Examen poeticum being the third part of miscellany poems containing variety of new translations of the ancient poets, together with many original copies by the most eminent hands.
      
       
         
           1693
        
      
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             Examen poeticum being the third part of miscellany poems containing variety of new translations of the ancient poets, together with many original copies by the most eminent hands.
             Dryden, John, 1631-1700.
             Fracastoro, Girolamo, 1478-1553. Syphilis.
             Tate, Nahum, 1652-1715.
          
           [42], 468, [16], 84 p.
           
             Printed by R.E. for Jacob Tonson,
             London :
             1693.
          
           
             First edition.
             Syphilis, written in Latin ... Englished by Mr. Tate appears on the 84 pages at end.
             Third in a series of miscellanies published by Tonson, 1684-1709 containing many contributions by Mr. Dryden and others. Five other volumes published under various titles.
             Known also as "Tonson's Miscellany."
             Reproduction of original in Harvard University Libraries.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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           Syphilis -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
     
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                 Examen
                 Poeticum
              
               :
               BEING
               THE
               THIRD
               PART
               OF
               Miscellany
               Poems
               .
            
             
               Containing
               Variety
               of
               NEW
               TRANSLATIONS
               OF
               THE
               
                 Ancient
                 Poets
              
               .
            
             
               Together
               with
               many
               ORIGINAL
               COPIES
               ,
               BY
               THE
               
                 Most
                 Eminent
                 Hands
              
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Haec
                   potior
                   soboles
                   :
                   hine
                   Coeli
                   tempore
                   certo
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Dulcia
                   mella
                   premes
                   .
                
                 —
              
               
                 Virgil.
                 Geor.
                 4.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 
                   In
                   medium
                   quaesita
                   reponunt
                
                 .
              
               
                 Ibid.
                 
              
            
             
               LONDON
               :
               Printed
               by
               
                 R.
                 E
              
               for
               
                 Jacob
                 Tonson
              
               ,
               at
               the
               
                 Judges
                 Head
              
               in
               Chancery-Lane
               ,
               near
               Fleetstreet
               .
               M
               DC
               XCIII
               .
            
          
           
             
             
             
               THE
               THIRD
               PART
               OF
               Miscellany
               Poems
               .
            
          
           
             
             
             
               TO
               THE
               Right
               Honourable
               ,
               MY
               Lord
               RADCLIFFE
               .
            
             
               
                 My
                 Lord
                 ,
              
            
             
               THese
               Miscellany
               Poems
               ,
               are
               by
               many
               Titles
               yours
               .
               The
               first
               they
               claim
               from
               your
               accepttance
               of
               my
               Promise
               to
               present
               them
               to
               you
               ;
               before
               some
               of
               them
               were
               yet
               in
               being
               .
               The
               rest
               are
               deriv'd
               from
               your
               own
               Merit
               ,
               the
               exactness
               of
               your
               Judgment
               in
               Poetry
               ,
               and
               the
               candour
               of
               your
               Nature
               ;
               easie
               to
               forgive
               some
               trivial
               faults
               when
               they
               come
               accompanied
               ,
               with
               countervailing
               Beauties
               .
               But
               after
               all
               ,
               though
               these
               are
               your
               equitable
               claims
               to
               a
               Dedication
               from
               other
               Poets
               ,
               yet
               I
               must
               acknowledge
               a
               Bribe
               in
               the
               case
               ,
               which
               is
               your
               particular
               liking
               of
               my
               Verses
               .
               'T
               is
               
               a
               vanity
               common
               to
               all
               Writers
               ,
               to
               over-value
               their
               own
               productions
               ;
               and
               't
               is
               better
               for
               me
               to
               own
               this
               failing
               in
               my self
               ,
               than
               the
               World
               to
               do
               it
               for
               me
               .
               For
               what
               other
               Reason
               have
               I
               spent
               my
               Life
               in
               so
               unprofitable
               a
               Study
               ?
               Why
               am
               I
               grown
               Old
               ,
               in
               seeking
               so
               barren
               a
               Reward
               as
               Fame
               ?
               The
               same
               Parts
               and
               Application
               ,
               which
               have
               made
               me
               a
               Poet
               ,
               might
               have
               rais'd
               me
               to
               any
               Honours
               of
               the
               Gown
               ,
               which
               are
               often
               given
               to
               Men
               of
               as
               little
               Learning
               and
               less
               Honesty
               than
               mv
               self
               .
               No
               Government
               has
               ever
               been
               ,
               or
               ever
               can
               be
               ,
               wherein
               Time-servers
               and
               Blockheads
               will
               not
               be
               uppermost
               .
               The
               Persons
               are
               only
               chang'd
               ,
               but
               the
               same
               juglings
               in
               State
               ,
               the
               same
               Hypocrisie
               in
               Religion
               ,
               the
               same
               Self-Interest
               ,
               and
               Mis-mannagement
               ,
               will
               remain
               for
               ever
               .
               Blood
               and
               Mony
               will
               be
               lavish'd
               in
               all
               Ages
               ,
               only
               for
               the
               Preferment
               of
               new
               Faces
               ,
               with
               old
               Consciences
               .
               There
               is
               too
               often
               a
               Jaundise
               in
               the
               Eyesof
               Great
               Men
               ;
               they
               see
               not
               those
               whom
               they
               raise
               ,
               in
               the
               same
               Colours
               with
               other
               Men.
               All
               whom
               they
               affect
               ,
               look
               Golden
               to
               them
               ;
               when
               the
               Gilding
               is
               only
               in
               
               their
               own
               distemper'd
               Sight
               .
               These
               Considerations
               ,
               have
               given
               me
               a
               kind
               of
               Contempt
               for
               those
               who
               have
               risen
               by
               unworthy
               ways
               .
               I
               am
               not
               asham'd
               to
               be
               Little
               ,
               when
               I
               see
               them
               so
               Infamously
               Great
               .
               Neither
               ,
               do
               I
               know
               ,
               why
               the
               Name
               of
               Poet
               should
               be
               Dishonourable
               to
               me
               ;
               if
               I
               am
               truly
               one
               ,
               as
               I
               hope
               I
               am
               ;
               for
               I
               will
               never
               do
               any
               thing
               ,
               that
               shall
               dishonour
               it
               .
               The
               Notions
               of
               Morality
               are
               known
               to
               all
               Men
               :
               None
               can
               pretend
               Ignorance
               of
               those
               Idea's
               which
               are
               In-born
               in
               Mankind
               :
               and
               if
               I
               see
               one
               thing
               ,
               and
               practise
               the
               contrary
               ,
               I
               must
               be
               Disingenuous
               ,
               not
               to
               acknowledge
               a
               clear
               Truth
               ,
               and
               Base
               to
               Act
               against
               the
               light
               of
               my
               own
               Conscience
               .
               For
               the
               Reputation
               of
               my
               Honesty
               ,
               no
               Man
               can
               question
               it
               ,
               who
               has
               any
               of
               his
               own
               :
               For
               that
               of
               my
               Poetry
               ,
               it
               shall
               either
               stand
               by
               its
               own
               Merit
               ;
               or
               sall
               for
               want
               of
               it
               .
               Ill
               Writers
               are
               usually
               the
               sharpest
               Censors
               :
               For
               they
               (
               as
               the
               best
               Poet
               ,
               and
               the
               best
               Patron
               said
               )
               ,
               when
               in
               the
               full
               perfection
               of
               decay
               ,
               turn
               Vinegar
               ,
               and
               come
               again
               in
               Play.
               Thus
               the
               corruption
               of
               a
               Poet
               ,
               is
               the
               Generation
               of
               a
               Critick
               :
               I
               mean
               of
               a
               
               Critick
               in
               the
               general
               acceptation
               of
               this
               Age
               :
               For
               formerly
               they
               were
               quite
               another
               Species
               of
               Men.
               They
               were
               Defendors
               of
               Poets
               ,
               and
               Commentators
               on
               their
               Works
               :
               to
               Illustrate
               obscure
               Beauties
               ;
               to
               place
               some
               passages
               in
               a
               better
               light
               ,
               to
               redeem
               others
               from
               malicious
               Interpretations
               :
               to
               help
               out
               an
               Author's
               Modesty
               ,
               who
               is
               not
               ostentatious
               of
               his
               Wit
               ;
               and
               ,
               in
               short
               ,
               to
               shield
               him
               from
               the
               Ill-Nature
               of
               those
               Fellows
               ,
               who
               were
               then
               call'd
               Zoili
               ,
               and
               Momi
               ,
               and
               now
               take
               upon
               themselves
               the
               Venerable
               Name
               of
               Censors
               .
               But
               neither
               Zoilus
               ,
               nor
               he
               who
               endeavour'd
               to
               defame
               Virgil
               ,
               were
               ever
               Adopted
               into
               the
               Name
               of
               Criticks
               by
               the
               Ancients
               :
               what
               their
               Reputation
               was
               then
               ,
               we
               know
               ;
               and
               their
               Successours
               in
               this
               Age
               deserve
               no
               better
               .
               Are
               our
               Auxiliary
               Forces
               turn'd
               our
               Enemies
               ?
               Are
               they
               ,
               who
               ,
               at
               best
               ,
               are
               but
               Wits
               of
               the
               Second
               Order
               ,
               and
               whose
               only
               Credit
               amongst
               Readers
               ,
               is
               what
               they
               obtain'd
               by
               being
               subvervient
               to
               the
               Fame
               of
               Writers
               ,
               are
               these
               become
               Rebels
               of
               Slaves
               ,
               and
               Usurpers
               of
               Subjects
               ;
               or
               to
               speak
               in
               the
               most
               Honourable
               Terms
               of
               
               them
               ,
               are
               them
               from
               our
               Seconds
               ,
               become
               Principals
               against
               us
               ?
               Does
               the
               Ivy
               undermine
               the
               Oke
               ,
               which
               supports
               its
               weakness
               ?
               What
               labour
               wou'd
               it
               cost
               them
               to
               put
               in
               a
               better
               Line
               ,
               than
               the
               worst
               of
               those
               which
               they
               expunge
               in
               a
               True
               Poet
               ?
               Petronius
               ,
               the
               greatest
               Wit
               perhaps
               of
               all
               the
               Romans
               ,
               yet
               when
               his
               Envy
               prevail'd
               upon
               his
               Judgment
               ,
               to
               fall
               on
               Lucan
               ,
               he
               fell
               himself
               in
               his
               attempt
               :
               He
               perform'd
               worse
               in
               his
               Essay
               of
               the
               Civil
               War
               ,
               than
               the
               Authour
               of
               the
               Pharsalia
               :
               and
               avoiding
               his
               Errours
               ,
               has
               made
               greater
               of
               his
               own
               .
               
                 Julius
                 Scaliger
              
               ,
               wou'd
               needs
               turn
               down
               Homer
               ,
               and
               Abdicate
               him
               ,
               after
               the
               possession
               of
               Three
               Thousand
               Years
               :
               Has
               he
               succeeded
               in
               his
               Attempt
               ?
               He
               has
               indeed
               shown
               us
               some
               of
               those
               Imperfections
               in
               him
               ,
               which
               are
               incident
               to
               Humane
               Kind
               :
               But
               who
               had
               not
               rather
               be
               that
               Homer
               than
               this
               Scaliger
               ?
               You
               see
               the
               same
               Hypercritick
               ,
               when
               he
               endeavours
               to
               mend
               the
               beginning
               of
               Claudian
               ,
               (
               a
               faulty
               Poet
               ,
               and
               Living
               in
               a
               Barbarous
               Age
               ;
               )
               yet
               how
               short
               he
               comes
               of
               him
               ,
               and
               substitutes
               such
               Verses
               of
               his
               own
               ,
               as
               deserve
               the
               Ferula
               .
               What
               a
               Censure
               
               has
               he
               made
               of
               Lucan
               ,
               that
               he
               rather
               seems
               to
               Bark
               than
               Sing
               ?
               Wou'd
               any
               but
               a
               Dog
               ,
               have
               made
               so
               snarling
               a
               Comparison
               ?
               One
               wou'd
               have
               thought
               ,
               he
               had
               Learn'd
               Latin
               ,
               as
               late
               as
               they
               tell
               us
               he
               did
               Greek
               .
               Yet
               he
               came
               off
               ,
               with
               a
               
                 pace
                 tuâ
              
               ,
               by
               your
               good
               leave
               ,
               Lucan
               ;
               he
               call'd
               him
               not
               by
               those
               outrageous
               Names
               ,
               of
               Fool
               ,
               Booby
               ,
               and
               Blockhead
               :
               He
               had
               somewhat
               more
               of
               good
               Manners
               ,
               than
               his
               Successours
               ,
               as
               he
               had
               much
               more
               Knowledge
               .
               We
               have
               two
               sorts
               of
               those
               Gentlemen
               ,
               in
               our
               Nation
               :
               Some
               of
               them
               proceeding
               with
               a
               seeming
               moderation
               and
               pretence
               of
               Respect
               ,
               to
               the
               Dramatick
               Writers
               of
               the
               last
               Age
               ,
               only
               scorn
               and
               vilifie
               the
               present
               Poets
               ,
               to
               set
               up
               their
               Predecessours
               .
               But
               this
               is
               only
               in
               appearance
               ;
               for
               their
               real
               design
               is
               nothing
               less
               ,
               than
               to
               do
               Honour
               to
               any
               Man
               ,
               besides
               themselves
               .
               Horace
               took
               notice
               ,
               of
               such
               Men
               in
               his
               Age
               :
               
                 Non
                 Ingeniis
                 favet
                 ille
                 ,
                 Sepultis
                 ;
                 nostra
                 sed
                 impugnat
                 ;
                 nos
                 nostraque
                 lividus
                 odit
                 .
              
               'T
               is
               not
               with
               an
               ultimate
               intention
               to
               pay
               Reverence
               to
               the
               Manes
               of
               
                 Shakespear
                 ,
                 Fletcher
              
               ,
               and
               
                 Ben
                 Johnson
              
               ,
               that
               they
               commend
               their
               Writings
               ,
               but
               
               to
               throw
               Dirt
               on
               the
               Writers
               of
               this
               Age
               :
               Their
               Declaration
               is
               one
               thing
               ,
               and
               their
               Practice
               is
               another
               .
               By
               a
               seeming
               veneration
               to
               our
               Fathers
               ,
               they
               wou'd
               thrust
               out
               us
               their
               Lawful
               Issue
               ,
               and
               Govern
               us
               themselves
               ,
               under
               a
               specious
               pretence
               of
               Reformation
               .
               If
               they
               could
               compass
               their
               intent
               ,
               what
               wou'd
               Wit
               and
               Learning
               get
               by
               such
               a
               change
               ?
               If
               we
               are
               bad
               Poets
               ,
               they
               are
               worse
               ;
               and
               when
               any
               of
               their
               woful
               pieces
               come
               abroad
               ,
               the
               difference
               is
               so
               great
               betwixt
               them
               and
               good
               Writers
               ,
               that
               there
               need
               no
               Criticisms
               on
               our
               part
               to
               decide
               it
               .
               When
               they
               describe
               the
               Writers
               of
               this
               Age
               ,
               they
               draw
               such
               monstrous
               figures
               of
               them
               ,
               as
               resemble
               none
               of
               us
               :
               Our
               pretended
               Pictures
               are
               so
               unlike
               ,
               that
               't
               is
               evident
               we
               never
               sate
               to
               them
               :
               They
               are
               all
               Grotesque
               ;
               the
               products
               of
               their
               wild
               Imaginations
               ,
               things
               out
               of
               Nature
               ,
               so
               far
               from
               being
               Copy'd
               from
               us
               ,
               that
               they
               resemble
               nothing
               that
               ever
               was
               ,
               or
               ever
               can
               be
               .
               But
               there
               is
               another
               sort
               of
               Insects
               ,
               more
               venomous
               than
               the
               former
               .
               Those
               who
               manifestly
               aim
               at
               the
               destruction
               of
               our
               Poetical
               Church
               and
               State.
               Who
               allow
               nothing
               
               to
               their
               Country-Men
               ,
               either
               of
               this
               or
               of
               the
               former
               Age.
               These
               attack
               the
               Living
               by
               raking
               up
               the
               Ashes
               of
               the
               Dead
               .
               Well
               knowing
               that
               if
               they
               can
               subvert
               their
               Original
               Title
               to
               the
               Stage
               ,
               we
               who
               claim
               under
               them
               ,
               must
               fall
               of
               course
               .
               Peace
               be
               to
               the
               Venerable
               Shades
               of
               Shakespear
               ,
               and
               
                 Ben
                 Johnson
              
               :
               None
               of
               the
               Living
               will
               presume
               to
               have
               any
               competition
               with
               them
               :
               as
               they
               were
               our
               Predecessours
               ,
               so
               they
               were
               our
               Masters
               .
               We
               Trayl
               our
               Plays
               under
               them
               :
               but
               ,
               (
               as
               at
               the
               Funerals
               of
               a
               Turkish
               Emperour
               ,
               )
               our
               Ensigns
               are
               furl'd
               ,
               or
               dragg'd
               upon
               the
               ground
               ,
               in
               Honour
               to
               the
               Dead
               ;
               so
               we
               may
               lawfully
               advance
               our
               own
               ,
               afterwards
               ,
               to
               show
               that
               we
               succeed
               :
               If
               less
               in
               Dignity
               ,
               yet
               on
               the
               same
               Foot
               and
               Title
               ,
               which
               we
               think
               too
               ,
               we
               can
               maintain
               ,
               against
               the
               Insolence
               of
               our
               own
               Janizaries
               .
               If
               I
               am
               the
               Man
               ,
               as
               I
               have
               Reason
               to
               believe
               ,
               who
               am
               seemingly
               Courted
               ,
               and
               secretly
               Undermin'd
               :
               I
               think
               I
               shall
               be
               able
               to
               defend
               my'self
               ,
               when
               I
               am
               openly
               Attacqu'd
               .
               And
               to
               shew
               besides
               ,
               that
               the
               Greek
               Writers
               only
               gave
               us
               the
               Rudiments
               of
               a
               Stage
               ,
               which
               they
               never
               
               finish'd
               .
               That
               many
               of
               the
               Tragedies
               in
               the
               former
               Age
               amongst
               us
               ,
               were
               without
               Comparison
               beyond
               those
               of
               Sophocles
               and
               Euripides
               .
               But
               at
               present
               ,
               I
               have
               neither
               the
               leisure
               nor
               the
               means
               for
               such
               an
               Undertaking
               .
               'T
               is
               ill
               going
               to
               Law
               for
               an
               Estate
               ,
               with
               him
               who
               is
               in
               possession
               of
               it
               ,
               and
               enjoys
               the
               present
               Profits
               ,
               to
               feed
               his
               Cause
               .
               But
               the
               
                 quantum
                 mutatus
              
               may
               be
               remember'd
               in
               due
               time
               .
               In
               the
               mean
               while
               I
               leave
               the
               World
               to
               judge
               ,
               who
               gave
               the
               Provocation
               .
            
             
               This
               ,
               my
               Lord
               ,
               is
               ,
               I
               confess
               ,
               a
               long
               digression
               ,
               from
               
                 Miscellany
                 Poems
              
               to
               
                 Modern
                 Tragedies
              
               :
               But
               I
               have
               the
               ordinary
               Excuse
               of
               an
               Injur'd
               Man
               ,
               who
               will
               be
               telling
               his
               Tale
               unseasonably
               to
               his
               Betters
               .
               Though
               at
               the
               same
               time
               ,
               I
               am
               certain
               you
               are
               so
               good
               a
               Friend
               ,
               as
               to
               take
               a
               Concern
               in
               all
               things
               which
               belong
               to
               one
               who
               so
               truly
               Honours
               you
               .
               And
               besides
               ,
               being
               your self
               a
               Critick
               of
               the
               Genuine
               sort
               ,
               who
               have
               Read
               the
               best
               Authours
               ,
               in
               their
               own
               Languages
               ,
               who
               perfectly
               distinguish
               of
               their
               several
               Merits
               ,
               and
               in
               general
               prefer
               them
               to
               the
               Moderns
               ,
               yet
               ,
               I
               know
               ,
               you
               judge
               
               for
               the
               English
               Tragedies
               ,
               against
               the
               Greek
               and
               Latin
               ,
               as
               well
               as
               against
               the
               
                 French
                 ,
                 Italian
              
               and
               Spanish
               ,
               of
               these
               latter
               Ages
               .
               Indeed
               there
               is
               a
               vast
               difference
               ,
               betwixt
               arguing
               like
               Perault
               ,
               in
               behalf
               of
               the
               French
               Poets
               ,
               against
               Homer
               and
               Virgil
               ,
               and
               betwixt
               giving
               the
               English
               Poets
               their
               undoubted
               due
               ,
               of
               excelling
               
                 AEschylus
                 ,
                 Euripides
              
               ,
               and
               Sophocles
               .
               For
               if
               we
               or
               our
               greater
               Fathers
               ,
               have
               not
               yet
               brought
               the
               Drama
               to
               an
               absolute
               Perfection
               ,
               yet
               at
               least
               we
               have
               carried
               it
               much
               farther
               than
               those
               Ancient
               Greeks
               ;
               who
               beginning
               from
               a
               Chorus
               ,
               cou'd
               never
               totally
               exclude
               it
               ,
               as
               we
               have
               done
               ,
               who
               find
               it
               an
               unprofitable
               incumbrance
               ,
               without
               any
               necessity
               of
               Entertaining
               it
               amongst
               us
               ;
               and
               without
               the
               possibility
               of
               establishing
               it
               here
               ,
               unless
               it
               were
               supported
               by
               a
               Publick
               Charge
               .
               Neither
               can
               we
               accept
               of
               those
               Lay-Bishops
               ,
               as
               some
               call
               them
               ,
               who
               under
               pretence
               of
               reforming
               the
               Stage
               ,
               wou'd
               intrude
               themselves
               upon
               us
               ,
               as
               our
               Superiours
               ,
               being
               indeed
               incompetent
               Judges
               of
               what
               is
               Manners
               ,
               what
               Religion
               ,
               and
               least
               of
               all
               ,
               what
               is
               Poetry
               and
               Good
               Sense
               .
               I
               can
               tell
               them
               in
               
               behalf
               of
               all
               my
               Fellows
               ,
               that
               when
               they
               come
               to
               Exercise
               a
               Jurisdiction
               over
               us
               ,
               they
               shall
               have
               the
               Stage
               to
               themselves
               ,
               as
               they
               have
               the
               Lawrel
               .
               As
               little
               can
               I
               grant
               ,
               that
               the
               French
               Dramatick
               Writers
               ,
               excel
               the
               English
               :
               Our
               Authours
               as
               far
               surpass
               them
               in
               Genius
               ,
               as
               our
               Souldiers
               Excel
               theirs
               in
               Courage
               :
               'T
               is
               true
               ,
               in
               Conduct
               they
               surpass
               us
               either
               way
               :
               Yet
               that
               proceeds
               not
               so
               much
               from
               their
               greaterKnowledge
               ,
               as
               from
               the
               difference
               of
               Tasts
               in
               the
               two
               Nations
               .
               They
               content
               themselves
               with
               a
               thin
               Design
               ,
               without
               Episodes
               ,
               and
               manag'd
               by
               few
               Persons
               .
               Our
               Audience
               will
               not
               be
               pleas'd
               ,
               but
               with
               variety
               of
               Accidents
               ,
               an
               Underplot
               ,
               and
               many
               Actours
               .
               They
               follow
               the
               Ancients
               too
               servilely
               ,
               in
               the
               Mechanick
               Rules
               ,
               and
               we
               assume
               too
               much
               License
               to
               our selves
               ,
               in
               keeping
               them
               only
               in
               view
               ,
               at
               too
               great
               a
               distance
               .
               But
               if
               our
               Audience
               had
               their
               Tasts
               ,
               our
               Poets
               could
               more
               easily
               comply
               with
               them
               ,
               than
               the
               French
               Writers
               cou'd
               come
               up
               to
               the
               Sublimity
               of
               our
               Thoughts
               ,
               or
               to
               the
               difficult
               variety
               of
               our
               Designs
               .
               However
               it
               be
               ,
               I
               dare
               establish
               it
               for
               a
               Rule
               of
               
               Practice
               on
               the
               Stage
               ,
               that
               we
               are
               bound
               to
               please
               those
               ,
               whom
               we
               pretend
               to
               Entertain
               :
               And
               that
               at
               any
               price
               ,
               Religion
               and
               Good
               Manners
               only
               excepted
               .
               And
               I
               care
               not
               much
               ,
               if
               I
               give
               this
               handle
               ,
               to
               our
               bad
               Illiterate
               Poetasters
               ,
               for
               the
               defence
               of
               their
               SCRIPTIONS
               as
               they
               call
               them
               .
               There
               is
               a
               sort
               of
               Merit
               in
               delighting
               the
               Spectatours
               ;
               which
               is
               a
               Name
               more
               proper
               for
               them
               ,
               than
               that
               of
               Auditours
               :
               Or
               else
               Horace
               is
               in
               the
               wrong
               ,
               when
               he
               commends
               Lucilius
               for
               it
               .
               But
               these
               common
               places
               I
               mean
               to
               Treat
               at
               greater
               leisure
               :
               In
               the
               mean
               time
               ,
               submitting
               that
               little
               I
               have
               said
               ,
               to
               your
               Lordship's
               Approbation
               ,
               or
               your
               Censure
               ,
               and
               chusing
               rather
               to
               Entertain
               you
               this
               way
               ,
               as
               you
               are
               a
               Judge
               of
               Writing
               ,
               than
               to
               oppress
               your
               Modesty
               ,
               with
               other
               Commendations
               ,
               which
               though
               they
               are
               your
               due
               ,
               yet
               wou'd
               not
               be
               equally
               receiv'd
               ,
               in
               this
               Satirical
               ,
               and
               Censorious
               Age.
               That
               which
               cannot
               without
               Injury
               be
               deny'd
               to
               you
               ,
               is
               the
               easiness
               of
               your
               Conversation
               ,
               far
               from
               Affectation
               or
               Pride
               :
               not
               denying
               even
               to
               Enemies
               ,
               their
               just
               Praises
               .
               And
               this
               ,
               if
               I
               wou'd
               dwell
               
               on
               any
               Theme
               of
               this
               Nature
               ,
               is
               no
               vulgar
               Commendation
               to
               your
               Lordship
               .
               Without
               Flattery
               ,
               my
               Lord
               ,
               you
               have
               it
               in
               your
               Nature
               ,
               to
               be
               a
               Patron
               and
               Encourager
               of
               Good
               Poets
               ,
               but
               your
               Fortune
               has
               not
               yet
               put
               into
               your
               Hands
               the
               opportunity
               of
               expressing
               it
               .
               What
               you
               will
               be
               hereafter
               ,
               may
               be
               more
               than
               guess'd
               ,
               by
               what
               you
               are
               at
               present
               .
               You
               maintain
               the
               Character
               of
               a
               Nobleman
               ,
               without
               that
               Haughtiness
               which
               generally
               attends
               too
               many
               of
               the
               Nobility
               ,
               and
               when
               you
               Converse
               with
               Gentlemen
               ,
               you
               forget
               not
               that
               you
               have
               been
               of
               their
               Order
               .
               You
               are
               Marryed
               to
               the
               Daughter
               of
               a
               King
               ,
               who
               ,
               amongst
               her
               other
               high
               Perfections
               ,
               has
               deriv'd
               from
               him
               a
               Charming
               Behaviour
               ,
               a
               winning
               Goodness
               ,
               and
               a
               Majestick
               Person
               .
               The
               Muses
               and
               the
               Graces
               are
               the
               Ornaments
               of
               your
               Family
               .
               While
               the
               Muse
               Sings
               ,
               the
               Grace
               accompanies
               her
               Voice
               :
               even
               the
               Servants
               of
               the
               Muses
               have
               sometimes
               had
               the
               Happiness
               to
               hear
               her
               ;
               and
               to
               receive
               their
               Inspirations
               from
               her
               .
            
             
               I
               will
               not
               give
               my self
               the
               liberty
               of
               going
               farther
               ;
               for'tis
               so
               sweet
               to
               wander
               in
               
               a
               pleasing
               way
               ,
               that
               I
               shou'd
               never
               arrive
               at
               my
               Journeys
               end
               .
               To
               keep
               my self
               from
               being
               belated
               in
               my
               Letter
               ,
               and
               tiring
               your
               Attention
               ,
               I
               must
               return
               to
               the
               place
               where
               I
               was
               setting
               out
               .
               I
               humbly
               Dedicate
               to
               your
               Lordship
               ,
               my
               own
               Labours
               in
               this
               Miscellany
               :
               At
               the
               same
               time
               ,
               not
               arrogating
               to
               my self
               the
               Priviledge
               ,
               of
               Inscribing
               to
               you
               ,
               the
               Works
               of
               others
               who
               are
               join'd
               with
               me
               ,
               in
               this
               undertaking
               ;
               over
               which
               I
               can
               pretend
               no
               right
               .
               Your
               Lady
               and
               You
               have
               done
               me
               the
               favour
               to
               hear
               me
               Read
               my
               Translations
               of
               Ovid
               :
               And
               you
               both
               seem'd
               not
               to
               be
               displeas'd
               with
               them
               .
               Whether
               it
               be
               the
               partiality
               of
               an
               Old
               Man
               to
               his
               Youngest
               Child
               ,
               I
               know
               not
               :
               But
               they
               appear
               to
               me
               the
               best
               of
               all
               my
               Endeavours
               in
               this
               kind
               .
               Perhaps
               this
               Poet
               ,
               is
               more
               easie
               to
               be
               Translated
               ,
               than
               some
               others
               ,
               whom
               I
               have
               lately
               attempted
               :
               Perhaps
               too
               ,
               he
               was
               more
               according
               to
               my
               Genius
               .
               He
               is
               certainly
               more
               palatable
               to
               the
               Reader
               ,
               than
               any
               of
               the
               Roman
               Wits
               ,
               though
               some
               of
               them
               are
               more
               lofty
               ,
               some
               more
               Instructive
               ,
               and
               others
               more
               Correct
               .
               He
               had
               Learning
               enough
               to
               make
               him
               
               equal
               to
               the
               best
               .
               But
               as
               his
               Verse
               came
               easily
               ,
               he
               wanted
               the
               toyl
               of
               Application
               to
               amend
               it
               .
               He
               is
               often
               luxuriant
               ,
               both
               in
               his
               Fancy
               and
               Expressions
               ;
               and
               as
               it
               has
               lately
               been
               observ'd
               ,
               not
               always
               Natural
               .
               If
               Wit
               be
               pleasantry
               ,
               he
               has
               it
               to
               excess
               :
               but
               if
               it
               be
               propriety
               ,
               
                 Lucretius
                 ,
                 Horace
              
               ,
               and
               above
               all
               Virgil
               are
               his
               Superiours
               .
               I
               have
               said
               so
               much
               of
               him
               already
               ,
               in
               my
               Preface
               to
               his
               Heroical
               Epistles
               ,
               that
               there
               remains
               little
               to
               be
               added
               in
               this
               place
               .
               For
               my
               own
               part
               ,
               I
               have
               endeavour'd
               to
               Copy
               his
               Character
               what
               I
               cou'd
               in
               this
               Translation
               ,
               even
               perhaps
               ,
               farther
               than
               I
               shou'd
               have
               done
               ;
               to
               his
               very
               Faults
               .
               Mr.
               Chapman
               in
               his
               Translation
               of
               Homer
               ,
               professes
               to
               have
               done
               it
               somewhat
               paraphrastically
               ;
               and
               that
               on
               set
               purpose
               ;
               his
               Opinion
               being
               ,
               that
               a
               good
               Poet
               is
               to
               be
               Translated
               in
               that
               manner
               .
               I
               remember
               not
               the
               Reason
               which
               he
               gives
               for
               it
               :
               But
               I
               suppose
               it
               is
               ,
               for
               fear
               of
               omitting
               any
               of
               his
               Excellencies
               :
               sure
               I
               am
               ,
               that
               if
               it
               be
               a
               Fault
               ,
               't
               is
               much
               more
               pardonable
               ,
               than
               that
               of
               those
               ,
               who
               run
               into
               the
               other
               extream
               ,
               of
               a
               litteral
               ,
               and
               close
               Translation
               ,
               where
               the
               Poet
               is
               confin'd
               
               so
               streightly
               to
               his
               Author's
               Words
               ,
               that
               he
               wants
               elbow-room
               ,
               to
               express
               his
               Elegancies
               .
               He
               leaves
               him
               obscure
               ;
               he
               leaves
               him
               Prose
               ,
               where
               he
               sound
               him
               Verse
               .
               And
               no
               better
               than
               thus
               has
               Ovid
               been
               serv'd
               by
               the
               so
               much
               admir'd
               Sandys
               .
               This
               is
               at
               least
               the
               Idea
               which
               I
               have
               remaining
               of
               his
               Translation
               ;
               for
               I
               never
               Read
               him
               since
               I
               was
               a
               Boy
               .
               They
               who
               take
               him
               upon
               Content
               ,
               from
               the
               Praises
               which
               their
               Fathers
               gave
               him
               ;
               may
               inform
               their
               Judgment
               by
               Reading
               him
               again
               :
               And
               see
               ,
               (
               if
               they
               understand
               the
               Original
               )
               what
               is
               become
               of
               
               Ovid's
               Poetry
               ,
               in
               his
               Version
               ;
               whether
               it
               be
               not
               all
               ,
               or
               the
               greatest
               part
               of
               it
               evaporated
               .
               But
               this
               proceeded
               from
               the
               wrong
               Judgment
               of
               the
               Age
               in
               which
               he
               Liv'd
               :
               They
               neither
               knew
               good
               Verse
               ,
               nor
               lov'd
               it
               ;
               they
               were
               Scholars
               't
               is
               true
               ,
               but
               they
               were
               Pedants
               .
               And
               for
               a
               just
               Reward
               of
               their
               Pedantick
               pains
               ,
               all
               their
               Translations
               want
               to
               be
               Translated
               ,
               into
               English.
               
            
             
               If
               I
               Flatter
               not
               my self
               ,
               or
               if
               my
               Friends
               have
               not
               Flatter'd
               me
               ,
               I
               have
               given
               my
               Author's
               Sense
               ,
               for
               the
               most
               part
               truly
               :
               for
               to
               mistake
               sometimes
               ,
               is
               incident
               to
               all
               
               Men
               :
               And
               not
               to
               follow
               the
               Dutch
               Commentatours
               alwaies
               ,
               may
               be
               forgiven
               to
               a
               Man
               ,
               who
               thinks
               them
               ,
               in
               the
               general
               ,
               heavy
               gross-witted
               Fellows
               ;
               fit
               only
               to
               gloss
               on
               their
               own
               dull
               Poets
               .
               But
               I
               leave
               a
               farther
               Satire
               on
               their
               Wit
               ,
               till
               I
               have
               a
               better
               opportunity
               ,
               to
               shew
               how
               much
               I
               Love
               and
               Honour
               them
               .
               I
               have
               like
               wise
               attempted
               to
               restore
               Ovid
               to
               his
               Native
               sweetness
               ,
               easiness
               ,
               and
               smoothness
               ;
               and
               to
               give
               my
               Poetry
               a
               kind
               of
               Cadence
               ,
               and
               ,
               as
               we
               call
               it
               ,
               a
               run
               of
               Verse
               ,
               as
               like
               the
               Original
               ,
               as
               the
               English
               can
               come
               up
               to
               the
               Latin
               ;
               As
               he
               seldom
               uses
               any
               Synalephas
               ,
               so
               I
               have
               endeavour'd
               to
               avoid
               them
               ,
               as
               often
               as
               I
               cou'd
               :
               I
               have
               likewise
               given
               him
               his
               own
               turns
               ,
               both
               on
               the
               Words
               and
               on
               the
               Thought
               :
               Which
               I
               cannot
               say
               are
               inimitable
               ,
               because
               I
               have
               Copyed
               them
               :
               and
               so
               may
               others
               ,
               if
               they
               use
               the
               same
               diligence
               :
               But
               certainly
               they
               are
               wonderfully
               Graceful
               in
               this
               Poet.
               Since
               I
               have
               Nam'd
               the
               Synalepha
               ,
               which
               is
               the
               cutting
               off
               one
               Vowel
               ,
               immediately
               before
               another
               ,
               I
               will
               give
               an
               Example
               of
               it
               ,
               from
               
                 Chapman's
                 Homer
              
               which
               
               lyes
               before
               me
               ;
               for
               the
               benefit
               of
               those
               who
               understand
               not
               the
               
                 Latine
                 Prosodia
              
               .
               'T
               is
               in
               the
               first
               Line
               of
               the
               Argument
               to
               the
               First
               Iliad
               .
               
                 
                   Apollo
                   
                     's
                     Priest
                     to
                     th'
                  
                   Argive
                   
                     Fleet
                     doth
                     bring
                  
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
            
             
               There
               we
               see
               he
               makes
               it
               not
               the
               Argive
               ,
               but
               th'
               Argive
               ,
               to
               shun
               the
               shock
               of
               the
               two
               Vowels
               ,
               immediately
               following
               each
               other
               .
               But
               in
               his
               Second
               Argument
               ,
               in
               the
               same
               Page
               ,
               he
               gives
               a
               bad
               Example
               of
               the
               quite
               contrary
               kind
               :
               
                 
                   Alpha
                   
                     the
                     Pray'r
                     of
                  
                   Chryses
                   Sings
                   :
                
                 
                   
                     The
                     Army's
                     Plague
                     ,
                     the
                     Strife
                     of
                     Kings
                     .
                  
                
              
            
             
               In
               these
               word
               
                 the
                 Armies
                 ,
                 the
              
               ending
               with
               a
               Vowel
               ,
               and
               Armies
               beginning
               with
               another
               Vowel
               ,
               without
               cutting
               off
               the
               first
               ,
               which
               by
               it
               had
               been
               th'
               Armies
               ,
               there
               remains
               a
               most
               horrible
               ill-sounding-gap
               betwixt
               those
               Words
               .
               I
               cannot
               say
               ,
               that
               I
               have
               every
               way
               observ'd
               the
               Rule
               of
               this
               Synalepha
               ,
               in
               my
               Translation
               ;
               but
               wheresoever
               I
               have
               not
               ,
               't
               is
               a
               fault
               in
               sound
               :
               The
               
               French
               and
               Italians
               have
               made
               it
               an
               inviolable
               Precept
               in
               their
               versification
               ;
               thereinfollowing
               the
               severe
               Example
               of
               the
               Latin
               Poets
               .
               Our
               Countrymen
               have
               not
               yet
               Reform'd
               their
               Poetry
               so
               far
               ;
               but
               content
               themselves
               with
               following
               the
               Licentious
               Practice
               of
               the
               Greeks
               ;
               who
               though
               they
               sometimes
               use
               Synalepha's
               ,
               yet
               make
               no
               difficulty
               very
               often
               ,
               to
               sound
               one
               Vowel
               upon
               another
               ;
               as
               Homer
               does
               ,
               in
               the
               very
               first
               line
               of
               Alpha.
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
               .
               'T
               is
               true
               ,
               indeed
               ,
               that
               in
               the
               second
               line
               ,
               in
               these
               words
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
               ,
               and
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
               ,
               the
               Synalepha
               in
               revenge
               is
               twice
               observ'd
               .
               But
               it
               becomes
               us
               ,
               for
               the
               sake
               of
               Euphony
               ,
               rather
               
                 Musas
                 colere
                 severiores
              
               ,
               with
               the
               Romans
               ;
               than
               to
               give
               into
               the
               looseness
               of
               the
               Grecians
               .
            
             
               I
               have
               tir'd
               my self
               ,
               and
               have
               been
               summon'd
               by
               the
               Press
               to
               send
               away
               this
               Dedication
               ;
               otherwise
               I
               had
               expos'd
               some
               other
               faults
               ,
               which
               are
               daily
               committed
               by
               our
               English
               Poets
               ;
               which
               ,
               with
               care
               and
               observation
               ,
               might
               be
               amended
               .
               For
               after
               all
               ,
               our
               Language
               is
               both
               Copious
               ,
               Significant
               ,
               and
               Majestical
               ;
               and
               might
               be
               reduc'd
               into
               
               a
               more
               harmonious
               sound
               .
               But
               for
               want
               of
               Publick
               Encouragement
               ,
               in
               this
               
                 Iron
                 Age
              
               ,
               we
               are
               so
               far
               from
               making
               any
               progress
               in
               the
               improvement
               of
               our
               Tongue
               ,
               that
               in
               few
               years
               ,
               we
               shall
               Speak
               and
               Write
               as
               Barbarously
               as
               our
               Neighbours
               .
            
             
               Notwithstanding
               my
               haste
               ,
               I
               cannot
               forbear
               to
               tell
               your
               Lordship
               ,
               that
               there
               are
               two
               fragments
               of
               Homer
               Translated
               in
               this
               Miscellany
               ;
               one
               by
               Mr.
               Congreve
               (
               whom
               I
               cannot
               mention
               without
               the
               Honour
               which
               is
               due
               to
               his
               Excellent
               Parts
               ,
               and
               that
               entire
               Affection
               which
               I
               bear
               him
               ;
               )
               and
               the
               other
               by
               my self
               .
               Both
               the
               Subjects
               are
               pathetical
               ;
               and
               I
               am
               sure
               my
               Friend
               has
               added
               to
               the
               Tenderness
               which
               he
               found
               in
               the
               Original
               ;
               and
               ,
               without
               Flattery
               ,
               surpass'd
               his
               Author
               .
               Yet
               I
               must
               needs
               say
               this
               in
               reference
               to
               Homer
               ,
               that
               he
               is
               much
               more
               capable
               of
               exciting
               the
               Manly
               Passions
               ,
               than
               those
               of
               Grief
               and
               Pity
               .
               To
               cause
               Admiration
               ,
               is
               indeed
               the
               proper
               and
               adequate
               design
               of
               an
               Epick
               Poem
               :
               And
               in
               that
               he
               has
               Excell'd
               even
               Virgil.
               Yet
               ,
               without
               presuming
               to
               Arraign
               our
               Master
               ,
               I
               may
               venture
               to
               affirm
               ,
               that
               he
               is
               somewhat
               too
               Talkative
               ,
               
               and
               more
               than
               somewhat
               too
               digressive
               .
               This
               is
               so
               manifest
               ,
               that
               it
               cannot
               be
               deny'd
               ,
               in
               that
               little
               parcel
               which
               I
               have
               Translated
               ,
               perhaps
               too
               literally
               :
               There
               Andromache
               in
               the
               midst
               of
               her
               Concernment
               ,
               and
               Fright
               for
               Hector
               ,
               runs
               off
               her
               Biass
               ,
               to
               tell
               him
               a
               Story
               of
               her
               Pedigree
               ,
               and
               of
               the
               lamentable
               Death
               of
               her
               Father
               ,
               her
               Mother
               ,
               and
               her
               Seven
               Brothers
               .
               The
               Devil
               was
               in
               Hector
               ,
               if
               he
               knew
               not
               all
               this
               matter
               ,
               as
               well
               as
               she
               who
               told
               it
               him
               ;
               for
               she
               had
               been
               his
               Bed-fellow
               for
               many
               Years
               together
               :
               And
               if
               he
               knew
               it
               ,
               then
               it
               must
               be
               confess'd
               ,
               that
               Homer
               in
               this
               long
               digression
               ,
               has
               rather
               given
               us
               his
               own
               Character
               ,
               than
               that
               of
               the
               Fair
               Lady
               whom
               he
               Paints
               .
               His
               Dear
               Friends
               the
               Commentators
               ,
               who
               never
               fail
               him
               at
               a
               pinch
               ,
               will
               needs
               excuse
               him
               ,
               by
               making
               the
               present
               Sorrow
               of
               Andromache
               ,
               to
               occasion
               the
               remembrance
               of
               all
               the
               past
               :
               But
               others
               think
               that
               she
               had
               enough
               to
               do
               with
               that
               Grief
               which
               now
               oppress'd
               her
               ,
               without
               running
               for
               assistance
               to
               her
               Family
               .
               Virgil
               ,
               I
               am
               confident
               ,
               wou'd
               have
               omitted
               such
               a
               work
               of
               supererrogation
               .
               But
               Virgil
               had
               the
               Gift
               of
               expressing
               much
               
               in
               little
               ,
               and
               sometimes
               in
               silence
               :
               For
               though
               he
               yielded
               much
               to
               Homer
               in
               Invention
               ,
               he
               more
               Excell'd
               him
               in
               his
               Admirable
               Judgment
               .
               He
               drew
               the
               Passion
               of
               Dido
               for
               Eneas
               ,
               in
               the
               most
               lively
               and
               most
               natural
               Colours
               that
               are
               imaginable
               :
               Homer
               was
               ambitious
               enough
               of
               moving
               pity
               ;
               for
               he
               has
               attempted
               twice
               on
               the
               same
               subject
               of
               
               Hector's
               death
               :
               First
               ,
               when
               Priam
               ,
               and
               Hecuba
               beheld
               his
               Corps
               ,
               which
               was
               drag'd
               after
               the
               Chariot
               of
               Achilles
               ;
               and
               then
               in
               the
               Lamentation
               which
               was
               made
               over
               him
               ,
               when
               his
               Body
               was
               redeem'd
               by
               Priam
               ;
               and
               the
               same
               Persons
               again
               bewail
               his
               death
               with
               a
               Chorus
               of
               others
               to
               help
               the
               cry
               .
               But
               if
               this
               last
               excite
               Compassion
               in
               you
               ,
               as
               I
               doubt
               not
               but
               it
               will
               ,
               you
               are
               more
               oblig'd
               to
               the
               Translatour
               than
               the
               Poet.
               For
               Homer
               ,
               as
               I
               observ'd
               before
               ,
               can
               move
               rage
               better
               than
               he
               can
               pity
               :
               He
               stirs
               up
               the
               irascible
               appetite
               ,
               as
               our
               Philosophers
               call
               it
               ,
               he
               provokes
               to
               Murther
               ,
               and
               the
               destruction
               of
               God's
               Images
               ;
               he
               forms
               and
               equips
               those
               ungodly
               Man
               killers
               ,
               whom
               we
               Poets
               ,
               when
               we
               flatter
               them
               ,
               call
               Heroes
               ;
               
               a
               race
               of
               Men
               who
               can
               never
               enjoy
               quiet
               in
               themselves
               ,
               'till
               they
               have
               taken
               it
               from
               all
               the
               World.
               This
               is
               
               Homer's
               Commendation
               ,
               and
               such
               as
               it
               is
               ,
               the
               Lovers
               of
               Peace
               ,
               or
               at
               least
               of
               more
               moderate
               Heroism
               ,
               will
               never
               Envy
               him
               .
               But
               let
               Homer
               and
               Virgil
               contend
               for
               the
               Prize
               of
               Honour
               ,
               betwixt
               themselves
               ,
               I
               am
               satisfied
               they
               will
               never
               have
               a
               third
               Concurrent
               .
               I
               wish
               Mr.
               Congreve
               had
               the
               leisure
               to
               Translate
               him
               ,
               and
               the
               World
               the
               good
               Nature
               and
               Justice
               ,
               to
               Encourage
               him
               in
               that
               Noble
               Design
               ,
               of
               which
               he
               is
               more
               capable
               than
               any
               Man
               I
               know
               .
               The
               Earl
               of
               Mulgrave
               ,
               and
               Mr.
               Waller
               ,
               two
               the
               best
               Judges
               of
               our
               Age
               ,
               have
               assur'd
               me
               ,
               that
               they
               cou'd
               never
               Read
               over
               the
               Translation
               of
               Chapman
               ,
               without
               incredible
               Pleasure
               ,
               and
               extreme
               Transport
               .
               This
               Admiration
               of
               theirs
               ,
               must
               needs
               proceed
               from
               the
               Author
               himself
               :
               For
               the
               Translator
               has
               thrown
               him
               down
               as
               low
               ,
               as
               harsh
               Numbers
               ,
               improper
               English
               ,
               and
               a
               monstrous
               length
               of
               Verse
               cou'd
               carry
               him
               .
               What
               then
               wou'd
               he
               appear
               in
               the
               Harmonious
               Version
               ,
               of
               one
               of
               the
               best
               Writers
               ,
               Living
               in
               a
               much
               better
               
               Age
               than
               was
               the
               last
               ?
               I
               mean
               for
               versification
               ,
               and
               the
               Art
               of
               Numbers
               ;
               for
               in
               the
               Drama
               we
               have
               not
               arriv'd
               to
               the
               pitch
               of
               Shakespear
               and
               
                 Ben
                 Johnson
              
               .
               But
               here
               ,
               my
               Lord
               ,
               I
               am
               forc'd
               to
               break
               off
               abruptly
               ,
               without
               endeavouring
               at
               a
               Compliment
               in
               the
               close
               .
               This
               Miscellany
               ,
               is
               without
               dispute
               one
               of
               the
               best
               of
               the
               kind
               ,
               which
               has
               hitherto
               been
               extant
               in
               our
               Tongue
               .
               At
               least
               ,
               as
               Sir
               
                 Samuel
                 Tuke
              
               has
               said
               before
               me
               ,
               a
               Modest
               Man
               may
               praise
               what
               's
               not
               his
               own
               .
               My
               Fellows
               have
               no
               need
               of
               any
               Protection
               ,
               but
               I
               humbly
               recommend
               my
               part
               of
               it
               ,
               as
               much
               as
               it
               deserves
               ,
               to
               your
               Patronage
               and
               Acceptance
               ,
               and
               all
               the
               rest
               to
               your
               Forgiveness
               .
            
             
               I
               am
               
                 My
                 Lord
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Lordship
                 's
                 most
                 Obedient
                 Servant
                 ,
                 
                   John
                   Dryden
                
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 THE
                 BOOKSELLER
                 TO
                 THE
              
               READER
               .
            
             
               HAving
               formerly
               Printed
               two
               Parts
               of
               Miscellany
               Poems
               ,
               they
               were
               so
               very
               kindly
               receiv'd
               ,
               that
               I
               had
               long
               before
               now
               Endeavour'd
               to
               obtain
               a
               Third
               ,
               had
               I
               not
               almost
               ever
               since
               the
               Publishing
               of
               the
               Second
               been
               Solliciting
               the
               Translating
               of
               Juvenal
               ,
               and
               Persius
               .
               Soon
               after
               the
               Publishing
               of
               that
               Book
               I
               waited
               upon
               several
               Gentlemen
               to
               ask
               their
               Opinion
               of
               a
               Third
               Miscellany
               ,
               who
               encourag'd
               me
               to
               endeavour
               it
               ,
               and
               have
               considerably
               help'd
               me
               in
               it
               .
            
             
               Many
               very
               Ingenious
               Copies
               were
               sent
               to
               me
               upon
               my
               giving
               publick
               notice
               of
               this
               Design
               ;
               but
               had
               I
               Printed
               em
               all
               ,
               the
               Book
               wou'd
               have
               swell'd
               to
               too
               great
               a
               bulk
               ,
               and
               I
               must
               have
               delay'd
               the
               Publishing
               of
               it
               'till
               next
               Term
               :
               But
               those
               omitted
               ,
               shall
               upon
               Order
               from
               the
               Authors
               be
               restored
               ;
               
               or
               if
               the
               Gentlemen
               will
               be
               pleas'd
               to
               stay
               'till
               next
               year
               ,
               I
               shall
               take
               it
               as
               a
               favour
               to
               insert
               them
               in
               another
               Miscellany
               ,
               which
               I
               then
               intend
               ,
               if
               I
               find
               by
               the
               Sale
               that
               this
               proves
               as
               Entertaining
               as
               the
               former
               .
            
             
               Several
               Reasons
               encourage
               me
               to
               Proceed
               upon
               the
               endeavouring
               a
               Fourth
               Volume
               :
               As
               ,
               That
               I
               had
               assurance
               of
               many
               Copies
               from
               Persons
               now
               out
               of
               England
               ;
               which
               ,
               though
               not
               yet
               arriv'd
               ,
               I
               am
               confident
               will
               be
               sent
               in
               a
               short
               time
               ,
               and
               they
               come
               from
               such
               Hands
               ,
               that
               I
               can
               have
               no
               reason
               to
               doubt
               of
               their
               being
               very
               much
               esteem'd
               .
            
             
               I
               would
               likewise
               willingly
               try
               if
               there
               could
               be
               an
               Annual
               Miscellany
               ,
               which
               I
               believe
               might
               be
               an
               useful
               diversion
               to
               the
               Ingenious
               .
               By
               this
               means
               care
               would
               be
               taken
               to
               preserve
               ev'ry
               Choice
               Copy
               that
               appears
               ;
               whereas
               I
               have
               known
               several
               Celebrated
               Pieces
               so
               utterly
               lost
               in
               three
               or
               four
               years
               time
               after
               they
               were
               written
               ,
               as
               not
               to
               be
               recoverable
               by
               all
               the
               search
               I
               cou'd
               make
               after
               '
               em
               .
            
             
               I
               was
               for
               some
               years
               together
               possest
               of
               several
               Poems
               of
               Sir
               Carr
               Scrope's
               ,
               written
               with
               his
               own
               Hand
               ,
               which
               I
               in
               vain
               of
               late
               strove
               to
               recover
               ;
               for
               as
               I
               forgot
               to
               whom
               I
               lent
               'em
               ,
               so
               I
               believe
               the
               Person
               to
               whom
               they
               were
               lent
               does
               not
               remember
               where
               they
               were
               borrowed
               :
               But
               if
               the
               present
               Possessour
               of
               them
               reads
               this
               ,
               I
               beg
               their
               being
               return'd
               .
            
             
             
               If
               I
               should
               go
               on
               with
               the
               Design
               of
               an
               Annual
               Miscellany
               ,
               after
               I
               have
               procur'd
               some
               Stock
               to
               proceed
               upon
               ,
               I
               will
               give
               Publick
               Notice
               of
               it
               .
               And
               I
               hope
               the
               Gentlemen
               who
               approve
               of
               this
               Design
               ,
               will
               promote
               it
               ,
               by
               sending
               such
               Copies
               as
               they
               judge
               will
               be
               acceptable
               .
            
             
               
                 Your
                 very
                 humble
                 Servant
                 
                   JACOB
                   TONSON
                
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
             
               THE
               CONTENTS
               .
            
             
               
                 THE
                 First
                 Book
                 of
                 
                   Ovid's
                   Metamorphoses
                
                 Translated
                 into
                 English
                 Verse
                 ,
                 by
                 Mr.
                 
                   Dryden
                   .
                   Page
                   x
                
              
               
                 The
                 Golden-Age
                 .
                 8
              
               
                 The
                 Silver
                 Age.
                 10
              
               
                 The
                 Brazen
                 Age
                 11
              
               
                 The
                 Iron
                 Age.
                 Ibid.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 Gyant
                 's
                 War.
                 13
              
               
                 The
                 Transformation
                 of
                 Daphne
                 into
                 a
                 Lawrel
                 .
                 39
              
               
                 The
                 Transformation
                 of
                 Io
                 into
                 a
                 Heifar
                 .
                 49
              
               
                 The
                 Eyes
                 of
                 Argos
                 Transform'd
                 into
                 a
                 Peacocks
                 Train
                 .
                 58
              
               
                 The
                 Transformation
                 of
                 Syrinx
                 into
                 Reeds
                 .
                 60
              
               
                 The
                 Fable
                 of
                 Iphis
                 and
                 Ianthe
                 ,
                 from
                 the
                 Ninth
                 Book
                 of
                 the
                 Metamorphoses
                 ,
                 Englished
                 by
                 Mr.
                 
                   Dryden
                   .
                   70
                
              
               
                 The
                 Fable
                 of
                 
                   Acis
                   ,
                   Polyphemus
                
                 ,
                 and
                 Galatea
                 ,
                 from
                 the
                 Thirteenth
                 Book
                 of
                 the
                 Metamorphoses
                 ,
                 Englished
                 by
                 Mr.
                 
                   Dryden
                   .
                   84
                
              
               
                 On
                 Mr.
                 Hobbs
                 .
                 By
                 the
                 Earl
                 of
                 
                   Mulgrave
                   .
                   99
                
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 the
                 Learned
                 Mr.
                 
                   John
                   Selden
                   .
                   104
                
              
               
                 Against
                 Immoderate
                 Grief
                 .
                 To
                 a
                 young
                 Lady
                 weeping
                 .
                 
                 An
                 Ode
                 in
                 imitation
                 of
                 Casimire
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Yalden
                   .
                   111
                
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Returning
                 Sun.
                 By
                 
                   J.
                   H.
                   114
                
              
               
                 Against
                 the
                 Fear
                 of
                 Death
                 .
                 By
                 a
                 Person
                 of
                 Honour
                 .
                 117
              
               
                 The
                 Dream
                 :
                 Occasioned
                 by
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 the
                 most
                 Noble
                 and
                 Vertuous
                 Lady
                 ,
                 
                   Elizabeth
                   Seymour
                
                 ,
                 Mother
                 to
                 his
                 Grace
                 the
                 Duke
                 of
                 Somerset
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   J.
                   Talbot
                   .
                   121
                
              
               
                 A
                 Hymn
                 to
                 the
                 Morning
                 .
                 In
                 Praise
                 of
                 Light.
                 An
                 Ode
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Yalden
                   .
                   127
                
              
               
                 A
                 Hymn
                 to
                 Darkness
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Yalden
                   .
                   132
                
              
               
                 AEneas
                 his
                 meeting
                 with
                 Dido
                 in
                 the
                 Elvsian
                 Fields
                 .
                 being
                 a
                 Translation
                 of
                 the
                 Sixth
                 Book
                 of
                 
                   Virgil's
                   AEnids
                
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Wolsley
                   .
                   138
                
              
               
                 Out
                 of
                 the
                 Italian
                 of
                 
                   Fulvio
                   Testi
                
                 ,
                 to
                 
                   Count
                   Montecuccoli
                
                 .
                 Against
                 Pride
                 upon
                 sudden
                 Advancement
                 .
                 143
              
               
                 Catullus
                 .
                 Epig.
                 19.
                 
                 By
                 the
                 same
                 Hand
                 as
                 the
                 former
                 .
                 148
              
               
                 Out
                 of
                 the
                 Greek
                 of
                 Menage
                 .
                 By
                 the
                 same
                 Hand
                 as
                 the
                 former
                 .
                 150
              
               
                 Invitation
                 into
                 the
                 Country
                 .
                 In
                 imitation
                 of
                 the
                 34th
                 Epig.
                 of
                 Catullus
                 .
                 By
                 the
                 same
                 Hand
                 as
                 the
                 former
                 .
                 151
              
               
                 On
                 Mrs.
                 
                   Arabello
                   Hunt
                
                 Singing
                 .
                 A
                 Pindarique
                 Ode
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Congreve
                   .
                   153
                
              
               
                 To
                 a
                 Person
                 of
                 Honour
                 .
                 Upon
                 his
                 Incomparable
                 ,
                 Incomprehensible
                 Poem
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Waller
                   .
                   159
                
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 same
                 by
                 Dr.
                 
                   S
                   —
                   162
                
              
               
                 Another
                 on
                 the
                 same
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Mat.
                   Clifford
                   .
                   164
                
              
               
                 
                 On
                 the
                 same
                 .
                 By
                 the
                 Ld.
                 
                   V.
                   —
                   165
                
              
               
                 On
                 two
                 Verses
                 out
                 of
                 the
                 same
                 .
                 By
                 the
                 Duke
                 of
                 
                   Buckingham
                   .
                   166
                
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Prince
                 and
                 Princess
                 of
                 Orange
                 ,
                 upon
                 their
                 Marriage
                 .
                 By
                 
                   Nat.
                   Lee.
                   168
                
              
               
                 Against
                 Sloath.
                 When
                 the
                 King
                 was
                 at
                 
                   Oxford
                   .
                   175
                
              
               
                 What
                 art
                 thou
                 Love
                 !
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   J.
                   Allestry
                   .
                   178
                
              
               
                 Verses
                 spoken
                 before
                 the
                 Duke
                 and
                 Dutchess
                 of
                 York
                 ,
                 and
                 Lady
                 Anne
                 ,
                 in
                 
                   Oxford
                   Theatre
                
                 .
                 By
                 the
                 Ld.
                 S.
                 —
                 and
                 Mr.
                 
                   C.
                   —
                   181
                
              
               
                 Humane
                 Life
                 ,
                 suppos'd
                 to
                 be
                 spoken
                 by
                 an
                 Epicure
                 ,
                 in
                 imitation
                 of
                 the
                 second
                 Chapter
                 of
                 the
                 Wisdom
                 of
                 Solomon
                 .
                 A
                 Pindarique
                 Ode
                 .
                 Inscribed
                 to
                 the
                 Lord
                 Hunsdon
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Yalden
                   .
                   188
                
              
               
                 To
                 Mr.
                 Waller
                 :
                 Upon
                 the
                 Copy
                 of
                 Verses
                 made
                 by
                 himself
                 on
                 the
                 last
                 Copy
                 in
                 his
                 Book
                 .
                 197
              
               
                 Elogy
                 :
                 Occasion'd
                 by
                 the
                 Reading
                 and
                 Transcribing
                 Mr.
                 
                   Edmund
                   Waller's
                
                 Poem
                 of
                 Divine
                 Love
                 ,
                 since
                 his
                 Death
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   J.
                   Talbot
                   .
                   199
                
              
               
                 Moschus
                 :
                 Idyl
                 .
                 1st
                 .
                 Done
                 into
                 English
                 by
                 Mr.
                 
                   J.
                   R.
                   201
                
              
               
                 Against
                 Enjoyment
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Yalden
                   .
                   204
                
              
               
                 
                 Priam's
                 .
                 Lamentation
                 and
                 Petition
                 to
                 Achilles
                 ,
                 for
                 the
                 Body
                 of
                 his
                 Son
                 Hector
                 .
                 Translated
                 from
                 the
                 Greek
                 of
                 Homer
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Congreve
                   .
                   207
                
              
               
                 The
                 Lamentations
                 of
                 
                   Hecuba
                   ,
                   Andromache
                
                 ,
                 and
                 Helen
                 ,
                 over
                 the
                 dead
                 Body
                 of
                 Hector
                 .
                 Translated
                 from
                 the
                 Greek
                 of
                 Homer
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Congreve
                   .
                   215
                
              
               
                 Paraphrase
                 upon
                 Horace
                 .
                 Ode
                 19.
                 
                 Lib.
                 1.
                 
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Congreve
                   .
                   227
                
              
               
                 
                 Horace
                 ,
                 Lib.
                 2.
                 
                 Ode
                 14.
                 
                 Imitated
                 by
                 Mr.
                 
                   Congreve
                   .
                   229
                
              
               
                 An
                 Ode
                 ,
                 in
                 Imitation
                 of
                 Horace
                 ,
                 Ode
                 9.
                 
                 Lib.
                 1.
                 
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Congreve
                   .
                   234
                
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Dut
                 hess
                 ,
                 on
                 her
                 Return
                 from
                 Scotland
                 ,
                 in
                 the
                 Year
                 1682.
                 
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Dryden
                   .
                   239
                
              
               
                 A
                 Song
                 for
                 St.
                 Cecelia's
                 Day
                 ,
                 1687.
                 
                 Written
                 by
                 
                   John
                   Dryden
                
                 Esquire
                 ,
                 and
                 Compos'd
                 by
                 Mr.
                 
                   John
                   Baptist
                   Draghi
                   .
                   242
                
              
               
                 To
                 Mr.
                 Dryden
                 :
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Jo.
                   Addison
                   .
                   247
                
              
               
                 To
                 Mr.
                 Dryden
                 ,
                 on
                 his
                 Translation
                 of
                 Persius
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 B.
                 
                   Higgons
                   .
                   250
                
              
               
                 To
                 Sir
                 
                   Godfrey
                   Kneller
                
                 ,
                 drawing
                 my
                 Lady
                 Hides
                 Picture
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   B.
                   Higgons
                   .
                   253
                
              
               
                 Song
                 on
                 a
                 Lady
                 indispos'd
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Higgons
                   .
                   254
                
              
               
                 Song
                 to
                 a
                 Fair
                 ,
                 young
                 Lady
                 .
                 going
                 out
                 of
                 the
                 Town
                 in
                 the
                 Spring
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Dryden
                   .
                   255
                
              
               
                 A
                 Song
                 by
                 my
                 
                   Ld.
                   R.
                   —
                   258
                
              
               
                 A
                 Song
                 by
                 my
                 
                   Ld.
                   R.
                   —
                   259
                
              
               
                 A
                 Paean
                 .
                 or
                 Song
                 of
                 Triumph
                 ,
                 on
                 the
                 Translation
                 and
                 Apothesis
                 of
                 King
                 Charles
                 the
                 Second
                 .
                 By
                 my
                 
                   Ld.
                   R.
                   —
                   260
                
              
               
                 Out
                 of
                 Horace
                 ,
                 By
                 my
                 
                   Ld.
                   R.
                   —
                   262
                
              
               
                 To
                 a
                 Lady
                 ,
                 who
                 Raffling
                 for
                 the
                 King
                 of
                 France's
                 Picture
                 ,
                 flung
                 the
                 highest
                 Chances
                 on
                 the
                 Dice
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   B.
                   Higgons
                   .
                   264
                
              
               
                 On
                 my
                 Lady
                 
                 Sandwich's
                 being
                 stay'd
                 in
                 Town
                 by
                 the
                 immoderate
                 Rain
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 B.
                 
                   Higgons
                   .
                   266
                
              
               
                 
                 Ovid's
                 Love-Elegies
                 .
                 Bock
                 1.
                 
                 Eleg.
                 7.
                 
                 To
                 his
                 Mistress
                 whom
                 he
                 had
                 beaten
                 .
                 By
                 
                   Henry
                   Cromwell
                
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
                 268
              
               
                 
                 
                 Ovid's
                 Love-Elegies
                 .
                 Book
                 1.
                 
                 Eleg.
                 8.
                 
                 Of
                 Love
                 and
                 War.
                 By
                 
                   Henry
                   Cromwell
                
                 ,
                 Esquire
                 .
                 273
              
               
                 
                 Ovid's
                 Love-Elegies
                 .
                 Book
                 1.
                 
                 Eleg.
                 10.
                 
                 To
                 his
                 Mercenary
                 Mistress
                 .
                 By
                 
                   Henry
                   Cromwell
                
                 ,
                 Esquire
                 .
                 277
              
               
                 
                 Ovid's
                 Love-Elegies
                 .
                 Book
                 1.
                 
                 Eleg.
                 15.
                 
                 Of
                 the
                 Immortality
                 of
                 the
                 Muses
                 .
                 Inscrib'd
                 to
                 Mr.
                 Dryden
                 .
                 By
                 
                   Henry
                   Cromwell
                
                 ,
                 Esquire
                 .
                 282
              
               
                 Ovid's
                 Love-Elegies
                 .
                 Book
                 3.
                 
                 Eleg.
                 2.
                 
                 To
                 his
                 Mistress
                 at
                 the
                 Horse-Race
                 .
                 By
                 
                   Henry
                   Cromwell
                
                 ,
                 Esquire
                 .
                 286
              
               
                 
                 Ovid's
                 Love-Elegies
                 .
                 Book
                 3.
                 
                 Eleg.
                 3.
                 
                 Of
                 his
                 Perjur'd
                 Mistress
                 .
                 By
                 
                   Henry
                   Cromwell
                
                 ,
                 
                   Esq
                
                 291
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Lady
                 Castlemain
                 ,
                 upon
                 her
                 incouraging
                 his
                 first
                 Play.
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Dryden
                   .
                   295
                
              
               
                 Prologue
                 to
                 the
                 University
                 of
                 
                   Oxford
                   ,
                   1681.
                
                 
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Dryden
                   .
                   299
                
              
               
                 Prologue
                 by
                 Mr.
                 
                   Dryden
                   .
                   302
                
              
               
                 Considerations
                 on
                 the
                 Eighty
                 Eighth
                 Psalm
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Prior.
                   305
                
              
               
                 
                   Veni
                   Creator
                   Spiritus
                
                 ,
                 Translated
                 in
                 Paraphrase
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Dryden
                   .
                   307
                
              
               
                 The
                 Curse
                 of
                 Babylon
                 .
                 Paraphras'd
                 from
                 the
                 Thirteenth
                 Chapter
                 of
                 Isaia
                 .
                 A
                 Pindarique
                 Ode
                 .
                 By
                 
                   Tho.
                   Yalden
                   .
                   310
                
              
               
                 Out
                 of
                 Horace
                 .
                 Lib.
                 2.
                 
                 Ode
                 .
                 
                   3.
                   321
                
              
               
                 The
                 Grove
                 .
                 325
              
               
                 Love
                 but
                 One.
                 326
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Author
                 of
                 Sardanapalus
                 ;
                 upon
                 that
                 and
                 his
                 other
                 Writings
                 .
                 328
              
               
                 
                 Of
                 my
                 Lady
                 Hide
                 .
                 Occasion'd
                 by
                 the
                 sight
                 of
                 her
                 Picture
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   George
                   Granville
                   .
                   329
                
              
               
                 An
                 Imitation
                 of
                 the
                 second
                 Chorus
                 in
                 the
                 second
                 Act
                 of
                 
                 Seneca's
                 Thyestes
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   George
                   Granville
                   .
                   331
                
              
               
                 
                   Amor
                   omnibus
                   idem
                
                 :
                 Or
                 the
                 Force
                 of
                 Love
                 in
                 all
                 Creatures
                 ;
                 being
                 a
                 Translation
                 of
                 some
                 Verses
                 in
                 
                 Virgil's
                 third
                 Georgick
                 ,
                 from
                 verse
                 209.
                 to
                 verse
                 
                   285.
                   335
                
              
               
                 To
                 Mr.
                 Congreve
                 .
                 An
                 Epistolary
                 Ode
                 .
                 Occasion'd
                 by
                 his
                 Play.
                 From
                 Mr.
                 
                   Yalden
                   .
                   343
                
              
               
                 On
                 his
                 Mistress
                 drown'd
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   S
                   —
                   349
                
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Pious
                 Memory
                 of
                 the
                 Accomplisht
                 young
                 Lady
                 ,
                 Mrs.
                 
