful Sailors stand,  
And thrice with Shouts salute th' expected Land.  
Then safely Anchored in the promised Bay,  
First to the Gods their just Devotion pay.  
Four days, no more, are spent upon this Soil,  
To fit their shattered Ships for farther Toil,  
Each hand once more is to his Charge assigned,  
All take advantage of the friendly Wind;  
A swift and steady course they now maintain,  
And leave Anthylia floating on the Main:  
With Hagia's coast, and tall Ammeria's Isle,  
The Cannibals most execrable Soil,  
O'er all the Deep they now see Turrets rise,  
And Islands without number meet their Eyes;  
Amongst these they singled one from whence they heard  
Streams fall, while spreading Groves aloft appeared,  
Charmed with these Objects there they put to shore,  
Where first the Islands Genius they adore,  
Then spread their Banquet on the verdant ground,  
Whilst Bowls of sparkling Wine go nimbly round;  
Refreshed, they separate, someto descry  
The country, others more o'erjoyed to spy  
Beneath the Flood pure Gold lie mixed with Sand,  
And seize the shining Oar with greedy hand.  
At length a Flock of painted Birds they view,  
With azure Plumes and Beaks of Coral-hue,  
Which fearless through the Glades did seem to rove,  
And perched securely in their native Grove;  
The Youths to tempered Engines have recourse  
That imitate the Thunder's dreadful Force,  
Vulcan's invention while with wondrous Art,  
He did to Men the Arms of Jove impart;  
Each takes his Stand and singles out his Mark,  
The dire Ingredients with a sudden Spark  
Inflamed, discharge with rage the whizzing Ball,  
The unsuspecting Birds by hundreds fall;  
The Air with Smoak and Fire is covered round,  
The Groves and Rocks astonished with the sound,  
And shaking Sands beneath the Seas rebound.  
The Remnant of the Flock with terror fly  
To Rocks whose Turrets seemed to pierce the Sky;  
From whence with humane Voice (O dire Portent!)  
One of this feathered Tribe these Numbers sent.  
You who have Sacrilegioufly assayed,  
The Sun'sloved Birds, and impious slaughter made,  
Hear what th' enraged avenging God prepares,  
And in prophetic Sounds by me declares.  
Know, you at last have reached your promised soil,  
For this is Ophyre's long expected Isle,  
But destined Empire shall not yet obtain  
Of Provinces beyond the western Main,  
The Natives of long Liberty deprive,  
Found Cities, and a new Religion give,  
Till Toils by Earth and Sea are undergone,  
And many dreadful Battles lost and won;  
For, most shall leave your Trunks on foreign Land,  
Few shattered Ships shall reach your native Sand;  
In vain shall some Sail back again to find,  
Their wretched Comrades whom they left behind;  
Whose Bones of flesh devested shall be found,  
For Cyclops too in these dire Coasts abound:  
Your Foes overcome, your Fleet in Civil Rage  
Shall disagree, and Ship with Ship engage.  
Nor end your sufferings here, a strange Disease,  
And most obscene shall on your Bodies seize;  
In this distress your Error you shall mourn,  
And to these injured Groves for Cure return;  
This dreadful Doom the feathered Prophet spoke,  
And sculkt within the Covert of the Rock.  
Astonished with the unexpected sound,  
Th' offending Men fell prostrate on the ground;  
Forgiveness from the sacred Flock to gain,  
But chiefly Phoebus Pardon to obtain.  
The Guardians of the Grove to reconcile,  
And once more hail the fair Ophyrian Isle.  
