The Nine MUSES. OR, POEMS Upon the Death of the late Famous JOHN DRYDEN, Esq The Nine MUSES. OR, POEMS WRITTEN By Nine several Ladies Upon the Death of the late Famous JOHN DRYDEN, Esq As Earth thy Body keeps, thy Soul the Sky, So shall this Verse preserve thy Memory, For thou shalt make it live, because it Sings of thee, Mr. Dryden's Elegy on Lady Abington. LONDON, Printed for Richard Basset, at the Mitre in Fleetstreet, 1700. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE Charles Montague, Esq Auditor of His Majesty's Exchequer; and One of his Majesty's Most Honourable Privy Council. SIR, AS You are justly Entitled to the greatest share of the Muse's favours, so Poems that are done by those who give themselves the Honour of being their Representatives, could not fix on on a more deserving Patron. The Sex, which the Authors are of, is an excuse for their performance, and as commendation to Your Acceptance, and though to fall under Your Censure, is to be examined by the nicest of Judges, yet to have Recourse to a Gentleman, who is continually employed in Pardoning the Defects of Authors, and giving 'em Encouragement to Write something Worthy of His Acceptance, takes off from the Apprehension of Your Displeasure, which I might otherwise Labour under. The Ladies, indeed themselves, might have had a better Plea for Your Reception; but since the modesty which is Natural to the Sex they are of, will not suffer 'em to do that Violence to their Tempers, I think myself Obliged to make a Present of what is Written in Honour of the most Consummate POET amongst our English Dead to the most Distinguishing amongst the Living. You have been pleased already to show Your Respect to his Memory, in contributing so largely towards His Burial notwithstanding He had that unhappiness of Conduct, when alive, to give you Cause to Disclaim the Protection of Him. And though it may look something like innovation, upon the Practice of Men of my Profession, to take what is the business of Authors upon 'em, yet since I am not the first Bookseller that has Broken out off the Road, which is marked out for those of my Trade, I humbly beg leave to advance the Credit of the Papers which are my Property, by prefixing a Name which must needs stamp Authority upon 'em, and the Honour of Subscribing, SIR, Your most Obedient, and most Devoted Servant Ric. Basset. To my Friend, Upon his Publishing the following POEMS, Written by Nine Ladies, personating the MUSES. WHen Ladies venture forth in search of Fame, And represent the Justice of their Claim, The tempting Goddess reaches out the Bays, And entertains the Sex with Draughts of Praise; As every Muse does in their Favour rise, And every Grace sits sparkling in their Eyes. Our Sex would then, if Silent, much abuse, And show itself unworthy of a Muse, Should we not Wit with Beauty joined approve, When Beauty without Wit has forced our Love. Believe me, Friend, and think my Censure true, I feel the Lover, and the Rival too, Raptur'd with Joys which all my Soul possess, Yet could almost have wished the Pleasure less; Since in their Lines I feel that strength of Thought, Which I could never reach the daily sought. 'Tis true, the Men their Tears have duly paid, And, 〈…〉 kept the Shade: But oh! What God would listen to our Call? What Goddess lend us Strains to mourn his Fall? Phoebus' had fixed his longing Ears and Eyes, And dwelled upon more acceptable Cries. Hence issues forth a 〈◊〉 delightful Song, Fair as their Sex, and as their Judgement strong, Moving its Force, and tempting in its Ease, Secured of Fame, unknowing to displease, In every word like Aganippe clear▪ And close its meaning, and its Sense severe, As virtuous Thoughts with chaste Expressions join, And make 'em truly what They feign, divine. Nor shall this Work be wanting to success, While Beauty's Deity, shall Beauty bless▪ While Dryden's Name, deduced to future Times, Shall give and take a lustre from its Rhimes, While Noble Montague's auspicious Name, Shall add t' its