                   Anne
                   Killigrew
                
                 ,
                 Excellent
                 in
                 the
                 two
                 Sister-Arts
                 of
                 Poesie
                 and
                 Painting
                 .
                 An
                 Ode
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Dryden
                   .
                   351
                
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Earl
                 of
                 Carlisle
                 ,
                 upon
                 the
                 Death
                 of
                 his
                 Son
                 before
                 
                   Luxemburgh
                   .
                   364
                
              
               
                 The
                 Insect
                 .
                 Against
                 Bulk
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Yalden
                   .
                   370
                
              
               
                 Written
                 in
                 a
                 Lady's
                 Advice
                 to
                 a
                 Daughter
                 .
                 373
              
               
                 Written
                 in
                 a
                 Lady's
                 
                   Waller
                   .
                   375
                
              
               
                 Written
                 in
                 the
                 Leaves
                 of
                 a
                 Fan
                 377
              
               
                 An
                 Incomparable
                 Ode
                 of
                 
                 Malherb's
                 .
                 Written
                 by
                 him
                 when
                 the
                 Marriage
                 was
                 a
                 foot
                 between
                 the
                 King
                 of
                 France
                 ,
                 and
                 Anne
                 of
                 Austria
                 .
                 Translated
                 by
                 a
                 Person
                 of
                 Quality
                 ,
                 a
                 great
                 Admirer
                 of
                 the
                 easiness
                 of
                 the
                 French
                 Poetry
                 .
                 378
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Dutchess
                 of
                 Portimouth's
                 Picture
                 .
                 380
              
               
                 A
                 Song
                 .
                 By
                 the
                 Earl
                 of
                 
                   Rochester
                   .
                   381
                
              
               
                 Song
                 for
                 the
                 King's
                 Birth
                 Day
                 .
                 383
              
               
                 A
                 Song
                 .
                 387
              
               
                 
                 A
                 Song
                 .
                 389
              
               
                 Song
                 .
                 391
              
               
                 Song
                 .
                 393
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 King.
                 In
                 the
                 Year
                 1686.
                 
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   George
                   Granville
                   .
                   394
                
              
               
                 Harry
                 Martvn's
                 Epitaph
                 ,
                 by
                 himself
                 396
              
               
                 To
                 his
                 Friend
                 Captain
                 Chamberlain
                 ;
                 in
                 Love
                 with
                 a
                 Lady
                 he
                 had
                 taken
                 in
                 an
                 Algerine
                 Prize
                 at
                 Sea.
                 In
                 allusion
                 to
                 the
                 4th
                 Ode
                 of
                 Horace
                 .
                 Lib.
                 2.
                 
                 By
                 
                   Mr.
                   Yalden
                   .
                   397
                
              
               
                 A
                 Song
                 .
                 By
                 a
                 Lady
                 .
                 401
              
               
                 Written
                 by
                 a
                 Lady
                 .
                 403
              
               
                 Paraphras'd
                 out
                 of
                 Horace
                 ,
                 the
                 23d
                 Ode
                 .
                 of
                 the
                 2d
                 .
                 Book
                 .
                 By
                 Dr.
                 
                   Pope
                   .
                   405
                
              
               
                 Love's
                 Antidote
                 .
                 407
              
               
                 Anachreon
                 Imitated
                 .
                 409
              
               
                 Anachreon
                 Imitated
                 .
                 411
              
               
                 Anachreon
                 Imitated
                 .
                 412
              
               
                 From
                 
                 Virgil's
                 First
                 Georgick
                 .
                 Translated
                 into
                 English
                 Verse
                 ,
                 by
                 
                   H.
                   Sacheverill
                
                 .
                 Dedicated
                 to
                 Mr.
                 
                   Dryden
                   .
                   413
                
              
               
                 A
                 French
                 Poem
                 :
                 With
                 a
                 Paraphrase
                 on
                 it
                 in
                 English
                 .
                 
                   418
                   ,
                   419
                
              
               
                 A
                 Song
                 :
                 by
                 Sir
                 
                   John
                   Eaton
                   .
                   422
                
              
               
                 Another
                 Song
                 in
                 imitation
                 of
                 Sir
                 John
                 Eaton's
                 Songs
                 .
                 By
                 the
                 late
                 Earl
                 of
                 
                   Rochester
                   .
                   424
                
              
               
                 A
                 Song
                 :
                 By
                 
                   Sidny
                   Godolphin
                
                 ,
                 Esquire
                 ,
                 on
                 
                   Tom
                   Killigrew
                
                 ,
                 and
                 
                   Will
                   Murrey
                   .
                   425
                
              
               
                 Rondelay
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Drvden
                   .
                   429
                
              
               
                 In
                 a
                 Letter
                 to
                 the
                 Honourable
                 Mr.
                 
                   Charles
                   Montague
                
                 ,
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Prior.
                   431
                
              
               
                 
                 An
                 Ode
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Prior.
                   433
                
              
               
                 To
                 a
                 Lady
                 of
                 Quality's
                 Playing
                 on
                 the
                 Lute
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Prior.
                   437
                
              
               
                 An
                 Epitaph
                 on
                 the
                 Lady
                 Whitmore
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Dryden
                   .
                   441
                
              
               
                 An
                 Epitaph
                 on
                 Sir
                 Palmes
                 Fairborne's
                 Tomb
                 in
                 Westminster-Abby
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Dryden
                   .
                   442
                
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Reverend
                 Dr.
                 Sherlock
                 ,
                 Dean
                 of
                 St.
                 
                 Paul's
                 ,
                 on
                 his
                 Practical
                 Discourse
                 concerning
                 Death
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Prior.
                   444
                
              
               
                 On
                 
                   Exodus
                   3.
                   14.
                   
                   I
                   am
                   that
                   I
                   am
                   .
                
                 A
                 Pindarique
                 Ode
                 .
                 By
                 Mr.
                 
                   Prior.
                   449
                
              
               
                 The
                 Last
                 Parting
                 of
                 Hector
                 and
                 Andromache
                 .
                 From
                 the
                 Sixth
                 Book
                 of
                 
                 Homer's
                 Iliads
                 .
                 Translated
                 from
                 the
                 Original
                 by
                 Mr.
                 
                   Dryden
                   .
                   456
                
              
               
                 Syphilis
                 .
                 ult
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               FIRST
               BOOK
               OF
               
               Ovid's
               Metamorphoses
               ,
               Translated
               into
               ENGLISH
               VERSE
               BY
               Mr.
               DRYDEN
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
             
               THE
               FIRST
               BOOK
               OF
               
               Ovid's
               Metamorphoses
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   OF
                   Bodies
                   chang'd
                   to
                   various
                   Forms
                   I
                   sing
                   :
                
                 
                   Ye
                   Gods
                   ,
                   from
                   whom
                   these
                   Miracles
                   did
                   spring
                   ,
                
                 
                   Inspire
                   my
                   Numbers
                   with
                   Coelestial
                   heat
                   ;
                
                 
                   Till
                   I
                   ,
                   my
                   long
                   laborious
                   Work
                   compleat
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   add
                   perpetual
                   Tenour
                   to
                   my
                   Rhimes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Deduc'd
                   from
                   Nature's
                   Birth
                   ,
                   to
                   
                   Caesar's
                   Times
                
              
               
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   Seas
                   ,
                   and
                   this
                   Terrestrial
                   Ball
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Heav'ns
                   high
                   Canopy
                   ,
                   that
                   covers
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   One
                   was
                   the
                   Face
                   of
                   Nature
                   ;
                   if
                   a
                   Face
                   ,
                
                 
                   Rather
                   a
                   rude
                   and
                   indigested
                   Mass
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   A
                   lifeless
                   Lump
                   ,
                   unfashion'd
                   ,
                   and
                   unfram'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Of
                   jarring
                   Seeds
                   ;
                   and
                   justly
                   Chaos
                   nam'd
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   Sun
                   was
                   lighted
                   up
                   ,
                   the
                   World
                   to
                   view
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   Moon
                   did
                   yet
                   her
                   blunted
                   Horas
                   renew
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   yet
                   was
                   Earth
                   suspended
                   in
                   the
                   Skye
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   pois'd
                   ,
                   did
                   on
                   her
                   own
                   Foundations
                   lye
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   Seas
                   about
                   the
                   Shoars
                   their
                   Arms
                   had
                   thrown
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   Earth
                   and
                   Air
                   and
                   Water
                   were
                   in
                   one
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Air
                   was
                   void
                   of
                   light
                   ,
                   and
                   Earth
                   unstable
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Waters
                   dark
                   Abyss
                   unnavigable
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   certain
                   Form
                   ,
                   on
                   any
                   was
                   imprest
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   were
                   confus'd
                   ,
                   and
                   each
                   disturb'd
                   the
                   rest
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   hot
                   and
                   cold
                   ,
                   were
                   in
                   one
                   Body
                   fixt
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   soft
                   with
                   hard
                   ,
                   and
                   light
                   with
                   heavy
                   mixt
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   But
                   God
                   or
                   Nature
                   ,
                   while
                   they
                   thus
                   contend
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   these
                   intestine
                   Discords
                   put
                   an
                   end
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   Earth
                   from
                   Air
                   ,
                   and
                   Seas
                   from
                   Earth
                   were
                   driv'n
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   grosser
                   Air
                   ,
                   sunk
                   from
                   AEtherial
                   Heav'n
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   disembroil'd
                   ,
                   they
                   take
                   their
                   proper
                   place
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   next
                   of
                   kin
                   ,
                   contiguously
                   embrace
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Foes
                   are
                   sunder'd
                   ,
                   by
                   a
                   larger
                   space
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   force
                   of
                   Fire
                   ascended
                   first
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   took
                   its
                   dwelling
                   in
                   the
                   vaulted
                   Skie
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   Air
                   succeeds
                   ,
                   in
                   lightness
                   next
                   to
                   Fire
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Atoms
                   from
                   unactive
                   Earth
                   retire
                   .
                
                 
                   Earth
                   sinks
                   beneath
                   ,
                   and
                   draws
                   a
                   numerous
                   throng
                
                 
                   Of
                   pondrous
                   ,
                   thick
                   ,
                   unweildy
                   Seeds
                   along
                   .
                
                 
                   About
                   her
                   Coasts
                   ,
                   unruly
                   Waters
                   roar
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   rising
                   on
                   a
                   ridge
                   ,
                   insult
                   the
                   Shoar
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   when
                   the
                   God
                   ,
                   what
                   ever
                   God
                   was
                   he
                   ,
                
                 
                   Had
                   form'd
                   the
                   whole
                   ,
                   and
                   made
                   the
                   parts
                   agree
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   no
                   unequal
                   portions
                   might
                   be
                   found
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   moulded
                   Earth
                   into
                   a
                   spacious
                   round
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   with
                   a
                   breath
                   ,
                   he
                   gave
                   the
                   Winds
                   to
                   blow
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   bad
                   the
                   congregated
                   Waters
                   flow
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   He
                   adds
                   the
                   running
                   Springs
                   ,
                   and
                   standing
                   Lakes
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   bounding
                   Banks
                   for
                   winding
                   Rivers
                   makes
                   .
                
                 
                   Some
                   part
                   ,
                   in
                   Earth
                   are
                   swallow'd
                   up
                   ,
                   the
                   most
                
                 
                   In
                   ample
                   Oceans
                   ,
                   disimbogu'd
                   ,
                   are
                   lost
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   shades
                   the
                   Woods
                   ,
                   the
                   Vallies
                   he
                   restrains
                
                 
                   With
                   Rocky
                   Mountains
                   ,
                   and
                   extends
                   the
                   Plains
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   as
                   five
                   Zones
                   th'AEtherial
                   Regions
                   bind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Five
                   Correspondent
                   ,
                   are
                   to
                   Earth
                   assign'd
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Sun
                   with
                   Rays
                   ,
                   directly
                   darting
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fires
                   all
                   beneath
                   ,
                   and
                   fries
                   the
                   middle
                   Zone
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   two
                   beneath
                   the
                   distant
                   Poles
                   ,
                   complain
                
                 
                   Of
                   endless
                   Winter
                   ,
                   and
                   perpetual
                   Rain
                   .
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   th'extreams
                   ,
                   two
                   happier
                   Climates
                   ,
                   hold
                
                 
                   The
                   Temper
                   that
                   partakes
                   of
                   Hot
                   and
                   Cold.
                
                 
                   The
                   Feilds
                   of
                   liquid
                   Air
                   ,
                   inclosing
                   all
                   ,
                
                 
                   Surround
                   the
                   Compass
                   of
                   this
                   Earthly
                   Ball
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   lighter
                   parts
                   ,
                   lye
                   next
                   the
                   Fires
                   above
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   grosser
                   near
                   the
                   watry
                   Surface
                   move
                   :
                
                 
                   Thick
                   Clouds
                   are
                   spread
                   ,
                   and
                   Storms
                   engender
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Thunders
                   Voice
                   ,
                   which
                   wretched
                   Mortals
                   fear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Winds
                   that
                   on
                   their
                   Wings
                   ,
                   cold
                   Winter
                   bear
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   were
                   those
                   blustring
                   Brethren
                   left
                   at
                   large
                   ,
                
                 
                   On
                   Seas
                   and
                   Shoars
                   ,
                   their
                   fury
                   to
                   discharge
                   :
                
                 
                   Bound
                   as
                   they
                   are
                   ,
                   and
                   circumscrib'd
                   in
                   place
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   rend
                   the
                   World
                   ,
                   resistless
                   ,
                   where
                   they
                   pass
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   mighty
                   marks
                   of
                   mischief
                   leave
                   behind
                   ;
                
                 
                   Such
                   is
                   the
                   Rage
                   of
                   their
                   tempestuous
                   kind
                   .
                
                 
                   First
                   Eurus
                   to
                   the
                   rising
                   Morn
                   is
                   sent
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   The
                   Regions
                   of
                   the
                   balmy
                   Continent
                   ;
                   )
                
                 
                   And
                   Eastern
                   Realms
                   ,
                   where
                   early
                   Persians
                   run
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   greet
                   the
                   blest
                   appearance
                   of
                   the
                   Sun.
                
                 
                 
                   Westward
                   ,
                   the
                   wanton
                   Zephyr
                   wings
                   his
                   flight
                   ;
                
                 
                   Pleas'd
                   with
                   the
                   remnants
                   of
                   departing
                   light
                   :
                
                 
                   Fierce
                   Boreas
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   Off-spring
                   ,
                   Islues
                   forth
                
                 
                   T'
                   invade
                   the
                   frozen
                   Waggon
                   of
                   the
                   North.
                
                 
                   While
                   srowning
                   Auster
                   ,
                   seeks
                   the
                   Southern
                   Sphere
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   rots
                   with
                   endless
                   Rain
                   ,
                   th'unwholsom
                   year
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   High
                   o're
                   the
                   Clouds
                   and
                   empty
                   Realms
                   of
                   wind
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   a
                   clearer
                   space
                   for
                   Heav'n
                   design'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Where
                   Fields
                   of
                   Light
                   ,
                   and
                   liquid
                   AEther
                   flow
                   ;
                
                 
                   Purg'd
                   from
                   the
                   pondrous
                   dregs
                   of
                   Earth
                   below
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Scarce
                   had
                   the
                   Pow'r
                   distinguish'd
                   these
                   ,
                   when
                   streight
                
                 
                   The
                   Stars
                   ,
                   no
                   longer
                   overlaid
                   with
                   weight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Exert
                   their
                   Heads
                   ,
                   from
                   underneath
                   the
                   Mass
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   upward
                   shoot
                   ,
                   and
                   kindle
                   as
                   they
                   pass
                   ,
                   place
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   diffasive
                   Light
                   ,
                   adorn
                   their
                   Heav'nly
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   every
                   void
                   of
                   Nature
                   to
                   supply
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Forms
                   of
                   Gods
                   he
                   fills
                   the
                   vacant
                   Skie
                   :
                
                 
                   New
                   Herds
                   of
                   Beasts
                   ,
                   he
                   sends
                   the
                   plains
                   to
                   share
                   :
                
                 
                   New
                   Colonies
                   of
                   Birds
                   ,
                   to
                   people
                   Air
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   their
                   Oozy
                   Beds
                   ,
                   the
                   finny
                   Fish
                   repair
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   Creature
                   of
                   a
                   more
                   Exalted
                   Kind
                
                 
                   Was
                   wanting
                   yet
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   was
                   Man
                   design'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Conscious
                   of
                   Thought
                   ,
                   of
                   more
                   capacious
                   Breast
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Empire
                   form'd
                   ,
                   and
                   fit
                   to
                   rule
                   the
                   rest
                   :
                
                 
                   Whether
                   with
                   particles
                   of
                   Heav'nly
                   Fire
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   of
                   Nature
                   did
                   his
                   Soul
                   Inspire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Earth
                   ,
                   but
                   new
                   divided
                   from
                   the
                   Skie
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   pliant
                   ,
                   still
                   ,
                   retain'd
                   the
                   AEtherial
                   Energy
                   :
                
                 
                   Which
                   Wise
                   Prometheus
                   temper'd
                   into
                   paste
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   mixt
                   with
                   living
                   Streams
                   ,
                   the
                   Godlike
                   Image
                   cast
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   while
                   the
                   mute
                   Creation
                   downward
                   bend
                
                 
                   Their
                   Sight
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   their
                   Earthy
                   Mother
                   tend
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Man
                   looks
                   aloft
                   ;
                   and
                   with
                   erected
                   Eyes
                
                 
                   Beholds
                   his
                   own
                   Hereditary
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   such
                   rude
                   Principles
                   our
                   Form
                   began
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Earth
                   was
                   Metamorphos'd
                   into
                   Man.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Golden
                 Age.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 Golden
                 Age
                 was
                 first
                 ;
                 when
                 Man
                 yet
                 New
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Rule
                 but
                 uncorrupted
                 Reason
                 knew
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 with
                 a
                 Native
                 bent
                 ,
                 did
                 Good
                 pursue
                 .
              
               
                 Un-forc'd
                 by
                 Punishment
                 ,
                 un-aw'd
                 by
                 fear
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 words
                 were
                 simple
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Soul
                 sincere
                 :
              
               
                 Needless
                 was
                 written
                 Law
                 ,
                 where
                 none
                 opprest
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Law
                 of
                 Man
                 ,
                 was
                 written
                 in
                 his
                 Breast
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 suppliant
                 Crowds
                 ,
                 before
                 the
                 Judge
                 appear'd
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Court
                 Erected
                 yet
                 ,
                 nor
                 Cause
                 was
                 hear'd
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 all
                 was
                 safe
                 ,
                 for
                 Conscience
                 was
                 their
                 Guard.
              
               
               
                 The
                 Mountain
                 Trees
                 in
                 distant
                 prospect
                 please
                 ,
              
               
                 E're
                 yet
                 the
                 Pine
                 descended
                 to
                 the
                 Seas
                 :
              
               
                 E're
                 Sails
                 were
                 spread
                 ,
                 new
                 Oceans
                 to
                 explore
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 happy
                 Mortals
                 ,
                 unconcern'd
                 for
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 Confin'd
                 their
                 Wishes
                 to
                 their
                 Native
                 Shoar
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 walls
                 ,
                 were
                 yet
                 ;
                 nor
                 sence
                 ,
                 nor
                 mote
                 nor
                 mownd
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Drum
                 was
                 heard
                 ,
                 nor
                 Trumpets
                 angry
                 sound
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 Swords
                 were
                 forg'd
                 ;
                 but
                 void
                 of
                 Care
                 and
                 Crime
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 soft
                 Creation
                 slept
                 away
                 their
                 time
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 teeming
                 Earth
                 ,
                 yet
                 guiltless
                 of
                 the
                 Plough
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 unprovok'd
                 ,
                 did
                 fruitful
                 Stores
                 allow
                 :
              
               
                 Content
                 with
                 Food
                 ,
                 which
                 Nature
                 freely
                 bred
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 Wildings
                 ,
                 and
                 on
                 Strawberries
                 they
                 fed
                 ;
              
               
                 Cornels
                 and
                 Bramble-berries
                 gave
                 the
                 rest
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 falling
                 Acorns
                 ,
                 furnisht
                 out
                 a
                 Feast
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Flow'rs
                 un-sown
                 ,
                 in
                 Fields
                 and
                 Meadows
                 reign'd
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 Western
                 Winds
                 ,
                 immortal
                 Spring
                 maintain'd
                 .
              
               
               
                 In
                 following
                 years
                 ,
                 the
                 bearded
                 Corn
                 ensu'd
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 Earth
                 unask'd
                 ,
                 nor
                 was
                 that
                 Earth
                 renew'd
                 .
              
               
                 From
                 Veins
                 of
                 Vallies
                 ,
                 Milk
                 and
                 Nectar
                 broke
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Honey
                 sweating
                 through
                 the
                 pores
                 of
                 Oak
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Silver
                 Age.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 Good
                 Saturne
                 ,
                 banish'd
                 from
                 above
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 driv'n
                 to
                 Hell
                 ,
                 the
                 World
                 was
                 under
                 Jove
                 .
              
               
                 Succeeding
                 times
                 a
                 Silver
                 Age
                 behold
                 ,
              
               
                 Excelling
                 Brass
                 ,
                 but
                 more
                 excell'd
                 by
                 Gold.
              
               
                 Then
                 Summer
                 ,
                 Autumn
                 ,
                 Winter
                 ,
                 did
                 appear
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 Spring
                 was
                 but
                 a
                 Season
                 of
                 the
                 Year
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Sun
                 his
                 Annual
                 course
                 obliquely
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 Good
                 days
                 contracted
                 ,
                 and
                 enlarg'd
                 the
                 bad
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 Air
                 with
                 sultry
                 heats
                 began
                 to
                 glow
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 wings
                 of
                 winds
                 ,
                 were
                 clogg'd
                 with
                 Ice
                 and
                 Snow
                 ;
              
               
               
                 And
                 shivering
                 Mortals
                 ,
                 into
                 Houses
                 driv'n
                 ,
              
               
                 Sought
                 shelter
                 from
                 th'inclemency
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 .
              
               
                 Those
                 Houses
                 ,
                 then
                 ,
                 were
                 Caves
                 ,
                 or
                 homely
                 Sheds
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 twining
                 Oziers
                 fenc'd
                 ;
                 and
                 Moss
                 their
                 Beds
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 Ploughs
                 ,
                 for
                 Seed
                 ,
                 the
                 fruitful
                 furrows
                 broke
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Oxen
                 labour'd
                 first
                 ,
                 beneath
                 the
                 Yoke
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Brazen
                 Age.
                 
              
               
                 To
                 this
                 came
                 next
                 in
                 course
                 ,
                 the
                 Brazen
                 Age
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 Warlike
                 Offspring
                 ,
                 prompt
                 to
                 Bloody
                 Rage
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 Impious
                 yet
                 —
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Iron
                 Age.
                 
              
               
                 
                   —
                   —
                   Hard
                   Steel
                   succeeded
                   then
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   stubborn
                   as
                   the
                   Mettal
                   ,
                   were
                   the
                   Men.
                
                 
                 
                   Truth
                   ,
                   Modesty
                   ,
                   and
                   Shame
                   ,
                   the
                   World
                   forsook
                   ,
                
                 
                   Fraud
                   ,
                   Avarice
                   ,
                   and
                   Force
                   ,
                   their
                   places
                   took
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   Sails
                   were
                   spread
                   ,
                   to
                   every
                   Wind
                   that
                   blew
                   .
                
                 
                   Raw
                   were
                   the
                   Sailors
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Depths
                   were
                   new
                   :
                
                 
                   Trees
                   rudely
                   hollow'd
                   ,
                   did
                   the
                   Waves
                   sustain
                   ;
                
                 
                   E're
                   Ships
                   in
                   Triumph
                   plough'd
                   the
                   watry
                   Plain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   Land-marks
                   ,
                   limited
                   to
                   each
                   his
                   right
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   all
                   before
                   was
                   common
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   light
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   the
                   Ground
                   alone
                   requir'd
                   to
                   bear
                
                 
                   Her
                   annual
                   Income
                   to
                   the
                   crooked
                   share
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   greedy
                   Mortals
                   ,
                   rummaging
                   her
                   Store
                   ,
                
                 
                   Digg'd
                   from
                   her
                   Entrails
                   first
                   the
                   precious
                   Oar
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   next
                   to
                   Hell
                   ,
                   the
                   prudent
                   Gods
                   had
                   laid
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   that
                   alluring
                   ill
                   ,
                   to
                   sight
                   displaid
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   cursed
                   Steel
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   accursed
                   Gold
                
                 
                   Gave
                   mischief
                   birth
                   ,
                   and
                   made
                   that
                   mischief
                   bold
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   double
                   death
                   ,
                   did
                   wretched
                   Man
                   invade
                
                 
                   By
                   Steel
                   assaulted
                   ,
                   and
                   by
                   Gold
                   betray'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   (
                   brandish'd
                   Weapons
                   glittering
                   in
                   their
                   hands
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   Mankind
                   is
                   broken
                   loose
                   from
                   moral
                   Bands
                   ;
                
                 
                   No
                   Rights
                   of
                   Hospitality
                   remain
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Guest
                   by
                   him
                   who
                   harbour'd
                   him
                   ,
                   is
                   slain
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Son
                   in
                   Law
                   pursues
                   the
                   Father's
                   life
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Wife
                   her
                   Husband
                   murders
                   ,
                   he
                   the
                   Wife
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Step-dame
                   Poyson
                   for
                   the
                   Son
                   prepares
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Son
                   inquires
                   into
                   his
                   Father's
                   years
                   .
                
                 
                   Faith
                   flies
                   ,
                   and
                   Piety
                   in
                   Exile
                   mourns
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Justice
                   ,
                   here
                   opprest
                   ,
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   returns
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Gyants
                 War.
                 
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   were
                   the
                   Gods
                   themselves
                   more
                   safe
                   above
                   ;
                
                 
                   Against
                   beleaguer'd
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   the
                   Gyants
                   move
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Hills
                   pii'd
                   on
                   Hills
                   ,
                   on
                   Mountains
                   ,
                   Mountains
                   lie
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   make
                   their
                   mad
                   approaches
                   to
                   the
                   Skie
                   .
                
                 
                   Till
                   Jove
                   ,
                   no
                   longer
                   patient
                   ,
                   took
                   his
                   time
                
                 
                   T'
                   avenge
                   with
                   Thunder
                   their
                   audacious
                   Crime
                   ;
                
                 
                   Red
                   Light'ning
                   plaid
                   ,
                   along
                   the
                   Firmament
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   their
                   demolish't
                   Works
                   to
                   pieces
                   rent
                   .
                
                 
                   Sing'd
                   with
                   the
                   Flames
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   the
                   Bolts
                   transfixt
                
                 
                   With
                   Native
                   Earth
                   ,
                   their
                   Blood
                   ,
                   the
                   Monsters
                   mixt
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Blood
                   ,
                   indu'd
                   with
                   animating
                   heat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   in
                   th'
                   Impregnant
                   Earth
                   ,
                   new
                   Sons
                   beget
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   ,
                   like
                   the
                   Seed
                   from
                   which
                   they
                   sprung
                   ,
                   accurst
                   ,
                
                 
                   Against
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   Immortal
                   Hatred
                   nurst
                   .
                
                 
                   An
                   Impious
                   ,
                   Arrogant
                   ,
                   and
                   Cruel
                   Brood
                   :
                
                 
                   Expressing
                   their
                   Original
                   from
                   Blood.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   when
                   the
                   King
                   of
                   Gods
                   beheld
                   from
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Withal
                   revolving
                   in
                   his
                   memory
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   What
                   he
                   himself
                   had
                   found
                   on
                   Earth
                   of
                   late
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                   Lycaon's
                   Guilt
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Inhuman
                   Treate
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   He
                   sigh'd
                   ;
                   nor
                   longer
                   with
                   his
                   Pity
                   strove
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   kindl'd
                   to
                   a
                   Wrath
                   becoming
                   Jove
                   :
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   call'd
                   a
                   General
                   Council
                   of
                   the
                   Gods
                   ;
                
                 
                   Who
                   Summon'd
                   ,
                   Issue
                   from
                   their
                   Blest
                   Abodes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fill
                   th'
                   Assembly
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   shining
                   Train
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   way
                   there
                   is
                   ,
                   in
                   Heavens
                   expanded
                   Plain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   when
                   the
                   Skies
                   are
                   clear
                   ,
                   is
                   seen
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Mortals
                   ,
                   by
                   the
                   Name
                   of
                   Milky
                   ,
                   know
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Ground-work
                   is
                   of
                   Stars
                   ;
                   through
                   which
                   the
                   Road
                
                 
                   Lyes
                   open
                   to
                   the
                   Thunderer's
                   Abode
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   of
                   greater
                   Nations
                   dwell
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   the
                   Right
                   and
                   Left
                   ,
                   the
                   Palace
                   bound
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Commons
                   where
                   they
                   can
                   ,
                   the
                   Nobler
                   sort
                
                 
                   With
                   Winding-doors
                   wide
                   open
                   ,
                   front
                   the
                   Court
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   This
                   Place
                   ,
                   as
                   far
                   as
                   Earth
                   with
                   Heav'n
                   may
                   vie
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   dare
                   to
                   call
                   the
                   Loovre
                   of
                   the
                   Skie
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   all
                   were
                   plac'd
                   ,
                   in
                   Seats
                   distinctly
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   ,
                   their
                   Father
                   ,
                   had
                   assum'd
                   the
                   Throne
                   ,
                
                 
                   Upon
                   his
                   Iv'ry
                   Sceptre
                   first
                   he
                   leant
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   shook
                   his
                   Head
                   ,
                   that
                   shook
                   the
                   Firmament
                   :
                
                 
                   Air
                   ,
                   Earth
                   ,
                   and
                   Seas
                   ,
                   obey'd
                   th'
                   Almighty
                   nod
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   a
                   gen'ral
                   fear
                   ,
                   confess'd
                   the
                   God.
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   with
                   Indignation
                   ,
                   thus
                   he
                   broke
                
                 
                   His
                   awful
                   silence
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   bespoke
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   was
                   not
                   more
                   concern'd
                   in
                   that
                   debate
                
                 
                   Of
                   Empire
                   ,
                   when
                   our
                   Universal
                   State
                
                 
                   Was
                   put
                   to
                   hazard
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Giant
                   Race
                
                 
                   Our
                   Captive
                   Skies
                   ,
                   were
                   ready
                   to
                   imbrace
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   tho'
                   the
                   Foe
                   was
                   fierce
                   ,
                   the
                   Seeds
                   of
                   all
                
                 
                   Rebellion
                   ,
                   sprung
                   from
                   one
                   Original
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   wheresoever
                   ambient
                   waters
                   glide
                   ,
                
                 
                   All
                   are
                   corrupt
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   must
                   be
                   destroy'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Let
                   me
                   this
                   Holy
                   Protestation
                   make
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Hell
                   ,
                   and
                   Hell
                   's
                   inviolable
                   Lake
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   try'd
                   whatever
                   in
                   the
                   God-Head
                   lay
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   gangreen'd
                   Members
                   ,
                   must
                   be
                   lopt
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   Nobler
                   Parts
                   ,
                   are
                   tainted
                   to
                   decay
                   .
                
                 
                   There
                   dwells
                   below
                   ,
                   a
                   Race
                   of
                   Demi-Gods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Nymphs
                   in
                   Waters
                   ;
                   and
                   of
                   Fawns
                   in
                   Woods
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   ,
                   tho
                   not
                   worthy
                   yet
                   ,
                   in
                   Heav'n
                   to
                   live
                   ,
                
                 
                   Let
                   'em
                   ,
                   at
                   least
                   ,
                   enjoy
                   that
                   Earth
                   we
                   give
                   .
                
                 
                   Can
                   these
                   be
                   thought
                   securely
                   lodg'd
                   below
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   I
                   my self
                   ,
                   who
                   no
                   Superior
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   ,
                   who
                   have
                   Heav'n
                   and
                   Earth
                   at
                   my
                   command
                   ,
                
                 
                   Have
                   been
                   attempted
                   by
                   
                   Lycaon's
                   Hand
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   At
                   this
                   a
                   murmur
                   ,
                   thro'
                   the
                   Synod
                   went
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   one
                   Voice
                   they
                   vote
                   his
                   Punishment
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   when
                   Conspiring
                   Traytors
                   dar'd
                   to
                   doom
                
                 
                   The
                   fall
                   of
                   Caesar
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   him
                   of
                   Rome
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Nations
                   trembled
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   pious
                   fear
                   ;
                
                 
                   All
                   anxious
                   for
                   their
                   Earthly
                   Thunderer
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   was
                   their
                   care
                   ,
                   O
                   Caesar
                   !
                   less
                   esteem'd
                
                 
                   By
                   thee
                   ,
                   than
                   that
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   for
                   Jove
                   was
                   deem'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   with
                   his
                   Hand
                   and
                   Voice
                   ,
                   did
                   first
                   restrain
                
                 
                   Their
                   Murmurs
                   ,
                   then
                   resum'd
                   his
                   Speech
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Gods
                   to
                   silence
                   were
                   compos'd
                   ,
                   and
                   sate
                
                 
                   With
                   Reverence
                   ,
                   due
                   to
                   his
                   Superior
                   State.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Cancel
                   your
                   pious
                   Cares
                   ;
                   already
                   he
                
                 
                   Has
                   paid
                   his
                   Debt
                   to
                   Justice
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   what
                   his
                   Crimes
                   ,
                   and
                   what
                   my
                   Judgments
                   were
                   ,
                
                 
                   Remains
                   for
                   me
                   ,
                   thus
                   briefly
                   to
                   declare
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Clamours
                   of
                   this
                   vile
                   degenerate
                   Age
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Cries
                   of
                   Orphans
                   ,
                   and
                   th'Oppressor's
                   Rage
                
                 
                 
                   Had
                   reach'd
                   the
                   Stars
                   ;
                   I
                   will
                   descend
                   ,
                   said
                   I
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   hope
                   to
                   prove
                   this
                   loud
                   Complaint
                   a
                   Lye.
                
                 
                   Disguis'd
                   in
                   Humane
                   Shape
                   ,
                   I
                   Travell'd
                   round
                
                 
                   The
                   World
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   than
                   what
                   I
                   hear'd
                   ,
                   I
                   found
                   .
                
                 
                   O're
                   Moenalus
                   I
                   took
                   my
                   steepy
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Caverns
                   infamous
                   for
                   Beasts
                   of
                   Prey
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   cross'd
                   Cyllenè
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   piny
                   shade
                
                 
                   More
                   infamous
                   ,
                   by
                   Curst
                   Lycaon
                   made
                   .
                
                 
                   Dark
                   Night
                   had
                   cover'd
                   Heav'n
                   and
                   Earth
                   ,
                   before
                
                 
                   I
                   enter'd
                   his
                   Unhospitable
                   Door
                   .
                
                 
                   Just
                   at
                   my
                   entrance
                   ,
                   I
                   display'd
                   the
                   Sign
                
                 
                   That
                   somewhat
                   was
                   approaching
                   of
                   Divine
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   prostrate
                   People
                   pray
                   ;
                   the
                   Tyrant
                   grins
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   adding
                   Prophanation
                   to
                   his
                   Sins
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   try
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                   and
                   if
                   a
                   God
                   appear
                
                 
                   To
                   prove
                   his
                   Deity
                   ,
                   shall
                   cost
                   him
                   dear
                   .
                
                 
                   T
                   was
                   late
                   ;
                   the
                   Graceless
                   Wretch
                   ,
                   my
                   Death
                   prepares
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   I
                   shou'd
                   soundly
                   Sleep
                   ,
                   opprest
                   with
                   Cares
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   This
                   dire
                   Experiment
                   ,
                   he
                   chose
                   ,
                   to
                   prove
                
                 
                   If
                   I
                   were
                   Mortal
                   ,
                   or
                   undoubted
                   Jove
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   first
                   he
                   had
                   resolv'd
                   to
                   taste
                   my
                   Pow'r
                   ;
                
                 
                   Not
                   long
                   before
                   ,
                   but
                   in
                   a
                   luckless
                   hour
                
                 
                   Some
                   Legates
                   ,
                   sent
                   from
                   the
                   Molossian
                   State
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   on
                   a
                   peaceful
                   Errant
                   come
                   to
                   Treat
                   :
                
                 
                   Of
                   these
                   he
                   Murders
                   one
                   ,
                   he
                   boils
                   the
                   Flesh
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   lays
                   the
                   mangl'd
                   Morsels
                   in
                   a
                   Dish
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   part
                   he
                   Roasts
                   ;
                   then
                   serves
                   it
                   up
                   ,
                   so
                   drest
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   bids
                   me
                   welcome
                   to
                   this
                   Humane
                   Feast
                   .
                
                 
                   Mov'd
                   with
                   disdain
                   ,
                   the
                   Table
                   I
                   o're-turn'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   avenging
                   Flames
                   ,
                   the
                   Palace
                   burn'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Tyrant
                   in
                   a
                   fright
                   ,
                   for
                   shelter
                   ,
                   gains
                
                 
                   The
                   Neighb'ring
                   Fields
                   ,
                   and
                   scours
                   along
                   the
                   plains
                   .
                
                 
                   Howling
                   he
                   fled
                   ,
                   and
                   fain
                   he
                   wou'd
                   have
                   spoke
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   Humane
                   Voice
                   ,
                   his
                   Brutal
                   Tongue
                   forsook
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   About
                   his
                   lips
                   ,
                   the
                   gather'd
                   foam
                   he
                   churns
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   breathing
                   slaughters
                   ,
                   still
                   with
                   rage
                   he
                   burns
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   on
                   the
                   bleating
                   Flock
                   ,
                   his
                   fury
                   turns
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Mantle
                   ,
                   now
                   his
                   Hide
                   ,
                   with
                   rugged
                   hairs
                
                 
                   Cleaves
                   to
                   his
                   back
                   ,
                   a
                   famish'd
                   face
                   he
                   bears
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   arms
                   descend
                   ,
                   his
                   shoulders
                   sink
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   multiply
                   his
                   legs
                   for
                   chace
                   of
                   Prey
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   grows
                   a
                   Wolf
                   ,
                   his
                   hoariness
                   remains
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   same
                   rage
                   in
                   other
                   Members
                   reigns
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   eyes
                   still
                   sparkle
                   in
                   a
                   narr'wer
                   space
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   jaws
                   retain
                   the
                   grin
                   ,
                   and
                   violence
                   of
                   face
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   This
                   was
                   a
                   single
                   ruine
                   ,
                   but
                   not
                   one
                
                 
                   Deserves
                   so
                   just
                   a
                   punishment
                   alone
                   .
                
                 
                   Mankind's
                   a
                   Monster
                   ,
                   and
                   th'
                   Ungodly
                   times
                
                 
                   Confed'rate
                   into
                   guilt
                   ,
                   are
                   sworn
                   to
                   Crimes
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   are
                   alike
                   involv'd
                   in
                   ill
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                
                 
                   Must
                   by
                   the
                   same
                   relentless
                   Fury
                   fall
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Thus
                   ended
                   he
                   ;
                   the
                   greater
                   Gods
                   assent
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   Clamours
                   urging
                   his
                   severe
                   intent
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   less
                   fill
                   up
                   the
                   cry
                   for
                   punishment
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   still
                   with
                   pity
                   ,
                   they
                   remember
                   Man
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   mourn
                   as
                   much
                   as
                   Heav'nly
                   Spirits
                   can
                   .
                
                 
                   They
                   ask
                   ,
                   when
                   those
                   were
                   lost
                   of
                   humane
                   birth
                   ,
                
                 
                   What
                   he
                   wou'd
                   do
                   with
                   all
                   this
                   waste
                   of
                   Earth
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   his
                   dispeopl'd
                   World
                   ,
                   he
                   would
                   resign
                
                 
                   To
                   Beasts
                   ,
                   a
                   mute
                   ,
                   and
                   more
                   ignoble
                   Line
                   ;
                
                 
                   Neglected
                   Altars
                   must
                   no
                   longer
                   smoke
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   none
                   were
                   left
                   to
                   worship
                   and
                   invoke
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   the
                   Father
                   of
                   the
                   Gods
                   reply'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Lay
                   that
                   unnecessary
                   fear
                   aside
                   .
                
                 
                   Mine
                   be
                   the
                   care
                   ,
                   new
                   People
                   to
                   provide
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   will
                   from
                   wondrous
                   Principles
                   ordain
                
                 
                   A
                   Race
                   unlike
                   the
                   first
                   ,
                   and
                   try
                   my
                   skill
                   again
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Already
                   had
                   he
                   toss'd
                   the
                   flaming
                   Brand
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   roll'd
                   the
                   Tunder
                   in
                   his
                   spatious
                   hand
                   ;
                
                 
                   Preparing
                   to
                   discharge
                   on
                   Seas
                   and
                   Land
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   stopt
                   ,
                   for
                   fear
                   thus
                   violently
                   driven
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Sparks
                   should
                   catch
                   his
                   Axle-tree
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   .
                
                 
                   Remembring
                   in
                   the
                   Fates
                   ,
                   a
                   time
                   when
                   Fire
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   to
                   the
                   Battlements
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   aspire
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   his
                   blazing
                   Worlds
                   above
                   shou'd
                   burn
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   th'
                   inferiour
                   Globe
                   ,
                   to
                   Cinders
                   turn
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   dire
                   Artill'ry
                   thus
                   dismist
                   ,
                   he
                   bent
                
                 
                   His
                   thoughts
                   to
                   some
                   securer
                   Punishment
                   .
                
                 
                   Concludes
                   to
                   pour
                   a
                   Watry
                   Deluge
                   down
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   he
                   durst
                   not
                   burn
                   ,
                   resolves
                   to
                   drown
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Northern
                   breath
                   ,
                   that
                   freezes
                   Floods
                   ,
                   he
                   binds
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   all
                   the
                   race
                   of
                   Cloud-dispelling
                   Winds
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   South
                   he
                   loos'd
                   ,
                   who
                   Night
                   and
                   Horror
                   brings
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Foggs
                   are
                   shaken
                   from
                   his
                   ●laggy
                   Wings
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   From
                   his
                   divided
                   Beard
                   ,
                   two
                   Streams
                   he
                   pours
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   head
                   and
                   rhumy
                   eyes
                   ,
                   distill
                   in
                   showers
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   Rain
                   his
                   Robe
                   and
                   heavy
                   Mantle
                   flow
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   lazy
                   mists
                   ,
                   are
                   lowring
                   on
                   his
                   brow
                   ;
                
                 
                   Still
                   as
                   he
                   swept
                   along
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   clench't
                   fist
                
                 
                   He
                   squeez'd
                   the
                   Clouds
                   ,
                   th'
                   imprison'd
                   Clouds
                   resist
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Skies
                   from
                   Pole
                   to
                   Pole
                   ,
                   with
                   peals
                   resound
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   show'rs
                   inlarg'd
                   ,
                   come
                   pouring
                   on
                   the
                   ground
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   clad
                   in
                   Colours
                   of
                   a
                   various
                   dye
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Junonian
                     Iris
                  
                   ,
                   breeds
                   a
                   new
                   supply
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   feed
                   the
                   Clouds
                   :
                   Impetuous
                   Rain
                   descends
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   bearded
                   Corn
                   ,
                   beneath
                   the
                   Burden
                   bends
                   :
                
                 
                   Defrauded
                   Clowns
                   ,
                   deplore
                   their
                   perish'd
                   grain
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   long
                   labours
                   of
                   the
                   Year
                   are
                   vain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Nor
                   from
                   his
                   Patrimonial
                   Heav'n
                   alone
                
                 
                   Is
                   Jove
                   content
                   to
                   pour
                   his
                   Vengeance
                   down
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Aid
                   from
                   his
                   Brother
                   of
                   the
                   Seas
                   he
                   craves
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   help
                   him
                   with
                   Auxiliary
                   Waves
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   watry
                   Tyrant
                   calls
                   his
                   Brooks
                   and
                   Floods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   rowl
                   from
                   mossie
                   Caves
                   (
                   their
                   moist
                   abodes
                   ;
                   )
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   perpetual
                   Urns
                   his
                   Palace
                   fill
                   :
                
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   in
                   breif
                   ,
                   he
                   thus
                   imparts
                   his
                   Will.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Small
                   Exhortation
                   needs
                   ;
                   your
                   Pow'rs
                   employ
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   this
                   bad
                   World
                   ,
                   so
                   Jove
                   requires
                   ,
                   destroy
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   loose
                   the
                   Reins
                   ,
                   to
                   all
                   your
                   watry
                   Store
                   :
                
                 
                   Bear
                   down
                   the
                   Damms
                   ,
                   and
                   open
                   every
                   door
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Floods
                   ,
                   by
                   Nature
                   Enemies
                   to
                   Land
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   proudly
                   swelling
                   with
                   their
                   new
                   Command
                   ,
                
                 
                   Remove
                   the
                   living
                   Stones
                   ,
                   that
                   stopt
                   their
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gushing
                   from
                   their
                   Source
                   ,
                   augment
                   the
                   Sea.
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   with
                   his
                   Mace
                   ,
                   their
                   Monarch
                   struck
                   the
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   inward
                   trembling
                   ,
                   Earth
                   receiv'd
                   the
                   wound
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   rising
                   streams
                   a
                   ready
                   passage
                   found
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   expanded
                   Waters
                   gather
                   on
                   the
                   Plain
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   flote
                   the
                   Fields
                   ,
                   and
                   over-top
                   the
                   Grain
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   rushing
                   onwards
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   sweepy
                   sway
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bear
                   Flocks
                   and
                   Folds
                   ,
                   and
                   lab'ring
                   Hinds
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   safe
                   their
                   Dwellings
                   were
                   ,
                   for
                   ,
                   sap'd
                   by
                   Floods
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   Houses
                   fell
                   upon
                   their
                   Household
                   Gods.
                
                 
                   The
                   solid
                   Piles
                   ,
                   too
                   strongly
                   built
                   to
                   fall
                   ,
                
                 
                   High
                   o're
                   their
                   Heads
                   ,
                   behold
                   a
                   watry
                   Wall
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   Seas
                   and
                   Earth
                   were
                   in
                   confusion
                   lost
                   ;
                
                 
                   A
                   World
                   of
                   Waters
                   ,
                   and
                   without
                   a
                   Coast.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   One
                   climbs
                   a
                   Cliff
                   ;
                   one
                   in
                   his
                   Boat
                   is
                   born
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Ploughs
                   above
                   ,
                   where
                   late
                   he
                   sow'd
                   his
                   Corn.
                
                 
                 
                   Others
                   o're
                   Chimney
                   tops
                   and
                   Turrets
                   row
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   drop
                   their
                   Anchors
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   Meads
                   below
                   :
                
                 
                   Or
                   downward
                   driv'n
                   ,
                   they
                   bruise
                   the
                   tender
                   Vine
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   tost
                   aloft
                   ,
                   are
                   knock't
                   against
                   a
                   Pine.
                
                 
                   And
                   where
                   of
                   late
                   ,
                   the
                   Kids
                   had
                   cropt
                   the
                   Grass
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Monsters
                   of
                   the
                   deep
                   ,
                   now
                   take
                   their
                   place
                   .
                
                 
                   Insulting
                   Nereids
                   on
                   the
                   Cities
                   ride
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   wondring
                   Dolphins
                   o're
                   the
                   Palace
                   glide
                   .
                
                 
                   On
                   leaves
                   and
                   masts
                   of
                   mighty
                   Oaks
                   they
                   brouze
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   their
                   broad
                   Finns
                   ,
                   entangle
                   in
                   the
                   Boughs
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   frighted
                   Wolf
                   ,
                   now
                   swims
                   amongst
                   the
                   Sheep
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   yellow
                   Lyon
                   wanders
                   in
                   the
                   deep
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   rapid
                   force
                   ,
                   no
                   longer
                   helps
                   the
                   Boar
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Stag
                   swims
                   faster
                   ,
                   than
                   he
                   ran
                   before
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Fowls
                   ,
                   long
                   beating
                   on
                   their
                   Wings
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Despair
                   of
                   Land
                   ,
                   and
                   drop
                   into
                   the
                   Main
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   Hills
                   and
                   Vaies
                   ,
                   no
                   more
                   distinction
                   know
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   levell'd
                   Nature
                   ,
                   lies
                   oppress'd
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   most
                   of
                   Mortals
                   perish
                   in
                   the
                   Flood
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   small
                   remainder
                   dies
                   for
                   want
                   of
                   Food
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   Mountain
                   of
                   stupendous
                   height
                   there
                   stands
                
                 
                   Betwixt
                   th'
                   Athenian
                   and
                   Boeotian
                   Lands
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   bound
                   of
                   fruitful
                   Fields
                   ,
                   while
                   Fields
                   they
                   were
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   then
                   a
                   Field
                   of
                   Waters
                   did
                   appear
                   :
                
                 
                   Parnassus
                   is
                   its
                   name
                   ;
                   whose
                   forky
                   rise
                
                 
                   Mounts
                   through
                   the
                   Clouds
                   ,
                   and
                   mates
                   the
                   lofty
                   Skies
                   .
                
                 
                   High
                   on
                   the
                   Summet
                   of
                   this
                   dubious
                   Cliff
                   ,
                
                 
                   Deucalion
                   wafting
                   ,
                   moor'd
                   his
                   little
                   Skiff
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   with
                   his
                   Wife
                   were
                   only
                   left
                   behind
                
                 
                   Of
                   perish'd
                   Man
                   ;
                   they
                   two
                   ,
                   were
                   Humane
                   Kind
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Mountain
                   Nymphs
                   and
                   Themis
                   they
                   adore
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   her
                   Oracles
                   relief
                   implore
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   most
                   upright
                   of
                   Mortal
                   Men
                   was
                   he
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   most
                   sincere
                   and
                   holy
                   Woman
                   ,
                   she
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   When
                   Jupiter
                   ,
                   surveying
                   Earth
                   from
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beheld
                   it
                   in
                   a
                   Lake
                   of
                   Water
                   lie
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   where
                   so
                   many
                   Millions
                   lately
                   liv'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   two
                   ,
                   the
                   best
                   of
                   either
                   Sex
                   surviv'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   loos'd
                   the
                   Northern
                   Wind
                   ;
                   fierce
                   Boreas
                   flies
                
                 
                   To
                   puff
                   away
                   the
                   Clouds
                   and
                   purge
                   the
                   Skies
                   :
                
                 
                   Serenely
                   ,
                   while
                   he
                   blows
                   ,
                   the
                   Vapours
                   ,
                   driven
                   ,
                
                 
                   Discover
                   Heav'n
                   to
                   Earth
                   ,
                   and
                   Earth
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Billows
                   fall
                   ,
                   while
                   Neptune
                   lays
                   his
                   Mace
                
                 
                   On
                   the
                   rough
                   Seas
                   ,
                   and
                   smooths
                   its
                   furrow'd
                   face
                   .
                
                 
                   Already
                   Triton
                   ,
                   at
                   his
                   call
                   appears
                   ,
                
                 
                   Above
                   the
                   Waves
                   ;
                   a
                   Tyrian
                   Robe
                   he
                   wears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   his
                   hand
                   a
                   crooked
                   Trumpet
                   bears
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Soveraign
                   bids
                   him
                   peaceful
                   sounds
                   inspire
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   give
                   the
                   Waves
                   the
                   signal
                   to
                   retire
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   writhen
                   Shell
                   he
                   takes
                   ;
                   whose
                   narrow
                   vent
                
                 
                   Grows
                   by
                   degrees
                   into
                   a
                   large
                   extent
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   gives
                   it
                   breath
                   ;
                   the
                   blast
                   ,
                   with
                   doubling
                   sound
                   ,
                
                 
                   Runs
                   the
                   wide
                   Circuit
                   of
                   the
                   World
                   around
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Sun
                   first
                   heard
                   it
                   ,
                   in
                   his
                   early
                   East
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   met
                   the
                   rattling
                   Eccho's
                   in
                   the
                   West
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Waters
                   ,
                   listning
                   to
                   the
                   Trumpets
                   roar
                   ,
                
                 
                   Obey
                   the
                   Summons
                   ,
                   and
                   sorsake
                   the
                   Shoar
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   A
                   thin
                   Circumference
                   of
                   Land
                   appears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Earth
                   ,
                   but
                   not
                   at
                   once
                   ,
                   her
                   visage
                   rears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   peeps
                   upon
                   the
                   Seas
                   from
                   upper
                   Grounds
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Streams
                   ,
                   but
                   just
                   contain'd
                   within
                   their
                   bounds
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   slow
                   degrees
                   into
                   their
                   Channels
                   crawl
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   Earth
                   increases
                   ,
                   as
                   the
                   Waters
                   fall
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   longer
                   time
                   the
                   tops
                   of
                   Trees
                   appear
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   Mud
                   on
                   their
                   dishonour'd
                   Branches
                   bear
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   At
                   length
                   the
                   World
                   was
                   all
                   restor'd
                   to
                   view
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   desolate
                   ,
                   and
                   of
                   a
                   sickly
                   hue
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Nature
                   beheld
                   her self
                   ,
                   and
                   stood
                   aghast
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   dismal
                   Desart
                   ,
                   and
                   a
                   silent
                   waste
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Which
                   when
                   Deucalion
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   piteous
                   look
                
                 
                   Beheld
                   ,
                   he
                   wept
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   to
                   Pyrrha
                   spoke
                   :
                
                 
                   Oh
                   Wife
                   ,
                   oh
                   Sister
                   ,
                   oh
                   of
                   all
                   thy
                   kind
                
                 
                   The
                   best
                   and
                   only
                   Creature
                   left
                   behind
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   Kindred
                   ,
                   Love
                   ,
                   and
                   now
                   by
                   Dangers
                   joyn'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Of
                   Multitudes
                   ,
                   who
                   breath'd
                   the
                   common
                   Air
                   ,
                
                 
                   We
                   two
                   remain
                   ;
                   a
                   Species
                   in
                   a
                   pair
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   the
                   Seas
                   have
                   swallow'd
                   ;
                   nor
                   have
                   we
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   of
                   this
                   wretched
                   life
                   a
                   certainty
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Clouds
                   are
                   still
                   above
                   ;
                   and
                   ,
                   while
                   I
                   speak
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   second
                   Deluge
                   ,
                   o're
                   our
                   heads
                   may
                   break
                   .
                
                 
                   Shou'd
                   I
                   be
                   snatch'd
                   from
                   hence
                   ,
                   and
                   thou
                   remain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Without
                   relief
                   ,
                   or
                   Partner
                   of
                   thy
                   pain
                   ,
                
                 
                   How
                   cou'd'st
                   thou
                   such
                   a
                   wretched
                   Life
                   sustain
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   Shou'd
                   I
                   be
                   left
                   ,
                   and
                   thou
                   be
                   lost
                   ,
                   the
                   Sea
                
                 
                   That
                   bury'd
                   her
                   I
                   lov'd
                   ,
                   shou'd
                   bury
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   cou'd
                   our
                   Father
                   his
                   old
                   Arts
                   inspire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   make
                   me
                   Heir
                   of
                   his
                   informing
                   Fire
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   so
                   I
                   might
                   abolisht
                   Man
                   retrieve
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   perisht
                   People
                   in
                   new
                   Souls
                   might
                   live
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   Heav'n
                   is
                   pleas'd
                   ,
                   nor
                   ought
                   we
                   to
                   complain
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   we
                   ,
                   th'
                   Examples
                   of
                   Mankind
                   ,
                   remain
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ;
                   the
                   careful
                   couple
                   joyn
                   their
                   Tears
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   then
                   invoke
                   the
                   Gods
                   ,
                   with
                   pious
                   Prayers
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   in
                   Devotion
                   having
                   eas'd
                   their
                   grief
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   Sacred
                   Oracles
                   ,
                   they
                   seek
                   relief
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   Cephysus
                   Brook
                   ,
                   their
                   way
                   pursue
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Stream
                   was
                   troubl'd
                   ,
                   but
                   the
                   Foord
                   they
                   knew
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   living
                   Waters
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   Fountain
                   bred
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   sprinkle
                   first
                   ,
                   their
                   Garments
                   ,
                   and
                   their
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   took
                   the
                   way
                   ,
                   which
                   to
                   the
                   Temple
                   led
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Roofs
                   were
                   all
                   defil'd
                   with
                   Moss
                   ,
                   and
                   Mire
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Desart
                   Altars
                   ,
                   void
                   of
                   Solemn
                   Fire
                   .
                
                 
                   Before
                   the
                   Gradual
                   ,
                   prostrate
                   they
                   ador'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   Pavement
                   kiss'd
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   the
                   Saint
                   implor'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   O
                   Righteous
                   Themis
                   ,
                   if
                   the
                   Pow'rs
                   above
                
                 
                   By
                   Pray'rs
                   are
                   bent
                   to
                   pity
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   love
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   humane
                   Miseries
                   can
                   move
                   their
                   mind
                   ;
                
                 
                   If
                   yet
                   they
                   can
                   forgive
                   ;
                   and
                   yet
                   be
                   kind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Tell
                   ,
                   how
                   we
                   may
                   restore
                   ,
                   by
                   second
                   birth
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mankind
                   ,
                   and
                   People
                   desolated
                   Earth
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   thus
                   the
                   gracious
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   nodding
                   ,
                   said
                   ;
                
                 
                   Depart
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   your
                   Vestments
                   veil
                   your
                   head
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   stooping
                   lowly
                   down
                   ,
                   with
                   loosn'd
                   Zones
                   ,
                
                 
                   Throw
                   each
                   behind
                   your
                   backs
                   ,
                   your
                   mighty
                   Mother's
                   bones
                   .
                
                 
                   Amaz'd
                   the
                   pair
                   ,
                   and
                   mute
                   with
                   wonder
                   stand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Till
                   Pyrrha
                   first
                   refus'd
                   the
                   dire
                   command
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Forbid
                   it
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   said
                   she
                   ,
                   that
                   I
                   shou'd
                   tear
                
                 
                   Those
                   Holy
                   Reliques
                   from
                   the
                   Sepulchre
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   ponder'd
                   the
                   mysterious
                   words
                   again
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   some
                   new
                   sence
                   ;
                   and
                   long
                   they
                   sought
                   in
                   vain
                   :
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   Deucalion
                   clear'd
                   his
                   cloudy
                   brow
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   said
                   ,
                   the
                   dark
                   AEnigma
                   will
                   allow
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   meaning
                   ,
                   which
                   if
                   well
                   I
                   understand
                   ,
                
                 
                   From
                   Sacriledge
                   will
                   free
                   the
                   Gods
                   Command
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   Earth
                   our
                   mighty
                   Mother
                   is
                   ,
                   the
                   Stones
                
                 
                   In
                   her
                   capacious
                   Body
                   ,
                   are
                   her
                   Bones
                   .
                
                 
                   These
                   we
                   must
                   cast
                   behind
                   :
                   with
                   hope
                   and
                   fear
                
                 
                   The
                   Woman
                   did
                   the
                   new
                   solution
                   hear
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Man
                   diffides
                   in
                   his
                   own
                   Augury
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   doubts
                   the
                   Gods
                   ;
                   yet
                   both
                   resolve
                   to
                   try
                   .
                
                 
                   Descending
                   from
                   the
                   Mount
                   ,
                   they
                   first
                   unbind
                
                 
                   Their
                   Vests
                   ,
                   and
                   veil'd
                   ,
                   they
                   cast
                   the
                   Stones
                   behind
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Stones
                   (
                   a
                   Miracle
                   to
                   Mortal
                   View
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   long
                   Tradition
                   makes
                   it
                   pass
                   for
                   true
                   )
                
                 
                 
                   Did
                   first
                   the
                   Rigour
                   of
                   their
                   Kind
                   expell
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   suppl'd
                   into
                   softness
                   ,
                   as
                   they
                   fell
                   ,
                
                 
                   Then
                   swell'd
                   ,
                   and
                   swelling
                   ,
                   by
                   degrees
                   grew
                   warm
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   took
                   the
                   Rudiments
                   of
                   Humane
                   Form.
                
                 
                   Imperfect
                   shapes
                   :
                   in
                   Marble
                   such
                   are
                   seen
                
                 
                   When
                   the
                   rude
                   Chizzel
                   does
                   the
                   Man
                   begin
                   ;
                
                 
                   While
                   yet
                   the
                   roughness
                   of
                   the
                   Stone
                   remains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Without
                   the
                   rising
                   Muscles
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Veins
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   sappy
                   parts
                   ,
                   and
                   next
                   resembling
                   juice
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   turn'd
                   to
                   moisture
                   ,
                   for
                   the
                   Bodies
                   use
                   :
                
                 
                   Supplying
                   humours
                   ,
                   blood
                   ,
                   and
                   nourishment
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   ,
                   (
                   too
                   solid
                   to
                   receive
                   a
                   bent
                   ;
                   )
                
                 
                   Converts
                   to
                   bones
                   ;
                   and
                   what
                   was
                   once
                   a
                   vein
                
                 
                   It
                   s
                   former
                   Name
                   ,
                   and
                   Nature
                   did
                   retain
                   .
                
                 
                   By
                   help
                   of
                   Pow'r
                   Divine
                   ,
                   in
                   little
                   space
                
                 
                   What
                   the
                   Man
                   threw
                   ,
                   assum'd
                   a
                   Manly
                   face
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   the
                   Wife
                   ,
                   renew'd
                   the
                   Female
                   Race
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Hence
                   we
                   derive
                   our
                   Nature
                   ;
                   born
                   to
                   bear
                
                 
                   Laborious
                   life
                   ;
                   and
                   harden'd
                   into
                   care
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   of
                   Animals
                   ,
                   from
                   teeming
                   Earth
                
                 
                   Produc'd
                   ,
                   in
                   various
                   forms
                   receiv'd
                   their
                   birth
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   native
                   moisture
                   ,
                   in
                   its
                   close
                   retreat
                   ,
                
                 
                   Digested
                   by
                   the
                   Sun
                   's
                   AEtherial
                   heat
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   in
                   a
                   kindly
                   Womb
                   ,
                   began
                   to
                   breed
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   swell'd
                   ,
                   and
                   quicken'd
                   by
                   the
                   vital
                   seed
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   some
                   in
                   less
                   ,
                   and
                   some
                   in
                   longer
                   space
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   ripen'd
                   into
                   form
                   ,
                   and
                   took
                   a
                   several
                   face
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   when
                   the
                   Nile
                   from
                   Pharian
                   Fields
                   is
                   fled
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seeks
                   with
                   Ebbing
                   Tides
                   ,
                   his
                   ancient
                   Bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   sat
                   Manure
                   ,
                   with
                   Heav'nly
                   Fire
                   is
                   warm'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   crusted
                   Creatures
                   ,
                   as
                   in
                   Wombs
                   are
                   sorm'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   These
                   ,
                   when
                   they
                   turn
                   the
                   Glebe
                   ,
                   the
                   Peasants
                   find
                   ;
                
                 
                   Some
                   rude
                   ;
                   and
                   yet
                   unfinish'd
                   in
                   their
                   Kind
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Short
                   of
                   their
                   Limbs
                   ,
                   a
                   lame
                   imperfect
                   Birth
                   ;
                
                 
                   One
                   half
                   alive
                   ;
                   and
                   one
                   of
                   lifeless
                   Earth
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   For
                   heat
                   and
                   moisture
                   ,
                   when
                   in
                   Bodies
                   joyn'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   temper
                   that
                   results
                   from
                   either
                   Kind
                
                 
                   Conception
                   makes
                   ;
                   and
                   fighting
                   till
                   they
                   mix
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   mingl'd
                   Atoms
                   in
                   each
                   other
                   six
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Nature's
                   hand
                   ,
                   the
                   Genial
                   Bed
                   prepares
                   ,
                
                 
                   With
                   Friendly
                   Discord
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   fruitful
                   Wars
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   From
                   hence
                   the
                   surface
                   of
                   the
                   Ground
                   ,
                   with
                   Mud
                
                 
                   And
                   Slime
                   besmear'd
                   ,
                   (
                   the
                   faeces
                   of
                   the
                   Flood
                   )
                
                 
                   Receiv'd
                   the
                   Rays
                   of
                   Heav'n
                   ;
                   and
                   sucking
                   in
                
                 
                   The
                   Seeds
                   of
                   Heat
                   ,
                   new
                   Creatures
                   did
                   begin
                   :
                
                 
                   Some
                   were
                   of
                   sev'ral
                   sorts
                   produc'd
                   before
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   of
                   new
                   Monsters
                   ,
                   Earth
                   created
                   more
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Unwillingly
                   ,
                   but
                   yet
                   she
                   brought
                   to
                   light
                
                 
                   Thee
                   ,
                   Python
                   too
                   ,
                   the
                   wondring
                   World
                   to
                   fright
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   the
                   new
                   Nations
                   ,
                   with
                   so
                   dire
                   a
                   sight
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   monstrous
                   was
                   his
                   bulk
                   ,
                   so
                   large
                   a
                   space
                
                 
                   Did
                   his
                   vast
                   Body
                   ,
                   and
                   long
                   Train
                   embrace
                   .
                
                 
                   Whom
                   Phoebus
                   basking
                   on
                   a
                   Bank
                   espy'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   E're
                   now
                   the
                   God
                   his
                   Arrows
                   had
                   not
                   try'd
                
                 
                   But
                   on
                   the
                   trembling
                   Deer
                   ,
                   or
                   Mountain
                   Goat
                   ;
                
                 
                   At
                   this
                   new
                   Quarry
                   ;
                   he
                   prepares
                   to
                   shoot
                   .
                
                 
                   Though
                   every
                   Shaft
                   took
                   place
                   ,
                   he
                   spent
                   the
                   Store
                
                 
                   Of
                   his
                   full
                   Quiver
                   ;
                   and
                   't
                   was
                   long
                   before
                
                 
                   Th'
                   expiring
                   Serpent
                   wallow'd
                   in
                   his
                   Gore
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   to
                   preserve
                   the
                   Fame
                   of
                   such
                   a
                   deed
                   ,
                
                 
                   For
                   Python
                   slain
                   ,
                   he
                   Pythian
                   Games
                   decreed
                   .
                
                 
                   Where
                   Noble
                   Youths
                   for
                   Mastership
                   shou'd
                   strive
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   Quoit
                   ,
                   to
                   Run
                   ,
                   and
                   Steeds
                   and
                   Chariots
                   drive
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Prize
                   was
                   Fame
                   :
                   In
                   witness
                   of
                   Renown
                
                 
                   An
                   Oaken
                   Garland
                   did
                   the
                   Victor
                   crown
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Lawrel
                   was
                   not
                   yet
                   for
                   Triumphs
                   born
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   every
                   Green
                   ,
                   alike
                   by
                   Phoebus
                   worn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Did
                   with
                   promiscuous
                   Grace
                   ,
                   his
                   flowing
                   Locks
                   adorn
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 
                   The
                   Transformation
                   of
                
                 Daphne
                 
                   into
                   a
                   Lawrel
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   first
                   and
                   fairest
                   of
                   his
                   Loves
                   ,
                   was
                   she
                
                 
                   Whom
                   not
                   blind
                   Fortune
                   ,
                   but
                   the
                   dire
                   decree
                
                 
                   Of
                   angry
                   Cupid
                   forc'd
                   him
                   to
                   desire
                   :
                
                 
                   Daphne
                   her
                   name
                   ,
                   and
                   Peneus
                   was
                   her
                   Sire
                   .
                
                 
                   Swell'd
                   with
                   the
                   Pride
                   ,
                   that
                   new
                   Success
                   attends
                
                 
                   He
                   sees
                   the
                   Stripling
                   ,
                   while
                   his
                   Bow
                   he
                   bends
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   insults
                   him
                   ;
                   thou
                   lascivious
                   Boy
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   Arms
                   like
                   these
                   ,
                   for
                   Children
                   to
                   employ
                   ?
                
                 
                 
                   Know
                   such
                   atchivements
                   are
                   my
                   proper
                   claim
                   ;
                
                 
                   Due
                   to
                   my
                   vigour
                   ,
                   and
                   unerring
                   aim
                   :
                
                 
                   Resistless
                   are
                   my
                   Shafts
                   ,
                   and
                   Python
                   late
                
                 
                   In
                   such
                   a
                   feather'd
                   Death
                   ,
                   has
                   found
                   his
                   fate
                   .
                
                 
                   Take
                   up
                   thy
                   Torch
                   ,
                   (
                   and
                   lay
                   my
                   Weapons
                   by
                   )
                
                 
                   With
                   that
                   the
                   feeble
                   Souls
                   of
                   Lovers
                   fry
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   the
                   Son
                   of
                   Venus
                   thus
                   reply'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Phoebus
                   thy
                   Shafts
                   are
                   sure
                   on
                   all
                   beside
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   mine
                   on
                   Phoebus
                   ,
                   mine
                   the
                   Fame
                   shall
                   be
                
                 
                   Of
                   all
                   thy
                   Conquests
                   ,
                   when
                   I
                   conquer
                   thee
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   soaring
                   ,
                   swiftly
                   wing'd
                   his
                   flight
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   stopt
                   but
                   on
                   Parnassus
                   airy
                   height
                   .
                
                 
                   Two
                   diff'rent
                   Shafts
                   ,
                   he
                   from
                   his
                   Quiver
                   draws
                   ;
                
                 
                   One
                   to
                   repel
                   desire
                   ,
                   and
                   one
                   to
                   cause
                   .
                
                 
                   One
                   Shaft
                   is
                   pointed
                   with
                   refulgent
                   Gold
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   bribe
                   the
                   Love
                   ,
                   and
                   make
                   the
                   Lover
                   bold
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   One
                   blunt
                   ,
                   and
                   tipt
                   with
                   Lead
                   ,
                   whose
                   base
                   allay
                
                 
                   Provokes
                   disdain
                   ,
                   and
                   drives
                   desire
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   blunted
                   bolt
                   ,
                   against
                   the
                   Nymph
                   he
                   drest
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   with
                   the
                   sharp
                   ,
                   transfixt
                   
                   Apollo's
                   Breast
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Th'
                   enamour'd
                   Deity
                   ,
                   pursues
                   the
                   Chace
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   scornful
                   Damsel
                   shuns
                   his
                   loath'd
                   Embrace
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   hunting
                   Beasts
                   of
                   Prey
                   ,
                   her
                   Youth
                   employs
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Phoebe
                   Rivals
                   in
                   her
                   rural
                   Joys
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   naked
                   Neck
                   she
                   goes
                   ,
                   and
                   Shoulders
                   bare
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   a
                   Fillet
                   binds
                   her
                   flowing
                   Hair.
                
                 
                   By
                   many
                   Suitors
                   sought
                   ,
                   she
                   mocks
                   their
                   pains
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   still
                   her
                   vow'd
                   Virginity
                   maintains
                   .
                
                 
                   Impatient
                   of
                   a
                   Yoke
                   ,
                   the
                   name
                   of
                   Bride
                
                 
                   She
                   shuns
                   ,
                   and
                   hates
                   the
                   Joys
                   she
                   never
                   try'd
                   .
                
