POEMS BY Several Hands, AND ON Several OCCASIONS  
Collected by N. Tate.  
LONDON: Printed for I. Hindmarsh, at the Golden Ball, over against the Royal Exchange in Cornhill, 1685.   

TO THE Right Honourable, ROBERT Earl of Scarsdale, Baron Deincourt, Lord Lieutenant of Derbishire.  
SIR,  
I Cannot think there needs much Apology for an Address of this Nature to your Lordship, although from a Stranger. The Patronage of Poetry has always belonged to the Noble and Virtuous: On this account therefore as well as others it is dangerous for any Person of Honour to be so early Eminent as your Lordship, because those Excellencies that create Envy in evil Minds are sure to meet the Applause of the Muses; which to some Tempers may be the greater Persecution. Such Characters indeed are now so thin sown in Courts that they are easily singled out. Your Lordship may think that Flattery which the World knows to be Truth; I will not therefore pretend to draw your Lordship's Character, or to speak more properly I need not. As far as Constancy of Temper, Loyalty, Justice, and Generosity in the most eninent degree can oblige a Nation: the Court and Age are indebted to your Lordship. It was this greatness and integrity of Soul that placed your Lordship above the example of Nature, and against the general Frenzy made you declare for oppressed innocence. It is therefore no wonder that such endowments of mind have gained the Favour of the most Just and Pious Prince. I could descend to particular Instances of Honour and private Friendship; but I design no Panegyric, being only Ambitious to pay my Devotion to your Lordship by this small present, most humbly Dedicated by  
My Lord, Your Lordship's most obedient Servant, N. TATE.   

THE TABLE OF THE CONTENTS.  

A New Collection of Poems, Written by several Authors. An Ode written by Mr. Abraham Cowley for Her Majesty, Queen to King Charles I. Page 1.  
The Grove. By the Earl of Roscommon, p. 3  
Upon Nothing. By the late Earl of Rochester, p. 5  
Upon his leaving his Mistress. By the same Author, p. 8  
Love and Life: A Song. By the same Author, p. 10.  
To the late Earl of Rochester, upon the report of his Sickness in Town, being newly recovered by his Lordship's advice in the Country, in Allusion to the Ode of Horace. By Sir Francis Fane, p. 11  
To a great Lord, inviting him to Court, or else to write a History in the Country. A Paraphrase upon the 12th. Ode of Horace: l. 2. By the same, p. 13  
To a Perjured Mistress; the 8th. Ode of Horace, l. 1. Imitated, By the same, p. 16  
A Mask Made at request of the late Earl of Ro-Chester, for the Tragedy of Vale●…inian. p. ●…7  
From Ovid. Amorum, l. 2. El. 4. and Lucretius, l. 4. That he loves Women of all sorts and sizes. By Mr. R— p. 33  
To Dorolissa, On her being like my Lord Dorset. By the same, p. 27  
In Imitation of the Song, That I love none. By Olinda, p. 38  
The Picture. By Mr. Adam's, By the same, p. 39  
A Pastoral, Written at Dublin, in May, 1683, By the same, p. 44  
Vivamus mea Lesbian, etc. Catul. By the same, p. 48  
Song, p. 50  
Parce meo Juveni, etc. Tibullus, p. 51  
A Translation out of Statius, To Sleep, p. 53  
The Atheist, p. 55  
A Pastoral Reflection on Death, p. 57  
Horatij Ode 28. Lib. 1. Persicos Odi puer apparatus. etc. p. 64  
Horatij Epod. 1. ad Populum Romanum, Quoquo scelesti ruitis? etc. p. 65  
The Fly. By P. Ayres, Esquire, p. 67  
To the Nightingale, p. 70  
On Nightingale that was drowned, p. 75  
love's new Philosophy, p. 76  
Cynisca, Or, the fourteenth Idylium of Theocritus imitated. By W. Bowls, Fellow of King's College Cambridge, p. 80  
Sapho's Ode out of Longinus, p. 85  
Ode 13. Of the fourth Book ●…orace, p. 87  
The Immortality of Poesy. 〈◊〉 Mr. Evelyn. To Envy. Ovid. Amor. Lib. 1. Eleg. 15, p. 90  
Out of Martial Lib, 8. Epigr. 56. Temporibus nostris Aetas, p. 93  
To Mr. etc. p. 95  
Out of Horace, Ode 8. L. 1. Lydia dic per omnes, etc. p. 99  
The Punishment, p. 100  
Part of Ajax's Speech, Ovid Metam. l. 13. p. 101  
Out of Sannazar, p. 102  
Remedy of Love, p. 103  
Written on her Mask, p. 107  
To Mr. S. G. p. 108  
A Gentleman going to his Country Farm, which he had not seen for some time before; at the request of a Lady writes these Verses. Whether in Love, Men or Women have the advantage; they in making, or these in receiving, their Court: Considered in a Dialogue betwixt Corinna and Lais, p. 115.  
On the Lords rejecting the Bill of Exclusion, November 15. 1680. p. 120  
Elegy On the Death of Christopher Sherard, Esq Son and Heir Apparent to the Right Honourable Bennet Lord Sherard, who died in the sixteenth year of his age, Feb. 19 1681. p. 122  
On the Romantic Office of Credit, proposed by Dr. C. and his Partners, An. Dom. 1682. p. 124  
Occasioned by a sight of his Majesty, walking near the River in the time of the Oxford Parliament, p. 126  
To Celia, p. 128  
To a Gentleman, his Friend, who could decipher any Character. p. 129  
Business, p. 131  
Horace Ode 13. Lib. 4. In Lycen Meretricen●… Vetulam. Audiuêre, Lice, Dii— Translated, p. 135  
On a Fair Lady Singing, p. 137  
The Recantation not accepted, p. 138  
Ca●…ul ad Lesbiam 5. p. 140  
On Caelia's Sickness, p. 141  
A Song, p. 142  
Life, p. 143  
To much admired Lady, p. 145  
To a very accompl●…ed Lady, p. 146  
To the same, immoderately mourning the Death of a Relation, p. 148  
Secret Grief, p. 149  
Mart. L. 1. Ep. 58. p. 150  
The Graces, or Hieron Theocriti Idyl. 16. p. 151  
Anacrean's Odes paraphrased. Age. Ode 47. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, etc. By Mr. Bristol, late of All-Souls College, p. 158  
Age. Ode 34. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, etc. By the same, p. 159  
Drinking. Ode 25. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, etc. By the same, p. 160  
The first Elegy of Ovid's Amorum, Translated into English by Mr. Ballow, Fellow of King's College in Cambridge, p. 161  
Elegy II. p. 164  
Elegy III, by the same hand p. 167  
Elegy IV, by the same hand, p. 169  
Elegy V, by the same, p. 173  
Libri Primi, Ovid. Amor. Elegia Prima, p. 175  
Libri Primi, Elegia Secunda, p. 178  
Libri Primi, Elegia Tertia, p. 183  
Libri Primi, Elegia Quinta, p. 184  
Tr. Mr. R. D. at Cambridge, p. 186  
The Soldier. Writ in April, 1684. when our English Volunteers went into Flanders, p. 190  
Philander and Eirene, p. 193  
Of Divine Poesy, two Cantos, By Mr. Waller Occasioned upon sight of the Fifty Third Chapter of Isaiah, turned into Verse by a Lady, p. 214  
Canto 2. p. 217  
Answer to Mr. Waller. p. 222  
The Change, p. 226  
Excusing himself to his Mistress for being jealous, p. 228  
Content, p. 237  
To Lucinda, p. 244  
The Resolve, p. 246  
Parting with Lucinda, p. 248  
The Visit, p. 252  
By Charles How, Esquire p. 254  
By the same, p. 255  
A Saranade, by the same, p. 256  
To my Lord Lansdowne, at the Imperial Camp, p. 258  
On the sight and Sculpture of Mr. Gibbon's own most excellent head, in Marble. By Mr. Johnson, p. 260  
The Denial, p. 263  
Kissing his Mistress, p. 264  
Despair, p. 266  
To Lucinda, p. 269  
Embracing his Mistress, p. 271  
The Unalterable, p. 273  
To Corinna, p. 275  
To Lucinda, p. 283  
The Captive, p. 284  
On Lucinda, p. 286  
The Command, p. 287  
The Convert, p. 289  
Vicissitude, p. 290  
The Cure worse than the Disease, p. 292  
The Denial, p. 293  
The Royal Canticle, or the Song of Solomon, p. 294  
The last parting of Hector with Andromache and his Son Astyanx, when he went to assault the Grecians in their Camp; in the end of which Expedition, he was slain by Achilles, p. 324  
To the late King, at King's College, p. 33●…  
Cupid armed, A la-modern, p. 333  
An Ode, in Imitation of Pindar, on the Death of the Right Honourable, Thomas, Earl of Ossory, p. 335  
The Pisatory Eclogues of Sanazarius. The first Eclogue entitled Phillis, By Mr. Tate: Inscribed to Dr. Conquest, p. 346  
Lycidas and Mycon, p. 347  
The second Eclogue. By the same, p. 354  
The third Eclogue, by the same. Celadon, Mopsus, p. 359  
Proteus. Eclogue the fourth, p. 366  
Ode for an Anniversary of Music on St. Cecilia's Day, p. 373  
The twentieth Ode of the second Book of Horace, p. 376  
Sanaz. Ep. on Venice, p. 377  
The Rape of Philomela. A Paraphrase of Ovid's sixth Book., p. 378  
An Elegy on the Earl of Rochester, p. 392  
On the Coronation of the High and Mighty Monarch JAMES TWO, p. 394  
Martial. Lib. 10. Epigr. 47. Vitam quae faciant beatiorem. p. 397  
A Pindari●… Essay upon Music, By Mr. Wilson, p. 398  
Anacreon. To himself. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, p. 403  
Another 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. By the same hand. p. 404  
Stradas Nightingale, p. 405  
A Translation of the fourth Chorns in Seneca's Troas, p. 409  
Lyrics to Love, p. 411  
The Request, p. 412  
Part of the last Scene of Seneca's Troas done into English, Beginning at Est una magna Turris è Troj●… super, etc. p. 413  
A Poem on the Death of our late dread Sovereign, CHARLES II. of Blessed and Immortal Memory, p. p. 418    

THE PUBLISHER TO THE READER.  
I have with some pains and trouble collected the following Poems: in which undertaking I have one pretence to your Favour, which is, that I have in the Volumn troubled you with very little of my Own. Amongst such various Hands and Arguments, it cannot be expected that they should all be equally perfect, neither if they were so, would they be so esteemed by Readers of different Palates. It is sufficient that we presume there are none unworthy perusal, and I am certain, none that can give offence to the chastest Ear.   

A NEW COLLECTION OF POEMS.  Written by several Authors. 

An ODE Written by Mr. Abraham Cowley For Her Majesty, Queen to King Charles I.  

I.  
COme Poetry, and with thee bring along  
A rich and painted throng  
Of noblest words into my Song;  
Into my numbers let them gently flow,  
Soft and smooth, and thick as Snow,  
And turn the Numbers till they prove  
Smooth as the smoothest Sphere above,  
And like a Sphere harmoniously move.   

II.  
Little dost thou mean Song the Fortune know  
That thou art destined to;  
Or what thy Stars intent to do.  
Among a Thousand Songs, but few can be  
Born to the Honour promised Thee;  
Urania's self shall Thee reheas●…,  
And a just Blessing to Thee give;  
Thou in her sweet and tuneful breath shall Live.   

III.  
Her pleasing Tongue with Thee shall freely play,  
Thou on her Lips shalt stray,  
And dance upon that Rosy way;  
What Prince alive, that would not envy Thee!  
And think Thee higher far than He!  
And how wil●… Thou Thy Author Crown,  
When fair Urania shall be known,  
To sing my words, when She but speaks Her own!    

The GROVE.  By the Earl of Roscommon. 
AH happy Grove! dark and secure retreat,  
Of Sacred silence, rests Eternal Seat;  
How well your cool and unfrequented shade  
Suits with the chasts retirements of a Maid;  
Oh! if kind Heaven had been so much my friend,  
To make my Fate upon my choice depend;  
All my ambition I would here confine,  
And only this Elezyum should be mine:  
Fond Men by Passion wilfully betrayed,  
Adore those Idols which their fancy made;  
Purchasing Riches, with our time and care,  
We lose our freedom in a gilded Snare;  
And having all, all to ourselves, refuse,  
Oppressed with Blessings which we fear to use.  
Fame is at best but an inconstant good,  
Vain are the boasted Titles of our Blood;  
We soon lose what we most highly prize,  
And with our youth our short-lived beauty dies;  
In vain our Fields and Flocks increase our store,  
If our abundance makes us wish for more;  
How happy is the harmless Country Maid,  
Who rich by Nature scorns superfluous aid!  
Whose modest clothes no wanton eyes invite,  
But like her Soul preserves the native white;  
Whose little store her well-taught Mind does please,  
Not pinched with want, nor cloyed with wanton ease,  
Whofree from Storms which on the great ones fall,  
Makes but few Wishes, and enjoys them all;  
No care but Love can discompose her breast,  
Love of all cares the sweetest and the best;  
Whilst on sweet grass her bleating charge does lie,  
Our happy Lover feeds upon her eye;  
Not one on whom or Gods or Men impose,  
But one whom Love has for this Lover chose,  
Under some favourite myrtles shady Boughs,  
They speak their Passions in repeated Vows,  
And whilst a Blush confesses how she burns,  
His faithful heart makes as sincere returns;  
Thus in the Arms of Love and Peace they lie,  
And whilst they Live, their flames can never die.   

Upon NOTHING,  By the Late Earl of ROCHESTER. 

I.  
NOthing thouElder Brother even to shade,  
Thou hadst a Being, ere the World was made,  
And (well-fixt) are alone of ending not afraid.   

II.  
ere time and place were time and place were not,  
When Primitive Nothing, something straight begot,  
Then all proceeded from the great united-What?   

III.  
Something, the gen'ral Attribute of all,  
Severed from thee, its sole Original.  
Into thy boundless self, must undistinguished fall.   

IV.  
Yet something did thy mighty Power command,  
And from thy fruitful emptinesses hand,  
Snatched Men, Beasts, Birds, Fire, Air, and Land.   

V.  
Matter the wickedest Offspring of thy Race,  
By form assisted, flew from thy embrace,  
And Rebel Light, obscured thy reverend dusky face.   

VI  
With form, and Matter, time and place did join,  
Body, thy Foe, with thee did Leagues combine,  
To spoil thy peaceful Realm, and ruin all thy Line.   

VII.  
But Turncoat Time, assists the Foe in vain,  
And bribed by thee, assists thy short-lived Reign,  
And to thy hungry Womb, drives back thy Slaves again.   

VIII.  
Tho' Mysteries are barred from Laic eyes,  
And the Divine alone with Warrant pries,  
Into thy Bosom, where thy truth in private lies.   

IX.  
Yet this of thee, the wise may freely say,  
Thou from the Virtuous, nothing tak'st away,  
And to be part of thee, the Wicked wisely pray.   

X.  
Great Negative, how vainly would the Wise,  
Inquire, desine, distinguish, teach, devise,  
Didst thou not stand to point their dull Philosophies.   

XI.  
Is, or is not, the Two great ends of Fate,  
And true, or false, the subject of debate,  
That perfect, or destroy, the vast designs of Fate.   

XII.  
When they have racked the Politicians Breast,  
Within thy Bosom, most securely rest,  
And when reduced to thee are least unsafe, and best.   

XIII.  
But Nothing, why does something still permit,  
That Sacred Monarches, should at Council sit,  
Which Persons highly thought, at best for Nothing fit.   

XIV.  
Whilst weighty Something, modestly abstains,  
From Prince's Coffers, and from statesmen's Brains,  
And Nothing there, like stately Nothing reigns.   

XV.  
Nothing who dwellest with Fools in grave disguise,  
For whom thy Reverend shapes, and forms devise,  
Lawn-sleeves, and Furs, and Gowns, when they like thee look wise.   

XVI.  
French Truth, Dutch Prowess, British Policy,  
Hybernians Learning, Scotch Civility,  
Spaniard's dispatch, Danes Wit, are mainly seen in thee.   

XVII.  
The great Man's gratitude, to his best Friend,  
Court Promises, Whores Vows, towards thee they bend,  
Flow swiftly into thee, and in thee ever end.    

Upon his leaving his Mistress.  By the same Author. 

'tIs not that I am weary grown,  
Of being yours, and yours alone;  
But with what Face can I incline,  
To damn you to be only mine?  
You whom some kinder Power did fashion,  
By merit and by inclination,  
The joy at least of one whole Nation.   

Let meaner Spirits of your Sex,  
With humbler aims, their thoughts perplex,  
And boast, if by their arts they can  
Contrive to make one happy Man;  
Whilst moved by an impartial Sense,  
Favours like Nature you dispense,  
With universal influence.   

See the kind seed receiving Earth,  
To every Grain affords a Birth;  
On her no showers unwelcome fall,  
Her willing Womb retains 'em all;  
And shall my Celia be confined?  
No, live up to thy mind,  
And be the Mistress of Mankind.    

Love and Life, a Song by the same Author.  

ALL my past Life is mine no more,  
The flying hours are gone?  
Like Transitory Dreams given o'er,  
Whose Images are kept in store,  
By Memory alone.   

Whatever is to come, is not,  
How can it then be mine?  
The present Moment's all my Lot,  
And that as fast as it is got,  
Phillis is wholly thine.   

Then talk not of inconstancy,  
False Hearts, and broken Vows,  
If I by Miracle can be,  
This livelong Minute true to thee,  
'Tis all that Heaven allows.    

To the late Earl of Rochester, upon the report of His Sickness in Town, being newly Recovered by His Lordship's advice in the Country. In Allusion to the Ode of Horace.  By Sir FRANCIS FANE. 
What means this tumult in my Veins,  
These echoed Groans and Sympathetick pains?  
Ah cruel Lord! why dost thou wound  
Him whom so late thy pity found?  
Or didst thou spare my Life, that I  
A nobler Death for thee should die?  
It is not possible, nor just,  
The little Offsprings of the dust,  
The Sun extinct should him survive,  
By whose kind beams they're kept alive;  
Oh! rather let me die before,  
Perish Ten Thousand more,  
To spy the Bounds of th' indiscovered shore,  
●…hough with less hopes than they, that sought the Indian Oar.  
How dar'st thou bold disease surprise  
The joy, and Glory of our eyes;  
Mankind's delight wits utmost Goal,  
heavens Masterpiece, spirit of Soul:  
We need thee not to make his Fame more bright  
Officious Death, to lesser Stars required,  
Who never shine out clear, but in thy Night  
He is all Flame, all Light,  
And lives unenvied, though by all admired:  
Free as the Angels in their blessed Estate,  
What none can reach, there's none will emulate.  
Quench Fever, quench thy too presumptuous heat,  
Tremble to Ice at so August a name,  
Or if thou needest wilt be by mischiefs great,  
Fire on, and set the World on Flame.  
Had credulous England, fond of Foreign News,  
And from remotest parts the World above,  
Received the Indian Faith, which none else does refuse,  
Did Men believe, that after their remove  
From Earth, they should enjoy the Friends they Love;  
With all their Wit, their Rhetoric, and sense,  
Which with immortal ease they could dispense:  
What Crowds would leap into his Funeral Pile,  
London would desert, Kingless be the Isle;  
The Strand instead of Men, would Acorns yield,  
Whitehall a Meadow be, th' Exchange a Field.   

To a great Lord, inviting him to Court, or else to Write a History in the Country. A Paraphrase upon the 12th. Ode of Horace: l. 2. by the same.  

URge me not to be poorly great,  
To steep Ascents in slippery places,  
Much less Posterity to cheat  
By Histories with janus' Faces;  
Alas! I cannot act, nor write,  
Unfit for Counsel, or for Fight;  
Careless what mortal sits above,  
I've full employment in my Love;  
I have no time for public cares,  
Too busy still to mind such toys,  
Dark Prophecies of State affairs,  
And future fears for present joys:  
Divert me not from my sublimest bliss,  
I should destroy a Kingdom for a Kiss.  
Ah! my good Lord, would you not lose  
The Incomes of the Golden Isles?  
Tag●…s his Treasures, or Per●…s,  
For one of my Lycymnia's Smiles?  
When she her fragrant lips withdraws,  
Grants and denies,  
With scornful words, inviting eyes,  
Nor will confine Celestial joys to humane Laws:  
But with her amorous thirst  
Makes me to steal a gift.  
Then in a sudden freakish Vein  
Invades my hungry lips again,  
And finding there her heedless Prey,  
Sucks out my Soul, and spirits it away.   

Would you not leave the Council board  
If she passed by, and gave the word?  
And start up in furious mood,  
As if 'twere for the public good;  
Quarrel with him that spoke the last,  
And leave your well-weighed Notes for haste:  
Throw up the Land to Pope, or Knox,  
To Wars, to Famine, Plague, or Pox?  
Rather than lose with her one minutes joy,  
Where sight alone can fill, fruition never cloy.   

Let others spend their slavish days,  
Hard Labourers for gaudy praise;  
Beg of just Heaven their Plagues and Pains,  
Their painted joys and gilded Chains:  
And faintly smile, profoundly groan,  
Happy in all thoughts, but their own:  
Though all the Charms of Pride advise,  
And Terrors fright from Earth, or Skies;  
Raped to Elysium with a strong desire,  
Held fast in Snowy Snares I will expire,  
And still kiss on, were all the world on fire.    

To a Perjured Mistress; the 8th. Ode of Horace, lib. 1. Imitated, by the same.  
FAlsest of fair ones, swear again,  
And add to thy Transcending store,  
Of prosperous Perjuries Ten Thousand more,  
Dull Truth becomes thee not, it looks too plain:  
Did Heaven those mortal sins resent,  
But with some Venial Punishment,  
Were the least blemish on thy face,  
One Hair, or Nail out of its place,  
I should believe, but still you rise  
More beautiful by Blasphemies;  
By Disobedience made divine,  
The more you swear, the more you shine;  
As if the Gods had nought to do,  
But to be wronged, and thankful too.  
Then swear, and shine again,  
Let each false Oath augment thy Lover's Train,  
And make this Wonder plain,  
That Mankind never has more Piety  
Than when they least believe their Deity.   

A MASK. Made at the Request of the late Earl of Rochester, for the Tragedy of Valentinian.  The SCENE. Lucina, Maximus his Wife, sleeping. Enter Zephyrus and Favonius, ushering in the MOON. Zephy. 
HAil sacred Cynthia! mutable, but chaste  
As the cold Air by which thou art embraced,  
Changing thy Shape as often as thy Stations  
With new Disguises and false Assignations;  
Or hid in an Eclipses Vizard-Mask,  
Thou cheatest the Gods in Love's laborious Task.  
Mother of calmest Thoughts and sacred Dreams,  
The Earth's best neighbour, lending thy kind beams  
To plants, to beasts to men, to grounds, and streams,  
Without whose Influence not a Hair grows well,  
Nor spire of Grass, nor Blood, nor Waves can swell;  
Parent of temperate Passions still allayed  
By thy decrease, as by thy fullness made.  Fav. 
Falsely believed Sol's Sister, thou'rt his Wife  
Impregnated with fertile Worlds of Life,  
Breeding or teeming still, and bring'st to's Bed  
A new Face every day, a monthly Maidenhead.  
Sol that delights in chaste Polygamy,  
Casts fruitful Beams on Tellus, and on thee.  
Contented Wives the Earth, and Moon repay  
Light to each other from their Husband's Ray.  
Chaste Relict of the Sun! thou weep'st his Fate  
In dewy Tears, and mak'st him lie in State:  
Thy heavenly Hall with Blacks and Lamps adorning  
Hid at his Resurrection in the Morning,  
Thy Splendour to thy Husband's Beams resigning,  
And humbly in his Absence only shining.  
Proceed, Great Queen, to thy divine Intent,  
Preserve this Loyal Wife, and Crimes prevent.  
Sweeping with gentle Gales the Cyprian Coast,  
I blow some Whispers from the heavenly Host.  
Hermes and Venus were in Consultation  
Upon their flight to the All-conquering Nation.  
'Tis time some powerful God should mischiefs stay,  
When Love and Eloquence are on their way.  The Moon. 
Now thrice seven times, since my Increase, have I  
Walked round the sleeping World in watchful Sky,  
And summoned all my twinkling Spies to know  
Th' effects of Passions they impressed below,  
(Where we sow joys, & griefs, & hopes, & fears,  
As men sow Herbs and Flowers in their Parterres,  
For Physick some, some planted for Delight,  
(And happy those that know to use them right,)  
But have not found a Mortal so oppressed,  
Honour pursued, and panting in the Breast  
Of this bright spotless Dame, now takes some rest.  
Well done, good Somnus, powerfully repair  
With thy chaste Opiates that weighty Care  
That friendly Foe frail Women cannot spare.  
Ah lovely Face! which justly might excuse  
Thy Prince, if he did beg for a Refuse,  
And tempt thee to the Glory to deny,  
For Virtue brighter shines than Sol, or I;  
But he would uncontrolled do all like us,  
Poor Titular God, and envies Maximus.  
Too happy Maximus! could Fortune stay,  
And from those dangerous heights not roll away,  
Great Joys are to be feared for their Alloy.  
But Virtue, Fortune's Queen, preserves entire  
Eternal Rules; bold mortals that inquire,  
Curiously stirring up, put out the holy Fire.  
Safe in those Laws, Lucina, might thou rest  
With mutual Love, Virtue's best safeguard blest:  
But Man, that compound Mortal's ne'er secure,  
Whilst Souls are sleepy, and the Flesh impure.  
Here, take these Lilies, armed for thy defence  [Throws down Lilies 
As white and cold as Snow or Innocence  
Steeped in the Ice-house of the River Styx,  
Where jove drinks Healths to strangers when they mix  
With heavenly Being's, and must cease to know  
Th' uneasy Joys of the poor World below.  
Sleep on, fair Saint, with heavenly Visions blest,  
Let no black Dreams defile thy snowy Breast,  
Nor Fiends corrupt thee, though like Angels dressed.  Enter Mercury and Venus. Mer. 
Has Flesh and Blood need of a Power divine  
To raise their Sympathy, and make 'em join?  
Is't not enough to pimp for sacred jove,  
But every Prince below must have a Love,  
Inflexible to all but Bawds above?  Ven. 
You run too fast my Agent, Rome declines,  
The Eagles mew their wings, which heaven designs  
Shall further fly. The Pilot drunk with Love  
The great Ship runs aground. Shall mighty jove  
every a Prince with all the powerful Charms  
Of Beauty, Wit, and Virtue, Arts, and Arms?  
And shall a wretched half-concocted She  
Depose a Demy-God, cramp Victory,  
Rebellious to her Prince, to jove, and Me?  
Destroy an Empire for this monstrous Crime  
Against Honour, only fit for Plays in Rhyme,  
Idle Discourse, not Action, that gay Dame  
For all her shifts of Gawdery, not of Name  
Or Quality in Heaven above: an odious Broker  
Betwixt rich Virtues, Daughters of the Gods,  
And bankrupt Sins the brats of needy Mortals.  
Dost thou, t'assist me, shod with wings repine?  
Thy Master's Credit lies at stake, not mine.  Me. 
Why, Madam Venus, you can take your sport,  
Cuckold your Husband, sing, and dance at Court,  
And like a lazy Lady coach about,  
Whilst I must trudge my Legs and Feathers out.  
My Errands are so quick, my Time so short,  
That I can get no Wife, nor Mistress for't.  
There's ne'er a Lawyer, but his ven●…al Tongue  
Is tipped by me: dark points of right and wrong,  
Not obvious to all Hearers, I can clear  
To the doubt-making Judge, tell how, and where  
The puzzled Audience with Contention spent  
A Bribe may safely make a Precedent.  
Never a Tradesman cheats, Sectarist prays,  
Stationer sells, or Poet steals his Plays,  
Rhetorical Fool must prate, or be in Print,  
Insuring Statesman Plot, but Mercury is in't.  Ven. 
I tell thee, Mercury, thy Trade's but small  
To mine, that does engross and swallow all.  
Mine's like the Ocean, whence I took my Birth,  
All streams of Business crowd from churlish Earth,  
Breaking from Customs bounds and living Graves,  
Seek Liberty in our ungoverned waves.  
Vice's Cabal each other does supply,  
Pride Rapine moves, Rapine feeds Luxury;  
But all their motions tend to amorous Joy:  
what's more than that, for Mankind is too high.  
What makes the street-bespattered Lawyer trudge?  
What oil's's the turnstile Conscience of a Judge?  
They squeeze the juicy Rich, and bruise the Poor,  
Refunding Fees to their more griping Whore.  
When Sisters throng into the Meeting-place,  
I dress up Cupid like a Babe of Grace.  
The Teacher is to Repetition brought,  
Swaddled with Neckcloath, tender, overwrought,  
Rubbed, and repaired with Cordials, he becomes  
A secret Morsel for the hallowed Gums.  
If Poets write, and Love be not their Text,  
Nor Women hear them, Fame will leave them next.  
'Tis I that do inspire the Sword or Pill,  
Make Soldiers spare, and make Physicians kill;  
Repairing Murders still with Propagations;  
I root out sapless Plants, but people Nations.  
Beauty's the current Coin that none refuses,  
The Bribe of Mars, Minerva, and the Muses:  
Love's grown so general, more Gods should be made  
To carry on the busy amorous Trade;  
'Tis from a liberal Art turned a Disease,  
Infecting those that have not Strength nor Ease;  
Each dying Lecher keeps a hungry Female  
To gaze upon, and handle, like fine knacks,  
Religious Pictures, pretty Saints in Wax:  
But Flesh and Blood abhors Idolatry,  
By Footmen eased of their Divinity;  
Nay every Porter keeps a Miss, must wear  
On her gay Limbs, the Labour of 〈◊〉 Year.  
I am the Mother of Delights, refreshing  
The weary World with Love, of Pleasures the supreme,  
'Cause Nature highest ends to it assigned,  
All others serve but Man, and this Mankind.  Mer. 
Weak is the power of Wits affected noise  
To the dumb Rhetoric of charming Eyes.  
Goddess you've conquered, and it is your Part  
Both to subdue and mollify her Heart:  
I've tipped his Tongue with all the charms of Wit,  
Would melt a Rock, d●…bauch an Anchorit,  
Calm a tempestuous Sea, tempt a fixed Star  
From Heaven, or make a Tiger lie in's Lap;  
Make Cynthia turn a Whore, or thee a Nun:  
Yet all these words, like ruffling winds, make her  
Sat safer in white Robes of Innocence,  
Wrapping them close about her:  
Try if thy sultry amorous Heats can make  
Her throw them of.  Ven. 
Oh! I have fired her Blood, and filled her Mind  
With the Ideas of all brave mankind;  
To which her Husband seems a crest-fallen monster,  
Put Stars into the Emperor's Eyes, soft heavenly motions  
Into his Limbs, gentle surprising Vigour,  
Which with its smooth and regular Approaches  
Would make defenceless a rude Amazon,  
Or steal into the Trenches of a Vestal.  
'Tis true I never called my Son, too sure  
Kings, without Cupid's Aid, might Love procure.  Mer. 
Then call him straight, and let him arm his  
Peirce and repeirce the Adamantine Foe Bow,  
With his new Darts whet on Jove's Thunderbolt,  
Feathered with Sparrows wings, shafted with Myrtle  
Steeped in the Blood of Goats, and Lovers tears:  
Barbed with the Ir'n of Nets which Vulcan threw  
On Mars and thee, when Gods were called to view,  
Sharp as the Tongue of a forsaken Scold.  Ven. 
Cupid, come down, our Deities controlled,  
And bring the Quiver jove with Kisses gave thee  
For's New-years-gift, then see who dares outbrave thee.  [Cupid descends and shoots; the Arrow breaks.] Mer. 
If gentle heavenly Gods cannot reclaim  
The haggard heart of an ill-mannered Dame,  
Let's ask Advice of Hell's great Lords, to tame  
The only Woman of this awkard frame.  Ven. 
Rise Pluto, rise, with all th' infernal Powers,  
Proud Mortals learn new Laws, and scoff at ours:  
The Honour of the Gods is now engaged;  
ne'er Woman was so cool, nor Goddess so enraged.  [Pluto rises with his Infernal Train.] 
What trifle's this! so many Gods combined  
Against a thoughtless, custom-ridden Female,  
Much weaker than the He presumptuous Wight,  
Who only 'cause he prates, and walks upright,  
Values himself 'bove other Animals,  
Weaker than Beasts in pleasures and in sense,  
Weaker in Prudence and his own Defence:  
A godlike Victory, a most celestial Prize,  
To make a Female take her wished-for Joys.  
The under-shrubs of Men give Women odds;  
Are these Proceedings fit for Kings or Gods?  Ven. 
If Beauty, Wit, and Greatness she despise,  
What more alluring Baits canst thou devise?  Plu. 
Must those be courted that are made to yield  
Who parleys with a Foe that wants a Shield,  
Or asks men leave to do them Courtesies?  
Clients sometimes must force the gap't-for Fees.  
What faintly offered, scarce deserves the Thanks  
Of the Receiver: Gratitude t'excite,  
Press Bounties home, and make men feel their weight.  
Women were made on purpose to be ravished,  
Nature had armed them else, nor left unguarded  
The Avenues of Love:  
Honour commands an open Citadel,  
The Traitor makes a show, but can't, nor won't repel.  
Who would stand knocking at an unlocked Gate?  
Or, who in's Porch can hope to save his Plate?  
For shame dispatch, and disabuse the Prince,  
Give him his Play-thing, he'll be quiet strait.  
The Empire will grow strong, and Armies fight,  
And more Souls tumble to eternal night;  
Ambition damns more Mortals, than Delight.  Mer. 
Spoke like great Pluto, Venus, don't repine  
To lose the Glory, getting your Design.  
The matter lies not what, but how to have;  
What more can Mankind give, or Woman crave?  
None e'er was ravished, but with close consent;  
Shame makes them sometimes quarrel, ne'er repent.  
Was e'er ambitious man forced to a Crown,  
Hunger compelled to feed? Are wearied men  
Said to be robbed of Burdens? Do I force  
The falling fruit that drops into my hand?  Ven. 
Oh senseless Males! must Women lose the Pride  
Of Courtship, self-reflexion, Joys beside  
Of Dalliance, and the yielding Arts of Love,  
Embraced by all, whom their Attractions move?  
Must that rough Sex our tender Breasts invade,  
Without the fawning, and th' indearing Trade,  
Th' Esteem, the Tenderness, the Adoration,  
And take the sacred prize without Gradation  
And due Respect? I hate so hard a shift.  Mer. 
Bart'ring makes Love a Bargain, Rape a gift,  
Plainly consenting Women buy delight,  
Part with their Pride, to please their Appetite:  
A bold Invasion does loathed Debt prevent,  
Love's sweeter when 'tis given than when 'tis lent.  Plu. 
Well urged, right Apprehensive Lord of th' upper house:  
Love is the Sauce, but Lust's the wholesome Meat  
Which nicest Stomaches ne'er refuse to eat.  
Proud Beggars ne'er confess their wants, though asked,  
'Tis decent Charity to steal into  
Their hands an Alms. If heavenly Arrows fail,  
The Darts of Flesh must the proud Flesh assail;  
Which cure by Sympathy the hardest heart,  
Like Pelia's Spear, both wound and heal the smart.  Mer. to Ven. 
Fair scornful Dame, great Casuist in Love,  
Raising the price of Lust t'enslave Mankind,  
Playing the Whore with Grandeur and Discretion;  
Love is a cheat t'ingross in private hands  
The staple trade of Lust, meant for the public.  
What you deny is more Mankind's than yours,  
A Right no Vestal e'er can give away,  
A Right inherent, not to be refused  
Nor limited, 'cause relative to all;  
No more than Palates kept from various Tastes,  
Iron to one Loadstone, Amber to one Straw.  
If I have Title to a common Ground,  
Tho 'tis enclosed within another's Bound,  
All Laws allow free way to fetch my Shares:  
But these are double-faced terrestrial Cares;  
Where right and wrong lie mixed like Earth and Water,  
Or Fire and Air, none can divide 'em clearly;  
Such Rubs stop not the Gods. 'Tis writ above,  
Great Valentinian shall enjoy his Love!  Ven. 
Well, if I must obey, I'll ne'er assist  
Such lewd base Acts, nor lend a simp'ring smile,  
But when 'tis done, I'll help to reconcile.  Plu. 
We knew you would be there. Come then, I'll call  
My Satyrs to prepare the willing Fall,  
And in soft Dreams preach Honour's Funeral.  Enter Satyrs, and Dance.  

From Ovid Amorum, l. 2. El. 4. and Lucretius l. 4. That he loves Women of all sorts and sizes.  By Mr. R— 
ALL Blots I cannot from my Manners wipe,  
Nor say I walk uprightly when I slip:  
Pressed with my Thoughts, I to Confession fall,  
In pain, and mad, till I lay open all.  
I sin, and I repent, clear off the Score,  
Then run, like wild, to dip again for more.  
I cannot rule myself, like Pinnace tossed  
In storms, the Rudder gone, and Compass lost.  
No certain Shape, or Features, stint my Mind,  
I still for Love a thousand Reasons find.  
Here one commends my Verse; In Equity  
If I please her, she surely pleases me.  
But if malicious witty things she said,  
I think how she would repartee in bed:  
And for the Lashes that her Tongue bestowed,  
Had I my wish, how I would kiss the Rod.  
If artless they, my Heart on Nature dotes;  
If learned, I long to be conferring notes:  
If no great Sense or Parts the Damsel show,  
Still I conclude, she wants it not below.  
The mild one stays me with her pouting Lip;  
Yet love a Shrew, because she is no Sheep.  
I like whom pious Education fools;  
Who would not try to put her past her Rules?  
Thou Look demure, her Inclinations swerve,  
And, once let loose, she jigs without reserve.  
Who without Flame, they have the Air of France,  
Not clean, or sweet are Ala Negligence.  
Sanguine her looks, the Colour high and good;  
For all the rest I trust her Flesh and Blood.  
Here living Snow my Passion strangely warms,  
And straight I wish her melting in mine arms:  
White, Red, or Guinny- black, or Gipsy- brown,  
My dearly wellbeloved every one.  
If she is tall, my Courage mounts as high,  
To stamp some new heroic Progeny.  
If little, Oh! how quick the Spirit moves?  
If large, who would not roll in what he loves?  
The Lean provokes me with her naughty rubs;  
But if she's plump, 'tis then my pretty Fubs.  
And doubtless, one might truck convenient sport  
With either fat or lean, or long or short.  
The tripping Gate so tickles/ yet if wide  
She steps, Oh! then she swoups me with Stride.  
That waddle was a Grace in Montespan,  
These drowsy Eyes are perfect C—  
With yellow Curls Aurora pleased her Top,  
And Leda (jove well saw) was black-a-top.  
The black or yellow are alike to me,  
My Love will suit with every History.  
If Cloe sing, she, like a Siren, draws;  
If she sing not, we kiss without a pause:  
I love to risle amongst Gems and Dress;  
Yet lumber they, to godlike Nakedness.  
Buzzards and Owls on special quarry fall;  
Mine is a generous Love, and flies at all.  
I like the Rich, 'cause she is pampered high,  
And merry Beggar love, for Charity;  
Widow or Wife, I'm for a Pad that's weighed;  
If Virgin, troth, who would not love a Maid?  
If she be young, I take her in the nick;  
If she has Age she helps it with a trick.  
If nothing charms me in her Wit or Face,  
She has her Fiddle in some other place.  
Come every sort and size, the great or small,  
My Love will find a Tally for 'em all.  
The foregoing Elegy, having been published imperfect, is here Printed from the best Copy.   

To DOROLISSA, On her being like my Lord Dorset.  By the same. 
ADd all to Man that Man's Perfection makes,  
Woman has something still that strangely takes:  
Why run we else, at Dorolissa's Call,  
In Crowds to Hersham, and neglect Copt-Hall?  
But who could hope, from Dorset's Noble Frame,  
To find a Female of the very same;  
Such inward Beauty, and such outward Grace,  
All met again together in one place?  
The same free Looks that no disguises bear,  
The same sweet, generous, Melancholy are?  
That perfect Smile, and that half-bended frown,  
These glances too are Dorset's every one:  
Yet Nature, that she might us not perplex,  
The manly Strokes with finer touches checks,  
In a just Care to the dear fairer Sex.  
Nor do their Persons only come so near,  
Her Soul's as high, and every way his Peer.  
Tho the same mighty Genius so prevails  
In one, in one particular it fails.  
To all the●…e Gifts of Body and of Mind,  
A Conduct thus reserved is, oddly, joined:  
This suits but ill with the Heroic kind.  
Great Dorset would his Love communicate,  
Not turn away from a warm willing Mate.  
Here would we live, nor think of Joys above,  
Were you, ah! were you like him in your Love.   

In Imitation of the Song, That I love none.  By OLINDA. 

SOme say, I for Olinda die,  
My Breast so violent Passion warms,  
Most think my hour is scarce so nigh,  
But, ah! these little know her Charms.   

My Heart all witty fair ones sway,  
And to sad difficulty bring;  
Yet none so cruel quite to slay  
The harmless, poor, good natured thing.   

My Heart is Love's mere Tennis ball,  
Here tossed, there bandied up and down;  
But in good hands if once it fall,  
'Tis lodged, 'tis then, for ever, gone.    