Merit, and preserve its Fame. Philomusus. Melpomene: The Tragic Muse. On the Death of John Dryden, Esq By Mrs. M— COME all my Sisters now in Consort join, Each weep her Favrite's loss with Tears Divine: Fill all the Space with your immortal Sighs, The vaulted Heavens return your louder Cries. Ye Loves and Graces-hang your Heads, and weep, And every God a decent Silence keep; That I may Grieve my fill, for Dryden's gone, Well may I now the mourning Veil put on: Well may I now with Cypress load my Brow, For who like him can e'er invoke me now? Who sang fair Killigrew's untimely fall, And more than Roman made her Funeral. Inspired by Me, for me, he could Command, Bright Abington's rich Monument shall stand For evermore, the Wonder of the Land. Oldham he snatched from an ignoble Fate, Changed his cross Star for a more fortunate. For who would not with Pride resign his Breath, To be so Loved, to be so Blest in Death. Cromwel's great Genius here was greater shown, Well might such Virtues for one Vice atone; If vast Ambition can be reckoned Vice, Which to great Jove gave the Imperial Skies. The Monarch CHARLES he has Divinely Sung, Well I remember, when my Graces hung On each enchanting Accent of his Tongue. Then a whole Hecatomb of Vows he made, And I, the Offering, gratefully repaid; For this alone he has deserved the Prize, As Ranelagh, for her Victorious Eyes, When on the Tragic Theme my Hero wrote, I lent him all my Fire, and every Thought; How Artfully he does the Passions move, How at his Voice we Languish▪ Weep; or Love▪ Even I, a Maid, of so untouched a Fame, At Cleopatra's Grief must pity more than blame. St. Catherine's Martyrdom has greater Charms, Than the lewd Prince, imagined from her Arms. Whilst Dorax and Sebastian both contend▪ To show the generous Enemy and Friend▪ O, I should never cease, should I repeat Each lesser part, of that which forms the great. Fixed, like the Sun, Superior and alone, His Glories o'er inferior Being's shone. Pale twinkling Stars all other Writers seem, Nor warms, nor lights, tho' they're in Numbers seen. In him alone all Attributes were found, And he the Universal God renowned, Unfollowed drove, through all his own Immortal round. Melpomene. Urania: The Divine Muse. On the Death of John Dryden, Esq By the Honourable the Lady P— WHEN through the Universe with Horror spread, A sacred Voice pronounced Great PAN was dead, All Nature trembled at the direful Fate, And Atlas sunk beneatl his ponderous weight; The mournful Muses h●ng their heads with woe, While every Deity regrets the Blow, And to the holy Oracles, deny All farther Inspects of futurity; The Earth did under strong Convulsions groan, And Heaven did echo back the dreadful moan: With no less grief, with no less pain oppressed, Britania felt the wound within her Breast, When through the murmuring Crowd sad Accents bore The fatal News, that Dryden was no more: No more, to charm the listening World with Lay, But fled to sing his great Creator's praise▪ No more with artful Numbers, to bestow An universal Influence below: No more with all discerning Truth, to tell How they should act, and how distinguish well, But Summoned by Apollo's sacred Lyre, Now chants his Raptures in the Heavenly Choir. Loud were the Clamours, and the moving Cries, Which cut the yielding Air, and pierced the Skies; While on Parnassus, 'twas the Muse's care Fresh Garlands for their Darling to prepare; I searched the Treasures of the Powers above, And formed an Anthem on Seraphic Love: New Themes we chose, not more polite than he Has left already to Posterity; But those for which the Island does repine, For which they still invoke his awful Shrine, And with transported Sorrow loudly cry, Virgil, the Roman Eagles taught to fly, But Dryden mounts their Pinions to the Sky! To him proud Greece and Italy must bow, And his sublime Authority allow, Who by his never dying Works, weisee Merits, and gives an Immortality Oh give us Homer yet, thou glorious Bard; But if this last Petition can't be heard, Yet like that Prophet, winged by strong desire, Who broke from Earth, wrapped in Celestial fire, Confer thy Spirit on the blooming Son, And bless the Progress he so well begun; Let Garth inherit all thy generous Flame, Garth, who alone can justify the Claim. He, whom the God of Wisdom did foredoom, And stock with Eloquence to pay thy Tomb, The most triumphant Rites of ancient Rome. 