                 
                   On
                   Wilds
                   and
                   Woods
                   she
                   fixes
                   her
                   desire
                   :
                
                 
                   Nor
                   knows
                   what
                   Youth
                   and
                   kindly
                   Love
                   inspire
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Her
                   Father
                   chides
                   her
                   oft
                   ;
                   thou
                   ow'st
                   ,
                   says
                   he
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   Husband
                   to
                   thy self
                   ,
                   a
                   Son
                   to
                   me
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   ,
                   like
                   a
                   Crime
                   ,
                   abhors
                   the
                   Nuptial
                   Bed
                   :
                
                 
                   She
                   glows
                   with
                   blushes
                   ,
                   and
                   she
                   hangs
                   her
                   head
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   casting
                   round
                   his
                   Neck
                   her
                   tender
                   Arms
                   ,
                
                 
                   Sooths
                   him
                   with
                   blandishments
                   ,
                   and
                   filial
                   Charms
                   :
                
                 
                   Give
                   me
                   ,
                   my
                   Lord
                   ,
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                   to
                   live
                   and
                   die
                
                 
                   A
                   spotless
                   Maid
                   ,
                   without
                   the
                   Marriage
                   Tye.
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   but
                   a
                   small
                   request
                   ;
                   I
                   beg
                   no
                   more
                
                 
                   Than
                   what
                   
                   Diana's
                   Father
                   gave
                   before
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   good
                   old
                   Sire
                   ,
                   was
                   softn'd
                   to
                   consent
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   said
                   her
                   Wish
                   wou'd
                   prove
                   her
                   Punishment
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   so
                   much
                   Youth
                   ,
                   and
                   so
                   much
                   Beauty
                   joyn'd
                
                 
                   Oppos'd
                   the
                   State
                   ,
                   which
                   her
                   desires
                   design'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   God
                   of
                   light
                   ,
                   aspiring
                   to
                   her
                   Bed
                
                 
                   Hopes
                   what
                   he
                   seeks
                   ,
                   with
                   flattering
                   fancies
                   fed
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   is
                   ,
                   by
                   his
                   own
                   Oracles
                   mis-led
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   as
                   in
                   empty
                   Fields
                   ,
                   the
                   Stubble
                   burns
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   nightly
                   Travellers
                   ,
                   when
                   day
                   returns
                   ,
                
                 
                   Their
                   useless
                   Torches
                   ,
                   on
                   dry
                   Hedges
                   throw
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   catch
                   the
                   Flames
                   ,
                   and
                   kindle
                   all
                   the
                   row
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   burns
                   the
                   God
                   ,
                   consuming
                   in
                   desire
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   feeding
                   in
                   his
                   Breast
                   a
                   fruitless
                   Fire
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   well-turn'd
                   Neck
                   he
                   view'd
                   (
                   her
                   Neck
                   was
                   bare
                   )
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   her
                   Shoulders
                   her
                   dishevel'd
                   Hair
                   ,
                
                 
                   Oh
                   were
                   it
                   comb'd
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                   with
                   what
                   a
                   grace
                
                 
                   Wou'd
                   every
                   waving
                   Curl
                   ,
                   become
                   her
                   Face
                   !
                
                 
                   He
                   view'd
                   her
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   like
                   Heavenly
                   Lamps
                   that
                   shone
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   view'd
                   her
                   Lips
                   ,
                   too
                   sweet
                   to
                   view
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   taper
                   Fingers
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   panting
                   Breast
                   ;
                
                 
                   He
                   praises
                   all
                   he
                   sees
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   the
                   rest
                
                 
                   Believes
                   the
                   Beauties
                   yet
                   unseen
                   are
                   best
                   :
                
                 
                   Swift
                   as
                   the
                   Wind
                   ,
                   the
                   Damsel
                   fled
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   did
                   for
                   these
                   alluring
                   Speeches
                   stay
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Stay
                   Nymph
                   ,
                   he
                   cry'd
                   ,
                   I
                   follow
                   not
                   a
                   Foe
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   from
                   the
                   Lyon
                   ,
                   trips
                   the
                   trembling
                   Doe
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thus
                   from
                   the
                   Wolf
                   the
                   frightn'd
                   Lamb
                   removes
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   from
                   pursuing
                   Faulcons
                   ,
                   fearful
                   Doves
                   ,
                
                 
                   Thou
                   shunn'st
                   a
                   God
                   ,
                   and
                   shunn'st
                   a
                   God
                   that
                   loves
                   .
                
                 
                   Ah
                   ,
                   lest
                   some
                   thorn
                   shou'd
                   pierce
                   thy
                   tender
                   foot
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   thou
                   shou'd'st
                   fall
                   in
                   flying
                   my
                   pursuit
                   !
                
                 
                   To
                   sharp
                   uneven
                   ways
                   thy
                   steps
                   decline
                   ;
                
                 
                   Abate
                   thy
                   speed
                   ,
                   and
                   I
                   will
                   bate
                   of
                   mine
                   .
                
                 
                   Yet
                   think
                   from
                   whom
                   thou
                   dost
                   so
                   rashly
                   fly
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   basely
                   born
                   ,
                   nor
                   Shepherd's
                   Swain
                   am
                   I.
                
                 
                   Perhaps
                   thou
                   know'st
                   not
                   my
                   Superior
                   State
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   from
                   that
                   ignorance
                   ,
                   proceeds
                   thy
                   hate
                   .
                
                 
                   Me
                   
                     Claros
                     ,
                     Delphos
                     ,
                     Tenedos
                  
                   obey
                   ,
                
                 
                   These
                   Hands
                   the
                   Patareian
                   Scepter
                   sway
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   King
                   of
                   Gods
                   begot
                   me
                   :
                   What
                   shall
                   be
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   is
                   ,
                   or
                   ever
                   was
                   ,
                   in
                   Fate
                   ,
                   I
                   see
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Mine
                   is
                   th'
                   invention
                   of
                   the
                   charming
                   Lyre
                   ;
                
                 
                   Sweet
                   notes
                   ,
                   and
                   Heav'nly
                   numbers
                   I
                   inspire
                   .
                
                 
                   Sure
                   is
                   my
                   Bow
                   ,
                   unerring
                   is
                   my
                   Dart
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   ah
                   more
                   deadly
                   his
                   ,
                   who
                   pierc'd
                   my
                   Heart
                   .
                
                 
                   Med'cine
                   is
                   mine
                   ;
                   what
                   Herbs
                   and
                   Simples
                   grow
                
                 
                   In
                   Fields
                   and
                   Forrests
                   ,
                   all
                   their
                   pow'rs
                   I
                   know
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   am
                   the
                   great
                   Physician
                   call'd
                   ,
                   below
                   .
                
                 
                   Alas
                   that
                   Fields
                   and
                   Forrests
                   can
                   afford
                
                 
                   No
                   Remedies
                   to
                   heal
                   their
                   Love-sick
                   Lord
                   !
                
                 
                   To
                   cure
                   the
                   pains
                   of
                   Love
                   ,
                   no
                   Plant
                   avails
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   his
                   own
                   Physick
                   ;
                   the
                   Physician
                   fails
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   She
                   heard
                   not
                   half
                   ;
                   so
                   furiously
                   she
                   flies
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   her
                   Ear
                   ,
                   th'
                   imperfect
                   accent
                   dies
                   .
                
                 
                   Fear
                   gave
                   her
                   Wings
                   ;
                   and
                   as
                   she
                   fled
                   ,
                   the
                   wind
                
                 
                   Increasing
                   ,
                   spread
                   her
                   flowing
                   Hair
                   behind
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   left
                   her
                   Legs
                   and
                   Thighs
                   expos'd
                   to
                   view
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   made
                   the
                   God
                   more
                   eager
                   to
                   pursue
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   God
                   was
                   young
                   ,
                   and
                   was
                   too
                   hotly
                   bent
                
                 
                   To
                   lose
                   his
                   time
                   in
                   empty
                   Compliment
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   led
                   by
                   Love
                   ,
                   and
                   fir'd
                   with
                   such
                   a
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   Impetuously
                   pursu'd
                   his
                   near
                   delight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   As
                   when
                   th'impatient
                   Greyhound
                   slipt
                   from
                   far
                   ,
                
                 
                   Bounds
                   o're
                   the
                   Glebe
                   to
                   course
                   the
                   fearful
                   Hare
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   in
                   her
                   speed
                   ,
                   does
                   all
                   her
                   safety
                   lay
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   he
                   with
                   double
                   speed
                   pursues
                   the
                   Prey
                   ;
                
                 
                   O're-runs
                   her
                   at
                   the
                   sitting
                   turn
                   ,
                   and
                   licks
                
                 
                   His
                   Chaps
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                   and
                   blows
                   upon
                   the
                   Flix
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   scapes
                   ,
                   and
                   for
                   the
                   neighb'ring
                   Covert
                   strives
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gaining
                   shelter
                   ,
                   doubts
                   if
                   yet
                   she
                   lives
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   little
                   things
                   with
                   great
                   we
                   may
                   compare
                   ,
                
                 
                   Such
                   was
                   the
                   God
                   ,
                   and
                   such
                   the
                   flying
                   Fair.
                
                 
                   She
                   urg'd
                   by
                   fear
                   ,
                   her
                   feet
                   did
                   swiftly
                   move
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   he
                   more
                   swiftly
                   ,
                   who
                   was
                   urg'd
                   by
                   Love.
                
                 
                 
                   He
                   gathers
                   ground
                   upon
                   her
                   in
                   the
                   chace
                   :
                
                 
                   Now
                   breaths
                   upon
                   her
                   Hair
                   ,
                   with
                   nearer
                   pace
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   just
                   is
                   fast'ning
                   on
                   the
                   wish'd
                   Embrace
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Nymph
                   grew
                   pale
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   a
                   mortal
                   fright
                   ,
                
                 
                   Spent
                   with
                   the
                   labour
                   of
                   so
                   long
                   a
                   flight
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   now
                   despairing
                   ,
                   cast
                   a
                   mournful
                   look
                
                 
                   Upon
                   the
                   Streams
                   of
                   her
                   Paternal
                   Brook
                   :
                
                 
                   Oh
                   help
                   ,
                   she
                   cry'd
                   ,
                   in
                   this
                   extreamest
                   need
                   ,
                
                 
                   If
                   Water
                   Gods
                   are
                   Deities
                   indeed
                   :
                
                 
                   Gape
                   Earth
                   ,
                   and
                   this
                   unhappy
                   Wretch
                   intomb
                   ;
                
                 
                   Or
                   change
                   my
                   form
                   ,
                   whence
                   all
                   my
                   sorrows
                   come
                   .
                
                 
                   Scarce
                   had
                   she
                   finish'd
                   ,
                   when
                   her
                   Feet
                   she
                   found
                
                 
                   Benumm'd
                   with
                   cold
                   ,
                   and
                   fasten'd
                   to
                   the
                   Ground
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   filmy
                   rind
                   about
                   her
                   Body
                   grows
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   Hair
                   to
                   Leaves
                   ,
                   her
                   Arms
                   extend
                   to
                   Boughs
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Nymph
                   is
                   all
                   into
                   a
                   Lawrel
                   gone
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   smoothness
                   of
                   her
                   Skin
                   ,
                   remains
                   alone
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Yet
                   Phoebus
                   loves
                   her
                   still
                   ,
                   and
                   casting
                   round
                
                 
                   Her
                   Bole
                   ,
                   his
                   Arms
                   ,
                   some
                   little
                   warmth
                   he
                   found
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Tree
                   still
                   panted
                   in
                   th'
                   unfinish'd
                   part
                   :
                
                 
                   Not
                   wholly
                   vegetive
                   ,
                   and
                   heav'd
                   her
                   Heart
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   fixt
                   his
                   Lips
                   upon
                   the
                   trembling
                   Rind
                   ;
                
                 
                   It
                   swerv'd
                   aside
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Embrace
                   declin'd
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   whom
                   the
                   God
                   ,
                   because
                   thou
                   can'st
                   not
                   be
                
                 
                   My
                   Mistress
                   ,
                   I
                   espouse
                   thee
                   for
                   my
                   Tree
                   :
                
                 
                   Be
                   thou
                   the
                   prize
                   of
                   Honour
                   and
                   Renown
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   deathless
                   Poet
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Poem
                   crown
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   shalt
                   the
                   Roman
                   Festivals
                   adorn
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   after
                   Poets
                   ,
                   be
                   by
                   Victors
                   worn
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   shalt
                   returning
                   
                   Caesar's
                   Triumph
                   grace
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   Pomps
                   shall
                   in
                   a
                   long
                   Procession
                   pass
                   .
                
                 
                   Wreath'd
                   on
                   the
                   Posts
                   before
                   his
                   Palace
                   wait
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   be
                   the
                   sacred
                   Guardian
                   of
                   the
                   Gate
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Secure
                   from
                   Thunder
                   ,
                   and
                   unharm'd
                   by
                   Jove
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unfading
                   as
                   th'
                   immortal
                   Pow'rs
                   above
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   as
                   the
                   locks
                   of
                   Phoebus
                   are
                   unshorn
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   shall
                   perpetual
                   green
                   thy
                   Boughs
                   adorn
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   grateful
                   Tree
                   was
                   pleas'd
                   with
                   what
                   he
                   sed
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   shook
                   the
                   shady
                   Honours
                   of
                   her
                   Head.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 
                   The
                   Transformation
                   of
                
                 Io
                 
                   into
                   a
                   Heyfar
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   An
                   ancient
                   Forrest
                   in
                   Thessalia
                   grows
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   
                   Tempe's
                   pleasing
                   Valley
                   does
                   inclose
                   :
                
                 
                   Through
                   this
                   the
                   rapid
                   Peneus
                   takes
                   his
                   course
                   ;
                
                 
                   From
                   Pindus
                   rowling
                   with
                   impetuous
                   force
                   :
                
                 
                   Mists
                   from
                   the
                   Rivers
                   mighty
                   fall
                   arise
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   deadly
                   damps
                   inclose
                   the
                   cloudy
                   Skies
                   :
                
                 
                   Perpetual
                   Fogs
                   are
                   hanging
                   o're
                   the
                   Wood
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   sounds
                   of
                   Waters
                   deaf
                   the
                   Neighbourhood
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Deep
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   Rocky
                   Cave
                   ,
                   he
                   makes
                   abode
                   :
                
                 
                   (
                   A
                   Mansion
                   proper
                   for
                   a
                   mourning
                   God.
                   )
                
                 
                   Here
                   he
                   gives
                   Audience
                   ;
                   issuing
                   out
                   Decrees
                
                 
                   To
                   Rivers
                   ,
                   his
                   dependant
                   Deities
                   .
                
                 
                   On
                   this
                   occasion
                   hither
                   they
                   resort
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   pay
                   their
                   homage
                   and
                   to
                   make
                   their
                   Court.
                
                 
                   All
                   doubtful
                   ,
                   whether
                   to
                   congratulate
                
                 
                   His
                   Daughter's
                   Honour
                   ,
                   or
                   lament
                   her
                   Fate
                   .
                
                 
                   Sperchaeus
                   ,
                   crown'd
                   with
                   Poplar
                   ,
                   first
                   appears
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   old
                   Apidanus
                   came
                   crown'd
                   with
                   years
                   :
                
                 
                   Enipeus
                   turbulent
                   ,
                   Amphrisos
                   tame
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   AEas
                   ,
                   last
                   with
                   lagging
                   Waters
                   came
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   of
                   his
                   Kindred
                   Brooks
                   ,
                   a
                   numerous
                   throng
                   ,
                
                 
                   Condole
                   his
                   loss
                   ;
                   and
                   bring
                   their
                   Urns
                   along
                   .
                
                 
                   Not
                   one
                   was
                   wanting
                   of
                   the
                   watry
                   Train
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   fill'd
                   his
                   Flood
                   ,
                   or
                   mingl'd
                   with
                   the
                   Main
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   Inachus
                   ,
                   who
                   in
                   his
                   Cave
                   ,
                   alone
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wept
                   not
                   anothers
                   losses
                   ,
                   but
                   his
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   his
                   dear
                   Io
                   ,
                   whether
                   stray'd
                   ,
                   or
                   dead
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   him
                   uncertain
                   ,
                   doubtful
                   tears
                   he
                   shed
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   sought
                   her
                   through
                   the
                   World
                   ;
                   but
                   sought
                   in
                   vain
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   no
                   where
                   finding
                   ,
                   rather
                   fear'd
                   her
                   slain
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Her
                   ,
                   just
                   returning
                   from
                   her
                   Father's
                   Brook
                   ,
                
                 
                   Jove
                   had
                   beheld
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   desiring
                   look
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   oh
                   fair
                   Daughter
                   of
                   the
                   Flood
                   ,
                   he
                   sed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Worthy
                   alone
                   of
                   Jove's
                   Imperial
                   Bed
                   ;
                
                 
                   Happy
                   whoever
                   shall
                   those
                   Charms
                   possess
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   King
                   of
                   Gods
                   ,
                   nor
                   is
                   thy
                   Lover
                   less
                   ,
                
                 
                   Invites
                   thee
                   to
                   yon
                   cooler
                   Shades
                   ;
                   to
                   shun
                
                 
                   The
                   scorching
                   Rays
                   of
                   the
                   Meridian
                   Sun.
                
                 
                   Nor
                   shalt
                   thou
                   tempt
                   the
                   dangers
                   of
                   the
                   Grove
                
                 
                   Alone
                   ,
                   without
                   a
                   Guide
                   ;
                   thy
                   Guide
                   is
                   Jove
                   .
                
                 
                   No
                   puny
                   Pow'r
                   ,
                   but
                   he
                   whose
                   high
                   Command
                
                 
                   Is
                   unconfin'd
                   ,
                   who
                   rules
                   the
                   Seas
                   and
                   Land
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   tempers
                   Thunder
                   in
                   his
                   awful
                   hand
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Oh
                   fly
                   not
                   ;
                   (
                   for
                   she
                   fled
                   from
                   his
                   Embrace
                   ,
                   )
                
                 
                   O're
                   
                   Lerna's
                   Pastures
                   ,
                   he
                   pursu'd
                   the
                   Chace
                   :
                
                 
                   Along
                   the
                   Shades
                   of
                   the
                   Lyrnoean
                   Plain
                   ;
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   the
                   God
                   ,
                   who
                   never
                   asks
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Involv'd
                   with
                   Vapours
                   ,
                   imitating
                   Night
                   ,
                
                 
                   Both
                   Air
                   and
                   Earth
                   ;
                   and
                   then
                   suppress'd
                   her
                   flight
                
                 
                   And
                   mingling
                   force
                   with
                   Love
                   enjoy'd
                   the
                   full
                   delight
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   the
                   jealous
                   Juno
                   ,
                   from
                   on
                   high
                   ,
                
                 
                   Survey'd
                   the
                   fruitful
                   Fields
                   of
                   Arcady
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   wonder'd
                   that
                   the
                   mist
                   shou'd
                   over-run
                
                 
                   The
                   face
                   of
                   Day-light
                   ,
                   and
                   obscure
                   the
                   Sun.
                
                 
                   No
                   Nat'ral
                   cause
                   the
                   found
                   ,
                   from
                   Brooks
                   ,
                   or
                   Bogs
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   marshy
                   Lowlands
                   ,
                   to
                   produce
                   the
                   Fogs
                   :
                
                 
                   Then
                   round
                   the
                   Skies
                   she
                   sought
                   for
                   Jupiter
                   ;
                
                 
                   Her
                   faithless
                   Husband
                   ;
                   but
                   no
                   Jove
                   was
                   there
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Suspecting
                   now
                   the
                   worst
                   ,
                   or
                   I
                   ,
                   she
                   said
                   ,
                
                 
                   Am
                   much
                   mistaken
                   ,
                   or
                   am
                   much
                   betray'd
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   fury
                   she
                   precipitates
                   her
                   flight
                   :
                
                 
                   Dispels
                   the
                   shadows
                   of
                   dissembled
                   Night
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   to
                   the
                   day
                   restores
                   his
                   native
                   light
                   .
                
                 
                   Th'
                   Almighty
                   Leacher
                   ,
                   careful
                   to
                   prevent
                
                 
                   The
                   consequence
                   ,
                   foreseeing
                   her
                   descent
                   ,
                
                 
                   Transforms
                   his
                   Mistress
                   in
                   a
                   trice
                   ;
                   and
                   now
                
                 
                   In
                   
                   Io's
                   place
                   appears
                   a
                   lovely
                   Cow.
                
                 
                   So
                   slick
                   her
                   skin
                   ,
                   so
                   faultless
                   was
                   her
                   make
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   Juno
                   did
                   unwilling
                   pleasure
                   take
                
                 
                   To
                   see
                   so
                   fair
                   a
                   Rival
                   of
                   her
                   Love
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   what
                   she
                   was
                   ,
                   and
                   whence
                   ,
                   enquir'd
                   of
                   Jove
                   :
                
                 
                   Of
                   what
                   sair
                   Herd
                   ,
                   and
                   from
                   what
                   Pedigree
                   ?
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   ,
                   half
                   caught
                   ,
                   was
                   forc'd
                   upon
                   a
                   lye
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   said
                   she
                   sprung
                   from
                   Earth
                   ;
                   she
                   took
                   the
                   word
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   begg'd
                   the
                   beauteous
                   Heyfar
                   of
                   her
                   Lord.
                
                 
                 
                   What
                   should
                   he
                   do
                   ,
                   't
                   was
                   equal
                   shame
                   to
                   Jove
                
                 
                   Or
                   to
                   relinquish
                   ,
                   or
                   betray
                   his
                   Love
                   :
                
                 
                   Yet
                   to
                   refuse
                   so
                   slight
                   a
                   Gift
                   ,
                   wou'd
                   be
                
                 
                   But
                   more
                   t'
                   increase
                   his
                   Consort
                   's
                   Jealousie
                   :
                
                 
                   Thus
                   fear
                   and
                   love
                   ,
                   by
                   turns
                   his
                   heart
                   assail'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   stronger
                   love
                   had
                   sure
                   ,
                   at
                   length
                   prevail'd
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   some
                   faint
                   hope
                   remain'd
                   ,
                   his
                   jealous
                   Queen
                
                 
                   Had
                   not
                   the
                   Mistress
                   through
                   the
                   Heyfar
                   seen
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   cautious
                   Goddess
                   ,
                   of
                   her
                   Gift
                   possest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Yet
                   harbour'd
                   anxious
                   thoughts
                   within
                   her
                   breast
                   ;
                
                 
                   As
                   she
                   who
                   knew
                   the
                   falshood
                   of
                   her
                   Jove
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   justly
                   fear'd
                   some
                   new
                   relapse
                   of
                   Love.
                
                 
                   Which
                   to
                   prevent
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   secure
                   her
                   care
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   trusty
                   Argus
                   ,
                   she
                   commits
                   the
                   Fair.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   head
                   of
                   Argus
                   (
                   as
                   with
                   Stars
                   the
                   Skies
                   )
                
                 
                   Was
                   compass'd
                   round
                   ,
                   and
                   wore
                   an
                   hundred
                   eyes
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   two
                   by
                   turns
                   their
                   lids
                   in
                   slumber
                   steep
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   rest
                   on
                   duty
                   still
                   their
                   station
                   keep
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   cou'd
                   the
                   total
                   Constellation
                   sleep
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   ,
                   ever
                   present
                   ,
                   to
                   his
                   eyes
                   and
                   mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Charge
                   was
                   still
                   before
                   him
                   ,
                   tho'
                   behind
                   .
                
                 
                   In
                   Fields
                   he
                   suffer'd
                   her
                   to
                   feed
                   by
                   Day
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   the
                   setting
                   Sun
                   ,
                   to
                   Night
                   gave
                   way
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Captive
                   Cow
                   he
                   summon'd
                   with
                   a
                   call
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   drove
                   her
                   back
                   ,
                   and
                   ty'd
                   her
                   to
                   the
                   Stall
                   .
                
                 
                   On
                   Leaves
                   of
                   Trees
                   ,
                   and
                   bitter
                   Herbs
                   she
                   fed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Heav'n
                   was
                   her
                   Canopy
                   ,
                   bare
                   Earth
                   her
                   Bed
                   :
                
                 
                   So
                   hardly
                   lodg'd
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   digest
                   her
                   Food
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   drank
                   from
                   troubl'd
                   Streams
                   ,
                   defil'd
                   with
                   Mud
                   ,
                
                 
                   Her
                   woesul
                   Story
                   ,
                   fain
                   she
                   wou'd
                   have
                   told
                
                 
                   With
                   hands
                   upheld
                   ,
                   but
                   had
                   no
                   hands
                   to
                   hold
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   head
                   to
                   her
                   ungentle
                   Keeper
                   bow'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   strove
                   to
                   speak
                   ,
                   she
                   spoke
                   not
                   ,
                   but
                   she
                   low'd
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Affrighted
                   with
                   the
                   noise
                   ,
                   she
                   look'd
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   seem'd
                   t'
                   inquire
                   the
                   Author
                   of
                   the
                   sound
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Once
                   on
                   the
                   Banks
                   where
                   often
                   she
                   had
                   play'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   Her
                   Father's
                   Banks
                   )
                   she
                   came
                   ,
                   and
                   there
                   survey'd
                
                 
                   Her
                   alter'd
                   visage
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   branching
                   head
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   starting
                   ,
                   from
                   her self
                   she
                   wou'd
                   have
                   fled
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   fellow
                   Nymphs
                   ,
                   familiar
                   to
                   her
                   eyes
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beheld
                   ,
                   but
                   knew
                   her
                   not
                   in
                   this
                   disguise
                   .
                
                 
                   Ev'n
                   Inachus
                   himself
                   was
                   ignorant
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   his
                   Daughter
                   ,
                   did
                   his
                   Daughter
                   want
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   follow'd
                   where
                   her
                   Fellows
                   went
                   ,
                   as
                   she
                
                 
                   Were
                   still
                   a
                   Partner
                   of
                   the
                   Company
                   :
                
                 
                   They
                   stroke
                   her
                   Neck
                   ,
                   the
                   gentle
                   Heyfar
                   stands
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   her
                   Neck
                   offers
                   to
                   their
                   stroaking
                   Hands
                   .
                
                 
                   Her
                   Father
                   gave
                   her
                   Grass
                   ;
                   the
                   Grass
                   she
                   took
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   lick'd
                   his
                   Palms
                   ,
                   and
                   cast
                   a
                   piteous
                   look
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   in
                   the
                   language
                   of
                   her
                   eyes
                   ,
                   she
                   spoke
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   She
                   wou'd
                   have
                   told
                   her
                   name
                   ,
                   and
                   ask't
                   relief
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   wanting
                   words
                   ,
                   in
                   tears
                   she
                   tells
                   her
                   grief
                   .
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   with
                   her
                   foot
                   she
                   makes
                   him
                   understand
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   prints
                   the
                   name
                   of
                   Io
                   in
                   the
                   Sand.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   Ah
                   wretched
                   me
                   ,
                   her
                   mournful
                   Father
                   cry'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   ,
                   with
                   a
                   sigh
                   ,
                   to
                   wretched
                   me
                   reply'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   About
                   her
                   Milk-white
                   neck
                   ,
                   his
                   arms
                   he
                   threw
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   wept
                   ,
                   and
                   then
                   these
                   tender
                   words
                   ensue
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   art
                   thou
                   she
                   ,
                   whom
                   I
                   have
                   sought
                   around
                
                 
                   The
                   World
                   ,
                   and
                   have
                   at
                   length
                   so
                   sadly
                   found
                   ?
                
                 
                   So
                   found
                   is
                   worse
                   than
                   lost
                   :
                   with
                   mutual
                   words
                
                 
                   Thou
                   answer'st
                   not
                   ,
                   no
                   voice
                   thy
                   tongue
                   affords
                   :
                
                 
                   But
                   sighs
                   are
                   deeply
                   drawn
                   from
                   out
                   thy
                   breast
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   speech
                   deny'd
                   ,
                   by
                   lowing
                   is
                   express'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Unknowing
                   I
                   ,
                   prepar'd
                   thy
                   Bridal
                   Bed
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   empty
                   hopes
                   of
                   happy
                   Issue
                   fed
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   But
                   now
                   the
                   Husband
                   of
                   a
                   Herd
                   must
                   be
                
                 
                   Thy
                   Mate
                   ,
                   and
                   bell'wing
                   Sons
                   thy
                   Progeny
                   .
                
                 
                   Oh
                   ,
                   were
                   I
                   mortal
                   ,
                   Death
                   might
                   bring
                   relief
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   now
                   my
                   God-head
                   ,
                   but
                   extends
                   my
                   grief
                   :
                
                 
                   Prolongs
                   my
                   woes
                   ,
                   of
                   which
                   no
                   end
                   I
                   see
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   makes
                   me
                   curse
                   my
                   Immortality
                   !
                
                 
                   More
                   had
                   he
                   said
                   ,
                   but
                   ,
                   fearful
                   of
                   her
                   stay
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Starry
                   Guardian
                   drove
                   his
                   Charge
                   away
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   some
                   fresh
                   Pasture
                   ;
                   on
                   a
                   hilly
                   height
                
                 
                   He
                   sate
                   himself
                   ,
                   and
                   kept
                   her
                   still
                   in
                   sight
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 
                   The
                   Eyes
                   of
                
                 Argus
                 
                   Transform'd
                   into
                   a
                   Peacock's
                   Train
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   Jove
                   no
                   longer
                   cou'd
                   her
                   suff'rings
                   bear
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   call'd
                   in
                   haste
                   his
                   airy
                   Messenger
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Son
                   of
                   Maya
                   ,
                   with
                   severe
                   decree
                
                 
                   To
                   kill
                   the
                   Keeper
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   set
                   her
                   free
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   all
                   his
                   Harness
                   soon
                   the
                   God
                   was
                   sped
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   flying
                   Hat
                   was
                   fastned
                   on
                   his
                   Head
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wings
                   on
                   his
                   Heels
                   were
                   hung
                   ,
                   and
                   in
                   his
                   Hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   holds
                   the
                   Virtue
                   of
                   the
                   Snaky
                   Wand
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   liquid
                   Air
                   ,
                   his
                   moving
                   Pinions
                   wound
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   moment
                   ,
                   shoot
                   him
                   on
                   the
                   ground
                   ,
                
                 
                   Before
                   he
                   came
                   in
                   sight
                   ,
                   the
                   crafty
                   God
                
                 
                   His
                   Wings
                   dismiss'd
                   ,
                   but
                   still
                   retain'd
                   his
                   Rod
                   :
                
                 
                   That
                   Sleep
                   procuring
                   Wand
                   ,
                   wise
                   Hermes
                   took
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   made
                   it
                   seem
                   to
                   sight
                   ,
                   a
                   Shepherd's
                   Hook.
                
                 
                   With
                   this
                   ,
                   he
                   did
                   a
                   Herd
                   of
                   Goats
                   controul
                   ;
                
                 
                   Which
                   by
                   the
                   way
                   he
                   met
                   ,
                   and
                   slily
                   stole
                   .
                
                 
                   Clad
                   like
                   a
                   Country
                   Swain
                   ,
                   he
                   Pip'd
                   and
                   Sung
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   playing
                   drove
                   his
                   jolly
                   Troop
                   along
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   With
                   pleasure
                   ,
                   Argus
                   the
                   Musician
                   heeds
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   wonders
                   much
                   at
                   those
                   new
                   vocal
                   Reeds
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   And
                   whosoe're
                   thou
                   art
                   ,
                   my
                   Friend
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                
                 
                   Up
                   hither
                   drive
                   thy
                   Goats
                   ,
                   and
                   play
                   by
                   me
                   :
                
                 
                   This
                   Hill
                   has
                   browz
                   for
                   them
                   ,
                   and
                   shade
                   for
                   thee
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   God
                   ,
                   who
                   was
                   with
                   ease
                   induc'd
                   to
                   climb
                   ,
                
                 
                   Began
                   Discourse
                   to
                   pass
                   away
                   the
                   time
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   still
                   betwixt
                   ,
                   his
                   Tuneful
                   Pipe
                   he
                   plyes
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   watch'd
                   his
                   Hour
                   ,
                   to
                   close
                   the
                   Keeper's
                   Eyes
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   much
                   ado
                   ,
                   he
                   partly
                   kept
                   awake
                   ;
                
                 
                   Not
                   suff'ring
                   all
                   his
                   Eyes
                   repose
                   to
                   take
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   ask'd
                   the
                   Stranger
                   ,
                   who
                   did
                   Reeds
                   invent
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   whence
                   began
                   so
                   rare
                   an
                   Instrument
                   ?
                
              
            
             
               
                 
                   The
                   Transformation
                   of
                
                 Syrinx
                 
                   into
                   Reeds
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   Hermes
                   thus
                   ;
                   a
                   Nymph
                   of
                   late
                   there
                   was
                   ,
                
                 
                   Whose
                   Heav'nly
                   Form
                   ,
                   her
                   Fellows
                   did
                   surpass
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   The
                   Pride
                   and
                   Joy
                   of
                   Fair
                   
                   Arcadia's
                   plains
                   ,
                
                 
                   Belov'd
                   by
                   Deities
                   ,
                   Ador'd
                   by
                   Swains
                   :
                
                 
                   Syrinx
                   her
                   Name
                   ,
                   by
                   Sylvans
                   oft
                   pursu'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   As
                   oft
                   she
                   did
                   the
                   Lustful
                   Gods
                   delude
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   Rural
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   Woodland
                   Pow'rs
                   disdain'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   Cynthia
                   Hunted
                   ,
                   and
                   her
                   Rites
                   maintain'd
                   :
                
                 
                   Like
                   Phoebe
                   clad
                   ,
                   even
                   
                   Phoebe's
                   self
                   she
                   seems
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   Tall
                   ,
                   so
                   Streight
                   ,
                   such
                   well
                   proportion'd
                   Limbs
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   nicest
                   Eye
                   did
                   no
                   distinction
                   know
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   that
                   the
                   Goddess
                   bore
                   a
                   Golden
                   Bow
                   ,
                
                 
                   Distinguish'd
                   thus
                   ,
                   the
                   sight
                   she
                   cheated
                   too
                   .
                
                 
                   Descending
                   from
                   
                     Lycoeus
                     ,
                     Pan
                  
                   admires
                
                 
                   The
                   Matchless
                   Nymph
                   ,
                   and
                   burns
                   with
                   new
                   Defires
                   .
                
                 
                   A
                   Crown
                   of
                   Pine
                   ,
                   upon
                   his
                   Head
                   he
                   wore
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   began
                   her
                   pity
                   to
                   implore
                   .
                
                 
                   But
                   e're
                   he
                   thus
                   began
                   ,
                   she
                   took
                   her
                   flight
                
                 
                   So
                   swist
                   ,
                   she
                   was
                   already
                   out
                   of
                   sight
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Nor
                   stay'd
                   to
                   hear
                   the
                   Courtship
                   of
                   the
                   God
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   bent
                   her
                   course
                   to
                   
                   Ladon's
                   gentle
                   Flood
                   :
                
                 
                   There
                   by
                   the
                   River
                   stopt
                   ,
                   and
                   tyr'd
                   before
                   ;
                
                 
                   Relief
                   from
                   water
                   Nymphs
                   her
                   Pray'rs
                   implore
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Now
                   while
                   the
                   Lustful
                   God
                   ,
                   with
                   speedy
                   pace
                   ,
                
                 
                   Just
                   thought
                   to
                   strain
                   her
                   in
                   a
                   strict
                   Embrace
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   fill'd
                   his
                   Arms
                   with
                   Reeds
                   ,
                   new
                   rising
                   on
                   the
                   place
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   while
                   he
                   sighs
                   ,
                   his
                   ill-success
                   to
                   find
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   tender
                   Canes
                   were
                   shaken
                   by
                   the
                   wind
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   breath'd
                   a
                   mournful
                   Air
                   ,
                   unhear'd
                   before
                   ;
                
                 
                   That
                   much
                   surprizing
                   Pan
                   ;
                   yet
                   pleas'd
                   him
                   more
                   .
                
                 
                   Admiring
                   this
                   new
                   Musick
                   ,
                   thou
                   ,
                   he
                   sed
                
                 
                   Who
                   can'st
                   not
                   be
                   the
                   Partner
                   of
                   my
                   Bed
                   ,
                
                 
                   At
                   least
                   shalt
                   be
                   the
                   Consort
                   of
                   my
                   Mind
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   often
                   ,
                   often
                   to
                   my
                   Lips
                   be
                   joyn'd
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   He
                   form'd
                   the
                   Reeds
                   ,
                   proportion'd
                   as
                   they
                   are
                   ,
                
                 
                   Unequal
                   in
                   their
                   length
                   ,
                   and
                   wax'd
                   with
                   Care
                   ,
                
                 
                   They
                   still
                   retain
                   the
                   Name
                   of
                   his
                   Ungrateful
                   Fair.
                   
                
              
               
                 
                   While
                   Hermes
                   pip'd
                   and
                   sung
                   ,
                   and
                   told
                   his
                   tale
                   ,
                
                 
                   The
                   Keeper's
                   winking
                   Eyes
                   began
                   to
                   fail
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   drowsie
                   slumber
                   ,
                   on
                   the
                   lids
                   to
                   creep
                   ,
                
                 
                   'Till
                   all
                   the
                   Watchman
                   was
                   ,
                   at
                   length
                   ,
                   asleep
                   .
                
                 
                   Then
                   soon
                   the
                   God
                   ,
                   his
                   Voice
                   and
                   Song
                   supprest
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   his
                   pow'rful
                   Rod
                   ,
                   confirm'd
                   his
                   rest
                   :
                
                 
                   Without
                   delay
                   his
                   crooked
                   Faulchion
                   ,
                   drew
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   at
                   one
                   fatal
                   stroak
                   ,
                   the
                   Keeper
                   slew
                   .
                
                 
                   Down
                   from
                   the
                   Rock
                   ,
                   fell
                   the
                   dissever'd
                   head
                   ,
                
                 
                   Opening
                   its
                   Eyes
                   in
                   Death
                   ;
                   and
                   falling
                   bled
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   mark'd
                   the
                   passage
                   with
                   a
                   crimson
                   trail
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thus
                   Argus
                   lies
                   in
                   pieces
                   cold
                   and
                   pale
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   his
                   hundred
                   Eyes
                   ,
                   with
                   all
                   their
                   light
                   ,
                
                 
                   Are
                   clos'd
                   at
                   once
                   ,
                   in
                   one
                   perpetual
                   night
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   These
                   Juno
                   takes
                   ,
                   that
                   they
                   no
                   more
                   may
                   fail
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   spreads
                   them
                   in
                   her
                   Peacock's
                   gaudy
                   tail
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Impatient
                   to
                   revenge
                   her
                   injur'd
                   Bed
                
                 
                   She
                   wreaks
                   her
                   anger
                   ,
                   on
                   her
                   Rival's
                   head
                   ;
                
                 
                   With
                   furies
                   frights
                   her
                   ,
                   from
                   her
                   Native
                   Home
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   drives
                   her
                   gadding
                   ,
                   round
                   the
                   World
                   to
                   roam
                   .
                
                 
                   Nor
                   ceas'd
                   her
                   madness
                   and
                   her
                   flight
                   ,
                   before
                
                 
                   She
                   touch'd
                   the
                   limits
                   of
                   the
                   Pharian
                   Shore
                   .
                
                 
                   At
                   length
                   ,
                   arriving
                   on
                   the
                   Banks
                   of
                   Nile
                   ,
                
                 
                   Weary'd
                   with
                   length
                   of
                   ways
                   ,
                   and
                   worn
                   with
                   toil
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   laid
                   her
                   down
                   ;
                   and
                   leaning
                   on
                   her
                   Knees
                   ,
                
                 
                   Invok'd
                   the
                   Cause
                   of
                   all
                   her
                   Miseries
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   cast
                   her
                   languishing
                   regards
                   above
                
                 
                   For
                   help
                   from
                   Heav'n
                   and
                   her
                   ungrateful
                   Jove
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   sigh'd
                   ,
                   she
                   wept
                   ,
                   she
                   low'd
                   ,
                   't
                   was
                   all
                   she
                   cou'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   unkindness
                   seem'd
                   to
                   tax
                   the
                   God.
                
                 
                 
                   Last
                   ,
                   with
                   an
                   humble
                   Pray'r
                   ,
                   she
                   begg'd
                   Repose
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   Death
                   at
                   least
                   ,
                   to
                   finish
                   all
                   her
                   Woes
                   .
                
                 
                   Jove
                   heard
                   her
                   Vows
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   a
                   flatt'ring
                   look
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   her
                   behalf
                   ,
                   to
                   jealous
                   Juno
                   spoke
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   cast
                   his
                   Arms
                   about
                   her
                   Neck
                   ,
                   and
                   sed
                   ,
                
                 
                   Dame
                   rest
                   secure
                   ;
                   no
                   more
                   thy
                   Nuptial
                   Bed
                
                 
                   This
                   Nymph
                   shall
                   violate
                   ;
                   by
                   Styx
                   I
                   swear
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   every
                   Oath
                   that
                   binds
                   the
                   Thunderer
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Goddess
                   was
                   appeas'd
                   ;
                   and
                   at
                   the
                   word
                
                 
                   Was
                   Io
                   to
                   her
                   former
                   shape
                   restor'd
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   rugged
                   Hair
                   began
                   to
                   fall
                   away
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   sweetness
                   of
                   her
                   Eyes
                   did
                   only
                   stay
                   ;
                
                 
                   Tho'
                   not
                   so
                   large
                   ;
                   her
                   crooked
                   Horns
                   decrease
                   ;
                
                 
                   The
                   wideness
                   of
                   her
                   Jaws
                   and
                   Nostrils
                   cease
                   :
                
                 
                   Her
                   Hoofs
                   to
                   Hands
                   return
                   ,
                   in
                   little
                   space
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   five
                   long
                   taper
                   Fingers
                   take
                   their
                   place
                   .
                
                 
                   And
                   nothing
                   of
                   the
                   Heyfar
                   now
                   is
                   seen
                   ,
                
                 
                   Beside
                   the
                   native
                   whiteness
                   of
                   the
                   Skin
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Erected
                   on
                   her
                   Feet
                   she
                   walks
                   again
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   Two
                   the
                   duty
                   of
                   the
                   Four
                   sustain
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   tries
                   her
                   Tongue
                   ;
                   her
                   silence
                   softly
                   breaks
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fears
                   her
                   former
                   lowings
                   when
                   she
                   speaks
                   :
                
                 
                   A
                   Goddess
                   now
                   ,
                   through
                   all
                   th'
                   Egyptian
                   State
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   serv'd
                   by
                   Priests
                   ,
                   who
                   in
                   white
                   Linnen
                   wait
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Her
                   Son
                   was
                   Epaphus
                   ,
                   at
                   length
                   believ'd
                
                 
                   The
                   Son
                   of
                   Jove
                   ,
                   and
                   as
                   a
                   God
                   receiv'd
                   :
                
                 
                   With
                   Sacrifice
                   ador'd
                   ,
                   and
                   publick
                   Pray'rs
                   ,
                
                 
                   He
                   common
                   Temples
                   with
                   his
                   Mother
                   shares
                   .
                
                 
                   Equal
                   in
                   years
                   and
                   Rival
                   in
                   Renown
                
                 
                   With
                   Epaphus
                   ,
                   the
                   youthful
                   Phaeton
                
                 
                   Like
                   Honour
                   claims
                   ;
                   and
                   boasts
                   his
                   Sire
                   the
                   Sun.
                
                 
                   His
                   haughty
                   Looks
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   assuming
                   Air
                
                 
                   The
                   Son
                   of
                   Isis
                   cou'd
                   no
                   longer
                   bear
                   :
                
                 
                   Thou
                   tak'st
                   thy
                   Mother's
                   word
                   ,
                   too
                   far
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   hast
                   usurp'd
                   thy
                   boasted
                   Pedigree
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Go
                   base
                   Pretender
                   to
                   a
                   borrow'd
                   Name
                   .
                
                 
                   Thus
                   tax'd
                   ,
                   he
                   blush'd
                   with
                   anger
                   ,
                   and
                   with
                   shame
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   shame
                   repress'd
                   his
                   Rage
                   :
                   the
                   daunted
                   Youth
                
                 
                   Soon
                   seeks
                   his
                   Mother
                   ,
                   and
                   enquires
                   the
                   truth
                   :
                
                 
                   Mother
                   ,
                   said
                   he
                   ,
                   this
                   Infamy
                   was
                   thrown
                
                 
                   By
                   Epaphus
                   on
                   you
                   ,
                   and
                   me
                   your
                   Son.
                
                 
                   He
                   spoke
                   in
                   publick
                   ,
                   told
                   it
                   to
                   my
                   face
                   ;
                
                 
                   Nor
                   durst
                   I
                   vindicate
                   the
                   dire
                   disgrace
                   :
                
                 
                   Even
                   I
                   ,
                   the
                   bold
                   ,
                   the
                   sensible
                   of
                   wrong
                   ,
                
                 
                   Restrain'd
                   by
                   shame
                   ,
                   was
                   forc'd
                   to
                   hold
                   my
                   Tongue
                   .
                
                 
                   To
                   hear
                   an
                   open
                   Slander
                   is
                   a
                   Curse
                   ;
                
                 
                   But
                   not
                   to
                   find
                   an
                   Answer
                   ,
                   is
                   a
                   worse
                   .
                
                 
                   If
                   I
                   am
                   Heav'n-begot
                   ,
                   assert
                   your
                   Son
                
                 
                   By
                   some
                   sure
                   Sign
                   :
                   and
                   make
                   my
                   Father
                   known
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   right
                   my
                   Honour
                   ,
                   and
                   redeem
                   your
                   own
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   said
                   ,
                   and
                   saying
                   cast
                   his
                   arms
                   about
                
                 
                   Her
                   Neck
                   ,
                   and
                   begg'd
                   her
                   to
                   resolve
                   the
                   Doubt
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   hard
                   to
                   judge
                   if
                   Climenè
                   were
                   mov'd
                
                 
                   More
                   by
                   his
                   Pray'r
                   ,
                   whom
                   she
                   so
                   dearly
                   lov'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   more
                   with
                   fury
                   fir'd
                   ,
                   to
                   find
                   her
                   Name
                
                 
                   Traduc'd
                   ,
                   and
                   made
                   the
                   sport
                   of
                   common
                   Fame
                   .
                
                 
                   She
                   stretch'd
                   her
                   Arms
                   to
                   Heav'n
                   ,
                   and
                   fix'd
                   her
                   Eyes
                
                 
                   On
                   that
                   fair
                   Planet
                   ,
                   that
                   adorns
                   the
                   Skies
                   ;
                
                 
                   Now
                   by
                   those
                   Beams
                   ,
                   said
                   she
                   ,
                   whose
                   holy
                   Fires
                
                 
                   Consume
                   my
                   Breast
                   ,
                   and
                   kindle
                   my
                   desires
                   ;
                
                 
                   By
                   him
                   ,
                   who
                   sees
                   us
                   both
                   ,
                   and
                   chears
                   our
                   sight
                   ,
                
                 
                   By
                   him
                   the
                   publick
                   Minister
                   of
                   light
                   ,
                
                 
                   I
                   swear
                   that
                   Sun
                   begot
                   thee
                   ;
                   if
                   I
                   lye
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   his
                   chearful
                   Influence
                   deny
                   :
                
                 
                   Let
                   him
                   no
                   more
                   this
                   perjur'd
                   Creature
                   see
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   shine
                   on
                   all
                   the
                   World
                   ,
                   but
                   only
                   me
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   still
                   you
                   doubt
                   your
                   Mother's
                   Innocence
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   Eastern
                   Mansion
                   is
                   not
                   far
                   from
                   hence
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   With
                   little
                   pains
                   ,
                   you
                   to
                   his
                   Levè
                   go
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   from
                   himself
                   ,
                   your
                   Parentage
                   may
                   know
                   .
                
                 
                   With
                   joy
                   ,
                   th'
                   ambitious
                   Youth
                   ,
                   his
                   Mother
                   heard
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   eager
                   ,
                   for
                   the
                   Journey
                   soon
                   prepar'd
                   .
                
                 
                   He
                   longs
                   the
                   World
                   beneath
                   him
                   to
                   survey
                   ;
                
                 
                   To
                   guide
                   the
                   Chariot
                   ;
                   and
                   to
                   give
                   the
                   day
                   .
                
                 
                   From
                   
                   Meroe's
                   burning
                   Sands
                   ,
                   he
                   bends
                   his
                   course
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   less
                   in
                   India
                   ,
                   feels
                   his
                   Father's
                   force
                   :
                
                 
                   His
                   Travel
                   urging
                   ,
                   till
                   he
                   came
                   in
                   sight
                   ;
                
                 
                   And
                   saw
                   the
                   Palace
                   by
                   the
                   Purple
                   light
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 End
                 of
                 the
                 First
                 Book
                 of
              
               Ovid
               
                 's
                 Metamorphoses
              
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               FABLE
               OF
               IPHIS
               and
               IANTHE
               ,
               From
               the
               Ninth
               Book
               of
               the
               Metamorphoses
               .
            
             
               English'd
               by
               Mr.
               Dryden
               .
            
             
               
                 THE
                 Fame
                 of
                 this
                 ,
                 perhaps
                 ,
                 through
                 Crete
                 had
                 flown
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 Crete
                 had
                 newer
                 Wonders
                 of
                 her
                 own
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Iphis
                 chang'd
                 :
                 For
                 ,
                 near
                 the
                 Gnossian
                 bounds
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 As
                 loud
                 Report
                 the
                 Miracle
                 resounds
                 )
              
               
                 At
                 Phoestus
                 dwelt
                 a
                 man
                 of
                 honest
                 blood
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 meanly
                 born
                 ,
                 and
                 not
                 so
                 rich
                 as
                 good
                 ;
              
               
                 Esteem'd
                 and
                 loy'd
                 by
                 all
                 the
                 Neighbourhood
                 .
              
               
               
                 Who
                 to
                 his
                 Wife
                 ,
                 before
                 the
                 time
                 assign'd
              
               
                 For
                 Child-birth
                 came
                 ;
                 thus
                 bluntly
                 spoke
                 his
                 mind
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 said
                 Lygdus
                 ,
                 will
                 vouchsafe
                 to
                 hear
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 have
                 but
                 two
                 Petitions
                 to
                 prefer
                 :
              
               
                 Short
                 pains
                 for
                 thee
                 ;
                 for
                 me
                 a
                 Son
                 and
                 Heir
                 .
              
               
                 Girls
                 cost
                 as
                 many
                 throws
                 ,
                 in
                 bringing
                 forth
                 :
              
               
                 Besides
                 when
                 born
                 ,
                 the
                 Titts
                 are
                 little
                 worth
                 .
              
               
                 Weak
                 puling
                 things
                 ,
                 unable
                 to
                 sustain
              
               
                 Their
                 share
                 of
                 Labour
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 Bread
                 to
                 gain
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 ,
                 therefore
                 ,
                 thou
                 a
                 Creature
                 shalt
                 produce
              
               
                 Of
                 so
                 great
                 Charges
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 little
                 Use
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Bear
                 witness
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 with
                 what
                 reluctancy
                 ,
                 )
              
               
                 Her
                 hapless
                 Innocence
                 I
                 doom
                 to
                 dye
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 said
                 ,
                 and
                 tears
                 the
                 common
                 grief
                 display
              
               
                 Of
                 him
                 who
                 bade
                 ,
                 and
                 her
                 who
                 must
                 obey
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Yet
                 Telethusa
                 still
                 persists
                 to
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 Fit
                 Arguments
                 to
                 move
                 a
                 Father's
                 mind
                 :
              
               
               
                 T'
                 extend
                 his
                 Wishes
                 to
                 a
                 larger
                 scope
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 one
                 Vessel
                 not
                 confine
                 his
                 hope
                 .
              
               
                 Lygdus
                 continues
                 hard
                 :
                 her
                 time
                 drew
                 near
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 she
                 her
                 heavy
                 load
                 cou'd
                 scarcely
                 bear
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 slumb'ring
                 ,
                 in
                 the
                 latter
                 shades
                 of
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 Before
                 th'
                 approaches
                 of
                 returning
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 saw
                 ,
                 or
                 thought
                 she
                 saw
                 ,
                 before
                 her
                 Bed
              
               
                 A
                 glorious
                 Train
                 ,
                 and
                 Isis
                 at
                 their
                 head
                 :
              
               
                 Her
                 Moony
                 Horns
                 were
                 on
                 her
                 Forehead
                 plac'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 yellow
                 Sheaves
                 her
                 shining
                 Temples
                 grac'd
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 Mitre
                 ,
                 for
                 a
                 Crown
                 ,
                 she
                 wore
                 on
                 high
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Dog
                 and
                 dappl'd
                 Bull
                 were
                 waiting
                 by
                 ;
              
               
                 Osyris
                 ,
                 sought
                 along
                 the
                 Banks
                 of
                 Nile
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 silent
                 God
                 ;
                 the
                 sacred
                 Crocodile
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 last
                 ,
                 a
                 long
                 procession
                 moving
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Timbrels
                 ,
                 that
                 assist
                 the
                 lab'ring
                 Moon
                 .
              
               
                 Her
                 slumbers
                 seem'd
                 dispell'd
                 ,
                 and
                 ,
                 broad
                 awake
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 heard
                 a
                 Voice
                 ,
                 that
                 thus
                 distinctly
                 spake
                 .
              
               
               
                 My
                 Votary
                 ,
                 thy
                 Babe
                 from
                 Death
                 defend
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 fear
                 to
                 save
                 whate're
                 the
                 Gods
                 will
                 send
                 .
              
               
                 Delude
                 with
                 Art
                 ,
                 thy
                 Husband
                 's
                 dire
                 Decree
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 danger
                 calls
                 ,
                 repose
                 thy
                 trust
                 on
                 me
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 know
                 thou
                 hast
                 not
                 serv'd
                 a
                 thankless
                 Deity
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 Promise
                 made
                 ;
                 with
                 Night
                 the
                 Goddess
                 fled
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 joy
                 the
                 Woman
                 wakes
                 ,
                 and
                 leaves
                 her
                 Bed
                 :
              
               
                 Devoutly
                 lifts
                 her
                 spotless
                 hands
                 on
                 high
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 prays
                 the
                 Pow'rs
                 ,
                 their
                 Gift
                 to
                 ratifie
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Now
                 grinding
                 pains
                 proceed
                 to
                 bearing
                 throws
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 its
                 own
                 weight
                 the
                 burden
                 did
                 disclose
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 of
                 the
                 beauteous
                 Kind
                 :
                 and
                 brought
                 to
                 light
              
               
                 With
                 secresie
                 ,
                 to
                 shun
                 the
                 Father's
                 sight
                 .
              
               
                 Th'
                 indulgent
                 Mother
                 did
                 her
                 Care
                 employ
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 pass'd
                 it
                 on
                 her
                 Husband
                 for
                 a
                 Boy
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Nurse
                 was
                 conscious
                 of
                 the
                 Fact
                 alone
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Father
                 paid
                 his
                 Vows
                 ,
                 as
                 for
                 a
                 Son.
              
               
               
                 And
                 call'd
                 him
                 Iphis
                 ,
                 by
                 a
                 common
                 Name
              
               
                 Which
                 either
                 Sex
                 ,
                 with
                 equal
                 right
                 may
                 claim
                 .
              
               
                 Iphis
                 ,
                 his
                 Grandsire
                 was
                 ;
                 the
                 Wife
                 was
                 pleas'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 half
                 the
                 fraud
                 ,
                 by
                 Fortune's
                 favour
                 eas'd
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 doubtful
                 Name
                 was
                 us'd
                 without
                 deceit
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Truth
                 was
                 cover'd
                 with
                 a
                 pious
                 Cheat.
              
               
                 The
                 Habit
                 shew'd
                 a
                 Boy
                 ,
                 the
                 beauteous
                 Face
              
               
                 With
                 manly
                 fierceness
                 mingl'd
                 Female
                 grace
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Now
                 thirteen
                 years
                 of
                 Age
                 were
                 swiftly
                 run
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 the
                 fond
                 Father
                 thought
                 the
                 time
                 drew
                 on
              
               
                 Of
                 settling
                 in
                 the
                 World
                 ,
                 his
                 only
                 Son
                 ,
              
               
                 Ianthe
                 was
                 his
                 choice
                 ;
                 so
                 wondrous
                 fair
              
               
                 Her
                 Form
                 alone
                 with
                 Iphis
                 cou'd
                 compare
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 Neighbour's
                 Daughter
                 of
                 his
                 own
                 Degree
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 not
                 more
                 blest
                 with
                 Fortunes
                 Goods
                 than
                 he
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 They
                 soon
                 espous'd
                 ;
                 for
                 they
                 with
                 ease
                 were
                 joyn'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 were
                 before
                 Contracted
                 in
                 the
                 Mind
                 .
              
               
                 Their
                 Age
                 the
                 same
                 ,
                 their
                 Inclinations
                 too
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 bred
                 together
                 ,
                 in
                 one
                 School
                 they
                 grew
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 ,
                 fatally
                 dispos'd
                 to
                 mutual
                 fires
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 felt
                 ,
                 before
                 they
                 knew
                 ,
                 the
                 same
                 desires
                 .
              
               
                 Equal
                 their
                 flame
                 ,
                 unequal
                 was
                 their
                 care
                 ;
              
               
                 One
                 lov'd
                 with
                 Hope
                 ,
                 one
                 languish'd
                 in
                 Despair
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Maid
                 accus'd
                 the
                 ling'ring
                 days
                 alone
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 whom
                 she
                 thought
                 a
                 man
                 ,
                 she
                 thought
                 her
                 own
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 Iphis
                 bends
                 beneath
                 a
                 greater
                 grief
                 ;
              
               
                 As
                 fiercely
                 burns
                 ,
                 but
                 hopes
                 for
                 no
                 relief
                 .
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 her
                 Despair
                 ,
                 adds
                 fuel
                 to
                 her
                 fire
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 Maid
                 with
                 madness
                 does
                 a
                 Maid
                 desire
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 And
                 ,
                 scarce
                 refraining
                 tears
                 ,
                 alas
                 ,
                 said
                 she
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 issue
                 of
                 my
                 love
                 remains
                 for
                 me
                 !
              
               
               
                 How
                 wild
                 a
                 Passion
                 works
                 within
                 my
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 what
                 prodigious
                 Flames
                 am
                 I
                 possest
                 !
              
               
                 Cou'd
                 I
                 the
                 Care
                 of
                 Providence
                 deserve
                 ,
              
               
                 Heav'n
                 must
                 destroy
                 me
                 ,
                 if
                 it
                 wou'd
                 preserve
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 that
                 's
                 my
                 Fate
                 ;
                 or
                 sure
                 it
                 wou'd
                 have
                 sent
              
               
                 Some
                 usual
                 Evil
                 for
                 my
                 punishment
                 :
              
               
                 Not
                 this
                 unkindly
                 Curse
                 ;
                 to
                 rage
                 and
                 burn
              
               
                 Where
                 Nature
                 shews
                 no
                 prospect
                 of
                 return
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 Cows
                 for
                 Cows
                 consume
                 with
                 fruitless
                 fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Mares
                 when
                 hot
                 ,
                 their
                 fellow
                 Mares
                 desire
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Father
                 of
                 the
                 Fold
                 supplies
                 his
                 Ewes
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Stag
                 through
                 secret
                 Woods
                 his
                 Hind
                 pursues
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 Birds
                 for
                 Mates
                 ,
                 the
                 Males
                 of
                 their
                 own
                 Species
                 chuse
                 .
              
               
                 Her
                 Females
                 Nature
                 guards
                 from
                 Female
                 flame
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 joyns
                 two
                 Sexes
                 to
                 preserve
                 the
                 Game
                 :
              
               
                 Wou'd
                 I
                 were
                 nothing
                 ,
                 or
                 not
                 what
                 I
                 am
                 !
              
               
               
                 Crete
                 fam'd
                 for
                 Monsters
                 wanted
                 of
                 her
                 Store
                 ;
              
               
                 Till
                 my
                 new
                 Love
                 produc'd
                 one
                 Monster
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Daughter
                 of
                 the
                 Sun
                 a
                 Bull
                 desir'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 ev'n
                 then
                 ,
                 a
                 Male
                 ,
                 a
                 Female
                 fir'd
                 :
              
               
                 Her
                 passion
                 was
                 extravagantly
                 new
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 mine
                 is
                 much
                 the
                 madder
                 of
                 the
                 two
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 things
                 impossible
                 she
                 was
                 not
                 bent
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 found
                 the
                 Means
                 to
                 compass
                 her
                 Intent
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 cheat
                 his
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 she
                 took
                 a
                 different
                 shape
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 still
                 she
                 gain'd
                 a
                 Lover
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 leap
                 .
              
               
                 Shou'd
                 all
                 the
                 Wit
                 of
                 all
                 the
                 World
                 conspire
                 ,
              
               
                 Shou'd
                 Doedalus
                 assist
                 my
                 wild
                 desire
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 Art
                 can
                 make
                 me
                 able
                 to
                 enjoy
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 what
                 can
                 change
                 Ianthe
                 to
                 a
                 Boy
                 ?
              
               
                 Extinguish
                 then
                 thy
                 passion
                 ,
                 hopeless
                 Maid
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 recollect
                 thy
                 Reason
                 for
                 thy
                 aid
                 .
              
               
                 Know
                 what
                 thou
                 art
                 ,
                 and
                 love
                 as
                 Maidens
                 ought
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 drive
                 these
                 Golden
                 Wishes
                 from
                 thy
                 thought
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thou
                 canst
                 not
                 hope
                 thy
                 fond
                 desires
                 to
                 gain
                 ;
              
               
                 Where
                 Hope
                 is
                 wanting
                 ,
                 Wishes
                 are
                 in
                 vain
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 And
                 yet
                 no
                 Guards
                 ,
                 against
                 our
                 Joys
                 conspire
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 jealous
                 Husband
                 ,
                 hinders
                 our
                 desire
                 :
              
               
                 My
                 Parents
                 are
                 propitious
                 to
                 my
                 Wish
              
               
                 And
                 she
                 her self
                 consenting
                 to
                 the
                 bliss
                 .
              
               
                 All
                 things
                 concur
                 ,
                 to
                 prosper
                 our
                 Design
                 :
              
               
                 All
                 things
                 to
                 prosper
                 any
                 Love
                 but
                 mine
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 I
                 never
                 can
                 enjoy
                 the
                 Fair
                 :
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 past
                 the
                 Pow'r
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 to
                 grant
                 my
                 Pray'r
                 .
              
               
                 Heav'n
                 has
                 been
                 kind
                 ,
                 as
                 far
                 as
                 Heav'n
                 can
                 be
                 ;
              
               
                 Our
                 Parents
                 with
                 our
                 own
                 desires
                 agree
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Nature
                 ,
                 stronger
                 than
                 the
                 Gods
                 above
                 ,
              
               
                 Refuses
                 her
                 assistance
                 to
                 my
                 love
                 .
              
               
                 She
                 sets
                 the
                 Bar
                 ,
                 that
                 causes
                 all
                 my
                 pain
                 :
              
               
                 One
                 Gift
                 refus'd
                 ,
                 makes
                 all
                 their
                 Bounty
                 vain
                 .
              
               
               
                 And
                 now
                 the
                 happy
                 day
                 is
                 just
                 at
                 hand
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 bind
                 our
                 Hearts
                 in
                 Hymen's
                 Holy
                 Band
                 :
              
               
                 Our
                 Hearts
                 ,
                 but
                 not
                 our
                 Bodies
                 :
                 thus
                 ,
                 accurs'd
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 midst
                 of
                 water
                 ,
                 I
                 complain
                 of
                 thirst
                 .
              
               
                 Why
                 com'st
                 thou
                 ,
                 Juno
                 ,
                 to
                 these
                 barren
                 Rites
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 bless
                 a
                 Bed
                 ,
                 defrauded
                 of
                 delights
                 ?
              
               
                 Or
                 why
                 shou'd
                 Hymen
                 lift
                 his
                 Torch
                 on
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 see
                 two
                 Brides
                 in
                 cold
                 Embraces
                 lye
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 love-sick
                 Iphis
                 her
                 vain
                 Passion
                 mourns
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 equal
                 ardour
                 fair
                 Ianthe
                 burns
                 :
              
               
                 Invoking
                 Hymen's
                 Name
                 and
                 
                 Juno's
                 Pow'r
              
               
                 To
                 speed
                 the
                 work
                 ,
                 and
                 haste
                 the
                 happy
                 hour
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 She
                 hopes
                 ,
                 while
                 Telethusa
                 fears
                 the
                 day
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 strives
                 to
                 interpose
                 some
                 new
                 delay
                 :
              
               
                 Now
                 feigns
                 a
                 sickness
                 ,
                 now
                 is
                 in
                 a
                 fright
              
               
                 For
                 this
                 bad
                 Omen
                 ,
                 or
                 that
                 boding
                 sight
                 .
              
               
               
                 But
                 having
                 done
                 whate're
                 she
                 cou'd
                 devise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 empty'd
                 all
                 her
                 Magazine
                 of
                 lies
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 time
                 approach'd
                 :
                 the
                 next
                 ensuing
                 day
              
               
                 The
                 Fatal
                 Secret
                 must
                 to
                 light
                 betray
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 Telethusa
                 had
                 recourse
                 to
                 Pray'r
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 and
                 her
                 Daughter
                 with
                 dishevell'd
                 hair
                 :
              
               
                 Trembling
                 with
                 fear
                 ,
                 great
                 Isis
                 they
                 ador'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Embrac'd
                 her
                 Altar
                 ,
                 and
                 her
                 aid
                 implor'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Fair
                 Queen
                 ,
                 whodost
                 on
                 fruitful
                 Egypt
                 smile
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 sway'st
                 the
                 Sceptre
                 of
                 the
                 Pharian
                 Isle
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sev'n-fold
                 falls
                 of
                 disimbogueing
                 Nile
                 ;
              
               
                 Relieve
                 ,
                 in
                 this
                 our
                 last
                 distress
                 ,
                 she
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 suppliant
                 Mother
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 mournful
                 Maid
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 Goddess
                 ,
                 thou
                 wert
                 present
                 to
                 my
                 sight
                 ;
              
               
                 Reveal'd
                 I
                 saw
                 thee
                 ,
                 by
                 thy
                 own
                 fair
                 light
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 saw
                 thee
                 in
                 my
                 Dream
                 ,
                 as
                 now
                 I
                 see
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 thy
                 marks
                 of
                 awful
                 Majesty
                 :
              
               
               
                 The
                 Glorious
                 Train
                 ,
                 that
                 compass'd
                 thee
                 around
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 heard
                 the
                 hollow
                 Timbrels
                 holy
                 sound
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Words
                 I
                 noted
                 ,
                 which
                 I
                 still
                 retain
                 ;
              
               
                 Let
                 not
                 thy
                 Sacred
                 Oracles
                 be
                 vain
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 Iphis
                 lives
                 ,
                 that
                 I
                 my self
                 am
                 free
              
               
                 From
                 shame
                 and
                 punishment
                 ,
                 I
                 owe
                 to
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 On
                 thy
                 Protection
                 ,
                 all
                 our
                 hopes
                 depend
                 :
              
               
                 Thy
                 Counsel
                 sav'd
                 us
                 ,
                 let
                 thy
                 Pow'r
                 defend
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Her
                 tears
                 pursu'd
                 her
                 words
                 ;
                 and
                 while
                 she
                 spoke
              
               
                 The
                 Goddess
                 nodded
                 ,
                 and
                 her
                 Altar
                 shook
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Temple
                 doors
                 ,
                 as
                 with
                 a
                 blast
                 of
                 wind
                 ,
              
               
                 Were
                 heard
                 to
                 clap
                 ;
                 the
                 Lunar
                 Horns
                 that
                 bind
              
               
                 The
                 brows
                 of
                 Isis
                 ,
                 cast
                 a
                 blaze
                 around
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 trembling
                 Timbrel
                 ,
                 made
                 a
                 murm'ring
                 sound
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Some
                 hopes
                 these
                 happy
                 Omens
                 did
                 impart
                 ;
              
               
                 Forth
                 went
                 the
                 Mother
                 with
                 a
                 beating
                 Heart
                 :
              
               
               
                 Not
                 much
                 in
                 fear
                 ,
                 nor
                 fully
                 satisfi'd
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 Iphis
                 follow'd
                 with
                 a
                 larger
                 stride
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 whiteness
                 of
                 her
                 Skin
                 forsook
                 her
                 Face
                 ;
              
               
                 Her
                 looks
                 emboldn'd
                 ,
                 with
                 an
                 awful
                 Grace
                 ;
              
               
                 Her
                 Features
                 and
                 her
                 Strength
                 together
                 grew
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 her
                 long
                 Hair
                 ,
                 to
                 curling
                 Locks
                 withdrew
                 .
              
               
                 Her
                 sparkling
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 with
                 Manly
                 Vigour
                 shone
                 ,
              
               
                 Big
                 was
                 her
                 Voice
                 ,
                 Audacious
                 was
                 her
                 Tone
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 latent
                 Parts
                 ,
                 at
                 length
                 reveal'd
                 ,
                 began
              
               
                 To
                 shoot
                 ,
                 and
                 spread
                 ,
                 and
                 burnish
                 into
                 Man.
              
               
                 The
                 Maid
                 becomes
                 a
                 Youth
                 ;
                 no
                 more
                 delay
              
               
                 Your
                 Vows
                 ,
                 but
                 look
                 ,
                 and
                 confidently
                 pay
                 .
              
               
                 Their
                 Gifts
                 ,
                 the
                 Parents
                 to
                 the
                 Temple
                 bear
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Votive
                 Tables
                 ,
                 this
                 Inscription
                 wear
                 ;
              
               
                 Iphis
                 the
                 Man
                 ,
                 has
                 to
                 the
                 Goddess
                 paid
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Vows
                 that
                 Iphis
                 offer'd
                 ,
                 when
                 a
                 Maid
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Now
                 ,
                 when
                 the
                 Star
                 of
                 Day
                 had
                 shewn
                 his
                 face
                 ,
              
               
                 Venus
                 and
                 Juno
                 with
                 their
                 Presence
                 grace
              
               
                 The
                 Nuptial
                 Rites
                 ,
                 and
                 Hymen
                 from
                 above
              
               
                 Descending
                 to
                 compleat
                 their
                 happy
                 Love
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Gods
                 of
                 Marriage
                 ,
                 lend
                 their
                 mutual
                 aid
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 warm
                 Youth
                 enjoys
                 the
                 lovely
                 Maid
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               FABLE
               OF
               ACIS
               ,
               POLYPHEMUS
               ,
               AND
               GALATEA
               ,
               From
               the
               Thirteenth
               Book
               of
               the
               Metamorphoses
               ,
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               DRYDEN
               .
            
             
               GALATEA
               
                 relates
                 the
                 Story
              
               .
            
             
               
                 ACIS
                 ,
                 the
                 Lovely
                 Youth
                 ,
                 whose
                 loss
                 I
                 mourn
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 Faunus
                 and
                 the
                 Nymph
                 Symethis
                 born
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 both
                 his
                 Parents
                 pleasure
                 :
                 but
                 ,
                 to
                 me
              
               
                 Was
                 all
                 that
                 Love
                 cou'd
                 make
                 a
                 Lover
                 be
                 .
              