The PICTURE.  By Mr. Adam's. 

COme gentle Love, 'tis only thou  
Canst Celidia's Beauties know;  
Thou, for he trusts none but thee,  
Thou my pretty Painter be:  
But no mortal Colours may  
My Celidia's form display.  
Fetch me then Love, fetch the same  
Nature uses through this frame.  
When she Spring most fain would show,  
Or she paints the watery Bow—  
So, how swift thy Motions be,  
Scarce thy Darts more swift than thee.  
Now first— stay let me see— first try  
Thy matchless Skill upon her Eye;  
Paint it black, and full, and bright,  
Quick, and piercing as the Light;  
Let it sparkle humid Fire,  
Let it languish with desire;  
Yet let a majestic Air  
Midst some pretty scorn appear,  
Such as may inspire fear,  
Such as may soft Love inspire,  
Yet chastise too bold desire;  
As may threaten yet invite,  
Tempering Terror with Delight.  
Now let's see— well this might do  
Couldst thou paint the Motion too.  
Next, let her faultless Nose descend,  
Which Envy, Nature cannot mend.  
But now gentle Love, oh now!  
Thou thy Skill, thy Art must show:  
Canst thou something here design  
That may Sweetness breathe divine?  
Canst thou paint thy Mother's Smile  
When she would some God beguile?  
Then mightst thou attempt to feign  
Her well formed Mouth— Yet then in vain,  
But for once thou shalt be tried:  
Let the Lip with humble Pride  
Gently swell, in Blushes died  
Of native Purple, and let there  
A perpetual Dew appear,  
Such as flows on opening Roses  
When the Morn their Sweets discloses:  
While Fancy forms in every Kiss,  
Joy, Rapture, and immortal Bliss.  
O! still the Grace, the charming Air,  
The melting Softness, is not there.  
Well, prithee go on, o'er her fair Eyes  
Let her lofty Forehead rise:  
Like some Hill of Snow, whose height  
Above the Sun contemns his heat.  
Now let on her Cheeks be laid  
Such a White and such a Red,  
As the new-●…leec'd Snow does wear,  
Unsullied by the neither Air;  
As most sweetly is displayed  
On the poor timorous, wishing Maid,  
Whom some blessed Youth does first invade.  
Then let her dishevelled Hair  
Here curl, and there disappear:  
Here return, then downward stray,  
As it fain would lose its way;  
Black let that be, black, as made  
The beauteous Piece's decent Shade,  
As if she were enwrapped in Night  
Thy gentle Season of Delight.  
Then O! then draw her swelling Breast,  
Where Gods, where amorous Gods would rest,  
Yet ne'er by Man or God yet pressed.  
Let it such motion seem to find,  
As Seas saluted by the Wind,  
Which the loved Waves just Kisses o'er,  
And whispers Passion to the inclining Shore.  
O Love! methinks this is not well,  
Methinks it does not panting swell;  
Nor is the lovely Mouth the same,  
Nor darts the Eye the well-known Flame.   

While thus I spoke, Love angry grew,  
The Tablet tore, and down he threw  
The Pencil, and away he flew.  
Whether the God himself did move,  
And Love did operate on Love;  
So feared to stir my rival Flame,  
Should he draw her too much the same:  
Or he thought I should vex more  
When his Pencil should come lower;  
'Twas that the little God well knew,  
The Painter so his Mother drew,  
And to the Waste her form did show:  
But then he spread a circling Wave,  
As Modesty had made him leave;  
Tho 'tis most sure his Pencil he suppressed,  
Because he never could describe the rest.    

A PASTORAL, Written at Dublin, in May 1683.  Coridon. 
THyrsis, since here we be together laid,  
Where these kind Trees embraces wove a Shade,  
Sing gentle Youth, and with some tuneful Lay,  
Beguile our Labour, and deceive the day;  
Thelgon will seed our Flocks; and when they're fed,  
Th●…lgon our Flocks will to the River lead.  Thyrsis. 
OCoridon! Who shall presume to sing?  
Who to these Groves shall foreign Numbers bring?  
Where once great Spencer did triumphant reign,  
The best, the sweetest, of the inspired Train;  
Scarce from the God of Wit such Verse did flow,  
When he vouchsafed to follow Sheep below:  
Here sighed the lovesick Swain, here fed his Sheep  
Near Mullas Stream, whose Waves he taught to weep:  
While hungry'st Herds forgot the flowery Meads,  
And the unshorn Hills inclined their listening Shades;  
Oft as I've heard the Muses hither came,  
The Muses slighted the inspiring Stream,  
Charmed with the merit of their Colin's fame:  
While hoarser Goatherds in some wretched strain  
Invoked the absent Deities in vain.  
Ah! lived he now, what Subjects might he choose,  
The deathless Themes of his immortal Muse,  
Of Godlike Ossory his Song would tell,  
How much beloved he lived, how much bewailed he fell.  
In War unconquered, but betrayed in Peace  
By fraud of Death, and snares of a Disease.  
Then he'd to late Posterity declare,  
How well Great Arran did the loss repair;  
That when Good Ormond would his Age release  
In no mean Pleasures, no inglorious Ease,  
He with like Virtue ruled, with like success:  
So when old Atlas eased his stooping Years,  
Alcides only could support the Spheres.  
Well hast thou chose, Great Monarch! well designed  
So vast a Burden for so vast a Mind!  
He all the worth of his long line does show,  
As Rivers largest when they furthest flow;  
No false Cabal his Virtue could engage,  
Flowing unmixed through a Rebellious Age,  
Unmixed and pure, as the swift Rhônedos take  
His liquid way, through dull Geneva's Lake.  
But whither am I brought by unknown ways,  
Forced by the mighty Current of his Praise?  
Say happy Bard! immortal Spencer say!  
What numbers wouldst thou choose, what Praise display,  
When of Armagh thy mighty Song should be,  
Of Armagh's Justice and his Piety?  
Armagh! who Innocence secures from wrong,  
In whom the poor are rich, the weak are strong,  
The Widow's Plenty, and the Orphan's Song.  
Armagh! the good, whom Men and Angels love,  
Chief Priest of Themis, and Chief Priest of jove:  
'Tis he, my much-loved Coridon! 'tis he,  
Through whom my Flocks thus wander as you see.  
He too permits my Verse, nor does disdain  
The humble Tribute of a grateful Swain.  
O could I! could I my low measures raise,  
Worthy his Name, and worthy of his Praise!  
While weary Flocks rejoiced in Shades, while Showers  
Of silent dew revived expiring Flowers,  
While breathing Winds should slow through yonder Grove,  
And Shepherdesses should submit to Love;  
Armagh should be the Universal Theme;  
Our Mountains of themselves should speak his Name,  
And all the echoing Plains, th' attentive Woods  
Of Armagh sing, of Armagh all the Floods.  Coridon. 
Thrice happy Youth, thy Gratitude exceeds  
The humble measures of our rural Reeds.  
O may he oft vouchsafe thy Verse to hear,  
When noble Pleasures shall unbend his Care;  
But see, the Day Night silently invades,  
And the departing Sun doubles the increasing Shades.   

Vivamus mea Lesbian, &c Catull.  By the same. 

LEt's live, my Lesbian, while we may,  
In Love let's pass the thoughtless day,  
While Impotence and Envy rage  
In a severe censorious Age:  
Yonder Sun which sets to night,  
Returns to morrow with new Light:  
But when once our day goes down,  
All our Mirth, our Joys are gone,  
One small stroke our Hearts will sever,  
And we sleep, we sleep for ever.  
A thousand Kisses then, my Dear,  
A hundred more, nay yet I swear  
Another thousand does remain,  
Now the hundred o'er again,  
Then another thousand more,  
Then a hundred as before;  
Thus when many thousand past,  
We'll mix, we'll shuffle 'em so last,  
That nor Thou, nor I may know  
What is done, or what to do,  
And no Envy blast our Bliss  
When our Joys are numberless.    

SONG.  

I.  
NO faith, No, I will not now;  
Couldst thou not one, not one Repulse allow?  
What a silly Whore art thou?  
Have a care of Care, of dull Permission;  
Women may rule us,  
If they please to fool us,  
Make us sigh, and make us wish on.   

II.  
I hate the coming Maid,  
Love is by nauseous fondness over-laid,  
Becalmed as in the Marriagebed.  
Give me a bouncing tempestuous Beauty,  
Let her pet and grumble,  
By't, and toss, and tumble,  
Or I'm slow as Husbands upon Duty.   

III.  
Call Honour, Fame, and Modesty,  
All the airy Guards of nice Virginity,  
Through all I'd force each Inch of thee,  
Enhance thyself by frequent denial,  
Make us think 'tis somewhat  
We labour so to come at,  
For who, O who would seek it if he knew all?    

Parce meo juveni, etc. Tibullus.  

SPare gentle Beast! ah, spare my lovely Boy,  
Whether thou dost the Hill or Plain enjoy!  
Do not! ah do not thy sharp Tusks prepare  
For fierce Encounters and relentless War!  
Thou gentle Love, his faithful Guardian be!  
Thou gentle Love, preserve him safe to me!  
Cursed be the Dogs, cursed be the woody shade  
Whose solitary Pleasure can persuade  
To follow Beasts, and fly a dying Maid?  
What Fury is't? Ah! what is thy Design!  
While thou the nets round some rough Hill dos●… gain,  
To hunt those Hands, those tender Hands of thine;  
Where is the Pleasure of the surest Trace,  
While the hooked Thorns those snowy Legs deface.   

But yet, so I myself might wander too,  
So I with thee my lovely Youth might go,  
Myself secure of any future fear,  
O'er ●…raggy Rocks the twis●…ed Nets would ●…ear;  
Myself the Fleetest Deer would nimbly trace,  
And the swift Dogs uncouple for the Chase:  
Then you blessed Woods, O then yeed please me too!  
If I might with my loved Ch●…rynthus go.  
If in your amorous ●…ling Shade  
We might together by the ●…oils ●…e laid,  
Then should the Beast securely ma●…ch away,  
We'd only be ourselves each others Prey,  
No care of sport, the Boa●… should then destroy  
The sweet Perfection of our eager Joy;  
Then shouldst thou have no other Love but me,  
As I would only sigh and ●…urn for thee;  
That so my Dear, after Diana's ●…aw,  
With a chas●…e hand thou mightst the chas●…e net draw.  
Yet if by cunning s●…ealth some Rival Maid  
Should the soft Pleasures of my Love invade,  
May some unknown misfortune meet her, may  
She suddenly become some wild Beasts prey.   

But thou, fair Youth, such rough Delights forbear,  
And let thy Father of the Chase take care:  
Thou softer Pleasures follow, Thou and I,  
And quickly to my Bosom, quickly fly.    

A Translation out of 〈◊〉 To SLEEP.  
WHat horrid Crime did gentle Sleep displease?  
That he refuses me the common ease  
Of Bird and Beast? nay, every breeding Tr●…e  
Seems but to nod with Sleep to waking me.  
Fierce Rivers softly glide, Seas faintly roar,  
And roll themselves asleep upon the Shore.  
Seven times the Moon has measured out the night,  
Seven times my Eyes outwatched her borrowed Light.  
The shining Stars, as in their Orbs they move,  
As oft have seen me waking from above.  
Still my Complaints revived, Aurora hears,  
And moved with Pity, baths me with her Tears.  
How will my Strength to bear my Grief suffice?  
Like Argus, I have not a thousand Eyes,  
That may alternately their watching take,  
His Body never was all o'er awake.  
Perhaps some amorous Youth kind Sleep denies  
To lodge, at present, in his wanton eyes:  
With waking Arms he clasps the yielding Dame,  
And quits his Rest to ease a restless Flame.  
Let the ill-treated God take Wing to me  
Who have so long begged for his Company;  
I will not ask him a whole Night to stay,  
A happier Man must for that Blessing pray,  
Let him but call upon me in his way.   

The ATHEIST.  

I.  
GReat knowing Hero! Who dares boast  
A Conquest o'er the Lord of Host!  
Thou wear'st a Soul that scorns to be  
Corrupted with the Notion of a Deity;  
Thou knowst this World was made by chance,  
In thy eternal Atoms luckey Dance,  
That in their heedless motion hit  
At last on thee, thou mighty Man of Wit.  
Thy shuffled Atoms that thus joined,  
And to make a World combined,  
By the last Trumpets enlivening sound  
Shall be without blind chance called from the world round;  
And when they're all together met,  
Shall the Agony beget,  
Then thou shall be  
Rebuilt to an Eternity  
Of still beginning misery,  
And thy great Nature too shall fall like thee.   

II.  
Nature, God's Steward, only can disburse  
Events which he before ordained,  
And uncontrolled ne'er governed us,  
But like the Causes too is chained.  
If God from Nature should withdraw his hand,  
The seeble Atlas reels, and cannot stand.   

III.  
Proud Fool! recant thy vain Philosophy  
That of thy God so long has cousin'd thee:  
Thy pinioned Reason, Flesh with Faith and Soar  
Above thy Reason, Nature's God t'adore:  
This will correct thy Reason and thy Pride,  
And show thee the Eternal, crucified;  
Tho you before did think his Blood did never glide  
But in a Picture from his Side;  
And that God only in a pious Romance died.  
This surely, Lord, thy Torments must renew,  
And crucify thy Godhead too:  
For 'tis a double Pain  
To die for Man that will an Infidel remain.    

A Pastoral Reflection on Death.  Strephon and Damon. 
Beneath a gloomy Yiew's unhealthy Shade,  
Whose noxious Coverts shunned by Bird and Beast,  
The wretched Damon lay, with Arms across  
His labouring Breast, quick like a sickly Pulse,  
His Heart with Passion seemed to throb and beat.  
From's half-closed eyes there stole a falling tear  
Along the fallow Furrows of his Cheeks,  
The deep engraven Characters of Grief.  
The Pipe which he with tuneful Breath inspired,  
And made the vocal Organ of his Lays,  
Lay broke, and silent by, the dire effect  
Of raging Sorrow, for in that was lost  
The Wonder and Delight of all the Plains.  
As Strephon chanced to shape his course that way,  
In quest of two lost Ewes that lately strayed,  
He spied the Shepherd stretched upon the ground.  
Amazed at the sad Spectacle of War,  
He silent stood, than Damon, Damon, cried.  
Being thus provoked, he raised his giddy Head,  
That straight recoiled, and gently sunk to rest;  
At last, with's Elbow pillowed from the ground,  
He gave attention to his speaking Friend.  Strephon. 
What makes my Damon secretly retire,  
Resolved in private to possess his Grief,  
When Damon's Sheep require their Damon's care?  
Last night I heard the Wolves run howling by,  
That with fierce eyes devoured all our Flocks:  
Their Fear above their Hunger scarce prevailed,  
For two Lambs in my view they almost seized.  
In yonder Village too I heard this day,  
That Thiefs have basely visited our Folds.  
Rise Damon, rise, and leave thy Cares behind.  Damon. 
All this cannot provoke my Diligence,  
For fear more ravenous Wolves have seized on me,  
And make my panting heart their wretched prey  
That vainly strives to shift the cruel Pain.  
My Breast was ne'er infested with wild care  
As long as dear Mirtillo lived, whose Charms  
Could calm the roughest Tempests of my Mind.  
A discontinued Sunshine I enjoyed  
Till dear Mirtillo set in his dark Grave.  
Now there's no lucid Interval of Peace,  
Or pause of Quiet to my troubled Mind.  
Sad Death must be the Period of my Woe  
And Life, than Damon, like Mirtillo, die.  Strephon. 
Thy Soul, fond Shepherd, is with Passion crazed,  
And thy distempered Reason falsely takes  
The dreadful King of Terrors for thy Friend.  
Should he but lay his icy hand on thee,  
Affrighted Nature would recant the Wish,  
Which you in trouble made with too much haste;  
And like the Grass before the Mowers Sith,  
Would, bending, try to escape the fatal stroke.  
If Death's so pleasant, why should you lament  
Mirtillo's Fate?  Strephon. 
Because the lowly Youth  
Would willingly have suffered tedious Life.  
The strong Convulsions of his Friendship were  
More sierce than the last Agonies of Death:  
His parting Soul by lingering here below,  
Did seem to catch at Life to stay with me.  
But when resistless Fate had summoned him,  
He kindly fixed his closing Eyes on mine,  
Then beckoned me to follow to the Grave.  
This makes me think 'tis no hard task to die;  
For harmless Shepherds, whose unspotted Lives  
Are innocent as are the Flocks they feed:  
Fear is but the Result of Gild.  Strephon. 
I know  
Death has his Terrors chiefly from our Crimes,  
And Virtue can disarm the ghastly Foe;  
Yet Nature too still fears to be dissolved,  
Like tender Lambs that dread the Butchers Knise  
Although they nothing fear beyond the Blow.  
For who can boast a perfect Innocence,  
Or run the nimble Race of humane Life  
Always along a spotless milky way?  
There's no such Path but in the Heavens above,  
Which we at penning time so plainly see.  
Methinks I quiver whilst I talk of Death,  
Being almost frighted with my own Discourse.  
Thus I anticipate the fatal hour  
That must snatch me from chaste Dorinda's Arms,  
And the dear pledges of our mutual Love.  
When I am dead, who'll teach my lovely Boys  
To use the Hook, or help the labouring Ewe.  
Dorinda, Boys, and Sheep, must all  
Be left a Prey to Man, that unto Man  
Proves the most savage Wolf, the strong  
Worry the weak, remorseless Avarice,  
Urging the hungry Miser to oppress;  
And wild Ambition treads upon the Poor,  
Its footing sure, and that which will subvert  
The ill-laid Greatness of aspiring Man.  
Such Thoughts as these Mirtillo had, when Life  
Did, as you say, seem pleasing to the Youth.  Damon. 
Why would you abrogate my firm Resolve,  
And with these Fears repeal the thoughts of Death?  
Did you but know how sweetly they repose  
On Beds of Earth that are lodged under ground,  
Unintercepted Rest they all enjoy,  
And with the wants of Life are blest by Death:  
They but retreat to a far greater World.  
For how few tread the Surface of the Globe,  
Compared to crowding Colonies that Fate  
Sends daily to the Bowels of the Earth,  
That has been peopling ever since old time,  
Commenced the subterranean Universe,  
Still gapes to swallow down the upper World.  
But when my Body's ●…arthen Pitcher's broke  
By Nature's stroke of Fortune's random blow;  
My Lord, like Gideon's Lamp from his cracked urn,  
Shall Death's black Night turn to eternal Day;  
For all the Spots of my poor sullied Soul  
Shall be washed off by heavens eternal Lamb,  
Whose tender Veins spouted a Bath o●… Blood,  
The sacred Laver of all faithful Swains.  Strephon. 
When you shall tread the confines of the Grave,  
And your Soul is to a strange somewhere bound,  
(For Nature still will combat lively Faith)  
'Tis great relief to have such cheerful hopes  
That will repress the horrors of the Mind:  
We only by the Optics of our Faith  
Can travel to the promised Land above.  
Yet we must not precipitate our Fate,  
But wait heavens Pleasure, therefore (Damon) pray,  
For my sake live to night, to morrow die.   

Horatij Ode 28. Lib. 1. Persicos Odi puer apparatus, etc.  
THE Persian Bravery I hate,  
Boy! I will not drink in state.  
No Roses 'bout my Temples twine,  
Seek no late Rose, but rosy Wine:  
But be sure, get the Myrtle Tree,  
For that becomes both thee and me,  
When underneath the Mother Vine  
I enjoy her Daughter, Wine.   

Horatij Epod. 1. ad Populum Romanum, Quoquo scelesti ruitis? etc.  
WHither d'ye rush with impious haste?  
Or why d'ye try to sit  
To your right-hands your well-sheathed Swords,  
More Murders to commit?  
How long is't since each Field and Stream  
Did flow with English Blood?  
O! can they both so quickly thirst  
For such another Flood?  
Against the purse-proud Hollander  
Turn your unnatural Rage;  
Or, if you want a nobler Foe,  
The warlike French engage.  
Who eagerly do long to see  
You fall by your own hand,  
They covertly keep you in pay  
To ruin your own Land.  
A savage Madness yet unknown  
To the wild Wolf or Bear,  
Lion on Lion ne'er does prey,  
All Beasts their kind do spare.  
Is it blind Fury, or hard Fate,  
That makes you disagree?  
Or is it some unpunished Crime?  
Pray, Countrymen, tell me.  
Silent with Shame, they all wax pale,  
Amazed with Gild they stand;  
But I have found why angry Heaven  
Has Cursed our native Land:  
Great Charles his Blood must be revenged,  
Just Heaven has so decreed;  
For such a murdered Monarch's Death  
A Nation ought to bleed.   

The FLY.  By P. Ayres, Esquire. 

Thus from the Wine-Pot cried the Fly,  
To the Frog of the Pool who sat croaking by,  
Rather than lead such a Life as thine,  
I'd be stopped in a Cask, and die in Wine.   

I.  
Water I could ne'er endure,  
Tho ne'er so crystalline and pure:  
Water's a Murmurer, and they  
Design more Mischief than they say.  
Where Rivers smoothest are, and clear,  
There's the Danger, there's the Fear;  
But I'll not grieve to die in Wine,  
The Name is sweet, the sound divine.  
Thus from the Wine-Pot, etc.   

II.  
Dull Fish in Water live we know,  
And such insipid Souls as thou,  
While to sip of the Grape so merrily fly  
Many, many, such pretty Birds as I.  
'Tis Wine makes me gay, as the flowers after rain,  
It purifies my Blood, and inspires my Brain:  
And when the Tory-Boys so merrily Sing,  
I join in the Chorus, and Buz for the King,  
Thus from the Wine-Pot, etc.   

III.  
I am more beloved than thou canst be,  
All Creatures shun thy Company.  
Unbid, go I to each jolly Feast,  
Where I stay for no Grace, but fall on the best.  
Thus while I feed and quaff the choicest Wine,  
On Puddle-water thou dost dine;  
Which makes thee such a phlegmatic croaking thing.  
Learn to drink Wine, thou Fool, and sing.  
Thus from the Wine-Pot, etc.   

IV.  
In Gardens I delight to stray,  
Amongst the Planters sing and play;  
Thy Tune no Mortal does avail,  
Thou art the Dutch-man's Nightingale.  
Wouldst thou with Wine but wet thy Throat,  
Sure thou wouldst leave that dismal Note:  
Lewd Water has spoiled thy Organs quite,  
And Wine alone can set them right.  
Thus from the Wine-Pot, etc.   

V.  
No Comrades hast thou save Newts and Frogs,  
Thy Rendezvous Saw-pits, old Ditches, and Bogs;  
While to Cities and Courts my Passage is free,  
Wine makes me an Insect of Quality.  
Thou splenatick Wight, didst thou once but know  
What Transports the Juice of the Grape does bestow,  
To be stopped in a Cask thou wouldst never repine,  
As Clarence the Peer was in Muscadine.  
Thus from the Wine-Pot, etc.    

To the NIGHTINGALE.  By the same. 

Why, little Charmer of the Air,  
Dost thou in Music spend the Morn,  
While I thus languish in Despair,  
Oppressed by Cynthia's Fate and Scorn?  
Why dost thou sing to hear me cry,  
Wanton Songster, tell me why?   

I.  
Will't thou not cease at my Desire?  
Will these small Organs never Tyre?  
Nature did these Shades prepare  
Not for thy Music, but my Care.  
Then why wilt thou persist to sing,  
Thou beautiful malicious thing.  
When kind Aurora first appears,  
She weeps in pity to my Tears.  
If thus thou think'st to bring Relief,  
Thou never knewest a Lover's Grief.  
Why little Charmer, etc.   

II.  
Then feathered Atom, where in thee  
Can be comprised such Harmony?  
In whose small Fabric does remain  
What Composition can contain.  
All Griefs but mine are at a stand  
When thy surprising Tunes command.  
How can so small a Pipe and Throat  
Express so loud and sweet a Note?  
Thou hast more various Points at will,  
Than Oxpheus had with all his Skill.  
Why little Charmer, etc.   

III.  
Great to the Ear, though small to sight,  
The happy Lovers dear delight,  
Fly to the Bower where such are laid,  
And there bestow thy Serenade;  
But from my Sorrow haste away,  
Alas! there's danger in the stay;  
Lest hearing me so oft complain,  
Should make thee change thy cheerful Strain.  
Then timely from my Griefs remove,  
Thou harmless Syron of the Grove.  
Cease pretty Charmer of the Air,  
No more in Music spend the Morn  
With me that languish in Despair,  
Oppressed by Cynthia's Hate and Scorn.  
Then do not that poor Boon deny,  
I ask but Silence while I die.    

To the WINDS.  By the same. 

I.  
YE Winds, that in your hasty flight  
Just kiss the Leaves, and then away,  
The Leaves that tremble with delight,  
And murmur at so short a stay:  
Stop here, and e'er you further go  
Give Audience to a Lover's Woe.   

II.  
Condoling Air! to thee I speak,  
Since she is deaf to all my Grief,  
She that caused my Heart to break  
You never wronged, yet bring Relief.  
I'm sure you grieve to hear my Pain,  
For when I sigh, you sigh again.   

III.  
Go gentle Air, fly to my Dear,  
That has with Love inflamed my Breast,  
And whisper softly in her Ear,  
'Tis she has robbed my Soul of Rest:  
Express (if possible,) such moans  
May imitate my dying Groans.   

IV.  
Then with a rougher Breath make bold  
To toss the Treasures of her Hair,  
Till thou dost every Curl unfold,  
Which cunningly men's Hearts ensnare.  
Try all thy Skill to break the Net,  
Till I, like thee, my Freedom get.    

On a NIGHTINGALE that was drowned.  By the same 

UPon a Bough hung trembling o'er a Spring,  
Sat Philomela to ease her Grief, and sing,  
Tuning such various Notes there seemed to nest  
A Choir of little Songsters in her Breast:  
Pleased Echo at the close of every Strain,  
Returned the Music Note for Note again.  
The jealous Bird who ne'er had Rival known,  
Not thinking the sweet Accents were her own.  
So filled with Emulation grew, that she  
Expressed her outmost Art and Harmony;  
Till, as she eagerly her Conquest tried,  
Her shadow in the Stream below she spied,  
Then heard the Waters bubbling, but mistook,  
And thought the Nymphs were laughing in the Brook.  
With that Conceit she dropped into the Well,  
But uttered these soft Accents as she fell:   

Not Tereus self e'er offered such a wrong:  
Nymphs, take my Life since you despise my Song.    

Love's new Philosophy.  By the same. 

I.  
WHo'ere a Lover is of Art,  
May come and learn of me  
A new Philosophy,  
Such as no Schools did ere impart.  
Love all my other Notions does control,  
And reads these now strange Lectures to my Soul.   

II.  
This God who takes delight to lie,  
The Truth of former days defames,  
And Aristotle blames,  
Concluding all by Subtlety;  
Whilst with such Art his Syllogisms are made,  
As Solomon himself could ne'er evade.   

III.  
So wondrous is his Craft and Skill,  
His painted Reasons serve as Darts,  
To pierce men's Intellects and Hearts,  
All Maxims he destroys at Will:  
Plato he blinded so, he made him think  
'Twas Water, when he gave him Fire to drink:   

IU.  
That Water can extinguish Fire  
Past Ages did allow,  
Love contradicts the notion now,  
And says, it makes his Flames rage higher:  
Which truth myself have proved for many years,  
Wherein I've wept whole Deluges of Tears.   

V.  
When Soul and Body separate,  
'Tis said, the Man forthwith must die;  
This Maxim too I must deny,  
My Soul's with her who rules my Fate;  
Yet still my Organs move, a Proof to give,  
That Soul and Body can divided live.   

VI  
Remove the Cause, Effects will cease;  
This was an Axiom too,  
Which to my Grief I find untrue.  
Cynthia robs my Soul of Ease:  
Yet when this fair Disturber of my Peace  
Is farthest from me, than my Pains increase.   

VII.  
In Love, Extremes themselves are joined,  
Joy and Sorrow of my Breast  
Together stand possessed,  
And vex with Civil War my Mind.  
Thus when I view the Source of all my Wrong,  
I sigh my Music, mix with Tears my Song.   

VIII.  
Whilst in this Torment I remain,  
To be and not to be  
No longer is a Mystery;  
I die to Joy and live to Pain.  
Thus, without Paradox, I may be said  
To be and not to be, alive and dead.   

IX.  
Now, go my Song,— yet eat the Eyes  
Of such as never felt Love's Flame:  
And if my Cynthia blame  
Thy Arguments as Sophistries,  
Tell her, this is Love's new Philosophy,  
Which none can understand but such as try.    

CYNISCA: OR, The fourteenth Idyllium of Theocritus imitated.  By W. Bowles, Fellow of Kings-Coll. Cambr. Thyonicus and Aeschines. 
OH, how does my dear Eschines! Oh how!  
Some Care, my Friend, sits heavy on thy Brow.  Aeschines. 
Cynisca, Friend, has shown the Fiend confessed,  
And Peace and Joy are banished from my Breast.  Thyonicus. 
Hence this wild look, and this distracted Air,  
Staring your Eyes, your Face o'ergrown with Hair;  
Just such a rosy Crucian here arrived,  
Some new Enthusiast sure, or Flood revived;  
With such a Mien he came, with such a Grace,  
So long his Beard, so dry, so pale his Face.  Aeschines. 
You, Sir, are merry; but alas! I find,  
No Cure, no Ease, to my distempered Mind.  
I rave, am by a thousand Furies tossed,  
And call in vain my Reason in my Passion lost.  Thyonicus. 
I always knew you jealous and severe;  
But does Cynisca's Falsehood plain appear?  Aeschines. 
'Twas my ill fate, or chance, some Friends to treat  
With richest Wines, the Board was crowned with choicest Meat;  
But fair Cynisca most adorned the Feast,  
In all the Charms of Art and Nature dressed.  
Cynisca all our ravished Senses fed,  
We gazed, and we adored the lovely Maid:  
With Wine and Beauty all our Hearts were fired,  
And fair Cynisca still new Joys inspired.  
Now Healths we drank and as the Glasses came,  
(Such was the Law) each did his Mistress name:  
Charming Cynisca too at last was pressed  
To name the Lover in her favour blest.  
A Woman, sure, she hoped, might be excused!  
The more they urged her, she the more refused.  
Refused, Oh Friend, and I her Lover by!  
Guess if my Rage, with Wine inflamed, grew high.  
Silent she sat, and with her Eyes denied;  
Lycus is Handsome, Tall, and Young, they cried!  
When Lycus Name but touched her guilty Soul,  
How down her Cheeks the liquid Globes did roll!  
Confused her Look, while Shame and Gild apace  
Shifted the whole Complexion of her Face.  
Gods! with what rage was my racked Soul surprised.  
My Curse, my Ruin, am I then despised?  
Ingrateful and inhuman Thou! begun,  
Go hug the Man whose Absence you bemoan:  
No more will I, deluded by your Charms,  
Cherish an absent Mistress in my Arms.  
Swiftly, as Swallows to their Nest, she fled,  
When unfletched Young lie gaping, and unfed!  
Swiftly she fled, with my Embraces cloyed,  
Lycus she long had loved, and long enjoyed.  
A public Jest, and known to all alas!  
(The Cuckold last perceives his own disgrace)  
Yet once a Friend accused the guilty Maid,  
And to my Ears unheard the fatal News conveyed:  
For I, a much abused, deluded Sot,  
The matter ne'er examined, or forgot.  
Now, undisturbed, unrivalled Lycus reigns,  
Enjoys his Conquest, and derides my Pains.  
Two Months are past, since unregarded I  
In a deserted Bed, and hopeless, lie.  
Long with the mighty Pain oppressed, I strove,  
But ah! what Remedy for injur'd-Love!  
In vain I struggle with the fierce Disease,  
The fatal Poison does my Vitals seize.  
Yet Damon did from Travel find Relief,  
And Absence soon removed the raging Grief.  
In Fires like mine successless Damon burned,  
Diseased he parted, and he sound returned.  
I too th' incertain Remedy will try,  
And to less cruel Seas and Rocks will fly.  Thyonicus. 
For Flanders then, since you're resolved, prepare,  
Flanders, the Scene of Glory and of War!  
Or, if a better choice and nobler Fire  
Does greater Arms, and greater thoughts inspire,  
Hungarian Rebels, and Unchristian Foes,  
'Tis a vast Field of Honour Friend, oppose.  
By Godlike Poland born, and Lorraine soon  
The Cross shall triumph o'er the waning Moon.  
There you the cruel ravage may admire,  
And Austria desolate by Barbarous fire,  
May curse the dire Effects of civil Rage;  
Oh in what Ills Religion can engage!  
There sure with Horror your diverted Mind  
Some Truce may with this smaller Passion find.  Aeschines. 

Cynisca, oh unkind! farewell, I go,  
By thee condemned to distant Countries know;  
I go, where Honour, and where Dangers call,  
From a less barbarous Foe to tempt a nobler Fall.  
Written May 23. 1684.    

Sapho's Ode out of Longinus.  By the same. 

I.  
THE Gods are not more blest than he,  
Who fixing his glad Eyes on thee,  
With thy bright Rays his Senses cheers,  
And drinks with ever thirsty ears.  
The charming Music of thy Tongue,  
Does ever hear, and ever long;  
That sees with more than humane Grace,  
Sweet smiles adorn thy Angel Face.   

II.  
But when with kinder beams you shine,  
And so appear much more divine,  
My feeble sense and dazzled sight,  
No more support the glorious light,  
And the fierce Torrent of Delight.  
Oh! than I feel my Life decay,  
My ravished Soul then flies away,  
Then Faintness does my Limbs surprise,  
And Darkness swims before my Eyes.   

III.  
Then my Tongue fails, and from my Brow  
The liquid drops in silence flow,  
Then wandering Fires run through my Blood,  
And Cold binds up the stupid Flood,  
All pale, and breathless then I lie,  
I sigh, I tremble, and I die.    

Ode 13. of the Fourth Book of Horace.  

I.  
Lice, the Gods have heard my Prayer,  
Lice the proud, the charming, and the fair,  
Lice is old! though wanton, still, and gay,  
You laugh, and sing, and play.  
Now Beauty fails, with Wine would raise desire,  
And with your trembling Voice would fan our dying fire.   

II.  
In vain! for Love long since forsook  
Thy snowy Hair, thy falling Teeth, and withering Look;  
He Chia's blooming Face  
Adorns with every Grace,  
Her Wit, her Eyes, her every Glance are darts,  
That with resistless force invade our Hearts.   

III.  
Not all your Art, nor all your dress,  
(Tho grown to a ridiculous excess,  
Tho you by Lovers spoils made fine,  
In richest Silks, and Jewels shine,  
And with their borrowed light  
Surprise the dazzled sight)  
Can your fled Youth recall, recall one day  
Which flying Time on his swift wings has born away.   

IV.  
Ah! where are all thy Beauties fled,  
Where all the charms that so adorned the tender Maid  
Ah! where the nameless Graces that were seen  
In all thy motions, and thy mien!  
What now, oh! what is of that Lice left,  
By which I once was of my Sense and of my Soul bereft   

V.  
Of her, who with my Cynara strove  
And shared my doubtful Love!  
Yet Fate, and the last unrelenting hour  
Seized her gay Youth, and plucked the springing flower.  
But angry Heaven has reserved thee  
That you with rage might see,  
With rage might see your Beauty's fading  
Glory fly,  
And your short youth, and tyrannous Power before you die.   

VI  
That your insulting Lovers might return  
Pride for your Pride, and with retorted scorn  
Glut their Revenge, and satiate all their Pain;  
With cruel pleasure, and with sharp disdain  
Might laugh, to see that fire which once so burned,  
Shot such resistless Flames, to Ashes turned.    

The Immortality of Poesy. By Mr. Evelyn. TO ENVY. Ovid. Amor. Lib. 1. Eleg. 15.  

ENvy, how dar'st thou say that I in vain  
Have spent my years, or with false Names profane  
The sacred Product of my fertile Brain?   

'Tis true, in th' Art of War I am not skilled,  
No Trophies did I ere attempt to build  
By gaining grinning Honour in the Field.   

I never tried to learn the tedious Laws,  
Or sought in pleading of a desperate Cause,  
To sell my Breath for Interest or Applause.   

Such little things I scorn, I nobly aim  
At that which may secure a lasting Fame,  
And through the World immortalize my Name.   

Old Chaucer shall, for his f●…tious Style,  
Be read, and praised by warlike Britain's, while  
The Sea enriches, and defends their Isle.   

While the whole Earth resounds Elisa's Fame,  
Who awed the French, and did the Spaniard tame,  
The English will remember Spencer's Name.   

While Flatterers thrive and Parasites shall dine,  
While Commonwealths afford a Catiline,  
Laborious johnson shall be thought divine.   

Thee Shakespeare Poets ever shall adore,  
Whose wealthy Fancy left so vast a store,  
They still refine thy rough but precious Ore.   

So long shall Cowley be admired above  
The Crowd, as David's troubles pity move,  
Till Women cease to charm, and Youth to love.   

While we the Fall of our first Parents grieve,  
And worship him who did that Fall retreive,  
Milton shall in majestic Numbers live.   

Dryden will last as long as Wit and Sense,  
While Judgement is required to Excellence,  
While perfect Language charms an Audience.   

As long as Men are false, and Women vain,  
While Gold continues to be Virtue's bane,  
In pointed satire Wicherly shall reign.   

When the aspiring Grecian in the East,  
And haughty Philip is forgot i'th' West,  
Then Lee and Otways Works shall be suppressed.   

While Fathers are severe, and Servants cheat,  
Till Bawds and Whores can live without deceit,  
Sydley, and easy Etheridge shall be great.   

Stones will consume, Age will on Metals prey,  
But deathless Verse no time can wear away;  
That stands the shock of years without decay.   

When Kingdoms shall be lost in Sloth & Lust,  
When Treasures fail, and glorious Arms shall rust,  
V●…rse only lifts itself above the dust.   

Come bright Apollo then, let me drink deep  
Of that blessed Spring thou dost for Poets keep,  
While in ignoble ease the World's asleep.   

Let wreaths of tender Myrtle crown my head,  
Let me be still by anxious Lovers read,  
Envied alive, but honoured when I'm dead.   

Till after Death, Desert was never crowned,  
When my Ashes are forgotten under ground,  
Then my best part will be immortal found.    

Out of Martial. Lib. 8. Epigr. 56. Temporibus nostris Aetas.  By the same. 
ALl other Ages since our Age excels  
And conquering Rome to so much greatness swells,  
You wonder what's become of Maro's Vein,  
That none write Battles in so high a strain.  
Had Wit its Patrons Flacus now a days  
As once it had, more would contend for Praise,  
Thy Villa would a mighty Genius raise.  
When Virgil was oppressed by civil hate,  
Robbed of his Flocks, and stripped of his Estate.  
In Tyt'rus dress beneath a Beech he sat.  
Weeping in shades thus was the Poet found,  
Till brave M●…cenas raised him from the Ground:  
Knowing that want would greatest Minds betray,  
He feared a Muse so Godlike should decay,  
And drove malicious Poverty away.  
Freed from the want that now oppresses thee,  
Thou shalt for ever Prince of Poets be.  
In all my Pleasures thou a part shalt bear,  
Thou shalt with me my dear Alexis share.  
The charming Youth stood by his Master's board,  
And with his Ivory hands black Falern poured;  
With rosy Lips each Cup he first assayed,  
Of such a Draught jove would himself be glad,  
And for Alexis change his Ganymed.  
Down go the rude Bucolics on the Floor,  
Of Bees, and Harvest, now he writes no more,  
Whose humble Muse had fung the Great when poor.  
Straight he exalts his Voice to Arms, & Kings,  
The Roman story, and his Hero sings.  
Mean thoughts upon a narrow Fortune wait,  
The Fancy is improved by an Estate,  
Favour and Pension make a Laureate.   