'Tis this that fills Urania's Eyes with Tears. 'Tis this ungrateful Sound that racks my Ears, Who now to thee, Melpomene, repair, To mix my Sorrows with thy anxious care; Unite us all within thy gloomy Breast, Where downy Peace, and Pleasure find no rest; There let us drink the Floods thou sheddest, and then A deluge of Despair pour out again. What if our Tears should drown the World a new, The Sacrifice were to his Manes due. Who now of Heroes, or of Gods can sing! Who their Credentials from Apollo bring! Where shall Urania now bestow her aid! Or who great Dryden's Province dare invade! Ah none such lofty Subjects can pursue; The Muses have, alas! no more to do, Than sing his Eulogies, and so expire, In the cold Urn of his extinguished Fire. But stay, a sudden Thought does now revive My drooping heart, and keep my hopes alive; Behold in Albion lately did appear A learned Bard, to Esculapius dear, Well knowing in the Secrets of his Skill, And surely fostered on Parnassus' Hill, Nor does the Crystal Helicon bestow A clearer Stream, than from his Numbers flow: On him already all the Grace's smile, In him survive new Trophies for the Isle; More I'll not urge, but know our Wishes can No higher Soar, since Garth's the Glorious Man; Him let us Constitute in Dryden's stead, Let Laurels ever flourish on his head, And let us to Apollo make our Prayer To Nominate him his Vice-regent, there; By this Britannia shall her Joys retreive, Nor find that Dryden's dead, while Garth does live. Erato: The Amorous Muse. On the Death of John Dryden, Esq By Mrs. S. F. IN the wished close of Evening's welcome gloom, My longing Steps reached an inviting bloom; Whose untrod paths the sad'ning Cypress graced, And in small Plaits were softer Myrtles placed; The lofty Cedars with extended Arms, Twine to keep off the force of Roughest Storms, And numerous Towering Arbourets they made, The Solemn Glory of the pleasing shade. On Verdant Moss Nature's rich Cloth of State, By a clear Thrilling stream supine I late. Upon my Hand, my thoughtful Head Reclined, Sad, soft Ideas entertained my Mind, And I to Sing some Lover's fate inclined. But straight Erato whom I did invoke, Forbidden my choice her Speech abruptly broke, At last in Sighs the interdiction spoke. Ye shall no more Writ tender moving strains, To please the Nymphs and melt the wishing Swains, But to the World my Sorrows you shall tell, How I have grieved since the lost Hero fell, My Darling Dryden whom I loved so well▪ He who has done such Glories to my Name, Immortal as myself has made my Fame. Watchful as Lovers I first saw his Fate, With raging Sounds Parnassus' loss relate. Called all my Sisters with my Frantic Cries, And every God to join in th' Obsequies, With Tears made Helcyon Brackish as the Seas. Like a deserted Maid in Wild despair, I tore my Myrtle Wreath and flowing Hair, My Mantle rend and shattered in the Air. And in lose Cypress Veiled my useless Charms, Sighed till I turned our Aether into Storms. No more I'll wanton on our mountains Brow, Nor curious pains upon my Locks bestow. In amorous folds my azure Mantle twine, And soothe soft languishments in Airs divine; But careless throw me in some dusky Shade, Which Willows, Cypress, Yew has awful made; There to my Votaress, Echo, I'll complain, Whose Complaisance reverberates again, My piercing Groans through every Wood and Plain. Thus I and She in an Eternal round, Will my Celestial Griefs for Dryden's Death resound. Dryden, who with such ardour did invoke, That I through him my greatest Raptures spoke, Whispered at thousand tender melting things, Till he writ Lays moving as