               
               
                 The
                 Gods
                 our
                 Minds
                 in
                 mutual
                 Bands
                 did
                 joyn
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 was
                 his
                 only
                 Joy
                 ,
                 as
                 he
                 was
                 mine
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 sixteen
                 Summers
                 the
                 sweet
                 Youth
                 had
                 seen
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 doubtful
                 Down
                 ,
                 began
                 to
                 shade
                 his
                 Chin
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 Polyphemus
                 first
                 disturb'd
                 our
                 Joy
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 lov'd
                 me
                 fiercely
                 ,
                 as
                 I
                 lov'd
                 the
                 Boy
                 .
              
               
                 Ask
                 not
                 which
                 passion
                 in
                 my
                 Soul
                 was
                 high'r
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 last
                 Aversion
                 ,
                 or
                 my
                 first
                 Desire
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 this
                 the
                 greater
                 was
                 ,
                 nor
                 that
                 the
                 less
                 :
              
               
                 Both
                 were
                 alike
                 ;
                 for
                 both
                 were
                 in
                 excess
                 .
              
               
                 Thee
                 ,
                 Venus
                 ,
                 thee
                 ,
                 both
                 Heav'n
                 and
                 Earth
                 obey
                 ;
              
               
                 Immense
                 thy
                 Pow'r
                 ,
                 and
                 boundless
                 is
                 thy
                 Sway.
              
               
                 The
                 Cyclops
                 ,
                 who
                 desi'd
                 th'
                 AEtherial
                 Throne
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thought
                 no
                 Thunder
                 louder
                 than
                 his
                 own
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 terrour
                 of
                 the
                 Woods
                 ,
                 and
                 wilder
                 far
              
               
                 Than
                 Wolves
                 in
                 Plains
                 ,
                 or
                 Bears
                 in
                 Forrests
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 Th'
                 Inhumane
                 Host
                 ,
                 who
                 made
                 his
                 bloody
                 Feasts
              
               
                 On
                 mangl'd
                 Members
                 ,
                 of
                 his
                 butcher'd
                 Guests
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Yet
                 felt
                 the
                 force
                 of
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 fierce
                 Desire
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 burnt
                 for
                 me
                 ,
                 with
                 unrelenting
                 Fire
                 .
              
               
                 Forgot
                 his
                 Caverns
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 woolly
                 care
                 ,
              
               
                 Assum'd
                 the
                 softness
                 of
                 a
                 Lover's
                 Air
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 comb'd
                 ,
                 with
                 Teeth
                 of
                 Rakes
                 ,
                 his
                 rugged
                 hair
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 with
                 a
                 crooked
                 Sythe
                 his
                 Beard
                 he
                 sleeks
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 mows
                 the
                 stubborn
                 Stubble
                 of
                 his
                 Cheeks
                 :
              
               
                 Now
                 ,
                 in
                 the
                 Crystal
                 Stream
                 he
                 looks
                 ,
                 to
                 try
              
               
                 His
                 Simagres
                 ,
                 and
                 rowls
                 his
                 glaring
                 eye
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 Cruelty
                 and
                 thirst
                 of
                 Blood
                 are
                 lost
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Ships
                 securely
                 sail
                 along
                 the
                 Coast.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Prophet
                 Telemus
                 (
                 arriv'd
                 by
                 chance
              
               
                 Where
                 
                 AEtna's
                 Summets
                 to
                 the
                 Seas
                 advance
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 mark'd
                 the
                 Tracts
                 of
                 every
                 Bird
                 that
                 flew
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sure
                 Presages
                 from
                 their
                 flying
                 drew
                 ,
                 )
              
               
                 Foretold
                 the
                 Cyclops
                 ,
                 that
                 Ulysses
                 hand
              
               
                 In
                 his
                 broad
                 eye
                 ,
                 shou'd
                 thrust
                 a
                 flaming
                 Brand.
              
               
               
                 The
                 Giant
                 ,
                 with
                 a
                 scornful
                 grin
                 reply'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Vain
                 Augur
                 ,
                 thou
                 hast
                 falsely
                 prophesi'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Already
                 Love
                 ,
                 his
                 flaming
                 Brand
                 has
                 tost
                 ;
              
               
                 Looking
                 on
                 two
                 fair
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 my
                 sight
                 I
                 lost
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 ,
                 warn'd
                 in
                 vain
                 ,
                 with
                 stalking
                 pace
                 he
                 strode
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 stamp'd
                 the
                 Margine
                 of
                 the
                 briny
                 Flood
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 heavy
                 steps
                 :
                 and
                 weary
                 ,
                 sought
                 agen
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 cool
                 Retirement
                 of
                 his
                 gloomy
                 Den.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 A
                 Promontory
                 sharp'ning
                 by
                 degrees
                 ,
              
               
                 Ends
                 in
                 a
                 Wedge
                 ,
                 and
                 over-looks
                 the
                 Seas
                 :
              
               
                 On
                 either
                 side
                 ,
                 below
                 ,
                 the
                 water
                 flows
                 ;
              
               
                 This
                 airy
                 walk
                 ,
                 the
                 Giant
                 Lover
                 chose
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 ,
                 on
                 the
                 midst
                 he
                 sate
                 :
                 his
                 Flocks
                 ,
                 unled
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Shepherd
                 follow'd
                 ,
                 and
                 securely
                 fed
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Pine
                 so
                 burly
                 ,
                 and
                 of
                 length
                 so
                 vast
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 sailing
                 Ships
                 requir'd
                 it
                 for
                 a
                 Mast
                 ,
              
               
               
                 He
                 weilded
                 for
                 a
                 Staff
                 ;
                 his
                 steps
                 to
                 guide
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 laid
                 it
                 by
                 ,
                 his
                 Whistle
                 while
                 he
                 try'd
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 hundred
                 Reeds
                 ,
                 of
                 a
                 prodigious
                 growth
                 ,
              
               
                 Scarce
                 made
                 a
                 Pipe
                 ,
                 proportion'd
                 to
                 his
                 mouth
                 :
              
               
                 Which
                 ,
                 when
                 he
                 gave
                 it
                 wind
                 ,
                 the
                 Rocks
                 around
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 watry
                 Plains
                 ,
                 the
                 dreadful
                 hiss
                 resound
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 heard
                 the
                 Ruffian-Shepherd
                 rudely
                 blow
              
               
                 Where
                 ,
                 in
                 a
                 hollow
                 Cave
                 ,
                 I
                 sat
                 below
                 ;
              
               
                 On
                 Acis
                 bosom
                 I
                 my
                 head
                 reclin'd
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 still
                 preserve
                 the
                 Poem
                 in
                 my
                 mind
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Oh
                 lovely
                 Galatea
                 ,
                 whiter
                 far
              
               
                 Than
                 falling
                 Snows
                 ,
                 and
                 rising
                 Lillies
                 are
                 ;
              
               
                 More
                 flowry
                 than
                 the
                 Meads
                 ,
                 as
                 Crystal
                 bright
                 ,
              
               
                 Erect
                 as
                 Alders
                 ,
                 and
                 of
                 equal
                 height
                 :
              
               
                 More
                 wanton
                 than
                 a
                 Kid
                 ,
                 more
                 sleek
                 thy
                 Skin
              
               
                 Than
                 Orient
                 Shells
                 ,
                 that
                 on
                 the
                 Shores
                 are
                 seen
                 .
              
               
               
                 Than
                 Apples
                 fairer
                 ,
                 when
                 the
                 boughs
                 they
                 lade
                 ,
              
               
                 Pleasing
                 as
                 Winter
                 Suns
                 or
                 Summer
                 Shade
                 :
              
               
                 More
                 grateful
                 to
                 the
                 sight
                 ,
                 than
                 goodly
                 Planes
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 softer
                 to
                 the
                 touch
                 ,
                 than
                 down
                 of
                 Swans
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 Curds
                 new
                 turn'd
                 :
                 and
                 sweeter
                 to
                 the
                 taste
              
               
                 Than
                 swelling
                 Grapes
                 ,
                 that
                 to
                 the
                 Vintage
                 haste
                 :
              
               
                 More
                 clear
                 than
                 Ince
                 ,
                 or
                 running
                 Streams
                 ,
                 that
                 stray
              
               
                 Through
                 Garden
                 Plots
                 ,
                 but
                 ah
                 more
                 swift
                 than
                 they
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Yet
                 ,
                 Galatea
                 ,
                 harder
                 to
                 be
                 broke
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 Bullocks
                 ,
                 unreclaim'd
                 to
                 bear
                 the
                 Yoke
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 far
                 more
                 stubborn
                 ,
                 than
                 the
                 knotted
                 Oak
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 sliding
                 Streams
                 ,
                 impossible
                 to
                 hold
                 ;
              
               
                 Like
                 them
                 fallacious
                 ,
                 like
                 their
                 Fountains
                 cold
                 .
              
               
                 More
                 warping
                 than
                 the
                 Willow
                 ,
                 to
                 decline
              
               
                 My
                 warm
                 Embrace
                 ,
                 more
                 brittle
                 than
                 the
                 Vine
                 ;
              
               
                 Immoveable
                 and
                 fixt
                 in
                 thy
                 disdain
                 ;
              
               
                 Rough
                 as
                 these
                 Rocks
                 ,
                 and
                 of
                 a
                 harder
                 grain
                 .
              
               
               
                 More
                 violent
                 than
                 is
                 the
                 rising
                 Flood
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 prais'd
                 Peacock
                 is
                 not
                 half
                 so
                 proud
                 .
              
               
                 Fierce
                 as
                 the
                 Fire
                 ,
                 and
                 sharp
                 as
                 Thistles
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 more
                 outragious
                 than
                 a
                 Mother-Bear
                 :
              
               
                 Deaf
                 as
                 the
                 billows
                 to
                 the
                 Vows
                 I
                 make
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 more
                 revengeful
                 ,
                 than
                 a
                 trodden
                 Snake
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 swiftness
                 fleeter
                 ,
                 than
                 the
                 flying
                 Hind
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 driven
                 Tempests
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 driving
                 Wind.
              
               
                 All
                 other
                 faults
                 ,
                 with
                 patience
                 I
                 can
                 bear
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 swiftness
                 is
                 the
                 Vice
                 I
                 only
                 fear
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Yet
                 if
                 you
                 knew
                 me
                 well
                 ,
                 you
                 wou'd
                 not
                 shun
              
               
                 My
                 Love
                 ,
                 but
                 to
                 my
                 wish'd
                 Embraces
                 run
                 :
              
               
                 Wou'd
                 languish
                 in
                 your
                 turn
                 ,
                 and
                 court
                 my
                 stay
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 much
                 repent
                 of
                 your
                 unwise
                 delay
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 My
                 Palace
                 ,
                 in
                 the
                 living
                 Rock
                 ,
                 is
                 made
              
               
                 By
                 Nature's
                 hand
                 ;
                 a
                 spacious
                 pleasing
                 Shade
                 :
              
               
                 Which
                 neither
                 heat
                 can
                 pierce
                 ,
                 nor
                 cold
                 invade
                 .
              
               
                 My
                 Garden
                 fill'd
                 with
                 Fruits
                 you
                 may
                 behold
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Grapes
                 in
                 clusters
                 ,
                 imitating
                 Gold
                 ;
              
               
                 Some
                 blushing
                 Bunches
                 of
                 a
                 purple
                 hue
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 these
                 and
                 those
                 ,
                 are
                 all
                 reserv'd
                 for
                 you
                 .
              
               
                 Red
                 Strawberries
                 ,
                 in
                 shades
                 ,
                 expecting
                 stand
                 ,
              
               
                 Proud
                 to
                 be
                 gather'd
                 by
                 so
                 white
                 a
                 hand
                 .
              
               
                 Autumnal
                 Cornels
                 ,
                 latter
                 Fruit
                 provide
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Plumbs
                 to
                 tempt
                 you
                 ,
                 turn
                 their
                 glossy
                 side
                 :
              
               
                 Not
                 those
                 of
                 common
                 kinds
                 ;
                 but
                 such
                 alone
              
               
                 As
                 in
                 Phoeacian
                 Orchards
                 might
                 have
                 grown
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 Chestnuts
                 shall
                 be
                 wanting
                 to
                 your
                 Food
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Garden-fruits
                 ,
                 nor
                 Wildings
                 of
                 the
                 Wood
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 laden
                 Boughs
                 for
                 you
                 alone
                 shall
                 bear
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 yours
                 shall
                 be
                 the
                 product
                 of
                 the
                 Year
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 Flocks
                 you
                 see
                 ,
                 are
                 all
                 my
                 own
                 ;
                 beside
              
               
                 The
                 rest
                 that
                 Woods
                 ,
                 and
                 winding
                 Vallies
                 hide
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 those
                 that
                 folded
                 in
                 the
                 Caves
                 abide
                 .
              
               
                 Ask
                 not
                 the
                 numbers
                 of
                 my
                 growing
                 Store
                 ;
              
               
                 Who
                 knows
                 how
                 many
                 ,
                 knows
                 he
                 has
                 no
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 will
                 I
                 praise
                 my
                 Cattel
                 ,
                 trust
                 not
                 me
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 judge
                 your self
                 ,
                 and
                 pass
                 your
                 own
                 decree
                 :
              
               
                 Behold
                 their
                 swelling
                 Dugs
                 ;
                 the
                 sweepy
                 weight
              
               
                 Of
                 Ews
                 that
                 sink
                 beneath
                 the
                 Milky
                 fraight
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 warm
                 Folds
                 ,
                 their
                 tender
                 Lambkins
                 lye
                 ;
              
               
                 Apart
                 from
                 Kids
                 ,
                 that
                 call
                 with
                 humane
                 cry
                 .
              
               
                 New
                 Milk
                 in
                 Nut-brown
                 Bowls
                 ,
                 is
                 duely
                 serv'd
              
               
                 For
                 daily
                 Drink
                 ;
                 the
                 rest
                 for
                 Cheese
                 reserv'd
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 are
                 these
                 House-hold
                 Dainties
                 all
                 my
                 Store
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Fields
                 and
                 Forrests
                 will
                 afford
                 us
                 more
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Deer
                 ,
                 the
                 Hare
                 ,
                 the
                 Goat
                 ,
                 the
                 Salvage
                 Boar.
              
               
               
                 All
                 sorts
                 of
                 Ven'son
                 ;
                 and
                 of
                 Birds
                 the
                 best
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 pair
                 of
                 Turtles
                 taken
                 from
                 the
                 Nest.
              
               
                 I
                 walk'd
                 the
                 Mountains
                 ,
                 and
                 two
                 Cubs
                 I
                 found
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Whose
                 Dam
                 had
                 left
                 'em
                 on
                 the
                 naked
                 ground
                 ,
                 )
              
               
                 So
                 like
                 ,
                 that
                 no
                 distinction
                 cou'd
                 be
                 seen
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 pretty
                 ,
                 they
                 were
                 Presents
                 for
                 a
                 Queen
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 so
                 they
                 shall
                 ;
                 I
                 took
                 'em
                 both
                 away
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 keep
                 ,
                 to
                 be
                 Companions
                 of
                 your
                 Play.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Oh
                 raise
                 ,
                 fair
                 Nymph
                 ,
                 your
                 Beauteous
                 Face
                 above
              
               
                 The
                 Waves
                 ;
                 nor
                 scorn
                 my
                 Presents
                 ,
                 and
                 my
                 Love.
              
               
                 Come
                 ,
                 Galatea
                 ,
                 come
                 ,
                 and
                 view
                 my
                 face
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 late
                 beheld
                 it
                 ,
                 in
                 the
                 watry
                 Glass
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 found
                 it
                 lovelier
                 than
                 I
                 fear'd
                 it
                 was
                 .
              
               
                 Survey
                 my
                 towring
                 Stature
                 ,
                 and
                 my
                 Size
                 :
              
               
                 Not
                 Jove
                 ,
                 the
                 Jove
                 you
                 dream
                 that
                 rules
                 the
                 Skies
              
               
                 Bears
                 such
                 a
                 bulk
                 ,
                 or
                 is
                 so
                 largely
                 spread
                 :
              
               
                 My
                 Locks
                 ,
                 (
                 the
                 plenteous
                 Harvest
                 of
                 my
                 head
                 )
              
               
               
                 Hang
                 o're
                 my
                 Manly
                 Face
                 ;
                 and
                 dangling
                 down
              
               
                 As
                 with
                 a
                 shady
                 Grove
                 ,
                 my
                 shoulders
                 crown
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 think
                 ,
                 because
                 my
                 limbs
                 and
                 body
                 bear
              
               
                 A
                 thick
                 set
                 underwood
                 of
                 bristling
                 hair
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 shape
                 deform'd
                 ;
                 what
                 fouler
                 sight
                 can
                 be
              
               
                 Than
                 the
                 bald
                 Branches
                 of
                 a
                 leafless
                 Tree
                 ?
              
               
                 Foul
                 is
                 the
                 Steed
                 ,
                 without
                 a
                 flowing
                 Main
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 Birds
                 without
                 their
                 Feathers
                 and
                 their
                 Train
                 .
              
               
                 Wool
                 decks
                 the
                 Sheep
                 ;
                 and
                 Man
                 receives
                 a
                 Grace
              
               
                 From
                 bushy
                 Limbs
                 ,
                 and
                 from
                 a
                 bearded
                 Face
                 .
              
               
                 My
                 forehead
                 ,
                 with
                 a
                 single
                 eye
                 is
                 fill'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Round
                 as
                 a
                 Ball
                 ,
                 and
                 ample
                 as
                 a
                 Shield
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Glorious
                 Lamp
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 the
                 Radiant
                 Sun
              
               
                 Is
                 Nature's
                 eye
                 ;
                 and
                 is
                 content
                 with
                 one
                 .
              
               
                 Add
                 ,
                 that
                 my
                 Father
                 sways
                 your
                 Seas
                 ,
                 and
                 I
              
               
                 Like
                 you
                 am
                 of
                 the
                 watry
                 Family
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 make
                 you
                 his
                 ,
                 in
                 making
                 you
                 my
                 own
                 ;
              
               
                 You
                 I
                 adore
                 ;
                 and
                 kneel
                 to
                 you
                 alone
                 :
              
               
               
                 Jove
                 ,
                 with
                 his
                 Fabled
                 Thunder
                 I
                 despise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 only
                 fear
                 the
                 lightning
                 of
                 your
                 eyes
                 .
              
               
                 Frown
                 not
                 ,
                 fair
                 Nymph
                 ;
                 yet
                 I
                 cou'd
                 bear
                 to
                 be
              
               
                 Disdain'd
                 ,
                 if
                 others
                 were
                 disdain'd
                 with
                 me
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 to
                 repulse
                 the
                 Cyclops
                 ,
                 and
                 prefer
              
               
                 The
                 Love
                 of
                 Acis
                 ,
                 (
                 Heav'ns
                 )
                 I
                 cannot
                 bear
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 let
                 the
                 Stripling
                 please
                 himself
                 ;
                 nay
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 Please
                 you
                 ,
                 tho'
                 that
                 's
                 the
                 thing
                 I
                 most
                 abhor
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Boy
                 shall
                 find
                 ,
                 if
                 e're
                 we
                 cope
                 in
                 Fight
                 ,
              
               
                 These
                 Giant
                 Limbs
                 ,
                 endu'd
                 with
                 Giant
                 Might
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 living
                 Bowels
                 ,
                 from
                 his
                 Belly
                 torn
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 scatter'd
                 Limbs
                 ,
                 shall
                 on
                 the
                 Flood
                 be
                 born
                 :
              
               
                 Thy
                 Flood
                 ,
                 ungrateful
                 Nymph
                 ,
                 and
                 fate
                 shall
                 find
              
               
                 That
                 way
                 for
                 thee
                 ,
                 and
                 Acis
                 to
                 be
                 joyn'd
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 oh
                 I
                 burn
                 with
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 Disdain
              
               
                 Augments
                 at
                 once
                 my
                 Passion
                 ,
                 and
                 my
                 pain
                 .
              
               
                 Translated
                 AEtna
                 flames
                 within
                 my
                 Heart
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thou
                 ,
                 Inhumane
                 ,
                 wilt
                 not
                 ease
                 my
                 smart
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Lamenting
                 thus
                 in
                 vain
                 ,
                 he
                 rose
                 ,
                 and
                 strode
              
               
                 With
                 furious
                 paces
                 to
                 the
                 Neighb'ring
                 Wood
                 :
              
               
                 Restless
                 his
                 feet
                 ,
                 distracted
                 was
                 his
                 walk
                 ;
              
               
                 Mad
                 were
                 his
                 motions
                 ,
                 and
                 confus'd
                 his
                 talk
                 .
              
               
                 Mad
                 as
                 the
                 vanquish'd
                 Bull
                 ,
                 when
                 forc'd
                 to
                 yield
              
               
                 His
                 lovely
                 Mistress
                 ,
                 and
                 forsake
                 the
                 Field
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 far
                 unseen
                 I
                 saw
                 :
                 when
                 fatal
                 chance
              
               
                 His
                 looks
                 directing
                 ,
                 with
                 a
                 sudden
                 glance
                 ,
              
               
                 Acis
                 and
                 I
                 ,
                 were
                 to
                 his
                 sight
                 betray'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Where
                 nought
                 suspecting
                 we
                 securely
                 play'd
                 .
              
               
                 From
                 his
                 wide
                 mouth
                 ,
                 a
                 bellowing
                 cry
                 he
                 cast
              
               
                 I
                 see
                 ,
                 I
                 see
                 ;
                 but
                 this
                 shall
                 be
                 your
                 last
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 roar
                 so
                 loud
                 made
                 AEtna
                 to
                 rebound
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Cyclops
                 labour'd
                 in
                 the
                 sound
                 .
              
               
                 Affrighted
                 with
                 his
                 monstrous
                 Voice
                 ,
                 I
                 fled
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 the
                 Neighb'ring
                 Ocean
                 ,
                 plung'd
                 my
                 head
                 .
              
               
               
                 Poor
                 Acis
                 turn'd
                 his
                 back
                 ,
                 and
                 help
                 ,
                 he
                 cry'a
                 ;
              
               
                 Help
                 ,
                 Galatea
                 ,
                 help
                 ,
                 my
                 Parent
                 Gods
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 take
                 me
                 dying
                 ,
                 to
                 your
                 deep
                 Abodes
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Cyclops
                 follow'd
                 :
                 but
                 he
                 sent
                 before
              
               
                 A
                 Rib
                 ,
                 which
                 from
                 the
                 living
                 Rock
                 he
                 tore
                 ,
              
               
                 Though
                 but
                 an
                 Angle
                 reach'd
                 him
                 of
                 the
                 Stone
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 mighty
                 Fragment
                 was
                 enough
                 alone
              
               
                 To
                 crush
                 all
                 Acis
                 ;
                 't
                 was
                 too
                 late
                 to
                 save
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 the
                 Fates
                 allow'd
                 to
                 give
                 ,
                 I
                 gave
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 Acis
                 to
                 his
                 Lineage
                 should
                 return
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 rowl
                 ,
                 among
                 the
                 River
                 Gods
                 ,
                 his
                 Urn.
              
               
                 Straight
                 issu'd
                 from
                 the
                 Stone
                 ,
                 a
                 Stream
                 of
                 blood
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 lost
                 the
                 Purple
                 ,
                 mingling
                 with
                 the
                 Flood
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 like
                 a
                 troubl'd
                 Torrent
                 ,
                 it
                 appear'd
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Torrent
                 too
                 ,
                 in
                 little
                 space
                 was
                 clear'd
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Stone
                 was
                 cleft
                 ,
                 and
                 through
                 the
                 yawning
                 chink
                 ,
              
               
                 New
                 Reeds
                 arose
                 on
                 the
                 new
                 River's
                 brink
                 .
              
               
               
                 The
                 Rock
                 ,
                 from
                 out
                 its
                 hollow
                 Womb
                 ,
                 disclos'd
              
               
                 A
                 sound
                 like
                 Water
                 in
                 its
                 course
                 oppos'd
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 ,
                 (
                 wondrous
                 to
                 behold
                 ,
                 )
                 full
                 in
                 the
                 Flood
                 ,
              
               
                 Up
                 starts
                 a
                 Youth
                 ,
                 and
                 Navel
                 high
                 he
                 stood
                 .
              
               
                 Horns
                 from
                 his
                 Temples
                 rise
                 ;
                 and
                 either
                 Horn
              
               
                 Thick
                 Wreaths
                 of
                 Reeds
                 (
                 his
                 Native
                 growth
                 )
                 adorn
                 .
              
               
                 Were
                 not
                 his
                 Stature
                 taller
                 than
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 bulk
                 augmented
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 beauty
                 more
                 :
              
               
                 His
                 colour
                 blue
                 ,
                 for
                 Acis
                 he
                 might
                 pass
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 Acis
                 chang'd
                 into
                 a
                 Stream
                 he
                 was
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 mine
                 no
                 more
                 ;
                 he
                 rowls
                 along
                 the
                 Plains
              
               
                 With
                 rapid
                 motion
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Name
                 retains
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               ON
               Mr.
               HOBS
               .
            
             
               Written
               by
               The
               E.
               of
               MULGRAVE
               .
            
             
               
                 SUCH
                 is
                 the
                 mode
                 of
                 these
                 censorious
                 days
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Art
                 is
                 lost
                 of
                 knowing
                 how
                 to
                 praise
                 ;
              
               
                 Poets
                 are
                 envious
                 now
                 ,
                 and
                 Fools
                 alone
              
               
                 Admire
                 at
                 Wit
                 ,
                 because
                 themselves
                 have
                 none
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 ,
                 whatsoe're
                 is
                 by
                 vain
                 Criticks
                 thought
                 ,
              
               
                 Praising
                 is
                 harder
                 much
                 ,
                 than
                 finding
                 fault
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 homely
                 pieces
                 ev'n
                 the
                 Dutch
                 excel
                 ,
              
               
                 Italians
                 only
                 can
                 draw
                 Beauty
                 well
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 As
                 Strings
                 alike
                 wound
                 up
                 ,
                 so
                 equal
                 prove
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 one
                 resounding
                 makes
                 the
                 other
                 move
                 ;
              
               
               
                 From
                 a
                 like
                 cause
                 Satyrs
                 have
                 pleas'd
                 so
                 much
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 simpathize
                 with
                 each
                 ill-natur'd
                 touch
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 as
                 the
                 sharp
                 Infection
                 spreads
                 about
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Reader
                 's
                 Malice
                 helps
                 the
                 Writer
                 out
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 blame
                 ,
                 is
                 easie
                 ;
                 to
                 commend
                 ,
                 is
                 bold
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 ,
                 if
                 the
                 Muse
                 inspires
                 it
                 ,
                 who
                 can
                 hold
                 ?
              
               
                 To
                 Merit
                 we
                 are
                 bound
                 to
                 give
                 applause
                 ,
              
               
                 Content
                 to
                 suffer
                 in
                 so
                 just
                 a
                 Cause
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 While
                 in
                 dark
                 Ignorance
                 Men
                 lay
                 afraid
              
               
                 Of
                 Fancies
                 ,
                 Ghosts
                 ,
                 and
                 ev'ry
                 empty
                 Shade
                 ;
              
               
                 Great
                 Hobs
                 appear'd
                 ,
                 and
                 by
                 his
                 Reason's
                 light
              
               
                 Put
                 such
                 Fantastick
                 Forms
                 to
                 shameful
                 flight
                 :
              
               
                 Fond
                 is
                 their
                 fear
                 ,
                 who
                 think
                 we
                 needs
                 must
                 be
              
               
                 To
                 Vice
                 enslav'd
                 ,
                 if
                 from
                 vain
                 Terrours
                 free
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Wise
                 and
                 Good
                 Morality
                 will
                 guide
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Superstition
                 all
                 the
                 World
                 beside
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 In
                 other
                 Authors
                 ,
                 tho
                 the
                 sense
                 be
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 not
                 sometimes
                 so
                 eas'ly
                 understood
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Jewel
                 oft
                 unpolish'd
                 has
                 remain'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Some
                 words
                 shou'd
                 be
                 left
                 out
                 ,
                 and
                 some
                 explain'd
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 that
                 in
                 search
                 of
                 sense
                 we
                 either
                 stray
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 else
                 grow
                 weary
                 in
                 so
                 rough
                 a
                 way
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 here
                 bright
                 Eloquence
                 does
                 always
                 smile
              
               
                 In
                 such
                 a
                 choice
                 ,
                 yet
                 unaffected
                 stile
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 does
                 both
                 Knowledge
                 and
                 Delight
                 impart
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 force
                 of
                 Reason
                 with
                 the
                 Flow'rs
                 of
                 Art
                 ;
              
               
                 Clear
                 as
                 a
                 beautiful
                 transparent
                 Skin
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 never
                 hides
                 the
                 Blood
                 ,
                 yet
                 holds
                 it
                 in
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 a
                 delicious
                 Stream
                 it
                 ever
                 ran
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 smooth
                 as
                 Woman
                 ,
                 but
                 as
                 strong
                 as
                 Man.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Bacon
                 himself
                 ,
                 whose
                 Universal
                 wit
              
               
                 Does
                 admiration
                 through
                 the
                 World
                 beget
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Not
                 more
                 his
                 Age's
                 Ornament
                 is
                 thought
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 has
                 more
                 credit
                 to
                 his
                 Country
                 brought
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 While
                 Fame
                 is
                 young
                 ,
                 too
                 weak
                 to
                 fly
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 Envy
                 pursues
                 her
                 ,
                 like
                 some
                 Bird
                 of
                 Prey
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 once
                 on
                 wing
                 ,
                 then
                 all
                 the
                 dangers
                 cease
                 ,
              
               
                 Envy
                 her self
                 is
                 glad
                 to
                 be
                 at
                 peace
                 ;
              
               
                 Gives
                 over
                 ,
                 weary'd
                 with
                 so
                 high
                 a
                 flight
                 ,
              
               
                 Above
                 her
                 reach
                 ,
                 and
                 scarce
                 within
                 her
                 sight
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 ,
                 to
                 this
                 happy
                 pitch
                 arriv'd
                 at
                 last
                 ,
              
               
                 Might
                 have
                 look'd
                 down
                 with
                 Pride
                 ,
                 on
                 Dangers
                 past
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 such
                 the
                 frailty
                 is
                 of
                 Humane
                 Kind
                 ,
              
               
                 Men
                 toil
                 for
                 Fame
                 ,
                 which
                 no
                 Man
                 lives
                 to
                 find
                 ;
              
               
                 Long
                 rip'ning
                 under
                 ground
                 this
                 China
                 lies
                 ;
              
               
                 Fame
                 bears
                 no
                 Fruit
                 ,
                 till
                 the
                 vain
                 Planter
                 dies
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 And
                 Nature
                 ,
                 tir'd
                 with
                 his
                 unusual
                 length
              
               
                 Oflife
                 ,
                 which
                 put
                 her
                 to
                 her
                 utmost
                 strength
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 vast
                 a
                 Soul
                 unable
                 to
                 supply
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 save
                 her self
                 ,
                 was
                 forc'd
                 to
                 let
                 him
                 die
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               ON
               THE
               DEATH
               Of
               the
               LEARNED
               Mr.
               
                 JOHN
                 SELDEN
              
               .
            
             
               
                 So
                 fell
                 the
                 Sacred
                 Sybill
                 ,
                 when
                 of
                 old
              
               
                 Inspir'd
                 with
                 more
                 than
                 Mortal
                 Breast
                 cou'd
                 hold
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 gazing
                 Multitude
                 stood
                 doubtful
                 by
              
               
                 Whether
                 to
                 call
                 it
                 Death
                 ,
                 or
                 Extasie
                 :
              
               
                 She
                 silent
                 lies
                 ,
                 and
                 now
                 the
                 Nations
                 find
              
               
                 No
                 Oracles
                 but
                 the
                 Leaves
                 she
                 left
                 behind
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Monarch
                 of
                 Time
                 and
                 Arts
                 ,
                 who
                 travel'd'st
                 o're
              
               
                 New
                 Worlds
                 of
                 Knowledge
                 ,
                 undescry'd
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hast
                 on
                 Everlasting
                 Columns
                 writ
              
               
                 The
                 utmost
                 Bounds
                 of
                 Learning
                 and
                 of
                 Wit.
              
               
               
                 Had'st
                 thou
                 been
                 more
                 like
                 us
                 ;
                 or
                 we
                 like
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 might
                 add
                 something
                 to
                 thy
                 memory
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 thy
                 own
                 Tongues
                 must
                 speak
                 thee
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 Praise
              
               
                 Be
                 from
                 those
                 Monuments
                 thy self
                 did'st
                 raise
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 those
                 *
                 Titles
                 thou
                 did'st
                 once
                 display
              
               
                 Must
                 yield
                 thee
                 Titles
                 greater
                 far
                 than
                 they
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Time
                 which
                 had
                 Wings
                 till
                 now
                 ,
                 and
                 was
                 not
                 known
              
               
                 To
                 have
                 a
                 Being
                 but
                 by
                 being
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 did
                 arrest
                 his
                 Motion
                 ,
                 and
                 have
                 lent
              
               
                 A
                 way
                 to
                 make
                 him
                 fixt
                 and
                 permanent
                 ;
              
               
                 Whilst
                 by
                 your
                 Labours
                 Ages
                 past
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 at
                 once
                 we
                 view
                 a
                 Plato's
                 year
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Actions
                 and
                 Fables
                 were
                 retriev'd
                 by
                 you
                 ;
              
               
                 All
                 that
                 was
                 done
                 ,
                 and
                 what
                 was
                 not
                 done
                 too
                 .
              
               
               
                 Which
                 in
                 your
                 Breast
                 did
                 comprehended
                 lye
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 in
                 the
                 Bosom
                 of
                 Eternity
                 ;
              
               
                 You
                 purg'd
                 Records
                 and
                 *
                 Authors
                 from
                 their
                 rust
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sifted
                 Pearls
                 out
                 of
                 Rabinick
                 dust
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 you
                 the
                 †
                 Syrian
                 Gods
                 do
                 live
                 and
                 grow
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 Immortal
                 ,
                 since
                 you
                 made
                 them
                 so
                 .
              
               
                 Inscriptions
                 ,
                 Medals
                 ,
                 ‖
                 Statues
                 look
                 fresh
                 still
                 ,
              
               
                 Taking
                 new
                 Brass
                 and
                 Marble
                 from
                 your
                 Quill
                 ;
              
               
                 Which
                 so
                 unravels
                 time
                 ,
                 that
                 now
                 we
                 do
              
               
                 Live
                 our
                 own
                 Age
                 ,
                 and
                 our
                 Forefathers
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 thus
                 enlarg'd
                 ,
                 by
                 your
                 discoveries
                 ,
                 can
              
               
                 Make
                 that
                 an
                 Ell
                 ,
                 which
                 Nature
                 made
                 a
                 Span.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 If
                 then
                 we
                 judge
                 ,
                 that
                 to
                 preserve
                 the
                 State
              
               
                 Of
                 things
                 ,
                 is
                 every
                 moment
                 to
                 create
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 World
                 's
                 thus
                 half
                 your
                 Creature
                 ,
                 whilst
                 it
                 stands
              
               
                 Rescu'd
                 to
                 memory
                 by
                 your
                 Learned
                 Hands
                 .
              
               
               
                 And
                 unto
                 you
                 ,
                 now
                 fearless
                 of
                 decay
                 ,
              
               
                 Times
                 past
                 owe
                 more
                 ,
                 than
                 Times
                 to
                 come
                 can
                 pay
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 How
                 might
                 you
                 claim
                 your
                 Country's
                 just
                 applause
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 you
                 stood
                 square
                 and
                 upright
                 as
                 your
                 Cause
              
               
                 In
                 doubtful
                 times
                 ,
                 nor
                 ever
                 would
                 forego
              
               
                 Fair
                 Truth
                 and
                 Right
                 ,
                 whose
                 Bounds
                 you
                 best
                 did
                 know
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 You
                 in
                 the
                 Tow'r
                 did
                 stand
                 another
                 Tower
                 ,
              
               
                 Firm
                 to
                 your self
                 and
                 us
                 ,
                 whilst
                 jealous
                 Power
              
               
                 Your
                 very
                 Soul
                 imprison'd
                 ,
                 that
                 no
                 thought
              
               
                 By
                 Books
                 might
                 enter
                 ,
                 nor
                 by
                 Pen
                 get
                 out
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 strip'd
                 of
                 all
                 besides
                 ,
                 left
                 you
                 confin'd
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 one
                 Volume
                 of
                 your
                 own
                 vast
                 Mind
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 Vertue
                 and
                 strict
                 Honour
                 past
                 the
                 Guard
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 only
                 Friends
                 that
                 could
                 not
                 be
                 debarr'd
                 ;
              
               
               
                 And
                 dwelt
                 in
                 your
                 Retirement
                 ;
                 arm'd
                 with
                 these
              
               
                 You
                 stood
                 forth
                 more
                 than
                 Admiral
                 of
                 our
                 Seas
                 .
              
               
                 Your
                 Hands
                 enclos'd
                 the
                 *
                 Watry
                 Plains
                 ,
                 and
                 thus
              
               
                 Was
                 no
                 less
                 Fence
                 to
                 them
                 ,
                 than
                 they
                 to
                 us
                 ;
              
               
                 Teaching
                 our
                 Ships
                 to
                 conquer
                 ,
                 while
                 each
                 fight
              
               
                 Is
                 but
                 a
                 Comment
                 on
                 those
                 Books
                 you
                 write
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 No
                 foul
                 Disgraces
                 ,
                 nor
                 the
                 worst
                 of
                 things
                 ,
              
               
                 Made
                 you
                 like
                 him
                 (
                 whose
                 Anger
                 Homer
                 sings
                 )
              
               
                 Slack
                 in
                 your
                 Country's
                 Quarrel
                 ,
                 who
                 adore
              
               
                 Their
                 Champion
                 now
                 ,
                 their
                 Martyr
                 heretofore
                 :
              
               
                 Still
                 with
                 your self
                 contending
                 ,
                 whether
                 you
              
               
                 Cou'd
                 bravelier
                 suffer
                 ,
                 or
                 cou'd
                 bravelier
                 do
                 .
              
               
                 We
                 ask
                 not
                 now
                 for
                 Ancestors
                 ,
                 nor
                 care
              
               
                 Tho
                 Selden
                 do
                 nor
                 Kindred
                 boast
                 ,
                 nor
                 Heir
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Such
                 worth
                 best
                 stands
                 alone
                 ,
                 and
                 joys
                 to
                 be
              
               
                 To
                 th'
                 self
                 at
                 once
                 both
                 Founder
                 and
                 Posterity
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 when
                 old
                 Nilus
                 who
                 with
                 bounteous
                 flows
              
               
                 Waters
                 an
                 hundred
                 Nations
                 as
                 he
                 goes
                 ,
              
               
                 Scattering
                 rich
                 Harvest
                 keeps
                 his
                 Sacred
                 Head
              
               
                 Amongst
                 the
                 Clouds
                 still
                 undiscovered
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Be
                 't
                 now
                 thy
                 
                 Oxford's
                 Pride
                 ,
                 that
                 having
                 gone
              
               
                 Through
                 East
                 and
                 West
                 ,
                 no
                 Art
                 ,
                 nor
                 Tongue
                 unknown
                 ;
              
               
                 Laden
                 with
                 Spoils
                 thou
                 hang'st
                 thy
                 Arms
                 up
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 set'st
                 thy
                 great
                 Example
                 every
                 where
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 when
                 thy
                 Monument
                 shall
                 it self
                 lie
                 dead
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thy
                 ,
                 *
                 own
                 Epitaph
                 no
                 more
                 be
                 read
                 ,
              
               
               
                 When
                 all
                 thy
                 Statues
                 shall
                 be
                 worn
                 out
                 so
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 even
                 Selden
                 should
                 not
                 Selden
                 know
                 ;
              
               
                 Ages
                 to
                 come
                 shall
                 in
                 thy
                 Vertue
                 share
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 that
                 dies
                 well
                 makes
                 all
                 the
                 World
                 his
                 Heir
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 R.
                 B.
                 T.
                 
              
               
                 
                   Co.
                   Oxon.
                
                 
                 
                   Decemb.
                   19.
                   54.
                   
                
              
            
          
           
             
             
               AGAINST
               
                 Immoderate
                 GRIEF
              
               .
               TO
               A
               young
               LADY
               weeping
               .
               
                 AN
                 ODE
              
               In
               Imitation
               of
               CASIMIRE
               .
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               YALDEN.
               
            
             
               
                 COu'd
                 mournful
                 Sighs
                 ,
                 or
                 floods
                 of
                 Tears
                 prevent
              
               
                 The
                 ills
                 ,
                 unhappy
                 Men
                 lament
                 :
              
               
                 Cou'd
                 all
                 the
                 anguish
                 of
                 my
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Remove
                 my
                 Cares
                 ,
                 or
                 make
                 but
                 Fortune
                 kind
                 ;
              
               
                 Soon
                 I
                 'd
                 the
                 grateful
                 Tribute
                 pay
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 weep
                 my
                 troubl'd
                 Thoughts
                 away
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 Wealth
                 and
                 Pleasure
                 every
                 Sigh
                 prefer
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 more
                 than
                 Gems
                 esteem
                 each
                 falling
                 Tear.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 since
                 insulting
                 Cares
                 are
                 most
                 inclin'd
              
               
                 To
                 triumph
                 o're
                 th'
                 afflicted
                 Mind
                 :
              
               
                 Since
                 Sighs
                 can
                 yield
                 us
                 no
                 Relief
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Tears
                 ,
                 like
                 fruitful
                 Showers
                 ,
                 but
                 nourish
                 Grief
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 cease
                 ,
                 fair
                 Mourner
                 ,
                 to
                 complain
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 lavish
                 ,
                 such
                 bright
                 Streams
                 ,
                 in
                 vain
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 still
                 with
                 chearful
                 thoughts
                 thy
                 Cares
                 beguile
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 tempt
                 thy
                 better
                 Fortunes
                 with
                 a
                 Smile
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 generous
                 Mind
                 is
                 by
                 its
                 Sufferings
                 known
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 no
                 Affliction
                 tramples
                 down
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 opprest
                 will
                 upward
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 Spurn
                 down
                 its
                 clog
                 of
                 Cares
                 ,
                 and
                 soar
                 above
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 the
                 young
                 Royal
                 Eaglet
                 trys
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 Sun-beams
                 his
                 tender
                 eyes
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 if
                 he
                 shrinks
                 not
                 at
                 th'
                 offensive
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 's
                 then
                 for
                 Empire
                 fit
                 ,
                 and
                 takes
                 his
                 soaring
                 flight
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 Tho'
                 Cares
                 assault
                 thy
                 Breast
                 on
                 every
                 side
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 bravely
                 stem
                 th'
                 impetuous
                 Tide
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 tributary
                 Tears
                 to
                 Fortune
                 pay
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 add
                 to
                 any
                 loss
                 a
                 nobler
                 Day
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 with
                 kind
                 hopes
                 support
                 thy
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 think
                 thy
                 better
                 Lot
                 behind
                 :
              
               
                 Amidst
                 afflictions
                 let
                 thy
                 Soul
                 be
                 great
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 show
                 thou
                 dar'st
                 deserve
                 a
                 better
                 State.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 lovely
                 Mourner
                 ,
                 wipe
                 those
                 Tears
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Cares
                 that
                 urge
                 thee
                 to
                 decay
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 Ravenous
                 Age
                 thy
                 Charms
                 they
                 waste
                 ,
              
               
                 Wrinkle
                 thy
                 youthful
                 Brow
                 ,
                 and
                 blooming
                 Beauties
                 blast
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 keep
                 thy
                 looks
                 ,
                 and
                 mind
                 serene
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 gay
                 without
                 ,
                 and
                 calm
                 within
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 Fate
                 is
                 aw'd
                 ,
                 and
                 adverse
                 Fortunes
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 chearful
                 look
                 ,
                 and
                 an
                 unconquer'd
                 Eye
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               TO
               THE
               Returning
               SUN
               .
            
             
               By
               
                 J.
                 H.
              
               
            
             
               
                 Welcome
                 thou
                 glorious
                 Spring
                 of
                 light
                 ,
                 and
                 heat
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 hast
                 thou
                 made
                 thy
                 long
                 Retreat
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 Lands
                 thy
                 warmer
                 Beams
                 possest
                 ,
              
               
                 Whàt
                 happy
                 Indian
                 Worlds
                 thy
                 fruitful
                 Presence
                 blest
                 ?
              
               
                 Where
                 deep
                 in
                 the
                 dark
                 bosom
                 of
                 the
                 Ground
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 wondrous
                 Operation's
                 found
                 ,
              
               
                 Even
                 there
                 thy
                 Beams
                 the
                 Earth
                 refine
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 mix
                 ,
                 and
                 stamp
                 thy
                 Lustre
                 through
                 the
                 dazling
                 Mine
                 .
              
               
               
                 Since
                 thy
                 retreat
                 so
                 far
                 from
                 our
                 cold
                 Isle
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 never
                 wore
                 a
                 lovely
                 Smile
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 joy
                 her
                 wither'd
                 Brow
                 adorn'd
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 dark
                 unlovely
                 Days
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 long
                 Nights
                 she
                 mourn'd
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 poor
                 dejected
                 Beasts
                 hung
                 down
                 their
                 heads
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 trembled
                 on
                 their
                 naked
                 Beds
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 footsteps
                 of
                 green
                 life
                 remain
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 dying
                 Fields
                 ,
                 and
                 Woods
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 bare
                 ,
                 bleaky
                 Plain
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 drooping
                 Birds
                 were
                 silent
                 in
                 the
                 Groves
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 quite
                 forgot
                 their
                 Songs
                 and
                 Loves
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 feeble
                 Mates
                 sate
                 sullen
                 by
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 thought
                 the
                 feather'd
                 World
                 resolv'd
                 their
                 Kind
                 shou'd
                 die
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 see
                 the
                 Land
                 revives
                 at
                 thy
                 approach
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 blooms
                 and
                 quickens
                 at
                 thy
                 touch
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 kindled
                 Atoms
                 life
                 receive
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Meadows
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Groves
                 ,
                 begin
                 to
                 stir
                 and
                 live
                 .
              
               
               
                 Mixt
                 with
                 thy
                 Beams
                 the
                 Southern
                 breezes
                 blow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 help
                 the
                 sproutng
                 Births
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Infant
                 Flowers
                 in
                 haste
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 gratefully
                 return
                 Perfumes
                 to
                 the
                 kind
                 Air.
              
               
                 The
                 Trees
                 ,
                 and
                 Fields
                 agen
                 look
                 fresh
                 and
                 gay
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Birds
                 begin
                 their
                 softer
                 Play
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 hast
                 their
                 Life
                 ,
                 nay
                 more
                 ,
                 their
                 Love
                 restor'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 late
                 ,
                 and
                 early
                 Hymns
                 praise
                 thee
                 ,
                 their
                 welcome
                 Lord.
              
               
                 The
                 spreading
                 Fire
                 glides
                 through
                 the
                 Plains
                 ,
                 and
                 Woods
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 even
                 pierces
                 the
                 cold
                 Floods
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 duller
                 Brutes
                 feel
                 the
                 soft
                 Flame
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Fishes
                 leap
                 for
                 joy
                 ,
                 and
                 wanton
                 in
                 their
                 Stream
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               AGAINST
               THE
               FEAR
               OF
               DEATH
               .
               BY
               A
               
                 Person
                 of
                 HONOUR
              
               .
            
             
               
                 SINCE
                 all
                 must
                 certainly
                 to
                 Death
                 resign
                 ,
              
               
                 Why
                 should
                 we
                 make
                 it
                 dreadful
                 ,
                 or
                 repine
                 ?
              
               
                 How
                 vain
                 is
                 Fear
                 where
                 nothing
                 can
                 prevent
              
               
                 The
                 loss
                 ,
                 which
                 he
                 ,
                 that
                 loses
                 ,
                 can't
                 lament
                 .
              
               
               
                 The
                 Fear
                 of
                 Death
                 is
                 by
                 our
                 Folly
                 brought
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 fly
                 th'
                 acquaintance
                 of
                 it
                 ,
                 in
                 a
                 thought
                 ;
              
               
                 From
                 Something
                 into
                 Nothing
                 is
                 a
                 change
              
               
                 Grown
                 terrible
                 ,
                 by
                 making
                 it
                 so
                 strange
                 .
              
               
                 We
                 always
                 shou'd
                 remember
                 ,
                 Death
                 is
                 sure
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 grows
                 familiar
                 most
                 ,
                 we
                 best
                 endure
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 Life
                 and
                 Death
                 succeed
                 like
                 Night
                 and
                 Day
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 neither
                 gives
                 encrease
                 ,
                 nor
                 brings
                 decay
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 more
                 or
                 less
                 by
                 what
                 takes
                 Birth
                 or
                 dies
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 same
                 Mass
                 the
                 teeming
                 World
                 supplies
                 .
              
               
                 From
                 Death
                 we
                 rose
                 to
                 Life
                 ;
                 't
                 is
                 but
                 the
                 same
                 ,
              
               
                 Through
                 Life
                 again
                 to
                 pass
                 ,
                 from
                 whence
                 we
                 came
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 shame
                 we
                 see
                 our
                 Passions
                 can
                 prevail
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Reason
                 ,
                 Certainty
                 ,
                 and
                 Vertue
                 fail
                 .
              
               
                 Honour
                 ,
                 that
                 Empty
                 Name
                 ,
                 can
                 Death
                 despise
                 ,
              
               
                 Scorn'd
                 Love
                 to
                 Death
                 as
                 to
                 a
                 Refuge
                 flies
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Sorrow
                 waits
                 for
                 Death
                 with
                 longing
                 Eyes
                 .
              
               
               
                 Hope
                 triumphs
                 o're
                 the
                 thought
                 of
                 Death
                 ,
                 and
                 Fate
              
               
                 Cheats
                 Fools
                 ,
                 and
                 flatters
                 the
                 Unfortunate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Perhaps
                 ,
                 deceiv'd
                 by
                 Lust-supplying
                 Wealth
                 ,
              
               
                 New
                 enjoy'd
                 Pleasures
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 present
                 Health
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 fear
                 to
                 lose
                 ,
                 what
                 a
                 small
                 time
                 must
                 waste
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 Life
                 it self
                 grows
                 the
                 Disease
                 at
                 last
                 :
              
               
                 Begging
                 for
                 Life
                 ,
                 we
                 beg
                 for
                 more
                 decay
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 be
                 long
                 a
                 dying
                 only
                 pray
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 No
                 just
                 and
                 temperate
                 thought
                 can
                 tell
                 us
                 why
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 should
                 fear
                 Death
                 ,
                 or
                 grieve
                 for
                 them
                 that
                 die
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Time
                 we
                 leave
                 behind
                 ,
                 is
                 ours
                 no
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 our
                 concern
                 ,
                 than
                 Time
                 that
                 was
                 before
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 'T
                 were
                 a
                 fond
                 fight
                 ,
                 if
                 those
                 that
                 stay
                 behind
              
               
                 For
                 the
                 same
                 passage
                 ,
                 waiting
                 for
                 a
                 wind
              
               
               
                 To
                 drive
                 them
                 to
                 their
                 Port
                 ,
                 sho'ud
                 on
                 the
                 Shore
              
               
                 Lamenting
                 stand
                 ,
                 for
                 those
                 that
                 went
                 before
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 We
                 all
                 must
                 pass
                 through
                 Death's
                 dead
                 Sea
                 of
                 Night
              
               
                 To
                 reach
                 the
                 Haven
                 of
                 Eternal
                 Light.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               DREAM
               :
               Occasion'd
               by
               The
               Death
               of
               the
               most
               Noble
               and
               Virtuous
               Lady
               ,
               
                 Elizabeth
                 Seymour
              
               ,
               Mother
               to
               His
               GRACE
               the
               Duke
               of
               Somerset
               .
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               
                 J.
                 TALBOT
              
               .
            
             
               
                 IF
                 Righteous
                 Souls
                 in
                 their
                 bless'd
                 Mansions
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 what
                 we
                 Do
                 ,
                 or
                 Suffer
                 here
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 any
                 leisure
                 from
                 their
                 Joys
                 can
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 visit
                 those
                 whom
                 they
                 have
                 left
                 behind
                 ,
              
               
               
                 To
                 view
                 our
                 endless
                 Griefs
                 ,
                 our
                 groundless
                 Fears
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 hopeless
                 Sorrows
                 ,
                 and
                 our
                 fruitless
                 Tears
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 pity
                 ,
                 sure
                 ,
                 they
                 see
                 the
                 kind
                 mistake
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 weeping
                 Friends
                 at
                 their
                 departure
                 make
                 :
              
               
                 They
                 wonder
                 why
                 at
                 their
                 Release
                 we
                 grieve
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 mourn
                 their
                 Death
                 ,
                 who
                 then
                 begin
                 to
                 Live.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Tir'd
                 with
                 the
                 Care
                 and
                 Sorrow
                 of
                 the
                 day
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 silent
                 night
                 the
                 sad
                 Mecoenas
                 lay
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 mind
                 still
                 lab'ring
                 with
                 the
                 deadly
                 weight
              
               
                 Of
                 his
                 dear
                 Parent
                 's
                 much
                 lamented
                 Fate
                 ;
              
               
                 Till
                 weary
                 Nature
                 with
                 its
                 Load
                 opprest
                 ,
              
               
                 Compos'd
                 the
                 tempest
                 of
                 his
                 troubled
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 borrow'd
                 from
                 his
                 Grief
                 some
                 time
                 for
                 rest
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 Sleep
                 (
                 Death's
                 Image
                 )
                 to
                 his
                 fancy
                 brought
              
               
                 The
                 hourly
                 Object
                 of
                 his
                 waking
                 Thought
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 lo
                 !
                 his
                 Mother
                 's
                 awful
                 Shade
                 appears
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 pale
                 and
                 ghastly
                 ,
                 as
                 the
                 sullen
                 Fears
              
               
               
                 Of
                 brain-sick
                 Minds
                 their
                 dismal
                 Phantomes
                 paint
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 bright
                 and
                 joyful
                 as
                 a
                 new-made
                 Saint
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Crown
                 of
                 Glories
                 shone
                 around
                 her
                 Head
                 ;
              
               
                 She
                 smil'd
                 ,
                 and
                 thus
                 the
                 happy
                 Spirit
                 said
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hail
                 ,
                 Noble
                 Son
                 ,
                 whom
                 pow'rful
                 Fates
                 design
              
               
                 To
                 fill
                 the
                 Glories
                 of
                 thy
                 mighty
                 Line
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 whom
                 the
                 Good
                 is
                 mingled
                 with
                 the
                 Great
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 generous
                 Light
                 unites
                 with
                 active
                 heat
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 thee
                 I
                 thought
                 Life
                 pleasant
                 ,
                 and
                 for
                 thee
              
               
                 I
                 after
                 Death
                 endur'd
                 this
                 World
                 to
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 leave
                 a
                 while
                 the
                 Dwellings
                 of
                 the
                 Blest
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Heav'nly
                 Minds
                 enjoy
                 Eternal
                 Rest
                 ;
              
               
                 Where
                 having
                 reach'd
                 the
                 Universal
                 Shore
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 fear
                 the
                 Winds
                 and
                 Billows
                 now
                 no
                 more
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 more
                 in
                 anguish
                 draw
                 a
                 painful
                 Breath
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 wrestle
                 with
                 that
                 mighty
                 Tyrant
                 ,
                 Death
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Who
                 cannot
                 boast
                 he
                 gave
                 the
                 Fatal
                 blow
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 conquer'd
                 Sin
                 ,
                 from
                 whence
                 his
                 Pow'r
                 did
                 flow
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 proud
                 Insulter
                 threatn'd
                 me
                 in
                 vain
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Heav'n
                 increas'd
                 my
                 Patience
                 with
                 my
                 Pain
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 my
                 unfetter'd
                 Soul
                 at
                 last
                 took
                 Wing
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Grave
                 its
                 Conquest
                 lost
                 ,
                 and
                 Death
                 its
                 Sting
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 No
                 longer
                 then
                 these
                 Pious
                 Sorrows
                 shed
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 vainly
                 think
                 thy
                 happy
                 Parent
                 dead
                 ;
              
               
                 Whose
                 deathless
                 Mind
                 from
                 its
                 weak
                 Prison
                 free
                 ,
              
               
                 Enjoys
                 in
                 Heav'n
                 its
                 Native
                 Liberty
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 soon
                 distinguish'd
                 in
                 that
                 blissful
                 Place
              
               
                 Thy
                 God-like
                 Ancestors
                 ,
                 a
                 numerous
                 Race
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 plac'd
                 among
                 the
                 Stars
                 ,
                 in
                 them
                 I
                 see
              
               
                 A
                 Glorious
                 Destiny
                 reserv'd
                 for
                 thee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Then
                 weep
                 no
                 more
                 ;
                 ev'n
                 here
                 I
                 still
                 survive
              
               
                 In
                 thee
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 thy
                 Virtuous
                 Fair
                 I
                 live
                 :
              
               
               
                 I
                 saw
                 her
                 happy
                 Mother
                 shine
                 on
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 brighter
                 Spirit
                 ne're
                 adorn'd
                 the
                 Skie
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 Joy
                 she
                 met
                 me
                 at
                 the
                 Crystal
                 Gate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 much
                 enquir'd
                 her
                 beauteous
                 Daughter's
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 Wish'd
                 her
                 there
                 ;
                 but
                 Heav'n
                 ordains
                 it
                 late
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 long
                 defers
                 her
                 Joys
                 ,
                 that
                 she
                 may
                 be
              
               
                 A
                 mighty
                 Blessing
                 to
                 this
                 World
                 ,
                 and
                 Thee
                 .
              
               
                 Long
                 shall
                 she
                 live
                 ,
                 and
                 Ages
                 yet
                 to
                 come
              
               
                 Shall
                 bless
                 the
                 happy
                 Burden
                 of
                 her
                 Womb
                 :
              
               
                 Still
                 shall
                 her
                 Off-spring
                 ,
                 with
                 her
                 Years
                 ,
                 increase
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 both
                 ,
                 her
                 Virtues
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 Happiness
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 all
                 thy
                 Race
                 the
                 wondring
                 World
                 shall
                 find
              
               
                 The
                 Noble
                 Image
                 of
                 each
                 Parent
                 's
                 Mind
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 bless'd
                 in
                 her
                 and
                 hers
                 ,
                 thou
                 shalt
                 receive
              
               
                 The
                 richest
                 Bounties
                 Heav'n
                 and
                 Earth
                 can
                 give
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 shall
                 my
                 Care
                 be
                 wanting
                 to
                 your
                 aid
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 faithful
                 Spirit
                 shall
                 hover
                 o're
                 thy
                 head
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 round
                 thy
                 lovely
                 Fair
                 alargeProtectionspread
                 :
              
               
               
                 Till
                 crown'd
                 with
                 Years
                 and
                 Honours
                 here
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ev'ry
                 Gift
                 kind
                 Nature
                 can
                 bestow
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 both
                 retire
                 to
                 Everlasting
                 Rest
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 late
                 increase
                 the
                 Joys
                 and
                 number
                 of
                 the
                 Blest
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 She
                 spoke
                 :
                 her
                 Fellow-Angels
                 all
                 around
              
               
                 With
                 joyful
                 Smiles
                 the
                 happy
                 Omen
                 own'd
                 ;
              
               
                 All
                 bless'd
                 the
                 Noble
                 Pair
                 ,
                 and
                 took
                 their
                 flight
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 bright
                 Regions
                 of
                 unfading
                 Light.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               HYMN
               TO
               THE
               MORNING
               .
               IN
               
                 Praise
                 of
                 Light.
              
               AN
               ODE
               .
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               YALDEN.
               
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 PArent
                 of
                 Day
                 !
                 whose
                 beauteous
                 Beams
                 of
                 Light
              
               
                 Spring
                 from
                 the
                 darksom
                 Womb
                 of
                 Night
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 midst
                 their
                 Native
                 horrours
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 Gems
                 adorning
                 of
                 the
                 
                 Negro's
                 Brow.
              
               
               
                 Not
                 Heaven's
                 fair
                 Bow
                 can
                 equal
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 all
                 its
                 gaudy
                 Drapery
                 :
              
               
                 Thou
                 first
                 Essay
                 of
                 Light
                 ,
                 and
                 pledge
                 of
                 Day
                 !
              
               
                 That
                 usher'st
                 in
                 the
                 Sun
                 ,
                 and
                 still
                 prepar'st
                 his
                 way
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 Rival
                 of
                 Shade
                 ,
                 Eternal
                 Spring
                 of
                 Light
                 !
              
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 the
                 Genuine
                 Source
                 of
                 it
                 :
              
               
                 From
                 thy
                 bright
                 unexhausted
                 Womb
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 beauteous
                 Race
                 of
                 Days
                 and
                 Seasons
                 come
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Beauty
                 Ages
                 cannot
                 wrong
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 spight
                 of
                 Time
                 thou'
                 rt
                 ever
                 young
                 :
              
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 alone
                 Heavens
                 modest
                 Virgin
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Face
                 a
                 Veil
                 of
                 blushes
                 hides
                 from
                 human
                 sight
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 Like
                 some
                 fair
                 Bride
                 thou
                 risest
                 from
                 thy
                 Bed
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 dost
                 around
                 thy
                 Lustre
                 spread
                 :
              
               
                 Around
                 the
                 Universe
                 dispense
              
               
                 New
                 life
                 to
                 all
                 ,
                 and
                 quick'ning
                 influence
                 .
              
               
               
                 With
                 gloomy
                 Smiles
                 thy
                 Rival
                 Night
              
               
                 Beholds
                 thy
                 glorious
                 dawn
                 of
                 Light
                 :
              
               
                 Not
                 all
                 the
                 Wealth
                 she
                 views
                 in
                 Mines
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 Can
                 match
                 thy
                 brighter
                 Beams
                 ,
                 or
                 equal
                 Lustre
                 show
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 At
                 thy
                 approach
                 Nature
                 erects
                 her
                 head
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 smiling
                 Universe
                 is
                 glad
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 drowsie
                 Earth
                 and
                 Seas
                 awake
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 from
                 thy
                 Beams
                 ,
                 new
                 life
                 and
                 vigour
                 take
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 thy
                 more
                 chearful
                 Rays
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Even
                 Guilt
                 and
                 Women
                 cease
                 to
                 fear
                 :
              
               
                 Horrour
                 ,
                 Despair
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 the
                 Sons
                 of
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 Retire
                 before
                 thy
                 Beams
                 ,
                 and
                 take
                 their
                 hasty
                 flight
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 To
                 Thee
                 ,
                 the
                 grateful
                 East
                 their
                 Altars
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sing
                 with
                 early
                 Hymns
                 thy
                 praise
                 :
              
               
                 Thou
                 dost
                 their
                 happy
                 Soil
                 bestow
                 ,
              
               
                 Inrich
                 the
                 Heav'ns
                 above
                 ,
                 and
                 Earth
                 below
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thou
                 rifest
                 in
                 the
                 fragrant
                 East
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 the
                 fair
                 Phaenix
                 from
                 her
                 balmy
                 Nest
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 Altar
                 of
                 the
                 Gods
                 can
                 equal
                 Thine
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Air
                 is
                 richest
                 Incense
                 ,
                 the
                 whole
                 Land
                 thy
                 Shrine
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 yet
                 thy
                 fading
                 Glories
                 soon
                 decay
                 ,
              
               
                 Thine's
                 but
                 a
                 momentary
                 stay
                 :
              
               
                 Too
                 soon
                 thou'
                 rt
                 ravisht
                 from
                 our
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 Bore
                 down
                 the
                 stream
                 of
                 day
                 ,
                 and
                 overwhelm'd
                 with
                 light
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Beams
                 to
                 their
                 own
                 ruin
                 haste
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 're
                 sram'd
                 too
                 exquisite
                 to
                 last
                 :
              
               
                 Thine
                 is
                 a
                 glorious
                 ,
                 but
                 a
                 short-liv'd
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 Pity
                 so
                 fair
                 a
                 Birth
                 should
                 yield
                 so
                 soon
                 to
                 Fate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 7.
                 
              
               
                 Before
                 the
                 Almighty
                 Artist
                 fram'd
                 the
                 Skie
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 gave
                 the
                 Earth
                 its
                 Harmony
                 :
              
               
               
                 His
                 first
                 Command
                 was
                 for
                 thy
                 Light
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 view'd
                 the
                 lovely
                 Birth
                 ,
                 and
                 blessed
                 it
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 purple
                 Swadling-bands
                 it
                 struggling
                 lay
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 yet
                 maturely
                 bright
                 for
                 Day
                 :
              
               
                 Old
                 Chaos
                 then
                 a
                 chearful
                 Smile
                 put
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 thy
                 beauteous
                 Form
                 ,
                 did
                 first
                 presage
                 its
                 own
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 8.
                 
              
               
                 Let
                 there
                 be
                 Light
                 ,
                 the
                 Great
                 Creator
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Word
                 the
                 active
                 Child
                 obey'd
                 :
              
               
                 Night
                 did
                 her
                 teeming
                 Womb
                 disclose
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 the
                 blushing
                 Morn
                 ,
                 its
                 brightest
                 Off
                 spring
                 rose
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 while
                 the
                 Almighty
                 wond'ring
                 view'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 himself
                 pronounc'd
                 it
                 good
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 Night
                 ,
                 said
                 He
                 ,
                 divide
                 the
                 Imperial
                 Sway
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 my
                 first
                 Labour
                 art
                 ,
                 and
                 thou
                 shalt
                 bless
                 the
                 Day
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               HYMN
               TO
               DARKNESS
               .
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               YALDEN.
               
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 DARKNESS
                 ,
                 thou
                 first
                 kind
                 Parent
                 of
                 us
                 all
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 our
                 great
                 Original
                 :
              
               
                 Since
                 from
                 thy
                 Universal
                 Womb
                 ,
              
               
                 Does
                 all
                 thou
                 shad'st
                 below
                 ,
                 thy
                 numerous
                 Off-spring
                 come
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 Thy
                 wondrous
                 Birth
                 is
                 even
                 to
                 Time
                 unknown
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 like
                 Eternity
                 thou'dst
                 none
                 :
              
               
               
                 Whilst
                 Light
                 did
                 its
                 first
                 Being
                 owe
                 ,
              
               
                 Unto
                 that
                 awful
                 Shade
                 ,
                 it
                 dares
                 to
                 rival
                 now
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 Say
                 in
                 what
                 distant
                 Region
                 dost
                 thou
                 dwell
                 !
              
               
                 To
                 Reason
                 inaccessible
                 :
              
               
                 From
                 Form
                 ,
                 and
                 duller
                 Matter
                 ,
                 free
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 soar'st
                 above
                 the
                 reach
                 of
                 Man's
                 Philosophy
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 Involv'd
                 in
                 thee
                 ,
                 we
                 first
                 receive
                 our
                 breath
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 art
                 our
                 Refuge
                 too
                 in
                 Death
                 :
              
               
                 Great
                 Monarch
                 of
                 the
                 Grave
                 and
                 Womb
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 e're
                 our
                 Souls
                 shall
                 go
                 ,
                 to
                 thee
                 our
                 Bodies
                 come
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 silent
                 Globe
                 is
                 struck
                 with
                 awful
                 fear
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 thy
                 Majestick
                 Shades
                 appear
                 :
              
               
                 Thou
                 dost
                 compose
                 the
                 Air
                 and
                 Sea
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Earth
                 a
                 Sabbath
                 keeps
                 ,
                 Sacred
                 to
                 Rest
                 ,
                 and
                 Thee
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 In
                 thy
                 serener
                 Shades
                 our
                 Ghosts
                 delight
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 court
                 the
                 umbrage
                 of
                 the
                 Night
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 Vaults
                 ,
                 and
                 gloomy
                 Caves
                 ,
                 they
                 stray
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 fly
                 the
                 Mornings
                 beams
                 ,
                 and
                 sicken
                 at
                 the
                 day
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 7
              
               
                 Tho'
                 solid
                 Bodies
                 dare
                 exclude
                 the
                 light
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 will
                 the
                 brightest
                 Ray
                 admit
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 Substance
                 can
                 thy
                 Force
                 repel
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 reign'st
                 in
                 depths
                 below
                 ,
                 dost
                 at
                 the
                 Center
                 dwell
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 8.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 sparkling
                 Gems
                 ,
                 and
                 Oar
                 in
                 Mines
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 thee
                 their
                 beauteous
                 lustre
                 owe
                 :
              
               
                 Tho'
                 form'd
                 within
                 the
                 Womb
                 of
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 Bright
                 as
                 their
                 Sire
                 they
                 shine
                 ,
                 with
                 Native
                 Rays
                 of
                 Light.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 9.
                 
              
               
                 When
                 thou
                 dost
                 raise
                 thy
                 venerable
                 head
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 art
                 in
                 genuine
                 Night
                 array'd
                 :
              
               
               
                 Thy
                 Negro
                 Beauties
                 then
                 delight
                 ,
              
               
                 Beauties
                 like
                 pollish'd
                 Jeat
                 ,
                 with
                 their
                 own
                 Darkness
                 bright
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 10.
                 
              
               
                 Thou
                 dost
                 thy
                 Smiles
                 impartially
                 bestow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 know'st
                 no
                 difference
                 here
                 below
                 :
              
               
                 All
                 things
                 appear
                 the
                 same
                 by
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho'
                 Light
                 distinction
                 makes
                 ,
                 thou
                 giv'st
                 Equality
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 11.
                 
              
               
                 Thou
                 Darkness
                 art
                 the
                 Lovers
                 kind
                 retreat
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 dost
                 the
                 Nuptial
                 Joys
                 compleat
                 :
              
               
                 Thou
                 dost
                 inspire
                 them
                 with
                 thy
                 Shade
                 ,
              
               
                 Giv'st
                 vigour
                 to
                 the
                 Youth
                 ,
                 and
                 warm'st
                 the
                 yielding
                 Maid
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 12.
                 
              
               
                 Calm
                 ,
                 as
                 the
                 blest
                 above
                 ,
                 the
                 Ancorites
                 dwell
                 ,
              
               
                 Within
                 their
                 peaceful
                 gloomy
                 Cell
                 :
              
               
                 Their
                 minds
                 with
                 Heav'nly
                 Joys
                 are
                 fill'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Pleasures
                 Light
                 deny
                 ,
                 thy
                 Shades
                 for
                 ever
                 yield
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 13.
                 
              
               
                 In
                 Caves
                 of
                 Night
                 ,
                 the
                 Oracles
                 of
                 old
                 ,
              
               
                 Did
                 all
                 their
                 Mysteries
                 unfold
                 :
              
               
                 Darkness
                 did
                 first
                 Religion
                 grace
                 ,
              
               
                 Gave
                 terrours
                 to
                 the
                 God
                 ,
                 and
                 reverence
                 to
                 the
                 place
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 14.
                 