To Mr. etc.  By the same. 
DEar Friend, till now I never knew.  
A Man enjoy Disease like you,  
Your P— breaks out in Verse and Prose,  
And with your Rheums your Fancy slows;  
Your Diet-drink for Helicon passes,  
And Hot-house is to you Parnassus.  
There, as on Muses sacred Hill,  
While Cytherean drops distil,  
To pitch divine you raise your Wit,  
Upon the Stool triumphant sit,  
And grow immortal while you—  
If Mulberry adorn your Forehead,  
It makes not you one Grain less florid;  
If one Shinbone you find a Node,  
You straight break forth in smooth Epode,  
And every twitch of limber Hams  
Produces sharper Epigrams.  
Now Ovid, Virgil, now you grace  
With well-matched Rhimes, and pliant Phrase.  
Sometimes with juvenal you by't,  
Oftener with Horace you delight:  
No torment can disturb your Mind,  
So steady 'tis, and so refined,  
That Greece nor Rome could never show  
Such Learning, and such Temper too.  
All their Lycaeums, and their Schools,  
Their fight, and their writing Fools,  
Have left us no such generous Rules,  
As from you only we may learn,  
Who calmly sweat without Concern.  
You in Love's Bower do possess  
Unenvied, perfect Happiness.  
Where you yourself, yourself employ,  
And in a Tub the World enjoy.  
These Verses to you, dearest Friend,  
From silent shady Groves I send,  
Lest you should think yourself forgotten,  
As the Dead are, because you're rotten.  Morose. 
Why should men think me melancholy,  
Because I sleep, and eat, and walk alone?  
My design is to run from the World's Folly,  
To trouble no man with my own,  
To know Mankind, and be myself unknown.  
A Fop now plagues me with his dress,  
Bids me the price of Ribbon guests,  
Tells me how much he paid for Point,  
How oft he in the Glass did look,  
And what excessive Pains he took  
To hang ridiculous things on every Joint.  
One tells me where he supped last night,  
What Wine he drank, who was i'th' right  
About the cut of Dice, and who i'th' wrong,  
Whether the Deux or Quater ran more strong.  
I am not rid of this Fool long,  
But another sings me a damned empty Song.  
ere I could well cross the Street,  
Who the Devil should I meet,  
But a young Lord out of a Chair?  
With Arm in string, and many a Scar.  
He talks of Duels, tells me who  
Was only scratched, and who run through.  
Who should I light on next, but one  
That's the worst Poet in the Town?  
His Pocket's stuffed with Guins of Rhyme,  
He tells you to a Hair what time  
'Twill ask to make a Play, or Prologue,  
Song, satire, Mask, Lampoon, or Collogue.  
He'll inform you on his Word,  
What he had of such a Lord,  
Of such an Whore, of such a Duchess,  
For Bombast lines, and flattering touches.  
That a great Person had the Conscience  
To give him nothing for his Nonsense:  
What a new Play's worth, what a vamped one;  
As God would have it by comes—   

Out of Horace, Ode 8. L. 1. Lydia dic per omnes, etc.  By the same. 
LIdia, I conjure you say  
Why haste you so to make away  
Poor Sybaris with Love?  
Why hates he now the open Air?  
Why Heat, and Clouds of Dust to bear,  
Does he no more approve?  
Why leaves he off his martial Pride?  
Why is he now afraid to ride  
Upon his gallic Steed?  
Why swims he not the Tiber o'er?  
Or wrestles as he did before?  
Whence do his Fears proceed?  
Why boasts he not his Limbs grown black  
With bearing Arms, or his strong Back  
With which he threw the Bar?  
Is he like Thetis Son concealed,  
And from all manly Sports witheld,  
To keep him safe from War?   

The PUNISHMENT.  By the same. 
ON Hebrus Bank as Orpheus sat,  
Mourning Euridice's hard Fate,  
The Birds and Beasts did on his Music wait,  
And Trees and Stones became compassionate;  
Yet he who all things else could move,  
Was quite insensible to love.  
Therefore, ye Gods, ye justly did ordain,  
That he who Love and Women did despise,  
To the fair Sex should fall a Sacrifice,  
And for contempt of Pleasure, suffer Pain.   

Part of Ajax 's Speech, Ovid Metam. l. 13.  By the same. 
THE Princes sat, whom martial throngs enclose,  
When Ajax Lord o'th' sevenfold Shield arose.  
With just disdain, and untamed Passion swelled,  
Sigeum, and the Navy, he beheld.  
Then lifting up his hands, Oh jove! said he,  
Before this Fleet, can my Right questioned be?  
And dares Ulysses too contend with me?  
He, who when Hector all our Ships had fired,  
Far from the danger cowardly retired,  
While I alone the hostile Flame sustained,  
And saved the burning Navy with this hand.  
He'll therefore find it much his safest Course,  
To trust to Tropes and Figures, not to Force.  
His Talon lies in Prating, mine in War,  
And yet you so unequal Judges are,  
That you prefer his Pedantry, and Art,  
Before my conquering Arm, and generous Heart.  
Of my Exploits I nothing need to say,  
For they were all performed in open day,  
You saw them; his, if any, were all done  
By night, told of himself, but seen by none.   

Out of Sannazar.  By the same. 
NEptune saw Venice on the Adria stand,  
Firm as a Rock, and all the Sea command.  
Think'st thou, O jove! said he, Rome's Walls excel?  
Or that proud Cliff whence false Tarpia fell?  
Grant Tiber best, view both, and you will say,  
That Men did those, Gods these Foundations lay.   

Remedy of LOVE.  By the same. 
WOuld you be quite cured of Love?  
From your Mistress' sight remove.  
To the open Fields repair,  
Cooled with Absence, and with Air,  
You will soon be eased of Care.  
Seek out in another place,  
Something fit for your embrace,  
Perhaps in a less charming face  
You may find a pleasing Grace,  
Wit, or Motion, Dress, or Art,  
Thousand things that may divert  
The torments of your throbbing Heart.  
If in this no Ease you find,  
But constant Love still plagues your Mind,  
To your former flame return,  
See if still her eyes do burn  
With equal force, you'll find perchance,  
Less warmth in every amorous Glance;  
Seeing oft what we desire  
Makes us less, and less admire,  
And will in time put out the fire.  
Visit her betimes each Morn,  
Stand by her when she does adorn  
Her head, perhaps some borrowed Hair,  
Some ill-contrived, affected snare,  
Lewd Song on Table found, or Prayer  
Nonsensical, may let you see,  
That what you thought Divinity  
Is but a piece of Puppetry.  
If still thy Passion does remain,  
And unseen charms thy Heart inchain,  
If she break thy Sleep by night,  
Fly again the Witches sight,  
Opium take, that may invite  
The gentle God to calm thy Soul,  
Peaceful slumbers Love control.  
Have a care of purling Brooks,  
Of silent Groves, and awful Shade,  
They but to thy Torment add,  
Love does there with ease invade;  
No Music hear, no dying Looks  
Behold, read no romantic Books;  
Books and Music turn the Head,  
Fools only sing, and Madmen read:  
They with false Notions fill the Brain,  
Are only fit to entertain  
Women, and Fops that are more vain.  
Love and Folly still are found  
In those to make the deepest Wound,  
Who think their Passions to allay  
By giving of them leave to sway  
A while; but they like Winter Torrents grow,  
And all our Limits overflow.  
Never trust thyself alone,  
Frequent good Company, and Wine,  
In generous Wines thy Passion drown,  
That will make thee all divine.  
Better 'tis to drink to Death,  
Than sigh, and whine away our Breath.  
In Friends and Bottles we may find  
More Joys than in all Womankind.  
A far enjoyment Women palls,  
Intolerable Plagues they're all,  
Vain, foolish, fond, proud, whimsical,  
Dissembling, hypocritical.  
Wines by keeping them improve,  
And real Friends more firmly love.  
If one Vintage proves severe,  
We're doubly recompensed next year.  
If our dearest Friends we lose,  
Others may succeed to those.  
Women only, of all things,  
Have nothing to assuage their Stings.  
Cursed is the man that does pursue  
The short-lived Pleasures of their Charms;  
There is no Hell but in their Arms:  
For ever damned, damning Sex adieu.   

Written on her MASK.  By the same. 
WEll may'st thou, envious Mask, be proud,  
That dost such kill Beauties shroud!  
Not Phoebus, when behind a Cloud,  
Of half those Glories robs our Eye,  
As behind thee concealed lie.  
I would have kept thee, but I find  
My fair Elisa so unkind,  
Thou wilt better Service do  
To keep her Charms from humane view:  
For she is so strangely bright,  
So surprising, so divine,  
That I know her very sight  
Soon will make all Hearts like mine.   

To Mr. S. G.  By the same. 

FAir Virtue, should I follow thee  
I should be naked, and alone,  
For thou art not in Company,  
And scarce are to be found in one.   

Thy Rules are too severe, and cold,  
To be embraced by vigorous Youth,  
And Fraud and Avarice arm the old  
Against thy Justice and thy Truth.   

He who by light of Reason led,  
Instructs himself in thy rough School,  
Shall all his life-time beg his Bread,  
And when he dies be thought a Fool.   

Though in himself he's satisfied  
With a calm Mind, and cheerful Heart,  
The World will call his Virtue Pride,  
His holy Life, Design and Art.   

The Reign of Vice is absolute,  
While good men vainly strive to rise;  
They may declaim, they may dispute,  
But shall continue poor, and wise.   

Honours and Wealth were made by Fate  
To wait on fawning Impudence,  
To give insipid Coxcombs Weight,  
And to supply the want of Sense.   

Mighty Pompey, whose great Soulx  
Aimed at the Liberty of Rome,  
In vain did Caesar's Arms control,  
And at Pharselia was o'ercome.   

His Virtue constant in distress  
In Ptolemy no pity bred,  
Who barely guided by Success,  
Secured his Peace with his Friend's head:   

Brutus, whom the Gods ordained  
To do what Pompey would have done,  
The generous motion entertained,  
And stabbed the Tyrant on his Throne.   

This godlike Brutus whose Delight  
Was Virtue which he had adored,  
Haunted by Spectres over night,  
Fell the next day on his own Sword.   

If when his hope of victory lost,  
This Noble Roman could exclaim,  
Oh Virtue! whom I courted most,  
I find she's but an empty Name:   

In a degenerate Age like this,  
We wish more reason may conclude,  
That Fortune will attend on Vice,  
And Misery on those who dare be good.    

A Gentleman going to his Country Farm, which he had not seen for some time before, at the Request of a Fair Lady writes these Verses.  Amyntas. 
TEll me Damon, lovely Swain,  
Prince of all our youthful Train,  
Why such a mighty Stranger grown  
To all our Pleasures, and your own?  
What Passion draws your Thoughts away  
From all that's lively, brisk, and gay?  
Why now no more upon the Plain  
Where you so well, so long did reign;  
Where all our Youths and Nymphs appear,  
So kind, so innocent, and fair.  Damon. 
My Phillis is not there.  Amyntas. 
There's Daphne, Cloe, Lydia,  
Is she more fair, more sweet than they?  Damon. 
Yes, she than Daphne lovelier seems,  
Softer than Cloes gentle'st Dreams;  
And with more artless Modesty  
Than Lydia, all these Charms does try:  
Such Charms could only Venus' show;  
To Paris, one Mount Ida's Brow;  
When she with all her Graces strove  
To prove herself the Queen of Love;  
And did with Beauties more divine,  
Two Rival Goddesses outshine.  
Such Venus, such does Phillis prove,  
Phyllis, the Queen of Me, and Love.  Amyntas. 
Unhappy Damon! then I find  
You have your Liberty resigned,  
And only can the Honour have  
To be a tame and gentle Slave,  
And a good-natured Prisoner,  
To one as cruel as she's fair.  Damon. 
Amyntas no, I'm now set free  
From the uneasiest Flavery.  
For while my Heart at large did range,  
It only did its Keeper change;  
To every she an easy prey,  
From whence it quickly fled away;  
Or got its freedom on Parole,  
To yield itself with less control.  
But now 'tis safe with Phillis laid,  
A Prisoner in a Palace made:  
(Strange Fate of Lovers, who can be  
Freed only by Captivity)  
Phillis, who does like Caesar fight,  
Sees and subdues us with her sight;  
And like that mighty Conqueror,  
Is pleased her Captives to prefer.  
Nor is her Cruelty so great,  
To wound and kill without Regret.  
Fair as the Virgin-spring, and gay,  
Cheerful as the dawning day;  
Yet kind as fruitful Summer she,  
Or Autumn's Liberality;  
Only the modest damned Pretence  
Of Maidenhead and Innocence.  Amyntas. 
Then happy Damon now I find,  
Since you so constant, she so kind,  
Let Cupid doubly gild that Dart  
With which he wounds her tender heart.  Damon. 
See my Amyntas, 'tis for her  
That of these Flocks I take such care:  
For her alone 'tis that I bind,  
About this Elm this amorous Vine;  
May thus my Phillis round me twine.  
For her I dig, and plough, and sow,  
Things she and I, methinks, should do.  
For her I graft this Plumb, and Pear,  
As these, so may my Phillis bear.  
These Peaches I innoculate,  
And wish but one thing more of Fate.  
Thus all my Thoughts does but improve  
The World's great Manufacture, Love.   

Whether in Love, Men or Women have the Advantage; they in making, or these in receiving, their Court: Considered in a Dialogue betwixt Corinna and Lais.  Written by Mr. C. M. Lais. 
NAy, surely Men in Love have much the start,  
Theirs is the pleasanter and braver part;  
We (Passive Creatures) must a Siege maintain,  
Which won, the Victors as o'er Vassals reign.  
Where e'er their Appetite does lead they rove,  
Stop where they like, when Nature prompts make Love.  
With boundless Will, and Fancy unconfined,  
Sail through the Air, and wanton in the Wind,  
Until they spy some beauteous, tempting Dame,  
Then, with full Sails, pursue the noble Game,  
Bristle each Feather, all their Wings display,  
And gripe in eager Arms the panting Prey.  
When they are cloyed, they mount, they soar, are gone,  
And leave the injured slighted Maid to moan,  
If any dazzling Beauty fires the Town,  
Each Spark can try to make the Prize his own.  
No musty Customs his Delight controls,  
To her, with Lacques clogged, the Chariot rolls.  
We by dull Rules (contrived by men) confined,  
Must not pursue our Fancy, please our Mind,  
But modest and demure, receive at home  
The formal Visitants that deign to come:  
And all our Happiness dependeth still,  
Not on our own but on another's Will.  Corinna. 
I grant Men under less constraint than We,  
But 'tis constraint from Cares and Misery:  
For, the exercise of this their boasted Power  
Plunges in Woes, we never feel each hour.  
When before any stubborn Town they sit,  
If them the haughty Dame will not admit;  
What Tortures they endure, what lively pain  
Afflicts their Soul, and racks each trembling vein!  
The Pangs of Love are of so quick a sense  
As scarce the ensuing Joy can recompense.  
But we by happier Fate ne'er suffer these,  
Embracing the Proposals if they please.  
It is not always in their power to win,  
But always is in ours to let them in;  
We either love not, or our Love obtains,  
Enjoy the sweet of it, without the Pains.  Lais. 
Alas! they often mock with feigned desire,  
And warm the innocent Maid with painted sire.  
And when the blushing flag does show she's won,  
Their work that only came to abuse, is done.  
The illnatured Creatures leave the melting fair,  
To pine, and sigh her spotless Soul to Air.  
They, pleased (like Nero) see the Beauteous Rome  
In Flames their cruel hands did light, consume.  Corinna. 
We practise this under a different Name,  
In us 'tis Honour, but in them a Shame.  
With false enticing Looks we gild the Bait,  
And having caught them, scorn, triumph, & hate;  
Ensnare to show what powerful Charms we bear,  
Then slight, and damn them to a wild despair.  
And who the grateful Pleasure can despise,  
Of seeing humble Slaves in modest Guise  
And awful trembling to approach our Eyes;  
And by adoring make us Deities.  
Catch at each Glance, and hang on every Look  
As if from us their Destiny they took.  
Rate every Smile above a Monarch's Crown,  
And dread ours more than angry Heaven's frown.  Lais. 
But add to these, the anguish of our mind,  
When forced to be to the dear Man unkind.  
When Parents envious Precepts do oblige,  
Against our Will, to hold out ten years' Siege:  
Till all their dull Formalities are past,  
To yield on tedious Articles at last.  
To force our Nature, and belie our Heart,  
Stifle the raging ●…lame, and hide our smart,  
Not daring what we most desire to own,  
Constrained on him, we languish for, to frown.  
This, this is the Extremity of Pain,  
To suffer without power to complain.  
In Love (as in the State) they only feel  
The Rack, who dare not their hid thoughts reveal.  Corinna. 
Why should we thus against our Nature fight,  
And vex ourselves with this false Parthian flight?  
Let us no more to Forms and Shadows strike,  
If we the generous Assailant like,  
Admit him; ne'er disturb ourselves to feign,  
Nor make him waste his Vigour, to obtain.  Lais. 
So things would run too fast; the Game of Love  
Does grateful with this Disadvantage prove:  
'Tis such bewitching sport, so draws us in,  
As 'tis; what would it be if all should win?  
Did we not stop it thus, and make it keep  
Within due bounds, the Play would be too deep  
And all our Stock and Fortune lost too soon,  
Methinks, as 'tis, the stakes are quickly gone.  Corinna. 
'Tis best then, things continue as they are;  
Reformers sometimes mend, but oftener mar.   

On the Lords rejecting the Bill of Exclusion, November the 15th. 1680.  
GOds! this is great! These, these are they  
Who truly, thus, their noble Blood display;  
And by the Soul which they this day have shown,  
Make all the Glories of their Line their own.  
These are Old Eng●…ana's Peers! Hearts that despise  
To be o re-awed by Number and by Noise;  
No, they're too Brave, too Loyal, and too Wise.  
Beauchamp and Howard's Courage, Cecil's Brain,  
The Faith of Vere, still in the House remain:  
Nor on the Church's Seats do less appear,  
Grave Morton's Piety, and Prudence here.  
Such the lay-hands that dare support a Crown,  
And such the Conscience of the sacred Gown.  
Thus did their mighty Ancestors combine  
When force misplaced the Crown from the right line.  
Thus they stood fast to Truth, and never failed,  
Till the unblemished Rose of York prevailed.  
And must again that sad Dispute appear?  
No, we are much too young for Plato's year.  
Our Renowned Peerage will not have it so;  
The Demigods and Heroes thunder, No.  
What remote noise is this? Hark how it grows!  
Nearer and louder now the Torrent flows.  
All Europe shouts aloud: Spring-Tides of Joy  
Salute the British Isle, hark how they cry!  
" Fame now is yours, more from one Law refused  
" Than half the numerous Laws you ever used.   

ELEGY, On the Death of Christopher Sherard, Esq Son and Heir Apparent to the Right Honourable Bennet Lord Sherrard, who died in the Sixteenth Year of his Age, Febr. 19 1681.  
AND is he dead? Is he already dead?  
Ah, too surprising News, sudden as sad!  
When hopeful Virtue does abortive fall,  
We weep our own, and not his Funeral:  
The loss is ours, and all the Tears we shed  
Are more for them that live, than for the dead.  
Let it not then be said, untimely Fate  
Robbed him of Honour, Title, or Estate,  
Or (what is more to Youth than all beside)  
Of an adored Beauty for his Bride.  
Such Blessings waited him, not few nor small,  
Yet our loss we may truly greater call;  
For we are robbed of him that's more than all.  
Insolvent Fortune! let us count our Woe;  
Bankrupt of much which time will ever owe.  
A steady Friendship, Modesty above  
The Age we live in, A true English Love,  
A generous Heart, with an Address complete,  
Great in his Lineage, yet more good than great:  
And above all (as the most sacred thing)  
A Soul devoted to his God and King.  
This Treasure had been ours had Fate delayed,  
'Twas promised all, and had been surely paid.  
But he is gone, untimely ravished hence  
In the prime Bloom of Youth and Innocence!  
He died a Virgin, free from modern Crimes,  
Clear and unfullyed in licentious Times.  
Bring Flowers, ye spotless Maids, and strew 'em here,  
Strew all the Beauties of the blooming Year:  
Hither your Roses, mixed with Lilies, bring,  
And on his Grave six an eternal Spring;  
Which watered with your Tears, may be increased  
To a Perfume beyond the Phoenix Nest:  
Yet all those Odours far less sweet will be  
To us, than his own Name and Memory.  
Farewell, Dear Youth! had you this Age survived,  
And to the years of our first Parents lived,  
Yet when at last your thread of Life had failed,  
You might have died more known, not more bewailed.  
Thus young Marcellus fell, Rome's darling Name,  
Ever lamented and beloved by Fame:  
And thus (Ah, Simile too like!) thus died  
Henry, Britannia's equal Hope and Pride.   

On the Romantic Office of Credit, proposed by Dr. C. and his Partners, An. Dom. 1682.  
TEll me, some Antiquary, who has heard  
How mankind lived ere Saturn wore a beard;  
Tell me, some grave Philosopher, whose sense  
Knows more of things than their bare rate in Pence;  
In the World's innocent Infancy what Trade  
Among its first Inhabitants was made?  
Was it not then, by the first trading Charter,  
That all Commerce was but Exchange & Barter?  
No Bankrupts then, none then for Trust did pray,  
When the same thing served both for Sale and Pay.  
He who had something, in effect had all,  
The Credit-Office than was general.  
Honey for Wool, and Sheep for Camels went;  
All Payments true, all taken on content.  
Love was the price of Beauty then, not Gold;  
And Friendship was for Friendship only sold.  
Nothing of Fraud or Counterfeit was shown:  
This was the Golden Age, ere Gold was known.  
But when from Earth the shining Metal came,  
And all Mankind thronged to adore its Flame;  
Integrity was lost among the Crowd,  
And Fraud, as mystery of Trade, allowed.  
With Money, which has dazzled humane Eyes,  
Came the Defects and Cheats of Merchandise.  
Renowned be then that Man, that wise P●…ysician,  
Who cures our Trade in this decayed Condition.  
Ever Renowned be he, whose happy Brain  
Can, without Money, show a way to gain.  
Alas! our Trade he may perhaps reduce,  
And cure Commerce to its first genuine use;  
But Love, with Gold, is so allayed and base,  
He ne'er can purge from that this new Disgrace,  
Till Plato's year turns back the World's first face.   

Occasioned by a Sight of his Majesty, walking near the River, in the time of the Oxford-Parliament.  

I.  
WHen on his Banks Majestic Pan h'espyed,  
Old Isis stopped the willing Tide;  
See there, blessed Waters, see (he cried)  
My happy Arms contain  
Their Great-Good-Master once again!  
Such was the youthful Vigour which he wore  
When once my Royal Charge before:  
Go on, blessed Prince! the power of years defy;—  
And could no more, but wept a while for Joy.   

II.  
Flow on, at last he said, loved Waters, flow,  
Tell it o'er all the Plains below  
In joyful Murmurs as you go.  
Bid the sad Swains no more  
The Dangers of their Flocks deplore:  
They idly form imaginary Fears,  
Indulging Dreams of Wolves and Bears.  
Tell 'em, while they His sacred Rest annoy,  
Th' abuse that Safety which they ought t'enjoy.    

To CAELIA.  

I.  
CAelia, though your conquering Eyes  
(Were you inclined to tyrannize,)  
Might more enlarge your Sway,  
Yet we, that Humour and free Wit,  
Which you make use of, and admit,  
More cheerfully obey.   

II.  
So some with Fire and Sword consume,  
And spoil the Countries where they come,  
A dreadful Name t'obtain;  
But they who gentler Methods use,  
Who strive by Parle to reduce,  
The surer Conquest gain.    

To a Gentleman, his Friend, who could decipher any Character.  

I.  
HEnceforth (Brave Souls!) you who would fain repair  
The loss we for proud Babel feel.  
Your boundless Wit and judgement henceforth spare,  
Some other Mysteries to reveal:  
An Universal Character were needless now,  
What this my Friend has found, will all the Business do.   

II.  
With a malicious Subtlety confound  
The awkward Hebrew with the Greek,  
Scarce wilder Characters than those abound  
In th' extravagant Arabic;  
His wondrous Skill, by Demonstration, will decide,  
Within, what lovely Face those Grotesque Vizards hide.   

III.  
Let Egypt's Priests their Moral Sense convey  
In some Hieroglyphic Dress,  
Here write a Dove, an Eagle there let fly,  
(Dumb Creatures! sure they'll not confess;)  
He by the Posture, and the Flight, can quickly tell  
(Strange Augury!) what sage remarks within them dwell.   

IV.  
Highly those Persons were esteemed of old,  
Who an odd Oracle disclosed,  
Or the Equivocations could unfold  
The Quibbling God of Wit proposed;  
Their God of Wit, himself could not have made reply,  
Had they proposed to him this mighty Mystery.   

V.  
The Indians, who confounded once stood by,  
And cried it was by Magic done,  
When from his Letter they saw one descry  
His distant Friend's Intention;  
Could they see this performed, they might with reason call,  
My Friend, thy harmless Magic, supernatural.   

VI  
Could (as they say) the Sympathetick Style,  
Swift as the Light that gilds the Day,  
In the same Instant many a thousand Mile  
Our Will to absent Friends convey;  
Trust me, you'd know its Errand, or not let it pass,  
As Men the Light itself confine to th' Burning-glass.    

BUSINESS.  

I.  
BUsiness! Awake it poisons all my joys,  
Asleep all pleasant Dreams destroys;  
wherever I go, or whatsoever I do,  
Cursed thing! it does in dreadful Shapes pursue.  
All Med cine here would useless be,  
No Counter-charm can give me ease,  
No Amulet can me release  
From this Damned Hag that rides and tortures me.   

II.  
I joined with Wits, proclaiming Open War  
Against Business and distracting Care;  
Their Wine (said I) their Wit and jollity,  
Will quite supplant my cruel Enemy:  
In vain I used those Allies  
Their Wine and Wit improved my Thought,  
My cruel Fancy soon was taught,  
Ah me! exquisite Torments to devise.   

III.  
Shall I in close Retirement drive away  
With Books the Troubles of the Day?  
There I may hug myself, and safely hear  
Those Storms abroad where others Shipwrackt are:  
Ambition will an Entrance find;  
Tho from without no Storms surprise,  
And shake the Learned and the Wise,  
Within, that Vapour often shakes their Mind:   

IU.  
Shall I then try the happy Shepherd's Life?  
He knows not Business, Care, or Strife;  
Few Troubles, and short-lived, afflict his Mind,  
So seldom 'tis his Cloris proves unkind!  
I heard one cry but yesterday,  
Wring his hands, Undone, Undone!  
But, oh, the Cause of this great moan!  
The French had taken What shall's call't, they say.   

V.  
Business! to fly thee I would wildly roam  
Where only the wild Herd does come,  
Unthinking Beasts!— Yet 'twere in vain, I fear,  
(Who would have thought the Shepherd other were?)  
For I should soon beneath me see  
The Busy Infects laden move,  
And Careful Architects above,  
Some building, some surveying every Tree.   

VI  
'Tis true I might in this forlorn Retreat  
Like those of old, the Acorns eat:  
But, oh! I ne'er should see those Golden days,  
When free from Care, like Gods, Men lived in ease!  
For while I laid me on the ground,  
And only meant to rest, my Ear  
Would distant noise of Business hear,  
And with Advantage catch the kill sound!    

Hor. Ode 13. Lib. 4. In Lycen Mereticem Vetulam. Audiuêre, Lice, Dii— Translated.  

I.  
THen Heaven has heard my Prayers, at last  
My Prayers are heard, and, Lice, know  
Lice, your barbarous Reign is past,  
Time writes Old Lady on your Brow;  
Yet still y'affect your wanton Play,  
Still paint and patch, and would seem gay,  
Drink lewdly still, and with an awkward Voice  
Court Love, that hears unmoved the tuneless noise.   

II.  
Love better pleased on Chia's Face,  
Where still fresh blooming Glories spring,  
Whose charming Tongue hits every Grace,  
Revels whole Nights to hear her sing;  
But from thy fading form he flies,  
(Which, like old Trees, sharp Winter dries,)  
Thy rotten Teeth, thy frightful withered Brow,  
Nor trusts his Fire too near thy Hoary Snow.   

III.  
In vain rich Silks are daubed with Gold,  
jewels assist thy Eyes in vain,  
When New-years-day locks up the Old  
No helps of Art released again.  
Where are thy Charms, thy White and Red,  
Thy lovely Mien? Ah! whither fled?  
What poor Remains are left of that bright she  
That was all Love, that of myself robbed me!   

IV.  
Next Cinara's peerless Face and mine  
None could boast such winning ways,  
But Fate, to her severely kind,  
To short-lived Beauty matched her Days!  
And endless Lice justly spares  
Beyond the Ravens hundred Years;  
While all the Fops that once adored her Flame,  
Laugh at her Snuff, and triumph in her Shame.    

On a Fair Lady singing.  
WHen Isis Murmurs first did reach my ear,  
I nothing but its hasty flight did fear;  
Whilst listening to the Siren Streams I lay,  
My Life, like them, did gently glide away.  
But when th' inspiring Notes from Caelia came,  
They kindled in me such a mighty Flame,  
As did my vital heat put out, so strong,  
It's very name would almost burn the Tongue.  
I thought I could, Chameleon-like, have lived,  
On such sweet Air, ah me! I die deceived,  
And cheated of my Life; who'd think t' have found  
Death in her Voice, in such a balsam Wound?  
Thus the vigorous heat that Phoebus meant should warm  
His Votaries, turns too often to their harm.  
What various methods Fate's decrees fulfil!  
Where is not Death if gentle Caelia kill?   

The Recantation not accepted.  
WHen long I'd been with dreadful Ills oppressed,  
And still my Murderess would deny me rest,  
When Friends in vain had tried their Remedies,  
And neither Art nor Nature gave me ease;  
I thought, I'm sure I wished, my end drew nigh,  
And though I could not live in Love, yet I  
Firmly resolved in Charity to die:  
And thus bespoke the angry Deity.  
Love, I forgive thee, thou hast been but just,  
Since thou wilt have me die, I will and must.  
I do confess I have deserved that smart,  
And restless pain, which preys upon my heart,  
And now to thee for cruel Mercy come,  
Dispatch, and quickly execute my doom.  
For what I've said, unfeignedly I grieve,  
Have pity then, condemn me not to live.  
The angry God heard this, and straight replied,  
Fond wretch! how oft didst thou my power deride,  
Tho both by Verse and Temper too inclined  
To pay an Homage to all Womankind?  
My best-wrought Plots thou couldst with ease undo,  
And thought'st thyself the greater God o'th'two;  
Some easy Fools deluded then by thee,  
Spurned at my Throne, my Laws, and Majesty.  
Thou shalt the guilt of their Offences bear,  
And she (because I'll force thee to despair)  
Shall all her Sex's brightest Glories wear.  
Thou still shalt love, but she make no return,  
Such Heretics as thou should always burn.   

Catull. ad Lesbiam 5.  
LEt's live, my Lesbian, whilst we may,  
And without Love beguile the day;  
Old Cynics Censures let's despise,  
Whom none, besides themselves, think wise▪  
The same Sun sets and rises, true,  
But 'twon't be so with me and you;  
For when our Light is once withdrawn,  
ne'er hope to see another dawn.  
A thousand Kisses I would have,  
And next, my Dear, a hundred crave,  
And then another thousand, thou  
Another hundred must allow,  
A thousand add, a hundred more,  
(I would not be in Kisses poor.)  
When this w'have done, we'll mix them so,  
That we ourselves shall never know  
What we to one another owe.  
There is no fear of any charm,  
The number will defend from harm.   

On Caelia's Sickness.  
FOrgive me Heaven, if I now accuse  
You of Injustice, since you thus abuse  
That Goodness which deserves much more  
Than you can spare out of your wealthy Store.  
If (what I dread to ask) my Crimes alone  
Procured those Evils she hath undergone,  
And you to make me feel the greater smart,  
Would wound me in this best, this tenderest part,  
Chastise me rather in myself, than her,  
Whose Life I much above my own prefer.  
The Pain may discompose her Mind, but I  
Will gladly bear it, so you'll pass her by.  
On me inflict whatever can be due,  
For I indeed have injured her and you.  
I'm soon dispatched, if you'll but carry on  
That Work, which she already hath begun.  
But now I think on't, both of us are free  
From future strokes; she by Divinity,  
And I by Fate secured, for I am dead,  
My Soul long since to her, my Heaven, fled.   

A SONG.  

I.  
THE Godlike she shall still possess  
My Soul, though I in vain  
Implore her help in my distress,  
Yet I'll enjoy my Pain.  
In humble Accents I'll adore  
The Beauty I admire,  
Tho I can never hope for more,  
Who would not so expire?   

II.  
Who straight gives o'er when he is crossed,  
Deserves no Mercy sure,  
But he, whose Love does then shine most,  
When he despairs of Cure:  
From Lust, or base Interest, may  
Such hasty Flashes rise,  
But he who truly doth obey  
Rejoices when he dies.   

III.  
Whilst angry Death doth for him wait,  
And sees his Bravery,  
The Flames that threaten him with Fate  
Do tremble more than he.  
Spectators, when they see him faint,  
His loudest Praises sing,  
So, of the Martyr make a Saint,  
And fall to worshipping.    

LIFE.  
'TIS but a little space we have,  
Betwixt the Cradle and the Grave;  
Yet are our Cares and Evils such,  
That even that little is too much.  
Here's nothing real, we may seem  
To live, but then that Life's a dream.  
We talk as if we something were,  
And whilst we talk we disappear.  
'Tis an ill Omen thought by some,  
If when into the World we come,  
We fall not headlong from the Womb.  
And 'tis not likely what's begun  
With rashness, should be carried on  
Without Precipitation.  
For one, we say is dead, we grieve,  
Yet know not what it is to live:  
We think that by our Sighs we show  
The Love which we to him did owe,  
And kindly wish him to remove  
From his most blessed Abode above.  
Then, that we may preserve his Fame,  
With Praises we embalm his Name.  
The Tomb stone carries on the Cheat,  
And falsely says, Here lies the Great;  
When sordid Dust is there alone,  
The Soul's to a strange somewhere gone.  
It sees, and wonders why we thus  
Bemoan his Loss who pities us.   

To a much-admired Lady.  
Madam,  
I See my Error plainly now, for I,  
Fool that I was! thought you at last must die.  
To leave this busy World behind is Death,  
But that I've found will vanish with your breath;  
Or should some few, by mighty chance survive,  
I think 'twould scarce be worth their while to live,  
Virtue I'm sure would not be understood,  
Nor could men know what 'twould be to be good.  
Tho now they may to some Perfection grow,  
Yet when you're dead, what can Example do?  
Your present Influence I alone can prove,  
Wit, Beauty, Goodness, 'cause they're yours, I love.   

To a very accomplished Lady.  
Madam,  
WHen your transcendent worth I would commend,  
Methinks the feeble Praise I upwards send,  
Like panting Mists, beneath a Hill, doth rise,  
'Tis winged with Zeal, yet whilst aspiring, dies;  
It strives to reach your worth, but your great height  
Doth baffle all its best endeavours straight.  
Yet my fond Muse resolves her Strength to try,  
Although she's sure in the Attempt to die.  
And now she hath thus rashly ventured in,  
She knows not how, or where, she should begin,  
Is doubtful which should have the foremost place,  
The native smoothness of your Speech, or ●…ace;  
The silent lines that on your Cheeks do grow,  
Or those which in soft pleasing Accents flow;  
These must to one another yield, for we  
In both discern the self same Harmony.  
Your well-framed Body seems to her so fine,  
She thinks your glorious Soul doth through it shine,  
Doubts which o'th' two she highest aught to set,  
The precious Jewel, or the Cabinet.  
When she your unstained whiteness views, from thence  
She firmly gathers inward Innocence.  
She doth through Smiles your Patience clearly spy,  
And reads your Wisdom in your searching eye;  
Knows how all Virtues by your Looks are dressed,  
Or in resembling Characters expressed.  
But stay a while, yet hold unhappy Muse,  
And see whom thou thus humbly dost abuse:  
I'm sure thou dost unpard'nably offend,  
And needs must come to an untimely end,  
Unless her Mercy do all those transcend.   

To the same, immoderately mourning the Death of a Relation.  
IN vain you keep your Sorrow fresh with Tears,  
In vain renew your Trouble and our Fears.  
For Heaven's sake leave, your Love no more commend,  
By making Grief so long outlive your Friend.  
Whilst thus with hideous groans and doleful cries  
You wound the yielding Air, with Tears your eyes;  
You must what she to Nature owed, forget,  
Or else repine she died no more in Debt.  
When she in Baptism her first Vow did make,  
She promised by her Sureties to forsake  
The World, and all its Pomp; and can you now  
Grieve she is dead, who only keeps her Vow?  
When searching Fate shall its Advantage find,  
And most compendiously destroy Mankind,  
In you alone, Mirth then will Scandal grow,  
And all men mourn, or feign that they do so.  
Should each of those shed but one single Tear,  
To whom you're known, that is, to whom you're dear,  
The World would in an instant covered be  
With Waters, once more perish in a Sea.  
Think then what fears already fill the Breast  
Of some, what haste you make to kill the rest.   

Secret Grief.  

I.  
FArewel, fond Pleasures, I disdain  
Your Nets of Roses, lose my Chain,  
And set my fettered Powers free  
(For you and I shall ne'er agree)  
Tempt me no more, 'tis all in vain.   

II.  
The easy World with Charms assail,  
Of Triumphs there you cannot fail,  
On those to whom the Cheat's unknown  
You will infallibly prevail.  
But let my Solitude and me alone.   

III.  
Let the sad Cypress crown my Head,  
The deadly Poppy on my Temples shed,  
Through all my Veins its Juice bespread.  
Could I retrieve my former years,  
I'd live them o'er again in Tears.   

IV.  
In secret I'll enjoy my Grief,  
Not tell the Cause, nor ask relief.  
Though ne'er so high the Streams should grow,  
Yet 'tis not fit the World should know  
The Spring from whence my Sorrows flow.    

Mart. L. 1. Ep 58.  
WOuld Flaccus know, if I would change my Life,  
What kind of Girl I'd choose to make my Wife,  
I would not have her be so fond to say  
Yes, at first dash, nor dwell too long on Nay.  
These two Extremes I hate, then let her be  
'Twixt both, not too hardhearted, nor too free   

The GRACES, or Hieron Theocriti Idyll. 16.  Translated by Sir Edward Sherborn, above forty years ago. 

THE Muses, and the Muse inspired Crew,  
This always, as their best-loved Theme, pursue  
The Honour of immortal Gods to raise,  
And crown the Actions of Good Men with Praise.  
For Deities the Muses are, and use  
(As such) to give to Deities their Deuce.  
We Poets are but Mortals, sing we then  
The Deeds of godlike, though but mortal men.   

None kindly yet our Graces entertain,  
But send them unrewarded back again.  
This made the Girls, when barefoot they came home.  
Chide me, for idly sending them to roam  
On sleeveless Errands: wearied here to stay,  
They sigh their melancholy Souls away.  
They loathe their sordid Lodging, fume and fret  
'Cause for their Labours they can nothing get.  
For where's the generous Mortal now a-days  
That loves to hear a Poet's well-tuned Lays?  
To find one such I know not; some, 'tis true,  
Love te be praised; none a good Deed will do.  
They value not their Honours, as of old,  
But are mere Slaves to Avarice and Gold.  
Just or unjust, all Practices they try  
For heaps of Treasure, but will rather die  
Than part with the bare Scrape of its Rust,  
To satisfy a needy Poet's Gust.  
If any chance a Boon of them to beg,  
They cry, My Knee is nearer than my Leg.  
Of what is mine, myself alone shall share,  
〈◊〉 their own Poets let the Gods take care.  
Who to another's Prayer now lends an Ear?  
Not one. This Truth Homer to all makes clear;  
The best of Poets! though the best he be,  
He gets not yet one single Cross from me.   

Mad men! what's Wealth, if still the hoarded Gold  
From others under Lock and Key you hold?  
None wise thinks this is the true use of it,  
Some part for proper Interest we should fit,  
And some apply to the Support of Wit:  
Some to our near Allies we should allow,  
To Strangers some, some to the Gods should vow,  
Set some for Hospitality apart,  
To treat our Friends with open hand and heart:  
But chiefly to maintain the Muse's Choir;  
That when to the old Grave thou shalt retire,  
Thou may'st among the living gain Renown;  
Nor mourn inglorious near sad Acheron,  
As some poor Ditcher with hard brawny hand,  
That cannot heavy Poverty withstand.   

The great Antiochus in plenteous measure  
Supplied his Subjects Wants from his own Treasure,  
So King Alevas; many sat Droves went  
Into his Stalls, and from his Stalls were sent.  
infinite Flocks large Pastures did afford  
To furnish Crion's hospitable Board.  
No Pleasure yet from all this Princely store  
Could they receive, were their Souls wasted o'er  
In Charon's Boat to the dark Stygian Shore.  
But in obscure Oblivion they would lie,  
Deprived of all their Superfluity,  
Amongst wretched Souls whom no Time can, nor Age  
From their sad Miseries ere disengage,  
If the great Ceian Poet had not been,  
And with his Praises made them live again.  
Ev●… the swift Coursers at th' Olympic Game  
Are registered in the Records of Fame.  
Who of the Lycian Princes e'er had heard?  
Of Cyrnus with his flaxen Hair and Beard,  
Or Prim's Sons? forgot they had been long,  
Their Wars, and Battles, had not Poets sung.  
Ulysses, who full six score Months was tossed,  
And Time and Wealth amongst several Nations lost;  
Who went to Hell alive, and by a slight  
From the fierce Cyclops Cave, made his safe flight,  
Had never been remembered but for us,  
Nor poor Eumaeus or Philaetius  
His Shepherd, and his Herdsman. Who had known  
That to great Sold Laertes he was Son?  
Had not the Ionian Bard his Acts and Name  
Enrolled in the eternal Book of Fame.   

Glory on men is by the Muses spread,  
The living waste the Treasure of the dead:  
But easier 'tis for me to reckon o'er  
The Waves which the Wind drives against the Shore,  
Or wash a Blackmoor white, than ere persuade  
To good, a Slave to Avarice once made.   