Orpheu's Strings. Oft I for Ink did radiant Nectar bring. And gave him Quills from Infant Cupid's Wing, Whose tender force did as Victorious prove, As if they'd been the Immortal Shafts of Love; Warmed every Breast with a surprising Fire, And in the Nicest softest Thoughts inspire: Such lustre still graced his Magnetic Line, It was both irresistless and Divine. With what Celestial cadence doth he tell, The pristine Joys of Love Mankind fell: When in the blooming Grove the first kind pair, With amorous Sighs fanned the Ambrosial Air; Smiling on flowery Banks supinely laid, The ardent Youth pressed the unblushing Maid, In his soft Lines such Ecstasies they boast, To hear their Loves, Rivals the Bliss they lost. When Cleopatra's passion he adorns, How nobly Anthony the Empire scorns, Dissolved in her kind Arms transported lay, For Love's soft Joys gave the rough Crown away. Such Realms of Bliss the Hero still possessed, Sighing fond Vows on her returning Breast; Who reads their Languishments their Passions feel, Intranc'd in Joy too exquisite to tell. When an incestuous Flame his Theme has been, He almost charms us to forgive the Sin. My favourite Ovid's strains, I did improve, And taught my Dryden tenderer Arts of Love. Such Arts had our addressing Phoebus known, Daphne, tho' coy, had not unconquered flown, But brought the Hero forth, and not their Crown. He so advanced what ever I bestowed; I was Love's Muse, but he himself the God. Euterpe: The Lyric Muse. On the Death of John Dryden, Esq An O. D. E. By Mrs. J. H. I. I Soft Euterpe, sweetest of the Nine, The most Inspiring, and the most Divine, By my own Lyre raise▪ d to extatick Joy Full of kind Influence expecting sate▪ When tuneful Dryden would my Aid implore, Who with gay Transports did my Gifts employ, And meanest Thoughts above my Notes did soar. But straight a dismal, and unwelcome Sound, Filled all th' Aetherial Courts around, Great Dryden is no more. But like the common things in mortal State, Lost in th' impartial Gulf of an inevitable Fate. At the dread News grief all my Lustre veiled, I broke my harmonious Harp and Lute, Threw by my softening ever-charming Flute, Not the least glimpse of Joy appears, No radiant Nymphs about my Palace wait, Nor drink I any Nectar but my Tears. II. I with profoundest Cause, and Sorrow mourn, Over my Dryden's sacred Urn: He was my greatest Glory, only boast, Through him I let ungrateful Mankind know, What mighty Wonders I could do, But now, like him, to the inferior World I'm lost. I taught Him all the softer Airs of Love, And Anthems so divine; he'll find the same above. With an auspicious Pride I did dispense My mighty Favours, when He did implore, From my pregnant unexhausted Store, Of tuneful Fancies, and harmonious Sense. When I with gentle Fire have warmed the Breast, The Soul with pleasing Raptures blessed, The sacred Flame in every part does shine, The Product, like the Source, is all divine, And an immortal Lustre graces every Line. Poetry's not th' effect of Art, or Wine, or Love, Tho' They sometimes the Gift improve, Nor is the warmth that Poets does inspire, Vinum Daemonum, but Celestial Fire. A Godlike Ray enlightening from above; As decent Measures, reg'lar Motions be Through all the tuneful Universe, And speak in all a glorious Harmony, Even so the mystic Numbers of melodious Verse, Are of th' intellectual World the sacred Symmetry. III. Dryden I chose of all the tuneful Throng, His Soul with ardour filled fit for immortal Song; Learned him all Lyric Arts of Poetry, Such as might with Celestial Notes agree; Which his Industry did approve, In Celebrations, Elegies and Love, And every Theme which his commanding Pen would try With strength of Judgement, and profoundest sense, With sparkling Wit, gay Fancy, Eloquence, His Verse did all abound: In him alone was found The much desired, aimed at Excellence. In every Line magnificent or sweet, Like OVID soft, or else like VIRGIL great. Orpheus' magnetic Harp less power could boast, All Rage, unless