              
               
                 When
                 the
                 Almighty
                 did
                 on
                 Horeb
                 stand
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Shades
                 inclos'd
                 the
                 Hallow'd
                 Land
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 Clouds
                 of
                 Night
                 ,
                 he
                 was
                 array'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 venerable
                 Darkness
                 his
                 Pavillion
                 made
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 15.
                 
              
               
                 When
                 he
                 appear'd
                 arm'd
                 in
                 his
                 Power
                 and
                 Might
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 vail'd
                 the
                 beatifick
                 Light
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 terrible
                 with
                 Majesty
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 tempests
                 he
                 gave
                 Laws
                 ,
                 and
                 clad
                 himself
                 in
                 Thee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 16.
                 
              
               
                 E're
                 the
                 Foundation
                 of
                 the
                 Earth
                 was
                 laid
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 brighter
                 Firmament
                 was
                 made
                 :
              
               
               
                 E're
                 Matter
                 ,
                 Time
                 ,
                 or
                 Place
                 were
                 known
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 Monarch
                 Darkness
                 sway'dst
                 these
                 spacious
                 Realms
                 alone
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 17.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 now
                 the
                 Moon
                 ,
                 (
                 tho'
                 gay
                 with
                 borrow'd
                 light
                 )
              
               
                 Invades
                 thy
                 scanty
                 Lot
                 of
                 Night
                 :
              
               
                 By
                 Rebel
                 Subjects
                 thou'
                 rt
                 betray'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Anarchy
                 of
                 Stars
                 depose
                 their
                 Monarch
                 shade
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 18.
                 
              
               
                 Yet
                 fading
                 Light
                 its
                 Empire
                 must
                 resign
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Nature's
                 Power
                 submit
                 to
                 Thine
                 :
              
               
                 An
                 Universal
                 ruin
                 shall
                 erect
                 thy
                 Throne
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Fate
                 confirm
                 thy
                 Kingdom
                 ,
                 evermore
                 thy
                 own
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               AENEAS
               HIS
               Meeting
               with
               DIDO
               In
               the
               
                 ELYZIAN
                 FIELDS
              
               .
               Being
               a
               
                 Translation
                 of
                 part
                 of
                 the
                 sixth
                 Book
                 of
              
               Virgil's
               AEneids
               ,
               
                 beginning
                 at
              
               Hic
               quoque
               durus
               Amor
               ,
               &c.
               
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               WOLSLEY
               .
            
             
               
                 HERE
                 those
                 ,
                 who
                 by
                 Love's
                 Cruelty
                 have
                 dy'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Thick
                 Myrtle
                 Groves
                 ,
                 and
                 dark
                 Retirements
                 hide
                 ;
              
               
                 Vex'd
                 with
                 old
                 Griefs
                 ,
                 and
                 pale
                 with
                 long
                 Despairs
                 ,
              
               
                 Death
                 cannot
                 free
                 them
                 from
                 their
                 lasting
                 Cares
                 .
              
               
               
                 Among
                 the
                 Trees
                 Pasiphae
                 does
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Phedra
                 ,
                 and
                 Procris
                 ,
                 and
                 Evadne
                 ,
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 Sad
                 Eriphyle
                 makes
                 unpity'd
                 moan
                 ,
              
               
                 Pointing
                 to
                 Wounds
                 ,
                 that
                 still
                 accuse
                 her
                 Son.
              
               
                 For
                 her
                 lost
                 Honour
                 ,
                 Coeneus
                 mourns
                 in
                 vain
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 Death
                 transform'd
                 to
                 her
                 own
                 Sex
                 again
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 Laodamia
                 ,
                 with
                 the
                 numerous
                 throng
              
               
                 Of
                 hapless
                 Lovers
                 ,
                 weeping
                 goes
                 along
                 .
              
               
                 Among
                 the
                 rest
                 sorsaken
                 Dido
                 ,
                 round
              
               
                 The
                 Desart
                 wanders
                 ,
                 with
                 a
                 gaping
                 Wound
                 ,
              
               
                 Whom
                 soon
                 as
                 near
                 the
                 
                   Trojan
                   Hero
                
                 drew
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 that
                 upbraiding
                 injur'd
                 Ghost
                 through
                 glimmering
                 Shadows
                 knew
                 .
              
               
                 (
                 As
                 he
                 who
                 sees
                 by
                 the
                 faint
                 gloomy
                 Light
              
               
                 A
                 rising
                 Moon
                 half
                 hid
                 in
                 Clouds
                 and
                 Night
                 )
              
               
                 Straight
                 into
                 Tears
                 his
                 penitent
                 Pity
                 broke
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 her
                 ,
                 in
                 the
                 kindest
                 terms
                 of
                 Love
                 unfeign'd
                 he
                 spoke
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 The
                 killing
                 News
                 that
                 did
                 my
                 flight
                 pursue
              
               
                 I
                 find
                 ,
                 alas
                 ,
                 (
                 unhappy
                 Queen
                 )
                 is
                 true
                 !
              
               
                 Your
                 mark
                 still
                 fresh
                 upon
                 your
                 Breast
                 I
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 bleeding
                 Wound
                 you
                 gave
                 your self
                 for
                 Me.
              
               
                 Ah
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 too
                 true
                 !
                 I
                 was
                 th'
                 unlucky
                 Cause
              
               
                 Of
                 your
                 hard
                 fate
                 !
                 curs'd
                 wretched
                 Man
                 !
                 I
                 was
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 all
                 the
                 Gods
                 ,
                 who
                 rule
                 above
                 ,
                 I
                 vow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 that
                 Faith
                 (
                 if
                 any
                 be
                 )
                 which
                 Sacred
                 is
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 Compell'd
                 ,
                 and
                 threaten'd
                 ,
                 sad
                 ,
                 and
                 discontent
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 your
                 lov'd
                 Shore
                 ,
                 and
                 dear
                 Embrace
                 ,
                 I
                 went
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 awful
                 Pow'r
                 ,
                 whose
                 high
                 Will
                 to
                 obey
                 ,
              
               
                 Even
                 now
                 thro'
                 these
                 Infernal
                 Shades
                 and
                 dismal
                 paths
                 I
                 stray
                 ;
              
               
                 Thro'
                 endless
                 Night
                 ,
                 and
                 unknown
                 Desart
                 Lands
              
               
                 Force
                 me
                 ,
                 delaying
                 ,
                 by
                 his
                 dread
                 Commands
                 .
              
               
               
                 Nor
                 cou'd
                 I
                 think
                 the
                 loss
                 of
                 me
                 wou'd
                 touch
              
               
                 Your
                 Heart
                 so
                 deep
                 !
                 —
                 You
                 valu'd
                 me
                 too
                 much
                 !
              
               
                 Oh
                 stay
                 ,
                 and
                 take
                 not
                 from
                 my
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 unkind
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Face
                 for
                 ever
                 present
                 to
                 my
                 mind
                 !
              
               
                 Whom
                 do
                 you
                 fly
                 ?
                 see
                 him
                 you
                 held
                 so
                 dear
                 !
              
               
                 His
                 just
                 defence
                 and
                 last
                 farewel
                 do
                 not
                 refuse
                 to
                 hear
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 With
                 such
                 soft
                 words
                 th'
                 afflicted
                 Hero
                 strove
              
               
                 To
                 sooth
                 her
                 Anger
                 ,
                 and
                 revive
                 her
                 Love.
              
               
                 While
                 rising
                 Sighs
                 oft
                 stopt
                 him
                 as
                 he
                 spoke
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 falling
                 tears
                 the
                 tender
                 accents
                 broke
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Queen
                 ,
                 who
                 still
                 resented
                 his
                 last
                 flight
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 turns
                 her
                 Eyes
                 from
                 his
                 unwelcome
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 on
                 the
                 ground
                 ,
                 with
                 sad
                 remembrance
                 strook
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 fix'd
                 a
                 sullen
                 and
                 dejected
                 look
                 .
              
               
               
                 Deaf
                 to
                 his
                 Vows
                 ,
                 regardless
                 of
                 his
                 Tears
                 ,
              
               
                 Hard
                 as
                 a
                 Rock
                 her
                 once
                 kind
                 Heart
                 appears
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 his
                 vain
                 Courtship
                 unconcern'd
                 she
                 hears
                 .
              
               
                 Frowning
                 at
                 length
                 ,
                 averse
                 to
                 all
                 he
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 Into
                 the
                 thickest
                 of
                 the
                 Wood
                 she
                 fled
                 ;
              
               
                 Where
                 her
                 first
                 Love
                 attracts
                 her
                 just
                 desires
                 ,
              
               
                 Shares
                 all
                 her
                 Griefs
                 ,
                 and
                 burns
                 in
                 equal
                 Fires
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Wounded
                 afresh
                 with
                 that
                 reproachful
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 Afar
                 the
                 Prince
                 pursues
                 her
                 scornful
                 flight
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 long
                 lamenting
                 her
                 unhappy
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 fruitless
                 Sorrow
                 pities
                 her
                 too
                 late
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Out
               of
               the
               ITALIAN
               OF
               
                 FULVIO
                 TESTI
              
               .
               TO
               Count
               Montecuccoli
               .
               AGAINST
               Pride
               upon
               sudden
               Advancement
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Ruscelletto
                   Orgoglioso
                
                 ,
                 &
                 C.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 PRoud
                 and
                 foolish
                 noisie
                 Stream
                 !
              
               
                 Who
                 to
                 some
                 muddy
                 Plash
                 thy
                 Birth
                 dost
                 owe
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 casually
                 a
                 Brook
                 became
                 ,
              
               
                 Assisted
                 by
                 the
                 Rain
                 ,
                 and
                 melting
                 Snow
                 :
              
               
                 Tho'
                 now
                 thou
                 boasts
                 thy
                 swelling
                 Tide
                 ,
              
               
                 August
                 will
                 soon
                 be
                 here
                 ,
                 and
                 end
                 thy
                 
                   short-liv'd
                   Pride
                
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 Thames
                 ,
                 great
                 King
                 of
                 Floods
                 !
                 the
                 Thames
              
               
                 With
                 peaceful
                 Course
                 hastes
                 gently
                 to
                 the
                 Main
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 He
                 upon
                 his
                 silent
                 Streams
              
               
                 The
                 tallest
                 Vessels
                 does
                 with
                 ease
                 sustain
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 while
                 one
                 Summer
                 Thee
                 devours
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Flood
                 shall
                 ne're
                 decrease
                 ,
                 not
                 Time
                 contract
                 his
                 Shores.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 Thou
                 foam'st
                 ,
                 and
                 boil'st
                 along
                 the
                 Plain
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Flocks
                 ,
                 and
                 Shepherds
                 threatning
                 by
                 the
                 way
                 ;
              
               
                 Through
                 borrow'd
                 Waters
                 basely
                 vain
                 ,
              
               
                 List'st
                 up
                 thy
                 head
                 ,
                 and
                 do'st
                 regardless
                 stray
                 ,
              
               
                 Troubled
                 ,
                 Oblique
                 ,
                 and
                 this
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 noisie
                 Pride
                 is
                 All
                 which
                 thou
                 canst
                 call
                 Thy
                 own
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 I
                 know
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 you
                 may
                 well
                 admire
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 hear
                 me
                 Reason
                 with
                 a
                 deaf'ning
                 Stream
                 ,
              
               
               
                 But
                 thus
                 the
                 Muse
                 oft
                 strikes
                 the
                 Lyre
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 she
                 'd
                 most
                 Lofty
                 ,
                 and
                 Majestick
                 seem
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 Mysterious
                 Numbers
                 shrowd
              
               
                 Deep
                 Oracles
                 ,
                 too
                 deep
                 ,
                 for
                 the
                 unthinking
                 Croud
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 While
                 thus
                 I
                 spake
                 ,
                 there
                 did
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Phoebus
                 the
                 God
                 of
                 every
                 tuneful
                 Lay
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Lawrel
                 crown'd
                 his
                 beamy
                 Hair
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 with
                 a
                 brighter
                 Light
                 improv'd
                 the
                 Day
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 thus
                 he
                 ,
                 what
                 I
                 saw
                 ,
                 apply'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Short
                 is
                 th'
                 incertain
                 Reign
                 ,
                 and
                 Pomp
                 of
                 Mortal
                 Pride
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 New
                 turns
                 ,
                 and
                 changes
                 every
                 day
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 of
                 inconstant
                 Chance
                 the
                 constant
                 Arts
                 ,
              
               
                 Soon
                 she
                 gives
                 ,
                 soon
                 takes
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 comes
                 ,
                 embraces
                 ,
                 nauseates
                 you
                 ,
                 and
                 parts
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 if
                 she
                 stays
                 ,
                 or
                 if
                 she
                 goes
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 wise
                 Man
                 little
                 Joy
                 ,
                 or
                 little
                 Sorrow
                 shows
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 7.
                 
              
               
                 Good
                 is
                 the
                 Pilot
                 ,
                 who
                 preserves
              
               
                 His
                 shatter'd
                 Vessel
                 on
                 the
                 Stormy
                 Main
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 he
                 no
                 leass
                 applause
                 deserves
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 fears
                 the
                 Flattery
                 of
                 the
                 Watry
                 Plain
                 ;
              
               
                 Who
                 never
                 trusts
                 the
                 fairest
                 Gale
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 dreads
                 to
                 be
                 o'reset
                 ,
                 and
                 spreads
                 but
                 little
                 Sail.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 8.
                 
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 the
                 Heroes
                 known
                 of
                 old
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 honour
                 most
                 
                 Agathocles's
                 Name
                 ;
              
               
                 Who
                 ,
                 tho'
                 he
                 made
                 the
                 sparkling
                 Gold
              
               
                 In
                 polish'd
                 Goblets
                 on
                 his
                 Table
                 flame
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 temper
                 ,
                 and
                 rebate
                 its
                 Ray
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 mixt
                 his
                 Father's
                 Trade
                 ,
                 the
                 good
                 old
                 Potter's
                 Clay
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 9.
                 
              
               
                 While
                 thus
                 the
                 Charming
                 God
                 went
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fixt
                 in
                 Wonder
                 ,
                 and
                 Delight
                 I
                 stood
                 :
              
               
               
                 Behold
                 !
                 the
                 Upstart
                 Stream
                 was
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 drop
                 remain'd
                 of
                 its
                 insulting
                 Flood
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 the
                 worst
                 Cattle
                 of
                 the
                 Plain
                 ,
              
               
                 Trod
                 o're
                 the
                 thirsty
                 Sand
                 ,
                 and
                 spurn'd
                 it
                 with
                 disdain
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               CATULLUS
               .
               EPIG
               .
               19.
               
               
                 Suffenus
                 iste
                 ,
                 Vare
                 ,
                 quem
                 probè
                 nôsti
                 .
              
            
             
               BY
               The
               same
               Hand
               as
               the
               former
               .
            
             
               
                 SUFFENUS
                 whom
                 you
                 know
                 ,
                 the
                 Witty
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Gay
                 ,
                 the
                 Talkative
                 ,
                 and
                 Pretty
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 all
                 his
                 Wonders
                 to
                 rehearse
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 THING
                 which
                 makes
                 a
                 World
                 of
                 Verse
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'm
                 certain
                 I
                 shou'd
                 not
                 bely
                 him
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 say
                 he
                 has
                 several
                 thousands
                 by
                 him
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 none
                 deform'd
                 with
                 Critick
                 blot
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 wrote
                 on
                 Vellom
                 to
                 rub
                 out
                 .
              
               
                 Royal
                 Paper
                 !
                 Scarlet
                 Strings
                 !
              
               
                 Gilded
                 Backs
                 !
                 and
                 such
                 fine
                 things
                 !
              
               
               
                 But
                 —
                 When
                 you
                 read
                 'em
                 ,
                 then
                 the
                 Witty
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Gay
                 Suffenus
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Pretty
                 :
              
               
                 Is
                 the
                 dullest
                 ,
                 heaviest
                 Clown
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 alter'd
                 ,
                 he
                 can
                 scarce
                 be
                 known
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 is
                 strange
                 !
                 that
                 he
                 who
                 now
              
               
                 Cou'd
                 so
                 flatter
                 ,
                 laugh
                 ,
                 and
                 bow
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 much
                 Wit
                 ,
                 such
                 breeding
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 Shou'd
                 be
                 so
                 ungenteel
                 a
                 Wight
                 ,
              
               
                 Whenever
                 he
                 attempts
                 to
                 write
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 the
                 Wretch
                 is
                 ne're
                 so
                 pleas'd
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 when
                 he
                 's
                 with
                 this
                 madness
                 seiz'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Faith
                 ,
                 Sir
                 ,
                 w'
                 are
                 all
                 deceiv'd
                 alike
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 Labour
                 in
                 the
                 same
                 mistake
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 is
                 the
                 best
                 of
                 Men
                 so
                 clear
              
               
                 From
                 every
                 Folly
                 ,
                 but
                 somewhere
              
               
                 Still
                 the
                 Suffenus
                 will
                 appear
                 .
              
               
                 Quickly
                 we
                 others
                 Errors
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 see
                 not
                 our
                 own
                 Load
                 behind
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Out
               of
               the
               GREEK
               OF
               MENAGE
               .
               BY
               THE
               Same
               Hand
               as
               the
               former
               .
            
             
               WHile
               here
               for
               the
               fair
               Amarillis
               I
               die
               ,
            
             
               She
               o're
               Rocks
               ,
               and
               o're
               Streams
               from
               my
               Passion
               does
               fly
               ;
            
             
               O
               bring
               her
               ,
               kind
               Venus
               !
               bring
               her
               here
               back
               again
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               best
               of
               my
               Heifars
               on
               thy
               Altar
               lies
               slain
               :
            
             
               But
               if
               she
               's
               appeas'd
               ,
               if
               to
               Love
               she
               incline
               ,
            
             
               Take
               all
               my
               whole
               Herd
               ,
               my
               little
               Herd
               is
               all
               thine
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Invitation
               into
               the
               COUNTRY
               .
               IN
               Imitation
               of
               the
               34th
               EPIG
               .
               OF
               CATULLUS
               .
            
             
               By
               the
               same
               Hand
               as
               the
               former
               .
            
             
               GO
               —
               for
               I
               'm
               impatient
               grown
               ,
            
             
               Bid
               him
               leave
               the
               noisie
               Town
               .
            
             
               Charge
               him
               he
               no
               longer
               stay
               ,
            
             
               But
               with
               haste
               devour
               the
               way
               .
            
             
               Tho'
               a
               thousand
               times
               he
               's
               staid
            
             
               By
               that
               fond
               ,
               bewitching
               Maid
               :
            
             
               Tho'
               she
               summon
               all
               her
               Charms
               ,
            
             
               Kiss
               him
               ,
               press
               him
               in
               her
               Arms.
            
             
               Let
               him
               not
               the
               Syren
               mind
               ,
            
             
               Tears
               are
               Water
               ,
               Sighs
               are
               Wind.
            
             
             
               Tell
               him
               how
               kind
               Nature
               here
               ,
            
             
               Dresses
               up
               the
               Youthful
               Year
               ,
            
             
               Strowing
               on
               the
               thoughtless
               Hours
               ,
            
             
               Opening
               Buds
               ,
               and
               new-born
               Flow'rs
               ;
            
             
               Tell
               him
               underneath
               this
               Shade
               ,
            
             
               Innocence
               and
               Mirth
               are
               laid
               ;
            
             
               Not
               without
               forbidden
               Claret
               ,
            
             
               Books
               or
               Musick
               ,
               if
               he
               'll
               hear
               it
               .
            
             
               See
               the
               Lawrel
               ,
               and
               the
               Vine
               ,
            
             
               Round
               about
               that
               Arbour
               twine
               ,
            
             
               So
               we
               Wit
               ,
               and
               Pleasure
               joyn
               ;
            
             
               So
               Horace
               ,
               and
               Anacreon
               meet
            
             
               The
               Jolly
               God
               ,
               within
               that
               Seat.
            
             
               Thus
               from
               Noise
               and
               Care
               set
               free
               ,
            
             
               The
               snares
               of
               Beauty
               we
               defie
               .
            
             
               Let
               him
               them
               no
               longer
               stay
               ,
            
             
               But
               with
               haste
               devour
               the
               way
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 On
                 Mrs.
              
               Arabella
               Hunt
               Singing
               .
               PIN
               DARIC
               ODE
               ,
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               CONGREVE
               .
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 LEt
                 all
                 be
                 husht
                 ,
                 each
                 softest
                 Motion
                 cease
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 every
                 loud
                 tumultuous
                 Thought
                 at
                 Peace
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ev'ry
                 ruder
                 Gasp
                 of
                 Breath
              
               
                 Be
                 calm
                 ,
                 as
                 in
                 the
                 Arms
                 of
                 Death
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 thou
                 most
                 fickle
                 ,
                 most
                 uneasie
                 Part
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 restless
                 Wanderer
                 ,
                 my
                 Heart
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 still
                 ;
                 gently
                 ,
                 ah
                 gently
                 ,
                 leave
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 busie
                 ,
                 idle
                 thing
                 ,
                 to
                 heave
                 .
              
               
                 Stir
                 not
                 a
                 Pulse
                 ;
                 and
                 let
                 my
                 Blood
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 turbulent
                 ,
                 unruly
                 Flood
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 softly
                 staid
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 me
                 be
                 all
                 ,
                 but
                 my
                 attention
                 ,
                 dead
                 .
              
               
               
                 Go
                 ,
                 rest
                 ,
                 y'unnecessary
                 Springs
                 of
                 Life
                 ,
              
               
                 Leave
                 your
                 officious
                 Toil
                 and
                 Strife
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 I
                 wou'd
                 hear
                 her
                 Voice
                 ,
                 and
                 try
              
               
                 If
                 it
                 be
                 possible
                 to
                 dye
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 Come
                 all
                 ye
                 Love-sick
                 Maids
                 and
                 wounded
                 Swains
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 listen
                 to
                 her
                 Healing
                 Strains
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 wondrous
                 Balm
                 ,
                 between
                 her
                 Lips
                 she
                 wears
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 Sov'reign
                 Force
                 to
                 soften
                 Cares
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 piercing
                 as
                 your
                 Thoughts
                 ,
                 and
                 melting
                 as
                 your
                 Tears
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 this
                 ,
                 through
                 ev'ry
                 Ear
                 she
                 does
                 impart
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 By
                 tuneful
                 Breath
                 diffus'd
                 )
                 to
                 ev'ry
                 Heart
                 .
              
               
                 Swiftly
                 the
                 gentle
                 Charmer
                 Flies
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 the
                 tender
                 Grief
                 soft
                 Air
                 applies
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 ,
                 warbling
                 Mystick
                 Sounds
                 ,
              
               
                 Cements
                 the
                 bleeding
                 Panter's
                 Wounds
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 ah
                 !
                 beware
                 of
                 clam'rous
                 Moan
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 no
                 unpleasing
                 Murmur
                 or
                 harsh
                 Groan
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Your
                 slighted
                 Loves
                 declare
                 :
              
               
                 Your
                 very
                 tend'rest
                 moving
                 Sighs
                 forbear
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 even
                 they
                 will
                 be
                 too
                 boistrous
                 here
                 .
              
               
                 Hither
                 let
                 nought
                 but
                 Sacred
                 Silence
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 let
                 all
                 sawcy
                 Praise
                 be
                 dumb
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 And
                 lo
                 !
                 Silence
                 himself
                 is
                 here
                 ;
              
               
                 Methinks
                 I
                 see
                 the
                 Midnight
                 God
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 all
                 its
                 downy
                 Pomp
                 aray'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Behold
                 the
                 rev'rend
                 Shade
                 :
              
               
                 An
                 ancient
                 Sigh
                 he
                 sits
                 upon
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Memory
                 of
                 Sound
                 is
                 long
                 since
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 purposely
                 annihilated
                 for
                 his
                 Throne
                 :
              
               
                 Beneath
                 two
                 soft
                 transparent
                 Clouds
                 do
                 meet
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 which
                 he
                 seems
                 to
                 sink
                 his
                 softer
                 Feet
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 melancholy
                 Thought
                 ,
                 condens'd
                 to
                 Air
                 ,
              
               
                 Stol'n
                 from
                 a
                 Lover
                 in
                 Despair
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Like
                 a
                 thin
                 Mantle
                 ,
                 serves
                 to
                 wrap
              
               
                 In
                 Fluid
                 Folds
                 ,
                 his
                 
                   visionary
                   Shape
                
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 wreath
                 of
                 Darkness
                 round
                 his
                 Head
                 he
                 wears
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 curling
                 Mists
                 supply
                 the
                 want
                 of
                 Hairs
                 :
              
               
                 While
                 the
                 still
                 Vapors
                 ,
                 which
                 from
                 Poppies
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 Bedew
                 his
                 hoary
                 Face
                 ,
                 and
                 lull
                 his
                 Eyes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 hark
                 !
                 the
                 heav'nly
                 Sphere
                 turns
                 round
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Silence
                 now
                 is
                 drown'd
              
               
                 In
                 Extasy
                 of
                 Sound
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 on
                 a
                 suddain
                 the
                 still
                 Air
                 is
                 charm'd
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 all
                 Harmony
                 were
                 just
                 alarm'd
                 !
              
               
                 And
                 ev'ry
                 Soul
                 with
                 Transport
                 fill'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Alternately
                 is
                 thaw'd
                 and
                 Chill'd
                 .
              
               
                 See
                 how
                 the
                 Heavenly
                 Choir
              
               
                 Come
                 flocking
                 ,
                 to
                 admire
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 what
                 Speed
                 and
                 Care
                 ,
              
               
                 Descending
                 Angels
                 cull
                 the
                 thinnest
                 Air
                 !
              
               
               
                 Haste
                 then
                 ,
                 come
                 all
                 th'
                 immortal
                 Throng
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 listen
                 to
                 her
                 Song
                 ;
              
               
                 Leave
                 your
                 lov'd
                 Mansions
                 ,
                 in
                 the
                 Sky
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hither
                 ,
                 quickly
                 hither
                 fly
                 ;
              
               
                 Your
                 Loss
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 nor
                 shall
                 you
                 need
                 to
                 fear
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 she
                 sings
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 Heav'n
                 here
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 V.
                 
              
               
                 See
                 how
                 they
                 crowd
                 ,
                 see
                 how
                 the
                 little
                 Cherubs
                 skip
                 !
              
               
                 While
                 others
                 sit
                 around
                 her
                 Mouth
                 ,
                 and
                 sip
              
               
                 Sweet
                 Hellelujahs
                 from
                 her
                 Lip.
              
               
                 Those
                 Lips
                 ,
                 where
                 in
                 Surprise
                 of
                 Bliss
                 they
                 rove
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 ne're
                 before
                 were
                 Angels
                 blest
              
               
                 With
                 such
                 a
                 luscious
                 Feast
              
               
                 Of
                 Musick
                 and
                 of
                 Love.
              
               
                 Prepare
                 then
                 ,
                 ye
                 immortal
                 Choir
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 sacred
                 Minstrel
                 tune
                 his
                 Lyre
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 her
                 Voice
                 in
                 Chorus
                 joyn
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 Voice
                 ,
                 which
                 next
                 to
                 yours
                 is
                 most
                 divine
                 .
              
               
               
                 Bless
                 the
                 glad
                 Earth
                 with
                 heavenly
                 Lays
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 that
                 Pitch
                 th'
                 eternal
                 Accents
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 only
                 Breath
                 inspir'd
                 can
                 reach
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 Notes
                 ,
                 which
                 only
                 she
                 can
                 learn
                 ,
                 and
                 you
                 can
                 teach
                 :
              
               
                 While
                 we
                 ,
                 charm'd
                 with
                 the
                 lov'd
                 Excess
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 wrapt
                 in
                 sweet
                 Forgetfulness
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 ,
                 of
                 all
                 ,
                 but
                 of
                 the
                 present
                 Happiness
                 :
              
               
                 Wishing
                 ,
                 for
                 ever
                 in
                 that
                 State
                 to
                 lie
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 ever
                 to
                 be
                 dying
                 so
                 ,
                 yet
                 never
                 die
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               TO
               A
               Person
               of
               HONOUR
               :
               UPON
               HIS
               
                 Incomparable
                 ,
                 Incomprehensible
                 Poem
              
               .
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               Waller
               .
            
             
               
                 SIR
                 .
              
               
                 YOU
                 have
                 oblig'd
                 the
                 Brittish
                 Nation
                 more
              
               
                 Than
                 all
                 their
                 Bards
                 cou'd
                 ever
                 do
                 before
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 (
                 at
                 your
                 own
                 Charge
                 )
                 Monuments
                 as
                 hard
              
               
                 As
                 Brass
                 ,
                 or
                 Marble
                 ,
                 to
                 your
                 Fame
                 ,
                 have
                 rear'd
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 as
                 all
                 Warlike
                 Nations
                 take
                 Delight
              
               
                 To
                 hear
                 how
                 their
                 brave
                 Ancestors
                 cou'd
                 fight
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 have
                 advanc'd
                 to
                 Wonder
                 their
                 Renown
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 no
                 less
                 Vertuously
                 improv'd
                 your
                 own
                 ;
              
               
               
                 That
                 't
                 will
                 be
                 doubtful
                 ,
                 whether
                 you
                 do
                 write
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 they
                 have
                 acted
                 ,
                 at
                 a
                 Nobler
                 height
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 (
                 of
                 your
                 Ancient
                 Princes
                 )
                 have
                 retriev'd
              
               
                 More
                 than
                 the
                 Ages
                 knew
                 in
                 which
                 they
                 liv'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Explain'd
                 their
                 Customs
                 ,
                 and
                 their
                 Rights
                 anew
                 ,
              
               
                 Better
                 than
                 all
                 their
                 Druids
                 ever
                 knew
                 :
              
               
                 Unriddled
                 those
                 dark
                 Oracles
                 as
                 well
              
               
                 As
                 those
                 that
                 made
                 'em
                 ,
                 cou'd
                 themselves
                 foretell
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 as
                 the
                 Brittains
                 long
                 have
                 hop'd
                 in
                 vain
                 ,
              
               
                 Arthur
                 wou'd
                 come
                 to
                 Govern
                 them
                 again
                 :
              
               
                 You
                 have
                 fulfill'd
                 that
                 Prophesie
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 your
                 Poem
                 plac'd
                 him
                 on
                 his
                 Throne
                 .
              
               
                 Such
                 Magick
                 Power
                 has
                 your
                 prodigious
                 Pen
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 raise
                 the
                 Dead
                 ,
                 and
                 give
                 new
                 Life
                 to
                 Men
                 ;
              
               
                 Make
                 Rival
                 Princes
                 meet
                 in
                 Arms
                 ,
                 and
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 Whom
                 distant
                 Ages
                 did
                 so
                 far
                 remove
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 as
                 Eternity
                 has
                 neither
                 past
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 future
                 ,
                 
                   (
                   Authors
                
                 say
                 )
                 nor
                 first
                 ,
                 nor
                 last
                 ;
              
               
               
                 But
                 is
                 all
                 instant
                 :
                 Your
                 Eternal
                 Muse
              
               
                 All
                 Ages
                 can
                 to
                 any
                 one
                 reduce
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 why
                 should
                 You
                 (
                 whose
                 Miracles
                 of
                 Art
              
               
                 Can
                 Life
                 at
                 Pleasure
                 to
                 the
                 Dead
                 impart
                 )
              
               
                 Trouble
                 in
                 vain
                 your
                 better
                 busi'd
                 Head
                 ,
              
               
                 T'
                 observe
                 what
                 times
                 they
                 liv'd
                 in
                 ,
                 or
                 were
                 dead
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 ,
                 since
                 you
                 have
                 such
                 Arbitrary
                 Pow'r
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 were
                 defect
                 in
                 Judgment
                 to
                 go
                 low'r
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 stoop
                 to
                 things
                 so
                 pitifully
                 lewd
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 use
                 to
                 take
                 the
                 Vulgar
                 Latitude
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 no
                 Man's
                 fit
                 to
                 read
                 what
                 you
                 have
                 writ
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 holds
                 not
                 some
                 proportion
                 with
                 your
                 Wit.
              
               
                 As
                 Light
                 can
                 no
                 way
                 but
                 by
                 Light
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 must
                 bring
                 Sense
                 ,
                 that
                 understands
                 it
                 here
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               On
               the
               Same
               .
            
             
               By
               Dr.
               S
               —
            
             
               
                 YOur
                 Book
                 our
                 old
                 Knight
                 Errants
                 Fame
                 revives
                 ,
              
               
                 Writ
                 in
                 a
                 Stile
                 agreeing
                 with
                 their
                 Lives
                 .
              
               
                 All
                 Rumours
                 strength
                 their
                 Prowess
                 did
                 outgo
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 Rumours
                 Skill
                 your
                 Verses
                 far
                 outdo
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 praise
                 the
                 Welsh
                 the
                 World
                 must
                 now
                 combine
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 to
                 their
                 Leeks
                 you
                 do
                 your
                 Lawrel
                 joyn
                 :
              
               
                 Such
                 lofty
                 strains
                 your
                 Country's
                 Story
                 fit
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Mountains
                 nothing
                 equals
                 ,
                 but
                 your
                 Wit.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Bonduca
                 ,
                 were
                 she
                 such
                 ,
                 as
                 here
                 we
                 see
              
               
                 (
                 In
                 Brittish
                 Paint
                 )
                 none
                 cou'd
                 more
                 dreadful
                 be
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 naked
                 Armies
                 she
                 encounter'd
                 Rome
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Strength
                 with
                 naked
                 Nature
                 you
                 o'recome
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 let
                 small
                 Criticks
                 blame
                 this
                 mighty
                 Queen
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 in
                 King
                 
                 Arthur's
                 time
                 she
                 here
                 is
                 seen
                 :
              
               
               
                 You
                 that
                 can
                 make
                 immortal
                 by
                 your
                 Song
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 well
                 one
                 Life
                 four
                 hundred
                 Years
                 prolong
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 Virgil
                 bravely
                 dar'd
                 for
                 
                 Dido's
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 settled
                 course
                 of
                 Time
                 and
                 Years
                 to
                 move
                 .
              
               
                 Though
                 him
                 you
                 imitate
                 in
                 this
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 all
                 things
                 else
                 you
                 borrow
                 help
                 from
                 none
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 Antick
                 Tale
                 of
                 Greece
                 or
                 Rome
                 you
                 take
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Fables
                 and
                 Examples
                 you
                 forsake
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 true
                 Heroick
                 Glory
                 you
                 display
              
               
                 A
                 Subject
                 new
                 ,
                 writ
                 in
                 the
                 newest
                 way
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Go
                 forth
                 ,
                 great
                 Author
                 ,
                 for
                 the
                 World's
                 delight
                 ;
              
               
                 Teach
                 it
                 ,
                 what
                 none
                 e're
                 taught
                 you
                 ,
                 how
                 to
                 write
                 :
              
               
                 They
                 talk
                 strange
                 things
                 that
                 Ancient
                 Poets
                 did
                 ;
              
               
                 How
                 Trees
                 ,
                 and
                 Stones
                 they
                 into
                 Buildings
                 lead
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 Poems
                 to
                 raise
                 Cities
                 ,
                 now
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 hard
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 yours
                 ,
                 at
                 least
                 ,
                 will
                 build
                 half
                 
                 Paul's
                 Church-yard
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Another
               on
               the
               same
               .
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               
                 Mat.
                 Clifford
              
               .
            
             
               With
               Envy
               ,
               Criticks
               ,
               you
               'l
               this
               Poem
               read
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               Author
               's
               Wit
               does
               more
               than
               Man
               exceed
               ;
            
             
               Where
               all
               's
               so
               good
               alike
               ,
               no
               Man
               can
               say
            
             
               This
               may
               be
               added
               ,
               or
               that
               par'd
               away
               :
            
             
               Where
               all
               's
               so
               new
               ,
               no
               search
               can
               ever
               trace
            
             
               The
               Persons
               mention'd
               ,
               in
               their
               Time
               ,
               or
               Place
               .
            
             
               Great
               Soul
               of
               Nature
               ,
               which
               dost
               Books
               defie
               ,
            
             
               And
               their
               weak
               aid
               in
               this
               thy
               History
               :
            
             
               Thou
               art
               no
               Slave
               to
               Rule
               ,
               or
               President
               ;
            
             
               Where
               others
               imitate
               ,
               thou
               dost
               invent
               .
            
             
               It
               is
               ,
               we
               grant
               ,
               all
               thy
               Invention
               ;
            
             
               The
               Language
               too
               ,
               intirely
               is
               thy
               own
               :
            
             
             
               Thou
               leav'st
               as
               Trash
               ,
               below
               thy
               great
               pretence
               ,
            
             
               Grammar
               to
               Pedants
               ;
               and
               to
               plain
               Men
               ,
               Sense
               :
            
             
               But
               as
               ,
               in
               this
               thy
               matchless
               Poetry
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               follow'st
               none
               ,
               so
               none
               can
               follow
               Thee
               .
            
          
           
             
               On
               the
               same
               .
            
             
               By
               the
               Ld.
               V.
               
            
             
               WOnder
               not
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               that
               Praises
               yet
               ne're
               due
            
             
               To
               any
               other
               ,
               are
               yet
               heap'd
               on
               You
               :
            
             
               'T
               was
               Envy
               robb'd
               you
               of
               your
               Praise
               before
               ;
            
             
               Men
               fee
               their
               faults
               ,
               and
               Envy
               now
               no
               more
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               but
               your
               Merit
               ,
               nor
               can
               justly
               such
               ,
            
             
               Which
               gave
               too
               little
               once
               ,
               now
               give
               too
               much
               .
            
             
               Your
               Princes
               do
               all
               Poetry
               surpass
            
             
               As
               much
               as
               Pen-main-maur
               exceeds
               Parnass
               .
            
             
             
               It
               is
               so
               great
               a
               Prodigy
               of
               Wit
               ,
            
             
               That
               Art
               and
               Nature
               both
               fall
               short
               of
               it
               :
            
             
               For
               leaving
               Art
               ,
               and
               left
               of
               Nature
               too
               ,
            
             
               Your
               Poem
               has
               no
               other
               Muse
               than
               You.
               
            
          
           
             
               On
               these
               two
               Verses
               .
            
             
               Out
               of
               the
               same
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   But
                   Fame
                   had
                   sent
                   forth
                   all
                   her
                   nimble
                   Spies
                
                 
                   To
                   blaze
                   this
                   Match
                   ,
                   and
                   lend
                   to
                   Fate
                   some
                   Eyes
                   .
                
              
            
             
               By
               the
               Duke
               of
               Buckingham
               .
            
             
               BUT
               wherefore
               all
               this
               pother
               about
               Fame
               ?
            
             
               A
               Man
               might
               say
               ,
               says
               one
               :
               the
               very
               same
            
             
               Demand
               might
               well
               be
               made
               ,
               another
               cries
               ,
            
             
               Of
               Fate
               ;
               and
               how
               it
               got
               ,
               from
               Fame
               ,
               such
               Eyes
               ?
            
             
             
               'T
               is
               well
               ;
               you
               're
               witty
               Persons
               both
               ,
               say
               I
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               to
               your
               Wit
               this
               boldly
               I
               'll
               reply
               :
            
             
               Fate
               is
               the
               Twin
               of
               Chance
               ,
               by
               which
               you
               find
            
             
               Fate
               must
               needs
               see
               ,
               except
               that
               Chance
               were
               blind
               :
            
             
               For
               ,
               among
               Friends
               ,
               't
               were
               Inequality
            
             
               To
               think
               one
               shou'd
               be
               blind
               ,
               and
               t'other
               see
               .
            
             
               Now
               tell
               me
               ,
               Criticks
               ,
               do
               not
               all
               the
               Wise
            
             
               Profess
               that
               which
               they
               see
               ,
               they
               see
               with
               Eyes
               ?
            
             
               And
               the
               same
               Figure
               do
               not
               I
               advance
               ,
            
             
               When
               I
               protest
               ,
               I
               saw
               a
               thing
               by
               Chance
               ?
            
             
               Since
               then
               so
               various
               things
               by
               Chance
               we
               see
               ,
            
             
               Fate
               might
               have
               Eyes
               to
               multiplicity
               ;
            
             
               But
               our
               mild
               Author
               says
               ,
               it
               has
               but
               some
               ;
            
             
               Thus
               ,
               Critick
               vile
               ,
               thus
               I
               have
               struck
               thee
               dumb
               :
            
             
               And
               thus
               subscribe
               my self
               ,
               with
               Heart
               ,
               and
               Hand
               ,
            
             
               The
               
               Author's
               Friend
               ,
               most
               Humble
               Servant
               ,
               and
            
             
               Buckingham
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               TO
               THE
               PRINCE
               and
               PRINCESS
               OF
               ORANGE
               ,
               Upon
               Their
               MARRIAGE
               .
            
             
               Written
               by
               Mr.
               
                 NAT.
                 LEE
              
               .
            
             
               
                 HAIL
                 ,
                 happy
                 Warriour
                 !
                 hail
                 !
                 whose
                 Arms
                 have
                 won
              
               
                 The
                 fairest
                 Jewel
                 in
                 the
                 English
                 Crown
                 .
              
               
                 Happy
                 in
                 famous
                 Dangers
                 in
                 the
                 Field
                 ,
              
               
                 Happy
                 in
                 Courts
                 which
                 brightest
                 Beauties
                 yield
                 .
              
               
                 Oh
                 Prince
                 !
                 whose
                 Soul
                 is
                 known
                 so
                 justly
                 great
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 that
                 Heav'n
                 took
                 leisure
                 to
                 create
                 ;
              
               
               
                 First
                 ,
                 the
                 rich
                 Oar
                 refin'd
                 ,
                 then
                 did
                 allay
                 ,
              
               
                 Stampt
                 thee
                 his
                 own
                 ,
                 not
                 shuffl'd
                 thee
                 away
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 wonder
                 thus
                 we
                 all
                 thy
                 temper
                 prize
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 but
                 th'
                 art
                 bold
                 and
                 brave
                 ,
                 as
                 thou
                 art
                 wise
                 .
              
               
                 Like
                 the
                 cool
                 English
                 ,
                 who
                 approach
                 their
                 Fate
              
               
                 With
                 awe
                 ,
                 and
                 gravely
                 first
                 with
                 Death
                 debate
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 kindle
                 slowly
                 ,
                 but
                 when
                 once
                 on
                 Fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Burn
                 on
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 the
                 blaze
                 of
                 Fame
                 expire
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hail
                 Princess
                 !
                 hail
                 !
                 thou
                 fairest
                 of
                 thy
                 Kind
                 !
              
               
                 Thou
                 shape
                 of
                 Angels
                 ,
                 with
                 an
                 Angel's
                 Mind
                 !
              
               
                 Whose
                 Vertues
                 shine
                 ,
                 but
                 so
                 as
                 to
                 be
                 born
                 ,
              
               
                 Clear
                 as
                 the
                 Sun
                 ,
                 and
                 gentle
                 as
                 the
                 Morn
                 .
              
               
                 Whose
                 brighter
                 Eyes
                 like
                 lambent
                 Glories
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ev'ry
                 glance
                 wounds
                 like
                 a
                 Dart
                 of
                 Love.
              
               
                 How
                 well
                 ,
                 oh
                 Prince
                 ,
                 how
                 nobly
                 hast
                 thou
                 fought
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 to
                 thy
                 Arms
                 the
                 Fates
                 such
                 Beauty
                 brought
                 !
              
               
               
                 Methinks
                 I
                 hear
                 thee
                 in
                 thy
                 Nuptial
                 Bed
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 o're
                 the
                 Royal
                 Maid
                 thy
                 Arms
                 were
                 spread
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Enough
                 ,
                 kind
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 well
                 was
                 my
                 Sword
                 employ'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 all
                 the
                 Bliss
                 Earth
                 holds
                 shall
                 be
                 enjoy'd
                 .
              
               
                 Pains
                 I
                 remember
                 now
                 with
                 vast
                 delight
                 ,
              
               
                 Well
                 have
                 I
                 brav'd
                 the
                 thund'ring
                 French
                 in
                 fight
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 hazards
                 now
                 are
                 Gains
                 ,
                 and
                 if
                 my
                 Blood
              
               
                 In
                 Battel
                 mix
                 and
                 raise
                 the
                 vulgar
                 Flood
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 Tears
                 (
                 for
                 sure
                 she
                 'll
                 be
                 so
                 good
                 to
                 mourn
                 )
              
               
                 Like
                 Balm
                 shall
                 heal
                 the
                 Wounds
                 when
                 I
                 return
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 heark
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 rumour'd
                 that
                 this
                 happy
                 pair
              
               
                 Must
                 go
                 ,
                 the
                 Prince
                 for
                 Holland
                 does
                 declare
                 ,
              
               
                 Call'd
                 to
                 the
                 Business
                 of
                 Important
                 War.
              
               
                 Go
                 then
                 ,
                 if
                 thy
                 Departure
                 be
                 agreed
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Friends
                 must
                 weep
                 ,
                 your
                 Enemies
                 shall
                 bleed
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 And
                 if
                 in
                 Poets
                 minds
                 ,
                 those
                 vaster
                 Souls
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 all
                 at
                 once
                 the
                 vast
                 Creation
                 rouls
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 whom
                 the
                 Warriour
                 is
                 as
                 much
                 oblig'd
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 to
                 Relievers
                 Towns
                 that
                 are
                 besieg'd
                 .
              
               
                 (
                 For
                 Death
                 would
                 to
                 their
                 Acts
                 an
                 end
                 afford
                 ,
              
               
                 Did
                 not
                 Immortal
                 Verse
                 out-do
                 the
                 Sword
                 )
              
               
                 If
                 ought
                 of
                 Prophesie
                 their
                 Souls
                 inspire
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 if
                 their
                 fury
                 gives
                 a
                 solid
                 Fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Soft
                 shall
                 the
                 Waftage
                 be
                 ,
                 the
                 Seas
                 and
                 Wind
                 ,
              
               
                 Calm
                 as
                 the
                 Prince
                 ,
                 and
                 as
                 the
                 Princess
                 kind
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 World
                 ,
                 why
                 should
                 not
                 Dreams
                 of
                 Poets
                 take
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 well
                 as
                 Prophets
                 who
                 but
                 dream
                 awake
                 ?
              
               
                 I
                 saw
                 them
                 launch
                 ,
                 the
                 Prince
                 the
                 Princess
                 bore
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 the
                 sad
                 Court
                 stood
                 crowding
                 on
                 the
                 Shore
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Prince
                 still
                 bowing
                 on
                 the
                 Deck
                 did
                 stand
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 held
                 his
                 weeping
                 Princess
                 by
                 the
                 hand
                 .
              
               
               
                 Which
                 waving
                 oft
                 ,
                 she
                 bid
                 them
                 all
                 farewell
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wept
                 as
                 if
                 she
                 wou'd
                 the
                 Ocean
                 swell
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Farewel
                 !
                 thou
                 best
                 of
                 Fathers
                 ,
                 best
                 of
                 Friends
                 !
              
               
                 While
                 the
                 mov'd
                 Duke
                 ,
                 with
                 a
                 heav'd
                 Sigh
                 ,
                 commends
              
               
                 To
                 Heav'n
                 the
                 Care
                 ;
                 in
                 Tears
                 his
                 Eyes
                 wou'd
                 swim
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Manly
                 Vertue
                 binds
                 them
                 to
                 the
                 brim
                 .
              
               
                 Farewel
                 (
                 she
                 cry'd
                 )
                 my
                 Sister
                 ,
                 thou
                 dear
                 part
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 sweetest
                 part
                 ,
                 of
                 my
                 divided
                 Heart
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 whom
                 I
                 all
                 my
                 Secrets
                 did
                 unfold
                 ,
              
               
                 Dear
                 Casket
                 !
                 who
                 did
                 all
                 my
                 Treasures
                 hold
                 .
              
               
                 My
                 little
                 Love
                 !
                 her
                 Sighs
                 she
                 did
                 renew
                 ,
              
               
                 Once
                 more
                 (
                 oh
                 Heavens
                 )
                 a
                 long
                 and
                 last
                 adieu
                 !
              
               
               
                 Part
                 !
                 must
                 I
                 ever
                 lose
                 those
                 pretty
                 Charms
                 ?
              
               
                 Then
                 swoons
                 ,
                 and
                 sinks
                 into
                 the
                 Prince's
                 Arms.
              
               
                 The
                 Court
                 beheld
                 ,
                 and
                 wept
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Streight
                 from
                 their
                 Griefs
                 the
                 
                   pompous
                   Navy
                
                 fled
              
               
                 So
                 fast
                 ,
                 as
                 if
                 our
                 Sighs
                 increas'd
                 their
                 speed
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 of
                 a
                 sudden
                 ,
                 from
                 the
                 Reedy
                 Court
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Trytons
                 all
                 with
                 their
                 griev'd
                 God
                 resort
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 Troops
                 upon
                 the
                 wandring
                 Waves
                 they
                 glide
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 round
                 their
                 lifted
                 Lord
                 in
                 Triumph
                 ride
                 .
              
               
                 At
                 their
                 first
                 call
                 the
                 singing
                 Mermaids
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 the
                 crown'd
                 Dolphins
                 lash
                 the
                 Silver
                 Foam
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 waited
                 ,
                 the
                 glad
                 Prince
                 beheld
                 from
                 far
              
               
                 The
                 Belgick
                 Shore
                 ,
                 and
                 heard
                 the
                 sound
                 of
                 War.
              
               
                 Some
                 Hand
                 unseen
                 Heav'ns
                 Azure
                 Curtains
                 drew
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 this
                 Mighty
                 Triumph
                 Great
                 and
                 New
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 thousand
                 Golden
                 Heads
                 peep'd
                 forth
                 to
                 view
                 .
              
               
               
                 Cries
                 ,
                 Shouts
                 ,
                 and
                 clapping
                 Hands
                 ,
                 all
                 Extasie
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 hundred
                 Cannons
                 thundred
                 to
                 the
                 Skie
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Thunder
                 answering
                 did
                 my
                 Dream
                 destroy
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wak'd
                 me
                 from
                 the
                 Visionary
                 Joy.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               AGAINST
               SLOTH
               .
               When
               the
               King
               was
               at
               Oxford
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Hocagite
                   ,
                   ô
                   Juvines
                   ,
                   circumspicit
                   ,
                   &
                   stimulat
                   vos
                   ,
                
                 
                   Materiámque
                   sibi
                   Ducis
                   indulgentia
                   quoerit
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 HEnce
                 ,
                 vain
                 Attempter
                 of
                 the
                 Good
                 and
                 Great
                 ;
              
               
                 Be
                 gone
                 from
                 our
                 secure
                 Retreat
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 thy
                 dull
                 unweildy
                 Train
              
               
                 That
                 clog
                 and
                 curb
                 the
                 active
                 Brain
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 else
                 wou'd
                 ,
                 like
                 a
                 metall'd
                 Steed
                 ,
                 run
                 o're
              
               
                 Vast
                 Nature
                 's
                 yet
                 unnumber'd
                 Store
                 ;
              
               
               
                 O're
                 flow'ry
                 Meads
                 ,
                 and
                 painted
                 Fields
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 pleasant
                 Scenes
                 that
                 beauteous
                 Learning
                 yields
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 We
                 're
                 doubly
                 arm'd
                 against
                 thy
                 Cheats
                 ,
                 and
                 Thee
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Thy
                 Cheats
                 which
                 only
                 find
                 a
                 place
              
               
                 Among
                 the
                 Ignorant
                 and
                 Base
                 ,
                 )
              
               
                 By
                 Knowledge
                 ,
                 and
                 by
                 Majesty
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 ,
                 constant
                 Guest
                 of
                 every
                 Popish
                 Cell
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 dost
                 with
                 Monks
                 and
                 Hermits
                 dwell
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 leave
                 ,
                 with
                 them
                 ,
                 this
                 Sacred
                 Ground
                 ;
              
               
                 Banish'd
                 from
                 King
                 and
                 Court
                 ,
                 at
                 least
                 ,
                 for
                 ten
                 Miles
                 round
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 She
                 's
                 gone
                 ;
                 and
                 now
                 ,
                 methinks
                 ,
                 an
                 active
                 fire
              
               
                 Does
                 all
                 my
                 willing
                 Veins
                 inspire
                 :
              
               
                 My
                 drowsie
                 Senses
                 all
                 anew
              
               
                 Are
                 waken'd
                 by
                 His
                 pow'rful
                 view
                 .
              
               
               
                 The
                 Glorious
                 Ruler
                 of
                 the
                 Morning
                 ,
                 so
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 looks
                 on
                 Flow'rs
                 ,
                 and
                 streight
                 they
                 grow
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 his
                 Beams
                 their
                 Light
                 unfold
                 ,
              
               
                 Ripens
                 the
                 dullest
                 Earth
                 ,
                 and
                 warms
                 it
                 into
                 Gold.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               What
               art
               thou
               ,
               Love
               !
            
             
               Written
               by
               Mr.
               
                 J.
                 ALLESTRY
              
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 WHat
                 art
                 thou
                 Love
                 !
                 whence
                 are
                 those
                 Charms
                 !
              
               
                 That
                 thus
                 thou
                 bear'st
                 an
                 Universal
                 Rule
                 !
              
               
                 For
                 thee
                 the
                 Soldier
                 quits
                 his
                 Arms
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 King
                 turns
                 Slave
                 ,
                 the
                 wise
                 Man
                 Fool.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 we
                 chase
                 thee
                 from
                 the
                 Field
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 cool
                 thoughts
                 resist
                 thy
                 Yoke
                 :
              
               
                 Next
                 Tide
                 of
                 Blood
                 ,
                 alas
                 !
                 we
                 yield
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 those
                 high
                 Resolves
                 are
                 broke
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 Can
                 we
                 e're
                 hope
                 thou
                 shou'd'st
                 be
                 true
                 ,
              
               
                 Whom
                 we
                 have
                 found
                 so
                 often
                 base
                 ?
              
               
                 Cozn'd
                 ,
                 and
                 cheated
                 ,
                 still
                 we
                 view
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fawn
                 upon
                 the
                 treacherous
                 Face
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 our
                 Nature
                 we
                 accuse
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 doat
                 ,
                 because
                 she
                 says
                 we
                 must
                 :
              
               
                 This
                 for
                 a
                 Brute
                 were
                 an
                 excuse
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 very
                 Soul
                 and
                 Life
                 is
                 Lust.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 To
                 get
                 our
                 likeness
                 !
                 what
                 is
                 that
                 !
              
               
                 Our
                 likeness
                 is
                 but
                 Misery
                 ;
              
               
                 Why
                 shou'd
                 I
                 toil
                 to
                 propagate
              
               
                 Another
                 thing
                 as
                 vile
                 as
                 I
                 ?
              
            
             
               
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 From
                 Hands
                 Divine
                 our
                 Spirits
                 came
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Gods
                 ,
                 that
                 made
                 us
                 ,
                 did
                 inspire
              
               
                 Something
                 more
                 Noble
                 in
                 our
                 Frame
                 ,
              
               
                 Above
                 the
                 Dregs
                 of
                 Earthly
                 Fire
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               VERSES
               Spoken
               before
               the
               
                 Duke
                 and
                 Dutchess
                 of
              
               YORK
               ,
               AND
               Lady
               ANN
               ,
               In
               Oxford
               Theatre
               ,
               May
               
                 the
                 21st
              
               .
               1683.
               
            
             
               
                 By
                 the
                 Ld.
                 S
                 —
                 and
                 Mr.
              
               C
               —
               .
            
             
               
                 Ld.
                 S
                 —
              
               
                 
                   Great
                   Sir
                
                 ,
              
               
                 WHen
                 last
                 your
                 Royal
                 Brother
                 blest
                 this
                 Place
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 about
                 did
                 his
                 kind
                 Beams
                 dispense
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 Joy
                 Divine
                 was
                 seen
                 in
                 ev'ry
                 Face
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 Faction
                 drove
                 our
                 Guardian
                 Angel
                 hence
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Mr.
                 C
                 —
              
               
                 Heav'n
                 well
                 did
                 know
                 how
                 much
                 our
                 Frame
                 cou'd
                 bear
                 ;
              
               
                 Mingling
                 our
                 Rapture
                 with
                 some
                 fit
                 allay
                 ;
              
               
               
                 And
                 that
                 ,
                 for
                 future
                 Bliss
                 ,
                 we
                 might
                 prepare
                 :
              
               
                 Wisely
                 reserv'd
                 the
                 Blessing
                 of
                 this
                 day
                 .
              
               
                 
                   To
                   the
                   Duke
                
                 .
              
               
                 We
                 miss
                 a
                 Royal
                 Brother
                 by
                 his
                 side
                 ;
              
            
             
               
                 Ld.
                 S
                 —
              
               
                 We
                 long'd
                 to
                 see
                 those
                 Charms
                 which
                 him
                 o'recame
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Mr.
                 C
                 —
              
               
                 
                   To
                   the
                   Dutchess
                
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 ,
                 Madam
                 ,
                 was
                 our
                 only
                 Joy
                 and
                 Pride
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   To
                   the
                   Lady
                
                 Ann
              
               
                 Who
                 represented
                 half
                 the
                 Stuarts
                 Name
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Ld.
                 S
                 —
              
               
                 Wou'd
                 you
                 then
                 know
                 how
                 much
                 you
                 're
                 welcome
                 here
                 ?
              
               
                 Think
                 what
                 a
                 Joy
                 in
                 Loyal
                 Breasts
                 did
                 flow
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 fatal
                 Gloster
                 all
                 our
                 hopes
                 did
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 the
                 Gods
                 lost
                 to
                 shew
                 their
                 Care
                 of
                 Tou.
              
               
                 When
                 Fears
                 and
                 Jealousies
                 ran
                 high
                 ,
                 and
                 loud
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Zeal
                 mistaken
                 ,
                 blinded
                 wilful
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Heav'n
                 shook
                 the
                 Rod
                 to
                 the
                 Rebellious
                 Croud
                 ,
              
               
                 Threat'ning
                 to
                 snatch
                 the
                 Gem
                 ,
                 they
                 cou'd
                 not
                 prize
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Mr.
                 C
                 —
              
               
                 Oxford
                 (
                 we
                 hope
                 )
                 will
                 not
                 displease
                 your
                 view
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Tork
                 first
                 learn'd
                 the
                 Rudiments
                 of
                 War
                 ;
              
               
                 Those
                 early
                 Vertues
                 here
                 in
                 Blossom
                 grew
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 now
                 in
                 growth
                 ,
                 and
                 full
                 Perfection
                 ,
                 are
                 .
              
               
                 Tho'
                 here
                 new
                 Towers
                 and
                 Buildings
                 daily
                 rise
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Arms
                 thrown
                 off
                 ,
                 we
                 wear
                 the
                 peaceful
                 Gown
                 :
              
               
                 Our
                 Breasts
                 admit
                 no
                 change
                 ,
                 know
                 no
                 disguise
                 ;
              
               
                 Prepar'd
                 with
                 Swords
                 and
                 Pens
                 t'
                 assert
                 the
                 Crown
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Ld.
                 S
                 —
              
               
                 This
                 is
                 the
                 place
                 ,
                 in
                 which
                 the
                 Sacred
                 Names
              
               
                 Of
                 Kings
                 and
                 Heroes
                 annually
                 resound
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Triumphs
                 ,
                 War
                 and
                 Peace
                 ,
                 of
                 Charles
                 and
                 James
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 Age
                 to
                 Age
                 ,
                 are
                 with
                 fresh
                 Lawrels
                 Crown'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Mr.
                 C
                 —
              
               
                 As
                 when
                 a
                 Prince's
                 long
                 expected
                 Birth
                 ,
              
               
                 Glads
                 every
                 Heart
                 ,
                 and
                 each
                 Muse
                 tunes
                 her
                 Voice
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 when
                 the
                 Captive
                 Monarchs
                 of
                 the
                 Earth
              
               
                 
                   To
                   the
                   Lady
                
                 Ann.
              
               
                 Beg
                 to
                 be
                 Slaves
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 Your
                 Chains
                 rejoyce
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Ld.
                 S
                 —
              
               
                 But
                 why
                 ,
                 in
                 lasie
                 Numbers
                 ,
                 do
                 we
                 bind
              
               
                 Our
                 thoughts
                 ?
                 which
                 shou'd
                 in
                 active
                 Raptures
                 fly
                 ;
              
               
                 As
                 the
                 Coelestial
                 Circles
                 unconfin'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 tun'd
                 to
                 their
                 Eternal
                 Harmony
                 .
              
               
                 Musick
                 's
                 the
                 Dialect
                 of
                 happy
                 Souls
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 sever'd
                 from
                 the
                 Earth's
                 unweildy
                 Load
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Universal
                 Language
                 of
                 both
                 Poles
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 the
                 vast
                 distant
                 Natives
                 understood
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 Instruments
                 and
                 Voices
                 both
                 combine
              
               
                 To
                 Celebrate
                 the
                 Glories
                 of
                 this
                 Day
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 Art
                 and
                 Extasies
                 their
                 Forces
                 joyn
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 melodious
                 Paths
                 of
                 Errour
                 stray
                 .
              
               
                 
                 
                   Here
                   they
                   fate
                   down
                   ,
                   and
                   Musick
                   play'd
                   ;
                   which
                   being
                   ended
                   ,
                   they
                   stood
                   up
                   again
                   ,
                   and
                   spoke
                   by
                   way
                   of
                
                 Pastoral
                 .
                 
                   Ld.
                   
                     S
                     —
                     Damon
                  
                   .
                
                 
                   Mr.
                   
                     C
                     —
                     Thyrsis
                  
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Damon
                 .
              
               
                 AH
                 !
                 Thyrsis
                 ,
                 
                   how
                   shall
                   humble
                   Swains
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   As
                   thou
                   and
                   I
                   ,
                   perform
                   such
                   strains
                   ?
                
              
               
                 
                   Can
                   we
                   a
                   fitting
                   Present
                   make
                
              
               
                 
                   For
                   us
                   to
                   give
                   ,
                   or
                   These
                   to
                   take
                   ?
                
              
            
             
               
                 Thyrsis
                 .
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Garland
                
                 ,
                 Chloris
                 
                   made
                   ,
                   I
                   'll
                   bring
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   When
                   I
                   threw
                
                 Strephon
                 
                   from
                   the
                   Ring
                
                 :
              
               
               
                 
                   Though
                   it
                   shou'd
                
                 Caesar
                 
                   's
                   Birth-day
                   Crown
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   Fresh
                   Roses
                   will
                   for
                   that
                   be
                   blown
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Damon
                 .
              
               
                 
                   I
                   have
                   a
                   Lamb
                   as
                   white
                   as
                   Snow
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Though
                   half
                   engag'd
                   to
                
                 Pan
                 
                   by
                   Vow
                
                 :
              
               
                 
                   I
                   'll
                   sacrifice
                   it
                   here
                   ,
                   for
                   He
                
              
               
                 Pan
                 ,
                 
                   or
                   some
                   greater
                   God
                   must
                   be
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Thyrsis
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Why
                   dost
                   thou
                   talk
                   of
                   Sacrifice
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   These
                   seem
                   no
                   angry
                
                 Deities
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Wou'd
                   cruel
                
                 Sylvia
                 
                   were
                   here
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   She
                   'd
                   learn
                   to
                   think
                   her self
                   less
                   fair
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   in
                   a
                   Noble
                   mixture
                   ,
                   find
                
              
               
                 
                   Humility
                   with
                   Beauty
                   joyn'd
                
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Damon
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   may
                   it
                   please
                   the
                   Royal
                   Three
                
              
               
                 
                   T'
                   accept
                   one
                   hearty
                   Wish
                   from
                   me
                   :
                
              
               
               
                 
                   By
                   all
                   true
                   Swains
                   be
                
                 Daphnis
                 fear'd
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   And
                   no
                   Whig-Wolves
                   come
                   nigh
                   his
                   Herd
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Both
                 together
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   Tearly
                   Hecatombs
                   we
                   'll
                   pay
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   If
                   every
                   Spring
                   bring
                   such
                   a
                
                 May.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               HUMAN
               LIFE
               :
               
                 Suppos'd
                 to
                 be
                 spoken
                 by
                 an
                 Epicure
                 ,
                 in
                 imitation
                 of
                 the
                 second
                 Chapter
                 of
                 the
                 Wisdom
                 of
              
               Solomon
               .
               A
               Pindarique
               ODE
               .
               Inscribed
               to
               the
               Lord
               HUNSDON
               .
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               YALDEN.
               
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 THen
                 will
                 penurious
                 Heav'n
                 no
                 more
                 allow
                 !
              
               
                 No
                 more
                 on
                 its
                 own
                 Darling
                 Man
                 bestow
                 !
              
               
                 Is
                 it
                 for
                 this
                 he
                 Lord
                 of
                 all
                 appears
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 his
                 great
                 Maker's
                 Image
                 bears
                 !
              
               
               
                 To
                 toil
                 beneath
                 a
                 wretched
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 Opprest
                 with
                 Miseries
                 and
                 Fate
                 :
              
               
                 Beneath
                 his
                 painful
                 Burthen
                 groan
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 in
                 this
                 beaten
                 Road
                 of
                 Life
                 ,
                 drudge
                 on
                 !
              
               
                 Amidst
                 our
                 Labours
                 we
                 possess
              
               
                 No
                 kind
                 allays
                 of
                 Happiness
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 softning
                 Joys
                 can
                 call
                 our
                 own
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 this
                 bitter
                 Drug
                 go
                 down
                 ;
              
               
                 Whilst
                 Death
                 an
                 easie
                 Conquest
                 gains
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 insatiate
                 Grave
                 in
                 endless
                 Triumph
                 Reigns
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 Throes
                 ,
                 and
                 Pangs
                 ,
                 into
                 the
                 World
                 we
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Curse
                 and
                 Burthen
                 of
                 the
                 Womb
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 wretched
                 to
                 our selves
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 Mothers
                 Labours
                 introduce
                 our
                 own
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 Crys
                 and
                 Tears
                 our
                 Infancy
                 we
                 waste
                 ,
              
               
                 Those
                 sad
                 Prophetick
                 Tears
                 that
                 flow
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 instinct
                 of
                 our
                 future
                 Woe
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 even
                 our
                 dawn
                 of
                 Life
                 with
                 Sorrow
                 's
                 overcast
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thus
                 we
                 toil
                 out
                 a
                 restless
                 Age
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 his
                 laborious
                 part
                 must
                 have
                 ,
              
               
                 Down
                 from
                 the
                 Monarch
                 to
                 the
                 Slave
                 ,
              
               
                 Act
                 o're
                 this
                 Farce
                 of
                 Life
                 ,
                 then
                 drop
                 beneath
                 the
                 Stage
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 From
                 our
                 first
                 drawing
                 Vital
                 breath
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 our
                 first
                 starting
                 from
                 the
                 Womb
                 ,
              
               
                 Until
                 we
                 reach
                 the
                 destin'd
                 Tomb
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 all
                 are
                 posting
                 on
                 ,
                 to
                 the
                 dark
                 Goal
                 of
                 Death
                 .
              
               
                 Life
                 ,
                 like
                 a
                 Cloud
                 that
                 fleets
                 before
                 the
                 Wind
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Mark
                 ,
                 no
                 kind
                 Impression
                 ,
                 leaves
                 behind
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 scatter'd
                 like
                 the
                 Winds
                 that
                 blow
                 ,
              
               
                 Boisterous
                 as
                 them
                 ,
                 full
                 as
                 inconstant
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 know
                 not
                 whence
                 they
                 come
                 ,
                 nor
                 where
                 they
                 go
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 we
                 're
                 detain'd
                 a
                 while
                 ,
                 and
                 then
              
               
                 Become
                 Originals
                 again
                 :
              
               
               
                 Time
                 shall
                 a
                 Man
                 to
                 his
                 first
                 self
                 restore
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 him
                 intire
                 nothing
                 ,
                 all
                 he
                 was
                 before
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 part
                 of
                 us
                 ,
                 no
                 remnant
                 shall
                 survive
                 !
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 we
                 impudently
                 say
                 ,
                 we
                 live
                 :
              
               
                 No!
                 we
                 but
                 ebb
                 into
                 our selves
                 again
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 only
                 come
                 to
                 be
                 ,
                 as
                 we
                 had
                 never
                 been
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 Say
                 ,
                 learned
                 Sage
                 ,
                 thou
                 that
                 art
                 mighty
                 wise
                 !
              
               
                 Unriddle
                 me
                 these
                 Mysteries
                 :
              
               
                 What
                 is
                 the
                 Soul
                 ,
                 the
                 Vital
                 Heat
              
               
                 That
                 our
                 mean
                 Frame
                 does
                 animate
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 is
                 our
                 breath
                 ,
                 the
                 breath
                 of
                 Man
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 buoys
                 his
                 Nature
                 up
                 ,
                 and
                 does
                 even
                 Life
                 sustain
                 ?
              
               
                 Is
                 it
                 not
                 Air
                 ,
                 an
                 empty
                 Fume
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Fire
                 that
                 does
                 it self
                 consume
                 ?
              
               
                 A
                 warmth
                 that
                 in
                 a
                 Heart
                 is
                 bred
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 lambent
                 Flame
                 with
                 heat
                 and
                 motion
                 fed
                 .
              
               
               
                 Extinguish
                 that
                 ,
                 the
                 whole
                 is
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 boasted
                 Scene
                 of
                 Life
                 is
                 done
                 :
              
               
                 Away
                 the
                 Phantome
                 takes
                 its
                 flight
                 ,
              
               
                 Damn'd
                 to
                 a
                 loathsom
                 Grave
                 ,
                 and
                 an
                 Eternal
                 Night
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Soul
                 ,
                 th'
                 Immortal
                 part
                 we
                 boast
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 one
                 consuming
                 Minute's
                 lost
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 its
                 first
                 Source
                 it
                 must
                 repair
                 ,
              
               
                 Scatter
                 with
                 Winds
                 ,
                 and
                 flow
                 with
                 common
                 Air.
              
               
                 Whilst
                 the
                 fall'n
                 Body
                 ,
                 by
                 a
                 swift
                 decay
                 ,
              
               
                 Resolves
                 into
                 its
                 Native
                 Clay
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 Dust
                 and
                 Ashes
                 are
                 its
                 second
                 Birth
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 that
                 incorporates
                 too
                 ,
                 with
                 its
                 great
                 Parent
                 Earth
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 Nor
                 shall
                 our
                 Names
                 ,
                 or
                 Memories
                 survive
                 ,
              
               
                 Alas
                 ,
                 no
                 part
                 of
                 Man
                 can
                 live
                 !
              
               
                 The
                 empty
                 blasts
                 of
                 Fame
                 shall
                 die
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 even
                 those
                 Nothings
                 taste
                 Mortality
                 .
              