Then farewell such vile Scoundrels! let them lie  
Obscured in base Illiberality:  
Doting upon their vast, and illgot store,  
Still vexed with restless care of getting more.  
A good man's Love to me's a greater Grace  
Than many Mules or Horses for the Race.  
Yet willingly a man I'd seek, would make  
Me, and the Muses welcome for my sake:  
But those sweet Singers, without Jove's Advice,  
Will find the way too difficult and nice.  
Yet has not Heaven left off to turn its Spheres,  
Or ceased to measure time by Months and Years;  
And happily there will a Man arise  
May need our Verse, nor will our Songs despise;  
One, that in Actions greater may engage  
Than Ajax did, or stout Achilles wage  
In Simois Fields; within whose Plains extent  
Of Phrygian Ilus stands the Monument.  
And now a Punic Race, near the Sun's set  
From Libia's Confines Wars dire horrors threat.  
Now Syracusians their short javelins try,  
And Wicker Targets to their Arms apply.  
And amongst them, Hieron, equal to the best  
Of ancient Hero's, stands in Armour dressed,  
A Horseman shadowing o'er his glittering Crest.  
Oh mighty jove! Father of Gods! heavens King!  
And thou who from his midwived Brain didst spring  
Honour●…d Minerva! and thou Proserpina!  
With Mother Ceres! under whose divine  
Protection still the mighty City stands,  
First raised by wealthy Ephyrean hands,  
Near Lysimelia's Lake, dread Powers! expel  
Sicilia's Foes: That they returned may tell  
Their Wives and Children how their slain friends fell;  
And let the Towns by hostile Arms destroyed,  
By former Dwellers now be re-enjoyed;  
That they may dress their fertile Fields and breed  
Numberless bleating Flocks therein to feed.  
Let their horned Herds, called home at night from grass,  
Urge lazy Travellers to mend their pace.  
Let now the fallowed Fields be sown again,  
And freshly flourish with fair Crops of Grain,  
Whilst labouring Mowers the rich Meadows share,  
Shrubs echoing with the shrill-voiced Grasshopper.  
Let even the Name of War in all mouths cease,  
Be no Arts cherished but the Arts of Peace:  
Let Spiders rusty Arms in Cobwebs dress,  
Let Poets Hieron's glorious Acts rehearse,  
And spread his Fame throughout the Universe;  
Amongst whom I'll sing for one; though I not reach  
So high as some whom Jove's fair Daughters  
Who love Sicilian Arethusa's Name teach;  
To chant, and Hieron's valiant Acts proclaim.    

Anacreon's Odes paraphrased. AGE. Od. 47. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, etc.  
I Like the Youth that does improve  
His Blood with Wine, his Heat with Love:  
I like the Man that Age beguiles,  
And owes his Wrinkles to his Smiles;  
That his dried Veins with Grapes repairs,  
And gilds with Oil his whitened Hairs.  
That keeps dark sullen Care his Slave,  
And dances down into the Grave.  
He, though his Head in Snow be dressed,  
Fresh, flowery Youth keeps in his Breast.  
Fresh Youth he keeps, and sweetest Fire,  
Life's heat maintaining by desire.  
So Aetna's Head is silvered o'er with Snow,  
But Flowers smile, and Flames break forth below.   

AGE. Od. 34. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, etc.  
Tho' in pale Whites my Face appear,  
Tho thine the fairest Flowers wear,  
Tho Winter here, there Summer grow,  
Fly not, thy Fire will melt my Snow.  
From my warm Snow no more retreat,  
The Sun, when whitest, darts most heat.  
My paler Locks commend with thine,  
And with thy Gold my Silver twine.  
See how the Lilies white as me,  
See how the Roses red as thee,  
Married in this Garland twine,  
And growing Snow and Blood combine!  
Such should our mixed Embraces be,  
Chequ'ring Anacreon with thee.   

DRINKING. Od. 25. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, etc.  
FIll up the Glass, when I drink deep  
My drowned Cares, before me, sleep.  
I'll know no Cares, nor Grief, nor Tears,  
Sweet Oils shall swim above salt Tears.  
Since I must die, come, let me live,  
Garlands and Wine the Victim give.  
Garlands, which, like me, must wither,  
Then let's smile, then fade together.  
Wine, that's mortal as I,  
But let it not before me die.  
Fill up the Glass; while Care's asleep  
I'll drink it, as my cold Grave, deep.   

THE FIRST ELEGY OF Ovid's Amorum. Translated into ENGLISH  By Mr. balow, Fellow of King's College in CAMBRIDGE. 
TO sing of Mars and his Heroic Trains  
My Muse began, and in becoming strains,  
With equal pace the numbers took their way  
Slow, but Majestic, grave without delay.  
While Cupid at the fond endeavour smiled,  
And of a Foot the later Verse beguiled.  
Ambitious Boy (said I) t'usurp a power,  
O'er Poetry the Muse's only Dower.  
As well may Venus claim the right of Arms,  
Palace preside o'er Love and Beauty's Charms.  
Ceres for Woods forgo the fertile Field,  
Woods with Diana to the Fields may yield.  
Mars with Apollo change his deadly Spear,  
For the soft Music of his warbling Lyre.  
Too great a Rule already you possess,  
Nor does your wild Ambition Covet less.  
Or is your Lawful Empire unconfined,  
And by a right to all, our Temple joined?  
Scarce now Apollo is your Harp secure,  
O'er mine already he has stolen a power.  
When great Heroic Notes my Strings would play,  
He strikes; the Strings to softer Notes give way.  
Tyrant! to force me thus to sing of Love,  
Which my unskilful Breast did never prove.  
No tender Maid affords to me blessed joys,  
Nor gentle Youth my softer hours employs.  
He heard, and from his sounding Quiver drew  
An Arrow, to the fatal purpose true:  
Fly thou t'his idle heart (said he,) and find  
A subject fit ●…'imploy his wounded mind.  
Wretch that I was! to tempt that Archers skill;  
Ah now what Tyranny of Love I feel!  
Farewell all Warlike numbers, warlike things,  
Love tunes my heart to my enervate strings.  
With Myrtle Crowned, my Muse, on measures move  
Soft and uneven, fit for gentle Love.   

ELEGY II.  
WHat's this that thus of Sleep bereaves my night?  
The clothes upon my Bed uneasy sit,  
Unwonted hardness does my pillow seize  
And to my tossing head affords no ease.  
Am I to Love insensibly betrayed,  
Which has this sudden alteration made?  
'Tis Love I see by cunning treacherous art  
Has shot his secret Arrows to my heart.  
And must I yield, or striving feed the Flame,  
Which by compliance gentle grows and tame?  
So motion does incense the Torch's fire,  
Which of itself would quietly expire.  
The Ox at first impatient of the Yoke,  
Groans with the oft regeminated stroke.  
The willing Horse with easy bridle plays,  
Whilst the sharp curb th' unruly mouth obeys.  
So whilst we struggle with the Yoke of Love,  
It by reluctance does more grievous prove.  
I yield, I yield, your new got prey receive,  
Into your Chains my willing hands I give.  
Cease the no Victory with Arms to gain,  
Who naked sues your Mercy to obtain.  
Go too, about your Temple's Myrtle twine;  
To the light airy Chariot fitly join  
Your Mother's Doves; methinks with graceful pride,  
I see you through the Streets in Triumph ride,  
With dextrous art the yoked couple guide.  
A goodly Train in long procession go  
Of vanquished Men and Maids, a Pompous show:  
With these I'll mix myself, my Bonds no less  
Than Body shall my Captive Mind confess.  
Wisdom and Honour, Modesty and Scorn  
Your foes, betimed in Fetters shall be born.  
All things your awful presence than shall fear,  
The Crowd your Conquests with applause declare.  
Madness, enticing Flattery, Mistake,  
(Swissers to Love) your Martial Train shall make.  
With these an easy Victory you gain,  
(Weak without these) o'er Gods as well as Men.  
Your Mother then with joy from Heaven shall pour  
Upon your head a rosy fragrant Shower.  
A Golden Mantle shall your shoulders wear,  
And Gems bedeck your gaudy Plumes and Hair.  
Your presence then will no few fires create,  
As flames to all that's nigh't disperse their heat.  
Your darts unbidden than their slights shall take,  
And as you pass new bleeding Lovers make.  
So Bacchus Triumphed from the Indian Shore  
You Birds, Him fierce Armenian Tigers bore.  
In me to throw away your power, spare,  
Who might a part in this your Triumph bear,  
See how the Godlike Caesar your own blood,  
To those he Conquers gracious is and good.   

ELEGY III.  By the same. 
GReat Goddess Venus hearken to a prayer,  
Whose justice may deserve a friendly ear;  
Let her I Love (what juster thing can be)  
A gentle Passion entertain for me.  
Or by her kind compliance make me wear  
For ever her soft Chains, which now I bear.  
So would I never wish to be set free:  
Ah pleasing bonds! ah sweet Captivity!  
Me for her constant Servant she'd approve,  
Knew she with what sincerity I Love.  
What tho no ancient names my Lineage grace,  
Nor can I boast the Author of my Race,  
My Fortune small, no Parents for me fear  
To spend, what would enrich their growing Heir.  
I bring you Phoebus, and the Sisters nine,  
A Love unfeigned, which makes me only thine,  
Unwav'ring Faith, an unpolluted name,  
Naked simplicity, ingenuous Shame.  
You, you alone shall please, no Rival Love  
Yours from my constant breast shall ever move.  
With you the years which Fate allows I'd live,  
Nor wish you dying, longer to survive.  
Be thou the happy subject of my Muse,  
Your name a worthy Genius will infuse.  
To frighted Io maugre Juno's hate,  
My Verse shall give an everlasting date,  
Ages to come shall tell Callisto's Rape  
Secure of Hurt under a feathered shape.  
How to Europa jove in Horned shroud,  
Soft, gentle fires in hollow murmurs lowed.  
We two immortal shall remain, when dead,  
And future times our joined names shall read.   

ELEGY IU.  By the same. 
Your Husband too with us is bid a guest  
To Supper, may this Supper be his last;  
And must I but an idle witness be  
Of his rude touches, which I least would see?  
Your gentle head within his bosom laid,  
With his foul Arms about your Neck displayed.  
No wonder now that Savage Monstrous Guests,  
Stained with their Gore the Thracian Nuptial Feasts.  
Ingenuously bred, and formed a Man,  
I scarce my itching hands from force restrain.  
Yet now before a Lover's Lesson hear,  
Nor let the Winds my vain Instructions bear;  
Steal out before, let him be sure come last,  
May be you won't repent your early haste.  
When, to the Bed you go, where he is laid,  
With looks demure give me the gentle tread.  
Observe my Nods, the Language of my Face,  
Which can so well my inward thoughts express.  
My eyes and hands shall act the vocal part,  
By their dumb empiric you may learn my heart.  
If to your fancy some kind thought has brought  
Th' enhanced pleasures, which my Love had wrought,  
With gentle taps upon your cheeks, declare,  
When I shall say or do, what you approve,  
The Mystic Ring about your finger move.  
When to your Husband some ill hap you pray,  
Fear not upon the board your hands to lay.  
What's filled by him, sip, and give him the rest,  
When e'er you lack the Boy will please you best;  
Returned by you I first bespeak the glass,  
And where your lips has touched enjoy the place.  
There to be sure I'll meet you, or be met,  
What ever Hold you can, be sure to get.  
Should you to meltling kisses once give way,  
I fear my injured Love I should betray.  
Fly out, and frantic cry, cease wanton, know  
Those kisses to myself are only due.  
Yet this I'd see; did he but so much dare,  
But more my patience would, or could not bear.  
And thus my fears so numberless are grown,  
Who all the ways and arts of Love have known.  
No fear of this in you, yet even to shun  
Suspicion, keep your Garments always down;  
Still ask your Man to drink, but let no kiss  
Purchase the favour with unequal price.  
Whilst yet he drinks, into his Cup infuse  
More Wine, inviting sleep and soft repose.  
Occasion then itself will teach us, how  
We should improve it to the best employ.  
When you begin to rise, we'll all rise too  
Midst of the Press you least observed may go,  
And thus for Plots industrious I have been,  
Which a few coming hours will render vain.  
The night now envious to my hopes, comes on,  
And I divorced from her must lie alone.  
Her Husband's Prisoner she must be all night;  
Yet to the door I'll follow her in sight.  
Then he shall clasp you in his rude embrace,  
And rifle all the sweets upon your face,  
Exact the pleasures which to Laws you owe,  
But freely to my Love a gift bestow;  
Yet do not easy, but as forced comply  
To the cold duty of a drudgery.  
If wishes can prevail, a starved delight  
Shall be the Harvest of his toilsome night,  
Whate'er his Fortune is, to me deny  
That he enjoyed you, I'll believe the lie.   

ELEGYV.  By the same. 
ONe day in Summer, about twelve at Noon,  
Upon my Bed for ease I laid me down;  
The Window half shut, gave a doubtful light,  
Such as past Sunset and before 'tis Night;  
As when in Woods through the thick boughy shade,  
Some glimmerings of broken light are made,  
Such as emboldens modest Virgin's shame,  
When to my Chamber lo! Corinna came,  
Like fair Semiramis to her Alcove,  
To meet the sweet embraces of her Love.  
Scarce covered with a thin and loose array,  
Her Hairs dishevelled on her shoulders play;  
Her covering (though such as did not quite  
Conceal the blissful object of my sight)  
Striving to pull away, she'd still retain,  
And sought to cover what she would have seen.  
Till struggling she, unwilling to overcome,  
By her own Treachery at last she's won,  
When (lo!) uncovered as she stood and bare,  
No fault in all her Body did appear.  
What Shoulders, Arms, salute my dazzled eyes!  
How fit for touch, her Breasts would proudly rise!  
Taper her Waste, her Belly smooth and plain,  
Which two plump Pillars proudly did sustain.  
What needs there more? when nothing there I see  
But raised my fancy to an ecstasy.  
What followed after, is not hard to guests  
Wearied, we panting lay, and took our case,  
Give me ye Gods, many such noons as these.   

Libri Primi Ovid. Amor. ELEGIA Prima.  
WHen first of Arms, and bloody Wars I writ,  
In losty numbers, for the Subject fit,  
And every Verse did run with equal feet.  
The God of Love laughed at my vain essay,  
And in a humour stole one foot away.  
Who gave you cruel Boy, o'er Verse such Powers?  
We are Apollo's Subjects, and not yours?  
What if the Queen of Beauty should invade  
Minerva's Province; She usurp her Trade?  
How could rough Armour suit with soft desire?  
Or bold Viragoes gentle Love inspire?  
Should Ceres Rule in Woods, Diana in the Field,  
Wild Beasts might range at large; the Corn no Crop would yield.  
Who'd Arm Apollo with a pointed Spear,  
Whilst Wars fierce God plays on the Muse's Lyre.  
Great was you Child, too great your Power before,  
Why should your fond Ambition wish for more?  
Is it 'cause every thing must stoop to thee?  
Nor even the Muse's Songs and Groves be free;  
No sooner was my Poem well begun,  
And the first Line did promise much to come,  
But the blind God my well-tuned Harp un strung.  
I have no Theme, which softer Airs require,  
Such as sweet Boys——  
And lovely Virgins can alone inspire:  
Thus I complained: when Love from's Quiver drew  
A well-chose Arrow to my ruin meant,  
With all his the strong-knit Bow he bend,  
Which at my heart the fatal weapon threw.  
Then saying with a Smile Maliciously;  
There is a Subject for your Poetry:  
Alas, alas, it was too sure a Dart;  
I burn, and Love Reigns in my Conquered heart:  
O for the tender Elegiac vein  
And long adieus to the Heroic strain,  
Deck thee, my Muse, with Myrtle from the Shore  
Sacred to Venus, and her young Amour.   

Libri Primi ELEGIA Secunda.  
WHat can this mean, what makes my  
Thus naked lie without a Coverlid?  
What makes me pass the livelong nights away  
In tedious expectation of the day,  
Whilst my Racked Limbs with never ceasing pain  
Turn to this side, and then to that again?  
Sure I should know, if Love disturbed my Rest;  
Unless it slily stole into my Breast;  
'Tis so, for now I feel the pointed Dart:  
Tyranny Love raging in every part.  
What, must I yield to the encroaching bane?  
Or by Reluctance aggravate my flame?  
Well, I will yield; my Chains with Patience wear,  
The burden's light which we're resolved to bear.  
So I've observed resisted Fires to rage,  
Which, let alone, would suddenly assuage.  
The stubborn Ox that's haughty Neck can't bow,  
Does suffer more than he that draws the Plough.  
Th' unruly Horse that can't endure the Rein  
Is broke at last, and that with greater pain:  
Love more severely does chastise the Proud  
Than those that humbly have his power allowed.  
O Love, I grant, I am a Convert grown:  
Enslaved and Fettered, I approach your Throne.  
Forbear your Arms; for Peace I humbly sue,  
Oh don't so mean a Victory pursue,  
From which no Honour ever can accrue.  
With Myrtle Chaplets than enwreath thy hair,  
The God of War a Chariot shall prepare,  
And Venus' Doves shall wing you through the Air.  
The World with loud applause your Triumph see,  
Whilst you make Love and War so well agree.  
Young Men, and Maids, that did your Empire Scorn,  
Shall your Triumphal Chariot-wheels adorn.  
ay, amongst the rest, your late made Captive, bound,  
Proclaim your grandeur with a bleeding wound.  
And every Passion be a Prisoner led,  
All that have ever from Love's Ensigns fled.  
All things before your mighty Power shall fly:  
The vulgar with their throats shall rend the Sky,  
Io Triumph, Io Cupid, cry.  
Error, and Fury, and allurements too  
These shall Attendants of your Triumph be  
These are the Soldiers always followed you.  
By which you've even o'ercome the Deity:  
Should these advantages be took away,  
The God of Love might sometimes lose the day.  
Your Beauteous Mother from above will spread  
Eternal blooming Roses on your head.  
Here all your dazzling Glories you unfold;  
Bedecked with Roses, Jewels, and with Gold,  
The yet unconquered World you shall subdue;  
Who, in your March, shall wounded follow you.  
The scorching fire does so infectious grow,  
That you must wound, whether you will, or no.  
Such was the Triumph of Wines Conquering God,  
When, drawn by Tigers, he o'er Ganges Rode.  
Since then I'm partly of your Illustrious Train,  
O spend no more Artilleries in vain.  
Behold Augustus Caesar's Glorious Charms  
Those who'd reduced by his All-Conquering Arms,  
With Godlike Mercy he defends from harms.   

Libri Primi ELEGIA Tertia.  
I Ask no more; than that the Fair I love,  
Would love again; or so propitious prove  
As might be some encouragement to love.  
Ah, 'tis too much, and I presume too far!  
Let but my Mistress my Addresses bear,  
And Cytherea hear my humble Prayer.  
Accept th' eternal Service that I bring:  
Accept my heart, the Faithful Offering.  
What, though I don't an ancient Lineage boast  
Or any Titles that enlarge my name?  
But am maintained at an inferior cost.  
And have no wealth to usher in my claim;  
Yet on Apollo, and the Mighty Nine,  
(Without forgetting the great God of Wine,)  
On these, (with Love's assistance,) I'll rely;  
Almighty Love will all defects supply:  
Unblemished Faith, and Life without a stain;  
Plaindealing, Modest, and of Honest name.  
I ne'er can an inconstant Rover prove:  
Trust me; you're all that I shall ever Love.  
Oh, may I spend the remnant of my days  
Employed by you, in singing of your Praise!  
How would the Glorious Theme my Senses fire,  
And each perfection would my Muse inspire?  
Io, affrighted at her horrid form,  
And Leda's Swan, the Poet's Verse adorn;  
With fair Europa, who by jove betrayed,  
Was over the Sea by toe feigned Bull conveyed.  
Nay, we two shall, by our Immortal Name,  
For after Ages, fill the mouth of Fame.   

Libri Primi, ELEGIA Quinta.  
'TWas in the midst of an hot Summer's day,  
As on my Bed, for soft repose, I lay.  
The half-shut Casements cast a glimmering light,  
As the declining Sun, on Verge of night;  
Or when he forces out a narrow way  
Through thickest Groves; or, as at dawn of day:  
Such a retreat the timorous Maid desires,  
And such false lights, to hide her glowing fires:  
When, lo, Corinna came, in loose Attire,  
Down her fair neck hung her long dangling hair:  
In such a charming dress was Lais seen,  
With such a graceful, and Majestic mien,  
Marched to her Throne, the famed Assyrian Queen.  
I seized her Gown, which was so wondrous fine,  
It scarce did seem t' obruct a Love Design,  
Yet she close kept, and hug'd the slender Aid,  
But fought, as if of Conquest much afraid;  
So by faint struggling was the Fort betrayed.  
When she had laid that useless Garment by,  
And the fair Prospect blessed my longing eye;  
My gazing Optics met with nothing there  
But what entire perfection did appear.  
What Neck, what Arms I clasped; and what a Breast  
Formed and designed by Nature to be pressed!  
In what fine order her whole Frame did lie!  
How straight her Waste! how vigorous a Thigh!  
What needs there more?  
I took a full survey of all her Charms,  
And grasped her naked Body in my Arms.  
What then ensued is easy to be guest,  
By joint consent we laid ourselves to rest,  
With such refreshing Noons, may I be ever blest.   

To Mr. R. D. AT CAMBRIDGE.  
WHen, dearest Friend, oh when shall I be blest  
With thee and Damon, Silence, Shade, and Rest?  
Free from the painful Pleasures of the Town,  
Amidst chaste Groves, and harmless Wit lie down;  
Wit which in Scandal never shows its head,  
Nor blasts the Fame of some too Virtuous Maid.  
Echo forgets that e'er she was undone,  
'Tis so long since she could repeat a moan.  
I'm never swells with Tears, nor the bleak Air,  
Storms with the sighs of the forsaken Fair,  
Like other Passions, Love you can subdue,  
And what enslaves the World submits to you;  
Nor do you ever with false fires betray,  
And the poor heedless gazer lead astray;  
Rich and Luxurious like our Isle within,  
Your business is not Foreign Realms to win.  
But keep your own, nor lavish out your Store  
To gain that, which if gotten, makes you poor.  
Pale as the Horned Moon is Hymen's light.  
And wares as fast, is scarce at full one night,  
Your Star does at his Summer Solstice stay,  
Shines out, and makes but one continued day;  
Pleasing and gay as the Sun guilded Skies  
As mild and sweet as Lovesick Virgins Eyes,  
As undisturbed as sleeping Hermits are,  
As wholly free from the fatigue of care,  
As fixed as the Decrees of Providence  
Are all your happy hours, for they are granted thence.  
Without your Pens Hobbists confounded are,  
So much of Nature, and so little War.  
You are not framed of jarring Elements,  
All Soul, all Peace, all Friendship, Wit, and Sense.  
You so agree, so very much are one,  
As the Triumphing Singers round the Heavenly Throne.  
Ye clash like Mankind's disagreeing Prayers,  
And feign as many Jealousies and Fears,  
As Lovers Cloyed, or Statesmen in Disgrace,  
Desire of change is writ in every face;  
Dissatisfied or Whig as Israelite,  
As unsuccessful as a Teckelite;  
For spite of Cravat string we lose the day,  
No Dress can win, or Billet-deux betray.  
But after all the rage of sighs and tears,  
Kind Sir— calms our grief, and lulls our cares,  
When well experienced Strumpet takes upon her  
To quench the flame kindled by Maid of Honour;  
Yet like the Dutch, after a loss we swell,  
Unrigged or burnt, we blow the Trumpet still,  
And Triumph for a leaky Fish-boat ta'en,  
As if it were the Royal Sovereign.  
The pleasures of the Park, Plays, drawing Rome  
Be much as new as th' Instrument at home,  
Which some for forty Winters scrape upon.  
Pretty amusements and stand him in stead,  
Whom modish Sir ne'er taught to write or read.  
If I could tell to twelve, I'd rather stand,  
With a lean Pikestaff in my leaner hand,  
Counting the tedious hours before the Gate,  
Then cringe above stairs to the saucy Grant,  
Not she who knows her strength, and finds you love,  
Is more impertinently insolent,  
Then is his Lordship, when you come to move  
The smallest Suit which he has power to  
Tho e'er you ask, both so well bred Appear  
You'd think that you affront 'em if you fear.  
So Rook at Neals fawns on unborrowing Cull  
So a Brave Man is Cap'd and kneeed by Bull.  
So subtle sharer smiled on drudging Poet  
Before the Houses joining. Sir! you know it.   

THE SOLDIER. Writ in April, 1684. when our English Volunteers went into Flanders.  

THE melting Lute is on the Willows hung,  
Forsaken weeping Virgins sigh in vain,  
For all the Youth with point of Honour stung  
Dance to the Drum and Trumpet o'er the Main.   

The phantasm Honour leads them all astray,  
From Downy Beds in midst of dismal night,  
To seek out Treasure hid in Fields which they  
Will scarcely find by such a Wild fire light.   

Like puling Girls, they tremble at a Name,  
(For Whore and Coward both of them does fright,)  
And Sacrifice their Pleasure to their Fame,  
As Selfdenying as an Anchorite.   

Eating they scorn, despise their Wine and Wench,  
And beg to Famish in a Foreign Land,  
Digging their way to th' Devil in a Trench,  
With Pains and Sweat they labour to be damned.   

Not the first tiler, when the teeming Earth  
Swelled with the new infused Poisonous Curse,  
Was ever blest with a more hopeful Birth  
Of Glorious Mischiefs, than our Warriors.   

Hardly as he they earn their Bread, as he  
Cast out and Vagrants, and on some we see  
Heaven sets a Mark that they should not be slain,  
As the Damned live to Eternize their Pain.   

Revenge or Emulation might seduce,  
And work to Parricide the wretched Cain,  
But nothing can our Murderers excuse,  
Not even the Butcher's mean pretence of Gain.   

For poor and ragged as wand'ring Rogues they are,  
As their own Colours, shattered, lost, and torn,  
Furl'd up, and laid aside after the War,  
When they have leave to rot, repent and mourn.   

A happy Nations greatest Blessing, Peace  
Is their great Curse; so a becalmed Boat  
Starves in the midst of Sunshine, whilst the Seas  
Laugh all around to see her idly float.   

Like little pilfering Thiefs, they meanly live  
On Fire and Shipwrecks, for they basely steal  
What they pretend to save, and so contrive  
To snatch to Morrow's miserable Meal.   

They flock in millions when a Storm is near,  
Like Winter-fowl they love an angry Sky,  
But vanish when the Halcions appear,  
And when good days appear, with Envy die.    

PHILANDER AND EIRENE.  

TUne, tune my strings, Divine Harmonious Love,  
Who tun'st the Angel's Harps and Hearts above;  
Sing what a Youth thy Slave Philander was;  
What Beauties blossomed on Eirene's face.  
May's loveliest Morn can no such Prospect yield,  
When the young Flowers shine in the laughing Field,  
When the Springs noblest Glories are displayed,  
And Nature takes a Pride to be Surveyed.  
The richest sweetness of the Earth and Skies  
Sprung from her Rosy Breath, and Heavenly Eyes;  
Incense she might have been to angry Jove  
For all Mankind, and charmed him into Love.  
Such natural goodness overflowed her mind,  
And a dear Innocence so sweetly kind;  
That when she prayed, if Mercy would not hear,  
Its fairest Image it disowned in her.  
Untouched and white, Chaste as the coldest Snow,  
That sparkles upon lofty Aetna's Brow,  
And its pure Maiden-Innocence maintains  
In midst of fiery sighs, and breath of flames;  
But yet as humble as the Vale that lies  
Before the foot of that proud Precipice;  
Which pleased, and pleasing with its Meads and Springs  
Smiles in its Flowers, and in its Fountains sings.  
Such gentle meekness beautified her Soul,  
That like her Lutes soft Harmony it stole  
The heedless hearts, and in sure Fetters bound  
All that approached the dear Enchanted Ground.  
Descending Heaven did round about her stand,  
And listening Angels waited her Command.  
Who came to learn of her to moan and speak,  
And when she sung they followed every shake,  
Like her they tried to soften every grace,  
Melt every fall, and every Beauty raise;  
So Hallelujahs were improved by her,  
And to her voice they tuned the sweetest Sphere.  
Tho Dreams, or Humane Frailty never taught  
Her spotless Virgin-soul a guilty thought,  
Yet she could blush, which to Philosophise  
Was but the Angel's beaming from her eyes,  
Breeding, which others toil in Courts to gain,  
And oft with loss of Honour seek in vain,  
Nature had hung about her with such ease,  
That though her thoughts were ne'er employed to please,  
Yet like a Net by chance thrown on some Mead,  
Where many joyful feathered singers breed,  
Our flut'ring Souls without design she took,  
And surely killed with every random look.  
Breeding is untaught Nature well repressed,  
And charms the most, when negligently dressed.  
Since Nature's self in all she did was seen,  
What Court her Dress or Motion could refine?  
Or if she had not been so rich in Charms,  
Why should she travel for Offensive Arms?  
When Pity soured the Joy of Victory,  
Weeping o'er those, who at her feet would die,  
Whom Pride and Vanity could never move,  
And who was deaf to every sound of Love;  
Before Philander trembled in her Heart,  
And touched the String, which charmed so nice a part;  
Philander in whose face was fairly writ  
Good Nature, Honour, Manliness, and Wit;  
And when a long acquaintance brought him near,  
You saw them in a larger Character;  
Within there Reigned a Soul, which, like the Star  
That Rules some Hero's Birth, road high and clear:  
And in a Thousand generous Actions shown,  
That (much against his Nature) made him known.  
His friend in a distress he would relieve,  
His friend ne'er knew from whom he should receive  
The Favour, till Philander did repeat  
The Fact so oft, he could not hide the Cheat.  
So little used to boast, or to proclaim  
His Deeds, and Trumpet to the World his Fame;  
That him you must like Fairy gifts conceal,  
The way to forfeit all was to reveal.  
He had both seen the Camp, and Court of France,  
But came not back a Gay Sr. Fopling thence,  
Or noisy Bully, when he loved or fought,  
'Twas done with all the silence, that he thought  
His instant secret business might conceal,  
Like one who took in either case a disappointment ill.  
For he did neither Love nor Fight in jest,  
But always found just Motives in his Breast;  
And then advanced with the same vigorous heat  
His Mistress, or his Enemy to meet,  
And yet with all the ease, that does attend  
His Graceful fair, righted his fame or friend.  
The black and guilty only fear to die,  
He ran the risk with that serenity,  
Which well became a Man at peace within,  
And frighted by no Monster of a Sin.  
For no believing Maid was e'er undone  
By Perjuries from his persuasive Tongue,  
His Honesty, his Business, or his Ease,  
To Vanity he would not Sacrifice,  
Nor for the Glory of a fine intrigue  
Wear out his mind in a ten years' fatigue;  
Fawn and Dissemble like a Whig at Court,  
And Witness, like fire murdering Oaths in sport;  
Nor basely practise every little Cheat  
Used by the wife, the Politic, and Great,  
To steal into a weak, ill-guarded Town,  
Tho rich in fairer Mansions of their own;  
Yet still they will betray, that by these Arts  
They may attain the name of Men of Parts.  
Philander set his heart upon the Place,  
If in a Siege he ever showed his face;  
He lay before the Fort, because he there  
Had Treasured up his Soul, and could not bear  
A separation, every minute killed,  
Which the pale Youth from his best part withheld.  
Then he would talk and kneel, protest and swear  
Each Tree had sense, and every Stone could hear;  
And as of old good Moses Charmed the Rock,  
And rapid Rivers issued where he struck,  
Philander touched it too with such an Art,  
That Kindness sprung out of the hardest heart;  
For he would weep a Torrent of wild Woes,  
Which like the Stream that from Vesuvius flows,  
Burnt all before it, raging with his cries,  
Fired by his Passion, driven by his sighs.  
At other times like some soft murmuring Brook,  
In whose fair face the Nymphs their faces look:  
He charmed the listening Maid into a Dream,  
In which she could see nothing else but him,  
To him committed every tender thought,  
And the conversion which his Tongue had wrought;  
And used him like a secret Confessor,  
Whispered her melting wishes in his Ear.   

One Amorous Evening of the joyful Spring  
Did many friendly Nymphs together bring;  
Music they had to Triumph or to Mourn,  
To celebrate the ravage of their Scorn,  
Or tell the Shades in a sad moving strain  
The falseness of a too much favoured Swain;  
Whilst our Eirene, (for that fair was one)  
In undisturbed and clear reflections shone;  
No cloudy Passion hung upon her mind,  
Which to that Eminency was refined,  
That with full day it rose upon her face,  
And gilded every Feature with its Rays;  
And yet, so mild and peaceful flowed the beams,  
In such soft gentle kind, and quiet streams,  
As the still Air, on which that Evening lay  
When these young Angels gave a loose to Play;  
And that was calm as Infants rocked asleep,  
Beauty in awe the angry Winds did keep,  
Who silently in admiration stood,  
And feared to tell their mighty joy aloud,  
Left crowding fellow-Winds should drive them thence,  
And share the view of so much Excellence;  
Nor came they emptyhanded to adore,  
But the perfumes of both the Indies bore,  
And at the feet of these fair Charmers cast,  
The sweets of all the Countries they had passed:  
Tho like great Monarches, who with vast expense  
Show their respect, and their Magnificence,  
And make rich Presents to their Brother-Kings,  
Who least of all Mankind can want such things.  
The officious Winds a needless Tribute paid,  
Perfuming what could never want their aid;  
For all the Shades were made of jessemin,  
Roses, and Oranges, and Columbine,  
Under whose roots lay the kind Camomile,  
And thousand other humble Flowers did smile,  
Caressing the gay fragrant youthful grass,  
And shedding Honey-dew upon its face.  
This Paradise thus happy every way  
In the soft Arms of a smooth River lay,  
Whose Murmurs gently chid the cruel heart,  
That sympathised not with a Shepherd's smart;  
And to the Rocks, and Grottoes would complain  
Of Sylvia's hate, or Amoret's disdain;  
And oft in lucky melting minutes move  
The listening Nymph to lend an ear to Love:  
Eirene sat by his green Flowery side,  
Who swelled so high with Pleasure, or with Pride,  
That 'twas respect alone the Lover stayed  
From running over to Snatch the careless Maid,  
Whilst she unmindful of the danger near,  
And safe in Innocence, exempt from fear,  
Sung to her Lute Harmonious tales of Love,  
That with the natural sweetness of the Grove,  
Crept on the downy bosom of the Air,  
And a new Heavenly Clime created there;  
Commissioned Angels, when their task was done,  
Wondering they should arrive at home so soon  
Stayed here, mistaken in their happy Seat,  
Or else unwilling to find out the cheat;  
Would gladly the abodes above forgo  
To be for ever ravished thus below,  
And then she smiled, and looked the sweetest things,  
Good nature trickled from the rising Springs  
Of her kind Eyes, and gliding on her Face  
Diffused itself in softest tenderness.  
So have I seen a silver water run  
Through Nature's blooming Beauties, whilst the Sun  
Shining upon it with his youthful beams  
Played like her eyes among the gilded Streams;  
Her rising Breasts on Cupid's Wings were made,  
Hiding the little Loves in Ambush laid;  
Who heaved and panted when their Bows they drew,  
And as they moved, Millions of Arrows flew:  
The points they had from her bewitching Eyes,  
And all the Feathers from her Lute and Voice.  
To such a sight, in such a minute came  
The young Philander guided by the Fame  
Of these assembled Beauties, and his Star  
Led him directly to the fatal Fair,  
Led him where bright Eirene did appear.  
He found the danger, and would have retired,  
But 'twas in vain, for he had seen and heard,  
It was in vain to fly, he might as soon  
His Shadow, or his secret thoughts outrun;  
So being round beset with murdering Charms,  
He sought the sacred refuge of her Arms;  
With bended knees and soul the humble Swain  
Kneeled to the lovely Author of his pain;  
He fixed his eyes upon her Heavenly face,  
His heart leapt up, and through those eyes would gaze,  
Till melted by the Starry Fire, that sprung  
From the bright Maid, it flowed out of his Tongue.   Phil. 
Oh thou art sure a blossom in the Spring  
Of Joyful Heaven, by the eternal King,  
To glad Mankind sent mercifully down,  
And on the Banks of Life's fair Stream hast grown;  
The dear refreshing moisture yet I see  
Hanging on either Lip, from either Eye  
Fresh Life yet flows, ten thousand Angels still  
Bath in their native Flood, and drink their fill.  
Oh! thou all Heaven, tell, tell thy ravished slave  
What kind of Worship thou expectest to have;  
Speak, and thy Cherubs dancing on thy Tongue  
Amongst thy words in charming notes shall throng,  
Speak that my heart may spring into a Joy,  
Which nothing but thy silence can destroy;  
The happy Youth never made Love in vain,  
The Graces taught him all the Arts to gain.  
A bounding pleasure leaped through every part,  
And raptures revealed at Eirenes' heart,  
Which upwards flew, and perehed upon her eyes,  
For fair Eirene knew not to disguise  
Her thoughts, nor would herself and Lover vex  
With the afflicted coldness of her Sex.  
Philander could perceive with ecstasy  
That his dear Mistress would not let him die;  
But yet to try the ground on which he stood,  
And that he might be sure he grasped no Cloud,  
That he would prove his Fortune, thus proceed  
To learn what Fate his fair one had decreed.  Phil. 
If in your Breast you have resolved my death,  
West to Elysium, waft me with that Breath  
Which charms the World, sing to your Lute my doom,  
In that sweet dress let my Destruction come,  
So opening Heaven with all its Choirs and Spheres  
Shall wing me from the Earth above the Stars.  
Thus far the Lover; thus the heedless Maid  
The budding kindness of her soul betrayed.  Eirene. 
Tell me, ye softer Powers above,  
Tell me what unfledged thing  
Begins within my Breast to move,  
And try its tender wing?  
Tell me why this unusual heat  
Thus creeps about my heart,  
And why that heart indulges it  
And fond takes its part?  
What Godhead could Philander melt  
To such a flood of sighs,  
That gliding with the Tide unfelt,  
He might my Soul surprise?  
Perfidious Music took my Ear,  
And bent it to his Song;  
Music my friend, my darling care  
Betrayed me on his Tongue.  
But now they looked how late the Evening grew,  
Ill-natured Scandal, and the falling dew  
Frighted the fearful Nymphs away in haste,  
Lest this their Beauty, that their Fame should blast.  
Eirene snatched a minute to bestow  
A tender smile, and a good natured bow  
Upon the ravished Youth, who drunk with Bliss  
Reeled home, and thought the Universe was his.  
Great Power who couldst transform the mighty Jove  
To Showers, or softer feathers for his Love.  
Thou only in this figure couldst have stole  
Through Rocks of Ice, the Chaste Eirenes' Soul,  
Philander's was the only shape could move,  
Philander newly moulded over in Love;  
The quickest Pulse of Love beat in his blood,  
In rolling Waves Love from his Language flowed,  
From his black eyes fair Love and Rapture broke,  
And in his talking looks plain Passion spoke.  
How altered then must cold Eirene be,  
Who catched the flaming Meteor from his Eye,  
On whose hot Beams the Youth himself did dart,  
And flew in circling fire into her heart;  
Her burning heart boiled over at her eyes,  
And all its Sweets distilled in Tears and Sighs;  
In every Crystal drop Philander shone,  
Philanders Image could be seen alone;  
Her flame and fancy glittering on the dew,  
Painted the lovely Phantom finer too  
Than e'er the Sun a gaudy Rainbow drew.  
She saw him in that Glass with what a Mien,  
With what an easy greatness he came in  
At the late meeting, what a haughtiness,  
And graceful Majesty sat on his face,  
But at her sight how humble was his Love!  
Like Alexander supplicating jove,  
His trembling soul before her feet he hurled,  
To gain a greater Conquest than the World,  
And he continued this humility,  
For to the Earth he fixed his bended knee,  
The two great Lights above saw him adore,  
But never saw such Constancy before,  
He Worshipped with a Beggar's fervency,  
And would take heaven by importunity;  
The Heaven of Love was opened to his Prayers,  
And kind Eirene laid aside her fears  
To ease the Youth of his, thus doubly won  
By mighty Merit, and by suffering long.  
At first her cautious friends a Lecture read  
Of Ruined Maids, by perjured Men betrayed.  
And frighted back her passion to her heart,  
But there Philanders Image took its part,  
And aided by herself it grew so strong,  
It drove her Love out of her yielding Tongue.  
Her soul and heart her kindest thoughts express,  
Melted on every feature of her face;  
But that he should not doubt his happiness,  
Her eyes and Tongue his Conquest thus confess.  Eirene. 
Oh my Philander open your Breast,  
I can no longer keep my heart,  
Why do you call it from its nest  
With such a soft resistless Art?  
It sighs and looks itself away,  
Dissolving with each word I speak;  
Oh! take it, take it, if you stay  
You will have nothing left to take.  
There will be no injustice done,  
Tho you have fired its native house,  
If you will lodge it in your own,  
Where it can only find repose.  
And there i'll rest secure from harm,  
Let angry Winds roar as they will,  
That Tongue can every Tempest charm,  
Those Eyes the blackest Cloud dispel.  
Then the bright Nymph, with all her blaze of Charms  
Shot like a falling Star into his Arms;  
He crushed her kill Beauties to his Breast,  
And all her sweets into his Bosom pressed;  
Her willing Soul out of her Lips he drew,  
Which winged with Joy to her Philander flew;  
And then an innocent Revenge he tries,  
Attempts to kiss the fire, out of her Eyes;  
And he devoured a fierce unruly flame,  
Which all her Charms let loose could scarcely tame.  
'Tis well he had the liberty at least  
The living Nectar of her Lips to taste;  
To quaff her breath, and drink her flowing heart,  
Which broke the Banks, and gushed from every part;  
And this was all he wished, his Heavenly fire  
Was purged from every loose unchaste desire,  
Eirenes' eyes had purified the Air;  
He breathed in the clear Sunshine of his Fair.  
Eirene could the dross and dregs remove,  
Extracting the pure spirit of his Love;  
And that was all divine, and would not mix  
With the gross inclinations of his Sex.  
Thus Angel like the Youth and Virgin loved,  
And pleasure to the highest pitch improved;  
The circling Year roul'd in its usual round,  
And still their Eyes fixed on each other found;  
The circling Year did various seasons bring,  
But their young Love was always in the Spring,  
It never altered but from bliss to bliss,  
No angry Sky blasted their happiness;  
For whilst Eirene smiled his Heaven was clear,  
And she would always smile when he was near.   