in Love when e'er he sung was lost. Above 'em all he raised his matchless Lays, Glory of Britain, and Wits Empire too, Which tho' the Subjects are but Few, Did justly wreathe him with deserved Bays: The verdant Diadem which Laureate Crown, ne'er looked so fresh as when he put it on, Then like his Lines with Godlike-lustre shone. iv With a Superior and victorious Grace The Sacred Place, He did almost unenvied assume, I, pleased to see the Branches spread O'er his triumphant Head, From th' Helicon Spring Did Water bring, Sprinkled them oft that they might ever bloom. But, oh! they could not stand the Rage, Of an ill-natured and Lethargic Age, Who spite of Wit would stupidly be Wise, All noble Raptures, Ecstasies despise, And only Plodders after Sense will Prize. They from his meritorious Brow The Laurel tear▪ Which none but he could justly wear, And He must suffer Abdication too. V With Him they did suppress all lofty flights of Poetry. All melting Airs, and rapt'ring Harmony, But this Revenge, let Mankind take from me. If any dare on Dryden's Death to Write, Not to express their Grief, but show their Wit, I the Ambitious purpose will Reverse, Deny my Aid, And so shall each inspiring Maid. Resolving ungrateful Man who could contemn Such Noble excellence in Him. Shall never more the blessing know, We'll ne'er again our influence bestow. Tho' 'tis pretended to adorn His Hearse. (Unless the generous Montague implore, Then in him shall all our Glories shine as heretofore.) But to express our own immortal Love, We'll Solemnize His Obsequies above, Our grief such Emphasis shall bear, As no Corporeal Organs can declare, And one Eternal Sighs spread through the Extending Air. Thalia: The Comic Muse. On the Death of John Dryden, Esq A PASTORAL. By Mrs. M— Alexis, Daphne, Aminta, Thalia. Alex. IF falling Tears and Sighs too deep for Art, Can paint the sufferings of a Bleeding Heart. If all your looks so much of sorrow wears, That they can speak, unaided by your Tears, Why since my absence, are thy beauties lost, What Cruel Grief, has thus thy Charms engrossed. Say Daphne, tell Alexis why you Mourn, Why this dejected Mien, why thus forlorn, Is there a Swain you love without return. Daph. That Staff and Scrip, speak your arrival new, But you'll not long, be unconcerned as now. Why do I seem as choose by angry fate, To give you Grief, whilst I my own relate. For sure the Cause is common of our woe, Judge what you'll feel, by what I undergo, Since even your loved return can bring no Joy, That Rival Grief, does every Beam destroy. Our Bard is lost, our great Apollo's Dead, Immortal Dryden's to th' Immortal fled. Here let me Veil my grief, I can no more, Until some Aiding God, my Powers restore. Am. See poor Alexis turns aside to Mourn, The first assaults of grief, are hardest born. Nor asks he how his Flocks, and Pastures far, Sing, Daphne Sing, to ease the Shepherd's Care. For sweetness to thy Voice, and strains belong, Sing to his Praise, of Dryden be thy Song. Daph. Could I like Waller Praise, his Praise would be A Theme fit for my Muse, my Muse for thee. Could I like Waller mourn, with unbound Hair, And Flowing Tears, the Daughter of Despair. Each Towering Hill, and every humble Plain, Should Echo to my Voice, in such a strain, As through the Ear should wound the listening Swaih, Then his unequalled worth, I'd boldly Name, And whilst I gave receive a Deathless Fame; For could she e'er a juster Wreath dispense, Than for excelling in such Excellence? Alex. Cease Daphne, cease, no music's in thy Song, Our Griefs so moving, and the Sense so strong, As not to be expressed by Mortal tongue. Daph. I know my humble Muse, untaught by Art Must only hope to touch some easy heart: But if Sincerity be more approved Than Eloquence, by Interest moved, I best can know to mourn, who best have loved. Could but the Earth be Summoned at my Call, High from his Funeral Pile, I'd speak to all With gushing Tears, torn Robes, and stretched out Arms, Invoke Melpomene with all her