               
               
                 In
                 vain
                 ,
                 to
                 future
                 Ages
                 ,
                 we
                 transmit
              
               
                 Heroick
                 Acts
                 ,
                 and
                 Monuments
                 of
                 Wit
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 ,
                 we
                 dear-bought
                 Honours
                 leave
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 our
                 Ashes
                 gay
                 ,
                 and
                 furnish
                 out
                 a
                 Grave
                 .
              
               
                 Ah
                 Treacherous
                 Immortality
                 !
              
               
                 For
                 thee
                 ,
                 our
                 stock
                 of
                 Youth
                 we
                 waste
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 urge
                 on
                 Life
                 ,
                 that
                 ebbs
                 too
                 fast
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 purchase
                 thee
                 with
                 Blood
                 ,
                 the
                 Valiant
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 survive
                 in
                 Fame
                 ,
                 the
                 Great
                 and
                 Glorious
                 die
                 .
              
               
                 Lavish
                 of
                 Life
                 ,
                 they
                 squander
                 this
                 Estate
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 a
                 poor
                 Reversion
                 wait
                 :
              
               
                 Bankrupts
                 and
                 Misers
                 ,
                 to
                 themselves
                 they
                 grow
                 ,
              
               
                 Imbitter
                 wretched
                 Life
                 ,
                 with
                 Toils
                 and
                 Woe
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 hoord
                 up
                 endless
                 Fame
                 ,
                 they
                 know
                 not
                 where
                 ,
                 or
                 how
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 Ah
                 think
                 ,
                 my
                 Friends
                 ,
                 how
                 swift
                 the
                 Minutes
                 haste
                 !
              
               
                 The
                 present
                 Day
                 intirely
                 is
                 our
                 own
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Then
                 seize
                 the
                 Blessing
                 e're
                 't
                 is
                 gone
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 Morrow
                 ,
                 fatal
                 sound
                 !
                 since
                 this
                 may
                 be
                 our
                 last
                 .
              
               
                 Why
                 do
                 we
                 boast
                 of
                 Years
                 ,
                 and
                 sum
                 up
                 Days
                 !
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 all
                 imaginary
                 space
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 day
                 ,
                 to
                 day
                 is
                 our
                 Inheritance
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 all
                 penurious
                 Fate
                 will
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 Posterity'll
                 to
                 Morrow
                 live
                 ,
                 hence
                 .
              
               
                 Our
                 Sons
                 crowd
                 on
                 behind
                 ,
                 our
                 Children
                 drive
                 us
              
               
                 With
                 Garlands
                 then
                 your
                 Temples
                 Crown
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 lie
                 on
                 Beds
                 of
                 Roses
                 down
                 :
              
               
                 Beds
                 of
                 Roses
                 we
                 'll
                 prepare
                 ,
              
               
                 Roses
                 that
                 our
                 Emblems
                 are
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 while
                 they
                 flourish
                 on
                 the
                 Bough
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 drink
                 large
                 draughts
                 of
                 Heav'nly
                 Dew
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 us
                 ,
                 they
                 smile
                 ,
                 are
                 young
                 ,
                 and
                 gay
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 like
                 us
                 too
                 ,
                 are
                 Tenants
                 for
                 a
                 day
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 with
                 Night's
                 blasting
                 breath
                 ,
                 they
                 vanish
                 swift
                 away
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 Bring
                 chearful
                 Wine
                 ,
                 and
                 costly
                 Sweets
                 prepare
                 !
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 more
                 than
                 frenzy
                 now
                 to
                 spare
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 cares
                 and
                 business
                 wait
                 a
                 while
                 ,
              
               
                 Old
                 Age
                 affords
                 a
                 thinking
                 Interval
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 if
                 they
                 must
                 a
                 longer
                 hearing
                 have
                 ,
              
               
                 Bid
                 them
                 attend
                 below
                 ,
                 adjourn
                 into
                 the
                 Grave
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 gay
                 and
                 sprightly
                 Wine
                 produce
                 ,
              
               
                 Wines
                 that
                 Wit
                 and
                 Mirth
                 infuse
                 :
              
               
                 Thàt
                 feed
                 ,
                 like
                 Oyl
                 ,
                 th'expiring
                 Flame
                 ,
              
               
                 Revive
                 our
                 drooping
                 Souls
                 ,
                 and
                 prop
                 this
                 tottering
                 Frame
                 .
              
               
                 That
                 when
                 the
                 Grave
                 our
                 Bodies
                 has
                 engrost
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 Vertues
                 shall
                 forgotten
                 lie
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 their
                 boasted
                 Piety
                 ,
              
               
                 Honours
                 ,
                 and
                 Titles
                 ,
                 like
                 our selves
                 ,
                 be
                 lost
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 our
                 Recorded
                 Vice
                 shall
                 flourish
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 our
                 Immortal
                 Riots
                 be
                 for
                 ever
                 known
                 .
              
               
               
                 This
                 ,
                 this
                 is
                 what
                 we
                 ought
                 to
                 do
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 great
                 Design
                 ,
                 the
                 grand
                 Affair
                 below
                 !
              
               
                 Since
                 bounteous
                 Nature's
                 plac'd
                 our
                 Stuard
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 Man
                 his
                 Grandure
                 shou'd
                 maintain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 excess
                 of
                 Pleasure
                 Reign
                 ,
              
               
                 Keep
                 up
                 his
                 Character
                 ,
                 and
                 Lord
                 of
                 all
                 appear
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               TO
               Mr.
               WALLER
               ,
               UPON
               THE
               
                 Copy
                 of
                 Verses
                 made
                 by
                 himself
                 on
                 the
                 last
                 Copy
                 in
                 his
                 Book
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 WHen
                 Shame
                 ,
                 for
                 all
                 my
                 foolish
                 Youth
                 had
                 writ
                 ,
              
               
                 Advis'd
                 ,
                 't
                 was
                 time
                 the
                 Rhyming
                 Trade
                 to
                 quit
                 ,
              
               
                 Time
                 to
                 grow
                 wise
                 ,
                 and
                 be
                 no
                 more
                 a
                 Wit
                 —
              
               
                 The
                 Noble
                 Fire
                 ,
                 that
                 animates
                 thy
                 Age
                 ,
              
               
                 Once
                 more
                 enflam'd
                 me
                 with
                 Poetick
                 Rage
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 Kings
                 ,
                 Heroes
                 ,
                 Nymphs
                 ,
                 the
                 Brave
                 ,
                 the
                 Fair
                 ,
                 the
                 Young
                 ,
              
               
                 Have
                 been
                 the
                 Theme
                 of
                 thy
                 Immortal
                 Song
                 ;
              
               
               
                 A
                 
                   Nobler
                   Argument
                
                 ,
                 at
                 last
                 ,
                 thy
                 Muse
                 ,
              
               
                 Two
                 things
                 Divine
                 ;
                 Thee
                 ,
                 and
                 Her self
                 ,
                 does
                 chuse
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 Age
                 ,
                 whose
                 dull
                 weight
                 makes
                 vulgar
                 Spirits
                 bend
                 ,
              
               
                 Gives
                 Wings
                 to
                 thine
                 ,
                 and
                 bids
                 it
                 upward
                 tend
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 more
                 confin'd
                 ,
                 above
                 the
                 Starry
                 Skies
                 ,
              
               
                 Out
                 ,
                 from
                 the
                 Body's
                 broken
                 Cage
                 ,
                 it
                 flies
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 oh
                 !
                 vouchsafe
                 ,
                 not
                 wholly
                 to
                 retire
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 joyn
                 with
                 ,
                 and
                 compleat
                 th'
                 Etherial
                 Quire
                 !
              
               
                 Still
                 here
                 remain
                 !
                 still
                 on
                 the
                 Threshold
                 stand
                 ;
              
               
                 Still
                 at
                 this
                 distance
                 view
                 the
                 promis'd
                 Land
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho'
                 thou
                 may'st
                 seem
                 ,
                 so
                 Heav'nly
                 is
                 thy
                 Sense
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 going
                 thither
                 ,
                 but
                 new
                 come
                 from
                 thence
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               ELEGY
               :
               Occasion'd
               By
               the
               Reading
               and
               Transcribing
               Mr.
               
                 Edmund
                 Waller's
              
               Poem
               ,
               OF
               DIVINE
               LOVE
               ,
               Since
               his
               Death
               .
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               
                 J.
                 TALBOT
              
               .
            
             
               
                 SUch
                 were
                 the
                 last
                 ,
                 the
                 sweetest
                 Notes
                 that
                 hung
              
               
                 Upon
                 our
                 dying
                 Swan's
                 melodious
                 Tongue
                 :
              
               
                 Notes
                 ,
                 whose
                 strong
                 Charms
                 the
                 dullest
                 Ear
                 might
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 melt
                 the
                 hardest
                 Heart
                 in
                 flames
                 of
                 Love
                 :
              
               
               
                 Notes
                 ,
                 whose
                 Seraphic
                 Raptures
                 speak
                 a
                 mind
              
               
                 From
                 Human
                 Thoughts
                 ,
                 and
                 Earthly
                 Dross
                 refin'd
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 just
                 their
                 Harmony
                 ,
                 so
                 high
                 their
                 flight
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Joy
                 I
                 read
                 them
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 Wonder
                 write
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sure
                 ,
                 happy
                 Saint
                 ,
                 this
                 Noble
                 Song
                 was
                 giv'n
              
               
                 To
                 fit
                 Thee
                 for
                 th'
                 approaching
                 Joys
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 :
              
               
                 Love
                 ,
                 wondrous
                 Love
                 ,
                 whose
                 Conquest
                 was
                 thy
                 Theme
                 ,
              
               
                 Has
                 taught
                 thy
                 Soul
                 the
                 airy
                 way
                 to
                 climb
                 ;
              
               
                 Love
                 snatch'd
                 Thee
                 ,
                 like
                 Elijah
                 to
                 the
                 Skie
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Flames
                 that
                 not
                 consume
                 ,
                 but
                 purifie
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 with
                 thy
                 Fellow-Angels
                 mixt
                 ,
                 and
                 free
              
               
                 From
                 the
                 dull
                 load
                 of
                 dim
                 Mortality
                 ;
              
               
                 Thou
                 feel'st
                 new
                 Joys
                 ,
                 and
                 feed'st
                 thy
                 ravish'd
                 sight
              
               
                 With
                 unexhausted
                 Beams
                 of
                 Love
                 and
                 Light
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 sure
                 ,
                 blest
                 Spirit
                 ,
                 to
                 compleat
                 thy
                 Bliss
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Heav'n
                 thou
                 sing'st
                 this
                 Song
                 ,
                 or
                 one
                 like
                 This.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               MOSCHUS
               :
               IDYL
               1st
               .
               Done
               into
               ENGLISH
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               
                 J.
                 R.
              
               
            
             
               HER
               Son
               not
               heard
               of
               ,
               and
               by
               none
               descry'd
               ,
            
             
               In
               a
               shrill
               voice
               thus
               pensive
               Venus
               cry'd
               .
            
             
               He
               who
               can
               News
               of
               a
               stray
               Cupid
               tell
               ,
            
             
               My
               Run-a-way
               ,
               shall
               be
               rewarded
               well
               .
            
             
               His
               Fee
               for
               the
               obliging
               News
               is
               this
               ,
            
             
               He
               may
               come
               hither
               ,
               and
               demand
               a
               Kiss
               .
            
             
               But
               if
               he
               can
               the
               Vagabond
               restore
               ;
            
             
               He
               shall
               have
               Kisses
               ,
               and
               have
               somewhat
               more
               .
            
             
               Amongst
               a
               Hundred
               you
               the
               Boy
               may
               know
               ,
            
             
               Large
               are
               his
               Tokens
               ,
               and
               his
               Marks
               enow
               .
            
             
             
               Not
               white
               his
               body
               ,
               but
               resembling
               Flame
               ;
            
             
               His
               Eyes
               all
               cruel
               ,
               and
               his
               Heart
               the
               same
               :
            
             
               Soft
               are
               his
               words
               ,
               where
               he
               designs
               no
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               do
               his
               Heart
               and
               Tongue
               together
               move
               .
            
             
               Sweet
               is
               his
               Voice
               as
               Honey
               when
               he
               's
               pleas'd
               ,
            
             
               But
               when
               enrag'd
               ,
               how
               hard
               to
               be
               appeas'd
               !
            
             
               He
               always
               lies
               :
               't
               is
               a
               pernicious
               Boy
               ,
            
             
               Fraud
               is
               his
               Sport
               ,
               and
               Tyranny
               his
               Joy.
            
             
               Bold
               are
               his
               Eyes
               ,
               divinely
               curl'd
               his
               Hair
               ;
            
             
               Small
               are
               his
               Hands
               ,
               but
               oh
               !
               they
               kill
               from
               far
               !
            
             
               How
               great
               ,
               how
               large
               is
               their
               extensive
               Pow'r
               ,
            
             
               From
               which
               great
               
               Pluto's
               self
               is
               not
               secure
               !
            
             
               Close
               are
               his
               Thoughts
               and
               Soul
               ,
               his
               Body
               bare
               :
            
             
               Swift
               as
               a
               Bird
               ,
               he
               strikes
               an
               amorous
               Pair
               ,
            
             
               Invades
               the
               inmost
               Fortress
               of
               the
               Fair.
            
             
               Small
               is
               his
               Bow
               ,
               nor
               are
               his
               Arrows
               great
               ,
            
             
               And
               yet
               ev'n
               These
               have
               reach'd
               the
               Heav'nly
               Seat.
            
             
             
               A
               Golden
               Quiver
               on
               his
               back
               he
               ties
               ,
            
             
               Where
               his
               Artillery
               in
               dreadful
               order
               lies
               .
            
             
               All
               cruel
               ,
               all
               —
               but
               oh
               !
               the
               cruel
               Boy
            
             
               Does
               with
               his
               Taper
               Phoebus
               self
               annoy
               ;
            
             
               Torments
               ev'n
               me
               ,
               his
               Mother
               ,
               ruins
               all
               my
               Joy.
            
             
               Charge
               him
               from
               me
               ,
               if
               seen
               ,
               with
               an
               arrest
               ;
            
             
               Let
               pity
               be
               a
               Stranger
               to
               your
               breast
               .
            
             
               If
               you
               can
               seize
               him
               ,
               lead
               the
               Captive
               bound
               ,
            
             
               Let
               no
               compassion
               for
               his
               tears
               be
               found
               .
            
             
               Avoid
               his
               kisses
               ,
               and
               his
               amorous
               wiles
               ,
            
             
               There
               's
               worse
               than
               Poison
               in
               his
               treacherous
               smiles
               .
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               shou'd
               he
               offer
               you
               his
               arms
               ,
               beware
               ,
            
             
               Of
               Arrows
               tipt
               with
               Fire
               have
               a
               care
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               AGAINST
               ENJOYMENT
               .
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               YALDEN.
               
            
             
               
                 WE
                 Love
                 and
                 Hate
                 ,
                 as
                 restless
                 Monarchs
                 fight
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 boldly
                 dare
                 invade
                 another's
                 Right
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 when
                 thro'
                 all
                 the
                 dangerous
                 toils
                 they
                 've
                 run
                 ,
              
               
                 Ignobly
                 quit
                 ,
                 the
                 Conquests
                 they
                 have
                 won
                 ;
              
               
                 Those
                 
                   charming
                   hopes
                
                 that
                 made
                 them
                 valiant
                 grow
                 ,
              
               
                 Pall'd
                 with
                 Enjoyment
                 ,
                 makes
                 them
                 Cowards
                 now
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Our
                 Passions
                 only
                 form
                 our
                 Happiness
                 ,
              
               
                 Hopes
                 still
                 enlarge
                 ,
                 as
                 Fears
                 contract
                 it
                 less
                 :
              
               
                 Hope
                 with
                 a
                 gaudy
                 Prospect
                 feeds
                 the
                 Eye
                 ,
              
               
                 Sooths
                 every
                 sense
                 ,
                 does
                 with
                 each
                 wish
                 comply
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 false
                 Enjoyment
                 ,
                 the
                 kind
                 Guide
                 destroys
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 lose
                 the
                 Passion
                 in
                 the
                 treacherous
                 Joys
                 .
              
               
               
                 Like
                 the
                 gay
                 Silk-worm
                 ,
                 when
                 it
                 pleases
                 most
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 that
                 ungrateful
                 Web
                 it
                 spun
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 lost
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Fruition
                 only
                 cloys
                 the
                 Appetite
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 does
                 the
                 Conquest
                 ,
                 than
                 the
                 prize
                 delight
                 :
              
               
                 One
                 Victory
                 gain'd
                 ,
                 another
                 fills
                 the
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 restless
                 Wishes
                 cannot
                 be
                 confin'd
                 .
              
               
                 Like
                 boisterous
                 waves
                 ,
                 no
                 settl'd
                 bounds
                 they
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 Fix
                 at
                 no
                 point
                 ,
                 but
                 always
                 ebb
                 or
                 flow
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Who
                 most
                 expects
                 ,
                 enjoys
                 the
                 pleasure
                 most
                 ,
              
               
                 T
                 is
                 rais'd
                 by
                 Wishes
                 ,
                 by
                 Fruition
                 lost
                 :
              
               
                 We
                 're
                 charm'd
                 with
                 distant
                 views
                 of
                 happiness
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 near
                 approaches
                 make
                 the
                 prospect
                 less
                 .
              
               
                 Wishes
                 ,
                 like
                 painted
                 Landscapes
                 ,
                 best
                 delight
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 distance
                 recommends
                 them
                 to
                 the
                 sight
                 :
              
               
                 Plac'd
                 afar
                 off
                 ,
                 they
                 beautiful
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 show
                 their
                 course
                 ,
                 and
                 nauseous
                 colours
                 ,
                 near
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Thus
                 the
                 fam'd
                 Midas
                 ,
                 when
                 he
                 found
                 his
                 Store
                 ,
              
               
                 Increasing
                 still
                 ,
                 and
                 wou'd
                 admit
                 of
                 more
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 eager
                 arms
                 his
                 swelling
                 bags
                 he
                 prest
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 expectation
                 only
                 made
                 him
                 blest
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 a
                 boundless
                 Treasure
                 he
                 enjoy'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 every
                 wish
                 was
                 with
                 fruition
                 cloy'd
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 damn'd
                 to
                 heaps
                 ,
                 and
                 surfeited
                 with
                 Oar
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 curst
                 that
                 Gold
                 ,
                 he
                 doated
                 on
                 before
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               PRIAM's
               Lamentation
               and
               Petition
               TO
               ACHILLES
               ,
               For
               the
               Body
               of
               his
               Son
               
                 HECTOR
                 .
                 Translated
              
               from
               the
               Greek
               of
               Homer
               ,
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
               .
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
               .
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               CONGREVE
               .
            
             
               Beginning
               at
               this
               Line
               ,
               
                 
                   
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                  
                   :
                   —
                
              
            
             
               
                 ARGUMENT
                 Introductory
                 to
                 this
                 Translation
                 .
              
               
                 Hector
                 
                   's
                   Body
                   ,
                   (
                   after
                   he
                   was
                   slain
                   )
                   remain'd
                   still
                   in
                   the
                   Possession
                   of
                
                 Achilles
                 ;
                 
                   for
                   which
                
                 ,
                 Priam
                 
                   made
                   great
                   Lamentation
                
                 .
                 Jupiter
                 
                   had
                   pity
                   on
                   him
                   ,
                   and
                   
                   sent
                
                 Iris
                 
                   to
                   comfort
                   and
                   direct
                   him
                   ,
                   after
                   what
                   manner
                   he
                   should
                   go
                   to
                
                 Achilles
                 
                   's
                   Tent
                   ,
                   and
                   how
                   he
                   should
                   there
                   ransom
                   the
                   Body
                   of
                   his
                   Son.
                
                 Priam
                 
                   accordingly
                   orders
                   his
                   Chariot
                   to
                   be
                   got
                   ready
                   ,
                   and
                   preparing
                   rich
                   Presents
                   for
                
                 Achilles
                 ,
                 
                   sets
                   forward
                   to
                   the
                
                 Grecian
                 
                   Camp
                   ,
                   accompany'd
                   by
                   no
                   body
                   but
                   his
                   Herald
                
                 Idaeus
                 .
                 Mercury
                 ,
                 at
                 Jupiter
                 
                   's
                   Command
                   ,
                   meets
                   him
                   by
                   the
                   way
                   ,
                   in
                   the
                   Figure
                   of
                   a
                   young
                
                 Grecian
                 ,
                 
                   and
                   ,
                   after
                   bemoaning
                   his
                   misfortunes
                   ,
                   undertakes
                   to
                   drive
                   his
                   Chariot
                   ,
                   unobserved
                   ,
                   through
                   the
                   Guards
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   the
                   door
                   of
                
                 Achilles
                 
                   's
                   Tent
                   :
                   which
                   having
                   perform'd
                   ,
                   he
                   discover'd
                   himself
                   a
                   God
                   ,
                   and
                   giving
                   him
                   a
                   short
                   Instruction
                   ,
                   how
                   to
                   move
                
                 Achilles
                 
                   to
                   Compassion
                   ,
                   flew
                   up
                   to
                   Heaven
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 SO
                 spake
                 the
                 God
                 ,
                 and
                 Heav'nward
                 took
                 his
                 flight
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 Priam
                 from
                 his
                 Chariot
                 did
                 alight
                 ;
              
               
                 Leaving
                 Idoeus
                 there
                 ,
                 alone
                 he
                 went
              
               
                 With
                 Solemn
                 pace
                 ,
                 into
                 Achilles
                 Tent.
              
               
                 Heedless
                 ,
                 he
                 pass'd
                 through
                 various
                 Rooms
                 of
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 Until
                 approaching
                 where
                 the
                 Hero
                 sate
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 at
                 a
                 Feast
                 ,
                 the
                 good
                 old
                 Priam
                 found
              
               
                 
                 Jove's
                 best
                 belov'd
                 ,
                 with
                 all
                 his
                 Chiefs
                 around
                 :
              
               
               
                 Two
                 only
                 were
                 t'
                 attend
                 his
                 Person
                 plac'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Automedon
                 and
                 Alcymus
                 ;
                 the
                 rest
              
               
                 At
                 greater
                 distance
                 ,
                 greater
                 State
                 express'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Priam
                 ,
                 unseen
                 by
                 these
                 ,
                 his
                 entrance
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 at
                 Achilles
                 Feet
                 his
                 
                   Aged
                   Body
                
                 laid
                 ,
              
               
                 About
                 his
                 Knees
                 ,
                 his
                 trembling
                 Arms
                 he
                 threw
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 clasp'd
                 'em
                 hard
                 ,
                 as
                 ,
                 they
                 together
                 grew
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 caught
                 his
                 Hands
                 ,
                 and
                 press'd
                 ,
                 and
                 kiss'd
                 'em
                 close
                 ,
              
               
                 Those
                 Hands
                 ,
                 th'
                 inhumane
                 Authors
                 of
                 his
                 Woes
                 ;
              
               
                 Those
                 Hands
                 ,
                 whose
                 unrelenting
                 Force
                 had
                 cost
              
               
                 Much
                 of
                 his
                 blood
                 ,
                 (
                 for
                 many
                 Sons
                 he
                 lost
                 )
              
               
                 Now
                 bath'd
                 in
                 tears
                 ,
                 he
                 to
                 his
                 Cheeks
                 did
                 lay
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 he
                 meant
                 to
                 wash
                 their
                 Guilt
                 away
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 ,
                 as
                 a
                 Wretch
                 who
                 has
                 a
                 Murder
                 done
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 seeking
                 Refuge
                 ,
                 does
                 from
                 Justice
                 run
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Entring
                 some
                 House
                 ,
                 in
                 haste
                 ,
                 where
                 he
                 's
                 unknown
                 ,
              
               
                 Creates
                 amazement
                 in
                 the
                 lookers
                 on
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 did
                 Achilles
                 gaze
                 ,
                 surpriz'd
                 to
                 see
              
               
                 The
                 Godlike
                 
                 Priam's
                 
                   Royal
                   Misery
                
                 ;
              
               
                 All
                 on
                 each
                 other
                 gaz'd
                 ,
                 all
                 in
                 surprize
              
               
                 And
                 mute
                 ,
                 yet
                 seem'd
                 to
                 question
                 with
                 their
                 Eyes
                 .
              
               
                 Till
                 he
                 at
                 length
                 the
                 Solemn
                 silence
                 broke
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 thus
                 the
                 venerable
                 Suppliant
                 spoke
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Divine
                 Achilles
                 ,
                 at
                 your
                 Feet
                 behold
              
               
                 A
                 prostrate
                 King
                 ,
                 in
                 wretchedness
                 grown
                 old
                 :
              
               
                 Think
                 on
                 your
                 Father
                 ,
                 and
                 then
                 ,
                 look
                 on
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 hoary
                 Age
                 and
                 helpless
                 person
                 see
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 furrow'd
                 are
                 his
                 Cheeks
                 ,
                 so
                 white
                 his
                 Hairs
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 ,
                 and
                 so
                 many
                 his
                 declining
                 Years
                 ;
              
               
                 Cou'd
                 you
                 imagine
                 (
                 but
                 that
                 cannot
                 be
                 )
              
               
                 Cou'd
                 you
                 imagine
                 such
                 ,
                 his
                 Misery
                 !
              
               
               
                 Yet
                 it
                 may
                 come
                 ,
                 when
                 ,
                 he
                 shall
                 be
                 oppress'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Neighb'ring
                 Princes
                 lay
                 his
                 Country
                 waste
                 ;
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 at
                 this
                 time
                 perhaps
                 some
                 pow'rful
                 Foe
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 will
                 no
                 Mercy
                 ,
                 no
                 Compassion
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 Ent'ring
                 his
                 Palace
                 ,
                 sees
                 him
                 feebly
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 seek
                 Protection
                 ,
                 where
                 no
                 help
                 is
                 nigh
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 ,
                 he
                 may
                 your
                 fatal
                 absence
                 mourn
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wish
                 in
                 vain
                 for
                 your
                 delay'd
                 return
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 ,
                 that
                 he
                 hears
                 you
                 live
                 ,
                 some
                 comfort
                 gives
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 while
                 he
                 hopes
                 (
                 tho'
                 vainly
                 )
                 he
                 believes
                 :
              
               
                 It
                 glads
                 his
                 Soul
                 to
                 think
                 ,
                 he
                 once
                 may
                 see
              
               
                 His
                 much-lov'd
                 Son
                 ;
                 wou'd
                 that
                 were
                 granted
                 me
                 !
              
               
                 But
                 I
                 ,
                 most
                 wretched
                 I
                 !
                 of
                 all
                 bereft
                 !
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 my
                 Royal
                 Sons
                 ,
                 how
                 few
                 are
                 left
                 !
              
               
                 Yet
                 fifty
                 goodly
                 Youths
                 I
                 had
                 to
                 boast
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 firsts
                 the
                 Greeks
                 invaded
                 
                 Ilion's
                 Coast
                 :
              
               
                 Nineteen
                 ,
                 the
                 joyful
                 Issue
                 of
                 one
                 teeming
                 Womb
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 now
                 ,
                 alas
                 !
                 a
                 mournful
                 Tribute
                 to
                 one
                 Tomb
                 :
              
               
               
                 Merciless
                 War
                 ,
                 this
                 devastation
                 wrought
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 their
                 strong
                 Nerves
                 to
                 Dissolution
                 brought
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Still
                 one
                 was
                 left
                 ,
                 in
                 whom
                 was
                 all
                 my
                 hope
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Age's
                 comfort
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Country's
                 prop
                 ;
              
               
                 Hector
                 ,
                 my
                 Darling
                 ,
                 and
                 my
                 
                   last
                   Defence
                
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 life
                 alone
                 ,
                 their
                 deaths
                 cou'd
                 recompence
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 to
                 compleat
                 my
                 store
                 of
                 countless
                 Woe
                 ,
              
               
                 Him
                 you
                 have
                 slain
                 —
                 of
                 him
                 bereav'd
                 me
                 too
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 For
                 his
                 sake
                 only
                 ,
                 hither
                 am
                 I
                 come
                 ;
              
               
                 Rich
                 Gifts
                 I
                 bring
                 ,
                 and
                 Wealth
                 ,
                 an
                 endless
                 Sum
                 ;
              
               
                 All
                 to
                 redeem
                 that
                 fatal
                 Prize
                 you
                 won
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 worthless
                 Ransom
                 for
                 so
                 brave
                 a
                 Son.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Fear
                 the
                 just
                 Gods
                 ,
                 Achilles
                 ;
                 and
                 on
                 me
              
               
                 With
                 pity
                 look
                 ,
                 think
                 you
                 your
                 Father
                 see
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Such
                 as
                 I
                 am
                 ,
                 he
                 is
                 ,
                 alone
                 in
                 this
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 can
                 no
                 equal
                 have
                 in
                 Miseries
                 ;
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 Mankind
                 ,
                 most
                 wretched
                 and
                 forlorn
                 ,
              
               
                 Bow'd
                 with
                 such
                 weight
                 ,
                 as
                 never
                 has
                 been
                 born
                 ;
              
               
                 Reduc'd
                 to
                 kneel
                 and
                 pray
                 to
                 you
                 ,
                 from
                 whom
              
               
                 The
                 Spring
                 and
                 Source
                 of
                 all
                 my
                 Sorrows
                 come
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 Gifts
                 ,
                 to
                 court
                 mine
                 and
                 my
                 Country's
                 Bane
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 kiss
                 those
                 hands
                 ,
                 which
                 have
                 my
                 Children
                 slain
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 spake
                 .
                 —
              
            
             
               
                 Now
                 ,
                 sadness
                 o're
                 Achilles
                 face
                 appears
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 viewing
                 Priam
                 ,
                 for
                 his
                 Father
                 fears
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 ,
                 and
                 Compassion
                 melt
                 him
                 into
                 Tears
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 gently
                 with
                 his
                 hand
                 he
                 put
                 away
              
               
                 Old
                 
                 Priam's
                 Face
                 ,
                 but
                 he
                 ,
                 still
                 prostrate
                 lay
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 there
                 with
                 tears
                 ,
                 and
                 sighs
                 ,
                 afresh
                 did
                 moan
              
               
                 Th'
                 untimely
                 death
                 ,
                 of
                 his
                 beloved
                 Son.
              
               
               
                 But
                 Passion
                 diff'rent
                 ways
                 ,
                 Achilles
                 turns
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 ,
                 he
                 Patroclus
                 ,
                 now
                 ,
                 his
                 Father
                 mourns
                 :
              
               
                 Thus
                 both
                 with
                 Lamentations
                 fill'd
                 the
                 place
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 Sorrow
                 seem'd
                 to
                 wear
                 one
                 common
                 face
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               LAMENTATIONS
               OF
               
                 Hecuba
                 ,
                 Andromache
              
               ,
               and
               Helen
               ,
               Over
               the
               Dead
               Body
               of
               HECTOR
               .
               Translated
               from
               the
               Greek
               of
               Homer
               .
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
               .
               
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
                 〈◊〉
              
               .
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               CONGREVE
               .
            
             
               Beginning
               at
               this
               Line
               ,
               
                 
                   
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                     〈◊〉
                  
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Connexion
                 of
                 this
                 with
                 the
                 former
                 Translation
                 .
              
               
                 Priam
                 ,
                 
                   at
                   last
                   ,
                   moves
                
                 Achilles
                 
                   to
                   Compassion
                   ,
                   and
                   after
                   having
                   made
                   him
                   Presents
                   of
                   great
                   value
                   ,
                   obtains
                   the
                   Body
                   of
                   his
                   Son.
                
                 Mercury
                 awakens
                 Priam
                 
                   early
                   in
                   the
                   Morning
                   ,
                   and
                   advises
                   him
                   to
                   haste
                   
                   away
                   with
                   the
                   Body
                   ,
                   lest
                
                 Agamemnon
                 
                   should
                   be
                   informed
                   of
                   his
                   being
                   in
                   the
                   Camp
                   :
                   He
                   himself
                   helps
                   to
                   harness
                   the
                   Mules
                   and
                   Horses
                   ,
                   and
                   conveys
                   him
                   safely
                   ,
                   and
                   without
                   noise
                   ,
                   Chariot
                   and
                   all
                   ,
                   from
                   among
                   the
                
                 Grecian
                 
                   Tents
                   ;
                   then
                   flies
                   up
                   to
                   Heaven
                   ,
                   leaving
                
                 Priam
                 and
                 Idaeus
                 
                   to
                   travel
                   on
                   with
                   the
                   Body
                   toward
                
                 Troy.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Now
                 ,
                 did
                 the
                 Saffron
                 Morn
                 her
                 beams
                 display
                 ,
              
               
                 Gilding
                 the
                 Face
                 of
                 Universal
                 Day
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 mourning
                 Priam
                 to
                 the
                 Town
                 return'd
                 ;
                 .
              
               
                 Slowly
                 his
                 Chariot
                 mov'd
                 ,
                 as
                 that
                 had
                 mourn'd
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Mules
                 ,
                 beneath
                 the
                 mangled
                 Body
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 bearing
                 (
                 now
                 )
                 unusual
                 weight
                 of
                 Woe
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 Pergamus
                 high
                 top
                 ,
                 Cassandra
                 flies
                 ,
              
               
                 Thence
                 ,
                 she
                 afar
                 ,
                 the
                 sad
                 Procession
                 spies
                 :
              
               
                 Her
                 Father
                 and
                 Idoeus
                 first
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 Hector's
                 Corps
                 extended
                 on
                 a
                 Bier
                 ;
              
               
                 At
                 which
                 ,
                 her
                 boundless
                 grief
                 ,
                 loud
                 Cries
                 began
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 thus
                 lamenting
                 ,
                 thro
                 the
                 Streets
                 she
                 ran
                 :
              
               
               
                 
                   Hither
                   ,
                   ye
                   wretched
                
                 Trojans
                 ,
                 
                   hither
                   all
                
                 !
              
               
                 
                   Behold
                   the
                   Godlike
                
                 Hector's
                 Funeral
                 !
              
               
                 
                   If
                   e're
                   you
                   went
                   with
                   Joy
                   ,
                   to
                   see
                   him
                   come
                
              
               
                 
                   Adorn'd
                   with
                   Conquest
                   and
                   with
                   Lawrels
                   home
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Assemble
                   now
                   ,
                   his
                   Ransom'd
                   Body
                   see
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   What
                   once
                   was
                   all
                   your
                   Joy
                   ,
                   now
                   ,
                   all
                   your
                   Misery
                   !
                
              
            
             
               
                 She
                 spake
                 ,
                 and
                 streight
                 the
                 num'rous
                 Crow'd
                 obey'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Man
                 ,
                 nor
                 Woman
                 ,
                 in
                 the
                 City
                 staid
                 ;
              
               
                 Common
                 consent
                 of
                 Grief
                 had
                 made
                 'em
                 one
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 clam'rous
                 moan
                 to
                 Scoeas
                 Gate
                 they
                 run
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 ,
                 the
                 lov'd
                 Body
                 of
                 their
                 Hector
                 meet
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 they
                 ,
                 with
                 loud
                 and
                 fresh
                 lamentings
                 ,
                 greet
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 Rev'rend
                 Mother
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Tender
                 Wife
                 ,
              
               
                 Equal
                 in
                 Love
                 ,
                 in
                 Grief
                 had
                 equal
                 strife
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 Sorrow
                 ,
                 they
                 no
                 Moderation
                 knew
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 wildly
                 wailing
                 ,
                 to
                 the
                 Chariot
                 flew
                 ;
              
               
               
                 There
                 ,
                 strove
                 the
                 rowling
                 Wheels
                 to
                 hold
                 ,
                 while
                 each
              
               
                 Attempted
                 first
                 his
                 breathless
                 Corps
                 to
                 reach
                 ;
              
               
                 Aloud
                 they
                 beat
                 their
                 Breasts
                 ,
                 and
                 tore
                 their
                 Hair
                 ,
              
               
                 Rending
                 around
                 with
                 shrieks
                 the
                 suff'ring
                 air
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Now
                 had
                 the
                 throng
                 of
                 People
                 stop'd
                 the
                 way
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 wou'd
                 have
                 there
                 lamented
                 all
                 the
                 day
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Priam
                 from
                 his
                 Chariot
                 rose
                 ,
                 and
                 spake
                 ,
              
               
                 Trojans
                 
                   enough
                   ;
                   Truce
                   with
                   your
                   Sorrows
                   make
                
                 ;
              
               
                 
                   Give
                   way
                   to
                   me
                   ,
                   and
                   yield
                   the
                   Chariot
                   room
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   First
                   let
                   me
                   bear
                   my
                
                 Hector's
                 
                   Body
                   home
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   mourn
                   your
                   fill
                
                 .
                 At
                 this
                 the
                 Crowd
                 gave
                 way
                 ,
              
               
                 Opening
                 a
                 Pass
                 ,
                 like
                 Waves
                 of
                 a
                 divided
                 Sea.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Idoeus
                 to
                 the
                 Palace
                 drove
                 ,
                 then
                 laid
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 care
                 ,
                 the
                 Body
                 on
                 a
                 Sumptuous
                 Bed
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 round
                 about
                 were
                 skilful
                 Singers
                 plac'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 wept
                 ,
                 and
                 sigh'd
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 sad
                 notes
                 express'd
              
               
               
                 Their
                 Moan
                 ;
                 All
                 ,
                 in
                 a
                 Chorus
                 did
                 agree
              
               
                 Of
                 Universal
                 ,
                 Mournful
                 Harmony
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Andromache
                 alone
                 ,
                 no
                 Notes
                 cou'd
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 
                   Musick
                   wild
                   enough
                   for
                   her
                   distracted
                   Mind
                
                 ;
              
               
                 Her
                 Grief
                 ,
                 long
                 smother'd
                 ,
                 now
                 from
                 silence
                 broke
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thus
                 (
                 close
                 pressing
                 his
                 pale
                 Cheeks
                 )
                 she
                 spoke
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Andromache
                 
                   's
                   Lamentation
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   O
                   my
                   lost
                   Husband
                   !
                   let
                   me
                   ever
                   mourn
                
                 
                   Thy
                   early
                   Fate
                   ,
                   and
                   too
                   untimely
                   Urn
                   :
                
                 
                   In
                   the
                   full
                   Pride
                   of
                   Youth
                   thy
                   Glories
                   fade
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thou
                   in
                   ashes
                   must
                   with
                   them
                   be
                   laid
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Why
                   is
                   my
                   Heart
                   thus
                   miserably
                   torn
                   !
                
                 
                   Why
                   am
                   I
                   thus
                   distress'd
                   !
                   why
                   thus
                   forlorn
                   !
                
                 
                   Am
                   I
                   that
                   wretched
                   thing
                   ,
                   a
                   Widow
                   left
                   ?
                
                 
                   Why
                   do
                   I
                   live
                   ,
                   who
                   am
                   of
                   Life
                   bereft
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   Yet
                   I
                   were
                   blest
                   ,
                   were
                   I
                   alone
                   undone
                   ;
                
                 
                   Alas
                   ,
                   my
                   Child
                   !
                   where
                   can
                   an
                   Infant
                   run
                   ?
                
                 
                   Unhappy
                   Orphan
                   !
                   thou
                   in
                   Woes
                   art
                   nurst
                   ;
                
                 
                   Why
                   were
                   you
                   born
                   ?
                   —
                   I
                   am
                   with
                   blessings
                   curst
                   !
                
                 
                   For
                   long
                   e're
                   thou
                   shalt
                   be
                   to
                   Manhood
                   grown
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wide
                   Desolation
                   will
                   lay
                   waste
                   this
                   Town
                   :
                
                 
                   Who
                   is
                   there
                   now
                   ,
                   that
                   can
                   Protection
                   give
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   He
                   ,
                   who
                   was
                   her
                   strength
                   ,
                   no
                   more
                   doth
                   live
                   ?
                
                 
                   Who
                   ,
                   of
                   her
                   Rev'rend
                   Matrons
                   ;
                   will
                   have
                   care
                   ?
                
                 
                   Who
                   ,
                   save
                   her
                   Children
                   from
                   the
                   Rage
                   of
                   War
                   ?
                
                 
                   For
                   He
                   to
                   all
                   Father
                   and
                   Husband
                   was
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   are
                   Orphans
                   now
                   ,
                   and
                   Widows
                   by
                   his
                   loss
                   .
                
                 
                   Soon
                   will
                   the
                   Grecians
                   ,
                   now
                   ,
                   insulting
                   come
                
                 
                   And
                   bear
                   us
                   Captives
                   to
                   their
                   distant
                   home
                   ;
                
                 
                   I
                   ,
                   with
                   my
                   Child
                   ,
                   must
                   the
                   same
                   Fortune
                   share
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   all
                   alike
                   ,
                   be
                   Pris'ners
                   of
                   the
                   War
                   ;
                
                 
                   'Mongst
                   base-born
                   Wretches
                   ,
                   he
                   ,
                   his
                   Lot
                   must
                   have
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   be
                   to
                   some
                   inhuman
                   Lord
                   ,
                   a
                   Slave
                   .
                
                 
                 
                   Else
                   some
                   avenging
                   Greek
                   ,
                   with
                   Fury
                   fill'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   Or
                   for
                   an
                   only
                   Son
                   ,
                   or
                   Father
                   kill'd
                
                 
                   By
                   
                   Hector's
                   hand
                   ,
                   on
                   him
                   will
                   vent
                   his
                   Rage
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   ,
                   with
                   
                     his
                     Blood
                  
                   ,
                   his
                   thirsty
                   grief
                   asswage
                   ;
                
                 
                   For
                   many
                   fell
                   by
                   his
                   relentless
                   hand
                   ,
                
                 
                   Biting
                   that
                   ground
                   ,
                   which
                   ,
                   with
                   their
                   Blood
                   was
                   stain'd
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Fierce
                   was
                   thy
                   Father
                   (
                   O
                   my
                   Child
                   )
                   in
                   War
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   never
                   did
                   his
                   Foe
                   in
                   Battel
                   spare
                   ;
                
                 
                   Thence
                   come
                   these
                   suff'rings
                   ,
                   which
                   ,
                   so
                   much
                   have
                   cost
                   ,
                
                 
                   Much
                   woe
                   to
                   all
                   ,
                   but
                   sure
                   ,
                   to
                   me
                   the
                   most
                   .
                
                 
                   I
                   saw
                   him
                   not
                   ,
                   when
                   in
                   the
                   pangs
                   of
                   Death
                   ,
                
                 
                   Nor
                   did
                   my
                   Lips
                   receive
                   his
                   latest
                   breath
                   ;
                
                 
                   Why
                   held
                   he
                   not
                   to
                   me
                   his
                   dying
                   hand
                   ?
                
                 
                   And
                   why
                   receiv'd
                   not
                   I
                   his
                   last
                   Command
                   ?
                
                 
                   Something
                   he
                   wou'd
                   have
                   said
                   ,
                   had
                   I
                   been
                   there
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   I
                   shou'd
                   still
                   in
                   sad
                   remembrance
                   bear
                   ;
                
                 
                 
                   For
                   I
                   cou'd
                   never
                   ,
                   never
                   words
                   forget
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   ,
                   Night
                   and
                   Day
                   ,
                   I
                   wou'd
                   with
                   Tearsrepeat
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   She
                   spake
                   ,
                   and
                   wept
                   afresh
                   ,
                   when
                   all
                   around
                   ,
                
                 
                   A
                   gen'ral
                   Sigh
                   ,
                   diffus'd
                   a
                   mournful
                   sound
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Then
                   ,
                   Hecuba
                   ,
                   who
                   long
                   had
                   been
                   opprest
                
                 
                   With
                   boiling
                   Passions
                   ,
                   in
                   her
                   
                     Aged
                     Breast
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   Mingling
                   her
                   words
                   with
                   sighs
                   and
                   tears
                   ,
                   begun
                
                 
                   A
                   Lamentation
                   for
                   her
                   Darling
                   Son.
                   
                
              
            
             
               
                 Hecuba
                 
                   's
                   Lamentation
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Hector
                   ,
                   my
                   Joy
                   ,
                   and
                   to
                   my
                   Soul
                   more
                   dear
                
                 
                   Than
                   all
                   my
                   other
                   num'rous
                   Issue
                   were
                   ;
                
                 
                   O
                   my
                   last
                   Comfort
                   ,
                   and
                   my
                   best
                   belov'd
                   !
                
                 
                   Thou
                   ,
                   at
                   whose
                   fall
                   ,
                   ev'n
                   Jove
                   himself
                   was
                   mov'd
                
                 
                   And
                   sent
                   a
                   God
                   his
                   dread
                   Commands
                   to
                   bear
                   ,
                
                 
                   So
                   far
                   thou
                   wert
                   High
                   Heav'n's
                   peculiar
                   care
                   !
                
                 
                 
                   From
                   fierce
                   Achilles
                   Chains
                   thy
                   Corps
                   was
                   freed
                   ;
                
                 
                   So
                   kind
                   a
                   Fate
                   was
                   for
                   none
                   else
                   decreed
                   :
                
                 
                   For
                   all
                   my
                   other
                   Sons
                   ,
                   ta'ne
                   by
                   his
                   hands
                   ,
                
                 
                   Were
                   sold
                   like
                   Slaves
                   ,
                   and
                   shipt
                   to
                   Foreign
                   Lands
                   .
                
                 
                   Thou
                   too
                   wert
                   sentenc'd
                   by
                   his
                   barb'rous
                   Doom
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   dragg'd
                   when
                   dead
                   ,
                   about
                   Patroclus
                   Tomb
                   ,
                
                 
                   His
                   lov'd
                   Patroclus
                   whom
                   thy
                   hands
                   had
                   slain
                   :
                
                 
                   And
                   yet
                   that
                   Cruelty
                   was
                   us'd
                   in
                   vain
                   ,
                
                 
                   Since
                   all
                   cou'd
                   not
                   restore
                   his
                   life
                   again
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   fresh
                   and
                   glowing
                   ,
                   even
                   in
                   death
                   thou
                   art
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fair
                   as
                   he
                   who
                   fell
                   by
                   Phoebus
                   Dart.
                
                 
                   Here
                   weeping
                   Hecuba
                   her
                   Passion
                   stay'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   Universal
                   moan
                   ,
                   again
                   was
                   made
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   Helen's
                   Lamentation
                   ,
                   hers
                   supply'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   thus
                   ,
                   aloud
                   ,
                   that
                   fatal
                   Beauty
                   cry'd
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
                 Helen
                 
                   's
                   Lamentation
                
                 .
              
               
                 
                   O
                   Hector
                   ,
                   thou
                   wert
                   rooted
                   in
                   my
                   Heart
                   ,
                
                 
                   No
                   Brother
                   there
                   had
                   half
                   so
                   large
                   a
                   part
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   Scarce
                   my
                   own
                   Lord
                   ,
                   to
                   whom
                   such
                   love
                   I
                   bore
                   ,
                
                 
                   That
                   I
                   forsook
                   my
                   Home
                   ;
                   scarce
                   he
                   had
                   more
                   !
                
              
               
                 
                   O
                   would
                   I
                   ne're
                   had
                   seen
                   that
                   fatal
                   day
                   ,
                
                 
                   Would
                   I
                   had
                   perish'd
                   ,
                   when
                   I
                   came
                   away
                   .
                
                 
                   Now
                   ,
                   twenty
                   Years
                   are
                   past
                   ,
                   since
                   that
                   sad
                   hour
                   ,
                
                 
                   When
                   first
                   I
                   landed
                   on
                   this
                   ruin'd
                   Shoar
                   .
                
                 
                   For
                   Ruin
                   (
                   sure
                   )
                   and
                   I
                   ,
                   together
                   came
                   !
                
                 
                   Yet
                   all
                   this
                   time
                   ,
                   from
                   thee
                   I
                   ne're
                   had
                   blame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Not
                   one
                   ungentle
                   word
                   ,
                   or
                   look
                   of
                   Scorn
                   ,
                
                 
                   Which
                   I
                   too
                   often
                   have
                   from
                   others
                   born
                   ;
                
                 
                   When
                   you
                   from
                   their
                   Reproach
                   have
                   set
                   me
                   free
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   kindly
                   have
                   reprov'd
                   their
                   Cruelty
                   :
                
                 
                   If
                   by
                   my
                   Sisters
                   ,
                   or
                   the
                   Queen
                   revil'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   (
                   For
                   the
                   good
                   King
                   ,
                   like
                   you
                   ,
                   was
                   ever
                   mild
                   )
                
                 
                   Your
                   kindness
                   still
                   ,
                   has
                   all
                   my
                   grief
                   beguil'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Ever
                   in
                   tears
                   let
                   me
                   your
                   loss
                   bemoan
                   ,
                
                 
                   Who
                   had
                   no
                   Friend
                   alive
                   ,
                   but
                   you
                   alone
                   :
                
                 
                 
                   All
                   will
                   reproach
                   me
                   now
                   ,
                   where
                   e're
                   I
                   pass
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   fly
                   with
                   Horrour
                   from
                   my
                   hated
                   Face
                   .
                
                 
                   This
                   said
                   ;
                   she
                   wept
                   ,
                   and
                   the
                   vast
                   throng
                   was
                   mov'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   a
                   gen'ral
                   Sigh
                   her
                   Grief
                   approv'd
                   .
                
                 
                   When
                   Priam
                   (
                   who
                   had
                   heard
                   the
                   mourning
                   Crowd
                   )
                
                 
                   Rose
                   from
                   his
                   Seat
                   ,
                   and
                   thus
                   he
                   spake
                   aloud
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   
                     Cease
                     your
                     Lamentings
                  
                   ,
                   Trojans
                   ,
                   
                     for
                     a
                     while
                  
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     And
                     fell
                     down
                     Trees
                     to
                     build
                     a
                     Fun'ral
                     Pile
                  
                   ;
                
                 
                   
                     Fear
                     not
                     an
                     Ambush
                     by
                     the
                  
                   Grecians
                   laid
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     For
                     with
                  
                   Achilles
                   ,
                   
                     twelve
                     days
                     Truce
                     I
                     made
                  
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   He
                   spake
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   obey'd
                   as
                   with
                   one
                   mind
                   ,
                
                 
                   Chariots
                   were
                   brought
                   ,
                   and
                   Mules
                   and
                   Oxen
                   joyn'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Forth
                   from
                   the
                   City
                   all
                   the
                   People
                   went
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   nine
                   days
                   space
                   was
                   in
                   that
                   labour
                   spent
                   :
                
                 
                   The
                   tenth
                   ,
                   a
                   most
                   stupendious
                   Pile
                   they
                   made
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   on
                   the
                   top
                   the
                   Manly
                   Hector
                   laid
                   ,
                
                 
                 
                   Then
                   gave
                   it
                   fire
                   ,
                   while
                   all
                   ,
                   with
                   weeping
                   eyes
                
                 
                   Beheld
                   the
                   rowling
                   Flames
                   and
                   Smoak
                   arise
                   .
                
                 
                   All
                   night
                   they
                   wept
                   ,
                   and
                   all
                   the
                   night
                   it
                   burn'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   But
                   when
                   the
                   Rosie
                   Morn
                   with
                   day
                   return'd
                   ,
                
                 
                   About
                   the
                   Pile
                   the
                   thronging
                   People
                   came
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   with
                   black
                   Wine
                   quencht
                   the
                   remaining
                   Flame
                   .
                
                 
                   His
                   Brothers
                   then
                   ,
                   and
                   Friends
                   search'd
                   ev'ry
                   where
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   gath'ring
                   up
                   his
                   Snowy
                   Bones
                   with
                   care
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wept
                   o're
                   'em
                   ;
                   when
                   an
                   Urn
                   of
                   Gold
                   was
                   brought
                   ,
                
                 
                   Wrapt
                   in
                   soft
                   purple
                   Palls
                   ,
                   and
                   richly
                   wrought
                   ,
                
                 
                   In
                   which
                   the
                   Sacred
                   Ashes
                   were
                   inter'd
                   ;
                
                 
                   Then
                   o're
                   his
                   Grave
                   a
                   Monument
                   they
                   rear'd
                   .
                
                 
                   Mean
                   time
                   ,
                   strong
                   Guards
                   were
                   plac'd
                   ,
                   and
                   careful
                   Spies
                   ,
                
                 
                   To
                   watch
                   the
                   Grecians
                   ,
                   and
                   prevent
                   surprize
                   .
                
                 
                   The
                   Work
                   once
                   ended
                   ,
                   all
                   the
                   vast
                   resort
                
                 
                   Of
                   mourning
                   People
                   ,
                   went
                   to
                   
                   Priam's
                   Court
                   ;
                
                 
                   There
                   ,
                   they
                   refresh'd
                   their
                   weary
                   Limbs
                   with
                   rest
                   ,
                
                 
                   Ending
                   the
                   Fun'ral
                   with
                   a
                   Solemn
                   Feast
                   .
                
              
            
          
           
             
             
               PARAPHRASE
               UPON
               Horace
               .
               Ode
               .
               19.
               
               Lib.
               I.
               
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               CONGREVE
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Mater
                   soeva
                   Cupidinum
                
                 ,
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 THe
                 Tyrant
                 Queen
                 of
                 soft
                 desires
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 the
                 resistless
                 aid
                 of
                 sprightly
                 Wine
              
               
                 And
                 wanton
                 Ease
                 ,
                 conspires
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 my
                 Heart
                 its
                 peace
                 resign
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 re-admit
                 Loves
                 long
                 rejected
                 Fires
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 beauteous
                 Glycera
                 ,
                 I
                 burn
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Flames
                 so
                 long
                 repell'd
                 with
                 double
                 force
                 return
                 :
              
               
                 Endless
                 her
                 Charms
                 appear
                 ,
                 and
                 shine
                 more
                 bright
              
               
                 Than
                 polish'd
                 Marble
                 when
                 reflecting
                 light
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 winning
                 coyness
                 ,
                 she
                 my
                 Soul
                 disarms
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 her
                 looks
                 are
                 coldest
                 ,
                 most
                 she
                 warms
                 :
              
               
               
                 Her
                 Face
                 darts
                 forth
                 a
                 thousand
                 Rays
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Lustre
                 ,
                 an
                 unwary
                 sight
                 betrays
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Eye-balls
                 swim
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 grow
                 giddy
                 while
                 I
                 gaze
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 She
                 comes
                 !
                 she
                 comes
                 !
                 she
                 rushes
                 in
                 my
                 Veins
                 !
              
               
                 At
                 once
                 all
                 Venus
                 enters
                 and
                 at
                 large
                 she
                 reigns
                 !
              
               
                 Cyprus
                 ,
                 no
                 more
                 with
                 her
                 abode
                 is
                 blest
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 am
                 her
                 Palace
                 ,
                 and
                 her
                 Throne
                 my
                 Breast
                 .
              
               
                 Of
                 Savage
                 
                   Scythian
                   Arms
                
                 ,
                 no
                 more
                 I
                 write
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 
                   Parthian
                   Archers
                
                 ,
                 who
                 in
                 flying
                 fight
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 rough
                 War
                 their
                 sport
                 ;
              
               
                 Such
                 idle
                 .
                 Themes
                 ,
                 no
                 more
                 shall
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 any
                 thing
                 but
                 what
                 's
                 of
                 high
                 import
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 what
                 's
                 of
                 high
                 import
                 ,
                 but
                 Love
                 ?
              
               
                 Vervain
                 and
                 Gums
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 green
                 Turf
                 prepare
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 Wine
                 of
                 two
                 years
                 old
                 ,
                 your
                 Cups
                 be
                 fill'd
                 :
              
               
                 After
                 our
                 Sacrifice
                 and
                 Pray'r
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Goddess
                 may
                 incline
                 her
                 Heart
                 to
                 yield
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               HORACE
               ,
               Lib.
               II.
               Ode
               14.
               
            
             
               Imitated
               by
               Mr.
               Congreve
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Eheu
                   Fugaces
                   ,
                   Posthume
                   ,
                   Posthume
                   ,
                   Labuntur
                   Anni
                   ,
                
                 &c.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 AH
                 !
                 No
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 all
                 in
                 vain
                 ,
                 believe
                 me
                 't
                 is
              
               
                 '
                 This
                 Pious
                 Artifice
                 .
              
               
                 Not
                 all
                 these
                 Prayers
                 and
                 Alms
                 ,
                 can
                 Buy
              
               
                 One
                 Moment
                 tow'rd
                 Eternity
                 .
              
               
                 Eternity
                 !
                 that
                 boundless
                 Race
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 ,
                 Time
                 himself
                 can
                 never
                 run
                 :
              
               
                 (
                 Swift
                 ,
                 as
                 he
                 flies
                 ,
                 with
                 an
                 unweari'd
                 pace
                 ,
                 )
              
               
                 Which
                 ,
                 when
                 Ten
                 Thousand
                 ,
                 Thousand
                 Years
                 are
                 done
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 still
                 the
                 same
                 ,
                 and
                 still
                 to
                 be
                 begun
                 .
              
               
                 Fix'd
                 are
                 those
                 Limits
                 ,
                 which
                 prescribe
              
               
                 A
                 short
                 Extent
                 to
                 the
                 most
                 lasting
                 Breath
                 ,
              
               
               
                 And
                 though
                 thou
                 couldst
                 for
                 Sacrifice
                 ,
                 lay
                 down
              
               
                 Millions
                 of
                 other
                 Lives
                 to
                 save
                 thine
                 own
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 were
                 fruitless
                 all
                 ;
                 not
                 all
                 would
                 bribe
              
               
                 One
                 Supernumerary
                 Gasp
                 from
                 Death
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 's
                 thy
                 Inexhausted
                 Store
              
               
                 Of
                 Wealth
                 ,
                 in
                 vain
                 thy
                 Pow'r
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Honours
                 ,
                 Titles
                 ;
                 all
                 must
                 fail
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Piety
                 it self
                 does
                 nought
                 avail
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Rich
                 ,
                 the
                 Great
                 ,
                 the
                 Innocent
                 and
                 Just
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 all
                 be
                 huddl'd
                 to
                 the
                 Grave
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 the
                 most
                 Vile
                 and
                 Ignominious
                 Slave
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 undistinguish'd
                 lie
                 in
                 Dust.
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 ,
                 the
                 Fearful
                 ,
                 flies
                 Alarms
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 ,
                 he
                 is
                 secure
                 ,
                 from
                 wounds
                 of
                 Arms
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 ,
                 avoids
                 the
                 Faithless
                 Seas
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 is
                 confin'd
                 to
                 Home
                 and
                 Ease
                 ,
              
               
                 Bounding
                 his
                 Knowledg
                 ,
                 to
                 extend
                 his
                 Days
                 .
              
               
               
                 In
                 vain
                 ,
                 are
                 all
                 those
                 Arts
                 we
                 try
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 our
                 Evasions
                 ,
                 and
                 Regret
                 to
                 Die
                 :
              
               
                 From
                 the
                 Contagion
                 of
                 Mortality
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Clime
                 is
                 pure
                 ,
                 no
                 Air
                 is
                 free
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 no
                 Retreat
              
               
                 Is
                 so
                 Obscure
                 ,
                 as
                 to
                 be
                 hid
                 from
                 Fate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 Thou
                 must
                 ,
                 alas
                 !
                 thou
                 must
                 my
                 Friend
                 ;
              
               
                 (
                 The
                 very
                 Hour
                 thou
                 now
                 dost
                 spend
              
               
                 In
                 studying
                 to
                 avoid
                 ,
                 brings
                 on
                 thine
                 end
                 ,
                 )
              
               
                 Thou
                 must
                 forego
                 the
                 dearest
                 Joys
                 of
                 Life
                 ;
              
               
                 Leave
                 the
                 warm
                 Bosome
                 of
                 thy
                 tender
                 Wife
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 much
                 lov'd
                 Offspring
                 of
                 her
                 Womb
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 moulder
                 in
                 the
                 Cold
                 Embraces
                 of
                 a
                 Tomb.
              
               
                 All
                 must
                 be
                 left
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 be
                 lost
                 ;
              
               
                 Thy
                 House
                 ,
                 whose
                 stately
                 Structure
                 so
                 much
                 cost
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Shall
                 not
                 afford
              
               
                 Room
                 for
                 the
                 stinking
                 Carkass
                 of
                 its
                 Lord.
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 thy
                 pleasant
                 Gardens
                 ,
                 Grots
                 ,
                 and
                 Bowers
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Costly
                 Fruits
                 ,
                 thy
                 far-fetch'd
                 Plants
                 and
                 Flow'rs
                 :
              
               
                 Nought
                 shalt
                 thou
                 save
                 ;
              
               
                 Unless
                 a
                 sprig
                 of
                 Rosemary
                 thou
                 have
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 wither
                 with
                 thee
                 in
                 the
                 Grave
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 rest
                 shall
                 live
                 and
                 flourish
                 ,
                 to
                 upbraid
              
               
                 Their
                 Transitory
                 Master
                 Dead
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 Then
                 shall
                 thy
                 long-expecting
                 Heir
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Joyful
                 Mourning
                 wear
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 Riot
                 in
                 the
                 waste
                 of
                 that
                 Estate
              
               
                 Which
                 thou
                 hast
                 taken
                 so
                 much
                 pains
                 to
                 get
                 .
              
               
                 All
                 thy
                 hid
                 Stories
                 he
                 shall
                 unfold
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 set
                 at
                 large
                 thy
                 Captiv'd
                 Gold.
              
               
               
                 That
                 precious
                 Wine
                 ,
                 condemn'd
                 by
                 thee
              
               
                 To
                 Vaults
                 and
                 Prisons
                 ,
                 shall
                 again
                 be
                 free
                 :
              
               
                 Buried
                 alive
                 ,
                 tho'
                 now
                 it
                 lies
                 ,
              
               
                 Again't
                 shall
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 Again
                 its
                 sparkling
                 Surface
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 free
                 as
                 Element
                 ,
                 profusely
                 flow
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 such
                 choice
                 Food
                 he
                 shall
                 set
                 forth
                 his
                 Feasts
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Cardinals
                 shall
                 wish
                 to
                 be
                 his
                 Guests
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 pamper'd
                 Prelates
                 see
              
               
                 Themselves
                 out-done
                 in
                 Luxury
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               An
               ODE
               ,
               In
               imitation
               of
               HORACE
               ,
               Ode
               IX
               .
               Lib.
               1.
               
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               CONGREVE
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   Vides
                   ut
                   alta
                
                 ,
                 &c.
                 —
              
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 BLess
                 me
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 cold
                 !
                 how
                 I
                 hill
                 the
                 Air
                 !
              
               
                 How
                 naked
                 does
                 the
                 World
                 appear
                 !
              
               
                 But
                 see
                 (
                 big
                 with
                 the
                 Off-spring
                 of
                 the
                 North
                 )
              
               
                 The
                 teeming
                 Clouds
                 bring
                 forth
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Show'r
                 of
                 soft
                 and
                 fleecy
                 Rain
                 ,
              
               
                 Falls
                 ,
                 to
                 new
                 cloath
                 the
                 Earth
                 again
                 .
              
               
                 Behold
                 the
                 Mountain-Tops
                 ,
                 around
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 with
                 Fur
                 of
                 Ermins
                 crown'd
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 lo
                 !
                 how
                 by
                 degrees
              
               
                 The
                 universal
                 Mantle
                 hides
                 the
                 Trees
                 ,
              
               
               
                 In
                 hoary
                 Flakes
                 ,
                 which
                 downward
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 if
                 it
                 were
                 the
                 Autumn
                 of
                 the
                 Sky
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Fall
                 of
                 Leaf
                 would
                 theirs
                 supply
                 :
              
               
                 Trembling
                 ,
                 the
                 Groves
                 sustain
                 the
                 Weight
                 ,
                 and
                 bow
              
               
                 Like
                 aged
                 Limbs
                 ,
                 which
                 feebly
                 go
              
               
                 Beneath
                 a
                 venerable
                 Head
                 of
                 Snow
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 Diffusive
                 Cold
                 does
                 the
                 whole
                 Earth
                 invade
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 a
                 Disease
                 ,
                 through
                 all
                 its
                 Veins
                 't
                 is
                 spread
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 each
                 late
                 living
                 Stream
                 ,
                 is
                 num'd
                 and
                 dead
                 .
              
               
                 Le
                 ts
                 melt
                 the
                 frozen
                 Hours
                 ,
                 make
                 warm
                 the
                 Air
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 cheerful
                 Fires
                 Sol's
                 feeble
                 Beams
                 repair
                 ;
              
               
                 Fill
                 the
                 large
                 Bowl
                 with
                 sparkling
                 Wine
                 ;
              
               
                 Let
                 's
                 drink
                 ,
                 till
                 our
                 own
                 Faces
                 shine
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 we
                 like
                 Suns
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 light
                 and
                 warm
                 the
                 Hemisphere
                 .
              
               
                 Wine
                 can
                 dispence
                 to
                 all
                 both
                 Light
                 and
                 Heat
                 ,
              
               
               
                 They
                 are
                 with
                 Wine
                 ineorporate
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 pow'rful
                 Juice
                 ,
                 with
                 which
                 no
                 Cold
                 dares
                 mix
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 still
                 is
                 fluid
                 ,
                 and
                 no
                 Frost
                 can
                 fix
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 that
                 but
                 in
                 abundance
                 flow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 let
                 it
                 storm
                 and
                 thunder
                 ,
                 hail
                 and
                 snow
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 Heav'ns
                 Concern
                 ;
                 and
                 let
                 it
                 be
              
               
                 The
                 Care
                 of
                 Heaven
                 still
                 for
                 me
                 :
              
               
                 These
                 Winds
                 ,
                 which
                 rend
                 the
                 Oaks
                 and
                 plough
                 the
                 Seas
                 ;
              
               
                 Great
                 Jove
                 can
                 ,
                 if
                 he
                 please
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 one
                 commanding
                 Nod
                 appease
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 Seek
                 not
                 to
                 know
                 to
                 Morrows
                 Doom
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 is
                 not
                 ours
                 ,
                 which
                 is
                 to
                 come
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 present
                 Moment's
                 all
                 our
                 Store
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 next
                 ,
                 shou'd
                 Heav'n
                 allow
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 this
                 will
                 be
                 no
                 more
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 all
                 our
                 Life
                 is
                 but
                 one
                 instant
                 Now.
              
               
               
                 Look
                 on
                 each
                 Day
                 you
                 've
                 past
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 a
                 mighty
                 Treasure
                 won
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 lay
                 each
                 Moment
                 out
                 in
                 haste
                 ;
              
               
                 We
                 're
                 sure
                 to
                 live
                 too
                 fast
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 cannot
                 live
                 too
                 soon
                 .
              
               
                 Youth
                 does
                 a
                 thousand
                 Pleasures
                 bring
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 from
                 decrepit
                 Age
                 will
                 fly
                 ;
              
               
                 Sweets
                 that
                 wanton
                 i'
                 th'
                 Bosome
                 of
                 the
                 Spring
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 
                 Winter's
                 cold
                 Embraces
                 dye
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 Now
                 ,
                 Love
                 ,
                 that
                 everlasting
                 Boy
                 ,
                 invites
              
               
                 To
                 revel
                 while
                 you
                 may
                 ,
                 in
                 soft
                 Delights
                 :
              
               
                 Now
                 ,
                 the
                 kind
                 Nymph
                 yields
                 all
                 her
                 Charms
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 yields
                 in
                 vain
                 to
                 youthful
                 Arms.
              
               
                 Slowly
                 she
                 promises
                 at
                 Night
                 to
                 meet
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 eagerly
                 prevents
                 the
                 Hour
                 with
                 swifter
                 Feet
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 gloomy
                 Groves
                 and
                 obscure
                 Shades
                 she
                 flies
                 ,
              
               
               
                 There
                 vails
                 the
                 bright
                 Confession
                 of
                 her
                 Eyes
                 .
              
               
                 Unwillingly
                 she
                 stays
                 ,
              
               
                 Would
                 more
                 unwillingly
                 depart
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 soft
                 Sighs
                 conveys
              
               
                 The
                 Whispers
                 of
                 her
                 Heart
                 .
              
               
                 Still
                 she
                 invites
                 and
                 still
                 denies
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 vows
                 she
                 'll
                 leave
                 you
                 if
                 y'
                 are
                 rude
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 from
                 her
                 Ravisher
                 she
                 flies
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 flies
                 to
                 be
                 pursu'd
                 :
              
               
                 If
                 from
                 his
                 Sight
                 she
                 does
                 her self
                 convey
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 a
                 feign'd
                 Laugh
                 she
                 will
                 her self
                 betray
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 cunningly
                 instruct
                 him
                 in
                 the
                 way
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               TO
               The
               Dutchess
               ,
               On
               Her
               Return
               from
               SCOTLAND
               ,
               In
               the
               Year
               1682.
               
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               DRYDEN
               .
            
             
               WHen
               Factious
               Rage
               to
               cruel
               Exile
               ,
               drove
            
             
               The
               Queen
               of
               Beauty
               ,
               and
               the
               Court
               of
               Love
               ;
            
             
               The
               Muses
               droop'd
               ,
               with
               their
               forsaken
               Arts
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               sad
               Cupids
               broke
               their
               useless
               Darts
               .
            
             
               Our
               fruitful
               Plains
               to
               Wilds
               and
               Desarts
               turn'd
               ,
            
             
               Like
               Edens
               Face
               when
               banish'd
               Man
               it
               mourn'd
               :
            
             
               Love
               was
               no
               more
               when
               Loyalty
               was
               gone
               ,
            
             
               The
               great
               Supporter
               of
               his
               awful
               Throne
               .
            
             
               Love
               cou'd
               no
               longer
               after
               Beauty
               stay
               ,
            
             
               But
               wander'd
               Northward
               to
               the
               verge
               of
               day
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               the
               Sun
               and
               He
               had
               lost
               their
               way
               .
            
             
             
               But
               now
               th'
               Illustrious
               Nymph
               return'd
               again
               ,
            
             
               Brings
               every
               Grace
               Triumphant
               in
               her
               Train
               :
            
             
               The
               wondring
               Nereids
               ,
               tho'
               they
               rais'd
               no
               storm
               ,
            
             
               Foreslow'd
               her
               passage
               to
               behold
               her
               form
               :
            
             
               Some
               cry'd
               a
               Venus
               ,
               some
               a
               Thetis
               past
               :
            
             
               But
               this
               was
               not
               so
               fair
               ,
               nor
               that
               so
               chast
               .
            
             
               Far
               from
               her
               sight
               flew
               Faction
               ,
               Strife
               and
               Pride
               :
            
             
               And
               Envy
               did
               but
               look
               on
               her
               ,
               and
               dy'd
               .
            
             
               What
               e're
               we
               suffer'd
               from
               our
               sullen
               Fate
               ,
            
             
               Her
               sight
               is
               purchas'd
               at
               an
               easie
               rate
               :
            
             
               Three
               gloomy
               Years
               against
               this
               day
               were
               set
               :
            
             
               But
               this
               one
               mighty
               Sum
               has
               clear'd
               the
               Debt
               .
            