OF Divine Poesy, Two CANTOS  By Mr. WALLER. 
Occasioned upon sight of the Fifty third Chapter of Isaiah, turned into Verse by a Lady.  

Canto 1.  
POets we praise, when in their Verse we find  
Some great employment of a worthy mind;  
Angels have been inquisitive to know  
The Secrets which this Oracle does show.   

What was to come the Prophet did declare,  
Which she describes as if she had been there,  
Had seen the wounds which to the Readers view  
She draws so lively that they bleed anew.   

As Ivy thrives which on the Oak takes hold,  
So with the Prophets may her Lines grow old,  
If they should die, who can the World forgive?  
Such Pious Lines when wanton Sapho's live.   

Who with his breath his Image did inspire,  
Expects it should foment a nobler fire,  
Not Love which Brutes as well as Men may know,  
But love like his to whom that breath we owe.   

Verse so designed on that high Subject wrote,  
Is the perfection of an ardent thought;  
The Smoke which we from burning Incense raise,  
When we complete the Sacrifice of Praise.   

That he does Reign all Creatures should rejoice,  
And we with Songs supply their want of Voice;  
In boundless verse the Fancy soars too high  
For any Object but the Deity.  
What Mortal can with Heaven pretend to share  
In the Superlatives of Wise and Fair?  
As meaner Subjects when with these we grace,  
A Giant's habit on a Dwarf we place.   

Sacred should be the product of our Muse,  
Like that sweet Oil above all private use,  
On pain of Death forbidden to be made  
But when it should be on the Altar laid;  
Verse shows a rich inestimable Vein,  
When dropped from Heaven 'tis thither sent again.   

Of Bounty 'tis that he admits our praise  
Which does not him, but us that yield it raise,  
For as that Angel up to Heaven did rise,  
Born on the flame of Mannoa's Sacrifice,  
So winged with Praise we penetrate the Sky,  
Teach Cloud and Stars to Praise him as we fly;  
The whole Creation by our Fall made groan,  
His Praise to Echo and suspend their Moan,   

The Church Triumphant and the Church below  
In Songs of Praise their present Union show;  
Their Joys are full, our Expectation long,  
In Life we differ, but we join in Song;  
Angels and we assisted by this art  
May sing together though we dwelled apart.   

Thus we reach Heaven while Vainer Poems must  
No higher rise than winds may lift the dust,  
From that they spring, this from his Breath that gave  
To the first dust th' immortal ●…oul, we have;  
His Praise well sung our great endeavour here  
Shakes off the Dust, and makes that Breath appear.   

Canto 2.  
HE that did first this way of Writing grace,  
Conversed with the Almighty face to face,  
Wonders he did in Sacred Verse unfold,  
When he had more than Eighty Winters told,  
The Writer feels no dire effects of Age,  
Nor Verse that flows from so Divine a rage.   

Eldest of Poets he, beheld the Light,  
When first it Triumphed over eternal night,  
Chaos he saw and could distinctly tell  
How that Confusion into order fell,  
As if consulted which he has expressed  
The Work of the Creator, and his Rest.  
How the Flood drowned the first offending Race,  
Which might the Figure of our Globe deface;  
For new made Earth, so even and so fair,  
Less equal now uncertain makes the Air;  
Surprised with Heat and unexpected Cold,  
Early Distempers make our Youth look Old,  
Our days so evil and so few, may tell  
That on the Ruins of that World we dwell.   

Strong as the Oaks that nourished them, and high,  
That long-lived Race did on their force rely,  
Neglecting Heaven, but we of shorter date  
Should be more mindful of impendent Fate,  
To Worms that crawl upon this Rubbish here,  
This span of Life may yet too long appear;  
Enough to humble, and to make us great,  
If it prepare us for a Nobler Seat;  
Which well observing, he in numerous Lines  
Taught wretched Man how fast his Life declines;  
In whom he dwelled before the World was made,  
And may again retire when that shall fade.   

The lasting Iliads have not lived so long  
As his and Deborah's triumphant Song:  
Delphos unknown, no Muse could them inspire,  
But that which Governs the Celestial Choir;  
Heaven to the Pious did this Art reveal,  
And from their store succeeding Poets steal.  
Homer's Scamander from the Trojans fought,  
And swelled so high by her old Kishon taught,  
His River scarce could fierce Achilles' stay,  
Hers more successful swept her foes away.  
The Host of Heaven, his Phoebus and his Mars  
He Arms, instructed by her fight Stars,  
She led them all against the common foe,  
But he misled by what he saw below;  
The Powers above like wretched men divides  
And breaks their union into different sides,  
The Noblest Parts which in his Hero's shine  
May be but Copies of that Heroine.  
Homer himself, and Agamemnon she  
The Writer could, and the Commander be.   

Death she relates in a sublimer strain  
Than all the Tales the boldest Greek could feign,  
For what she sung that Spirit did endight,  
Which gave her Courage and Success in Fight:  
A double Garland Crowns the matchless Dame,  
From Heaven her Poem and her Conquest came,  
Tho of the jews she merit most esteem,  
Yet here the Christian has the greater Theme;  
Her Martial Song describes how Sisera fell,  
This sings our Triumph over Death and Hell.   

The Rising Light employed the Sacred Breath  
Of the blessed Virgin and Elizabeth:  
In Songs of Joy the Angels sung his Birth,  
Here how he treated was upon the Earth  
Trembling, we read the Afflictions and the Scorn  
Which for our Gild so patiently was born,  
Conception, Birth, and Suffering all belong,  
Tho various parts, to one Celestial Song;  
And she well using so Divine an Art,  
Has in the Consort sung the Tragic part.   

As hannah's Seed was vowed to Sacred use,  
So here this Lady Consecrates her Muse,  
With like reward may Heaven her Bed adorn  
With fruit as fair as by her Muse is born.    

ANSWER TO Mr. Waller.  

NOw I shall live indeed, not by my skill  
But wisely you your Prophecy fulfil,  
And kindly careful of my growing Fame,  
Have twisted it with your immortal name.  
What brainless Critic dares his Envy raise  
To blast a Style which you incline to praise?  
The Powers of Envy I will now defy,  
Since raised by you to Immortality,  
Once mentioned in your Verse I cannot die.  
You with the flame of your Poetic fire  
Purge off my dross, and leave the Sense entire,  
You praise what's worthy praise, the rest omit,  
And teach th' ill-natured World how to forget;  
The World whose peevish memories still strike  
At what is worst, omitting what they like.   

Parent of English Poesy alone,  
To you we owe the Art we call our own;  
All who before you came, as hoarsly sung  
As if by Mars, Apollo's Harp was strung,  
And tuned to Drums loud Echoes and Alarms,  
But you have taught us soft and lasting Charm●….   

Pride of the past, life of the present age,  
I'm both inclined by swift Poetic rage,  
And gratitude, to give due praise to you,  
But I'm too weak to pay the debt I owe:  
Down haughty Muse! canst thou behold the Sun?  
Ah no! withdraw, thy threatening danger shun,  
He like an Eagle used to face the light,  
Ere he adopts thee, tries thy tender sight;  
Yet mounted on his wings thou now wilt dare  
To tempt thy fate, though sure to perish there,  
How hard it is to teach a Muse despair;  
So the vain Fly who gilded flame admires,  
Approaches, and a Sacrifice expires.  
Think, haughty Muse, think what is now thy theme,  
What it is thou canst offer worthy him;  
Worthy of Phoebus and his darling Son,  
Or rather, of his Master, and thy own,  
Whose Silver hair's more Glory to him give  
Than from his Golden Beams he can receive,  
Who taught both Ages, and with Godlike force  
Has stopped the mighty Flood of Folly's Source,  
Whose sprouting Laurels grew more fresh and gay  
The oftener they salute the Sun's bright ray,  
Their thriving Leaves grow young with every day.  
His sprightly wit grows young with every dawn,  
For ever active, and for ever young,  
His Numbers smooth, his sense for ever strong.  
Cease haughty Muse, in vain thou dost aspire  
To add thy smoke to his immortal sire;  
Cease, but if thou no worthier Offering make,  
I need not silence who want power to speak.    

The Change.  

1.  
HEre! since it must be so, take thy last look,  
My heart such deep impressions took,  
Thou never wilt behold me more;  
No part will be the same  
As it appeared when first I came;  
So altered shall I be, from what I was before.   

2.  
A few sad hours so great a change will make,  
Me from myself thou wilt mistake;  
And think some other Rival come,  
Who must as wretched be,  
Because he does resemble me:  
And thus I twice condem'nd, must bear the fatal doom.   

3.  
Destructive Fair! thou wilt alone do more,  
Than Grief or Sickness could before:  
That drooping form, which now appears  
Young as an Infant Spring  
Will be, (while you such ruin bring)  
As old in days, as was Methusalem in years.   

4.  
Dear Cruel Maid farewel: I know my doom,  
Yet ne'ertheless once more will come:  
Yes, I'll return and let you see,  
What I have said will prove  
Too true, th' effects of injured Love:  
And possibly your softening heart may pity me.   

5.  
Tho fain I'd be more blest before I die;  
In Death I'll my last refuge try:  
And then, like old Egyptians, Thou,  
(When no way else can move)  
To my pale Corpse will kinder prove;  
And more perhaps upon my Tomb, than my  
Frail house bestow—    

Excusing himself to his MISTRESS, for being JEALOUS.  
BEauty, My Dear, has such subduing charms,  
Its weakest Force the strongest Guard disarms.  
O'er jove himself it bears Imperial Sway,  
As the great Thunderer, Gods and Men obey;  
Through Adamantine Walls, and towers of Brass,  
His Sacred Fire dissolved the yielding Mass.  
A Shower of Gold, with pregnant Love relieved  
The Beauteous Virgin that in Fetters grieved,  
So much the tender Maid, a God could move  
To so much Pity, and to so much Love:  
And if she could a Deity persuade,  
How vast a Conquest would thy Charms have made!  
Fair Danae then had stood neglected by,  
And thou hadst charmed thy sacred Lover's Eye;  
Upon himself a brave Revenge hadst turned,  
And in thy flames th' Olympic Ruler burned.  
But thanks eternal, to the Powers above,  
That now their own immortal Being's Love:  
For should they as of old descend to choose,  
How dear a Treasure should I quickly lose?  
Their Starry Thrones, heavens brightest Forms would leave,  
And take all Shapes, that could thy heart deceive.  
Blame not my Passion, nor condemn my care,  
All precious blessings are preserved with fear;  
The rude unfruitful heaps of rolling Sand  
Unguarded lie, upon the naked Strand:  
But how defended is the golden Ore,  
That shines on wealthy Tagus glittering Shore!  
So in a mean deformed ignoble breast,  
The quiet Lover may securely rest:  
But what distrust and fears may justly rise,  
When Charms like thine tempt all beholders eyes!  
An Approbation only is Desire;  
All wishing to enjoy, what all admire:  
And if so far the boundless will extends;  
What will not Man, to gain his lawless ends?  
Alluring Stratagems, and treacherous Snares  
Are the chief business the vile Sex prepares:  
Their Words, their Actions, every looks design;  
In all as false, as are their Oaths in Wine.  
What Story is not full of women's Woes,  
By plighted Faith betrayed, and broken Vows?  
Religion, that does always fruitful prove,  
Has not so many Hypocrites, as Love;  
The pampered Priest that's Perjured at the Shrine,  
Would break a thousand times more Vows at thine.  
I know thy Beauty, and our own deceit,  
Thou art all Truth, and we all a Cheat.  
Thomas fixed as Rocks thy Sacred Virtues are;  
Experience cannot but our Vices fear.  
What Flatteries, nor subtlest Arts can't gain,  
Vile Man can with infernal Malice slain:  
Prudence should therefore nicest things remove,  
And be more jealous than the tenderest Love.  
Observing Eyes, false measures often take;  
And base construction from good actions make:  
Erect and straight, in vain the substance shows;  
If thence the least oblique shadow flows;  
For, to complete our Joys, we are, 'tis known,  
More blest by others Judgements than our own;  
Unconquered Adamants in vain we wear,  
If like adulterate Crystals they appear:  
A rightful Homage to Love's beauteous Throne  
Should all the World with awful distance own;  
While thou art pure, and spotless in my Arms,  
Not Health nor Riches have such powerful Charms:  
Goodness and Virtue, not the Gods above,  
Shall with more tenderness for ever love:  
But by their blessed abode, if even in thought  
I could believe thou wouldst commit a fault;  
Hadst thou abandoned all the Joys of Heaven,  
And for my sake from Paradise been driven,  
Thou shouldst the blackest Fiend in Hell embrace  
Sooner than I'd behold thy guilty Face;  
Even one Crime, hadst thou an Angel's Charms,  
Would separate me for ever from thy Arms.  
" For Fate and Love on such a point depend,  
" If one Link break, both the great Unions end.  
Down at one leap, from highest Heaven to Hell,  
The brightest Hi'rarchy of Angels ●…ell:  
How soon by disobedience destroyed,  
Was the blessed state the first great Pair enjoyed!  
That one sad act, which we so much deplore,  
Brought a propension to a thousand more:  
But did not Souls, that once receive a stain,  
Tho cleansed; more easily defile again;  
The lesser God requires th' Almighty doom,  
Time past, time present, and the time to come.  
His Laws are stricter than the Court of Heaven;  
There sin Original is scarce forgiven:  
Tho thou (my Life's fair Guardian) dearer art,  
Than the warm ruddy drops that feed my heart;  
With all thy Charms, how easy could I part,  
If their first blooming sweets had been destroyed;  
Tho lawfully without a Crime enjoyed!  
True Love its Beauteous Object mus●… invade,  
As did the Sun the World, when first 'twas made:  
All gay and innocent in Virgin state,  
As fixed and constant as eternal Fate.  
No Tyrant (my dear Sovereign!) e'er could have,  
A more obedient, faithful, humble Slave:  
And yet that Godlike Power that joins our souls,  
And all inferior faculties controls;  
In every nice desire must be obeyed,  
And as much Homage to thy Subject paid,  
As if he the World's Empire singly swayed:  
As undisturbed, un rivalled in his Throne,  
As the great Prince that ruled the Globe alone.  
One smile though forced from those subduing eyes,  
Would forfeit all which they have taken prize;  
Every kind look my soul esteems so dear,  
It hardly can a Sisters kisses bear:  
Methinks there should be found some other way,  
Our Loves to distant Kindred to convey;  
Scarce canst thou lull a tender Infants cries,  
But straight uneasy pains begin to rise:  
Nothing methinks should fill those snowy Arms,  
But he that has command of all thy Charms:  
Even thou (what's strange!) canst scarce permitted be  
To love thyself; but leave it all to me:  
And oh! if Fate does to my Will give power,  
While Joys of Crowns pass unregarded by:  
Round thy soft Limbs my greedy Arms shall twine  
And Martyrs Souls not be more blest than mine;  
Through the vast labyrinth of thy sweets I'll rove,  
And give, and take all the delights of Love:  
Not the young Monarch when in Triumph led,  
With glittering Diadems round his shining head;  
In all the Glories of his Regal State,.  
Can think himself more happy, or more great:  
Thy tender Breast is a far softer Throne;  
And at each kiss, methinks the World's my own.  
In that dear Centre all those pleasures move,  
That fill the Earth and the wide Spheres above;  
There does such soft and tender Goddess dwell,  
'Twould draw an Anch'rite from his lonely Cell;  
Nor has thy Beauty less amasing Charms;  
The conqueror there would stop his vengeful Arms;  
Ravished in sweets, to be a Slave would choose,  
Rather than Triumph o'er his vanquished Foes.  
Had I more Kingdoms, Crowns and Sceptres won,  
Than did of old great Philip's Conquering Son:  
With half my Empires I with ease could part;  
But not with the least Province of thy heart:  
My Soul's diffused through all the crimson Sphere,  
And fixed in every labouring Fiber there.  
No Joys nor Comforts can admittance find,  
Till they are first with that dear Image signed:  
Fates greatest blessings but a moment last,  
And when they're once enjoyed, the pleasure's past.  
The same dull Joys repeated over and over,  
And pleases little— when beheld before;  
But thy dear Bosom like Elysian Springs,  
An ever-flowing Tide of Pleasure brings:  
One would have thought that ere the labouring Sun  
Through his vast Regions could so oft have run,  
The riches that one breast could keep in store,  
With lesser pains might have been ransacked o'er;  
But such an infinite Mass does there abound,  
That 'tis but running an Eternal round,  
Like vital spirit, through the Form 'tis spread,  
And ne'er can cease ●…ill life itself is fled.  
No Fate nor Accident o'er-comes thy Skill,  
In Joys and Sorrows thou art charming still:  
And 'tis hard judging which has greatest power,  
Thy Tears to wound the heart, or Smiles to cure.   

CONTENT.  

ENough, enough, ye Gods, I need no more;  
Nor has this World a greater store:  
Your Bounteous hands have largely given  
One sovereign Remedy, that can  
Make blessed the wretchedst state of Man;  
And show, in this dark Globe, the brightest glimpse of Heaven.   

Forgive what's past, and if I e'er again  
Be found in the least murmuring strain;  
If ever I repine that Fate  
Me ne'er in pompous Triumph led,  
Nor Crowned a poor Plebeian head,  
Avenging Powers! resume her back, and make me great.   

Which of you all, ye dreaded Sons of Earth  
(Who from the Gods derive your Birth)  
From Coronations would not fly,  
Throw your unwieldy Sceptres down,  
And scorn the most Imperial Crown,  
For the vast Realms of bliss, that in her bosom lie.   

Welcome thou brightest Diadem, ●…thou wealth,  
Thou truest honour, fame, and health,  
Welcome thou only gift of Heaven;  
Thou wondrous Ark that still contains  
The blessing of all nature's pains;  
Thou dear Celestial Food, in whom all sweets were given.   

Welcome true happiness, without allay;  
Thou bright and everlasting day:  
Oh! may I thus be ever blest;  
Thus volved in endless pleasures, feel  
My withered Arms around thee still;  
And see my aged head grown hoary on thy breast    

The Inconstant.  

1.  
NO, Flatter not, nor me more Constant call  
Than the false Winds that smile on all;  
Because but one dear She I Love;  
One that might fix those winds, and make a Statue move.   

2.  
The quickening Sun (who with his genial heat  
Nature's vast Offspring does beget)  
Is to one Object more inclined,  
Than all my Love does me to that dear Creature bind.   

3.  
The same kind visit that he makes to day,  
Ten thousand times he does repay:  
In endless rounds, his glorious Throne  
Adorns one rude uncomely Globe of Earth alone.   

4.  
But my less constant and ungoverned Flame,  
Ne'er meets her twice as she's the same:  
Still wand'ring like Columbus, I  
Some rich and unknown Land in that bright World descry,   

5.  
Ten thousand Offerings to her I've made,  
Ten thousand more too shall be paid:  
Yet I ne'er did, nor never will  
More than one Sacrifice to one dear Virtue kill.   

6.  
Every embrace, and every melting kiss,  
Tastes of some unexperienced bliss:  
Not the first pledge of Nuptial Love  
Can more transporting be, than our last joys will prove.   

7.  
The numerous graces of her outward part  
Can hardly be summed up by Art:  
But when I her Soul's virtues see,  
My dazzled sight is lost in vast Infinity.   

8.  
There every Grace, and every Beauty dwells;  
Even Nature there herself excels,  
In her delightful charming breast,  
Banished from Paradise, an Angel might be blest.   

9  
A thousand sweets hung blooming on her Eye;  
In every part ten thousand lie:  
The wise, industrious, laden Be  
'Midst all the floury Spring finds less variety.   

10.  
Numberless Unity! Beauty in her  
One or ten thousand names will bear;  
One milky way runs through the Sky,  
Or else Millions of Stars make up the Galaxy.   

11.  
There as i'th' Golden age of Saturn's Reign,  
Does Nature's first blest state remain:  
All things in Heavenly Order move,  
And like that peaceful World, composed of truth and Love.   

12.  
Every sad Morn beholds me richly dressed,  
With some new pleasure in her breast:  
Nor can I e'er its sweets devour  
From every look fresh blossoms spring, from every breath a Flower.   

13.  
Like Spirits in the Air I boldly move,  
Through all the Labyrinths of Love:  
Here of its Gold I rob the West;  
And there steal the sweet Odours of the perfumed East.   

14.  
All the dear business of my Life is done;  
Through the whole Sex in one I've run:  
And 'twas indeed a happy doom  
To find such boundless Treasures in so little room.    

TO LUCINDA Fanning herself.  
SO the loud Tyrant of the Winds does sweep  
The face of Heaven, and toss the raging Deep:  
Swift with stern blasts, though undiscerned they fly,  
Shaking the trembling Regions of the Sky:  
With equal force though with unequal Fate,  
Danger and safety both at once create:  
Here Shipwrecked Vessels o'er the Rocks are spread,  
And burdened Shores all covered with the dead;  
There singing Mariners with prosperous Tide  
And swelling Sails into safe Harbour ride.  
Here mighty Cedars and vast Oaks are found  
Rooted in Skies, and Branched in wounded ground,  
While tender twigs by their compliance find  
A better Fate from the destructive wind;  
Strong blasts put out the smaller sparks of fire,  
But make great flames with greater force aspire;  
Thus the success of that fair hand's the same,  
It cools thy heat, but raises up my Fame.   

The Resolve.  

BE gone fond Love; I'll dote no more,  
On the proud Nymphs disdainful Eyes;  
Nor that relentless heart adore,  
That moves not, even when mine dies.  
No longer I'll her cruel frowns sustain;  
Nor roll the hardened stone eternally in vain.   

Since she is deaf to every prayer,  
And will not my just Passion hear:  
No longer at her feet I'll lie,  
But to some shady Desert fly:  
Where I'll the listening Rocks and Mountains tell  
In sighs and groans, the torments that I feel.   

There Heaven's melodious cheerful Choir  
Will hear my sad complaining Lyre:  
And while my Obsequies they sing,  
And in each Grove my sorrows ring:  
I'll mourn my Woes in some forsaken Cave,  
And in the dismal shades prepare my gloomy Grave.   

But Tears will wear the hardest Stone,  
And every Vale attend my Moan;  
No longer shall I beg in vain,  
Condoling sounds deplore my pain:  
Fair Echoes tender voice will kinder be,  
I love my Nymph said I,— I love again says she.    

Parting with LUCINDA.  
HOld thy sweet Voice, while that commands my stay  
I never shall have power to force my way.  
So well those eloquent soft tears persuade,  
Thy Tongues dear Rhetoric is a needless aid;  
Thy Beauty has alas! such powerful Charms,  
I could for ever live within thy Arms;  
Dwell on thy balmy Lips, and in thy Breast,  
Resign my Soul to everlasting Rest:  
Didst thou but know what unexpressive pains  
My tortured Soul in leaving thee sustains;  
Thy tender mercy would relieve my heart,  
And strive to make it easier to part.  
How many long farewells we both have spoke!  
How many kisses for the last have took!  
And Oh! unless thou wilt my pains increase,  
Till I shall never more behold thy face;  
That dear destroying flood of Sorrow, cease.  
Take off thy trembling Limbs; and let me try  
What torments they endure, when Mortals die:  
Tho from thy Arms every embrace does prove  
The utmost force of cruelty, and Love;  
If then thou wilt any true kindness show,  
Pronounce the fatal word, and bid me go.  
My charming Sovereign I must obey;  
And such an absolute Obedience pay,  
My heart, Oh wondrous proof! shall cease to grieve,  
And all the Mass of Beauty leave:  
Why shouldst thou harbour such presaging fears  
When there's not one illboding sign appears;  
No threatening Storms, no gathering Tempests rise;  
But in the heavenly regions of thy Eyes.  
The gentle Gales o'er the smooth Ocean move,  
Soft as thy dear protesting vows of Love;  
Nor needst thou dread lest the now courting wind  
In this fair season I less constant find.  
Ere thrice the Sun shall reach his Azure Bed,  
Waving Powers recline his drooping head,  
With outstretched wings my Saint I will pursue,  
Swifter than he, to his Loved Daphne flew:  
More native wealth doth this fair Breast contain  
Than all the ravished Treasures of the Main.  
Not so delightful was the Sacred Tree,  
Nor Godlike Knowledge could more tempting be:  
Through this vast Eden, could I freely move,  
And stretch th' unbounded Empire of my Love;  
With thee alone I had much rather fall,  
Than live for ever, and enjoy it all:  
With flaming Arms, did threatening Angels stand  
Ready to execute their dire Command,  
By heavens a vengeance I with ease might die,  
But from thy Paradise could never fly,  
No my dear Charmer; Love's mysterious Chain  
Ill fortune strives to separate in vain.  
Tho for a while we must in absence mourn,  
Like a well freighted Vessel, I'll return;  
My weary Bark shall in this Haven rest;  
And unlade all its Treasures in thy Breast.  
Triumphant Sorrow then no more shall Reign;  
With richest balm of Love I'll ease thy pain;  
Eternal Raptures shall thy heart surprise,  
And dancing joys adorn thy smiling Eyes.  
Panting in bliss, shall thy delightful arms  
Diffuse their sacred and long treasured charms;  
Fates utmost Malice nobly we'll subdue,  
And sweet revenge the sweetest ways pursue.   

The VISIT.  
WElcome, dear heart, Oh welcome to my Arms,  
Since thou wast Captived by Lucinda's Charms;  
How great a Stranger hast thou been!  
'Tis now five tedious mournful years,  
Since thou forsookst me, drowned in Tears:  
I thought, I'll swear, I never more should thee have seen.  
Ten thousand thanks to thee, ten thousand more  
When next thou seest thy fair one, give to her,  
Who could believe that thou wouldst come,  
From the bright Palace of her Breast,  
Where thou such sweet delights possessed;  
And visit the old Mansions of thy Native home.  
What entertainment can I give thee here;  
thou, who hast feasted on such Joys with her?  
Like a bright Monarch from his Court,  
Thou leav'st the splendour of a Crown,  
And bliss, that waits upon a Throne,  
For the cold Winter Fields, for the dull Countries Sport.  
'Twas kindly done of thee, and kind of her  
To let thee give me one dear visit more;  
So glad I am thou liv'st so well,  
When e'er I die (as may it be  
Long before her my Destiny)  
My soul shall take thy place, and there for ever dwell.  
Blessed be the Fate, blest the propitious hand,  
That led thee to that fair delightful Land!  
The sweetest Spice on Rocks there grows;  
And fruit delicious all the year,  
Do loaded stems Luxuriant bear;  
Around the Verdant Plains Ambrosia and Honey flows.  
I know, kind Visitor, thou cam'st to tell  
Me, all the Joys that in that bosom dwell:  
But there's so infinite a store,  
Should Heaven assist the bold desire,  
So long a time it would require,  
Alas, thou ne'er wouldst see thy dearest Mistress more.   

By Charles How, Esq  
WE wish for Happiness in vain,  
The greatest blessings we obtain  
Pass quick, and leave the sharpest pain;  
All our hopes are Fortune's prey,  
'Tis long ere Sorrow finds relief;  
Time from bliss flies fast away,  
But slowly moves with grief:  
Alas! now Gloriana's gone,  
Life has no Charms for me,  
The blessing of her Sex alone,  
The cursed from pains can free;  
Her presence gives surprising Joy,  
But grief does those she leaves destroy,  
Blest with her Charms whilst others are,  
Her absence will prevent Despair,  
Ending my wretched Life and Care.   

By the Same.  

WHat Scorn appears in those fair eyes,  
Where native sweetness used to flow,  
If your adorer you despise,  
On whom will you your Love bestow?  
Ah! let not your severe disdain  
Kill him who lives alone for you;  
Inglorious Conquests they obtain,  
Who murder slaves they first subdue.   

Welcome to thirsty Fields kind showers,  
To cheerful Birds the morning light,  
Returning Suns to withering flowers,  
To me the charming Coelia's sight.  
The Floods against their Streams may turn,  
The Gods may cease to be obeyed,  
But think not cruel Nymph your scorn  
Can quench the flames your beauty made.    

A SARANADE,  By the same. 

SOft notes and gently raised, lest some harsh sound  
The fair Corinna's rest do rudely wound;  
Diffuse a peaceful calmness through each part,  
Touch all the Springs of a soft Virgin's heart,  
Tune every Pulse and kindle all her blood,  
And swell the torrents of the living Flood;  
Glide through her Dreams, and o'er her Fancies move,  
And stir up all the Images of Love.   

Thus feeble Man does his advantage take  
To gain in sleep, what he must lose awake;  
When Night and Shades shut up Corinna's Charms,  
Then is the proper'st time to take up Arms;  
But Night and Shades her Beauties can't conceal,  
Night has peculiar Graces to reveal;  
Ten thousand Raptures do attend this time,  
Too strong for Fancy, and too full for Rhyme.    

TO MY Lord LANSDOWNE At the Imperial Camp.  
WHilst you are listening to the shrill Alarms  
Of War, pleasing yourself in shining Arms;  
Subduing Foes make half the World afraid,  
A Cause supporting which does need your aid;  
Your Praise brought hither on the wings of Fame,  
In all the gentle Sex creates a Flame;  
But such a flame as Virtue does control,  
For nought but Virtue can move such a Soul  
As yours, where Glory has the Sovereign sway,  
So I without a blush this Tribute pay  
To that undaunted Courage, which so long  
Has in your race been vigorous and strong;  
And as the Wool oft dipped in Tyrian dye,  
A Colour gains so noble and so high,  
Nor Time nor Art can make it lose the grain,  
So fixed in you their Virtues do remain,  
To which so many of your own are joined,  
The World for you no parallel can find.   

On the sight and Sculpture of Mr. GIBBON'S own most excellent Head, in MARBLE.  By Mr. johnson. 

WHen Arts were but in Embryo, yet unknown,  
And Nature only kept her station:  
She envied not, nor was there cause that she,  
In full perfection, yet should froward be;  
But when more grown, they boldly did invade  
Her Empire, and her State their Subject made:  
Promoting new designs, and pressing on,  
With Triumph in her imitation,  
Did then incensed, her Dignity insert;  
The Vanity of Science to subvert,  
But found success to both a servant proved;  
She was their Mistress, and the thing they loved.   

For when Old Time his Daughter Truth unveiled;  
Whose Sovereign warmth all grosser damps exhaled:  
The World in fancy, took such lofty flights  
As did presume to equal Nature's Rights;  
Which now our happy subject will afford,  
Create ●…ibbons is our Theme; and signal word;  
Blessed in his brave endeavours, (not inclined  
To serve Ambition, but a generous mind)  
And by his Birthright prompted; which his So●…l  
To gain, does all his fortive heat control.  
The Age's Glory, and our Nation's Pride,  
In Foreign Courts, with wonder magnified.  
The Sun which lends the inferior Orbs their light,  
Fame's Horizontal Line, and point of sight;  
View him but in one, his Statue-head,  
You'll find him there, in all, by Nature led;  
Who seems ennobled by a secret Flame,  
His zeal, to Sacrifice to her great Name:  
For which, if ever she has yet been known  
To love, or dote on any, he is one.  
That sure Minerva adds her Deity,  
To Crown his Genius with that Mystery:  
Which is so well improved by his bold hand,  
That all the Graces wait on his command.   

So strong, yet soft; so easy, yet not tame;  
Look but on Nature, it appears the same,  
If not to Art a debtor, for each grace,  
The Magnes of a well resembled face:  
Strictly correct; but in a careless dress,  
With Freedom great, and not in Action less.  
Choice and select; and in its order new;  
As if it Governed Sense, and Motion knew;  
Would yield to touch, or would to speech go on,  
Striving to imitate perfection:  
replete with wonder, not to be concealed;  
Time has not ceased, but Miracles revealed:  
Hold then, my Muse, thy Accents sound but weak,  
To teach thee skill, thy wants theStone will speak.    

The Denial.  

GOOD Heavens! what shall I do?  
My Service was before too hard,  
And now I want a stronger guard,  
Even my own heart is turned a Rebel too.   

Like Travellers, when long  
They have some distant Nation known;  
The Treacherous Foot forgets its own,  
And learns a cruel, barbarous foreign Tongue.   

Still when I call it home,  
Her cold Dominion it prefers,  
And answers in no speech but hers;  
Cries, No, 'tis all in vain, I will not come.    

Kissing his Mistress.  
NAy, my Lucinda, give not over,  
There yet remains a thousand more,  
And endless is thy Heavenly store.  
The gentle Subsidy we laid,  
Must Every day be justly paid:  
Till then, if I cease kissing thee,  
May I, this moment, cease to be.  
These loft endearments Nature chose,  
Free from all succeeding woes.  
Thus, harmless murmuring Turtles Love,  
And Bill, and Cooe, in every Grove.  
Thus the chaste industrious Bees,  
Of pregnant Shrubs, and spicy trees;  
The Virgin sweetness still devour;  
Yet fragrant stands, the blushing flower,  
This lovely odoriferous Cell,  
(Round which the Ruby Portals swell)  
Does more delicious Nectar fill,  
Than can Hyblean Hives distil.  
Thus pressed, their d●…vine Liquors flow;  
And thy chaste Lips more balmy grow:  
Thus may we ever, ever wast  
Those precious sweets, that ever last.   

Despair.  

WHat shall I do to learn some powerful Art,  
That can dissolve her Marble heart?  
It does so hard appear,  
The mighty General of War,  
Cut out his long unbeaten way,  
Where Mountains upon Mountains lay;  
And melted frozen Rocks with lesser pain  
Than I for her have suffered, and yet all in vain.   

The wretched'st Miser never kept his Gold,  
(Tho he does that as precious hold)  
In Chains so strong as she  
Bars up that fatal Treasury.  
Obdurate Walls and Pillars are  
More soft and penetrable far,  
Than her hard Breast, cold as the freezing North,  
Where Nature nought but Snow, and Crystal Ice brings forth.   

Sure the Infernal Adamantine gate  
Where guilty Souls are kept by Fate,  
Can't be more fortified  
With massy Bars than she's with Pride;  
So firm and wondrous strong in her,  
The weakest part does still appear;  
It almost seems a work of lesser pain.  
To leap the mighty Gulf, and Heaven by force obtain.   

Cruel injustice! her destructive Cave  
Lets none return but to the Grave:  
And as that dreadful door,  
When once 'tis shut never opens more;  
So she has acted Death's hard part,  
And let her Breast take in my Heart,  
Which now in vain alas! must ever burn  
In fiercest flames of Love; and ne'er return.    

To Lucinda.  

AH cruel Nymph! how canst thou punish me  
To such a barbarous degree,  
For the same crime that you  
Yourself as often do;  
And yet unjustly go unpunished to!  
I tortured am, because I can't remove  
My fatal irresistless Love:  
Yet you confess you would  
Love me too, if you could;  
But cannot make your heart do what it should.   

'Tis hard indeed, our Passions to command,  
And Fate's Almighty Power withstand;  
But yet 'tis just and fit,  
Seeing you merit it,  
To the same punishment you should submit.  
Such Conquering charms adorn that beauteous face  
In every Feature's such a grace,  
To me 'twould harder prove,  
My Passion to remove,  
Than 'twould for you to be more kind, and Love.    

Embracing his Mistress.  

NOw, I can scorn the splendour of a Crown,  
And laugh at the dull pomp of vain Renown;  
The toil of Arms and the litigious Gown.   

How hateful the rude acclamations are!  
The vile, unjust, unlearned unpeaceful Bar;  
The noise of Triumph, and stern din of War.   

How worthless are the sands of Tagus Shore,  
The richest orient Pearls, and all the store  
Of glittering Pebbles, or Barbaric Ore.   

This costly Jewel higher value yield●…:  
A surer basis of bright glory builds,  
Than proudest gaudy Courts, or Martial Fields.   

No greater blessing could to Mortal fall:  
I now methinks am Caesar, Croesus; all  
That we can happy, or delightful call.   

Had the great conqueror reached the British Shore,  
And his Victorious Arms had triumphed o'er  
This World of Bliss;— he ne'er had wept for more.   

Blessed far beyond the state of busy crowds,  
My lofty head, like towering Atlas shrouds  
Its airy top, amidst aspiring Clouds.   

Oh mayst thou ever thus supported be,  
While thus my humble, suppliant, bending knee  
Bears up the Universal Globe, in thee.    

The Unalterable.  

NO, Dearest! never fear; I'll always be  
Faithful, as Heaven to dying Saints, to thee:  
No Fate shall e'er divide  
The Sacred knot our Souls have tied:  
My heart shall prove as constant to my Fair,  
As others to their Mistress' unconstant are.   

Not all thy Sex's Charms shall tempt me more,  
I'll ever thee, and Heaven for thee, adore;  
Content with my blessed Fate,  
Despise the World's vain Pageant state:  
And since the Gods no greater bliss can send,  
Like Twins we'll both our lives together end.   

Thy Sex, alas! is a false Lottery,  
Where thousand Blanks for one small Prize we see:  
Scarce can th' unerring Gods  
Direct our choice against such odds;  
And since kind Fate gave me so vast a Lot,  
Who'd hazard the rich Gem, so hardly got?   

If e'er I should from thy bright charms remove,  
From thy dear Constancy, thy fervent Love;  
And feel the proud disdain,  
With which your Sex rewards our pain;  
Good Heavens! what might avenging fury do!  
Curse thee, as well as them, for being Woman, too.    

TO CORINNA Excusing himself for not Loving her.  

1.  
PArdon, thou brightest Star throughout our Skies!  
Thou charming Idol of adoring Eyes;  
Pardon the barren soil, if Beams Divine  
From such a Heaven of Beauty dein  
To cast their sacred influence; yet shine  
Upon the bare unfruitful Land in vain  
Long with unwearied toils, my heart has striven,  
To bear the fertile gleab of grateful Love:  
Long have I laboured to obey  
The Righteous Laws of his imperial sway:  
But still we strive in vain; for lo  
The bright Lucinda long ago  
In mystic charms has trod the sacred round;  
And now behold! the Fairy ground,  
To every tilers hand is barren found.   

2.  
Condemn not me, but our too cruel Fate  
That let such Beauty charm my eyes too late:  
I was alas! a wretched Bankrupt made,  
Before my first great debt of Love was paid:  
She charged me with so vast a score,  
That still I'm bound to her for more:  
And if I must compound with you,  
For less than is your due;  
The starving indigent for pity save,  
Who such a fatal Judgement gave  
To one, who never will release her slave.   

3.  
Did not that Monarch, Love, still rule alone,  
Thou shouldst have half dominion in her Throne;  
By all the World she can't be dispossessed;  
Nor will admit a Rival in my Breast:  
So absolute my lovely Sovereign's grown;  
Not only all my power, but will is gone.  
For notwithstanding the sad pain,  
That I for her dear sake sustain;  
Would she herself unkindly part  
With the least Atom of my conquered heart,  
I sooner could a separation make  
'Twixt Soul and Body, than that Licence take.   

4.  
Go, fair Corinna, with thy Beauty go,  
And show thy power o'er some unvanquished Foe:  
Such bright inflaming charms can't choose  
But win a heart where there's a heart to lose.  
Mine had thy willing Victim been,  
Had it not first that Heavenly Creature seen,  
There I beheld a fatal Conqueror  
Whose Beauty had not only power  
To gain the Battle, and my heart sudue,  
But keep the Victory for ever too.   

5.  
Urge not the greater Happiness that I  
Might in your Passion more than hers enjoy;  
The calmest seasons, and the sweetest rest,  
In any other Breast,  
Would be far worse to me than the dread forms  
Of Ruin, Death, and wild devouring Storms,  
Within the Radiant Zone of her delightful arms.  
But oh! The blustering Winds can only fly,  
Round the low Regions of that starry Sky;  
The mild favorian gentle Air  
Is always bright, serene and clear,  
Within the Glorious Orb of that Celestial Sphere.  
Alas! the very Miseries and Pain,  
Which my afflicted heart did long sustain;  
So much the mighty power of Love can do,  
Were then my sweetest pleasures too:  
Not all the blessings which kind Heaven can give,  
Or Man from thence receive,  
Can more delight, more happiness create  
Than I, for her dear sake,  
Could in my utter Ruin take;  
If Love were the kind cause of our destructive Fate.   

6.  
Blame not my Passion, nor condemn my Zeal,  
Could my heart speak, 'twould greater thoughts reveal;  
Those secret Transports I should then relate,  
That raise my Soul above a Mortal state.  
Hadst thou as happy as I been,  
And that fair Creature in her blooming Beauty seen:  
In all her Grace and Majesty,  
Before she ruin'd it for me;  
Even thou too wouldst confess  
Th' effects of such a cause could not be less.  
Nature erected her delightful Arms,  
So wondrously adorned with heav'nli'st charms,  
That like Herculean Pillars, they might show  
Th' admiring World she can no farther go:  
But with Pygmalion, stand herself amazed 〈◊〉  
At the stupendious Form her joyful hand has raised.   