doleful Charms, And thus bespeak the wondering World with Cries, Deep Groans, and intermissionary Sighs. Tha. See, Daphne, see, Thalia now appears, Called by thy powerful Voice, her Heaven forbears. For passions oft to Swains in Shades have shown, That but in Name, ours differ from their Own. My Dryden's loss, ourselves with Swains will Sing, And Flowers and Garlands to his Triumphs bring▪ My Blissful Soul, that Loves with Joy to swell, Would Mourn indeed, but not on Sorrow dwell▪ For this I left my deathless Sister's cries, To sing with mortal Nymphs his Obsequies. That once performed, ourselves we will return, The gay Thalia can no longer mourn: Bring here the Spring, and throw fresh Garlands on, With all the Flowers that wait the rising Sun; These ever greene's true Emblems of his Soul, Take Daphne these, and scatter through the whole, Whilst the Eternal Dryden's Worth I tell, My lovely Bard that so lamented fell. Such true delight his Comic Muse adorn, Here you are shown the Vices you should scorn. Poor ridiculed Melantha bears her part, Her native Beauty's spoiled by foreign Art. Gomez, the old, past any use of Life▪ To all his less Diseases adds a Wife, Who does not then Elvira's Youth excuse, When gay Lorenzo offers the Abuse▪ But most I laugh, when Dominich is shown Such Hypocrites, Religion should disown. Bring here the Spring, and throw fresh Garlands on, With all the Flowers that wait the rising Sun; These ever greene's true Emblems of his Soul, Take Daphne these, and scatter through the whole; Whilst the Eternal Dryden's Worth I tell, My lovely Bard, that so lamented fell. Shepherds, the Sun declines, or I could show O'er all his well-dressed Scenes how Nature flows, What Strength, what Wit, what Learning in each part, Here to the Soul he speaks, there to the Heart: Tho' you attend with an unwearied Ear, Your Flocks and Herds seem to require your care; Here let us now our last sad Tears combine, Here let us all in solemn Mourning join. Bring here the Spring, and throw fresh Garlands on, With all the Flowers that wait the Rising Sun; These ever greene's true Emblems of his Soul▪ Take Daphne these, and scatter through the whole, Whilst the Immortal Dryden ' s Worth I tell, My lovely Bard, that so lamented fell. Clio: The Historick Muse. On the Death of John Dryden, Esq By Mrs. M. P. IMmortal Clio thou my Breast inspire, And set my Numbers to thy tuneful Lyre, Whilst I a Requiem sing to Dryden's Name, The fore-most Bard, and Eldest Son of Fame. Ye tender Loves, in mumuring Sighs deplore, Him, whose soft strain adorned the British Shore. Whose Charming Verse was Sung thro' all the Plains, Moved the Coy Nymphs, and fired the Amorous Swains. From Fields, from Silver Streams, and Grottoes come, Bring all their Flowers to Deck your Master's Tomb. Enrich his Hearse, with Balm of Eloquence, Sweet as his Numbers, Lofty as his Sense. Say how you flagged your Wings in that dark Day, That snatched from Mortal 〈◊〉, your Fa● away, Say this and more, too much you cannot say. Weep all with melting Strains in Comfort join, In Solemn Woe, t' assist the Mourning Nine. But when ye have paid or Grief the mighty Score, When pitying God's man did you Weep no more. Sing their Immortal praise, from Pole to Pole, That gave our Maro so Divine a 〈◊〉, Whose Verses shined like 〈◊〉, and as 〈◊〉, As Milton Soared, or any Muse can fly, Of Love, of War, when e'er his 〈…〉 All listened to the Music of his Song, And useless Flutes, upon the Willows hung. But who on Earth can Boast of true Repose, Pale Envy from her Snaky Bed arose, In thousand Shapes his Merit to oppose. As when conspiring Nations vainly joined, ' 'Gainst some Hero's mighty Strength, and mightier mind. Like Hercules the more his Glory grows, And still survives the malice of his Foes; New Labours add to his triumphant Bays, And every Victim sounds his deathless Praise: Thus Virtue higher flies oppressed with pains, And Valour brightest shines in dusty Plains. Stop here, my Muse, no more thy Office boast, This