             
               Like
               
               Joseph's
               Dream
               ,
               but
               with
               a
               better
               doom
               ;
            
             
               The
               Famine
               past
               ,
               the
               Plenty
               still
               to
               come
               .
            
             
               For
               Her
               the
               weeping
               Heav'ns
               become
               serene
               ,
            
             
               For
               Her
               the
               Ground
               is
               clad
               in
               cheerful
               green
               :
            
             
               For
               Her
               the
               Nightingales
               are
               taught
               to
               sing
               ,
            
             
               And
               Nature
               has
               for
               Her
               delay'd
               the
               Spring
               .
            
             
             
               The
               Muse
               resumes
               her
               long-forgotten
               Lays
               ,
            
             
               And
               Love
               ,
               restor'd
               ,
               his
               Ancient
               Realm
               surveys
               ;
            
             
               Recalls
               our
               Beauties
               ,
               and
               revives
               our
               Plays
               .
            
             
               His
               Wast
               Dominions
               peoples
               once
               again
               ,
            
             
               And
               from
               Her
               Presence
               dates
               his
               second
               Reign
               .
            
             
               But
               awful
               Charms
               on
               her
               fair
               Forehead
               sit
               ,
            
             
               Dispensing
               what
               she
               never
               will
               admit
               .
            
             
               Pleasing
               ,
               yet
               cold
               ,
               like
               
               Cynthia's
               silver
               Beam
               ,
            
             
               The
               Peoples
               Wonder
               ,
               and
               the
               Poet's
               Theam
               .
            
             
               Distemper'd
               Zeal
               ,
               Sedition
               ,
               canker'd
               Hate
               ,
            
             
               No
               more
               shall
               vex
               the
               Church
               ,
               and
               tear
               the
               State
               ;
            
             
               No
               more
               shall
               Faction
               civil
               Discords
               move
               ,
            
             
               Or
               only
               Discords
               of
               too
               tender
               Love
               :
            
             
               Discord
               like
               that
               of
               Musick
               's
               various
               parts
               ,
            
             
               Discord
               that
               makes
               the
               harmony
               of
               Hearts
               ,
            
             
               Discord
               that
               only
               this
               dispute
               shall
               bring
               ,
            
             
               Who
               best
               shall
               love
               the
               Duke
               ,
               and
               serve
               the
               King.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               SONG
               FOR
               St.
               
               CECILIA's
               Day
               ,
               1687.
               
            
             
               Written
               by
               
                 John
                 Dryden
              
               ,
               
                 Esq
              
               And
               Compos'd
               by
               Mr.
               
                 John
                 Baptist
                 Draghi
              
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 FRom
                 Harmony
                 ,
                 from
                 Heav'nly
                 Harmony
              
               
                 This
                 Universal
                 Frame
                 began
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 Nature
                 underneath
                 a
                 heap
              
               
                 Of
                 jarring
                 Atoms
                 lay
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 cou'd
                 not
                 heave
                 her
                 Head
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 tuneful
                 Voice
                 was
                 heard
                 from
                 high
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Arise
                 ye
                 more
                 than
                 dead
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 cold
                 ,
                 and
                 hot
                 ,
                 and
                 moist
                 ,
                 and
                 dry
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 order
                 to
                 their
                 stations
                 leap
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 MUSICK'
                 's
                 Pow'r
                 obey
                 .
              
               
                 From
                 Harmony
                 ,
                 from
                 Heav'nly
                 Harmony
              
               
                 This
                 Universal
                 Frame
                 began
                 :
              
               
                 From
                 Harmony
                 to
                 Harmony
              
               
                 Through
                 all
                 the
                 compass
                 of
                 the
                 Notes
                 it
                 ran
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Diapason
                 closing
                 full
                 in
                 Man.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 What
                 Passion
                 cannot
                 MUSICK
                 raise
                 and
                 quell
                 !
              
               
                 When
                 Jubal
                 struck
                 the
                 corded
                 Shell
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 list'ning
                 Brethren
                 stood
                 around
              
               
                 And
                 wond'ring
                 ,
                 on
                 their
                 Faces
                 fell
              
               
                 To
                 worship
                 that
                 Celestial
                 Sound
                 .
              
               
                 Less
                 than
                 a
                 God
                 they
                 thought
                 there
                 cou'd
                 not
                 dwell
              
               
                 Within
                 the
                 hollow
                 of
                 that
                 Shell
              
               
               
                 That
                 spoke
                 so
                 sweetly
                 and
                 so
                 well
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 Passion
                 cannot
                 MUSICK
                 raise
                 and
                 quell
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 TRUMPETS
                 loud
                 Clangor
              
               
                 Excites
                 us
                 to
                 Arms
              
               
                 With
                 shrill
                 Notes
                 of
                 Anger
              
               
                 And
                 mortal
                 Alarms
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 double
                 double
                 double
                 beat
              
               
                 Of
                 the
                 thundring
                 DRUM
              
               
                 Cries
                 ,
                 heark
                 the
                 Foes
                 come
                 ;
              
               
                 Chare
                 ,
                 Charge
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 too
                 late
                 to
                 retreat
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 soft
                 complaining
                 FLUTE
              
               
                 In
                 dying
                 Notes
                 discovers
              
               
                 The
                 Woes
                 of
                 hopeless
                 Lovers
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Dirge
                 is
                 whisper'd
                 by
                 the
                 warbling
                 LUTE
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 Sharp
                 VIOLINS
                 proclaim
              
               
                 Their
                 jealous
                 Pangs
                 ,
                 and
                 Desperation
                 ,
              
               
                 Fury
                 ,
                 frantick
                 Indignation
                 ,
              
               
                 Depth
                 of
                 Pains
                 ,
                 and
                 height
                 of
                 Passion
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 the
                 fair
                 ,
                 disdainful
                 Dame.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 oh
                 !
                 what
                 Art
                 can
                 teach
              
               
                 What
                 human
                 Voice
                 can
                 reach
              
               
                 The
                 sacred
                 ORGANS
                 praise
                 ?
              
               
                 Notes
                 inspiring
                 holy
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 Notes
                 that
                 wing
                 their
                 Heav'nly
                 ways
              
               
                 To
                 mend
                 the
                 Choires
                 above
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 7.
                 
              
               
                 Orpheus
                 cou'd
                 lead
                 the
                 savage
                 race
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Trees
                 unrooted
                 left
                 their
                 place
                 ;
              
               
                 Sequacious
                 of
                 the
                 Lyre
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 bright
                 CECILIA
                 rais'd
                 the
                 wonder
                 high'r
                 ;
              
               
               
                 When
                 to
                 her
                 ORGAN
                 ,
                 vocal
                 Breath
                 was
                 giv'n
              
               
                 An
                 Angel
                 heard
                 ,
                 and
                 straight
                 appear'd
              
               
                 Mistaking
                 Earth
                 for
                 Heav'n
                 .
              
               
                 Grand
                 CHORUS
              
               
                 
                   As
                   from
                   the
                   pow'r
                   of
                   Sacred
                   Lays
                
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Spheres
                   began
                   to
                   move
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   And
                   sung
                   the
                   great
                   Creator's
                   praise
                
              
               
                 
                   To
                   all
                   the
                   bless'd
                   above
                
                 ;
              
               
                 
                   So
                   when
                   the
                   last
                   and
                   dreadful
                   hour
                
              
               
                 
                   This
                   crumbling
                   Pageant
                   shall
                   devour
                
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 TRUMPET
                 
                   shall
                   be
                   heard
                   on
                   high
                
                 ,
              
               
                 
                   The
                   Dead
                   shall
                   live
                   ,
                   the
                   Living
                   die
                   ,
                
              
               
                 And
                 MUSICK
                 
                   shall
                   untune
                   the
                   Sky
                
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               TO
               Mr.
               DRYDEN
               .
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               
                 JO.
                 ADDISON
              
               .
            
             
               
                 How
                 long
                 ,
                 Great
                 Poet
                 ,
                 shall
                 thy
                 Sacred
                 Lays
                 ,
              
               
                 Provoke
                 our
                 Wonder
                 ,
                 and
                 transcend
                 our
                 Praise
                 ?
              
               
                 Can
                 neither
                 Injuries
                 of
                 Time
                 ,
                 or
                 Age
                 ,
              
               
                 Damp
                 thy
                 Poetick
                 Heat
                 ,
                 and
                 quench
                 thy
                 Rage
                 ?
              
               
                 Not
                 so
                 thy
                 Ovid
                 in
                 his
                 Exile
                 wrote
                 ,
              
               
                 Grief
                 chill'd
                 his
                 Breast
                 ,
                 and
                 checkt
                 his
                 
                   rising
                   Thought
                
                 ;
              
               
                 Pensive
                 and
                 sad
                 ,
                 his
                 drooping
                 Muse
                 betrays
              
               
                 The
                 Roman
                 Genius
                 in
                 its
                 last
                 Decays
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Prevailing
                 Warmth
                 has
                 still
                 thy
                 Mind
                 possest
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 second
                 Youth
                 is
                 kindled
                 in
                 thy
                 Breast
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thou
                 mak'st
                 the
                 Beauties
                 of
                 the
                 Romans
                 known
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 England
                 boasts
                 of
                 Riches
                 not
                 her
                 own
                 ;
              
               
                 Thy
                 Lines
                 have
                 heighten'd
                 
                 Virgil's
                 Majesty
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Horace
                 wonders
                 at
                 himself
                 in
                 Thee
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 teachest
                 Persius
                 to
                 inform
                 our
                 Isle
              
               
                 In
                 smoother
                 Numbers
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 clearer
                 Stile
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Juvenal
                 instructed
                 in
                 thy
                 Page
                 ,
              
               
                 Edges
                 his
                 Satire
                 ,
                 and
                 improves
                 his
                 Rage
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Copy
                 casts
                 a
                 fairer
                 Light
                 on
                 all
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 still
                 out-shines
                 the
                 bright
                 Original
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Now
                 Ovid
                 boasts
                 th'
                 advantage
                 of
                 thy
                 Song
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 tells
                 his
                 Story
                 in
                 the
                 Brittish
                 Tongue
                 ;
              
               
                 Thy
                 charming
                 Verse
                 ,
                 and
                 fair
                 Translations
                 show
              
               
                 How
                 thy
                 own
                 Lawrel
                 first
                 began
                 to
                 grow
                 ;
              
               
                 How
                 wild
                 Lycaon
                 chang'd
                 by
                 angry
                 Gods
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 frighted
                 at
                 himself
                 ,
                 ran
                 howling
                 through
                 the
                 Woods
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 O
                 may'st
                 thou
                 still
                 the
                 Noble
                 Tale
                 prolong
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Age
                 ,
                 nor
                 Sickness
                 interrupt
                 thy
                 Song
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 may
                 we
                 wondring
                 read
                 how
                 Human
                 Limbs
                 ,
              
               
                 Have
                 water'd
                 Kingdoms
                 ,
                 and
                 dissolv'd
                 in
                 Streams
                 ;
              
               
                 Of
                 those
                 rich
                 Fruits
                 that
                 on
                 the
                 Fertile
                 Mould
              
               
                 Turn'd
                 yellow
                 by
                 degrees
                 ,
                 and
                 ripen'd
                 into
                 Gold
                 :
              
               
                 How
                 some
                 in
                 Feathers
                 ,
                 or
                 a
                 ragged
                 Hide
              
               
                 Have
                 liv'd
                 a
                 second
                 Life
                 ,
                 and
                 different
                 Natures
                 try'd
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 will
                 thy
                 Ovid
                 ,
                 thus
                 transform'd
                 ,
                 reveal
              
               
                 A
                 Nobler
                 Change
                 than
                 he
                 himself
                 can
                 tell
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Mag.
                 Coll.
                 Oxon
                 ,
                 
                   June
                   2.
                   1693.
                   
                
              
            
          
           
             
             
               TO
               Mr.
               DRYDEN
               ,
               On
               His
               TRANSLATION
               OF
               PERSIUS
               .
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               
                 B.
                 HIGGONS
              
               .
            
             
               
                 AS
                 Mariners
                 at
                 Sea
                 ,
                 far
                 off
                 descry
              
               
                 Some
                 unknown
                 Land
                 ,
                 and
                 pass
                 regardless
                 by
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Charts
                 some
                 eminent
                 Cape
                 ,
                 or
                 Mountain
                 tell
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 rest
                 but
                 Blanks
                 and
                 Cyphers
                 fill
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 we
                 at
                 distance
                 gloomy
                 Persius
                 view'd
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 none
                 approach'd
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 rough
                 Tracts
                 pursu'd
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Till
                 mighty
                 Dryden
                 ventur'd
                 first
                 on
                 Shoar
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 dark
                 unknown
                 Region
                 did
                 explore
                 :
              
               
                 Drest
                 by
                 thy
                 artful
                 Hand
                 ,
                 he
                 does
                 appear
              
               
                 Bright
                 and
                 perspicuous
                 ,
                 as
                 he
                 is
                 severe
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 this
                 rich
                 Present
                 you
                 oblige
                 our
                 Isle
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 his
                 Urn
                 make
                 Persius
                 Ashes
                 smile
                 ;
              
               
                 By
                 thee
                 preserv'd
                 from
                 the
                 ignoble
                 Grave
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Reputation
                 will
                 his
                 Credit
                 save
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 with
                 another's
                 Arms
                 so
                 keen
                 you
                 fight
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 will
                 your
                 own
                 well-pointed
                 Satire
                 bite
                 ?
              
               
                 Our
                 Vices
                 ,
                 as
                 old
                 
                 Rome's
                 ,
                 are
                 not
                 so
                 few
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 we
                 do
                 wait
                 to
                 be
                 chastis'd
                 by
                 you
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 see
                 unchain'd
                 thy
                 Generous
                 Muse's
                 Rage
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 once
                 t'
                 oblige
                 ,
                 and
                 lash
                 an
                 Impious
                 Age
                 :
              
               
                 What
                 don
                 't
                 the
                 wondring
                 World
                 expect
                 from
                 thee
                 ?
              
               
                 Thou
                 hast
                 more
                 cause
                 ,
                 a
                 greater
                 Persius
                 we
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Nor
                 is
                 thy
                 Talent
                 to
                 our
                 Art
                 confin'd
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Universal
                 as
                 thy
                 boundless
                 Mind
                 :
              
               
                 Thy
                 knowing
                 Muse
                 all
                 sorts
                 of
                 Men
                 does
                 teach
                 ,
              
               
                 Philosophers
                 instructs
                 to
                 live
                 ,
                 Divines
                 to
                 preach
                 ,
              
               
                 States-men
                 to
                 govern
                 ,
                 Generals
                 to
                 fight
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 once
                 Mankind
                 you
                 profit
                 and
                 delight
                 .
              
               
                 Virtue
                 so
                 lovely
                 drest
                 by
                 thee
                 ,
                 doth
                 shine
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 bright
                 appears
                 in
                 each
                 instructing
                 Line
                 :
              
               
                 Vast
                 the
                 Ideas
                 which
                 from
                 thee
                 we
                 take
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 the
                 dull
                 Pulpits
                 no
                 impression
                 make
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 where
                 to
                 Love
                 thy
                 softer
                 thoughts
                 unbend
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 all
                 the
                 Graces
                 on
                 thy
                 Muse
                 attend
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 charming
                 Numbers
                 do
                 our
                 Souls
                 inthrall
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Rigid
                 melt
                 ,
                 and
                 we
                 turn
                 Lovers
                 all
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Cupids
                 dance
                 in
                 ev'ry
                 Ladies
                 eye
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 reading
                 Love
                 as
                 they
                 were
                 acting
                 ,
                 die
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               TO
               Sir
               
                 GODFREY
                 KNELLER
              
               ,
               Drawing
               My
               Lady
               
               Hide
               's
               Picture
               .
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               
                 B.
                 HIGGONS
              
               .
            
             
               THe
               Cyprian
               Queen
               drawn
               by
               
               Apelles's
               hand
               ,
            
             
               Of
               perfect
               Beauty
               did
               the
               Pattern
               stand
               ,
            
             
               But
               then
               bright
               Nymphs
               from
               ev'ry
               part
               of
               Greece
               ,
            
             
               Did
               all
               contribute
               to
               adorn
               the
               Piece
               ,
            
             
               From
               each
               a
               several
               Charm
               the
               Painter
               took
               ,
            
             
               (
               For
               no
               one
               Mortal
               so
               divine
               cou'd
               look
               )
            
             
               But
               ,
               happier
               Kneller
               ,
               Fate
               presents
               to
               you
            
             
               In
               one
               that
               finish'd
               Beauty
               ,
               which
               he
               drew
               .
            
             
               But
               oh
               ,
               take
               heed
               ,
               for
               vast
               is
               the
               design
               ,
            
             
               And
               Madness
               were
               for
               any
               Hand
               but
               thine
               .
            
             
               For
               mocking
               Thunder
               bold
               Salmoneus
               dies
               ,
            
             
               And
               't
               is
               as
               rash
               to
               imitate
               her
               Eyes
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               SONG
               on
               a
               LADY
               Indispos'd
               .
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               
                 B.
                 HIGGONS
              
               .
            
             
               
                 
                 Flavia's
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 like
                 Fires
                 supprest
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 fiercely
                 flame
                 again
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 can
                 her
                 Beauty
                 be
                 decreast
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 alter'd
                 by
                 her
                 Pain
                 ;
              
            
             
               
                 Those
                 various
                 Charms
                 which
                 round
                 her
                 play
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 do
                 her
                 Face
                 adorn
                 ,
              
               
                 Still
                 as
                 they
                 ripned
                 fall
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 Fresh
                 Beauties
                 still
                 are
                 born
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 So
                 doth
                 it
                 with
                 the
                 Lovers
                 fare
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 do
                 the
                 Dame
                 adore
                 ,
              
               
                 One
                 fit
                 of
                 Love
                 kill'd
                 by
                 Despair
                 ,
              
               
                 Another
                 rages
                 more
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               SONG
               TO
               A
               Fair
               ,
               Young
               LADY
               ,
               
                 Going
                 out
                 of
                 the
                 TOWN
              
               In
               the
               SPRING
               .
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               DRYDEN
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 ASK
                 not
                 the
                 Cause
                 ,
                 why
                 sullen
                 Spring
              
               
                 So
                 long
                 delays
                 her
                 Flow'rs
                 to
                 bear
                 ;
              
               
                 Why
                 warbling
                 Birds
                 forget
                 to
                 sing
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Winter
                 Storms
                 invert
                 the
                 Year
                 ?
              
               
               
                 Chloris
                 is
                 gone
                 ;
                 and
                 Fate
                 provides
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 it
                 Spring
                 ,
                 where
                 she
                 resides
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 Chloris
                 is
                 gone
                 ,
                 the
                 Cruel
                 Fair
                 ;
              
               
                 She
                 cast
                 not
                 back
                 a
                 pitying
                 Eye
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 left
                 her
                 Lover
                 in
                 Despair
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 sigh
                 ,
                 to
                 languish
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 die
                 :
              
               
                 Ah
                 ,
                 how
                 can
                 those
                 fair
                 Eyes
                 endure
              
               
                 To
                 give
                 the
                 Wounds
                 they
                 will
                 not
                 cure
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 Great
                 God
                 of
                 Love
                 ,
                 why
                 hast
                 thou
                 made
              
               
                 A
                 Face
                 that
                 can
                 all
                 Hearts
                 command
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 all
                 Religions
                 can
                 invade
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 change
                 the
                 Laws
                 of
                 ev'ry
                 Land
                 ?
              
               
                 Where
                 thou
                 hadst
                 plac'd
                 such
                 Pow'r
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 shou'dst
                 have
                 made
                 her
                 Mercy
                 more
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 When
                 Chloris
                 to
                 the
                 Temple
                 comes
                 ,
              
               
                 Adoring
                 Crowds
                 before
                 her
                 fall
                 ;
              
               
                 She
                 can
                 restore
                 the
                 Dead
                 from
                 Tombs
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ev'ry
                 Life
                 but
                 mine
                 recall
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 only
                 am
                 by
                 Love
                 design'd
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 the
                 Victim
                 for
                 Mankind
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               SONG
               .
            
             
               BY
               
                 My
                 Ld.
              
               R.
               
            
             
               
                 WHile
                 in
                 Divine
                 
                 Panthea's
                 Charming
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 view
                 the
                 naked
                 Boy
                 ,
                 that
                 basking
                 lies
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 grow
                 a
                 God
                 ;
                 so
                 blest
                 ,
                 so
                 blest
                 am
                 I
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Sacred
                 Rapture
                 ,
                 and
                 Immortal
                 Joy
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 absent
                 ,
                 if
                 she
                 shines
                 no
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hides
                 the
                 Suns
                 that
                 I
                 adore
                 ;
              
               
                 Straight
                 ,
                 like
                 a
                 Wretch
                 ,
                 despairing
                 I
              
               
                 Sigh
                 ,
                 Languish
                 in
                 the
                 Shade
                 ,
                 and
                 die
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Oh
                 ,
                 I
                 were
                 lost
                 in
                 endless
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 her
                 bright
                 Presence
                 brought
                 not
                 Light
                 !
              
               
                 Then
                 I
                 revive
                 ,
                 blest
                 as
                 before
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Gods
                 themselves
                 can
                 be
                 no
                 more
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               SONG
               .
            
             
               BY
               
                 My
                 Ld.
              
               R.
               
            
             
               PITY
               ,
               Fair
               Sapho
               ,
               one
               that
               dies
            
             
               A
               Victim
               to
               your
               beauteous
               Eyes
               :
            
             
               For
               while
               on
               them
               I
               dare
               to
               gaze
               ,
            
             
               Their
               dazling
               Glories
               so
               amaze
               ,
            
             
               My
               Soul
               does
               melt
               with
               new
               Desire
               ,
            
             
               I
               rave
               ,
               I
               burn
               with
               secret
               Fire
               ,
            
             
               And
               ,
               Blessing
               the
               dear
               Cause
               ,
               expire
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               PAEAN
               ,
               or
               SONG
               OF
               TRIUMPH
               ,
               ON
               THE
               
                 Translation
                 and
                 Apotheosis
              
               OF
               King
               Charles
               the
               Second
               .
            
             
               
                 By
                 my
                 Ld.
              
               R.
               
            
             
               OMuse
               ,
               to
               whom
               the
               Glory
               does
               belong
               ,
            
             
               To
               make
               Great
               Men
               live
               in
               Immortal
               Song
               !
            
             
               In
               lofty
               Numbers
               ,
               teach
               me
               how
               to
               sing
               ,
            
             
               To
               tune
               the
               Lyre
               ,
               and
               strike
               the
               sounding
               String
               :
            
             
               Good
               Kings
               are
               number'd
               with
               Immortal
               Gods
               ,
            
             
               When
               hence
               translated
               to
               the
               blest
               Abodes
               ;
            
             
             
               For
               Princes
               (
               truly
               Great
               )
               can
               never
               dye
               ,
            
             
               They
               only
               lay
               aside
               Mortality
               :
            
             
               So
               Charles
               the
               Gracious
               is
               not
               dead
               ,
            
             
               But
               to
               his
               Kindred
               Stars
               is
               fled
               ;
            
             
               There
               happy
               ,
               and
               Supremely
               blest
               ,
            
             
               With
               Mighty
               Jove
               ,
               his
               Sire
               ,
               does
               feast
               .
            
             
               See
               how
               with
               Majesty
               Divine
               ,
            
             
               And
               dazling
               Glory
               ,
               his
               bright
               Temples
               shine
               :
            
             
               He
               now
               an
               equal
               God
               ,
               by
               Gods
               is
               Crown'd
               ,
            
             
               While
               Golden
               Harps
               and
               Trumpets
               sound
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               his
               Health
               the
               Nectar-Bowl
               goes
               round
               :
            
             
               Coelestial
               Concerts
               Io-Poean
               sing
               ,
            
             
               And
               Heav'ns
               grand
               Chorus
               makes
               Olympus
               ring
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               OUT
               OF
               HORACE
               .
            
             
               BY
               My
               Ld.
               R.
               
            
             
               
                 HE.
                 
              
               
                 WHile
                 I
                 was
                 Monarch
                 of
                 your
                 Heart
                 ,
              
               
                 Crown'd
                 with
                 a
                 Love
                 ,
                 where
                 none
                 had
                 part
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 Mortal
                 did
                 with
                 Envy
                 die
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 God
                 but
                 wish'd
                 ,
                 that
                 he
                 were
                 I.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 SHE
                 .
              
               
                 While
                 you
                 ador'd
                 no
                 Charms
                 but
                 mine
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 vow'd
                 that
                 they
                 did
                 all
                 out-shine
                 ;
              
               
                 More
                 Celebrated
                 was
                 my
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 that
                 of
                 the
                 bright
                 Grecian
                 Dame.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 HE.
                 
              
               
                 
                 Chloe's
                 the
                 Saint
                 that
                 I
                 implore
                 ,
              
               
                 
                 Chloe's
                 the
                 Goddess
                 I
                 adore
                 ;
              
               
               
                 For
                 whom
                 to
                 die
                 the
                 Gods
                 I
                 pray'd
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 Fates
                 wou'd
                 spare
                 the
                 Charming
                 Maid
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 SHE
                 .
              
               
                 Amyntas
                 is
                 my
                 Lover's
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 whom
                 I
                 burn
                 with
                 mutual
                 Flame
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 whom
                 I
                 twice
                 wou'd
                 die
                 with
                 Joy
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 Fates
                 wou'd
                 spare
                 the
                 Charming
                 Boy
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 HE.
                 
              
               
                 If
                 I
                 once
                 more
                 shou'd
                 wear
                 your
                 Chain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 take
                 my
                 Lydia
                 back
                 again
                 ;
              
               
                 If
                 banish
                 Chloe
                 from
                 my
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 you
                 may
                 there
                 for
                 ever
                 rest
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 SHE
                 .
              
               
                 Tho
                 he
                 is
                 Charming
                 as
                 a
                 God
                 ,
              
               
                 Serene
                 and
                 Gay
                 ,
                 Divinely
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 rough
                 as
                 Billows
                 raging
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 you
                 I
                 chuse
                 to
                 live
                 ,
                 and
                 die
                 ,
              
            
          
           
             
             
               TO
               A
               LADY
               ,
               WHO
               
                 Raffling
                 for
                 the
                 King
                 of
              
               France
               
                 's
                 Picture
                 ,
                 flung
                 the
                 highest
                 Chances
                 on
                 the
                 Dice
                 .
              
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               
                 B.
                 HIGGONS
              
               .
            
             
               FOrtune
               exerts
               her
               utmost
               pow'r
               for
               you
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               cou'd
               she
               more
               for
               her
               own
               Louis
               do
               ;
            
             
               She
               thought
               some
               mighty
               Kingdom
               was
               the
               Stake
               ,
            
             
               And
               did
               this
               throw
               for
               the
               great
               Monarch
               make
               ;
            
             
               But
               as
               all
               Princes
               at
               far
               distance
               woe
               ,
            
             
               First
               send
               their
               Image
               where
               their
               Heart
               is
               due
               :
            
             
               So
               now
               ,
               thrice
               happy
               Nymph
               ,
               wou'd
               you
               resort
               ,
            
             
               Where
               Fate
               invites
               you
               ,
               to
               the
               Gallick
               Court
               :
            
             
             
               That
               lucky
               Genius
               which
               the
               Picture
               gave
               ,
            
             
               Wou'd
               make
               the
               great
               Original
               your
               Slave
               ;
            
             
               He
               ,
               like
               the
               Piece
               ,
               can
               only
               be
               your
               Prize
               ,
            
             
               Who
               never
               yields
               ,
               but
               to
               the
               brightest
               Eyes
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               ON
               My
               Lady
               
               SANDWICH's
               Being
               stay'd
               in
               TOWN
               BY
               THE
               
                 Immoderate
                 Rain
              
               .
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               
                 B.
                 HIGGONS
              
               .
            
             
               THE
               Charming
               Sandwich
               wou'd
               from
               Cities
               fly
               ,
            
             
               While
               at
               her
               Feet
               adoring
               Princes
               lie
               ;
            
             
               And
               all
               her
               Nobler
               Conquests
               wou'd
               forego
               ,
            
             
               Less
               glorious
               Slaves
               ,
               and
               Peasants
               to
               subdue
               :
            
             
               Thus
               Conqu'ring
               Monarchs
               who
               have
               Kingdoms
               won
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               their
               
                 Neighb'ring
                 States
              
               with
               Arms
               o're-run
               ;
            
             
             
               For
               want
               of
               work
               ,
               their
               Armies
               to
               imploy
               ,
            
             
               Remote
               and
               Salvage
               Provinces
               destroy
               :
            
             
               But
               Heav'n
               in
               pity
               weeps
               ,
               while
               we
               complain
               ,
            
             
               Or
               else
               our
               tears
               exhal'd
               ,
               drop
               down
               in
               Rain
               .
            
             
               The
               darkn'd
               Sun
               does
               scarce
               through
               Clouds
               appear
               ,
            
             
               And
               Tempests
               rage
               to
               keep
               our
               Wishes
               here
               .
            
             
               The
               Floods
               free
               passage
               to
               her
               Scorn
               deny
               ,
            
             
               And
               Nature
               disobeys
               her
               Cruelty
               .
            
             
               But
               cou'd
               the
               Waves
               rise
               equal
               to
               our
               Flame
               ,
            
             
               We'd
               drown
               the
               World
               ,
               to
               stop
               the
               flying
               Dame.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               
               OVID's
               Love-Elegies
               .
               BOOK
               I.
               ELEG
               .
               VII
               .
               
                 To
                 his
                 Mistress
                 whom
                 he
                 had
                 beaten
                 .
              
            
             
               By
               
                 Henry
                 Cromwell
              
               ,
               
                 Esq
              
            
             
               COme
               ,
               if
               y'
               are
               Friends
               ,
               and
               let
               these
               hands
               be
               bound
               ,
            
             
               Which
               cou'd
               with
               impious
               Rage
               a
               Mistress
               wound
               ;
            
             
               What
               more
               did
               Ajax
               in
               his
               fury
               do
               ?
            
             
               When
               all
               the
               Sacred
               grazing
               Herd
               he
               slew
               ;
            
             
               Or
               *
               He
               who
               spar'd
               not
               her
               who
               gave
               him
               breath
               ;
            
             
               So
               ill
               the
               Son
               reveng'd
               his
               Father's
               death
               !
            
             
               Then
               I
               had
               broke
               the
               most
               Religious
               Ties
            
             
               Both
               to
               my
               Parents
               ,
               and
               the
               Deities
               :
            
             
             
               I
               tore
               (
               oh
               Heavens
               )
               her
               finely
               braided
               Hair
               ;
            
             
               How
               charming
               then
               look'd
               the
               disorder'd
               Fair
               !
            
             
               So
               Atalanta
               in
               her
               Chase
               is
               drawn
            
             
               Where
               the
               Arcadian
               Beasts
               her
               Empire
               own
               :
            
             
               So
               Ariadne
               ,
               left
               upon
               the
               Shore
               ,
            
             
               Does
               all
               alone
               her
               lost
               Estate
               deplore
               ,
            
             
               Curses
               the
               Winds
               and
               Seas
               which
               perjur'd
               
                 Theseus
                 bore
              
               :
            
             
               Who
               would
               not
               then
               have
               rail'd
               and
               talk'd
               aloud
               ?
            
             
               (
               Which
               to
               the
               helpless
               Sex
               might
               be
               allow'd
               ;
               )
            
             
               She
               only
               did
               upbraid
               me
               with
               her
               Eye
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               speaking
               Tears
               did
               want
               of
               words
               supply
               ,
            
             
               'T
               was
               but
               too
               much
               (
               ye
               Gods
               )
               to
               make
               me
               die
               :
            
             
               O
               that
               some
               merciful
               Superiour
               Pow'r
            
             
               Had
               struck
               me
               lame
               before
               that
               fatal
               hour
               ,
            
             
               And
               not
               have
               suffer'd
               me
               to
               pierce
               my
               Heart
            
             
               So
               deeply
               ,
               in
               the
               best
               and
               tend'rest
               part
               ;
            
             
               To
               make
               a
               Lady
               that
               Subjection
               own
               ,
            
             
               Which
               is
               not
               to
               the
               meanest
               Roman
               known
               ;
            
             
             
               'T
               was
               Diomed
               ,
               who
               first
               a
               Goddess
               strook
               ,
            
             
               I
               from
               his
               hand
               that
               curst
               Example
               took
               ;
            
             
               But
               he
               was
               far
               less
               Criminal
               than
               I
               ,
            
             
               I
               was
               a
               Lover
               ,
               He
               an
               Enemy
               :
            
             
               March
               like
               a
               Conquerour
               in
               Triumph
               now
               ,
            
             
               With
               Lawrel-wreaths
               encompassing
               your
               brow
               ,
            
             
               And
               render
               to
               the
               mighty
               Gods
               your
               Vow
               ;
            
             
               So
               ,
               as
               you
               pass
               ,
               th'
               attending
               gazing
               Crowd
               ,
            
             
               By
               their
               applause
               shall
               speak
               your
               Courage
               loud
               ;
            
             
               Let
               your
               sad
               Captive
               in
               the
               Front
               appear
            
             
               With
               streaming
               Cheeks
               ,
               and
               with
               dishevell'd
               Hair
               ,
            
             
               Through
               all
               her
               Griefand
               Wounds
               most
               eminently
               fair
               .
            
             
               Such
               Lips
               were
               form'd
               for
               kinder
               wounds
               than
               these
               ,
            
             
               Wounds
               made
               by
               Lovers
               furious
               Extasies
               :
            
             
               Though
               like
               a
               Torrent
               I
               was
               hurried
               on
               ,
            
             
               A
               Slave
               to
               Passion
               ,
               which
               I
               cou'd
               not
               shun
               ;
            
             
             
               I
               might
               have
               only
               pierc'd
               her
               tender
               Ear
            
             
               With
               threatning
               Language
               ,
               such
               as
               Virgins
               fear
               :
            
             
               Fear
               having
               chill'd
               the
               current
               of
               her
               blood
               ,
            
             
               Pale
               as
               a
               Parian
               Marble
               Statue
               stood
            
             
               The
               senseless
               Frame
               —
               Then
               shook
               her
               trembling
               Knees
               ,
            
             
               As
               when
               the
               Winds
               do
               whistle
               through
               the
               Trees
               ,
            
             
               Or
               softly
               curl
               the
               surface
               of
               the
               Seas
               :
            
             
               So
               slender
               Rushes
               ,
               easily
               inclin'd
            
             
               By
               every
               blast
               ,
               are
               ruffled
               by
               the
               Wind
               ;
            
             
               Tears
               ,
               which
               suspence
               did
               for
               a
               while
               restrain
               ,
            
             
               Gush'd
               forth
               ,
               and
               down
               her
               Cheeks
               the
               Deluge
               ran
               ,
            
             
               As
               when
               the
               Sun
               does
               by
               a
               pow'rful
               Beam
            
             
               Dissolve
               the
               Frost
               ,
               it
               runs
               into
               a
               Stream
               :
            
             
               The
               lamentable
               Object
               struck
               me
               dead
               ,
            
             
               And
               tears
               of
               Blood
               to
               quench
               those
               tears
               I
               shed
               :
            
             
               Thrice
               at
               her
               feet
               the
               prostrate
               Suppliant
               fell
               ,
            
             
               And
               thrice
               did
               she
               repulse
               the
               Criminal
               :
            
             
             
               What
               wou'd
               I
               not
               ,
               your
               anger
               to
               abate
               ,
            
             
               Redeem
               your
               favour
               ,
               —
               or
               remove
               your
               hate
               ?
            
             
               To
               your
               revenge
               no
               means
               or
               method
               spare
               ;
            
             
               Revenge
               ,
               alas
               !
               is
               easie
               to
               the
               Fair
               :
            
             
               But
               lest
               some
               eloquent
               remaining
               Sign
            
             
               Shou'd
               still
               reproach
               me
               with
               so
               black
               a
               Crime
               ,
            
             
               Let
               no
               disorder
               in
               your
               Face
               appear
               ,
            
             
               From
               your
               bright
               eyes
               let
               there
               not
               'scape
               a
               tear
               ,
            
             
               And
               once
               again
               compose
               your
               scatter'd
               hair
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               
               OVID's
               Love-Elegies
               .
               BOOK
               I.
               ELEG
               .
               VIII
               .
               
                 Of
                 Love
                 and
                 War.
              
               
            
             
               By
               
                 Henry
                 Cromwell
              
               ,
               Esquire
               .
            
             
               TRust
               me
               ,
               my
               Atticus
               ,
               in
               Love
               are
               Wars
               ;
            
             
               And
               Cupid
               has
               his
               Camp
               ,
               as
               well
               as
               Mars
               :
            
             
               The
               Age
               that
               's
               fit
               for
               War
               best
               suits
               with
               Love
               ,
            
             
               The
               old
               in
               both
               unserviceable
               prove
               ,
            
             
               Infirm
               in
               War
               ,
               and
               impotent
               in
               Love
               :
            
             
               The
               Souldiers
               which
               a
               General
               does
               require
            
             
               Are
               such
               as
               Ladies
               wou'd
               in
               Bed
               desire
               :
            
             
               Who
               ,
               but
               a
               Souldier
               and
               a
               Lover
               ,
               can
            
             
               Bear
               the
               Night's
               cold
               in
               show'rs
               of
               Hail
               and
               Rain
               ?
            
             
               One
               in
               continual
               Watch
               his
               station
               keeps
               ,
            
             
               Or
               on
               the
               Earth
               in
               broken
               slumbers
               sleeps
               ;
            
             
             
               The
               other
               takes
               his
               still
               repeated
               round
            
             
               By
               's
               Mistress's
               House
               —
               then
               lodges
               on
               the
               ground
               :
            
             
               The
               Souldiers
               long
               and
               tedious
               Marches
               make
               :
            
             
               The
               active
               Lover
               ,
               for
               his
               Mistress
               sake
               ,
            
             
               Will
               any
               toils
               and
               dangers
               undergo
               ;
            
             
               Not
               rugged
               Mountains
               ,
               nor
               untrodden
               Snow
               ,
            
             
               Rivers
               by
               Floods
               increast
               ,
               no
               raging
               Sea
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               adverse
               Winds
               can
               ever
               make
               him
               stay
               ,
            
             
               When
               Love
               commands
               ,
               and
               Beauty
               leads
               the
               way
               .
            
             
               Souldiers
               and
               Lovers
               ,
               with
               a
               careful
               Eye
               ,
            
             
               Observe
               the
               motions
               of
               the
               Enemy
               :
            
             
               One
               to
               the
               Walls
               makes
               his
               approach
               in
               form
               ,
            
             
               Pushes
               the
               Siege
               ,
               and
               takes
               the
               Town
               by
               Storm
               ;
            
             
               The
               other
               lays
               his
               close
               to
               
               Celia's
               Fort
               ,
            
             
               Presses
               his
               point
               ,
               and
               gains
               the
               wish'd-for
               Port
               :
            
             
               As
               Souldiers
               ,
               when
               the
               Foe
               securely
               lies
            
             
               In
               Sleep
               and
               Wine
               dissolv'd
               ,
               the
               Camp
               surprise
            
             
             
               So
               when
               the
               jealous
               to
               their
               rest
               remove
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               is
               husht
               ,
               —
               the
               others
               steal
               to
               Love
               :
            
             
               Uncertain
               is
               the
               State
               of
               Love
               and
               War
               ,
            
             
               The
               vanquish'd
               rally
               ,
               and
               their
               loss
               repair
               ,
            
             
               Regain
               the
               ground
               ,
               and
               rout
               the
               Conquerour
               .
            
             
               You
               then
               ,
               who
               think
               that
               Love
               's
               an
               idle
               fit
               ,
            
             
               Know
               ,
               that
               it
               is
               the
               exercise
               of
               Wit
               :
            
             
               In
               flames
               of
               Love
               the
               fierce
               Achilles
               burns
               ,
            
             
               And
               quitting
               Arms
               ,
               absent
               Briseis
               mourns
               :
            
             
               From
               the
               Embraces
               of
               Andromache
            
             
               Went
               Hector
               arm'd
               for
               War
               and
               Victory
               :
            
             
               As
               Agamemnon
               saw
               Cassandra
               pass
            
             
               With
               Hair
               dishevell'd
               ,
               and
               disorder'd
               Dress
               ,
            
             
               H'admir'd
               the
               Beauties
               of
               the
               Prophetess
               :
            
             
               The
               God
               of
               War
               was
               caught
               in
               th'
               act
               of
               Love
               ;
            
             
               A
               Story
               known
               to
               all
               the
               Court
               above
               :
            
             
               Once
               did
               I
               pass
               my
               hours
               in
               sloth
               and
               ease
               ,
            
             
               Cool
               Shades
               ,
               and
               Beds
               of
               Down
               cou'd
               only
               please
               ;
            
             
             
               When
               a
               commanding
               Beauty
               rais'd
               my
               mind
               ,
            
             
               I
               left
               all
               little
               trifling
               thoughts
               behind
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               her
               Service
               all
               my
               Heart
               refign'd
               :
            
             
               Since
               ,
               like
               an
               active
               Souldier
               ,
               have
               I
               spent
            
             
               My
               time
               ,
               in
               toils
               of
               War
               ,
               in
               Beauties
               Tent
               ;
            
             
               And
               for
               so
               sweet
               a
               pay
               all
               dangers
               underwent
               :
            
             
               You
               see
               ,
               my
               Atticus
               ,
               by
               what
               I
               prove
               ,
            
             
               Who
               wou'd
               not
               live
               in
               Idleness
               ,
               —
               must
               love
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               
               OVID's
               Love-Elegies
               .
               BOOK
               I.
               ELEG
               .
               X.
               
                 To
                 his
                 Mercenary
                 Mistress
              
               .
            
             
               By
               
                 Henry
                 Cromwell
              
               ,
               Esquire
               .
            
             
               As
               Helen
               ,
               when
               to
               Troy
               she
               did
               escape
               ,
            
             
               And
               Greeks
               with
               Fire
               and
               Sword
               pursu'd
               the
               Rape
               ;
            
             
               As
               Leda
               ,
               when
               the
               God
               his
               
                 Love
                 trick
              
               play'd
               ,
            
             
               Under
               the
               Figure
               of
               a
               Swan
               ,
               betray'd
               ;
            
             
               As
               Amymone
               ,
               wandring
               o're
               the
               Plains
               ,
            
             
               That
               rural
               Fair
               ,
               admir'd
               by
               all
               the
               Swains
               ;
            
             
               So
               fair
               was
               You
               ,
               so
               much
               in
               Love
               was
               I
               ,
            
             
               I
               ran
               to
               the
               extreams
               of
               Jealousie
               ,
            
             
               Fear'd
               Eagles
               ,
               Bulls
               ,
               and
               every
               shape
               that
               Jove
            
             
               Had
               e're
               transform'd
               himself
               into
               ,
               for
               Love
               :
            
             
               Now
               free
               from
               Love
               or
               Fears
               ,
               my
               Mind
               's
               at
               ease
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               does
               that
               Beauty
               any
               longer
               please
               :
            
             
             
               This
               humour
               ,
               you
               may
               say
               ,
               is
               wondrous
               strange
               ,
            
             
               And
               ask
               the
               reason
               of
               this
               sudden
               change
               ;
            
             
               Once
               ,
               when
               your
               undesigning
               Heart
               was
               kind
               ,
            
             
               Fair
               was
               your
               Face
               ,
               and
               perfect
               was
               your
               Mind
               ;
            
             
               But
               now
               the
               slighter
               Beauties
               of
               the
               Skin
            
             
               Do
               yield
               to
               the
               prevailing
               Vice
               within
               :
            
             
               Love
               is
               a
               Child
               ,
               who
               uses
               no
               deceit
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               wears
               he
               Cloaths
               to
               cover
               any
               cheat
               ,
            
             
               Accepts
               no
               bribes
               ;
               —
               why
               for
               a
               wretched
               Fee
            
             
               Shou'd
               you
               then
               prostitute
               his
               Deity
               ?
            
             
               Make
               Venus
               to
               her
               Son
               serve
               every
               day
               ,
            
             
               And
               drudge
               i'
               th'
               meanest
               Offices
               ,
               for
               pay
               ?
            
             
               They
               're
               softly
               bred
               ,
               and
               wou'd
               not
               work
               ,
               but
               play
               :
            
             
               The
               Whore
               ,
               to
               whom
               each
               Purchaser
               has
               right
               ,
            
             
               Forces
               for
               gain
               decaying
               appetite
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               there
               's
               a
               Bawd
               to
               whom
               the
               Spoils
               accrue
               ;
            
             
               She
               fain
               wou'd
               shun
               what
               you
               by
               choice
               pursue
               :
            
             
             
               These
               sordid
               ways
               the
               very
               Brutes
               reprove
               ,
            
             
               Who
               by
               their
               practice
               teach
               you
               how
               to
               love
               ;
            
             
               The
               lusty
               Bull
               his
               Female
               does
               enjoy
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               can
               a
               bribe
               their
               mutual
               Loves
               destroy
               :
            
             
               Woman
               alone
               rejoyces
               in
               the
               Spoil
               ,
            
             
               And
               makes
               advantages
               of
               every
               smile
               ,
            
             
               Rates
               at
               her
               pleasure
               the
               high-priz'd
               delight
               ,
            
             
               And
               Men
               must
               purchase
               every
               happy
               night
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               does
               she
               meet
               him
               with
               as
               much
               desire
               ,
            
             
               And
               no
               less
               fierce
               and
               raging
               is
               the
               fire
               ;
            
             
               Since
               with
               an
               equal
               pace
               our
               passions
               move
               ,
            
             
               Why
               shou'd
               one
               buy
               ,
               and
               th'
               other
               sell
               in
               Love
               ?
            
             
               Why
               ,
               since
               the
               pleasures
               mutual
               ,
               shou'd
               it
               be
            
             
               To
               you
               advantage
               ,
               and
               a
               loss
               to
               me
               ?
            
             
               The
               way
               is
               infamous
               a
               Witness
               takes
               ,
            
             
               Who
               of
               his
               Perjury
               a
               living
               makes
               ;
            
             
               So
               for
               the
               raising
               of
               a
               low
               Estate
            
             
               To
               set
               your
               Body
               at
               a
               common
               rate
               !
            
             
             
               Can
               you
               to
               such
               mean
               ends
               as
               these
               employ
            
             
               The
               gifts
               by
               Nature's
               bounty
               you
               enjoy
               ?
            
             
               Grant
               but
               the
               Blessing
               freely
               ,
               and
               you
               may
            
             
               An
               everlasting
               Obligation
               lay
               ;
            
             
               But
               where
               's
               the
               mighty
               favour
               ,
               when
               we
               pay
               ?
            
             
               Forbear
               ,
               ye
               fair
               ,
               to
               make
               a
               Trade
               of
               Love
               ,
            
             
               The
               Wealth
               that
               's
               got
               so
               ill
               can
               ne're
               improve
               ;
            
             
               Justly
               the
               *
               Vestal
               by
               their
               Armour
               fell
               ,
            
             
               Who
               wou'd
               her
               Honour
               for
               their
               Bracelets
               sell
               :
            
             
               The
               rich
               your
               Wishes
               are
               oblig'd
               to
               meet
               ,
            
             
               And
               lay
               their
               frequent
               Presents
               at
               your
               feet
               ;
            
             
               Alcinous
               Orchards
               Fruit
               enough
               can
               spare
               ,
            
             
               From
               the
               full
               Vines
               the
               Grapes
               in
               clusters
               tear
               ,
            
             
               And
               ease
               th'
               o're-loaded
               boughs
               which
               numerous
            
             
               Apples
               bear
               :
            
             
               Let
               Faith
               and
               Love
               supply
               my
               little
               Store
               ,
            
             
               The
               Will
               shall
               ne're
               be
               wanting
               to
               the
               Pow'r
               :
            
             
             
               Verse
               is
               the
               greatest
               Tribute
               I
               can
               bring
               ;
            
             
               Your
               Charms
               I
               cou'd
               to
               future
               Ages
               sing
               ;
            
             
               Jewels
               and
               Gold
               will
               perish
               ,
               —
               but
               the
               Fame
            
             
               The
               Muses
               give
               shall
               ever
               be
               the
               same
               :
            
             
               You
               check
               my
               generous
               passion
               when
               you
               crave
               ,
            
             
               Not
               that
               I
               'm
               loth
               to
               part
               with
               what
               I
               have
               ,
            
             
               Had
               you
               not
               ask'd
               me
               ,
               I
               had
               freely
               gave
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               
               OVID's
               Love-Elegies
               .
               BOOK
               I.
               ELEG
               .
               XV.
               
                 Of
                 the
                 Immortality
                 of
                 the
                 Muses
                 .
              
               Inscrib'd
               to
               Mr.
               DRYDEN
               .
            
             
               By
               
                 Henry
                 Cromwell
              
               ,
               Esquire
               .
            
             
               THY
               well
               known
               malice
               ,
               fretful
               Envy
               ,
               cease
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               tax
               the
               Muse
               and
               me
               —
            
             
               With
               a
               weak
               Genius
               ,
               and
               inglorious
               ease
               ;
            
             
               What
               —
               I
               shou'd
               then
               ,
               whilst
               Youth
               does
               vigour
               yield
               ,
            
             
               Pursue
               the
               dusty
               Glories
               of
               the
               Field
               :
            
             
               Our
               Father's
               praise
               !
               or
               bend
               my
               utmost
               care
            
             
               To
               the
               dull
               noise
               of
               the
               litigious
               Bar
               ;
            
             
             
               No!
               these
               must
               die
               ;
               —
               but
               the
               most
               noble
               Prize
               ,
            
             
               That
               which
               alone
               can
               Man
               immortalize
               ,
            
             
               Must
               from
               the
               Muses
               Harmony
               arise
               :
            
             
               Homer
               shall
               live
               ,
               whilst
               Tenedos
               shall
               stand
               ,
            
             
               Or
               
               Ida's
               top
               survey
               the
               Neighb'ring
               Strand
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               Simois
               Streams
               along
               the
               Vallies
               glide
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               the
               Sea
               discharge
               their
               rapid
               tide
               :
               —
            
             
               Hesiod
               shall
               live
               ,
               till
               Corn
               is
               not
               in
               use
               ,
            
             
               Till
               the
               plump
               Grape
               denies
               its
               wealthy
               juice
               :
               —
            
             
               The
               World
               Callimachus
               shall
               ever
               prize
               ,
            
             
               For
               what
               his
               Fancy
               wants
               ,
               his
               Art
               supplies
               :
               —
            
             
               The
               Tragedies
               of
               Mighty
               Sophocles
            
             
               Shall
               in
               
                 no
                 Age
              
               their
               just
               applauses
               miss
               :
               —
            
             
               So
               well
               Aratus
               of
               the
               Planets
               wrote
               ,
            
             
               That
               Sun
               and
               Moon
               must
               fail
               when
               he
               's
               forgot
               :
               —
            
             
               When
               crafty
               Davus
               a
               hard
               Father
               cheats
            
             
               To
               serve
               the
               Son
               ,
               —
               when
               easie
               Cully
               treats
            
             
             
               The
               jilting
               Whore
               and
               Bawd
               ,
               the
               figures
               shew
               ,
            
             
               The
               Comick
               from
               
               Menander's
               Model
               drew
               :
               —
            
             
               Ennius
               ,
               whose
               Muse
               by
               Nature
               was
               design'd
            
             
               Compleat
               ,
               had
               Art
               with
               bounteous
               Nature
               joyn'd
               ;
               —
            
             
               And
               Tragick
               Accius
               ,
               of
               Style
               sublime
               ,
            
             
               And
               weighty
               words
               ,
               shall
               stand
               the
               shock
               of
               time
               :
               —
            
             
               Whilst
               
               Jason's
               Golden
               Fleece
               shall
               have
               a
               Name
               ,
            
             
               Who
               shall
               a
               Stranger
               be
               to
               
               Varro's
               Fame
               ?
               —
            
             
               Lucretius
               Nature's
               Causes
               did
               rehearse
            
             
               In
               such
               a
               lofty
               and
               commanding
               Verse
               ,
            
             
               As
               shall
               remain
               till
               that
               one
               fatal
               day
               ,
            
             
               Which
               must
               the
               World
               it self
               in
               ruines
               lay
               :
               —
            
             
               Virgil
               ,
               thy
               Works
               Divine
               shall
               Patterns
               stand
            
             
               For
               each
               succeeding
               Age's
               copying
               Hand
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               Rome
               shall
               all
               its
               conquer'd
               World
               command
               :
               —
            
             
               Whilst
               Capid
               shall
               be
               arm'd
               with
               Bow
               and
               Dart
               ,
            
             
               And
               flaming
               Shafts
               shall
               pierce
               the
               Lovers
               Heart
               ;
            
             
             
               Shall
               we
               ,
               O
               sweet
               Tibullus
               ,
               love
               each
               line
            
             
               That
               comes
               from
               that
               soft
               moving
               Pen
               of
               thine
               :
               —
            
             
               Both
               East
               and
               West
               resound
               with
               Gallus
               Fame
               ,
            
             
               Gallus
               and
               his
               Lycoris
               are
               their
               Theme
               :
               —
            
             
               Statues
               and
               Tombs
               with
               Age
               consume
               and
               die
               ;
            
             
               'T
               is
               Verse
               alone
               has
               Immortality
               :
            
             
               To
               Verse
               must
               yield
               the
               greatest
               acts
               of
               Kings
               ;
            
             
               Riches
               and
               Empire
               are
               but
               empty
               things
               ,
            
             
               Without
               the
               lasting
               Fame
               a
               Poet
               brings
               :
            
             
               Let
               vulgar
               Spirits
               trivial
               Blessings
               chuse
               ;
            
             
               May
               thy
               Castalian
               Spring
               inspire
               my
               Muse
               ,
            
             
               O
               God
               of
               Wit
               !
               and
               Myrtles
               wreath
               my
               hair
               ;
            
             
               Then
               the
               too
               fearful
               Lover
               may
               repair
            
             
               To
               what
               I
               write
               ,
               to
               free
               his
               Breast
               from
               care
               :
            
             
               As
               living
               worth
               Detraction
               still
               attends
               ,
            
             
               Which
               after
               death
               a
               juster
               Fame
               defends
               ;
            
             
               So
               I
               shall
               my
               last
               Funeral
               flame
               survive
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               my
               better
               part
               for
               ever
               live
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               
               OVID's
               Love-Elegies
               .
               BOOK
               III.
               ELEG
               .
               II.
               
                 To
                 his
                 Mistress
                 at
                 the
                 Horse-Race
                 .
              
            
             
               By
               
                 Henry
                 Cromwell
              
               ,
               Esquire
               .
            
             
               
                 NOT
                 in
                 the
                 Circus
                 do
                 I
                 sit
                 to
                 view
              
               
                 The
                 running
                 Horses
                 ,
                 but
                 to
                 gaze
                 on
                 you
                 ;
              
               
                 Near
                 you
                 I
                 chuse
                 an
                 advantageous
                 place
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 whilst
                 your
                 eyes
                 are
                 fixt
                 upon
                 the
                 Race
                 ,
              
               
                 Mine
                 are
                 on
                 you
                 —
                 Thus
                 do
                 we
                 feast
                 our
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 alike
                 pleas'd
                 with
                 Objects
                 of
                 delight
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 softest
                 whispers
                 I
                 my
                 Passion
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 of
                 the
                 Rider
                 talk
                 ,
                 but
                 I
                 of
                 Love.
              
               
                 When
                 ,
                 to
                 please
                 you
                 ,
                 I
                 streight
                 my
                 Subject
                 quit
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 change
                 my
                 Wishes
                 to
                 your
                 Favourite
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Oh
                 might
                 I
                 ride
                 ,
                 and
                 be
                 so
                 much
                 your
                 care
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'd
                 start
                 with
                 courage
                 from
                 the
                 Barrier
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 a
                 swift
                 short
                 compass
                 brush
                 the
                 Goal
                 —
              
               
                 Unless
                 the
                 sight
                 of
                 you
                 my
                 course
                 restrains
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 makes
                 my
                 hands
                 forgo
                 the
                 loosned
                 Reins
                 ;
              
               
                 As
                 Pelops
                 gaz'd
                 on
                 Hippodamia's
                 face
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 he
                 had
                 almost
                 lost
                 th'
                 important
                 Race
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 he
                 his
                 Mistress
                 by
                 her
                 Favour
                 won
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 may
                 our
                 Prize
                 assist
                 us
                 when
                 we
                 run
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 What
                 mean
                 these
                 starts
                 ?
                 you
                 must
                 not
                 ,
                 can't
                 remove
                 ;
              
               
                 This
                 kind
                 auspicious
                 place
                 was
                 fram'd
                 for
                 Love.
              
               
                 I
                 fear
                 you
                 're
                 crowded
                 ,
                 —
                 Gentlemen
                 ,
                 forbear
                 ,
              
               
                 Pray
                 let
                 your
                 Arms
                 and
                 Knees
                 the
                 Lady
                 spare
                 ;
              
               
                 Madam
                 ,
                 your
                 Gown
                 hangs
                 down
                 —
                 nay
                 ,
                 pray
                 let
                 me
                 —
              
               
                 Oh
                 Heavens
                 !
                 what
                 fine
                 ,
                 what
                 curious
                 Legs
                 I
                 see
                 !
              
               
                 Sure
                 ,
                 who
                 Diana
                 in
                 a
                 Forrest
                 drew
                 ,
              
               
                 Coppi'd
                 in
                 this
                 ,
                 the
                 gracefull'st
                 part
                 from
                 you
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Such
                 Atalant
                 discovering
                 as
                 she
                 ran
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 rapt'rous
                 Wishes
                 seiz'd
                 Minalion
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 burn'd
                 and
                 rag'd
                 before
                 —
                 what
                 then
                 are
                 these
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Flames
                 on
                 Flames
                 ,
                 and
                 Waters
                 to
                 the
                 Seas
                 ?
              
               
                 By
                 these
                 a
                 thousand
                 other
                 Charms
                 are
                 guest
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 are
                 so
                 advantageously
                 supprest
                 .
              
               
                 Oh
                 for
                 some
                 air
                 !
                 this
                 scorching
                 heat
                 remove
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Fan
                 wou'd
                 do
                 't
                 —
                 but
                 't
                 is
                 the
                 heat
                 of
                 Love.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 now
                 the
                 Pomp
                 appears
                 ,
                 the
                 Sacred
                 throng
                 ,
              
               
                 Command
                 applauses
                 from
                 the
                 Heart
                 and
                 Tongue
                 ;
              
               
                 First
                 Victory
                 with
                 expanded
                 Wings
                 does
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 near
                 (
                 O
                 Goddess
                 !
                 )
                 to
                 assist
                 my
                 Love
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 Mars
                 let
                 Warriours
                 Acclamations
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 
                   Merchants
                   Tongues
                
                 resound
                 with
                 
                 Neptune's
                 Praise
                 ;
              
               
                 Whilst
                 I
                 ,
                 whom
                 neither
                 Seas
                 nor
                 Arms
                 invite
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Love
                 alone
                 ,
                 the
                 fruit
                 of
                 Peace
                 delight
                 ;
              
               
               
                 To
                 their
                 Apollo
                 let
                 the
                 Prophets
                 pray
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Hunters
                 to
                 Diana
                 Homage
                 pay
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 the
                 Mechanicks
                 to
                 Minerva
                 vow
                 ,
              
               
                 Rusticks
                 to
                 Ceres
                 and
                 to
                 Bacchus
                 bow
                 ;
              
               
                 Whilst
                 I
                 devote
                 my self
                 to
                 thee
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 Kind
                 Venus
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 powerful
                 God
                 thy
                 Son
                 ;
              
               
                 O
                 be
                 propitious
                 to
                 my
                 Enterprise
                 ,
              
               
                 Inform
                 with
                 all
                 thy
                 softness
                 these
                 fair
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 Love's
                 Cause
                 her
                 gentle
                 Breast
                 incline
                 ;
              
               
                 She
                 grants
                 ,
                 and
                 has
                 confirm'd
                 it
                 with
                 a
                 Sign
                 ;
              
               
                 Do
                 you
                 assure
                 it
                 too
                 ,
                 you
                 who
                 're
                 to
                 me
                 ;
              
               
                 (
                 With
                 Venus
                 leave
                 )
                 the
                 mightier
                 Deity
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 all
                 these
                 Heav'nly
                 Witnesses
                 ,
                 to
                 you
              
               
                 Will
                 I
                 be
                 ever
                 faithful
                 ,
                 ever
                 true
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Now
                 in
                 the
                 open
                 Cirque
                 the
                 Game
                 's
                 begun
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Praetor
                 gives
                 the
                 signal
                 ,
                 now
                 they
                 run
                 ;
              
               
               
                 I
                 see
                 which
                 way
                 your
                 Wishes
                 are
                 inclin'd
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 him
                 a
                 certain
                 Conquest
                 is
                 design'd
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 ev'n
                 the
                 Horses
                 seem
                 to
                 know
                 your
                 mind
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 takes
                 too
                 large
                 a
                 compass
                 to
                 come
                 in
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 lets
                 his
                 Adversary
                 get
                 between
                 ;
              
               
                 Recall
                 him
                 ,
                 Romans
                 ,
                 for
                 a
                 second
                 heat
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 clear
                 the
                 Course
                 ,
                 —
              
               
                 Now
                 see
                 your
                 ground
                 you
                 better
                 do
                 maintain
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 Lady's
                 Favour
                 and
                 your
                 Fame
                 regain
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Prize
                 is
                 his
                 ,
                 —
                 As
                 yours
                 successful
                 prove
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 let
                 my
                 Wishes
                 ,
                 which
                 are
                 all
                 for
                 Love
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 'm
                 yet
                 to
                 conquer
                 ,
                 and
                 your
                 Heart
                 's
                 the
                 Prize
                 ;
              
               
                 Something
                 she
                 promis'd
                 with
                 her
                 sparkling
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 smil'd
                 ;
                 —
                 Enough
                 ,
                 did
                 I
                 transported
                 cry
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 rest
                 I
                 'll
                 leave
                 to
                 Opportunity
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               
               OVID's
               Love-Elegies
               .
               BOOK
               III.
               ELEG
               .
               III.
               
                 Of
                 his
                 Perjur'd
                 Mistress
              
               .
            
             
               By
               
                 Henry
                 Cromwell
              
               ,
               Esquire
               .
            
             
               CAn
               there
               be
               Gods
               ?
               —
               has
               she
               not
               falsly
               swore
               ?
            
             
               Yet
               is
               the
               Beauty
               that
               she
               was
               before
               !
            
             
               The
               curious
               Tresses
               of
               her
               dangling
               Hair
               ,
            
             
               As
               long
               and
               graceful
               still
               as
               e're
               they
               were
               ;
            
             
               That
               same
               inimitable
               White
               and
               Red
               ,
            
             
               Which
               o're
               her
               Face
               was
               so
               distinctly
               spread
               ,
            
             
               The
               Roses
               and
               the
               Lillies
               keep
               their
               place
               ,
            
             
               And
               every
               Feature
               still
               as
               justly
               grace
               ,
            
             
               Her
               sparkling
               Eyes
               their
               Lustre
               still
               retain
               ,
            
             
               That
               form
               ,
               that
               perfect
               shape
               does
               still
               remain
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               she
               ne're
               had
               sin'd
               :
               —
               And
               Heav'n
               ,
               (
               't
               is
               plain
               )
            
             
             
               Suff'ring
               the
               fairer
               Sex
               to
               break
               their
               Vows
               ,
            
             
               To
               the
               Superiour
               Power
               of
               Beauty
               bows
               .
            
             
               T'
               inforce
               my
               credit
               to
               her
               Perjuries
               ,
            
             
               Oft
               wou'd
               she
               swear
               by
               those
               persuasive
               Eyes
               ;
            
             
               As
               if
               that
               Charm
               ,
               had
               been
               too
               weak
               to
               move
               ,
            
             
               Sh
               'as
               added
               mine
               ;
               —
               tell
               me
               ,
               ye
               Powers
               above
               ,
            
             
               Why
               all
               this
               pain
               ?
               why
               are
               these
               guiltless
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               For
               her
               Offence
               th'
               attoning
               Sacrifice
               ?
            
             
               Was
               't
               not
               enough
               Andromeda
               has
               dy'd
               ,
            
             
               An
               Expiation
               for
               her
               Mother's
               pride
               ?
            
             
               Is
               't
               not
               enough
               that
               unconcern'd
               you
               see
               ,
            
             
               (
               Vain
               Witnesses
               for
               Truth
               ,
               for
               Faith
               ,
               for
               me
               ,
               )
            
             
               Such
               an
               affront
               put
               on
               Divinity
               ?
            
             
               Yet
               no
               Revenge
               the
               daring
               Crime
               pursue
               ,
            
             
               But
               the
               deceiv'd
               must
               be
               her
               Victim
               too
               .
            
             
               Either
               the
               Gods
               are
               empty
               Notions
               ,
               crept
            
             
               Into
               the
               minds
               of
               Dreamers
               as
               they
               slept
               ,
            
             
             
               In
               vain
               are
               fear'd
               ,
               are
               but
               the
               tricks
               of
               Law
               ,
            
             
               To
               keep
               the
               foolish
               cred'lous
               World
               in
               awe
               ;
            
             
               Or
               ,
               if
               there
               be
               a
               God
               ,
               he
               loves
               the
               Fair
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               things
               at
               their
               sole
               disposal
               are
               .
            
             
               For
               us
               are
               all
               the
               Instruments
               of
               War
            
             
               Design'd
               ,
               the
               Sword
               of
               Mars
               ,
               and
               Pallas
               Spear
               ,
            
             
               'Gainst
               us
               alone
               
               Apollo's
               Bows
               are
               bent
               ,
            
             
               And
               at
               our
               Heads
               
               Jove's
               brandish'd
               Thunder
               sent
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               of
               the
               Ladies
               ,
               oh
               !
               how
               fond
               are
               they
               !
            
             
               Dare
               not
               the
               Injuries
               ,
               they
               receive
               ,
               repay
               ,
            
             
               But
               those
               ,
               who
               ought
               to
               fear
               'em
               ,
               they
               obey
               .
            
             
               Jove
               to
               his
               Votaries
               is
               most
               severe
               ,
            
             
               Temples
               nor
               Altars
               does
               his
               Lightning
               spare
               ,
            
             
               Obliging
               Semele
               in
               Flames
               expires
               ,
            
             
               But
               those
               who
               merit
               ,
               can
               escape
               the
               Fires
               ;
            
             
               Is
               this
               the
               justice
               of
               your
               Powers
               Divine
               ?
            
             
               Who
               then
               will
               offer
               Incense
               at
               a
               Shrine
               ?
            
             
             
               Why
               do
               we
               thus
               reproach
               the
               Deities
               ?
            
             
               Have
               they
               not
               Hearts
               ?
               —
               and
               surely
               they
               have
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               Nay
               had
               I
               been
               a
               God
               ,
               I
               had
               believ'd
            
             
               The
               lovely
               Criminals
               ,
               and
               been
               deceiv'd
               ,
            
             
               Had
               wav'd
               the
               Judgments
               to
               their
               Perj'ries
               due
               ,
            
             
               And
               sworn
               my self
               that
               all
               they
               spoke
               was
               true
               ;
            
             
               Since
               then
               the
               Gods
               such
               ample
               Gifts
               bestow
               ,
            
             
               As
               make
               you
               absolute
               o're
               Men
               below
               ;
            
             
               Pray
               let
               me
               find
               some
               Mercy
               in
               your
               Reign
               ;
            
             
               Or
               spare
               at
               least
               your
               Lover's
               Eyes
               from
               pain
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               TO
               THE
               Lady
               CASTLEMAIN
               ,
               UPON
               
                 Her
                 incouraging
                 his
                 first
                 Play.
              
               
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               DRYDEN
               .
            
             
               AS
               Seamen
               ,
               Shipwrack'd
               on
               some
               happy
               Shore
               ,
            
             
               Discover
               Wealth
               in
               Lands
               unknown
               before
               ;
            
             
               And
               ,
               what
               their
               Art
               had
               labour'd
               long
               in
               vain
               ,
            
             
               By
               their
               Misfortunes
               happily
               obtain
               ;
            
             
               So
               my
               much
               envy'd
               Muse
               ,
               by
               storms
               long
               tost
               ,
            
             
               Is
               thrown
               upon
               your
               hospitable
               Coast
               ,
            
             
               And
               finds
               more
               favour
               by
               her
               ill
               success
               ,
            
             
               Than
               she
               cou'd
               hope
               for
               by
               her
               Happiness
               .
            
             
             
               Once
               
               Cato's
               Vertue
               did
               the
               Gods
               oppose
               ;
            
             
               While
               they
               the
               Victor
               ,
               He
               the
               Vanquish'd
               chose
               :
            
             
               But
               you
               have
               done
               what
               Cato
               cou'd
               not
               do
               ,
            
             
               To
               chuse
               the
               Vanquish'd
               ,
               and
               restore
               him
               too
               .
            
             
               Let
               others
               still
               Triumph
               ,
               and
               gain
               their
               Cause
            
             
               By
               their
               Deserts
               ,
               or
               by
               the
               
                 World's
                 Applause
              
               ;
            
             
               Let
               Merit
               Crowns
               ,
               and
               Justice
               Lawrels
               give
               ,
            
             
               But
               let
               me
               happy
               by
               your
               Pity
               live
               .
            
             
               True
               Poets
               empty
               Fame
               ,
               and
               Praise
               despise
               ,
            
             
               Fame
               is
               the
               Trumpet
               ,
               but
               your
               Smile
               the
               Prize
               :
            
             
               You
               sit
               above
               ,
               and
               see
               vain
               Men
               below
            
             
               Contend
               ,
               for
               what
               you
               only
               can
               bestow
               :
            
             
               But
               those
               great
               actions
               ,
               others
               do
               by
               chance
               ,
            
             
               Are
               ,
               like
               your
               Beauty
               ,
               your
               Inheritance
               :
            
             
               So
               great
               a
               Soul
               ,
               such
               sweetness
               join'd
               in
               one
               ,
            
             
               Cou'd
               only
               spring
               from
               Noble
               Grandison
               :
            
             
               You
               ,
               like
               the
               Stars
               ,
               not
               by
               Reflection
               bright
               ,
            
             
               Are
               born
               to
               your
               own
               Heav'n
               ,
               and
               your
               own
               light
               ;
            
             
             
               Like
               them
               are
               good
               ,
               but
               from
               a
               Nobler
               Cause
               ,
            
             
               From
               your
               own
               Knowledge
               ,
               not
               from
               
               Nature's
               Laws
               .
            