7.  
What service would I pay! what wondrous Love!  
Should I not so ungrateful prove  
To that Terrestrial Angel, who below,  
Does such a Glorious Image show,  
Of Saints eternal Faith, and Innocence above;  
Or could there an Exchange in Passions be;  
What recompense would I return to thee!  
With fervent Zeal from an unbounded heart,  
Sold noble Friendship act a Lover's part.  
Nay, now methinks I have so great a sense  
Of all thy Love and Excellence,  
That even that dear she,  
Who's more than all the World to me,  
Alas! hardly two grains more than thee.  
For though I love you less,  
That Passion does as much express:  
For if in Love, as in Religion,  
The Gods accept the Will alone;  
No Martyr ever died  
With greater zeal than I have lived.  
Thee, kind Corinna, I adore  
As much as e'er I can, and I Love her no more:    

TO LUCINDA.  
GO on, Fair Maid, persist in your disdain,  
At the first struck my heart was slain:  
And all your Pride and Scorn can do no more,  
Than what your frowns have done before.  
Tho like first Atoms which compounded thee,  
This wretched Body mangled be;  
When Life's departed, with all sense of pain;  
You, the dead Carcase wound in vain.  
When threatening Comets burn; no small disease  
On the Contagious World does seize.  
Devouring Plagues with livid ruin waste  
The spotted Race of Man and Beast,  
Nor do thy eyes portend a milder doom,  
Wherever their fatal beams o'ercome.  
When from those raging Stars one frown you dart  
It's able to destroy the stoutest heart.   

The Captive.  

WHat shall I do to give my soul some rest?  
This cruel barbarous Tyrant, Love,  
Now it has got possession of my breast,  
Will never from its Throne remove.  
I must, alas! the sad disease endure,  
Whose raging pain, no sovereign Balm can cure.   

At first it lodged in my unwary eyes;  
And like a slave obeyed my Will:  
But straight did the proud Basilisk surprise  
That seat of Life, it soon will kill.  
O'er my whole Form th' Imperial Viper reigns,  
And spreads its poison through my burning veins.   

When it invaded first my labouring heart,  
To stop the fatal Course I strove;  
And gave away the dear infected part,  
To her, whom more than that, I love.  
Now sure, thought I, for ever from my Breast  
Is banished that unkind disquiet Guest.  
But all my pleasing hopes, alas, were crossed:  
As disarmed Patients feel the pain  
Of the same Limb they many years have lost,  
My Torment still returns again:  
And now I find it is increased so high,  
'Twill ne'er leave me, till I leave that, and die.    

The Command.  

NO, no; bold heart, forbear; rather than speak,  
Thou shalt with pain and silence break;  
My Passion's raised so dangerously high,  
Thou must for ever speechless lie:  
On Penalty of a worse death,  
Use not the least complaining breath;  
But silent as the Grave, with all thy Sorrows die.   

Alas! shouldst thou begin, what tongue could tell  
The raging pangs of Love I feel?  
More Torment every dismal hour does bear,  
Than thou couldst in an Age declare.  
Great sorrows overwhelm the tongue;  
And wouldst thou do me so much wrong,  
To let her know by halves, what I endure for her?    

ON LUCINDA'S Singing at CHURCH.  
TEll me no more of soft harmonious spheres;  
Or Siren's voices that enchant our ears:  
From her sweet tongue such tuneful' Music springs,  
Angels might cease while the bright Charmer sings.  
Hark how the Temples sacred Roof rebounds,  
With warbling Echoes, and seraphic sounds;  
Methinks the well-pleased Gods themselves attend  
To hear a Heavenly voice from Earth ascend.  
Delighted Saints, move from their Mansions there  
To be partakers of our Pleasures here.  
Pleasure's so charming that they plainly prove  
What entertainment we shall find above.  
Such Beauteous Forms, Elysian Fields adorn;  
And such sweet notes awake the Morn.  
Cease, dull Devotion, cease; we need no more,  
The sacred Deities, for Heaven implore.  
While thus her voice wounds the Melodious Air,  
Our Souls must think themselves already there.  
No humane tongue could ever entertain  
The Divine Powers in so divine a strain:  
Nor does she glorify the Gods alone;  
For while she sings heavens Praises; she sings her own.   

The Convert.  

When first I saw Lucinda's face,  
And viewed the dasling glories there;  
She seemed of a Diviner Race,  
Than that which Nature planted here.   

With Sacred Homage down I fell,  
Wondering whence such a Form could spring:  
Tell me, I cried, fair Vision, tell  
The dread Commands from Heaven you bring.   

For if past sins may be forgiven;  
By this bright Evidence I know,  
The careful Gods have made a Heaven,  
That made such Angels for it'too.    

Vicissitude.  

Who that ere Fortune's Traitorous smiles has tried  
Can hope for any constant Bliss  
In such a faithless World as this;  
Or in the surest promises of treacherous Fate conside?   

The tottering Globe turns with the rolling Spheres,  
And the same Motion may be seen  
Concentric too, from us within;  
Exalted now with Hopes, and then depressed with Fears.   

Eternal Change revolves with every day:  
The most Triumphant Glorious Crown,  
Is in a moment tumbled down;  
And shrines of burnished Gold to mouldering Earth decay.   

Even I, myself, who would not change the Fate  
Auspicious Stars ordained my Birth,  
With any Mortal Man on Earth;  
Midst all my joys can't boast of a much happier state.   

When my Lucinda smiles, no Prince can be,  
So blest on his Imperial Throne:  
But if she chance to dart a Frown,  
The wretched'st Slave alive's an Emperor to me.    

The CURE worse than the DISEASE.  

AS they, whom raging Fevers burn,  
Drink cooling things for ease,  
Which make a fiercer heat return,  
And heighten their disease:   

In hopes to cure my torturing pain,  
A worse Experiment I found:  
Running upon the Sword again,  
That gave me first my wound.    

The Denial:  

HOld, hold; my dear Destroyer, hold;  
I do confess I was too bold:  
My violent Passion raised so high,  
That, in the mighty Transport, I,  
Feeling my troubled Breast so full,  
Let my tongue speak the language of my Soul.   

Stop, dearest, stop that fatal breath;  
Presaging Omens bode my Death:  
Tho I would give my Life to hear  
That charming voice which now I fear;  
As Criminals expect their doom.  
I wish to know, but dread the Fate to come.    

THE Royal Canticle, OR, THE SONG OF SOLOMON,  

CANTO I.  

Sponsa.  
Join thy life-breathing Lips to mine,  
Thy Love excels the Joys of Wine;  
Thy Odours, oh how redolent!  
Attract me with their pleasing Scent.  
These sweetly flowing from thy Name,  
Our Virgins with desire inflame:  
Oh! draw me, my Beloved, and we  
With winged feet will follow thee.  
Thy Loving Spouse at length great King  
Into thy Royal Chamber bring.  
Then shall our Souls intranc'd with joy  
In thy due Praise their Zeal employ,  
Thy celebrated Love recite,  
Which more than rosy Cups delight.  
Who Truth and Sacred Justice prize,  
To thee their hearts shall Sacrifice;  
You Daughters of jerusalem,  
You Branches of that Holy Stem;  
Though Black in Favour, I excel!,  
Black as the Tents of Ishmael;  
Yet Graceful as the burnished Throne,  
And Ornaments of Solomon;  
Despise not my discoloured look  
From the Enamoured Sun I took.  
My Mother's Sons envied my worth,  
And swollen with Malice, thrust me forth;  
To keep their Vines in heat of day,  
While ah! mine own neglected lay.  
More Loved than all of Humane Breed,  
Oh tell me where thy Flocks do feed!  
Where rest they? in what graceful shade  
When scorching Beams the Fields invade?  
Why should I stray and turn to those,  
Thy seeming Friends, and real Foes?   

Sponsus.  
Oh! thou the fairest of thy Kind,  
I will inform thy troubled mind.  
Follow the way my Flocks have led,  
And in their steps securely tread:  
Thy Kids feed on the faithful Plains  
Beside the Sheep-cots of our Swains.  
Thou Love, art like the Generous Steeds  
Which Pharaoh for his Chariot breeds;  
Harnessed in rich Caparisons.  
How shine thy Cheeks with sparkling Stones!  
That vie in Beauty with thy Tears:  
Thy Neck the Ocean's Treasure wears.  
I will a Golden Zone impart,  
Enamell'd with a bleeding heart.   

Sponsa.  
While he the Prince of Bounty Feasts  
And entertains his happy Guests:  
My Spikenard shall perfume his hair,  
Whose Odours fill the ambient Air:  
All night his Sacred head shall rest  
Betwixt the Pillows of my Breast.  
Not Myrrh new bleeding from the Tree  
So accetpable is to me;  
Nor Camphire Clusters when they blow,  
Which in Engeddi's Vineyard grow.   

Sponsus.  
Thy Beauty, Love, allures my sight  
And sheds a Firmament of Light;  
In either sits a Silver Dove  
So mild, so full of artless Love.   

Sponsa.  
Thou, oh my Love! art fairer far,  
Thou, as the Sun, I, but a Star;  
Come my delight, our pregnant Bed  
Is with green buds and Violets spread;  
Our Cedar Roofs are richly gilded,  
Our Galleries of Cypress built.    

CANTO II.  

Sponsus.  
I Am the Lily of the Vale,  
The Rose of Sharons' fragrant Dale.  
Love as th' unsullied Lily shows,  
Which in a Brake of Brambles grows:  
My Love so darkens all that are  
By erring Men admired for fair.   

Sponsa.  
Love, as the Tree which Citrons bears  
Amidst the barren Shrubs appears,  
So my Beloved excels the Race  
Of Man in every winning Grace:  
In his desired Shade I rest,  
And with his fruit my Palate feast:  
He brought me to his Magazines,  
Replenished with refreshing Wines,  
And over me a tender Maid,  
The Ensign of his Love displayed;  
With Flagons, oh! revive my Powers,  
And strew my Bed with Fruits and Flowers;  
Whose taste and smell may cordial prove,  
For, oh! my Soul is sick of Love:  
Beneath my. Head thy left Arm place,  
And gently with thy right embrace.   

Sponsus.  
You Daughters of jerusalem,  
You Branches of that Holy Stem;  
I by the Mountain Roes, and by  
The Hinds that through the Forest fly,  
Adjure you that you silence keep,  
Nor, till he call, disturb his sleep.   

Sponsa.  
Is it a Dream, or do I hear  
The voice that so delights mine ear?  
Lo he his steps o'er Hills extends,  
And bounding from the Cliffs descends:  
Now like a Roe outstrips the Wind,  
And leaves the well-breathed Hart behind;  
Behold, without my dearest stays,  
And through the Casement darts his Rays.  
Thus as his words his Looks invite,  
Oh! thou the Crown of my Delight.  
Arise my Love, My fair one rise,  
Our bliss with every Minute flies,  
Lo the sharp Winter now is gone,  
Those threatening Tempests overblown;  
Hark how the Airs Musicians sing,  
The Advent of the flowery Spring:  
chaste Turtles lodged in shady Groves,  
Now murmur to their Faithful Loves.  
Green Figs on sprouting Trees appear  
And Vines sweet smelling Blossoms bear:  
Arise my Love, my fair one rise,  
Our bliss with every minute flies:  
Oh thou my Love, whom Terror locks  
Within the Crannies of the Rocks:  
Come forth, now like thyself appear,  
And with thy voice delight mine Ear;  
Thy Voice is Music, and thy face  
All conquers with transcending Grace:  
Approach and timely rescue make,  
These Foxes, these young Foxes take,  
Who thus our tender Grapes destroy,  
Our present hope and future Joy.  
I am my Loves, and he is mine,  
So mutually our Souls combine.  
He whose affection words exceeds,  
His Dear among the Lilleis feeds.  
Until the Morning paint the Sky  
And Nights repulsed shadows fly.  
Return to me my only Dear,  
And with the Morningstar appear,  
Run like a youthful Hart upon  
The tops of lofty Lebanon.    

CANTO III.  

Sponsa.  
Stretched on my restless Bed all Night,  
I vainly sought my Soul's delight,  
Then rose, the City searched, no Street,  
No Corner my unwearied feet  
Untrodden left, yet could not find  
The only comfort of my mind;  
The Watch, and those that walked the Round  
Me in my Soul's Distraction found,  
Of whom, with Passion I enquired,  
Saw you the Man so much desired?  
Nor many steps had farther passed,  
But found my Love, and held him fast;  
Fast held, till I, the so long sought  
Had to my Mother's Mansion brought,  
In that adorned Chamber laid  
Of her who gave me Life I said,  
You Daughters of jerusalem,  
You branches of that Holy Stem,  
I, by the Mountain Roes, and by  
The Hinds which through the Forest fly,  
Adjure you that you silence keep,  
Nor, till he call, disturb his sleep.   

Chorus.  
Who's this whose feet the Hills ascend  
From Deserts, leaning on her Friend?  
Who's this that like the Morning shows,  
When she her Paths with Roses strews?  
More fair than the replenished Moon,  
More radiant than the Sun at Noon;  
Not Armies with their Ensigns spread  
Display such Beauty mixed with dread.   

Sponsa  
Behold the Bed he rests upon,  
The Royal Bed of Solomon,  
Twice fifty Soldiers that excel  
In Valour, Sons of Israel;  
So dreadful to his Enemies,  
Their Swords well mounted on their Thighs;  
His Person guard from the affright  
And Treasons of concealing Night:  
King Solomon a Chariot made  
With Trees from Lebanon conveyed;  
The Pillars Silver, and the Throne  
With Gold of Indian Ophir shone,  
With Tyrian Purple ceiled above,  
For Zions Daughters paved with Love;  
Come Holy Virgins, oh come forth,  
Behold a Spectacle of worth:  
Behold the Royal Solomon  
High mounted on his Glorious Throne;  
Crowned with the Crown his Mother placed  
On his smooth Brows with Gems enchased;  
At that solemnised Nuptial Feast,  
When Joy his ravished Soul possessed.    

CANTO IU.  

Sponsus.  
HOw fair art thou, how wondrous fair  
Thy Dovelike Eyes in Shades of Hair!  
Thy dangling Curls appears like Flocks  
Of climbing Goats from Gileads Rocks:  
Thy Teeth like Sheep in their return  
From Chison, washed and smoothly shorn;  
None marked her Barren, none of all,  
But equal Twins at once let fall;  
Thy Cheeks like Punic Apples are  
Which blush beneath thy flowing hair:  
Thy Lips like threads of Scarlet show  
Whence Graceful Accents sweetly flow,  
Thy Neck like David's Armoury,  
With polished Marble raised on high;  
Whose Wall a Thousand Shields adorn  
By Worthies oft in Battle born;  
Thy Breasts two twins new wearied show,  
There grazing where the Lilies grow;  
Until the Morning paint the Sky,  
And Night's repining Shadows fly:  
I to the Mountains will retire,  
Where bleeding Trees Perfumes expire.  
My Spouse, let us at length be gone,  
Leave we the fragrant Lebanon:  
Look down from Amana, look down  
From Shemis top, from Hermons Crown,  
From Hills where dreadful Lion's ray,  
And from the Mountain-Leopards Cave;  
Thou, who my Spouse and Sister art,  
How hast thou ravished my sick heart!  
Struck with one glance of thy bright Eyes,  
One hair of thine like Fetters ties:  
Thy Beauty Sister is Divine,  
Thy Love my Spouse more strong than Wine:  
Thy Odour's far more redolent  
Than Spices from Panehea sent,  
Thy Lips winh Honey-dew overflow,  
Thy Breasts celestial Milk bestow;  
Thy Robes a sweeter Odour cast  
Than Lebanon with Cedars grace't;  
My Love my mutual Vows assured,  
A Garden is with strength immured.  
A Crystal Fountain, a clear Spring,  
Shut up, and Sealed with my own Ring,  
An Orchard stored with pleasant fruit,  
Pomegranate Trees extend their Roots,  
Where sweetly smelling Camphire blows  
And neverdying Spikenard grows,  
Sweet Spikenard, Crocus newly blown,  
Sweet Calamus and Cinnamon.  
Those Trees which Sacred Incense shed,  
And Tears of Myrrh perfume our Bed.   

Sponsa.  
Those livings Springs from thee proceed,  
Whose Rills, our Plants with moisture feed,  
Like those clear streams which issue from  
The Fountain, fruitful Lebanon:  
You cooler Winds blow from the North,  
You dropping Southern Gales break forth,  
On this our Garden gently blow,  
And through the Land rich Odours throw.    

CANTO V.  

Sponsus.  
MY Spouse, my Sister thou who art  
The Joy and Treasure of my heart;  
I to my Garden have retired,  
Reaped Spices which perfumes expired:  
Sweet Gums from Trees profusely shed  
On dropping Combs of Honey fed;  
Drinks Mornings-Milk and new-pressed Wine,  
Oh friends who like desires combine.  
Eat, drink, drink freely, nor remove  
Till you be all inflamed with Love.   

Sponsa.  
Although I sleep, my Passions wake,  
For he who called thus sadly spoke;  
My Spouse, my Sister, thou more mild  
Than Gall-less Doves, my undefiled;  
Oh let me enter, Night hath shed  
Her dew on my uncovered head,  
Which from my drenched Locks distils  
While freezing Snow my Bosom fills;  
Can I assent to thy request,  
Disrobed and newly laid to rest?  
Shall I now clothe my feet again,  
And feet so lovely washed distain?  
But when I had his hand discerned  
Benumned with Cold, my Bowels yearned,  
I rose, nor longer could defer  
T'unlock the door, presumed with Myrrh;  
But ah! when opened, he was gone  
But whither, by no foot-step shown,  
The Watch, and those that walked the Round  
In this pursuit th' afflicted found,  
Smote, wounded, and profanely tore  
The Sable Veil my Sorrow wore.  
You Virgins of fair Solyma,  
I charge you, if you see him, say  
That I his Spouse am sick of Love,  
And with your Tears his Pity move.   

Chorus.  
Oh thou of all thy Sex most fair!  
Can none with thy belov'd compare?  
Doth he so much our Love transcend,  
That we should him alone intent?   

Sponsa.  
Lo in his face the blushing Rose  
Joined with the Virgin Lilly grows:  
Among a Myriad he appears,  
The chief that Beauty's Ensign bears;  
His head adorned with burnished Gold,  
Which curls of shining hair enfold;  
Black as Ravens shining Wings,  
His eyes like Doves by Crystal Springs;  
His Cheeks with Spice and Flowers compare,  
His Lips like Roses dropping Myrrh,  
His hands the wand'ring Eye invites,  
Like Rings which flame with Chrysolites;  
His Belly polished Ivory  
Where Saphires mixed with Coral lie,  
His Legs like Marble Pillars placed  
On Bases with pure Gold inchas'd,  
His looks like Cedars planted on  
The top of lofty Lebanon.  
His Tongue the Ear with Music feeds,  
And he in every part exceeds.  
You Daughters of jerusalem  
You Branches of that Holy Stem,  
Such is my Love and Praises Theme.    

CANTO VI.  

Chorus.  
FAir Virgin paralleled by none,  
Oh! whither's thy Beloved gone,  
Direct our forward Zeal, that we  
May join in his pursuit with thee.   

Sponsa.  
I to my pleasant Garden went,  
Where Spices breathe a fragrant scent;  
There gathered Flowers feasts in the shade,  
On beds of bruised Spices laid;  
I am my Loves and he is mine,  
So mutually our Souls combine.  
He whose Affection Speech exceeds  
His Dear, among the Lilies feeds.   

Sponsus.  
Not Regal Tirza Israel's  
Delight, thy Beauty Love excels:  
Not thou Divine jerusalem  
That art of all the World the Gem  
Nor Armies with their Ensigns spread  
Display such Beauty mixed with red.  
Oh turn from me thy wounding eyes,  
In every glance an Arrow flies.  
Thy shining hair appears like Flocks  
Of climbing Goats from Giliads Rock,  
Thy Teeth like Sheep in their return  
From Chison, washed and smoothly shorn,  
Nor marked for Barren, none of all  
But equal Twins at once let fall;  
Thy Cheeks like Punic Apples are,  
Which blush beneath thy flowing hair.  
They boast of many, Queen's great store,  
Of Concubines, and Virgins more,  
Than can be told, my undefiled  
Is all in one the only Child  
Of her fair Mother, and brought forth  
To show the world an unknown worth.  
Queens, Virgins, Concubines beheld,  
Admired, and Blessed th' unparallelled.   

Chorus.  
Who's this who like the Morning shows,  
When she her path with Roses strews;  
More fair than the replenished Moon;  
More radiant than the Sun at Noon;  
No Armies with their Ensigns spread  
At once such Beauty, Fear, and Dread.   

Sponsa.  
I to my pleasant Garden went  
Where Nutmegs breathe a fragrant scent,  
To see the Generous Fruits which graced  
The pregnant Vale with Gems enchased.  
To see the Vines disclose their Gems  
And Granates blossom on their Stems:  
When unawares and half amazed  
Methought my ravished Soul was raised  
Up to a Chariot swift as winds,  
Drawn by my People's willing minds,   

Chorus.  
Return fair Shulamite, return  
To us who for thy absence mourn!  
What see you in the Shulamite?  
Two Armies prevalent in Fight.    

CANTO VII.  

Sponsus.  
OH Princess! thou than Life more dear,  
How beautiful thy feet appear;  
When they with purple Ribbons bound,  
In Golden Sandals print the Ground;  
Thy Joints like Jewels which impart  
To wondering Eyes the Workman's Art.  
Thy Navell's like a Mazer filled,  
With Juice from rarest Fruits distilled;  
Thy Belly's like an heap of Wheat  
With never fading Lilies set:  
Thy Breasts two Twins new wearied show,  
Which fell at once from one fair do;  
Thy Neck an Ivory Tower displays,  
Thine Eyes do shine with equal Rays.  
Like Heshbons' Pools by Bathrabim,  
Where Silver-Scaled Fish's swim.  
Thy Nose presents that Tower upon  
The top of Flow'ry Lebanon,  
Which all the pleasant Plain Surveys,  
Where Abana her Streams displays:  
Thy Head like Carmel clothed with shade,  
Whose Tresses Tyrian Fillets brayed.  
The King from Cypress Galleries  
This Chain of strong Affection ties:  
How Pleasant, oh! how exquisite  
Thy Beauty's framed for sweet delight:  
Thy Stature's like an upright Palm,  
Thy Breasts like Clusters dropping Balm.  
I will ascend the Palms high Crown,  
Whose Boughs victorious Hands renown;  
And from the spreading Branches Root  
Will gather her delicious Fruit.  
Thy Breasts shall like ripe Clusters swell,  
Thy Breath like new-pulled Citrons smell;  
Choice Wines shall from thy Palate spring,  
Most acceptable to the King;  
Which sweetly shall descend, and make  
The Dumb to speak, the Dead to wake.   

Sponsa.  
ay, my belov'd, am only thine,  
And thou, by just Exchange, art mine.  
Come let us tread the pleasant Fields,  
Taste we what Fruits the Country yields;  
And in the Villages repose  
When shades of Nights all forms enclose,  
Then with the early Morn repair  
To our new Vineyard, see if there  
The tender Vines disclose their Gems;  
And Granates blossom on their Stems:  
Then where no Frosts our Springs destroy  
Shalt thou alone my Love enjoy.  
How sweet a smell our Mandrakes yield,  
Our Gates with various Fruits are filled.  
Fruits that are old, Fruits from the Tree  
New gathered, all preserved for thee.    

CANTO VIII.  

Sponsa.  
OH! had we from one Mother sprung,  
Both at her Breasts together hung,  
Then should we, meeting in the street,  
With unreproved Kisses greet,  
And to my Mother's House conduct,  
Where thou thy Sister should instruct.  
Then would I spiced Wines produce,  
And my Pomegranates purple use.  
Thy left Arm for my Pillow placed,  
And gently with thy right embraced.  
You Virgins born in Sion's Towers,  
I charge you by the chief of Powers,  
That you a constant Silence keep,  
Nor till he call disturb his Sleep.   

Chorus.  
Who's this whose Feet the Hills ascend  
From Deserts leaning on her Friend.   

Sponsa.  
ay, my belov'd, first raised thee  
From under the Pomecitron Tree.  
Thy careful Mother in that Shade  
With Anguish her fair Burden laid.  
Be I, oh thou my better part,  
A Seal impressed upon thy heart:  
May I thy Finger's Signet prove,  
For Death is not more strong than Love;  
The Grave not so insatiate  
As Jealousies inflamed Debate.  
Should falling Clouds with Floods conspire,  
Their Waters could not quench Love's Fire;  
Nor all in Nature's Treasury  
The Freedom of Affection buy.  
We have a Sister immature  
That hath no Breasts, as yet obscure.  
What Ornaments shall we bestow  
When Mortals her Endowments know.   

Sponsus.  
On her, if strongly built to bear,  
We will a Silver Palace rear,  
Or if a Door to deck her Fume,  
We'll Leaves of carved Cedar frame.   

Sponsa.  
I am a firm Foundation  
For my beloved to build upon.  
My Breasts are Towers, I his Delight,  
His Object and sole Favourite.   

Sponsus.  
Late in Baal-hamon Solomon  
Let forth his Vineyards every one  
For Fruits and Wines, there yearly made  
A thousand silver Shackles paid.   

Sponsa.  
This Vineyard, this which I possess;  
With diligence I daily dress;  
Thou Solomon shalt have thy due,  
Two hundred more remain for you  
Out of the Surplus of our Gains  
Who in our Vineyard took such pains.   

Sponsus.  
Oh! thou that in the Garden liv'st,  
And life-infusing Counsel giv'st  
To those that in thy Songs rejoice,  
To me address thy cheerful Voice.   

Sponsa.  
Come, my belov'd! Oh, come away!  
Love is impatient of Delay,  
Rheum like a youthful Hart or Roe  
On Hills where precious Spices grow:     

The last Parting of Hector with Andromache and his Son Astyanax, when he went to assault the Grecians in their Camp; in the end of which Expedition, he was slain by Achilles.  

HEctor, though warned by an approaching Cry  
That to Troy Walls the conquering Greeks drew nigh,  
One Visit to his Princess makes in haste,  
Some Daemon told him this would be his last:  
But her he (pressing through the crowded streets)  
Neither at home, or in the Circle meets,  
Nor at the Altars, where the Royal Train  
Made Prayers and Vows to angry Powers in vain  
She, half distracted with the loud alarms  
(Aslyanax came in his Nurse's Arms)  
Runs to a Turret whose commanding height  
Presented all the Battle to her sight,  
Advancing Grecians, and the Trojans flight.  
Here Hector finds her with a Lover's Pace,  
She flies, and breathless, sinks in his Embrace:  
The Nurse came after, with her Princely care,  
As Hesperus fresh: promising, and fair,  
Hector in little, with paternal Joy  
He blest in silent Smiles the lovely Boy.  
Andromache come to herself again,  
Pressing his hand, did gently thus complain:   

My dearest Lord, believe a careful Wife,  
You are too lavish of your precious Life:  
You foremost into every danger run,  
Of me regardless, and your little Son.  
Shortly the Greeks, what none can singly do,  
Will compass, pointing all the War at you.  
But before that day comes (Heavens) may I have  
The mournful Privilege of an early Grave:  
For I, of your dear Company bereft,  
Have no Reserve, no second Comfort left.  
My Father, who did in Cilicia reign,  
By fierce Achilles was in Battle slain:  
But yet his Arms that Conqueror not spoil,  
But paid just Honour to his Funeral Pile:  
Wood-Nymphs in rows of Elms have planted since  
A poor memorial of a powerful Prince:  
Seven Brothers who seven Legions did command,  
Followed their Father's Fortune by his hand.  
My Mother too, who after them did reign,  
With a vast Treasure was redeemed in vain;  
For she soon closed her Empire, and her Breath,  
By Wretches last good Fortune— sudden death.  
Thus Father, Mother, Brothers, all are gone,  
But they seem all revived in you alone.  
To gain you, those Endearments I have sold,  
And like the Purchase if the Title hold.  
Have pity then, here in this Tower abide,  
And round the Walls and Works your Troops divide.  
Just now the Greeks, by both their Generals led,  
Ajax, Idomeneus, Diomedes,  
With all their most experienced Troops & brave,  
Three fierce Assaults upon the outworks gave;  
Some God their Courage to this pitch did raise,  
Or this is one of Troy's unhappy days.   

Hector replied, all this you've said, and more  
I have revolved in serious Thoughts before.  
But not my Foes upon that Plain I fear  
So much as Female Men and Women here;  
For they, if I should once decline the Fight,  
Will call wise Conduct Cowardice and Flight;  
Others may methods choose the most secure,  
My Life no middle Courses can endure.  
Urged by my own and my great Father's Name,  
I must add something to our ancient Fame;  
And in Troy's Cause engaged, I cannot fly,  
With it will conquer, or must for it die:  
But yet some boding Genius does portend  
To all my Pains an unsuccessful end, tend?  
For how can man with heavenly Powers con-  
The day advances with the swiftest pace,  
Which Troy and all her Glories shall deface,  
Which Asia's sacred Empire shall confound,  
And these proud Towers lay level with the ground:  
But all compared with you does scarce appear  
When I presage your case I learn to fear,  
When you by some proud Conqueror shall be led  
A mournful Captive to a Master's Bed.  
Perhaps some haughty Dame your hands shall doom  
To wove Troy's downfall in a Grecian Loom.  
Or lower yet, you may be forced to bring  
Water to Argos from Hiperius spring;  
And as you measure out the tedious way,  
Some one shall, pointing to his Neighbour, say,  
See to what Fortune Hector's WiFe is brought,  
The famous General that for Ilium fought:  
This will renew your sorrows without end,  
Deprived in such a day of such a Friend.  
But this is Fancy, or before it I  
Low in the Dust will with my Country lie.  
Then to his Infant he his Arms addressed,  
The Child clung crying to his Nurse's Breast,  
Scared at the burnished Arms and threatening Crest.  
This made them smile, whilst Hector doth unbrace  
His shining Helmet, and disclose his Face;  
Then dancing the pleased Infant in the Air,  
Kissed him, and to the Gods conceived this prayer:   

jove, and you heavenly Powers, whoever hear  
Hector's Request with a propitious ear,  
Grant, this my Child in Honour and Renown  
May equal me, wear and deserve the Crown:  
And when from some great Action he shall come  
Laden with hostile Spoils in Triumph home,  
May Trojans say, Hector great things hath done,  
But he's obscured by his illustrious Son.  
This will rejoice his tender Mother's heart,  
And sense of Joy to my pale Ghost impart.  
Then in the Mother's Arms he puts the Child,  
With troubled Joy in flowing Tears she smiled.  
Beauty and Grief showed all their pomp & pride  
Whilst the soft Passions did her Face divide.  
This melted Hecto●…'s stubborn Courage down,  
But soon recovering, with a Lover's Frown,  
Madam, says he, these Fancies put away,  
I cannot die before my fatal day.  
Heaven, when we first in our vital Breath,  
Decrees the way, and moment of our Death.  
Women should fill their Heads with women's Cares,  
And leave to men (unquestioned) men's Affairs.  
A Truncheon suits not with a Lady's hand,  
War is my Province that in chief Command.  
With humble Majesty the Queen withdrew,  
Does with long wishing Eyes his steps pursue:  
All sad she to her Cabinet returns▪  
And with prophetic Tears approaching Evils mourns.  
Then tells all to her Maids, officious they  
His Funeral Rights to living Hector pay;  
Whilst forth he rushes through the Gate,  
Does his own part, and leaves the rest to Fate.    

To the late KING, at King's College.  

I.  
When Greatness from its Throne and State  
To inferior Mortal condescends,  
Its Zeal does heighten, not abate,  
Of Subjects it makes humble Friends.  
What can't rise higher, whilst it like Heaven complies!  
By condescending thus does seem to rise.   

II.  
Soin first Monarches heavenly strain  
Did Father through the King appear,  
They did by double Title reign,  
And Duty did the work of Fear.  
The Loyal-subject-brethrens only strove  
Who should run swiftest in the Race of Love.   

III.  
Would giddy Faction then redress  
With equal Gild and Impudence,  
Sad Grievance! their own happiness  
Traitors to gratitude and sense.  
Giants indeed rebellious Standards bore,  
But Pygmies ne'er did Heaven invade before.   

IV.  
Thanks to their rage, it makes us know  
How well our Prince is loved and loves;  
Thus shades bright Colours better show,  
And Fear fruition oft improves.  
Fresh Joys we feel, still fresh Devotions pay,  
Your Life is one long Coronation-day.    

Cupid armed, A-la-modern.  

I.  
Tired that the Insolence of Love  
Made me a Butt for every dart,  
And my tame Patience more to prove,  
Would make his Quiver of my Heart:  
At last by War my Fortune I would try,  
And in the Bed of Honour nobly die.   

II.  
By a new regular design  
My heart all Wound I fortified,  
A●…●…fe retrenched within my Line,  
H●…●…d Artillery defied.  
〈◊〉 angry God would his lost Slave regain,  
〈◊〉 summoned Shaft, and stermed my heart in vain.   

III.  
Till taught by a fair cruel Dame  
His useless Bow away he throws,  
Takes the new Engines sraught with Flame,  
Which Mars discharges on his Foes,  
Against my Heart does a strong Battery raise,  
And furiously from Celia's he plays.   

IV.  
So soon so large a Breach they make,  
So far they certain Ruin send,  
That Celia Heaven itself might take,  
Nor could jove his own Breast defend.  
How then, alas! can a weak heart, like mine,  
Stormed by such Charms, but without terms resign.    

An Ode, in Imitation of Pindar, on the Death of the Right Honourable Thomas Earl of Ossory.  

I.  
WHat strains at sacred Pisa's spring,  
The Swan that often sung with tuneful breath  
To his enchanting Lyre, did sing  
Of God, of Hero, or of Heavenborn King,  
With Verses cheaply purchased, though by death:  
Or rather (since to a pious Hero we,  
Just, though late Oblations bring)  
What Tears the Muse's Prophet Royal shed  
On Saul's anointed Head,  
And thought a Crown poor recompense for a friend:  
When by a power miraculous he  
(The power of Faith and Poetry)  
Upon the Clouds an Interdict did lay,  
And bid M●… Gilboa  
To rear his ●…aked Back●…●…ch'd to the angry sky:  
Such  
Such Numbers Priestesses of fame inspire,  
Such Ossory does deserve, & Ormond such desire;  
Such Flanders bloody Plains, and Mons, and British Seas require.  
And ye Poetic Candidates of Fame,  
If you would build a lasting Name,  
This Subject choose; as the dark Womb  
Of the old Prophets Vital Tomb  
Could Life restore, so Ossory's. Life can give,  
And by his Genius many an Age even this dead Verse shall live.   

II.  
Then tell, ye Heavenly Sisters, ye can tell,  
(For we below  
In the dark Vale of Hearsay dwell,  
And nothing know)  
Tell when great Ossory's enlarged Shade  
Through Heaven's Arch his Triumphant Entry made,  
How noble Brutus ancient Race  
(To show peculiar Worth peculiar Grace)  
Rose up and offered the first place.  
Tell how the sainted Hero (whom  
The pious Tales of Fabulous Rome  
Greater to make have almost nothing made)  
Embraced his Successor; and swear  
None worthier did his Mystic Ensigns wear.  
Tell how the Nymphs that with soft silver oars  
Ply round th' Ebudes, & cold Mona's shores,  
Or the Seas Oracle, the Mouth of Thames,  
The noble Shanons, or short Liffy's streams,  
Their Guardian did lament, and tear  
Their sea-green Hair,  
This second grief to great Pan's death th' afflicted Nymphs did hear.  
Bid sad juverne raise a Monument  
As Teneriff high, wide as her Isle's extent.  
Bid her be sure her Title prove,  
Left her pretence as fabulous seem as lying Crete's to jove.   

III.  
Nature with her Commission brisk and gay,  
When the blessed Earth saluted newborn Day,  
And the World's Eye, the youthful Sun,  
Unspotted with ill Sights the race did run,  
Profuse, in Birds and Flowers her art did show,  
She painted then the gaudy Bow:  
But most in Man, (whom we her Abstract call)  
She of the precious stuff was prodigal:  
Her Kings but few removes from jove, her Prince's Heroes all.  
But now (so sparingly that seed is sown,  
The soil spent, or she covetous grown,  
Or Vice hath spoiled the Strain, or Fate  
Hath given the World for desperate)  
She hath shrunk the short dimensions of a Man,  
And to an Inch reduced our Span,  
A Number, an inglorious Rout,  
Faint Shadows of our Ancestors, alas! we stalk about!  
If by some mighty effort she  
Produce at last one Ossory.  
(Like Stars which in our Hemisphere  
Gazed at, half known, straight disappear)  
So late he enters, so soon quits the Stage,  
He leaves a Nation desolate, and quite undoes the Age.   

IV.  
Early young Ossory entered Virtue's race,  
Swiftly began, yet still increased his pace;  
And when no other Rival he could find,  
Strove with himself, and left himself behind.  
With confirmed Steps t' his Prince he went  
Into a noble Banishment,  
The Country then of all was excellent.  
But sure the Stars and Fortune have  
Small influence on the virtuous and the brave;  
Even Poison turns to wholesome meat,  
By Virtue's strong digestive heat.  
The more with Hercules' Stepdame juno strove,  
The more she proved the mighty Seed of jove.  
The Policy of 
* Italian Rivers.  ●…iber and the 
‖ French Rivers.  Arne,  
The Courtship of the Seine & Marne.  
What solid serious the sage 
* Spanish.  Hebre hath,  
And Germany of ancient Faith,  
With British Gallantry 〈◊〉  
Did in the Chymic Furnace of his Mind  
A high Elixir make, than each more precious and refined.   

V.  
As when that Annual Chaos, Winter, flies,  
Whilst the soft Pleyades do mount the Skies,  
And Philomela to Western Gales does sing  
The Advent of the Heavenborn Spring,  
Such Joy blest Charles did to his Subjects bring.  
Then many a Hero whom no storms could shake,  
Who from his sufferings did new Courage take,  
Dissolved in the soft Lap of Pleasure lay,  
As Ice, the Winter's Child, in Summer's day  
Is by the amorous Sunbeams kissed away.  
But not so Ossory, christallized his Mind  
Fortune adverse did brave, disdained her kind.  
Not Amoretta to the Alcove,  
Or Park the conscious Mart of Love,  
Not so t' a Princes Levee with first light,  
Hasts an aspiring Favourite,  
As you where honourable danger lay,  
And to the Temple of high fame did mark the craggy way.   

VI  
Go, thy winged Chariot, quickly Muse, prepare,  
Lo, a vast Fleet consumes the Eastern Air;  
Base Hollanders Great Britain's Rights invade;  
See what Returns for Liberty they made!  
Viperous Brood! but Vipers we do find  
Belied; Ingratitude is proper to Mankind.  
Embark i'th' Ship where Ossory goes,  
To check the Parricidal Foes:  
Not as the Grave Venetian takes his way,  
With many a Barge, and many a Gondola;  
Whilst painted Bucentore in state does move,  
And to the Adriatic Maid makes Love.  
As jove he comes to th' Theban Dame,  
Dreadfully gay with lightnings pointed flame:  
Unhappy they who to his Embraces came,  
One would have thought t'have heard his Canon roar,  
Aetna were torn from the Trinacrian Shore;  
And freed Typhaeus a new War did move  
Against the upper and the nether jove.  
The Nereids trembled in their watery Bed,  
In the Isles roots they hid their Head,  
And (like the Hollanders) aghast from their own Guardian fled.   

VII.  
But narrow is one Element,  
Compared to a well formed Souls extent;  
Narrow the starry Firmament.  
Fate brings (to keep the balance of the Age)  
With Monsters equal Heroes on the Stage:  
The Western Sultan powerful grows,  
A Torrent, all things overflows;  
But Mons in bloody Characters his fatal limits shows.  
You checked the Monarch in his full Career,  
Fierce Luxemburg wondered, and learned to fear;  
Alas! he knew not Ossory was there.  
Sad the ripe Harvest of his Fame he yields,  
The Harvest of so many bloody Fields.  
To merit such a Conqueror long he grew  
And gathered Laurels to be worn by you;  
Cursing just Heaven, dropping with bloody Sweat  
The sad remains withdraws of his Defeat,  
And more than all his Victories he values this Retreat.   

VIII.  
Great Excellence oft proves dangerous to the State,  
A Comet Virtue when hung out by Fate  
To it self and others ruin does create.  
But silent he, yet active as the Day,  
Born to command, and willing to obey.  
Nature to him the happy temper gave,  
Allkind he was as prosperous Love,  
Gentle as Venus' gentlest Dove,  
In fight beyond a fancied Hero brave.  
Thou Virgin Mother-Church, which now dost ride  
The swelling Surges of a double Tide,  
Safe only because dashed on either side,  
O what a Friend now in thy day  
Hath Fate in Ossory snatched away!  
And ye who holy Friendship do adore,  
His equal you will never see, before  
You Ossory shall in Heaven rejoin, ne'er to be parted more.   

IX.  
Accursed Fever, Death's 
* Febris acuta, virulenta.  sharp-poisoned Dart,  
Accursed Fruit, accursed Earth,  
Which to the fatal Tree gave birth;  
What Mine of strange confusion have you laid  
In the most regular Breast that 'ere was made!  
Those Eyes, from which swift Lightning once did part,  
To melt the tempered Steel, or harder Heart,  
Like wasting Mecors now portend  
With bloodshot Beams his own approaching end.  
The Seat where Honours Records lay,  
Where was designed the Fall of Africa,  
(Scarce Heavens Decrees more firmly set than they  
Like Parchments in the Fire now shrunk away  
Those 
* His Blood.  Purple Waves, which like the Nile  
From his undiscovered Head  
Health and fresh Honours on its Soil did shed,  
And bid all Egypt smile;  
Now with V●…suvian waves scorch all their way,  
And to the 
* His Heart.  King o'th' little World a Mortal Tribute pay.   