These Rites performed, returning on their way,  
A race with humane Shape they did survey,  
But black as Jet, who sallied from the Wood,  
And made the Vale more dark in which they stood;  
No Garment o'er their Breasts or Shoulders spread,  
And wreaths of peaceful Olive on their Head;  
Unarmed, yet more with wonder struck than fear,  
They viewed the Strangers, and approached more near;  
Astonished at their glittering Arms, but more  
At each proud Vessel lodged upon the Shore,  
The Flags and Streamers sporting with the Wind,  
And thought their Owners more than humane kind,  
Some Gods or Heroes to the Gods allied,  
And more than Mortal reverence applied;  
But to our Chief their first Respect they paid,  
And cheap, but yet most royal Presents made,  
Rich golden Oar, of use and worth unknown,  
And only prized by them because it shone,  
With which the blessings of their Fields were born,  
Ripe blushing Fruits and ponderous Ears of Corn;  
Unpolisht but capacious Vessels filled  
With Honey from each fragrant Tree distilled,  
Which did from Heaven in nightly Dew arrive,  
Without the tedious labours of the Hive.  
With them our Garments like Reception found,  
And now the Tribes sat mingled on the Ground,  
With Indian Food and Spanish Vintage crowned:  
Who can express the Savages delight,  
As if the Gods some Mortal should invite  
To heavenly Courts, and with the Nectar-bowl  
Into a Deity exalt his ravished Soul.  
By chance the solemn Day was drawing near,  
The greatest Festival of all the Year;  
And to the Sun their greatest God belonged,  
To which from every part the Natives thronged,  
With whom their Neighbours of Hesperia met;  
And now within the sacred Vale were set  
Each Sex, and all degrees of Age were seen,  
But placed without distinction on the Green;  
Yet from the Infant to the grizzled Head,  
A cloud of Grief o'er every Face was spread,  
All languished with the same obscene Disease,  
And years, not Strength distinguished the Degrees;  
Dire flames upon their Vitals fed within,  
While Sores and crusted Filth profaned their Skin.  
At last the Priest in snowy Robes arrayed,  
The Boughs of healing Guiacum displayed,  
Which (dipped in living Streams) he shook around  
To purge, for holy Rites the tainted Ground.  
An Heifer then before the Altar slew,  
A Swain stood near on whom the Blood he threw;  
Then to the Sun began his mystic Song,  
And straight was seconded by all the Throng.  
Both Swine and Heifers now by thousands bleed,  
And Natives on their roasted Entrails feed.  
Our Train with wonder saw these Rites, but more  
Astonished at the Plague unseen before:  
Mean while our Leader in his careful breast,  
Formed sad Conjectures of this dreadful Pest,  
This, this said he (the Gods avert our Fate)  
Is that dire Curse which Phoebus did relate;  
The Birds prodigious Song I now recall,  
The strange Disease that on our Troops should fall.  
As therefore from the Altar they retired,  
Our Gen'ral of the Native Prince enquired,  
To what dread Power these Offerings did belong?  
What meant that languishing infected Throng?  
And why the Shepherd by the Altar stood?  
And wherefore Sprinkled with the gushing blood?  
To which the Island Monarch, noble Guest,  
With annual Zeal these Offerings are addressed,  
To Phoebus enraged Deity assigned,  
And by our Ancestors of old enjoined;  
But if a foreign Nations toils to learn,  
And less refined be worth your least concern,  
If you have any Sense of Stranger's fate,  
From its first source the Story I'll relate:  
Perhaps you may have heard of Atlas' name,  
From whom in long descent great Nations came;  
From him we sprang, and once a happy Race,  
Beloved of Heaven while Piety had place,  
While to the Gods our Ancestors did Pray,  
And grateful Offerings on their Altars lay.  
But when the Powers to be despised began,  
When to lewd Luxury our Nation ran;  
Who can express the miseries that ensued,  
And Plagues with each returning Day renewed?  
Then fair Atlantia once an Isle of fame;  
(That from the mighty Atlas took its Name,  
Who there had governed long with upright Sway)  
Was gorged entire, and swallowed by the Sea.  
With which our Flocks and Herds were wholly drowned,  
Not one preserved or ever after found.  
Since when outlandish Cattle here are slain,  
And Bulls of foreign Breed our Altars slain;  
In that dire Season this Disease was bred,  
That thus o'er all our tortured Limbs is spread:  
Most universal from it Birth it grew,  
And none have since escaped or very few;  
Sent from above to scourge that vicious Age,  
And chiefly by incensed Apollo's Rage,  
For which these annual Rites were first ordained,  
Whereof this firm Tradition is retained.  