drop of Praise is in an Ocean lost; His Works alone are Trumpets of his Fame, And every Line will Chronicle his Name. Calliope: The Heroic Muse. On the Death of John Dryden, Esq By Mrs. C. T. CEase all my tuneful Sisters, now restrain Your sacred Fire, you lavish it in vain, At least not grateful Vows I e'er shall hear again. Dryden's no more! Who with such Ardour prayed, And such rich Incense at our Altars paid. He charmed us to his Will, each strove which best Our Votary could inspire, he all addressed, And was by all with Emulation blest. Who now such Offerings for our Gifts can bring; Now sad Melpomene alone may sing, Or we by her inspred, each break her Lyre, And all be ever styled, The mournful Quire. Yet you, my happier Sisters, still inflame Some favourite Bard, who well invokes your Name; Vanbrugh, the Comic Muse has Graced with Praise; Granvill, whose well wrought Scenes the Passions raise, In Tragic Strains shall long adorn the Stage; And Garth, in pointed satire, lash the Age. Each equal to his Theme, my loftier flight Not daring yet t'attempt. Bl—re in spite Of me, and Nature, still presumes to write; Heavy, and dozed, crawls out the tedious length, Unfit to soar, drags on with Peasant strength The weight he cannot raise; be his alone The Glory of a Work which I disown; Heroic Dulness eternize his Fame, Maevius forgot, Proverbial be his Name; Scarce was I more enraged against the Three Assassins', Chapman, Hobbs and Ogilby; The last my Virgil had defaced in vain, To all his Charms, by Dryden, raised again; But still my mangled Homer's Wounds remain. With Envy he beheld fresh Laurels spread, On the Triumphing Mantuan's sacred head; Who with Majestic mein (his Crown retrieved) The Britain's Homage awfully received. I take, he said, these Honours as my own, Graced justly with the Prize which Dryden won; Let this, my Son, my grateful Tribute be, That I am proud of Praise, I own to thee. That I confess thou makest my Genius shine, In my own Numbers Dressed, not more Divine. Thus lively were the Images I drew, Thus Romans saw Old Troy in Flames a new, Thus interested in Aeneas Fate, Share all the joys, or hardships, I relate: Thus join my Battles, feel the Wounds I paint, Thus fought my Hero, and thus Went my Saint. Beloved and pitied thus, Brave Turnus fell; Both Vanquished by ourselves, we drew so well, The lovely Youth, all grieve his Fate to see, And less applaud our Hero's Victory. With Virgil, Chaucer sings Great Dryden's Name, Who gave new lustre to his darkened Fame; Dispelled the Clouds by which he was concealed, And to his native Isle the Bard revealed; Not blest enough in his own glorious State, Till he to them a part Communicate. Of all great Actions by his bounteous Flame, Th' inciter and Reward: Now you who aim With fading Power, at bright immortal Fame. Ambitious Monarches, all whom Glory warms, Cease your vain toil, throw down your conquering Arms, Your active Souls confine, since you must die Like vulgar Men, your Names and Actions lie Where Trojan Heroes, had not Homer lived, Had lain forgot, nor ruin'd Troy survived; No more their Glories I can e'er retrieve, For Nature can no second Dryden give. Terpsichore: A Lyric Muse. On the Death of John Dryden, Esq By Mrs. L. D. ex tempore. JUST as the Gods were listening to my Strains, And thousand Loves danced o'er the Aethereal Plains. (With my own radiant Hair my Harp I strung, And in glad Consort all my Sisters sung, An universal Harmony above, Inspired us all with Gaiety and Love.) A horrid Sound dashed our immortal Mirth, Wafted by Sighs from the unlucky Earth. Who'd 〈◊〉 Celestial Forms should Sorrows know, Or sympathize with sad Events below; But by our great Immortal Selves we do: For when the loud unwelcome Message spread, With dismal Accents tuneful Dryden's Dead, All our gay Joys in haste affrighted fled. A sullen Gloom seized all the Gods around, My feeble hand no more the Lyre could sound; And all the soft young Loves, with drooping Wings Lisped their concern, and my