X.  
Injustly we accuse the Sovereign Law,  
Which all things to their proper place does draw.  
Full ripe for Heaven he spurned the Earth,  
The monumental seat of miscalled Birth.  
No Art, no Violence, can control  
(Though on it Ossa you, and Pelion roll)  
Th' ascending motion of a Heavenborn Soul.  
His Fever like Elias fiery Car,  
(Whilst the sad Prophets mourn him from afar)  
Kindled his Funeral Pile into a Star.  
Others may praise the Feats of mortal breath,  
But I the opportunity of Death.  
He saw not popular Fury threat the Stage,  
Nor Epidemic Madness seize the Age.  
He lived not till his Wreaths did grow  
Withered and pale upon his Brow,  
As Pompey and great Scipio.  
Few, Heavens choice Favourites, the privilege have,  
To bring their Fame untainted to their Grave.  
Who the wild Passions knows of humane kind,  
Fortune and false Mortality  
This truth will find,  
When wanted most and best beloved, 'tis happiest then to die.    

The Piscatory Eclogues of Sanazarius. The first Eclogue entitled Phillis.  By Mr. Tate. 
Inscribed to Dr. Conquest.  
O Could my labouring Muse a Verse impart  
Bright as thy Wit and generous as thy Heart,  
Such Numbers Conquest (if such Strains can be)  
May with Success describe thy Art and Thee.  
Artist and Friend, in Thee complete appear,  
Of Soul and Converse both so frank and clear,  
That we scarce prise the Health you give, so dear.  
Unbend thy Care a while, and with Delight  
Hear what thy own Apollo did indite  
To Sanazarius on Sebethe's Shore,  
Nor seems t'have blest the Mantuan Shepherd more.  
Indulge the Youth, who from the Hills first brought  
The Muses down, and Arts of Fishing taught;  
Who made the briny spreading Coast his own,  
And without Rival wears his Sampire Crown.   

Lycidas and Mycon.  Lyc. 
AS late without the help of Sail or Oar  
I tided in my Fish-boat to the Shore,  
Where shoals of Mullet with each Flood repair,  
With doleful Cries the Ravens filled the Air,  
The Seamews perched upon the Rocks complained,  
The Dolphins from their wont sport refrained,  
The day drew on that for such Rites did crave,  
In which we left dear Phillis in the Grave.  
The day that to cold Earth did Phillis give,  
And (Wretches!) yet we yet endure to live.  
The Drudgery of Life we yet sustain,  
Pylemon's self hopes yet to taste of Joy again.  My. 
The same befell me coasting here along,  
The Choughs joined Notes as in a Funeral Song;  
Even they her Obsequies would celebrate,  
They sung her Praises and bewailed her Fate.  Lyc. 
Ah, dearest Mycon! when that precious Breath  
Expired, how lovely was the Pomp of Death!  
I saw, and in my Fancy see her now,  
Stretched on the Bier, with Garlands on her brow,  
What Hands! what faded Cheeks did I survey!  
Eyes closed in Night that were the life of Day:  
Yet Grief not dashed these wretched Limbs the while,  
Against the Rocks, nor hurled me on her Pile  
To burn with her dear Relics, happy pain!  
Nor pitying Triton's plunge me in the Main.  Myc. 
Yet Lycidas, this Lot we must prefer  
To that ignoble Fate that threatened her.  
The Grave to Zycot's smoky Cell has charms,  
And Deathless rugged than Amyntas Arms.  
Think, Lycidas! how would your Passion brook,  
On some bleak Rock to see her cast the Hook:  
Or in some Tempest-beaten Cavern set,  
Fitting new Corks. and darning the torn Net.  
No, rather let your Muse adorn her Hearse:  
And now the Season claims your sacred Verse,  
Repeat some charming strain, (much heretofore  
Your Love inspired) and since, your sorrow more.  
Here let us sit, th●…se Sands are soft and dry,  
And lo●… the Winds and Waves attentive lie.  Lyc. 
What numbers I conceived upon the view  
Of this fair Tomb (as last to shore I drew)  
I shall repeat, while you with pious Care  
Bestow these Myrtles, mixed with Cypress there.  My. 
Take dear Remains, these Treasures of the deep,  
Removed from Thetis Bed with thee to sleep,  
Amber and Coral, Pearls and Shells that vie  
In Colours with the Pageant of the Sky.  
Now for your Song: the Morning's work is o'er▪  
And Mylcon's come to dry his Nets on Shore.  Lyc. 
Ye Goddesses that in these ●…loods reside,  
What secret Cell will you for me provide,  
Where I may grieve, yet none behold my Grief,  
What wilt thou, Glaucus, do for my Relief,  
What Herbs wilt thou prescribe whose potent juice  
An equal Wonder may in me produce?  
Amongst your s●…nny People I would rove,  
And change my shape to lose my hopeless Love.  
What have I here to do by Phillis left,  
Of past Delights, and future Hope's 〈◊〉?  
What Charms can Earth produce, what Reason give,  
That this forlorn abandoned Wretch should live?  
Or can it ere account for half my Pain,  
To stretch on Sedge, and view the rolling Main,  
Or breathe my Griefs to this cold Tomb in vain?  
Are these, O Venus! these my waited Joys,  
My Bride, and promised Race of cheerful Boys?  
What cruel Power with Phillis did convey,  
My Rest, my Life, and Hope, Life's Life, away▪  
Now for expected Bliss, without Relief  
Eternal Night succeeds, eternal Grief.  
These Arms prepared her blooming youth to fold,  
Till both by unperceived Degrees grew old.  
For these Delights, behold a marble frame,  
For Phillis now is nothing but a Name!  
ne'er seen but when with overweening Brain  
I catch at her in Dreams, and Wake to Pain.  
What Region dost thou bless, what Land or Sea,  
Where shall I take my Course in search of thee?  
For thy dear sake the populous Town did please,  
Now thou art gone Mankind is my Disease.  
The solitary Rocks and Desert Shore  
Are now my Joy; and when the Billows roar  
When in their Sheds my Brother-Fishers sleep,  
That time I choose to launch into the deep.  
Farewell all Lands, the tempting Syrges swell,  
Even thou that hold'st my Phillis Urn, farewell:  
But first to raging Waves with pious Care  
I sacrifice my Phillis Tomb to spare.  
With Presents then the Monument I grace  
While dancing Sea-Nymphs consecreate the Place,  
Gently, ye Floods, the sacred Shrine embrace.  
But thou, whatever Seat thou dost possess,  
Whether the starry Regions thou dost bless,  
Or angle where Elysian Currents glide,  
Or rob th' enameled Borders of their Pride,  
For wreaths that thy more lovely Locks divide,  
O! speed our Toils, and condescend to be  
The Fisherman's propitious Deity.  
Calm Tides and ever plenteous Shoals allow,  
Nor Venus shall be more adored than thou.  
Seven days with grateful Wine the Seas we'll die,  
Our Boats and Nets in sacred Ease laid by.  
Mean time, this Verse I'll to thy Tomb impart  
Which from next Rocks some Brother of the Art  
(While there he shrouds his Tackle from the rain,  
Shall sighing read, yet read and sigh again.  My. 
O Lycidas! how charming is thy strain!  
So Halcyons mourn, and dying Swans complain;  
So may thy flood-nets speed to thy desire,  
And Sands yield Shellfish when the Floods retire:  
But see the Sun shines yet with vigorous Ray,  
As if your Song had stopped him on his way:  
I therefore beg you would repeat the strain,  
Such Notes fresh Charms by Repetition gain:  Lyc. 
No Mycon, let my Grief have respite here;  
Force not the wretched to repeat their Care.  
What now I sung was my own Tragedy,  
And breathless Lungs no further Voice supply;  
My Cheeks with Tears are wet, my Tongue with Sighs is dry,  
Yet Mycon, these, at some less solemn time,  
I'll sing again, and Numbers more sublime,  
If Phillis for a Muse inspire my Rhyme.  
Till than her Monument these Lines shall wear,  
Which as he coasts along, the Mariner  
Shall read and say, 'Twas Lycidas did frame  
These Distiches, worthy of his Nymph and Flame  
For as his Phillis did all Nymphs excel,  
None ever loved like him, nor ever sung so well.  
But hark, the Mates for your Assistance call,  
Their loaded Net endangers Boat and all.  
Haste Mycon, haste to their Relief, while I  
By this dear Tomb as cold and silent lie.  
'Tis Flood, yet all your Hooks are still to bait,  
Your Weels all floating still for want of weight.   

The second Eclogue.  By the same. LYCON 

ON the remotest Angle of a Rock,  
Whose jetting sides the foaming Syrges mock,  
A Precipice with Sampire ever green,  
Whose Root at lowest Ebb is never seen,  
Where Boat ne'er pitched, and Net was never thrown,  
The poor despairing Lycon sat alone:  
And while his Mates with treacherous Lights betray  
The wandering Shoal, and drag to shore their prey,  
He meditates all-night upon his Grief,  
While neither Shades nor Verse afford Relief.  
How long, O Galatea! shall I lie  
In Pangs of Death, without the power to die?  
Presents, with thee no favour will obtain,  
And Prayers that move the angry Gods, are vain.  
Must I, unpitied, on bleak Rocks reside,  
Out-sigh the Winds, outswell with Tears the Tide?  
Behold how all-things now in silence sleep,  
The Whale, with all his Subjects of the Deep;  
The Winds, the very watch-lights of the Sky,  
And nothing wakes, but my Despair and I.  
Despair! and, alas! must ever wake,  
For Galatea will no pity take:  
Yet once my form Praxinoc did move,  
And Polybeta's Daughter sought my Love:  
Even fair Aminta's Wife did sigh in vain,  
The fairest Bride that ever graced a Plain.  
Why name I these? the very Nymphs o'th' Sea  
Disdain not from the Deep to call on me:  
Fair Hyale herself to shore repairs  
To bear a part in my melodious Airs;  
Whose Charms in shivering Tritons breed desire,  
And midst the Waves sets Neptune's Breast on fire.  
But what avails all this to ease my Pain,  
If Galatea still unmoved remain?  
If she alone of all the beauteous Throng,  
Refuse my Love, and only scorns my Song.  
A thousand Oysters of the pearly sort,  
The very same that garnish Thetis Court,  
I sent my Nymph, culled out from all my store,  
And for to morrow have a thousand more.  
Lobsters and Scollops in salt Nooks I hide,  
Where they are washed by each returning Tide:  
These by no mastic Tree are dropped upon,  
Nor feel the Influence of the waning Moon.  
Nay, I can dive for Tyrian Fish,— And so  
You'll say my Brother Fishermen can do:  
But I have learned the subtle Mystery,  
The Shells to supple, and extract the die.  
A Tod of finest Wool I have at home,  
More soft and white than any Billows Foam:  
Which once a Shepherd tending of his Flock,  
And ravished with my Music from the Rock,  
With noble Commendation did impart;  
On this I mean to exercise my Art.  
Yet nothing is by Galatea prized,  
My Gifts, my Love, my Muse, are all despised.  
Fond Passion go, some other Youth inspire,  
For Lycon's Fate prevails above your Fire.  
Perhaps my Love presumptuous did appear  
Because the Boat is little which I steer,  
'Cause to the Drag and Spear I put my hand,  
Bring weight to th' Weels, and help the Net to Land.  
What else at first was Father Glaucus' Trade?  
Who now a watery Deity is made.  
What shall I do? my thoughts have long inclined  
To cross the Ocean, and out-sail the Wind:  
To ransack Seas unknown to Sailors yet,  
And where no Fisher ever dropped a Net.  
Beneath the Bear, where Seas to Rock combine,  
Or where the Ocean burns beneath the Line;  
Where Spring itself is Russet, Beauty Black,  
And Skins of Beasts made Parchment on their Back:  
The Sun (would you believe?) just o'er your head,  
Is more in compass than a Net can spread.  
I rave, I rave, and slatter my Despair,  
No Region can relieve a Lover's Care:  
Mixed with the Blood th' incurable desire,  
●…ursties th' infected Wretch, through Floods and Fire.  
From drenching Rain to seasoned Sheds we run,  
To dewy Grottoes from the scorching Sun,  
Safe under Creeks we lie when Tempests rave,  
From Love there is no shelter but the Grave.   

Then Lycon take Advantage of this Steep,  
To plunge thyself and Griess into the Deep.  
●…is now resolved: you Nymphs that know my Grief,  
Ye Sea-born Nymphs afford your last relief;  
O savour what you can my desperate Fall,  
Your gentlest Waves to my Assistance call,  
On your soft Bosoms let me yield this Breath,  
My Life was painful, give me gentle Death.  
In times to come, my dying Thought forebode:  
Whatever Ship shall chance to pass this Road,  
The Master, when this Point he shall discern,  
Shall hoarsly cry, Luff, Lu●…, Mate turn the Stern.  
Steer any Course, make any Port beside,  
But eat the Coast where wretched Lycon died.   

Thus did the Fisherman all night complain,  
And scarce had told the Floods & Rocks his pain,  
When rosy Morning, like a rising Bride  
Beheld her Blushes in the glass-green Tide.    

The third Eclogue.  By the same. Celadon and Mopsus. 
FOr seven continued days the Winds were high,  
So Aegon tells, nor is he used to lie,  
While you with Chromis and jolas' lay  
Confined to th' Rocks: then gentle Mopsus, say,  
How there you passed the vacant hours.  
I know you were not unemployed so long;  
Then tell me, Mopsus, what was played and sung.  Mopsus. 
O Celadon! the Muses watched their Time,  
And forced us, in our own defence, to Rhyme.  
In vain we saw the Crayfish creep below,  
And Sampire o'er our Heads securely grow;  
For who could then the boisterous Tide sustain,  
Or on the Rocks in such rough Winds remain.  
Our very Boats lay housed as well as we,  
And on our Sculls and Ripp-hooks you might see  
Our Drag-nets hang, Weels, Lines, confusedly laid  
Corks, Plummets, Grapples, all the Fisher's trade.  
Chromis at last that jetting Point surveyed,  
Where broken Tides a foaming Eddy made:  
From thence (O cruel Banishment!) said he,  
Our noblest Youth, and Flower of Italy,  
Sailed with their royal Chief through Seas unknown.  
And landed on the Borders of the Rhone.  
Amylcon, I remember, termed it so,  
And saw the boundless Ocean ebb and flow.  
From whence the British Mountains you might spy,  
Though scarce to be distinguished from the Sky.  
Upon this wondrous Beach (if Fame speaks true)  
The Fishers use no Netting, as we do;  
But at low Water, ready to their hand,  
Find Fish left flouncing on the naked Sand:  
Enough, enough, jolas' then replies,  
Call not the Tears afresh into our Eyes.  
Poor Lycidas all this sad Tale, and more,  
At large repeated on the Lucrine shore.  
The Sun, whom we upon the longest Day  
Suppose to set behind Cajeta's Bay,  
He there saw traveling on beyond the Main,  
And swears he thought he ne'er could be o'retane.  
Then barbarous names of yet more barbarous men,  
He sung, too hard for me to speak again.  
Nor are my present Thoughts inclined to roam,  
Possessed with other Cares, and nearer home.  
If therefore, Chromis, you have aught that's new,  
Since Nisa tortures me, and Chloris you,  
Let's sing, and while we mutually complain  
Mopsus, your Pipe shall heighten either strain.  
Upon my Neck the reedy Pipe was hung,  
Then Chromis thus, and thus jolas' sung.  Chromis. 
Bring me the richest Presents of the Seas,  
Ye gentle Nymphs, my Chloris to appease:  
If still she's coy, search, search through all the Main,  
For Earth has none, a Medicine for my Pain.  jolas'. 
You cannot, sure, my last Request deny,  
Let Nisa now relent, or see me die.  
These Rocks I for a Monument shall have,  
And in the Ooze of their deep Roots a Grave.  Chromis. 
As you have seen a Summer Pinnace glide  
In all her trim, and smoothly cut the Tide,  
Whose jocund Youth above the Decks appear,  
So past my Life while Chloris held me dear.  jolas'. 
Hark, hark, what dreadful Thunder rends the skies!  
See how the foaming Billows fall and rise:  
The Earth is shaken, the rocky Coast divides,  
You'd swear 'twere now a storm. 'Tis Nisa chides.  Chromis. 
O Proteus, Proteus! Shepherd of the Tide,  
Now prove thyself a God, and scourge this Pride,  
Thy Monsters lead to Chloris pearly Bed,  
And say, All these with scornful Nymphs are fed.  jolas'. 
Beneath you sea-mark is my Nymphs Retreat,  
Dive Glaucus, bring her from her Coral-seat;  
And lest she should refuse, good Glaucus say,  
Your Nets have brought to shore a noble Prey.  Chromis. 
Cypress is Venus' Joy, Jove's Island Crete,  
Fair Samos juno 's, Lemnos Vulcan 's seat.  
Here Hyale resides, let her appear,  
Crete, Cyprus, Samos, Lemnos, all are here.  jolas'. 
Hymetton with Minerva's Choice is crowned,  
Phoebe no place like fair Ortygia found:  
Of Nisa's Cell did they the Pleasures see,  
Phoebe and Pallas would her Rivals be.  Chromis. 
These very Rocks yield Harvest, Osiers grow  
For Weels above, for Panniers, Reeds below.  
O were but Hyale or Chloris by,  
How could I there these wrangling Winds defy!  jolas'. 
Nor Sea nor Shore without my Nymph I prise,  
I hate my Nets, and all my Art despise:  
Yet let my Nisa smile, I bless my Fate,  
And would not quit my Boat to rule a State.  Chromis. 
Let Sinuessa larger Turbat boast,  
And Shoals of Mullet the Herculean Coast,  
Parthenope of beauteous Nymphs has store,  
Fix there my Boat, I'll seek no other shore.  jolas'. 
The Sarge seeks streams, to Rocks the Gramples creep.  
Rhans lie in Shallows, Sturgeons in the Deep.  
All day and night I sigh by Nisa's Court;  
Fix here my Boat, I'll seek no other Port.  Mopsus. 
These Notes beneath the Rock they did perform,  
With Music sweet enough to cease a Storm;  
And as they reached each other in their Lays,  
I gave them equal Gifts, and equal Praise.  
To one the shell where Tyre's rich Tincture lies;  
A Branch of Coral was the other's Prize.   

PROTEUS. ●…logiue the fourth.  
Inscribed to ●…erdinand of Arragon, Duke of Calabria, Son of Frederick King of Naples.  By W. Bowls, Fellow of Kings-Coll. Cambridge. 

NOw first with bolder sails I tempt the Main,  
Parthenope deserves a loftier strain;  
To fair Parthenope, O Nymphs, we must,  
And our dear Country's Honour, now be just.  
O than ye Nymphs, who in these Floods delight,  
Indulge one Labour, and direct my slight.   

But Thou, great hope of thy illustrious Line.  
Thy Country's Pride sprung from a Race divine  
‛ Whether o'er Pyrenaean Frosts thou go,  
And Mountains covered with eternal snow,  
And the wild Tempests of the warring sky  
Prefer to the best Plains of Italy;  
Or envious Iber does our hopes oppose,  
Return, and happy make thy People's Vows:  
Tho Arragon thy Arragon withhold,  
And Tagus' rolling o'er a Bed of Gold  
With all his liquid Wealth would buy thy stay,  
Return, and our wished Happiness no more delay!  
For, if the God that fills my Breast foreknow,  
Parthenope shall to thy Sceptre bow,  
Parthenope, usurped by foreign sway,  
Shall with new joy her rightful Prince obey.  
Oh! may swift time the happy Period bring,  
And I loud Paeans to thy Triumph sing!  
Mean while a lower Muse indulgent view,  
Which I the first with bold design, and new,  
Leaving th' Arcadian Fields, and vocal Plain,  
In triumph bring down to thy subject Main;  
And on the neighbouring Rocks and sounding shore,  
A newer Scene present, and untried Seas explore.   

What Port, what Sea, so distant can be found  
Which Proteus has not blest with heavenly sound?  
Him Prasid●…mus, and Melanthius knew,  
For all the God appeared to mortal view;  
On great Minerva's Rock the God appeared,  
And charmed with Verse divine his monstrous Herd.  
While Phoebus sunk with the declining day,  
And all around delighted Dolphins play.  
For lo! he sung——  
How Earth's bold Sons, by wild Ambition fired,  
Defied the Gods, and to Celestial Thrones aspired.  
Typhaeus first with lifted Mountains armed,  
Led on the furious Van, & Heaven itself alarmed.  
How Prochyte among the Stars he threw,  
And from their Bases torn huge Islands flew,  
And shook th' Aetherial Orbs: the Powers above  
Then first knew fear; not so Almighty jove:  
He with red lightning armed, and winged Fire,  
Replunged the Rebels in their native Mire.  
All Nature with the dreadful Rout resounds,  
They fled, and bathed in Baian springs their burning Wounds.  
On the scorched Earth the Footsteps still remain,  
And the sulphurous Springs a fiery taste retain.   

He sung Alcides, and his noble Toil,  
His glorious Triumph, and his wondrous 
a The Herculean Way raised by Hercules in his Return from Spain.  Pile,  
Which does the Fury of the Waves sustain,  
Confine the Lucrine, and repel the Main.  
Next the Cumaean Cave, and Grove relates,  
Where anxious Mortals thronged to learn their Fates:  
The raving 
b Sybil.  Virgin, and her fatal Page,  
Her more than mortal Sounds, and sacred rage,  
And that sad Vale, unvisited by day,  
Where buried in eternal night 
c Placed by some near Naples.  Cimmerians lay.  
But thee, 
d Paus●…lipus and Nesis are the Names of two Promo●…tories near Naples.  Pausilypus, he gently blames,  
And sweetly mourns thy inauspicious flames,  
Concerned for lovely Nesis, Ah too late!  
Oh stay rash man! Why dost thou urge her fate?  
She, wretched Maid, thy loathed embrace to shun,  
Does to steep Rocks and Waves less cruel run;  
Not the dire Prospect can retard her flight,  
Or gaping Monsters from beneath affright.  
Oh stay! and reach no more with greedy hands,  
See! to a Rock transformed thy Nesis stands.  
She who so swift with the first dawn of day,  
●…ng'd o'er the Woods, & chased the flying Prey,  
See! her winged 〈◊〉 th●… wont speed refuse,  
And her sti●… Joints their nimble motion lose.  
O 〈◊〉, and all the Nymphs below,  
To so much Beauty just Compassion show!  
If pity can a●…ect your happy state,  
O visit Nesis, and lament her Fate!   

He sung how once the beauteous 
* Parthen●…pe.  Siren swayed,  
And mighty Kingdoms the fair Nymph obeyed;  
Describes the lofty Tomb, which all adore:  
Then tells how losing from their native Shore,  
By all the Gods conducted, and their Fate,  

‖ A Colony of 〈◊〉 from 〈◊〉 ●…ulle Cu●… and Napl●….  Eub●…ans sounded that auspicious State.  
Then sung th●… rising Walls and towers, whose height  
Is lost in Clouds, and tir●…s the fainting sight.  
What mighty Piles from the capacious Bay,  
And hidden Pipes th' obedient Springs convey:  
And that proud Pharos, whose auspicious light  
Informs glad Sailors, and directs their sight.  
And how beneath the gentle Sarno ●…lows,  
In Verse as smooth as that, and high as those.  
He ●…old, and swee●…ly raised his Voice divine,  
How 
a 〈◊〉 a 〈◊〉 Poe●….  Me●…saeus, loved by all the Nine,  
Immortal Virgil saw; the Godlike Shade  
Bequeathed that Pipe, which so divinely played.  
〈◊〉 flying from her Lover's Arms,  
And 〈◊〉 Fate, and young Alexis Charms.  
●…ed by the Muse 
b 〈◊〉 ●…oem ●…'d ●…la. , he mounts the starry Skies,  
And all the shining Orbs above deseries.  
Why should I speak of Sirens, or relate  
Their 〈◊〉 Songs, and the pleased Sailer's Fate?  
Or, how in mournful Strains he did r●…count,  
The dir●… Eruptions of the burning 
c V●… 〈◊〉  Mount,  
When with swift ruin, and a dreadful Sound,  
Vast Floods of liquid Fire overwhelmed the Country round.  
●…ast Battles and their various chance, he sings  
The great Events of War, and Fate of Kings;  
And thee, 
a Frederick King of Naples. See Guicciardine.  whom Italy bewails, the best,  
By Fortune's Rage, and angry Gods oppressed,  
Stripped of thy Kingdoms, and compelled to fly,  
And on uncertain hopes and gallic Faith rely.  
Oh Treachery of humane Power! forlorn,  
And last by Death condemned to a precariousUrn.   

How vain is Man! and in what depth of night  
The dark Decrees of Fate are hid from mortal sight!  
Couldst thou, who potent Kingdoms didst command,  
Not find a Tomb but in a foreign Land!  
Yet mourn not, happy Shade, thy cruel Fate;  
The loss is light of that superfluous State.  
Nature provides for all a common Grave,  
The last Retreat of the distressed and brave.   

Thus he  
From the first Ages and Heroic Times  
Deduced in order his mysterious Rhymes.  
Charmed by his Song, the Billows ceased to roar,  
And loud applause rung through the silent shore:  
Till the pale Moon advanced her beauteous Head,  
And all the Gods sunk to their watery Bed.    

Ode for an Anniversary of Music on St. Cecilia's Day.  By Mr. Oldham. 

I.  
BEgin the Song, your Instruments advance,  
Tune the Voice and tune the Flute,  
Touch the silent sleeping Lute,  
And make the Strings to their own Measures dance;  
Bring gentlest Thoughts that into Language glide,  
Bring softest Words that into numbers slide,  
Let every hand and every Tongue  
To make the noble Consort throng,  
Let all in one harmonious Note agree  
To frame the mighty Song;  
For this is music's sacred jubilee.   

II.  
Hark how the wakened strings resound,  
And break the yielding Air!  
The ravished sense how pleasingly they wound,  
And call the listening Soul into the Ear.  
Each Pulse beats Time, and every Heart  
With Tongue and Fingers bears a part.  
By Harmony's entrancing Power  
When we are thus wound up to Ecstasy,  
Methinks we mount, methinks we tower,  
And seem to antedate our future Bliss on high.   

III.  
How dull were Life, how hardly worth our care,  
But for the Charms that Music lends!  
How faint its Pleasures would appear  
But for the Pleasure which our Art attends!  
Without the sweets of Melody  
To tune our vital Breath,  
Who would not give it up to Death,  
And in the silent Grave contented lie?   

IV.  
music's the Cordial of a troubled Breast,  
The softest Remedy that Grief can find,  
The gentle Spell that charms our Care to Rest,  
And calms the ru●…led Passions of our Mind.  
Music does all our Joys refine,  
It gives the relish to our Wine;  
'Tis that gives Rapture to our Love,  
And wings Devotion to a pitch divine;  
'Tis our chief Bliss on Earth, and half our Heaven above.   

Chorus.  
Come then with tuneful Throat and String  
The Praises of our Art let's sing;  
Let's sing to blessed Cecilia's Fame,  
That graced this Art, and gave this Day its name;  
While Music, Wine, and Mirth, conspire  
To bear a Consort, and make up the Quire.    

The twentieth Ode of the second Book of Horace.  

I.  
HOw an unusual, but strong Wing does bear  
Th' amphibuous Poet through the liquid Air.  
I no more time on Earth will waste,  
But soaring above Envy, haste  
To leave the proudest Cities, that shall lie  
The humble Objects of my mounting Eye.  
I that am just taking Wing  
From no common Parents spring;  
Maecenas, no,  
My Blood to nobler Veins ay owe.  
That purple Stream of everlasting Life that ne'er shall flow  
Into the Stygean Lake below.   

II.  
Now, at this Instant, now I find  
About my Legs a black rough Skin is twined,  
Whilst all above I grow  
A Bird as white as Snow;  
With newborn Plumes on hands, and Shoulders I  
Do mount on high,  
Clad with a bright Galaxy.  
Swifter than Icarus I cut the yielding Air,  
But make no settled Journey there;  
The way my various Fancy likes I keep,  
And fly o'er all the Wonders of the Deep.  
The groaning Bospharus I hear  
With an astonished ear.  
The Lybian quicksands I espy,  
That make me tremble as I fly,  
More than the northern Magazenes that hold  
Winters eternal stores of hoarded cold.    

Sanaz. Ep. on Venice.  By Mr. Charles Hastings. 
WHile Neptune in the Adriatic saw  
Proud Venice stand, and to the Floods give Law,  
If thou Tarpeian towers, great jove, said he,  
Prefer to these, and Tiber to the Sea,  
Both City's view, and you will grant this odds,  
That Rome was built by Men, but Venice by the Gods.   

The Rape of Philomela. A Paraphrase of Ovid's sixth Book.  By Mr. Andrews. 

WHen Tereus was with conquering Laurels crowned,  
For Men, and Wealth, and Parentage renowned;  
Pandion thought that none could fitter prove  
To be the Partner in his Daughter's Love:  
But juno frowned, and Hymen turned awry,  
The Graces smiled not on their nuptial tye,  
For the dire Sisters with a Funeral Brand  
Did light their Joys, and round their Curtains stand.  
The fatal Bird of Night did cross their way,  
And all around unhappy Omens lay.  
Thus did they meet, and thus (alas!) enjoy  
The wished for Blessing of a smiling Boy:  
Whilst the fond Thracians, in a general Cry,  
Give Thanks to Heaven for this new Progeny;  
And as the Wedding day, the Prince's Birth  
They consecreate to universal Mirth.  
Five years expired, the flattering Progne pressed  
Her inauspicious Lord in this Request:  
If thou hast any Love for Progne's Name,  
For her chaste Joys, or for her spotless Fame,  
I do conjure thee, grant that I may be  
So happy my loved ●…ister once to see,  
I'll fly to her, or she shall come to me.  
As for her stay my Father may complain,  
But tell him she shall soon return again.  
Grant this succeeds but well, and I implore  
At your just hands, ye sacred Powers, no more?  
The King fulfils her Wish, and straight commands  
His Ships to Sea, for Athens bound: he lands  
At length upon the wished Pyrean Sands.  
From whence conducted, he Pandion meets,  
Who with kind welcome his Arrival greets.  
The Thracian King does Progne's suit relate,  
And oh presage which still attends his Fate!  
For he no sooner could his story tell,  
But see the bright, the dazzling Philomela,  
Rich as the Sun in all his radiant Fire,  
But richer far in Beauty than Attire,  
A Beauty that might all the Gods inspire.  
So have I heard the Sylvan Nymphs of old,  
The Woods enamell'd with their shining Gold;  
As oft you've seen a stubble straw or Fern  
Catch from a Fire which none of us discern,  
So at this sight his vigorous Breast became  
The burning Centre of an amorous Flame.  
Hot in his Nature, all his Blood boiled high,  
Red were his Cheeks, & sparkling was his Eye,  
At this new World of a Divinity.  
Resolved t'enjoy her, 'tis his first Intent  
To bribe her Woman and her Confident;  
And the chaste fair one too, if Gifts would down,  
Tho at the costly purchase of his Crown.  
But if those means were vain, 'twas then decreed,  
By Rape and Force the Tyrant would succeed,  
Rather than lose her all the World should bleed.  
Oh! what are men when thus by Passion driven?  
What do they fear on Earth, in Hell, or Heaven?  
Impatient of delay, and racked with pain,  
He now recites his Wives Request again;  
And though at first in her behalf he sues,  
Now for himself the Suppliant only woos;  
And by his Zeal most eloquent does prove,  
(For Eloquence does still attend on Love.)  
And often as he spoke what Love inspired,  
He said it was the thing his Wife desired;  
Whilst huddling Tears did seem to run a race  
O'er the smooth Carpet of his treacherous Face.  
Oh ye Eternals! what a gloomy Cloud  
Does humane sense and apprehension shroud?  
For still the more his Passion he does raise,  
The more they ' dmire his Virtue and his Praise.  
Nay Philomela does in that agree,  
And thinks his greatest Vice his Piety.  
For now she hangs upon her Father's Breast,  
And her destruction as her safety pressed;  
With Virgin-sighs and Kisses she does sue,  
(And what, ye Gods! can't Virgin-kisses do!)  
Which raised the lustful Monster's Passion higher,  
And what before was Ashes, now is Fire.  
For every melting Kiss, and soft Embrace,  
He wished himself her ●…ather in his place,  
There to repay 'em with a better Grace.  
Whilst the old Man (by their Persuasions moved)  
Could not deny where he so dearly loved,  
But gives Consent, and she, poor harmless she,  
Wrapped on the Wings of dauntless Ecstasy,  
Ten thousand Thanks to her kind Father gives,  
And thanks the Gods that happily she lives  
To see that day, a day for ever famed,  
A day with Joy for ever to be named.  
Mistaken Mortals! for how soon they know  
It was the day of everlasting Woe.   

Now Phoebus, after his fatigue and heat  
Towards cool Recesses hastens his Retreat,  
And night comes on, when every plenteous board  
The richest noblest Banquets do afford;  
And Wine around in golden Goblets flows,  
Till their steeped Senses call for sweet Repose.  
And now the drowsy God fills every Breast,  
In flowery Lands their roving Fancy's blessed  
With Joys unknown, and pleasant Dreams possessed.  
Tho▪ all do sleep, yet the Odrysian King  
Feels from the fair one such a pungent sting,  
That though she's gone, he ' as still her Face in view,  
And parts (oh chaster Powers!) unseen, he drew,  
For what can't lewd Imagination do?   

Soon as the day arose in many Tears,  
Pandion vents his Passion and his Fears:  
Wring the hand of his departing Son,  
With sad and boding Heart he thus begun;  
Since, dearest Son, a Sister's Love requires  
To crown your Wishes, and your Wives Desires,  
I trust thee here with something more than life,  
My all in one, my Daughter, Sister, Wife,  
For how t' excel in Love is all her strife.  
Oh then by th' strictest Faith and Truth of Kings,  
Which still in Royal Breasts are sacred things;  
Nay, by the heavenly Powers, whose chiefest care  
Is to protect the innocent and fair,  
I do conjure thee, as a Father prove  
In all th' endearments of paternal Love.  
But as thou tenderest my declining Years,  
My Ages Frailties, and my Ages Fears,  
Oh quickly send (for I her Absence dread)  
The only comfort of my aged Head;  
The sport and pleasure of my sadder hours,  
Kind as the spring, yet chaste as infant flowers:  
Send her with speed, for every mournful day  
Will seem as tedious as an Ages stay;  
Where we expect, how heavy is delay?   

And thou my Child (for pity does require)  
Leave not too long thy poor, thy helpless Sire,  
For what can he when Philomela is gone?  
Like some forsaken Turtle all alone,  
Where shall he sigh, or where his sorrows groan?  
Thus as he spoke, and Kisses mixed withal,  
At every word a crystal stream did fall;  
Then taking both their hands, thereby to prove  
A certain sign of everlasting Love:  
And kissing both, I wish my Daughter Joy,  
To Progne this, and this her little Boy.  
I here (said he) with kindest Love commend,  
With heartiest Wishes, best of Blessings send;  
May they be blest from the eternal store,  
For I perhaps may never send them more.  
His Sobs, his Sighs, his Passion who can tell?  
Tears drown his words, that at the last farewell  
In fatal Groans his mournful Accents fell.   

When they were shipped, assoon as pressing Oars  
Had cut the Ocean, and put off from shores,  
I have my Wish he cries, Oh kinder Powers!  
The beauteous prize, the noble prize is ours.  
The Tyrant now does most triumphant grow,  
And scarce forbears his Joys in open show.  
As when the King of Birds from earth does bear  
In his fierce Talons the poor trembling Hare,  
Into his princely Mansions of the Air,  
He foams, exults, against slight shuts every way,  
And with a ravenous eye beholds his Prey:  
So Tereus does with no less furious Eyes  
(Oh partial Gods!) survey his trembling prize.   

When they arrived upon the Thracian shore,  
He to a Lodge th' unhappy fair one bore:  
A Seat where Lust and Horror did abound,  
Dark were the Rooms, and craggy was the ground,  
Cloistered with baleful Thickets all around.  
She with Amazement seized in every part,  
Pale in her Looks, and trembling at her heart;  
Asks for her Sister Progne, but confined,  
The Ravisher by Actions speaks his Mind,  
And by mere force commits the Rape designed.  
Whilst to the height he does his Joys pursue,  
For what, alas! could one weak Virgin do?  
A Virgin who man's falsehood never knew.  
Help, oh my Father! Sister! now she cries,  
And though unkind, yet sacred Deities,  
If to defend the just be your intent,  
Oh! help a poor wronged Virgin, innocent,  
Who neither evil thought, nor evil meant.  
Then of her Stars and Birth she did complain,  
She sighed, she wept, she tore, but all in vain.  
As the poor Lamb when from the Wolf just free  
Does heave, and pant, and most dejected lie,  
And all in dread of former Agony;  
Or as a Dove whose Blood his Feathers slain,  
Does coe, and moan, & fears those Claws again  
Which were the fatal means of all his pain:  
So does the injured Philom●…la groan,  
So does she tremble, pant, and so bemoan:  
But when revived, her loose and flying Hair,  
As at a Father's Funeral, she tore.  
Then wrings her hands, which up towards Heaven are thrown,  
Wild with her Woes, and now distracted grown,  
Thus she bursts out; oh hellish barbarous Lust!  
Monster of Monsters, whom my Fathers trust  
Imposed with such devout and moving Tears;  
Whom neither Wives Affections, Sisters Fears,  
Nor yet the softness of my Virgin state,  
With all the tender Joys which on it wait,  
Could make relent; oh most unfortunate!  
Oh vast Confusion! on this fatal score,  
I an Adultress, an incestuous Whore,  
Must to my Sister prove, and all our Race  
Whilst thou to both supply'st the Husband's place.  
Yet what, ye Gods, have I e'er done or meant,  
To merit such an heavy Punishment?  
Is there a Crime in being innocent?  
Then ah dispatch me! and when that is done  
Through the whole course of Wickedness thou'st run.  
But if from Heaven the favour I had gained  
T'ave died before my Honour thou hadst stained,  
My dauntless Ghost might then untainted fly  
Through those chaste Regions of Eternity:  
But now such vile Pollution I must fear,  
Never! oh never! with the blessed appear.  
Yet if the Gods these dire Events do see,  
If they're not Fables, and decay with me;  
Due Vengeance than thou canst not long escape,  
For Vengeance must such Horrors overtake.  
Yet shouldst thou that forego, all sense of Shame  
I will renounce; and through the World proclaim,  
If free, thy monstrous Crimes; but if confined.  
'Twill be some pleasure to an anxious Mind  
To find the Woods more pitiful and kind.  
The very Rocks, at my unheard of Woe,  
Shall be dissolved, and sense of Sorrow show:  
Rocks may relent, but Men more savage grow.  
This witness Heaven, Immortals note it well;  
If Heaven there is, and Gods therein do dwell.   

Her Words did move the bloody Ravisher  
Alike with Rage, Distraction, and with Fear:  
Dreading th' effects, he binds the wretched fair,  
And draws his Sword, then drags her by the Hair:  
Whilst she rejoiced, and open laid her Breast,  
To entertain his Sword, the kindest Guest;  
Her only Comfort, Happiness and Rest.  
But e'er she died, she thought to vent her mind,  
And leave the Burden of her Soul behind;  
Therefore proclaims her wrongs, and, though in vain,  
Did of her Hardship, and his Gild complain.  
Then calling on her Father's name, her Tongue  
(In Pincers caught) the savage Monster wrung  
From its loved Mansion, by the panting Root,  
Which trembled, moaned, and murmured at his foot,  
And often strove in Curses to repay,  
But what it would (alas!) it could not say;  
So soon the Spirits and the Voice decay.  
Yet as a Serpent's quivering Tail l've seen  
Stained in its Blood, leaps up and down the Green,  
So does her Tongue; it quivers, pants, and leaps,  
But follows still its Owners wretched Steps:  
Yet after all, if we may credit Fame,  
(Oh sleeping Vengeance! oh thou empty name!)  
Her Body maimed, and reeking in its Gore,  
He often used as lewdly as before;  
Gods! had ye then no Thunderbolts in store?  
Yet to his Wife the very moment hastes,  
Who with Impatience for her Sister asks:  
He drowned in Tears; (for who so lewd will be  
Can never fail in smooth Hypocrisy:)  
In Tears he mourns her sad untimely Fate,  
In feigned Tears he does her Death relate,  
Laments, and wails his miserable State.  
Progne believes, and straight her rich Array,  
With all its gaudy Trifles, casts away,  
And does the utmost Debt of Sorrow pay;  
Whilst clad in sable she her Sister mourns,  
And due Oblations to her Spirit burns.  
But oh false Rites! how vainly are they sent,  
To a most wretched living Monument.    

Elegy on the Earl of Rochester.  By Mrs. Wh—. 