A Shepherd once (distrust not ancient Fame)  
Possessed these Downs, and Syphilus his Name.  
A thousand Heifers in these Vales he fed,  
A thousand Ewes to those fair Rivers led:  
For King Alcithous he raised this Stock,  
And shaded in the Covert of a Rock,  
For now 'twas Solstice, and the Syrian Star  
Increased the Heat and shot his Beams afar;  
The Fields were burnt to ashes, and the Swain  
Repaired for shade to thickest Woods in vain,  
No Wind to fan the scorching Air was found,  
No nightly Dew refreshed the thirsty Ground:  
This Drought our Syphilus beheld with pain,  
Nor could the sufferings of his Flock sustain,  
But to the Noonday Sun with upcast Eyes,  
In rage threw these reproaching Blasphemies,  
Is it for this O Sol, that thou art styled  
Our God and Parent? how are we beguiled  
Dull Bigots to pay Hom'age to thy Name?  
And with rich Spices feed thy Altar's flame:  
Why do we yearly Rites for thee prepare,  
Who tak'st of our affairs so little Care?  
At least thou mightst between the Rabble Kine  
Distinguish, and these royal Herds of Mine.  
These to the great Alcithous belong,  
Nor ought to perish with the Vulgar throng.  
Or shall I rather think your Deity  
With envious Eyes our thriving Stock did see?  
I grant you had sufficient cause indeed,  
A thousand Heifers of the snowy Breed,  
A thousand Ewes of mine these Downs didfeed;  
Whilst one Etherial Bull was all your stock,  
One Ram, and to preserve this mighty Flock,  
You must forsooth your Syrian Dog maintain,  
Why do I worship then a Power so Vain?  
Henceforth I to Alcithous will bring  
My Offerings and Adore my greater King,  
Who does such spacious Tracts of Land possess,  
And whose vast Power the conquered Seas confess.  
Him I'll invoke my Sufferings to redress.  
he'll straight command the cooling Winds to blow,  
Refreshing Showers on Trees and Herbs bestow,  
Nor suffer Thirst, both Flock and Swain to kill:  
He said, and forth with on a neighbouring Hill  
Erects an Altar to his Monarch's name,  
The Swains from far bring Incense to the Flame;  
At length to greater Victims they proceed,  
Till Swine and Heifers too by hundreds Bleed,  
On whose half roasted Flesh the impious Wretches feed.  
All quarters soon were filled with the Report,  
That ceased not till it reached the Monarch's Court;  
Th'aspiring Prince with Godlike Rites o'er joyed,  
Commands all Altars else to be destroyed,  
Proclaims Himself in Earth's low sphere to be  
The only and sufficient Deity;  
That Heavenly Powers lived too remote and high,  
And had enough to do to Rule the Sky.  
Th' allseeing Sun no longer could sustain  
These practices, but with enraged Disdain  
Darts forth such pestilent malignant Beams,  
As shed Infection on Air, Earth and Streams;  
From whence this Malady its birth received,  
And first th' offending Syphilus was grieved,  
Who raised forbidden Altars on the Hill,  
And Victims blood with impious Hands did spill;  
He first wore Buboes dreadful to the sight,  
First felt strange Pains and sleepless past the Night;  
From him the Malady received its name,  
The neighbouring Shepherds catcht the spreading Flame:  
At last in City and in Court 'twas known,  
And seized th' ambitious Monarch on his Throne;  
In this distress the wretched Tribes repair  
To Ammerice the God's Interpreter,  
Chief Priestess of the consecrated Wood,  
In whose Retreats the awful Tripod stood,  
From whence the God's responsal she expressed;  
The Crowd inquire what Cause produced this Pest,  
What God enraged? and how to be appeased,  
And last what Cure remained for the Diseased?  
To whom the Nymph replied— the Sun incensed,  
With just revenge these Torments has commenced.  
What man can with immortal Powers compare?  