neglected Strings Trembled themselves into a mournful Air, Then sight and hushed into a sad despair; There let them ever unregardedly Apollo's too, doth cease its Harmony. He with as sacred Nymphs profusely mourns, With us the least desire of Respite scorns Entire eternal Grief; our Being's seize For him who best could us and Mankind▪ please. Great Dryden, in whose yast capacious Mind▪ Our utmost power did fit reception find; Which Favours he did generously dispense▪ Joyed the glad World with his amazing Sense, And like us too diffused his Influence; His Genius would such Inspiration bear, That his Illustrious Lines did not appear As if our Product, but ourselves were there. Mourn ye forsaken Worlds, you ne'er again▪ Be blest with so Divine, so great a Swain. In you no more let tuneful Mirth be found, The very Spheres shall cease wont Sound, And every Orb stop its harmonious round: All Nature hush as if entranced she lay, Sunk in old Chaos the inlight'ning Ray Of Heaven awaked her in the firstborn Day. With such still Horror, lets our Sorrows bear, Lest Sighs in time Harmonious should appear, If e'er to Write again, is Man's intent, Uncalled on let us silently Lament And take his Works for an Eternal Precedent. Polimnia: Of Rhetoric. On the Death of John Dryden, Esq By Mrs. D. E. Called by my Grief, Melpomene I come, With Radiant Tears, to Grace my Dryden's Tome▪ Me my imperial Father Jove has made▪ Of powerful Rhetoric, the Glorio●● Maid. But since my Heavenly Birth did ne'er inspire, Nor Found a Soul Capacious of such Fire. Pleased with the mortal Wonder, I looked down, And on his Brows fixed an Immortal Crown. With Lover's hands, I la visht all my Charms, Gave up myself, to his more Lovely Arms▪ Which his unequalled Works so loudly Sound▪ Where Energy, and Rhetoric abound, And every Grace that's in Minerva found▪ Ah Mournful Sister, thou my Grief must share, A loss so vast, no single Breast can bear. Wreathe me in my Dark Robes, I'll watch thy Eyes, Mingle our Tears and Echo to thy Sighs, Of Eloquence no more, the use I'll Boast▪ That all Arts, are in my Lover Lost. Incessant Groans, be all my Rhetoric now, My Immortality, I would forgo, Rather than drag this Chain of endless Woe. O mighty Father, hear a Daughter's Prayer, Cure me by Death, from deathless sad Dispair. FINIS. BOOKS Printed for Richard Basset at the Mitre, against Chancery-Lane in Fleetstreet. POetae Britannici. A Poem, Satyrical and Panegyrical, upon our English Poets. By Mr. Cob of Trinity College in Cambridge, price One Shilling. The Sceptical Muse; Or, a Paradox upon Humane Understanding. A Poem. By Mr. Dove, of Catharine-Hall. Price 6 d. The Polite Gentleman; or, Reflections upon the several kinds of Wit, viz. in Books, Conversation, a●d Affairs of the World. By Mr. Barker, 120. Price 1 s. 6 d. The French Spy; or, the Memoirs of John Baptist de la Fontaine, Lord of Savoy, and Fontenai, late Brigadeer and Surveyor of the French King's Army, now a Prisoner in the Bastile; containing many Secret Transactions relating both to England and France, 8vo. p. 5 s. 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Memorirs of Denmark; containing the Life and Reign of the late King of Denmark, Norway, etc. Christian the 5th, together with an Ezact Account of those Differences now on Foot, betwixt the Houses of Denm●●k and Holstein Gottorp, with all the remarkable Circumstances thereunto belonging, taken from Authentic Letters and Records, with the Copies of the Treaties of Fountainbleeu, Altena and Pinenburg, by J. Crull, M. D. F. R. S. and a Member of the College of Physicians. The Innocent Mistress, a Comedy. Ibrahim the 13th Emperor of the Turks, a Tragedy. The Spanish Wives a Farce. The Deceiver Deceived, a Comedy. Queen-Catharine: Or, the Ruins of Love, a Tragedy. All Written by Mrs. Pix. The Unnatural Mother, the Scene in the Kingdom, of Siam, a Tragicomedy. Written by a Young Lady. The Beau Defeated; or Lucky Younger Brother, a Comedy. Xerxes▪ a Tragedy. Written by Mr. Cibber.