DEep Waters silent roll, so Grief like mine  
Tears never can relieve, nor Words define.  
Stop then, stop your vain Source, weak springs of Grief,  
Let Tears flow from their Eyes whom Tears relieve.  
They from their Heads show the light Trouble there,  
Could my Heart weep, its Sorrows 'twould declare:  
Weep drops of Blood, my Heart, thou'st lost thy Pride,  
The Cause of all thy Hopes and Fears, thy Guide.  
He would have led thee right in Wisdom's way,  
And 'twas thy Fault whenever thou wentest astray:  
And since thou stray'dst when guided and led on,  
Thou wilt be surely lost now left alone.  
It is thy Elegy I write, not his,  
He lives immortal and in highest Bliss.  
But thou art dead, alas! my Heart thou'rt dead,  
He lives, that lovely Soul for ever fled,  
But thou amongst Crowds on earth art buried.  
Great was thy Loss, which thou canst ne'er express  
Nor was th' insensible dull Nation's less;  
He civilised the rude and taught the young,  
Made Fools grow wise; such artful magic hung  
Upon his useful kind instructing Tongue.  
His lively Wit was of himself a part,  
Not as in other men, the Work of Art;  
For though his Learning like his Wit was great,  
Yet sure all Learning came below his Wit;  
As God's immediate Gifts are better far  
Than those we borrow from our Likeness here,  
He was,— but I want words, and ne'er can tell,  
Yet this I know, he did Mankind excel.   

He was what no Man ever was before,  
Nor can indulgent Nature give us more,  
For to make him she exhausted all her store.    

On the Coronation of the High and Mighty Monarch JAMES II.  By Mr. Smith. 

Hic dies verè mitis festus, atras  
Eximet curas: Ego nec tumultum,  
Nec mori per vim metuam, tenente.  
Caesare Terras. Horat.   

Pindaric.  
FLy swift, ye sluggish hours, and bring the day!  
O wakeful Morning! now display  
Thy purple Doors, and odorif'rous Bed  
With plenty of new blushing Roses spread.  
Let day's bright Lord now haste to rise,  
With his clear Rays to bless our longing eyes.  
May now our British Heaven be all serene,  
No threatening Clouds draw nigh  
With the least Wrinkle to deform the Sky;  
As once before was seen  
On that stupendious day,  
When Charles through silver Thames did cut his way;  
Th'admiring Throngs did crowd to see him land,  
Covering the Beech, and blackening all the Strand.  
Who, lest our Bliss with him should cease,  
Has left us james, the pledge of future Peace;  
A Prince so great, so good,  
Allied to Charles in Virtue as in Blood!  
For this vast Trust he this great Hero chose,  
Bequeathed the whole supreme Command  
To his most Loyal hand  
Who did in Peace secure his Reign,  
And in most dangerous Wars his Power maintain.  
How soon he put the Northern Clouds to flight!  
And drove red Waves to Belgia's wondering shore  
When 'gainst fair Albion they did fight!  
He struck Confusion into Form and Light.  
How oft has Neptune him triumphing bore  
Asserting his dear Brother's Right,  
On whom the World does safely now repose▪   

II.  
Sure Heaven of this blessed time made choice,  
When all things smile and all rejoice;  
Tellus all o'er is clad with verdant green,  
And Paradise in every place is seen:  
The drowsy Flowers,  
Awaked by fruitful Showers,  
Now haste, and all their sweetness bring  
And offering to their most auspicious King.  
Hark! how the Nations Acclamations make,  
And happy Omens of his Empire take:  
With one united Voice they now rejoice,  
Long live! long live! their newborn King.  
And Io Paeans sing.    

Martial. Lib. 10. Epigr. 47. Vitam quae faciant beatorem.  By Mr. Wilson. 
WHat makes a happy Life? O what?  
A Fortune by Descent, not got;  
An answ'ring Farm, still smoking home;  
Dependence seldom, Lawsuits none:  
A Mind composed, a lively Soul,  
An active Body, round and whole;  
An open Plainness, but discreet,  
Friendship's agreeable and fit;  
No overcurious Bill of Fare,  
No drunken Nights, yet void of care;  
A merry Wife, and only yours,  
A Sleep that never tells the Hours;  
Contented with thy Destiny,  
And neither wish nor fear to die.   

A Pindaric Essay upon Music.  
By the same.— Nec vox hominem sonat.  

I.  
SOul of the World, Time's Rival (Music) who,  
First matter yet in Ovo wert,  
Who shall declare thy Offspring, or pursue,  
To keep Infinity in view?  
Fan●…y's short-winged, and earthy; my seeled Soul  
Bolts, but turns giddy in the start,  
And mounts she knows not whither:  
When the Almighty Fiat spread this whole,  
And poised the Base of the unerring frame,  
Fond of the first public employ,  
The Morning Stars, they sung together;  
And all the Sons of God shouted for joy; same.  
Then Music was with God, and only not the   

II.  
Now, as Infinity is unconfined,  
It filled each Angle of the whole,  
And as in broken glass, we find  
A thousand dat Shapes,  
All that came in shared of the liberal dole,  
The stintless Bounty gave not out by Scraps;  
Nothing went empty back, or sad,  
whate'er the Pitcher held, it had:  
All things looked great, not swollen, but bold and free,  
And (as 'twere) big with a Divinity;  
And what was that but Harmony;  
What all that beauteous Fabric of the Spheres?  
The night and days continued course?  
The gliding stream? the Ocean's source?  
The Birds wild Note? nay, all delight  
That ever fed the Eye, or charmed the Ear,  
But Sparks of the same Harmony, though less unite?   

III.  
Man was abashed, and well he might, that he,  
And he alone should be a Looker on,  
And yet not bear a part;  
Resolved he was, but 'twould not do,  
He slaged for want of Art:  
Until at length, sharp jubal, he began,  
He had observed his Brother Tubal Cain  
Hammer a Nail, and then a Shoe,  
The discord sounds provoked his thinking Soul  
To search, why loud, or deep; how flat or sharp:  
Long had he paused, but could not tell,  
Till having Scaled and Gammuted the whole,  
He tried it on a Concave Shell,  
And piece-meal found the Organ and the Harp:  
Struck was the Shepherd's God, and stole a Pipe,  
Yet single as it was, it laid an hundred eyes asleep.   

IV.  
To pass the Theban Artist, at whose call  
Stones moved, and danced themselves into a wall,  
And under which Mythology,  
Was civilised even Barbarity:  
Armed with his Harp alone, the Thracian Bard  
Attempts the Shades below:  
None asked him whence he came, or how,  
Or muttered what he was;  
All stood at gaze, and the bold stroke once heard,  
Even Hell had silence too,  
And yet made Holiday;  
The Wheel stood still; none plied the Sieve;  
The rolling stone was gathering Moss,  
The Vulture heeded not its Prey;  
His powerful hand did not persuade, but drive;  
He left no room for Thought: the sooty God  
Smoothed his rough Brow, and made the granting nod.  
And had th' enamoured done the same,  
His shy, fond Fool, had ne'er been scared;  
she'd stood, nay met him, shot him flame for flame,  
Nor fled the unknown-know-not-what she feared.   

V.  
Immured in Temples next it lay, and then  
The Praises of their Gods and mighty Men,  
Were only in request;  
What but the best could fit the best?  
Dilated thence to Kings and Prophets, he  
That took it up began to prophesy.  
Thus David danced before the Ark;  
And when the evil Spirit infested Saul  
He played, and the same Heavenborn Spark  
Informed his hand, and tuned the others Soul.  
Thus when before the Kings Elisha stood,  
Iehorams Gods had fret his Blood,  
But when the Minstrel played  
God's hand came on him, and he prophesied.  
What may'st thou not, that driv'st ill Spirits and call'st down good!  
And mak'st that All we see, or ever saw,  
One full-mouthed Diapason. Alleluja.    

Anacreon. To himself. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  By the same. 
I Care for neither Prince nor State,  
Nor this nor that great Potentate:  
Gold's not the thing that I adore,  
And envy not a Tyrant's Power:  
But this I care, to have my Beard  
With the most precious Unguents smeared;  
My careless Locks with Roses bound;  
My old Companion-Goblet crowned:  
Let me live free, and unperplexed  
This day, and take who will, the next.  
Then go to, while 'tis to day,  
Drown all your Cares in Wine and Play;  
Lest crazy grown, nor sickness proof,  
Doctors cry, Hold, you've drunk enough.   

Another. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  By the same. 
LEt others sing the Theban Wars,  
Or Troy's Destruction,  
But I will chant my own;  
And unconcerned at others Jars,  
Nor Horse, nor Foot, nor Ships, nor all  
That Arsenal, shall see me fall:  
No, No, when e'er Anacreon dies,  
His sullen Heart  
Will bear no dart  
But from his Mistress Eyes.   

Stradas Nightingale.  
By the same. jam sol è medio pronus d●…flexerat Orb, etc.  

Passed his Meridian was the Sun, each Beam  
Had spent its Vigour; when by Tyber's stream  
At at Oaks Foot a Lutenist did play,  
To ease his Thoughts, and pass the time away.   

Nor was he long unheard; above there stood  
A Nightingale, the Siren of the Wood;  
Muse of the place, poor harmless Siren, she  
Took the rebound, and jugging o'er, what he  
Had with his Fingers struck, her nimble Throat  
Echoes it back, and gives him Note for Note.   

Our Lutenist, that to her Airs had lent  
His Ear, perceiving what, and whom she meant,  
Resolves to make her sport; when straight he tries  
Each Peg, each string, and o'er 'em all he flies.   

Nor was she long behind, but running o'er  
Each Note of his, yes, and a thousand more,  
Gave him a taste of what she could, to show  
That even she could chirp a Prelude too.  
With that he took his Lute, and with a dash,  
'Twixt sport and scorn, he makes a careless Rash,  
Stops every Fret, and to each trembling string  
Gives a soft Beat; when presently again,  
With a sweet touch he strikes an even strain,  
And takes up all with his first Rash again.   

And here he pawsed, and now expects her part,  
Which she straight gives, and answers Art with Art.  
One while, as if she could not find her Throat,  
She plays it here and there with her field-note,  
And draws it out in length, to let him see  
Her discords too carried their Harmony.  
Then quavering out Division, with shrill  
And open Throat, gives every Note its Trill.   

He stood amazed (and well he might) to meet  
So small a Pipe, and yet a Note so sweet,  
So soft, so various, that he concludes, to get  
The Victory, he must run higher yet:  
And with it, changed his Cliffs; now sharp, then flat,  
Now Bass, then Treble; nor content with that,  
Jumbles his strings in such disordered Rattle,  
As if his Lute were to inform a Battle.   

Yet here she had him too; & while she stretched  
So shrill, yet clear, as if she meant t'ave raeacht  
A flight 'bove Ela; in a trice, with note  
As if 't were lost, and buried in her throat,  
Double De-sol-re low she sinks a Hum,  
'Twixt loud and deep, as humouring a Drum.   

Anger & Shame by this time stirred his blood;  
Nor shall my little Quirister o'th' Wood  
Carry it thus: Not conquer her? I'll do't,  
I'll do't he cried, or I will break my Lute:  
Nor said he more, when thundering amain  
A sprightly, bold, unimitable strain,  
His careless hand from this to that he flings,  
And runs it up, as he would crack the strings:  
From Bass to Tenor, Counter-tenor, Alt,  
His nimble Joints in quick Division vault;  
And not to leave one Note untouched upon,  
He closes all with a full Unison:  
And with it made as full a stop, and stood  
Expecting what his little Rival could:  
But she (poor Fool) though she was now become  
Quite hoarse, impatient yet to be o'ercome,  
Rallies her little strength, but all in vain;  
For while she offers at so high a strain,  
And strives to render with her single Throat  
The various Accents of such different Notes,  
Too weak (alas!) to bear her Grief, or do't,  
Dead, dead, she dropped upon the Conqueror's Lute.   

A sitting Sepulchre; such power upon  
Even little Souls, has Emulation.    

A Translation of the fourth Chorus in Seneca's Troas.  
Beginning at Dulce moerenti populus dolentum, etc.  By I. T. 
LEss are the Griefs we undergo,  
When they are felt by others too.  
Less are our Sorrows, less our Fears,  
The more our Company appears.  
Great Griefs, like Burdens, are more light,  
The more they are to share the weight:  
And none with Justice can refuse  
To bear the Fortune others use.  
When we see happier men, we grieve,  
And all our Sorrows are comparative.  
He only does his Fate bemoan,  
Who in a single Ship alone  
Has ploughed the Sea, and after some great wrack,  
With a light Ship and heavy Heart comes back.  
Who sees the Dangers of a sinking Fleet,  
Thinks not his Sufferings are so great:  
H'has this sad Comfort of his Misery,  
That all, as well as he, must die.  
When the proud Master of the Golden Fleece  
With his dear Burden crossed the Seas,  
Phryxus with Tears saw Helle drown;  
Well might he weep, when he was left alone.  
Thus, when the only honest Pair,  
That could our sinful Race repair,  
Of all Mankind alone remained,  
Each happy in the other, ne'er complained.  
So, by our Conqueror's when we're snatched away,  
A helpless, but a numerous Prey,  
The Wind shall scatter all our Tears,  
Our Numbers shall secure our Fears.  
What shall we say, when on the Deck we stand,  
And from afar behold the lessening Lund?  
What shall we think, when Ida's Tops grow less,  
And with the Seas our Fears increase?  
And when our Sons shall seek their Native Land,  
Each wretched Mother, pointing with her hand,  
(The Tears still trickling from her Eyes)  
Shall cry, See, yonder Ilium lies.  
Where those black Clouds of curling Smoke do rise.   

LYRICS.  By Ph. Ayres, Esq. 
To LOVE.  
LEt others sing of Mars and of his Train,  
Of great Exploits and honourable Scars,  
The dreadful dire Effects of civil Wars,  
Death's Triumphs and Encomiums of the slain:  
I sing the Conflicts I myself sustain,  
From her who is the cause of all my Care,  
Who wounds with Looks and fetters with her hair,  
This mournful Tale requires a tragic strain.  
Eyes were the Arms did first my Peace control,  
Wounded by them a source of Tears there sprung  
Instead of Blood, from my afflicted Soul.  
Thou Love, to whom this Conquest does belong,  
Leave me at last the comfort to condole;  
And as thou wouldst my Heart, inspire my Song.   

The REQUEST.  By the same. 
O Love! who in my Breasts most noble part  
Didst that fair Image lodge, that form divine,  
In whom the sum of heavenly Graces shine,  
And there engrav'st it with thy golden Dart;  
Now mighty Workman! help me by thy Art,  
(Since my dull Pen trembles to strike a Line)  
That I on Paper copy the design,  
By thee express so lively in my heart.  
Lend me, when I this great Attempt shall try,  
A Feather from thy Wing, that whilst to write  
My hand's employed, my Thoughts may soar on high:  
Thy Torch which fires our Hearts and burns so bright  
My darker Fancy, let its Flame supply,  
And through my numbers dart celestial Light.   

Part of the last Scene of Seneca's Troas done into English, Beginning at, Est una magna Turris è Trojá super, etc.  By I. T. 

THere is a Tower from the Flame's Fury free,  
Spared only for a greater Cruelty;  
On whose high top old Priam used to stand,  
And with his Eye and Voice our Troops command.  
Here with his Princely Grandchild oft he stood,  
And to the Boy his Father's Battles showed.  
This Tower has once our chiefest Bulwark been,  
'Tis now of Blood and Death the dismal Scene.  
Hither the giddy Rabble flocked to see  
With greedy eyes the helpless Infant die.  
From this high Tower a pretty distant space,  
A steep and lofty Hill commands the place;  
On that a Rock, on which the gazing Crowd,  
Big with the cruel Expectation, stood.  
On all the neighbouring Trees whole Armies sat,  
The loaded Branches cracked beneath their Weight.  
And one with haste some ragged Mount does climb,  
Another (O the sacrilegious Crime!)  
Hangs on great Hector's Tomb; One climbs a Wall,  
Which, with its wretched weight, does quickly fall,  
Lo! the Press breaks, and big with cruel Joy,  
The cursed Ulysses leads the Princely Boy.  
Th' undaunted Youth mounts fearless to the place,  
With Innocence triumphant in his face.  
When from the Tower he saw the gazing Rout,  
Round him he flung a scornful Look about.  
So some fierce Lion's Whelp, whose tender Age  
Has not as yet well armed his toothless Rage,  
With eager Fury whets his tender Claws,  
And tries the utmost anger of his Jaws.  
Thus fearless the young Captive thither came,  
And filled his cruel Murderers with shame.  
This when they saw, straight the relenting Crowd  
In sighs and tears proclaimed their Grief aloud:  
Nay, even Ulysses wept, and 'spight of all  
His Cruelty, resistless Tears did fall.  
Then, when the cruel Sacrifice was done,  
(Pitied by all, himself unmoved alone,)  
Down the deep Precipice himself he cast,  
And 'midst his Country's Ruins breathed his last.   

When this was done, at first the Rabble mourned,  
But to a greater Cruelty returned.  
With eager haste the barbarous Grecians come,  
And flock about the cursed Achilles Tomb.  
This place was destined for the Scene of Blood,  
On two near Hills the gazing Army stood,  
Between a fatal Valley stretched out wide,  
And Groves of Spears appear on every side.  
Here for the beauteous Maid they all attend;  
Some glad that with her Life their Fears must end;  
Most, that she was the last of Priam's Stock;  
Some seem to hate the Crimes on which they gladly look.  
And here and there a Trojan did appear,  
Who came to see her die, and shed a tear.   

Then through a Lane of Grecians, in a Row,  
Before the Bride five nuptial Torches go:  
Next Helen followed, hanging down her Head.  
(O may Hermione such a Husband wed!)   

Straight she appeared alone, with Looks might move  
Grief in each Trojan, in each Grecian Love.  
Her Eyes she turned with Virgin-blushes down,  
And in her face unusual Beauties shone;  
So Evening Blushes best adorn the Sun.  
Her Courage some, and some her Beauty praised,  
And all with various Passions strangely gazed,  
Some sad, some shamed, some weeping, all amazed.   

Thus in slow state the mournful Train was come,  
Where Pyrrhus standing on his Father's Tomb,  
With cruel Anger held the fatal Knife  
Prepared to cut the tender thread of Life.  
Fearless she looked her Murderer in the face,  
Whilst Fear and Horror filled around the Place.  
Moved at her godlike Constancy, he shook,  
And scarce had Courage left to give the Stroke.  
Straight, as the cruel Weapon reached her heart,  
A Spring of vital Blood did quickly start  
Through the wide Wound. She still outbraved her Fate,  
And made Achilles' Ashes groan beneath her weight.   

What Tongue the Grief and Horror can express  
Which did both Parties equally possess?  
In silent tears their Grief the Trojans showed;  
The howling Grecians spoke their sorrow loud.  
About the Tomb at first the Deluge flowed,  
And straight the thirsty Ashes drunk the sinking Blood.    

A POEM On the Death of our late Dread Sovereign, Charles the Second, of Blessed and Immortal Memory.  

Quo nil majus, meliusve terris  
Fata donavere, bonique Divi  
Nec dabunt, quamvis redeunt in aurum  
Tempora Priscum.  
Horat. de Aug. Caesare.   

I.  
'TIs fallen! the sacred Pile is fallen, and oh!  
How the Earth shook at the stupendious Blow!  
The trembling Rocks their strong Foundations shook,  
Their dismal caves were filled with horrid groans;  
And lo! the sad condoling moans  
Fright'ned the neighbouring hills around  
With the dismaying sound.  
The lofty'st Mount hung down its vast astonished head,  
And with impending terror cast a look  
That seemed to dread  
The dire event of such a fatal stroke.  
The wretched Albion's renowned shore,  
That not the terrifying sight  
Of Caesar's conquering Arms could fright,  
That had so many thousand Ages o'er,  
The wild impetuous rage of wreaking Tempests bore;  
Rending with Fear, methought looked paler than before.   

II.  
Oh! 'twas a dismal day!  
The heavens, 'tis true, were all serene & bright;  
The radiant Monarch of the starry host  
Shone with re-doubled Light;  
As well indeed the splendid sovereign might:  
For if, as learned Traditions say,  
Myriad of Hero's Souls adorn the milky way;  
Not since the fiery Atoms were  
Centred in one eternal burning sphere;  
Can the bright Ruler of Aetherial Air,  
So glorious, so divine a Constellation boast.  
But oh! when we our Guardian Angel lost,  
What Deluges of Tears the mournful World it cost!  
Distracted terror seized on every place,  
And wild amazement sat on every face:  
Swift as the Winds, and fatal too  
As the contagious drops of baleful Dew,  
Through distant Realms the dreadful Tidings flew.  
As o'er the blasted Fields, the kill Accents spread,  
That Charles, their Gracious Lord, the King was dead,  
The Tiller's Hands dropped from his labouring Plough;  
No more, he cried, the fertile Gleab I'll sow;  
For what, alas! avails the richest Harvest now!  
On the bleak Mountains Shepherds raving lay,  
And flung their well-filled Scrips and tuneful Pipes away.  
On the steep Cliffs of dangerous Rocks,  
Their once-loved Kids, and tender Flocks,  
To every Wolf exposed an easy Prey,  
Bleating their Sorrows, wandered far astray.  
Round his young Darlings' Neck the reverend Sire,  
(With horror struck, and ready to expire)  
His trembling Limbs, for a support, he spread,  
But from his lovely Face turned off his aged head,  
Unable and unfit to undergo  
The bitter weight of their united Woe.  
With Hair dishevelled, & their Garments torn,  
Afflicted Matrons wished their Babes unborn:  
Unkindly snatched from the soft Breast,  
Where they were fond lulled all night to rest,  
And with full Lux'ry wantoned all the day,  
The poor neglected Infants weeping lay;  
They both involved in one sad Fate appeared,  
The tears of both unpitied, their loud Cries unheard.  
ne'er sure was Man lamented so before;  
In the small Plains of ●…oab was alone  
The hideous Pomp of Sorrow shown,  
When Israel did the Death of their best Kings deplore.  
But now, behold! every wild barbarous shore  
Does the insufferable loss of our dear Prince bemoan;  
So well were, through all Realms, his Godlike Virtues known.  
Blended together in the dismal Lot,  
Our very Griefs were with our Joys forgot:  
The vilest Poverty, and worst of pain,  
Oppressed the starving indigent in vain;  
The raging Stone, and every sad Disease,  
Like spreading Plagues, did greater torments seize.  
He fell, alas! as the devouring Serpent rose;  
That dire Calamity did all the rest depose.  
As when in Darkness deep as ancient night,  
The sudden blaze of a consuming Light,  
With Ruin, Spoil, and livid Flames, burns down,  
The towering Fabrics of a stately Town:  
When melting Shrines & solemn Temples rise,  
Like blazing Meteors in the threatened Skies,  
Such were the shrieks of Woe, such the bewailing Cries.  
And oh! when Fate sealed the loved Monarch's doom,  
Both Fire and Sword, & Pestilence were come,  
Till our new Prophet raised his mighty hand,  
Subdued the Host of Plagues, and healed the groaning Land.   

III.  
Deep were the marks of Grief in every face,  
That bore the stamp of humane Race:  
With Adoration to the sacred shade,  
A Subject's Tribute every Subject paid.  
But oh! what Heart could bear, what Tongue express,  
The racking torture, and forlorn distress,  
The Royal Mourners felt that woeful day,  
When the dear Peace of all Mankind departing lay!  
The gorgeous Palace all around  
With shining Architraves was richly crowned,  
And 〈◊〉 of burnished Gold the wealthy Pil●…●…own'd;  
With Ada●…t, and every precious Stone,  
The high ●…lted awful Throne,  
Magnificent, with ●…eaming Glory shone  
Bright, as the Imperial seat of deathless Gods:  
Yet in a moment 〈◊〉 the blessed Abodes,  
Without the Pomp 〈◊〉 ●…onious Woe,  
Black, dismal, loathed as the d●…d shades below.  
Senseless as Statues, in deep 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 ●…nd,  
Stood all the sad Attendants 〈◊〉  
In Floods of their own tears, like stre●… tains drowned.  
Not when inexorable Death  
Seized her imperial Lord's last gasp of ●…eath,  
The precious Corpse so pale and ghastly lay,  
As when the fair unspotted face  
Of the dear Partner of his Royal Bed;  
Drops, such as Angels weep, the holy Consort shed.  
And knowing well the way  
To the bright Throne of everlasting Grace,  
With never-ceasing Supplications prayed  
To the good Gods, for their propitious Aid.  
Zealous and fervent at Heaven's Gate she stood,  
With ardent Raptures, interceding more  
For that one precious Life, than when the flood  
Had swept the face of Earth, and at the sacred Shrine  
Of honoured Themis, Pyrrha did implore  
The Powers divine,  
They would again the perished Race of Man restore.  
Tho often she before,  
But for short Absence had endured the smart  
Which Bodies feel when from their Souls they part;  
In that deplorable emergent horror,  
Grief, like her gracious Lord's Disease,  
Did her rend Heart so violently seize;  
Which nearest was the Grave could scarce be seen,  
The dying Monarch, or the living Queen.   

IV.  
But now at length, although omitted long,  
And willingly indeed delayed,  
Must by my bold, adventurous Song,  
Its homage, where ●…t is most due, be paid.  
But how the Scene of horror can be wrought  
Enough tormenting to the sight or thought,  
Tell me, ye sacred Powers that know;  
If you yourselves the misery can show,  
And humane Soul the sad Infusion bear.  
To tears abandoned, and hard Grief forlorn,  
How did the Royal Pair their parting mourn!  
What Desolation, vehement Despair,  
And sighing Tempests filled the groaning Air!  
Tho noblest Courage his great Soul does arm,  
Against the fear of any mortal harm;  
And even then, the Loyal james did show  
Brave and mignificent in mighty ●…oe:  
What furious Torrents burst his gushing Eyes,  
When he cried out— the King!— Oh my loved Brother dies!  
The last dear gasp of Breath, and dying Groan,  
He took, when he had scarce another of his own;  
Tho from the Minute that Great Charles was dead,  
A glorious Crown descended on his Head,  
And three vast Realms his awful Sceptre swayed.  
Who that beheld him (scarce of Mortal Birth)  
Grovelling in dust and tears, upon the Earth,  
Would ●…ot believe, so much the change had cost,  
He at that Moment the World's Empire lost?  
Nay, even when it was too late  
To grieve against irrevocable Fate;  
When the blessed King was raised, from dark abodes  
To the bright Synod of immortal Gods;  
His tender Passion, and fraternal Love,  
Like a declining Tempest strove;  
Still in his Breast the rolling Surges move,  
As if his Regal Ornaments were more  
Envenomed than the poisoned Robe Alcides wore.   

V.  
Who could have thought, the Mighty Charles so well  
Supported, could so soon have fell?  
While the brave Prince in rugged War, did wield  
With dauntless Courage his magestick shield;  
And as of old, Anchises pious Son  
Through flaming Arms, to save a Father run;  
Tho Death he often met i'th' dreaded forms  
Of fiercest Battles and the loudest Storms;  
Such reverent Homage did his Valour draw,  
The deformed Tyrant still he kept in awe.  
But oh! what treacherous Fate  
Does on the best of humane Glories wait!  
Whilst smiling Cupid's round his Head did play;  
As in the midst of flowing Joys he lay,  
The grisly Monster seized the noble Prey.  
So when in dead of night,  
All things, but Lust and Envy, are on earth  
Silent, as e'er from Chaos, light  
Or motion took its sacred Birth;  
And suddenly a strong invading Foe  
With swift approach of dismal Woe  
From secret Ambush rusheth on  
A fearless and unguarded Town.  
In Death the murdered sleepers roll their eyes,  
To everlasting Death awake with hideous Cries;  
And by unmanly force the brave ignobly dies.  
In vain to Heaven assembling Prophets call,  
In vain, alas! with barbarous Arts did all  
Apollo's learned'st Sons obstruct his Fall.  
Tho long the reverend lofty tree has stood  
On Aeta's top, the glory of the Wood,  
And oft the wildest Tempests foiled; one stroke  
From Jove's vast Trident, rives the sacred Oak.  
But surely Fate of common Vengeance weary grows,  
And seeks new Magazines of blacker Woes;  
A tyrannous strength she cruelly imparts,  
That we, with fiercer pangs, may break our Hearts:  
For, as from the supreme sovereign head  
The baleful Juice through all the Body's spread;  
Straight, when the sad disease Great Charles had struck  
With dire Convulsions, the whole Nation shook.  
But, when the blooming hopes of Life returned,  
No longer the disastrous Fate we mourned;  
Dilated Spirits filled our enlarged souls,  
And joy flowed in, with wild impetuous rowls.  
But oh! to the unfathomed dark Abyss of Hell,  
Down from the highest Pinnacle of Heaven we fell!  
While, like the wretched Thracian Bard,  
(Our toil's as great, and destiny as hard)  
We thought we had redeemed the Royal Prize;  
The glorious Vision ravished from our eyes.   

VI  
Howl on, ye vile detested murmuring Race,  
Your God's dishonour, & your King's disgrace;  
Shave your rebellious Heads, in Ashes roll,  
And gnash your wide devouring Jaws, ye foul  
degenerate Race, and ever howl.  
Dead is the wondrous Prince, whose sacred hand  
By Miracles was raised to bless the Land:  
God's own eternal Arm must sure have rose  
For deeds so glorious, had not his been chose.  
Contagious Plagues as ere Philistines felt,  
Long in our impious loathsome Egypt dwelled:  
The Royal Prophet came, and all were cured:  
But still their hardened hearts endured;  
And his triumphant Patience those inur'd.  
To Moloch's bloody Idol, the sad Cries  
Of barbarous humane Sacrifice,  
In spite of their grim sounds, ascend the skies.  
Here, as in Tophet or Gehinnon, stood  
The savage Blutton gorged in Blood:  
But lo! from his bright Sceptre, as a charming rod,  
Did a new Miracle arise:  
A purple Lake 'tis now no more,  
To crystal Streams is turned the putrid gore.  
Our well-●…ig'd Isle in gathering Storms was tossed,  
It's sacred Pilot in the Tempest lost;  
And in a mad devouring Sea,  
Like a vast shipwrecked Hull, this floating Delos lay.  
But Charles, the mighty Ruler of the Flood,  
Triumphant o'er the swelling Billows rod;  
Three Realms his Trident, he our mortal God.  
Safely we now, as in close Harbour ride;  
Great Britain's Glory, and the Ocean's Pride  
Braving the rage of Land and Sea, it stands  
Firm, as the Continents his Sword commands.  
Then what can mildest Justice all  
Those Rebel earthborn Monsters call;  
Who in return of such stupendious Love,  
With vile Ingratitude not only striven  
Against the power of their Imperial jove;  
But impiously sought the divine Monarch's fall.  
So the bright Regent of eternal day  
Does round the Earth his Orient Beams display;  
The vital Lamp warms the prolific Juice,  
And animates all things of noblest use.  
Thence springs the towering Cedar, lofty Pine,  
The branching Palm, and purple Vine;  
Yet from the blessed Influence of the skies,  
Does the vile putrid race of Toads & Vipers rise.   

VII.  
Pardon, thou royal, meek, propitious Shade,  
The humble Offering my Tears have made;  
Forgive my Zeal, if on thy peaceful Urn  
Sad Incense with unhallowed hands I burn,  
Unpractio'd, and unskilled in tuneful Numbers, mourn.  
Such loose unsinewed disproportioned Verse,  
The mournful tale of Sorrow may rehearse.  
But oh! if I must sing  
Th' amazing Glories of my gracious King;  
Whither, my Muse! O whither wilt thou fly?  
Couldst thou, on mounting Wing, Olympus high,  
To Sinai's mystic Head, or Oreb soar?  
Alas! those sacred Oracles are now no more!  
Nor shalt thou deign to hear the frantic dreams  
Of Delphic Furies, or Castalian Streams.  
Yet sure, without the sacred Fire  
Which bright Ideas did of old inspire,  
No mortal hand a Monument can raise  
Commensurate to Charles his godlike Praise.  
On a small Stone may be inscribed his Name,  
But the long story of his endless Fame  
Will want a Pyramid,  
As high as Heaven the top, as Earth the Basis wide.  
'Tis a vast trackless Ocean; all around  
No shore, no land, no end is found.  
The glorious scale appears before my Eyes  
With bright Angelic forms, I see it rise,  
And mounted the top rounds, above the starry skies.  
Behold, the fair Heroic train  
Does in Eternal Circles move;  
And like Fate's everlasting well— wrought Chain,  
Is fixed to the immortal Throne of deathless jove.   

VIII.  
Ye radiant Sons of uncreated Light,  
Who, with melodious Hymns, day without night;  
Time without end, to the most High,  
Your loud Hosannas cry:  
Ye beauteous Spirits, who so oft above,  
Have met in Festivals of Joy and Love;  
Say, for the stunning sounds you bore,  
When the bright Saint arrived your blessed shore,  
If such a Voice of Triumph e'er was heard before.  
Filled with surpassing wonder and delight  
At the amazing sight;  
Their golden Harps the winged Musicians strung;  
Through the Celestial Choir, each warbling Tongue,  
With holy Rapture Hallelujahs sung:  
The heavens, and all the Constellations round,  
Did to th' ascending Pomp resound;  
The universal Orb with joyful Paeans rung.  
Scarce had his flaming Guard passed by  
The gloomy Regions of the darker sky,  
But straight through all the Host of Heaven  
Was the loud Signal given:  
Far as the atmost hallowed Limits; round  
Th' Angelic Camp, was heard the potent sound:  
The shining Warriors hastened all  
To their bright Hierarches Imperial Call.  
Flags, Pennons, Banners, Van and Rear,  
Embellished thick with Gems, streamed in Ambrosian Air.  
Oh could our mortal eyes have seen  
The watchful Cherubin  
Open the everlasting Gate;  
And have beheld in what a blissful state,  
How glorified, th' applauded sovereign road  
Through the wide ample Road  
Of wondering Angels, to the Seat of God  
On Adamantine Columns hung,  
Thick as Hyblean swarms, the bright seraphic Throng;  
And as he passed along,  
With ardent looks on their new Saint they gazed,  
And his transcendent Glories loudly praised.  
When round his blessed anointed Head,  
In mystic forms, the royal drops were shed;  
The high Eternal Priest his Temples graced  
With Crowns of Crysolite that never waste.  
And scarce the starry Zone  
Was by the holy ministering hand put on,  
But straight, through the wide Continent of spacious Heaven  
Were shouts of highest Acclamation given:  
With sweetest breath of charming Symphonies,  
Carols of Joy, and loud Thanksgiving Cries,  
The glorious Host proclaimed him ever blest  
In that eternal Paradise of Rest.   

IX.  
Guard us, ye sacred Powers! and guard your own  
Immortal, Empyreal Throne;  
Lest, as Idolaters of old,  
Great Charles his dazzling Brightness we behold,  
And the Celestial Globe so long admire,  
Till we fall down in Adoration to the glorious fire.  
Sure the Almighty God  
Consulted with himself, and said,  
He not in Nature's common road,  
But as their first great Parent, shall be made;  
So the Divine Particle from his own Essence flowed.  
To make his Image eminently great,  
He trusted not to the slight hand of Fate,  
But to his own ineffable Idea, sat.  
Oh might we worship now the Powers divine  
In any outward form! then surely thine,  
As God's best Mirror, should, Great Charles, be mine.  
Of intellectual first causes we,  
Nothing but by effects can see;  
And heavens most lovely Attributes were all in thee.  
When most severe, around his awful Throne,  
With dawning beams th' exalted Cherub shone,  
Easie and placable his bending ear  
The softest Voice of Misery did hear.  
When his vile Subjects any Crimes had done,  
They safely to their injured sovereign run;  
As if the upright Judge had heard a Cause  
That violated God's and Nature's Laws:  
Divine Compassion in his Looks appeared,  
And long his just Decree the gracious King deferred.  
Favour unsought, and such prevenient Grace,  
With cheerful Majesty adorned his Face,  
That scarcely was the Mercy-seat of God  
More mild, than the indulgent Throne on which he trod.   

X.  
Tell me! oh tell me, all ye withered Scrowls,  
Egyptian Records of Dynastian Race;  
Imperial Rome, that loudly from of old  
The deeds of your illustrious Hero's told;  
And thou, O Time! whose envious brazen rowls  
Do all Memorials but thy own deface;  
Tell me, if e'er Humanity so well,  
So gloriously suffered! reigned! and fell!  
Oh! had he flourished in the Ages past,  
Eternal Triumphs would their King have graced  
In every shining, Capitol had stood  
Honours divine adored him as he road;  
His House a Temple, and himself a God.  
And sure if Mortal ere deserved the Name,  
His Virtues might demand the glorious claim;  
In Dignity born next to heavenly Race,  
Humble and open as the Throne of Grace!  
His Rods and Axes were beheld by few;  
He saved more Subject's Lives than Sylla slew!  
Nor were his moral Gifts alone confined;  
Rich was the soil of his capacious Mind:  
How, when unbent from Cares, at hours of ease,  
The great Dictator would inform or please!  
Tho sharp and pointed as his Sword, how sweet  
And mild he ruled his Monarchy of Wit!  
So tenderly the sovereign sway he bore,  
None wished him less, though no man could have more.  
Never my humble and obedient Ear  
The sacred Oracle but once did hear;  
And oh! methought a light divine  
Did round his beaming Temples shine!  
Sense of new Joy to my charmed Soul was given,  
And the blessed sound as of a Voice from Heaven!  
Nor did the clear sagacious King excel  
In speaking only, but in judging well:  
Conspicuous, venerable, and great,  
As high in Knowledge as in Power he sat.  
Learning and Arts still flourished round his Throne,  
As well they might; for they were all his own:  
In noblest Sciences so much renowned,  
As he for Wisdom only had been crowned.  
Great jove himself his darling Prince endowed,  
And him his own Prerogative allowed:  
That divine Blessing granted but to few;  
From his own Head, his wi●…e and warlike Pallas grew.   

XI.  
But these, though graceful, raise but common fame  
Compared to Glories which attend his Name:  
That heavens peculiar Mercy might be shown;  
To all the World its Lord anointed known;  
His Maker trebly marked him for his own.  
To Empire born; he long in Exile mourned;  
But like triumphant royal Oar he burned,  
And with more lustre to his Realms returned.  
He came, and lo! with his Imperial Crown,  
Such Honour, Peace, and Plenty showered down,  
That he on his ingrateful Land bestowed  
Blessings as great as upon him the God.  
So much these Nations did his Bounty share,  
A Realm of People all his favourites were.  
When his mild hand had stopped the sulphurous Breath  
Of savage War, that gorged the Jaws of Death,  
And had destroyed that vile Cadmean Brood  
Who bathed their Swords in their own reaking Blood,  
And doubly died 'em in a Royal Flood;  
His Temples never opened but when Heaven  
Was praised, and their rebellious Sins forgiven:  
With what endearing Arts he always strove  
To gain a wicked murmuring People's Love!  
Succoured their dangers all, and led 'em through  
A wild Abyss and Wilderness of Woe!  
Tho they so oft provoked his sacred Ire,  
His heavenly Covenant did ne'er expire;  
Their leading Cloud by day, by night their lambent Fire.  
No sort of Misery but he repealed;  
The diseased looked up to him, and were healed.  
When their flagitious Crimes so numerous were,  
That he, like Eastern Kings, might have been Heir  
To forfeit Realms, forgave the share.  
And yet when by his Charge our fruitful Nile,  
With pregnant Surge enriches all the Isle,  
And the World's Wealth flows in with every tide,  
How barbarously were his Wants denied!  
Through his own precious Wounds, the generous Palm,  
To cure his People gave 'em sovereign Balm!  
When he in danger sat upon his Throne,  
Mourned the dear Partner of his Woes alone,  
Their Kindred and Estates were all their own!  
Oh may the Laws of God and Man depart  
From my immortal Soul, and in my Heart  
No glad Remembrance of blessed Joy remain;  
But run a savage with the bestial Race,  
If ever I forget the dying Scene!  
How tenderly he with his parting Breath,  
(Inherent Love! unutterable Grace!)  
Midst all the Agonies and racking Pain  
Of a tormenting hard convulsive death;  
Did his dear Pledge to his loved Heir bequeath!  
Calm as Favonian Winds, when Halcyon's breed,  
To his twin-star these potent Realms decreed!  
Govern 'em well, the yielding Monarch cried;  
Then on his balmy Nest the lovely Phoenix died!  
With Peace and Goodness died so very full,  
His Body took Impressions from his Soul:  
The Royal Entrails fair unspotted shined,  
With purple orient Spirits, and divined  
The wondrous Blessing in Great james we find.  
And well were their auspicious Omens made  
Of Joys, whose vast Foundations Charles has laid.  
With untaught Hymns and loud immortal Lays,  
Ages unborn shall bless his peaceful days,  
And make three Kingdoms one large House of Praise.  
Learn hence, ye mortal Potentates, who boast  
Of Mansolean Tombs and Memphian Cost;  
Learn how t' embalm an everlasting Name  
That may outlive those mouldering works of Fame.  
Tho dead, Great Charles! his Godlike Virtues shall  
Bravely revenge their renowned Masters Fall!  
His deathless Praise, with the unwearied Sun,  
Bright as his Beams, round the wide Earth will run,  
Till drawing near to this dissolving frame,  
The sulphurous Bowels of the Deep inflame;  
Till in vast Flakes the fervid Surges roll  
Through heavens wide Battlements, from Pole to Pole;  
And in a Deluge of tempestuous Fire,  
With his Illustrious Name the World expire.    
FINIS.