Fly, wretches, fly, his Altars soon repair,  
Load them with Incense, Him with Prayers invade,  
His Anger will not easily be laid;  
Your Doom is past, black Styx has heard him swear,  
This Plague should never be extinguished here,  
Since than your Soil must ne'er be wholly free,  
Beg Heaven at least to yield some Remedy:  
A milk-white Cow on Juno's Altar lay,  
To Mother Earth a jet-black Heifer slay;  
One from above the happy Seeds shall shed,  
The other rear the Grove and make it spread,  
That only for your Grief a Cure shall yield.  
She said: the Crowd returned to th' opened Field,  
Raised Altars to the Sun without delay,  
To Mother Earth, and Juno Victims slay.  
'Twill seem most strange what now I shall declare.  
But by our Gods and Ancestors I swear,  
'Tis sacred Truth—  
These Groves that spread so wide and look so green  
Within this Isle, till then, were never seen,  
But now before their Eyes the Plants were found  
To spring, and in an instant Shade the ground,  
The Priest forthwith bids Sacrifice be done,  
And Justice paid to the offended Sun;  
Some destined Head t'atone the Crimes of all,  
On Syphilus the dreadful Lot did fall,  
Who now was placed before the Altar bound,  
His head with sacrificial Garlands crowned,  
His Throat laid open to the lifted Knife,  
But interceding Juno spared his Life,  
Commands them in his stead a Heifer slay,  
For Phoebus' Rage was now removed away.  
This made our grateful Ancestors enjoin,  
When first these annual Rites they did assign,  
That to the Altar bound a Swine each time  
Should sland, to witness Syphilus his Crime.  
All this infected Throng whom you behold,  
Smart for their Ancestors Offence of old:  
To heal their Plague this Sacrifice is done,  
And reconcile them to th' offended Sun.  
The Rites performed, the hallowed Boughs they seize,  
The speedy certain Cure for their Disease.  
With such discourse the Chiefs their Cares deceive,  
Whose Tribes of different Worlds united live,  
Till now the Ships sent back to Europe's shore,  
Return and bring prodigious Tidings over.  
That this Disease did now through Europe rage,  
Nor any Medicine found that could assuage,  
That in their Ships no slender Number mourned,  
With Boils without and inward Ulcers burned.  
Then called to mind the Bird's prophetic sound,  
That in those Groves Relief was to be found.  
Then each with solemn Vows the Sun entreats,  
And gentle Nymphs the Guardians of those Seats.  
With lusty Strokes the Grove they next invade,  
Whose weighty Boughs are on their Shoulders laid,  
Which with the Natives methods they prepare,  
And with the healing Draughts their Health repair,  
But not forgetful of their Country's good,  
They fraight their largest Ships with this rich Wood,  
To try if in our Climate it would be  
Of equal use, for the same Malady:  
The years mild Season seconds their desire,  
And western Winds their willing Sails inspire.  
Iberian Coasts you first were happy made  
With this rich Plant, and wondered at its Aid;  
Known now to France and neighbouring Germany  
Cold Seythian Coasts and temperate Italy,  
To Europe's Bounds all bless the vital Tree.  
Hail heaven-born Plant whose Rival ne'er was seen,  
Whose Virtues like thy Leaves are ever green;  
Hope of Mankind and Comfort of their Eyes,  
Of new discovered Worlds the richest Prize.  
Too happy would Indulgent Gods allow,  
Thy Groves in Europe's nobler Clime to grow:  
Yet if my Strains have any force, thy Name  
Shall flourish here, and Europe sing thy Fame.  
If not remoter Lands with Winter bound,  
Eternal Snow, nor Libya's scorching Ground;  
Yet Latium and Benacus cool Retreats,  
Shall thee resound, with Athesis fair Seats.  
Too, blest if Bembus live thy Growth to see,  
And on the Banks of Tiber gather thee,  
If he thy matchless Virtues once rehearse,  
And crown thy Praises with eternal Verse.  
FINIS.   

ERRATA. Page 5. line 12 for newer reed never, p. 35 l. 3. for wand'ring r. wondering, p. 58 l. 5. for, to Bard r. Bard to.