             
               Your
               Pow'r
               you
               never
               use
               ,
               but
               for
               Defence
               ,
            
             
               To
               guard
               your
               own
               ,
               or
               others
               Innocence
               :
            
             
               Your
               Foes
               are
               such
               ,
               as
               they
               ,
               not
               you
               ,
               have
               made
               ,
            
             
               And
               Vertue
               may
               repel
               ,
               tho'
               not
               invade
               .
            
             
               Such
               Courage
               did
               the
               
                 Ancient
                 Heroes
              
               show
               ,
            
             
               Who
               ,
               when
               they
               might
               prevent
               ,
               wou'd
               wait
               the
               blow
               :
            
             
               With
               such
               assurance
               as
               they
               meant
               to
               say
               ,
            
             
               We
               will
               o'recome
               ,
               but
               scorn
               the
               safest
               way
               .
            
             
               What
               further
               fear
               of
               danger
               can
               there
               be
               ,
            
             
               Beauty
               ,
               which
               captives
               all
               things
               ,
               sets
               me
               free
               ?
            
             
               Posterity
               will
               judge
               by
               my
               success
               ,
            
             
               I
               had
               the
               Grecian
               Poet's
               happiness
               ,
            
             
               Who
               ,
               waving
               Plots
               ,
               found
               out
               a
               better
               way
               ,
            
             
               Some
               God
               descended
               ,
               and
               preserv'd
               the
               Play.
            
             
               When
               first
               the
               Triumphs
               of
               your
               Sex
               were
               sung
            
             
               By
               those
               old
               Poets
               ,
               Beauty
               was
               but
               young
               ,
            
             
             
               And
               few
               admir'd
               the
               native
               Red
               and
               White
               ,
            
             
               Till
               Poets
               drest
               them
               up
               ,
               to
               charm
               the
               fight
               ;
            
             
               So
               Beauty
               took
               on
               trust
               ,
               and
               did
               engage
            
             
               For
               Sums
               of
               Praises
               ,
               till
               she
               came
               to
               Age.
            
             
               But
               this
               long
               growing
               Debt
               to
               Poetry
            
             
               You
               justly
               (
               Madam
               )
               have
               discharg'd
               to
               me
               ,
            
             
               When
               your
               Applause
               and
               Favour
               did
               infuse
            
             
               New
               life
               to
               my
               condemn'd
               and
               dying
               Muse.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               PROLOGUE
               TO
               THE
               UNIVERSITY
               OF
               OXFORD
               ,
               1681.
               
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               DRYDEN
               .
            
             
               THE
               fam'd
               Italian
               Muse
               ,
               whose
               Rhymes
               advance
            
             
               Orlando
               ,
               and
               the
               Paladins
               of
               France
               ,
            
             
               Records
               ,
               that
               when
               our
               Wit
               and
               Sense
               is
               flown
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               lodg'd
               within
               the
               Circle
               of
               the
               Moon
            
             
               In
               Earthen
               Jars
               ,
               which
               one
               ,
               who
               thither
               soar'd
               ,
            
             
               Set
               to
               his
               Nose
               ,
               snufft
               up
               ,
               and
               was
               restor'd
               .
            
             
               What
               e're
               the
               Story
               be
               ,
               the
               Moral
               's
               true
               ,
            
             
               The
               Wit
               we
               lost
               in
               Town
               ,
               we
               find
               in
               you
               .
            
             
             
               Our
               Poets
               their
               fled
               Parts
               mày
               draw
               from
               hence
               ,
            
             
               And
               fill
               their
               windy
               Heads
               with
               sober
               Sense
               .
            
             
               When
               London
               Votes
               with
               
               Southwark's
               disagree
               ,
            
             
               Here
               they
               may
               find
               their
               long
               lost
               Loyalty
               .
            
             
               Here
               busie
               Senates
               ,
               to
               th'
               old
               Cause
               inclin'd
               ,
            
             
               May
               snuff
               the
               Votes
               their
               Fellows
               left
               behind
               :
            
             
               Your
               Country
               Neighbours
               ,
               when
               their
               Grain
               grows
               dear
               ,
            
             
               May
               come
               and
               find
               their
               
                 last
                 Provision
              
               here
               :
            
             
               Whereas
               we
               cannot
               much
               lament
               our
               loss
               ,
            
             
               Who
               neither
               carry'd
               back
               ,
               nor
               brought
               one
               Cross
               ;
            
             
               We
               look'd
               what
               Representatives
               wou'd
               bring
               ,
            
             
               But
               they
               help'd
               us
               ,
               just
               as
               they
               did
               the
               King.
            
             
               Yet
               we
               despair
               not
               ,
               for
               we
               now
               lay
               forth
            
             
               The
               
               Sybill's
               Books
               ,
               to
               those
               who
               know
               their
               worth
               :
            
             
               And
               tho
               the
               first
               was
               Sacrific'd
               before
               ,
            
             
               These
               Volumes
               doubly
               will
               the
               price
               restore
               .
            
             
               Our
               Poet
               bade
               us
               hope
               this
               Grace
               to
               find
               ,
            
             
               To
               whom
               by
               long
               Prescription
               you
               are
               kind
               .
            
             
             
               He
               ,
               whose
               undaunted
               Muse
               ,
               with
               Loyal
               Rage
               ,
            
             
               Has
               never
               spar'd
               the
               Vices
               of
               the
               Age
               ,
            
             
               Here
               finding
               nothing
               that
               his
               Spleen
               can
               raise
               ,
            
             
               Is
               forc'd
               to
               turn
               his
               Satire
               into
               Praise
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               PROLOGUE
               .
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               DRYDEN
               .
            
             
               GAllants
               ,
               a
               bashful
               Poet
               bids
               me
               say
            
             
               He
               's
               come
               to
               lose
               his
               Maidenhead
               to
               day
               .
            
             
               Be
               not
               too
               fierce
               ,
               for
               he
               's
               but
               green
               of
               Age
               ;
            
             
               And
               ne're
               ,
               till
               now
               ,
               debauch'd
               upon
               the
               Stage
               .
            
             
               He
               wants
               the
               suff'ring
               part
               of
               Resolution
               ;
            
             
               And
               comes
               with
               blushes
               to
               his
               Execution
               .
            
             
               E're
               you
               deflow'r
               his
               Muse
               ,
               he
               hopes
               the
               Pit
            
             
               Will
               make
               some
               Settlement
               upon
               his
               Wit.
            
             
               Promise
               him
               well
               ,
               before
               the
               Play
               begin
               ;
            
             
               For
               he
               wou'd
               fain
               be
               cozen'd
               into
               Sin.
            
             
               'T
               is
               not
               but
               that
               he
               knows
               you
               mean
               to
               fail
               ;
            
             
               But
               ,
               if
               you
               leave
               him
               after
               being
               frail
               ,
            
             
               He
               'll
               have
               ,
               at
               least
               ,
               a
               fair
               pretence
               to
               rail
               ;
            
             
             
               To
               call
               you
               base
               ,
               and
               swear
               you
               us'd
               him
               ill
               ,
            
             
               And
               put
               you
               in
               the
               new
               Deserters
               Bill
               :
            
             
               Lord
               ,
               what
               a
               Troop
               of
               perjur'd
               Men
               we
               see
               ;
            
             
               Enow
               to
               fill
               another
               Mercury
               !
            
             
               But
               this
               the
               Ladies
               may
               with
               patience
               brook
               :
            
             
               Their's
               are
               not
               the
               first
               Colours
               you
               forsook
               !
            
             
               He
               wou'd
               be
               loath
               the
               Beauties
               to
               offend
               ;
            
             
               But
               ,
               if
               he
               shou'd
               ,
               he
               's
               not
               too
               old
               to
               mend
               .
            
             
               He
               's
               a
               young
               Plant
               ,
               in
               his
               first
               Year
               of
               bearing
               ,
            
             
               But
               his
               Friend
               swears
               ,
               he
               will
               be
               worth
               the
               reering
               .
            
             
               His
               gloss
               is
               still
               upon
               him
               :
               tho
               't
               is
               true
            
             
               He
               's
               yet
               unripe
               ,
               yet
               take
               him
               for
               the
               blue
               .
            
             
               You
               think
               an
               Apricot
               half
               green
               is
               best
               ;
            
             
               There
               's
               sweet
               and
               sour
               :
               and
               one
               side
               good
               at
               least
               .
            
             
               Mango's
               and
               Limes
               ,
               whose
               nourishment
               is
               little
               ,
            
             
               Tho'
               not
               for
               Food
               ,
               are
               yet
               preserv'd
               for
               Pickle
               .
            
             
               So
               this
               green
               Writer
               ,
               may
               pretend
               ,
               at
               least
               ,
            
             
               To
               whet
               your
               Stomachs
               for
               a
               better
               Feast
               .
            
             
             
               He
               makes
               this
               difference
               in
               the
               Sexes
               too
               ,
            
             
               He
               sells
               to
               Men
               ,
               he
               gives
               himself
               to
               you
               .
            
             
               To
               both
               ,
               he
               wou'd
               contribute
               some
               delight
               ;
            
             
               A
               mere
               Poetical
               Hermaphrodite
               .
            
             
               Thus
               he
               's
               equipp'd
               ,
               both
               to
               be
               woo'd
               ,
               and
               woo
               ;
            
             
               With
               Arms
               offensive
               ,
               and
               defensive
               too
               ;
            
             
               'T
               is
               hard
               ,
               he
               thinks
               ,
               if
               neither
               part
               will
               do
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               CONSIDERATIONS
               ON
               THE
               Eighty
               Eighth
               Psalm
               .
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               PRIOR
               .
            
             
               
                 Heavy
                 ,
                 O
                 Lord
                 ,
                 on
                 me
                 thy
                 Judgments
                 lie
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 curs'd
                 I
                 am
                 ;
                 for
                 God
                 neglects
                 my
                 cry
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 Lord
                 ,
                 in
                 Darkness
                 and
                 Despair
                 I
                 groan
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 every
                 place
                 is
                 Hell
                 ;
                 for
                 God
                 is
                 gone
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 Lord
                 ,
                 arise
                 ,
                 and
                 let
                 thy
                 Beams
                 controul
              
               
                 Those
                 horrid
                 Clouds
                 ,
                 that
                 press
                 my
                 frighted
                 Soul
                 :
              
               
                 O
                 rise
                 ,
                 and
                 save
                 me
                 from
                 Eternal
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 that
                 art
                 the
                 God
                 of
                 Light.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Downward
                 I
                 hasten
                 to
                 my
                 destin'd
                 place
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 none
                 obtain
                 thy
                 Aid
                 ,
                 none
                 sing
                 thy
                 Praise
                 .
              
               
               
                 Soon
                 I
                 shall
                 lie
                 in
                 Death's
                 deep
                 Ocean
                 drown'd
                 :
              
               
                 Is
                 Mercy
                 there
                 ;
                 is
                 sweet
                 Forgiveness
                 found
                 ?
              
               
                 O
                 save
                 me
                 yet
                 ,
                 whilst
                 on
                 the
                 brink
                 I
                 stand
                 ;
              
               
                 Rebuke
                 the
                 Storm
                 ,
                 and
                 set
                 me
                 safe
                 to
                 Land.
              
               
                 O
                 make
                 my
                 Longings
                 and
                 thy
                 Mercy
                 sure
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 that
                 art
                 the
                 God
                 of
                 Power
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Behold
                 the
                 wearied
                 Prodigal
                 is
                 come
              
               
                 To
                 Thee
                 ,
                 his
                 Hope
                 ,
                 his
                 Harbour
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Home
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 Father
                 he
                 cou'd
                 find
                 ,
                 no
                 Friend
                 abroad
                 ,
              
               
                 Depriv'd
                 of
                 Joy
                 ,
                 and
                 destitute
                 of
                 God.
              
               
                 O
                 let
                 thy
                 Terrours
                 and
                 his
                 Anguish
                 end
                 !
              
               
                 Be
                 thou
                 his
                 Father
                 ,
                 and
                 be
                 thou
                 his
                 Friend
                 :
              
               
                 Receive
                 the
                 Son
                 thou
                 didst
                 so
                 long
                 reprove
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 that
                 art
                 the
                 God
                 of
                 Love.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 Veni
                 Creator
                 Spiritus
              
               ,
               Translated
               in
               PARAPHRASE
               .
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               DRYDEN
               .
            
             
               
                 CReator
                 Spirit
                 ,
                 by
                 whose
                 aid
              
               
                 The
                 World's
                 Foundations
                 first
                 were
                 laid
                 ,
              
               
                 Come
                 visit
                 ev'ry
                 pious
                 Mind
                 ;
              
               
                 Come
                 pour
                 thy
                 Joys
                 on
                 Human
                 Kind
                 :
              
               
                 From
                 Sin
                 ,
                 and
                 Sorrow
                 set
                 us
                 free
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 thy
                 Temples
                 worthy
                 Thee
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 O
                 ,
                 Source
                 of
                 uncreated
                 Light
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Father
                 's
                 promis'd
                 Paraclite
                 !
              
               
                 Thrice
                 Holy
                 Fount
                 ,
                 thrice
                 Holy
                 Fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 Hearts
                 with
                 Heav'nly
                 Love
                 inspire
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Come
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 Sacred
                 Unction
                 bring
              
               
                 To
                 Sanctifie
                 us
                 ,
                 while
                 we
                 sing
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 Plenteous
                 of
                 Grace
                 ,
                 descend
                 from
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 Rich
                 in
                 thy
                 sev'n-fold
                 Energy
                 !
              
               
                 Thou
                 strength
                 of
                 his
                 Almighty
                 Hand
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Pow'r
                 does
                 Heav'n
                 and
                 Earth
                 command
                 :
              
               
                 Proceeding
                 Spirit
                 ,
                 our
                 Defence
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 do'st
                 the
                 Gift
                 of
                 Tongues
                 dispence
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 crown'st
                 thy
                 Gift
                 ,
                 with
                 Eloquence
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 Refine
                 and
                 purge
                 our
                 Earthy
                 Parts
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 oh
                 ,
                 inflame
                 and
                 fire
                 our
                 Hearts
                 !
              
               
                 Our
                 Frailties
                 help
                 ,
                 our
                 Vice
                 controul
                 ;
              
               
                 Submit
                 the
                 Senses
                 to
                 the
                 Soul
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 Rebellious
                 they
                 are
                 grown
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 lay
                 thy
                 hand
                 ,
                 and
                 hold
                 'em
                 down
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Chace
                 from
                 our
                 Minds
                 th'
                 Infernal
                 Foe
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Peace
                 ,
                 the
                 fruit
                 of
                 Love
                 ,
                 bestow
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 lest
                 our
                 Feet
                 shou'd
                 step
                 astray
                 ,
              
               
                 Protect
                 ,
                 and
                 guide
                 us
                 in
                 the
                 way
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Make
                 us
                 Eternal
                 Truths
                 receive
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 practise
                 ,
                 all
                 that
                 we
                 believe
                 :
              
               
                 Give
                 us
                 thy self
                 ,
                 that
                 we
                 may
                 see
              
               
                 The
                 Father
                 and
                 the
                 Son
                 ,
                 by
                 thee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Immortal
                 Honour
                 ,
                 endless
                 Fame
              
               
                 Attend
                 th'
                 Almighty
                 Father's
                 Name
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Saviour
                 Son
                 ,
                 be
                 glorify'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 for
                 lost
                 Man's
                 Redemption
                 dy'd
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 equal
                 Adoration
                 be
              
               
                 Eternal
                 Paraclete
                 ,
                 to
                 thee
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               The
               CURSE
               of
               BABYLON
               .
               PARAPHRAS'D
               From
               the
               Thirteenth
               Chapter
               OF
               ISAIA
               .
               A
               Pindarique
               ODE
               .
            
             
               BY
               
                 THO.
                 YALDEN.
              
               
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 NOw
                 let
                 the
                 
                   fatal
                   Banner
                
                 be
                 display'd
                 !
              
               
                 Upon
                 some
                 lofty
                 Mountain's
                 top
                 ,
              
               
                 Go
                 set
                 the
                 
                   dreadful
                   Standard
                
                 up
                 !
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 around
                 the
                 Hills
                 ,
                 the
                 
                   bloody
                   Signals
                
                 spread
                 .
              
               
               
                 Forlo
                 ,
                 the
                 numerous
                 Hosts
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 appear
                 !
              
               
                 Th'imbattl'd
                 Legions
                 of
                 the
                 Skie
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 their
                 dread
                 Artillery
                 ,
              
               
                 Draw
                 forth
                 in
                 bright
                 Array
                 ,
                 and
                 muster
                 in
                 the
                 Air.
              
               
                 Why
                 do
                 the
                 Mountains
                 tremble
                 with
                 the
                 noise
                 !
              
               
                 And
                 Valleys
                 eccho
                 back
                 their
                 Voice
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Hills
                 ,
                 tumultuous
                 grow
                 and
                 loud
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Hills
                 that
                 groan
                 beneath
                 the
                 
                   gathering
                   Multitude
                
                 .
              
               
                 Wide
                 as
                 the
                 Poles
                 of
                 Heav'ns
                 extent
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 far
                 's
                 the
                 dreadful
                 Summons
                 sent
                 :
              
               
                 Kingdoms
                 ,
                 and
                 Nations
                 ,
                 at
                 his
                 Call
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 ev'n
                 
                   the
                   Lord
                   of
                   Hosts
                
                 commands
                 in
                 Person
                 there
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 Start
                 from
                 thy
                 Lethargy
                 ,
                 thou
                 drowsie
                 Land
                 ,
              
               
                 Awake
                 ,
                 and
                 hear
                 His
                 dread
                 Command
                 !
              
               
                 Thy
                 black
                 tempestuous
                 Day
                 comes
                 louring
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 O
                 fatal
                 Light
                 !
                 O
                 inauspicious
                 Hour
                 !
              
               
               
                 Was
                 ever
                 such
                 a
                 Day
                 before
                 !
              
               
                 So
                 stain'd
                 with
                 Blood
                 ,
                 by
                 marks
                 of
                 Vengeance
              
               
                 Nature
                 shall
                 from
                 her
                 steady
                 Course
                 remove
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 well-fix'd
                 Earth
                 be
                 from
                 its
                 Basis
                 rent
                 ,
              
               
                 Convulsions
                 shake
                 the
                 Firmament
                 ,
              
               
                 Horrour
                 seize
                 all
                 below
                 ,
                 Confusion
                 reign
                 above
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Stars
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 shall
                 sicken
                 at
                 the
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 shall
                 the
                 Planets
                 yield
                 their
                 light
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 from
                 the
                 wretched
                 Object
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 like
                 extinguish'd
                 Tapers
                 ,
                 quit
                 the
                 
                   darkned
                   Skie
                
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 rising
                 Sun
                 as
                 he
                 was
                 conscious
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 he
                 the
                 fatal
                 bus'ness
                 knew
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 deep
                 ,
                 a
                 bloody
                 Red
                 shall
                 stain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 at
                 his
                 early
                 dawn
                 shall
                 set
                 in
                 Night
                 again
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 destroying
                 Sword
                 
                   I
                   've
                   said
                
                 ,
                 Go
                 forth
                 ,
              
               
                 Go
                 fully
                 execute
                 my
                 Wrath
                 !
              
               
               
                 Command
                 my
                 Hosts
                 ,
                 my
                 willing
                 Armies
                 lead
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 this
                 Rebellious
                 Land
                 and
                 all
                 therein
                 shall
                 bleed
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 shall
                 not
                 grieve
                 me
                 more
                 ,
                 no
                 more
                 transgress
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 will
                 consume
                 the
                 stubborn
                 Race
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 Brutes
                 and
                 Salvages
                 I
                 justly
                 spare
                 ,
              
               
                 Useless
                 is
                 all
                 my
                 Vengeance
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 Ungrateful
                 Man
                 's
                 the
                 greater
                 Monster
                 far
                 .
              
               
                 On
                 guiltless
                 Beasts
                 I
                 will
                 the
                 Land
                 bestow
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 them
                 th'
                 Inheritance
                 shall
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 Those
                 elder
                 Brothers
                 now
                 ,
                 shall
                 Lord
                 it
                 here
                 below
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 if
                 some
                 poor
                 remains
                 escape
                 behind
                 ,
              
               
                 Some
                 Relicts
                 left
                 of
                 lost
                 Mankind
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 astonish'd
                 Herds
                 shall
                 in
                 their
                 Cities
                 cry
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 they
                 behold
                 a
                 Man
                 ,
                 Lo
                 there
                 's
                 a
                 Prodigy
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 Medes
                 I
                 call
                 to
                 my
                 assistance
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 People
                 that
                 delight
                 in
                 War
                 :
              
               
               
                 A
                 generous
                 Race
                 of
                 Men
                 ,
                 a
                 Nation
                 free
              
               
                 From
                 Vitious
                 Ease
                 ,
                 and
                 Persian
                 Luxury
                 .
              
               
                 Silver
                 is
                 despicable
                 in
                 their
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Contemn'd
                 the
                 useless
                 Metal
                 lies
                 :
              
               
                 Their
                 conqu'ring
                 Iron
                 they
                 prefer
                 before
              
               
                 The
                 finest
                 Gold
                 ,
                 even
                 
                 Ophir's
                 tempting
                 Oar.
              
               
                 By
                 these
                 the
                 Land
                 shall
                 be
                 subdu'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Abroad
                 their
                 Bows
                 shall
                 overcome
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Swords
                 and
                 Flames
                 destroy
                 at
                 home
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 neither
                 Sex
                 nor
                 Age
                 shall
                 be
                 exempt
                 from
                 Blood.
              
               
                 The
                 Nobles
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Princes
                 of
                 thy
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 on
                 the
                 Victor's
                 Triumphs
                 wait
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 those
                 that
                 from
                 the
                 Battel
                 fled
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 be
                 with
                 Chains
                 opprest
                 ,
                 in
                 cruel
                 Bondage
                 led
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 visit
                 their
                 Distress
                 with
                 Plagues
                 and
                 Miseries
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 throws
                 that
                 Womens
                 Labours
                 wait
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Convulsive
                 Pangs
                 ,
                 and
                 bloody
                 Sweat
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Beauty
                 shall
                 consume
                 ,
                 and
                 vital
                 Spirits
                 seize
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 ravish'd
                 Virgins
                 shall
                 be
                 born
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 their
                 dishonour'd
                 Wives
                 be
                 led
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 insulting
                 Victor's
                 Bed
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 brutal
                 Lusts
                 expos'd
                 ,
                 to
                 Fury
                 left
                 a
                 Prey
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 shall
                 the
                 teeming
                 Womb
                 afford
              
               
                 Its
                 forming
                 Births
                 a
                 Refuge
                 from
                 the
                 Sword
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Sword
                 ,
                 that
                 shall
                 their
                 pangs
                 increase
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 throws
                 of
                 Travel
                 ,
                 curse
                 with
                 Barrenness
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Infants
                 shall
                 expire
                 with
                 their
                 first
                 breath
              
               
                 And
                 only
                 live
                 in
                 pangs
                 of
                 death
                 :
              
               
                 Live
                 ,
                 but
                 with
                 early
                 crys
                 to
                 curse
                 the
                 Light
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 at
                 the
                 dawn
                 of
                 Life
                 ,
                 set
                 in
                 Eternal
                 Night
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 Even
                 Babylon
                 adorn'd
                 with
                 ev'ry
                 grace
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Beauty
                 of
                 the
                 Universe
                 :
              
               
               
                 Glory
                 of
                 Nations
                 !
                 the
                 Caldeans
                 pride
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 joy
                 of
                 all
                 th'
                 admiring
                 World
                 beside
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 Babylon
                 !
                 before
                 whose
                 Throne
              
               
                 The
                 Empires
                 of
                 the
                 Earth
                 fall
                 down
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 prostrate
                 Nations
                 Homage
                 pay
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Vassal
                 Princes
                 of
                 the
                 World
                 obey
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 that
                 with
                 Empire
                 art
                 exalted
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 Shalt
                 in
                 the
                 dust
                 be
                 trampl'd
                 low
                 :
              
               
                 Abject
                 and
                 low
                 upon
                 the
                 Earth
                 be
                 laid
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 deep
                 in
                 ruines
                 hide
                 thy
                 ignominious
                 Head.
              
               
                 Thy
                 strong
                 amazing
                 Walls
                 ,
                 whose
                 impious
                 height
              
               
                 The
                 Clouds
                 conceal
                 from
                 human
                 sight
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 proudly
                 now
                 their
                 polish'd
                 Turrets
                 rear
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 bright
                 as
                 Neighbouring
                 Stars
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Diffusing
                 Glories
                 round
                 th'
                 inlightn'd
                 Air
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 flames
                 shall
                 downwards
                 to
                 their
                 Center
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 deep
                 within
                 the
                 Earth
                 as
                 their
                 Foundations
                 lie
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 7.
                 
              
               
                 Thy
                 beauteous
                 Palaces
                 (
                 tho'
                 now
                 thy
                 Pride
                 !
                 )
              
               
                 Shall
                 be
                 in
                 heaps
                 of
                 Ashes
                 hid
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 vast
                 surprizing
                 heaps
                 shall
                 lie
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 even
                 their
                 ruines
                 bear
                 the
                 Pomp
                 of
                 Majesty
                 .
              
               
                 No
                 bold
                 Inhabitant
                 shall
                 dare
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 raz'd
                 Foundations
                 to
                 repair
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 pitying
                 hand
                 exalt
                 thy
                 abject
                 State
                 ;
              
               
                 No!
                 to
                 succeeding
                 Times
                 thou
                 must
                 remain
                 ,
              
               
                 An
                 horrid
                 exemplary
                 Scene
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 lie
                 from
                 Age
                 to
                 Age
                 ,
                 ruin'd
                 and
                 desolate
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 fall's
                 decreed
                 ,
                 (
                 amazing
                 turn
                 of
                 Fate
                 !
                 )
              
               
                 Low
                 as
                 
                 Gomorrah's
                 wretched
                 State
                 :
              
               
                 Thou
                 Babylon
                 shalt
                 be
                 like
                 Sodom
                 curst
                 ,
              
               
                 Destroy'd
                 by
                 flames
                 from
                 Heaven
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 more
                 burning
                 Lust.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 8.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 day
                 's
                 at
                 hand
                 ,
                 when
                 in
                 thy
                 sruitful
                 Soil
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Labourer
                 shall
                 reap
                 ,
                 no
                 Mower
                 toil
                 :
              
               
               
                 His
                 Tent
                 the
                 wandring
                 Arab
                 shall
                 not
                 spread
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 make
                 thy
                 cursed
                 Ground
                 his
                 Bed
                 ;
              
               
                 Tho'
                 faint
                 with
                 Travel
                 ,
                 tho'
                 opprest
                 with
                 thirst
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 to
                 his
                 drooping
                 Herds
                 shall
                 cry
                 aloud
                 ,
              
               
                 Taste
                 not
                 of
                 that
                 imbitter'd
                 Flood
                 ,
              
               
                 Taste
                 not
                 Euphrates
                 Streams
                 ,
                 they
                 're
                 pois'nous
                 all
                 and
                 curst
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Shepherd
                 to
                 his
                 wandring
                 Flocks
                 shall
                 say
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 o're
                 thy
                 Battlements
                 they
                 stray
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 in
                 thy
                 Palaces
                 they
                 graze
                 ,
              
               
                 Ah
                 fly
                 unhappy
                 Flocks
                 !
                 fly
                 this
                 infectious
                 place
                 .
              
               
                 Whilst
                 the
                 sad
                 Traveller
                 that
                 passes
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 ask
                 ,
                 lo
                 where
                 is
                 Babylon
                 !
              
               
                 And
                 when
                 he
                 has
                 thy
                 small
                 remainder
                 found
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 say
                 I
                 'll
                 fly
                 from
                 hence
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 sure
                 accursed
                 ground
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 9.
                 
              
               
                 Then
                 shall
                 the
                 Savages
                 and
                 Beasts
                 of
                 Prey
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 their
                 deserted
                 Mountains
                 haste
                 away
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Every
                 obscene
                 and
                 vulger
                 Beast
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 be
                 to
                 Babylon
                 a
                 Guest
                 :
              
               
                 Her
                 Marble
                 Roofs
                 ,
                 and
                 every
                 Cedar
                 Rome
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 Dens
                 ,
                 and
                 Caves
                 of
                 State
                 to
                 Nobler
                 Brutes
                 become
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Courts
                 of
                 Justice
                 ,
                 and
                 Tribunals
                 too
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 O
                 Irony
                 to
                 call
                 them
                 so
                 !
                 )
              
               
                 There
                 ,
                 where
                 the
                 Tyrant
                 and
                 Oppressour
                 bore
              
               
                 The
                 Spoils
                 of
                 Innocence
                 and
                 Blood
                 before
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 shall
                 the
                 Wolf
                 and
                 Savage
                 Tyger
                 meet
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 griping
                 Vulture
                 shall
                 appear
                 in
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 Birds
                 of
                 prey
                 shall
                 rule
                 ,
                 and
                 ravenous
                 Beasts
                 be
                 great
                 .
              
               
                 Those
                 uncorrupted
                 shall
                 remain
                 ,
              
               
                 Those
                 shall
                 alone
                 their
                 genuine
                 use
                 retain
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 Violence
                 shall
                 thrive
                 ,
                 Rapine
                 and
                 Fraud
                 shall
                 reign
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 shall
                 the
                 melancholy
                 Satyrs
                 groan
                 ,
              
               
                 O're
                 their
                 lamented
                 Babylon
                 ;
              
               
               
                 And
                 Ghosts
                 that
                 glide
                 with
                 horrour
                 by
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 view
                 where
                 their
                 unbury'd
                 Bodys
                 lie
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 doleful
                 crys
                 shall
                 fill
                 the
                 Air
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 amazement
                 strike
                 the
                 affrighted
                 Traveller
                 .
              
               
                 There
                 the
                 obscener
                 Birds
                 of
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 Birds
                 that
                 in
                 gloomy
                 Shades
                 delight
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 solitude
                 enjoy
                 ,
                 live
                 undisturb'd
                 by
                 light
                 .
              
               
                 All
                 the
                 ill
                 Omens
                 of
                 the
                 Air
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 scream
                 their
                 loud
                 presages
                 there
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 let
                 them
                 all
                 their
                 dire
                 Predictions
                 tell
                 ,
              
               
                 Secure
                 in
                 ills
                 ,
                 and
                 fortifi'd
                 with
                 woe
                 ,
              
               
                 Heaven
                 shall
                 in
                 vain
                 its
                 future
                 vengeance
                 show
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 Thou
                 art
                 happily
                 insensible
                 ,
              
               
                 Beneath
                 the
                 reach
                 of
                 Miseries
                 fell
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 need'st
                 no
                 desolation
                 dread
                 ,
                 no
                 greater
                 Curses
                 fear
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Out
               of
               
                 Horace
                 ,
                 Lib.
              
               II.
               Ode
               3.
               
            
             
               
                 
                   AEquam
                   Memento
                
                 —
              
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 BE
                 calm
                 ,
                 my
                 Delius
                 ,
                 and
                 serene
                 ,
              
               
                 However
                 Fortune
                 change
                 the
                 Scene
                 !
              
               
                 In
                 thy
                 most
                 dejected
                 state
                 ,
              
               
                 Sink
                 not
                 underneath
                 the
                 weight
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 yet
                 ,
                 when
                 happy
                 Days
                 begin
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 full
                 Tide
                 comes
                 rowling
                 in
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 a
                 fierce
                 unruly
                 Joy
              
               
                 The
                 settled
                 quiet
                 of
                 thy
                 Mind
                 destroy
                 :
              
               
                 However
                 Fortune
                 change
                 the
                 Scene
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 calm
                 ,
                 my
                 Delius
                 ,
                 and
                 serene
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 Be
                 thy
                 Lot
                 good
                 ,
                 or
                 be
                 it
                 ill
                 ,
              
               
                 Life
                 ebbs
                 out
                 at
                 the
                 same
                 rate
                 still
                 :
              
               
               
                 Whether
                 with
                 busie
                 Cares
                 opprest
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 wear
                 the
                 sullen
                 time
                 away
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 whether
                 to
                 sweet
                 Ease
                 and
                 Rest
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 sometimes
                 give
                 a
                 day
                 ;
              
               
                 Carelessly
                 laid
                 ,
              
               
                 Underneath
                 a
                 friendly
                 Shade
              
               
                 By
                 Pines
                 ,
                 and
                 Poplars
                 ,
                 mixt
                 embraces
                 made
                 ;
              
               
                 Near
                 a
                 River's
                 sliding
                 Stream
                 ,
              
               
                 Fetter'd
                 in
                 Sleep
                 ,
                 bless'd
                 with
                 a
                 Golden
                 Dream
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 Here
                 ,
                 here
                 ,
                 in
                 this
                 much
                 envied
                 state
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 every
                 Blessing
                 on
                 thee
                 wait
                 ;
              
               
                 Bid
                 the
                 
                   Syrian
                   Nard
                
                 be
                 brought
                 ,
              
               
                 Bid
                 the
                 Hidden
                 Wine
                 be
                 sought
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 let
                 the
                 Roses
                 short-liv'd
                 Flower
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 smiling
                 Daughter
                 of
                 an
                 Hour
                 ,
              
               
                 Flourish
                 on
                 thy
                 Brow
                 :
              
               
                 Enjoy
                 the
                 very
                 ,
                 very
                 now
                 !
              
               
               
                 While
                 the
                 good
                 Hand
                 of
                 Life
                 is
                 in
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 yet
                 the
                 Fatal
                 Sisters
                 spin
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 A
                 little
                 hence
                 my
                 Friend
                 ,
                 and
                 Thou
              
               
                 Must
                 into
                 other
                 hands
                 resign
              
               
                 Thy
                 Gardens
                 and
                 thy
                 Parks
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 that
                 now
              
               
                 Bears
                 the
                 pleasing
                 name
                 of
                 Thine
                 !
              
               
                 Thy
                 Meadows
                 ,
                 by
                 whose
                 planted
                 Tides
                 ,
              
               
                 Silver
                 Tyber
                 gently
                 glides
                 !
              
               
                 Thy
                 pleasant
                 Houses
                 ;
                 all
                 must
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Gold
                 that
                 's
                 hoarded
                 in
                 'em
                 too
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 jolly
                 Heir
                 shall
                 set
                 it
                 free
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 give
                 th'
                 Imprison'd
                 Monarchs
                 Liberty
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 V.
                 
              
               
                 Nor
                 matters
                 it
                 ,
                 what
                 Figure
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 dost
                 among
                 thy
                 Fellow
                 Mortals
                 bear
                 ;
              
               
                 How
                 thou
                 wert
                 born
                 ,
                 or
                 how
                 begot
                 ;
              
               
                 Impartial
                 Death
                 matters
                 it
                 not
                 :
              
               
               
                 With
                 what
                 Titles
                 Thou
                 dost
                 shine
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 who
                 was
                 First
                 of
                 all
                 thy
                 Line
                 :
              
               
                 Life's
                 vain
                 amusements
                 !
                 amidst
                 which
                 we
                 dwell
                 ;
              
               
                 Not
                 weigh'd
                 ,
                 nor
                 understood
                 ,
                 by
                 the
                 grim
                 God
                 of
              
               
                 Hell
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 VI.
                 
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 Same
                 Road
                 (
                 alas
                 !
                 )
                 All
                 Travel
                 on
                 !
              
               
                 By
                 All
                 alike
                 ,
                 the
                 Same
                 sad
                 Journy
                 must
                 be
                 gon
                 !
              
               
                 Our
                 blended
                 Lots
                 together
                 lie
                 ,
              
               
                 Mingled
                 in
                 One
                 common
                 Urn
                 ;
              
               
                 Sooner
                 or
                 Later
                 out
                 they
                 fly
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 fatal
                 Boat
                 then
                 wafts
                 us
                 to
                 the
                 Shore
                 ,
              
               
                 Whence
                 we
                 never
                 shall
                 return
                 ,
              
               
                 Never
                 !
                 —
                 never
                 more
                 !
              
            
          
           
             
             
               The
               GROVE
               .
            
             
               SEe
               how
               
               Damon's
               Age
               appears
               ,
            
             
               This
               Grove
               declares
               his
               fading
               years
               :
            
             
               For
               this
               he
               planted
               once
               ,
               and
               eat
            
             
               The
               Maiden
               Fruits
               of
               what
               he
               set
               .
            
             
               Young
               It
               was
               then
               ,
               like
               him
               ;
               but
               now
               ,
            
             
               Sapless
               ,
               and
               old
               ,
               is
               every
               Bow.
            
             
               Thus
               ,
               my
               Lesbia
               ,
               will
               it
               be
            
             
               In
               time
               to
               come
               with
               Thee
               ,
               and
               Me.
            
             
               Come
               then
               ,
               in
               Love
               ,
               and
               youthful
               play
            
             
               Let
               's
               pass
               the
               smiling
               Hours
               away
               ,
            
             
               Before
               this
               tender
               Amorous
               Mark
            
             
               Grow
               wide
               upon
               it's
               fading
               Bark
               ;
            
             
               And
               show
               ,
               like
               
               Damon's
               Grove
               ,
               that
               We
            
             
               Are
               Old
               ,
               and
               Gray
               ,
               as
               well
               as
               He.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               Love
               but
               one
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 SEE
                 these
                 two
                 little
                 Brooks
                 that
                 slowly
                 creep
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Snaky
                 Writhings
                 through
                 the
                 Plains
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 knew
                 them
                 once
                 one
                 River
                 swift
                 and
                 deep
                 ,
              
               
                 Blessing
                 and
                 blest
                 by
                 Poets
                 strains
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 Then
                 toucht
                 with
                 awe
                 ,
                 we
                 thought
                 some
                 God
                 did
                 pour
              
               
                 Those
                 Floods
                 out
                 of
                 his
                 Sacred
                 Jar
                 ;
              
               
                 Transforming
                 every
                 Weed
                 into
                 a
                 Flow'r
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 every
                 Flower
                 into
                 a
                 Star.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 since
                 it
                 broke
                 it self
                 ,
                 and
                 double
                 glides
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Naked
                 Banks
                 no
                 dress
                 have
                 worn
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 yon
                 dry
                 barren
                 Mountain
                 now
                 derides
              
               
                 These
                 Vallies
                 ,
                 which
                 lost
                 Glories
                 mourn
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 Such
                 ,
                 Chloris
                 ,
                 is
                 thy
                 Love
                 ;
                 which
                 ,
                 while
                 it
                 ran
                 ,
              
               
                 Confin'd
                 within
                 a
                 single
                 Stream
                 ,
              
               
                 Fir'd
                 every
                 tuneful
                 Son
                 of
                 mighty
                 Pan
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 thou
                 wert
                 mine
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 Mens
                 Theam
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 imparted
                 to
                 one
                 Lover
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 in
                 two
                 Streams
                 did
                 faintly
                 creep
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Shepherds
                 common
                 Muse
                 grew
                 low
                 and
                 poor
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Mine
                 ,
                 as
                 lean
                 as
                 these
                 my
                 Sheep
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 Alas
                 !
                 that
                 Honour
                 ,
                 Chloris
                 ,
                 thou
                 hast
                 lost
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 we
                 to
                 thy
                 full
                 Flood
                 did
                 pay
                 !
              
               
                 While
                 now
                 ,
                 that
                 Swain
                 ,
                 that
                 swears
                 he
                 loves
                 thee
                 most
                 ,
              
               
                 Slakes
                 but
                 his
                 thirst
                 ,
                 and
                 goes
                 away
                 !
              
            
          
           
             
             
               To
               the
               AUTHOR
               of
               
                 SARD
                 AN
                 AP
                 ALUS
              
               ;
               UPON
               That
               ,
               and
               His
               other
               Writings
               .
            
             
               THo'
               Teaching
               thy
               peculiar
               business
               be
               ,
            
             
               Learn
               this
               one
               Lesson
               ,
               Schoolmaster
               ,
               of
               me
               ;
            
             
               Where
               good
               Sense
               fails
               ,
               the
               best
               Description's
               vile
               ;
            
             
               And
               a
               rough
               Verse
               the
               noblest
               Thoughts
               will
               spoil
               .
            
             
               Think
               it
               not
               Genius
               ,
               to
               know
               how
               to
               scan
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               great
               ,
               to
               show
               a
               Monster
               for
               a
               Man.
            
             
               Wound
               not
               the
               Ear
               with
               ill-turn'd
               Prose
               in
               Rhime
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               mistake
               furious
               Fustian
               for
               Sublime
               :
            
             
               Believe
               this
               truth
               ,
               and
               thy
               vain
               tumbling
               quit
               :
            
             
               What
               is
               not
               Reason
               ,
               never
               can
               be
               Wit.
            
             
               From
               the
               
               Boy
               's
               hand
               ,
               take
               Horace
               into
               thine
               ,
            
             
               And
               thy
               rude
               Satires
               by
               his
               Rules
               refine
               .
            
             
               See
               thy
               gross
               faults
               in
               
                 Boy
                 leau
                 's
              
               faithful
               Glass
               ,
            
             
               And
               get
               the
               sense
               ,
               to
               know
               thy self
               an
               Ass.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               OF
               My
               Lady
               HYDE
               .
               Occasion'd
               by
               The
               sight
               of
               Her
               PICTURE
               .
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               
                 George
                 Granville
              
               .
            
             
               
                 THe
                 Painter
                 with
                 Immortal
                 Skill
                 may
                 trace
              
               
                 A
                 
                   Beauteous
                   Form
                
                 ,
                 or
                 shew
                 a
                 
                   Heav'nly
                   Face
                
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Poet's
                 Art
                 ,
                 less
                 straitned
                 and
                 confin'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Can
                 draw
                 the
                 Virtues
                 ,
                 and
                 describe
                 the
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Unlock
                 the
                 Shrine
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 the
                 sight
                 unfold
              
               
                 The
                 Secret
                 Gems
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 the
                 inside
                 Gold.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 This
                 dazling
                 Beauty
                 is
                 a
                 lovely
                 Case
              
               
                 Of
                 shining
                 Virtues
                 ,
                 spotless
                 as
                 her
                 Face
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 Graces
                 that
                 attract
                 ,
                 but
                 not
                 ensnare
                 ,
              
               
                 Divinely
                 Good
                 ,
                 as
                 she
                 's
                 Divinely
                 Fair.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 Two
                 only
                 Patterns
                 do
                 the
                 Muses
                 name
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 perfect
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 but
                 of
                 guilty
                 Fame
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 Venus
                 and
                 a
                 Helen
                 have
                 been
                 seen
                 ,
              
               
                 Both
                 perjur'd
                 Wives
                 ,
                 the
                 Goddess
                 and
                 the
                 Queen
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 this
                 the
                 third
                 ,
                 are
                 reconcil'd
                 at
                 last
              
               
                 Those
                 jarring
                 Attributes
                 of
                 Fair
                 and
                 Chast
                 ;
              
               
                 This
                 matchless
                 Charmer
                 is
                 a
                 beam
                 of
                 Light
                 ,
              
               
                 Without
                 a
                 Cloud
                 or
                 spot
                 ,
                 for
                 ever
                 bright
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 nor
                 affected
                 ,
                 vain
                 ,
                 nor
                 proud
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 greatness
                 ,
                 eafie
                 ,
                 affable
                 ,
                 and
                 good
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Soul
                 ,
                 and
                 Source
                 of
                 all
                 that
                 we
                 admire
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 every
                 Joy
                 ,
                 but
                 hope
                 to
                 our
                 desire
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 the
                 chast
                 Moon
                 ,
                 she
                 shines
                 to
                 all
                 Mankind
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 to
                 Endymion
                 is
                 her
                 Love
                 confin'd
                 ;
              
               
                 What
                 cruel
                 Destiny
                 on
                 Beauty
                 waits
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 on
                 
                   one
                   Face
                
                 depend
                 so
                 many
                 Fates
                 ;
              
               
                 Oblig'd
                 by
                 Honour
                 ,
                 to
                 relieve
                 but
                 One
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 thousands
                 we
                 despair
                 ,
                 and
                 are
                 undone
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               An
               Imitation
               
                 Of
                 the
                 second
              
               Chorus
               ,
               
                 in
                 the
                 second
              
               Act
               of
               Seneca's
               Thyestes
               .
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               
                 George
                 Granville
              
               .
            
             
               
                 AT
                 length
                 the
                 Gods
                 ,
                 propitious
                 to
                 our
                 Pray'rs
                 ,
              
               
                 Compose
                 our
                 Tumults
                 ,
                 and
                 conclude
                 our
                 Wars
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Sons
                 of
                 Inachus
                 repent
                 the
                 Guilt
              
               
                 Of
                 Crowns
                 usurpt
                 ,
                 and
                 blood
                 of
                 Parents
                 spilt
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 Impious
                 Greatness
                 ,
                 Vengeance
                 is
                 in
                 store
                 ,
              
               
                 Short
                 is
                 the
                 date
                 of
                 all
                 ill-gotten
                 Pow'r
                 .
              
               
                 Give
                 ear
                 ,
                 ambitious
                 Princes
                 ,
                 and
                 be
                 wise
                 ,
              
               
                 Listen
                 ,
                 and
                 learn
                 wherein
                 true
                 Greatness
                 lies
                 ;
              
               
                 Place
                 not
                 your
                 Pride
                 in
                 Roofs
                 that
                 shine
                 with
                 Gems
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 purple
                 Robes
                 ,
                 nor
                 sparkling
                 Diadems
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 in
                 Dominion
                 ,
                 nor
                 extent
                 of
                 Land
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 's
                 only
                 Great
                 who
                 can
                 himself
                 command
                 .
              
               
                 Whose
                 Guard
                 is
                 peaceful
                 Innocence
                 ,
                 whose
                 Guide
              
               
                 Is
                 faithful
                 Reason
                 ,
                 who
                 is
                 void
                 of
                 Pride
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Checking
                 Ambition
                 ,
                 nor
                 is
                 idly
                 vain
              
               
                 Of
                 the
                 false
                 Incense
                 of
                 a
                 popular
                 Train
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Who
                 without
                 strife
                 or
                 envy
                 can
                 behold
              
               
                 His
                 Neighbour's
                 Plenty
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 heaps
                 of
                 Gold
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 covets
                 other
                 Wealth
                 ,
                 but
                 what
                 we
                 find
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 Possessions
                 of
                 a
                 Virtuous
                 Mind
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Fearless
                 he
                 sees
                 ,
                 who
                 is
                 with
                 Virtue
                 crown'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Tempest
                 rage
                 ,
                 and
                 hears
                 the
                 Thunder
                 sound
                 ,
              
               
                 Most
                 truly
                 Noble
                 ,
                 who
                 contemning
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 midst
                 of
                 Spears
                 and
                 Javelins
                 keeps
                 his
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 Compos'd
                 and
                 firm
                 he
                 stands
                 ,
                 nor
                 shrinks
                 to
                 feel
              
               
                 The
                 piercing
                 Arrow
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 pointed
                 Steel
                 ;
              
               
                 Disdaining
                 Chance
                 ,
                 regardless
                 he
                 looks
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 Ever
                 the
                 same
                 ,
                 whether
                 she
                 smile
                 ,
                 or
                 frown
                 :
              
               
                 Serenely
                 as
                 he
                 liv'd
                 ,
                 resigns
                 his
                 breath
                 ,
              
               
                 Meets
                 Destiny
                 half
                 way
                 ,
                 nor
                 grieves
                 at
                 Death
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Ye
                 Soveraign
                 Lords
                 ,
                 who
                 sit
                 like
                 Gods
                 in
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 Awing
                 the
                 World
                 ,
                 and
                 bustling
                 to
                 be
                 Great
                 ;
              
               
                 Boast
                 not
                 of
                 Pow'r
                 ,
                 nor
                 of
                 Imperial
                 Sway
                 ,
              
               
                 Vassals
                 your selves
                 ,
                 who
                 every
                 Lust
                 obey
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Reins
                 of
                 Empire
                 ,
                 ill
                 befit
                 those
                 Hands
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Passion
                 governs
                 ,
                 and
                 where
                 Rage
                 commands
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 What
                 is
                 this
                 Fame
                 ,
                 for
                 which
                 our
                 Kings
                 are
                 Slaves
                 ?
              
               
                 The
                 breath
                 of
                 Fools
                 ,
                 and
                 blast
                 of
                 flattering
                 Knaves
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 peaceful
                 Conscience
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 generous
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 the
                 Gifts
                 of
                 Fortune
                 are
                 the
                 best
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 What
                 need
                 of
                 Arms
                 ,
                 and
                 Instruments
                 of
                 War
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 battering
                 Engines
                 which
                 destroy
                 from
                 far
                 ?
              
               
                 Who
                 Lord
                 of
                 his
                 own
                 Appetites
                 can
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 greatest
                 King
                 and
                 Conquerour
                 is
                 He
                 ,
              
               
                 Blest
                 with
                 a
                 Pow'r
                 ,
                 which
                 nothing
                 can
                 destroy
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 each
                 is
                 his
                 own
                 Master
                 to
                 enjoy
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Whom
                 worldly
                 Luxury
                 ,
                 and
                 Pomps
                 allure
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 tread
                 on
                 Ice
                 ,
                 and
                 find
                 no
                 footing
                 sure
                 ;
              
               
                 Place
                 me
                 ,
                 ye
                 Gods
                 ,
                 in
                 some
                 obscure
                 retreat
                 ,
              
               
                 Oh!
                 keep
                 me
                 innnocent
                 ,
                 make
                 others
                 Great
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 quiet
                 shades
                 ,
                 content
                 with
                 Rural
                 Sports
                 ,
              
               
                 Give
                 me
                 a
                 Life
                 ,
                 remote
                 from
                 guilty
                 Courts
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 free
                 from
                 Hopes
                 or
                 Fears
                 ,
                 in
                 humble
                 Ease
                 ,
              
               
                 Unheard
                 of
                 I
                 may
                 live
                 ,
                 and
                 dye
                 in
                 Peace
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Happy
                 the
                 Man
                 ,
                 who
                 thus
                 retir'd
                 from
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 Studies
                 himself
                 ,
                 and
                 seeks
                 no
                 other
                 Light
                 !
              
               
                 But
                 most
                 unhappy
                 He
                 ,
                 who
                 sits
                 on
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 Expos'd
                 to
                 every
                 Tongue
                 ,
                 and
                 every
                 Eye
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Follies
                 blaz'd
                 about
                 ,
                 to
                 all
                 are
                 known
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 are
                 a
                 secret
                 to
                 himself
                 alone
                 :
              
               
                 Worse
                 is
                 an
                 Evil
                 Fame
                 ,
                 much
                 worse
                 ,
                 than
                 none
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 Amor
                 omnibus
                 idem
              
               :
               Or
               ,
               the
               Force
               of
               Love
               in
               all
               Creatures
               ;
               Being
               a
               
                 Translation
                 of
                 some
                 Verses
                 in
              
               Virgil's
               third
               Georgick
               ,
               
                 from
                 Verse
              
               209
               
                 to
                 Verse
              
               285.
               
            
             
               
                 WHether
                 the
                 nobler
                 Horses
                 breed
                 you
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 duller
                 Herds
                 your
                 fertile
                 Pastures
                 graze
                 ;
              
               
                 Nothing
                 will
                 more
                 a
                 vigorous
                 strength
                 produce
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 to
                 forbid
                 them
                 the
                 licentious
                 use
              
               
                 Of
                 Love's
                 enfeebling
                 Rites
                 :
                 Be
                 therefore
                 sure
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Bulls
                 are
                 pastur'd
                 by
                 themselves
                 secure
                 ;
              
               
                 Let
                 some
                 broad
                 River
                 ,
                 or
                 a
                 rising
                 Hill
              
               
                 Be
                 interpos'd
                 ;
                 or
                 let
                 them
                 take
                 their
                 fill
              
               
               
                 In
                 closer
                 Stalls
                 :
                 For
                 wanton
                 Love's
                 desire
              
               
                 Is
                 kindled
                 at
                 the
                 Eyes
                 ;
                 whose
                 wastful
                 fire
              
               
                 Consumes
                 them
                 by
                 degrees
                 ,
                 and
                 makes
                 them
                 slight
              
               
                 Their
                 Food
                 ,
                 while
                 they
                 behold
                 the
                 pleasing
                 sight
                 .
              
               
                 Besides
                 the
                 fierce
                 Encounters
                 that
                 ensue
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 
                   Rival
                   Bulls
                
                 th'
                 alluring
                 Object
                 view
                 :
              
               
                 Who
                 ,
                 both
                 inspir'd
                 with
                 Jealousie
                 and
                 Rage
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 the
                 fair
                 Female
                 bloody
                 Battels
                 wage
                 :
              
               
                 Till
                 with
                 black
                 Blood
                 their
                 sides
                 are
                 cover'd
                 o're
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 their
                 curl'd
                 Foreheads
                 meet
                 with
                 hideous
                 roar
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 neighbouring
                 Groves
                 ,
                 and
                 distant
                 Caves
                 rebound
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 great
                 Olympus
                 ecchos
                 back
                 the
                 sound
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 the
                 glad
                 Victor
                 does
                 the
                 Spot
                 maintain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 of
                 his
                 warlike
                 hazards
                 reaps
                 the
                 gain
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 conquer'd
                 Foe
                 forsakes
                 the
                 Hostile
                 place
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 deep
                 Resentments
                 of
                 his
                 past
                 Disgrace
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 ignominious
                 Wounds
                 the
                 Conquerour
                 gave
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 his
                 griev'd
                 mind
                 no
                 slight
                 Impression
                 leave
                 :
              
               
               
                 Departing
                 he
                 his
                 absent
                 Love
                 does
                 moan
                 ,
              
               
                 Looks
                 back
                 with
                 longing
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 and
                 many
                 a
                 Groan
              
               
                 On
                 those
                 his
                 ancient
                 Realms
                 ,
                 where
                 once
                 he
              
               
                 Rul'd
                 alone
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 with
                 redoubled
                 Care
                 his
                 Strength
                 supplies
                 ,
              
               
                 Rough
                 on
                 the
                 flinty
                 Ground
                 all
                 Night
                 he
                 lies
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Shrubs
                 ,
                 and
                 prickling
                 Thistles
                 for
                 
                   his
                   Food
                
                 suffice
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 runs
                 his
                 Horns
                 into
                 some
                 solid
                 Oak
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 reeling
                 Trunk
                 does
                 scarce
                 sustain
                 the
                 stroke
                 .
              
               
                 With
                 vain
                 Assaults
                 provokes
                 the
                 yielding
                 Air
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 makes
                 his
                 Flourishes
                 before
                 the
                 War.
              
               
                 Then
                 with
                 his
                 Force
                 and
                 Strength
                 prepar'd
                 ,
                 does
                 go
              
               
                 With
                 headlong
                 Rage
                 against
                 th'
                 unwary
                 Foe
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 a
                 white
                 Wave
                 that
                 is
                 defcry'd
                 from
                 far
              
               
                 Rolling
                 its
                 Vastness
                 towards
                 the
                 frighted
                 Shore
                 ;
              
               
                 Till
                 with
                 loud
                 Noise
                 against
                 the
                 pointed
                 Beaks
              
               
                 Of
                 solid
                 Rocks
                 ,
                 the
                 moving
                 Mountain
                 breaks
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Whilst
                 the
                 chaft
                 Billows
                 from
                 the
                 bottom
                 throw
              
               
                 The
                 rising
                 Sands
                 ,
                 that
                 on
                 the
                 Surface
                 flow
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 All
                 Creatures
                 thus
                 the
                 Force
                 of
                 Love
                 do
                 find
                 ;
              
               
                 For
                 ,
                 whether
                 they
                 be
                 those
                 of
                 Human
                 Kind
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 
                   Savage
                   Beasts
                
                 ,
                 or
                 
                 Neptune's
                 spawning
                 Fry
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 wanton
                 Herds
                 ,
                 or
                 painted
                 Birds
                 that
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 all
                 the
                 like
                 transporting
                 Fury
                 try
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 with
                 this
                 Rage
                 the
                 Lyoness
                 is
                 stung
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 o're
                 the
                 Forrest
                 (
                 mindless
                 of
                 her
                 Young
                 )
              
               
                 She
                 sternly
                 stalks
                 :
                 'T
                 is
                 then
                 the
                 shapeless
                 Bear
              
               
                 With
                 fierce
                 desire
                 does
                 to
                 the
                 Woods
                 repair
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wide
                 Destruction
                 makes
                 :
                 'T
                 is
                 then
                 we
                 see
              
               
                 The
                 Savage
                 Boar's
                 and
                 
                 Tyger's
                 Cruelty
                 .
              
               
                 Let
                 then
                 the
                 Sun-burnt
                 Traveller
                 forbear
              
               
                 In
                 
                 Lybia's
                 Sandy
                 Desarts
                 to
                 appear
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 See
                 how
                 the
                 Winds
                 the
                 trembling
                 Stallions
                 fray
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 first
                 to
                 their
                 sagacious
                 Nostrils
                 they
              
               
                 The
                 distant
                 Female's
                 well-known
                 scent
                 convey
                 !
              
               
                 Then
                 no
                 restraining
                 Curbs
                 ,
                 nor
                 cruel
                 blows
              
               
                 Nor
                 hollow
                 Caves
                 ,
                 nor
                 obvious
                 Rocks
                 oppose
              
               
                 Their
                 passage
                 ,
                 nor
                 the
                 Sea
                 's
                 objected
                 Force
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 bears
                 the
                 Mountains
                 down
                 its
                 violent
                 Course
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 
                   Sabine
                   Boar
                
                 does
                 then
                 prepare
                 to
                 wound
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 whets
                 his
                 foamy
                 Tusks
                 ,
                 and
                 paws
                 the
                 Ground
                 :
              
               
                 His
                 Sides
                 against
                 the
                 rugged
                 Trees
                 does
                 tare
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hardens
                 both
                 his
                 Shoulders
                 for
                 the
                 War.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 What
                 does
                 the
                 *
                 Youth
                 in
                 whose
                 enraged
                 Veins
              
               
                 The
                 heat
                 of
                 Love's
                 distemper'd
                 Fever
                 reigns
                 ?
              
               
                 Through
                 stromy
                 Seas
                 he
                 his
                 bold
                 Fortune
                 tries
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho'
                 in
                 his
                 Face
                 the
                 obvioús
                 Billows
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
               
                 And
                 dash
                 him
                 back
                 to
                 Shore
                 ;
                 whilst
                 from
                 the
                 Throne
              
               
                 Of
                 Heav'n
                 its
                 loud
                 Artillery
                 rattles
                 down
              
               
                 On
                 his
                 devoted
                 Head
                 :
                 Nor
                 can
                 the
                 sound
              
               
                 Of
                 Waters
                 which
                 against
                 the
                 Rocks
                 rebound
              
               
                 Recall
                 his
                 desperate
                 Course
                 ,
                 nor
                 all
                 the
                 Tears
              
               
                 Occasion'd
                 by
                 his
                 careful
                 Parents
                 fears
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 his
                 lov'd
                 *
                 Nymph
                 who
                 soon
                 the
                 self-same
                 Fortune
                 shares
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 'T
                 were
                 long
                 to
                 tell
                 the
                 spotted
                 
                 Linx's
                 Wars
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 Love
                 excited
                 :
                 Or
                 the
                 furious
                 Jars
              
               
                 Of
                 prowling
                 Wolves
                 ,
                 or
                 Mastives
                 head-strong
                 Rage
                 :
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 tim'rous
                 Stags
                 will
                 for
                 their
                 Hinds
                 engage
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 most
                 of
                 all
                 in
                 Mares
                 the
                 amorous
                 Fire
              
               
                 Appears
                 ;
                 whom
                 Venus
                 did
                 Her self
                 inspire
                 .
              
               
               
                 What
                 time
                 that
                 
                   Potnian
                   Glaucus
                
                 (
                 to
                 improve
              
               
                 Their
                 speed
                 )
                 with-held
                 them
                 from
                 the
                 Rites
                 of
                 Love
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 Rage
                 incens'd
                 they
                 struck
                 their
                 Master
                 dead
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 on
                 his
                 mangled
                 Limbs
                 by
                 piecemeal
                 fed
                 .
              
               
                 O're
                 craggy
                 Mountains
                 Love
                 their
                 way
                 does
                 guide
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 spurs
                 them
                 through
                 the
                 depths
                 of
                 Rivers
                 wide
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 Spring
                 's
                 soft
                 Fire
                 their
                 melting
                 Marrow
                 burns
              
               
                 (
                 For
                 't
                 is
                 in
                 Spring
                 the
                 lusty
                 warmth
                 returns
                 )
              
               
                 They
                 to
                 the
                 tops
                 of
                 steepest
                 Hills
                 repair
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 wide
                 Nostrils
                 snuff
                 the
                 
                   Western
                   Air
                
                 ,
              
               
                 Wherewith
                 conceiving
                 ,
                 (
                 wonderful
                 to
                 tell
                 )
              
               
                 Without
                 the
                 Stallions
                 help
                 their
                 Bellies
                 swell
                 :
              
               
                 Whose
                 frantick
                 Fury
                 makes
                 them
                 scour
                 amain
              
               
                 O're
                 solid
                 Rocks
                 ,
                 and
                 through
                 the
                 liquid
                 Plain
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Hills
                 ,
                 nor
                 streightning
                 Vales
                 their
                 giddy
                 Course
                 restrain
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 do
                 they
                 tow'rds
                 the
                 Suns
                 uprising
                 steer
              
               
                 Their
                 head-strong
                 way
                 ,
                 nor
                 towards
                 the
                 frozen
                 Bear
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Nor
                 towards
                 the
                 place
                 where
                 tepid
                 Auster
                 pours
              
               
                 Upon
                 the
                 pregnant
                 Earth
                 his
                 plenteous
                 Showers
                 :
              
               
                 Till
                 from
                 their
                 lustful
                 Groins
                 at
                 last
                 does
                 fall
              
               
                 Their
                 Off-spring
                 ,
                 which
                 the
                 Shepherds
                 rightly
                 call
              
               
                 Hippomanes
                 :
                 A
                 slimy
                 ,
                 poisonous
                 Juice
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 muttering
                 Step-Dames
                 in
                 Inchantments
                 use
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 the
                 
                   mystick
                   Cup
                
                 their
                 
                   powerful
                   Herbs
                
                 infuse
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 time
                 is
                 lost
                 ,
                 which
                 never
                 will
                 renew
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 ravish'd
                 ,
                 we
                 the
                 pleasing
                 Theam
                 pursue
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               TO
               Mr.
               CONGREVE
               .
               AN
               EPISTOLARY
               ODE
               .
               Occasion'd
               by
               his
               late
               Play.
               From
               Mr.
               YALDEN.
               
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 FAm'd
                 Wits
                 and
                 Beauties
                 ,
                 share
                 this
                 common
                 fate
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 stand
                 expos'd
                 to
                 publick
                 Love
                 and
                 Hate
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 ev'ry
                 Breast
                 They
                 diff'rent
                 Passions
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 once
                 provoke
                 our
                 Envy
                 ,
                 and
                 our
                 Praise
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 when
                 ,
                 like
                 you
                 ,
                 some
                 noble
                 Youth
                 appears
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Wit
                 and
                 Humour
                 fam'd
                 above
                 his
                 Years
                 :
              
               
                 Each
                 emulous
                 Muse
                 ,
                 that
                 views
                 the
                 Laurel
                 won
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 praise
                 the
                 worth
                 so
                 much
                 transcends
                 their
                 own
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 while
                 his
                 Fame
                 they
                 envy
                 ,
                 add
                 to
                 his
                 renown
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 sure
                 like
                 you
                 ,
                 no
                 youth
                 ,
                 cou'd
                 please
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Nor
                 at
                 his
                 first
                 attempt
                 boast
                 such
                 success
                 :
              
               
                 Where
                 all
                 Mankind
                 have
                 fail'd
                 ,
                 you
                 glories
                 won
                 :
              
               
                 Triumphaut
                 are
                 in
                 this
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 this
                 ,
                 have
                 all
                 the
                 Bards
                 of
                 old
                 outdone
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 II.
                 
              
               
                 Then
                 may'st
                 thou
                 rule
                 our
                 Stage
                 in
                 triumph
                 long
                 ,
              
               
                 May'st
                 Thou
                 it's
                 injur'd
                 Fame
                 revive
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 matchless
                 proofs
                 of
                 Wit
                 ,
                 and
                 Humour
                 ,
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 Reforming
                 with
                 thy
                 Scenes
                 ,
                 and
                 Charming
                 with
                 thy
                 Song
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 tho'
                 a
                 Curse
                 ill-fated
                 Wit
                 persues
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 waits
                 the
                 Fatal
                 Dowry
                 of
                 a
                 Muse
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 may
                 thy
                 rising
                 Fortunes
                 be
              
               
                 Secure
                 from
                 all
                 the
                 blasts
                 of
                 Poetry
                 ;
              
               
                 As
                 thy
                 own
                 Laurels
                 flourishing
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Fear
                 .
              
               
                 Unsully'd
                 still
                 with
                 Cares
                 ,
                 nor
                 clog'd
                 with
                 Hope
                 and
              
               
                 As
                 from
                 its
                 want's
                 be
                 from
                 its
                 Vices
                 free
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 nauseous
                 servil
                 Flattery
                 :
              
               
               
                 Nor
                 to
                 a
                 Patron
                 prostitute
                 thy
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho'like
                 Augustus
                 Great
                 ,
                 as
                 Fam'd
                 Moecenas
                 kind
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 III.
                 
              
               
                 Tho'
                 great
                 in
                 Fame
                 !
                 believe
                 me
                 generous
                 Youth
                 ,
              
               
                 Believe
                 this
                 oft
                 experienc'd
                 Truth
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 him
                 that
                 knows
                 thy
                 Virtues
                 ,
                 and
                 admires
                 their
                 worth
                 .
              
               
                 Tho'
                 Thou'
                 rt
                 above
                 what
                 vulgar
                 Poets
                 fear
                 ,
              
               
                 Trust
                 not
                 the
                 ungrateful
                 World
                 too
                 far
                 ;
              
               
                 Trust
                 not
                 the
                 Smiles
                 of
                 the
                 inconstant
                 Town
                 :
              
               
                 Trust
                 not
                 the
                 Plaudits
                 of
                 a
                 Theater
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Which
                 
                   D
                   —
                   fy
                
                 shall
                 ,
                 with
                 Thee
                 ,
                 and
                 Dryden
                 share
                 )
              
               
                 Nor
                 to
                 a
                 Stages
                 int'rest
                 Sacrifice
                 thy
                 own
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Genius
                 ,
                 that
                 's
                 for
                 Nobler
                 things
                 design'd
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 at
                 loose
                 Hours
                 oblige
                 Mankind
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 great
                 as
                 is
                 thy
                 Fame
                 ,
                 thy
                 Fortunes
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 Joyn
                 thriving
                 int'rest
                 to
                 thy
                 barren
                 Bays
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 teach
                 the
                 World
                 to
                 envy
                 ,
                 as
                 thou
                 do'st
                 to
                 praise
              
               
                 The
                 World
                 ,
                 that
                 does
                 like
                 
                   common
                   Whores
                
                 embrace
                 ,
              
               
                 Injurious
                 still
                 to
                 those
                 it
                 does
                 caress
                 :
              
               
               
                 Injurious
                 as
                 the
                 
                   tainted
                   Breath
                
                 of
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 blasts
                 a
                 Poet's
                 Fortunes
                 ,
                 while
                 it
                 sounds
                 his
                 Name
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 IV.
                 
              
               
                 When
                 first
                 a
                 Muse
                 inflames
                 some
                 Youthful
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 an
                 unpractis'd
                 Virgin
                 ,
                 still
                 she
                 's
                 kind
                 :
              
               
                 Adorn'd
                 with
                 Graces
                 then
                 ,
                 and
                 Beauties
                 blest
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 charms
                 the
                 Ear
                 with
                 Fame
                 ,
                 with
                 Raptures
                 fills
                 the
                 Mind
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 from
                 all
                 Cares
                 the
                 
                   happy
                   Youth
                
                 is
                 free
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 those
                 of
                 Love
                 and
                 Poetry
                 :
              
               
                 Cares
                 ,
                 still
                 allay'd
                 with
                 pleasing
                 Charms
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Crown
                 the
                 Head
                 with
                 Bays
                 ,
                 with
                 Beauty
                 fill
                 the
                 Arms.
              
               
                 But
                 all
                 a
                 Woman's
                 Frailties
                 soon
                 she
                 shows
                 ,
              
               
                 Too
                 soon
                 a
                 stale
                 domestick
                 Creature
                 grows
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 wedded
                 to
                 a
                 Muse
                 that
                 's
                 nauseous
                 grown
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 loath
                 what
                 we
                 enjoy
                 ,
                 druge
                 when
                 the
                 Pleasure
                 's
                 gon
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 tempted
                 with
                 imaginary
                 Bays
                 ,
              
               
                 Fed
                 with
                 immortal
                 Hopes
                 ,
                 and
                 empty
                 Praise
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 Fame
                 pursues
                 ,
                 that
                 fair
                 ,
                 but
                 treacherous
                 ,
                 bait
                 ,
              
               
                 Grows
                 wise
                 ,
                 when
                 he
                 's
                 undone
                 ,
                 repents
                 when'tis
                 too
              
            
             
               
               
                 V.
                 
              
               
                 Small
                 are
                 the
                 Trophies
                 of
                 his
                 boasted
                 Bays
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Great
                 Man's
                 promise
                 ,
                 for
                 his
                 flattering
                 Toyl
                 ,
              
               
                 Fame
                 in
                 reversion
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 publick
                 smile
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 vainer
                 than
                 his
                 Hopes
                 ,
                 uncertain
                 as
                 his
                 Praise
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 thus
                 in
                 Mournful
                 Numbers
                 heretofore
                 ,
              
               
                 Neglected
                 Spencer
                 did
                 his
                 Fate
                 deplore
                 :
              
               
                 Long
                 did
                 his
                 injur'd
                 Muse
                 complain
                 ,
              
               
                 Admir'd
                 in
                 midst
                 of
                 Wants
                 ,
                 and
                 Charming
                 still
                 in
                 vain
              
               
                 Long
                 did
                 the
                 Generous
                 Cowley
                 Mourn
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 long
                 oblig'd
                 the
                 Age
                 without
                 return
                 :
              
               
                 Deny'd
                 what
                 every
                 Wretch
                 obtains
                 of
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 An
                 humble
                 Roof
                 ,
                 and
                 an
                 obscure
                 retreat
                 ,
              
               
                 Condemn'd
                 to
                 
                   needy
                   Fame
                
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 be
                 miserably
                 great
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 did
                 the
                 World
                 thy
                 great
                 Fore-Fathers
                 use
                 ,
              
               
                 Thus
                 all
                 the
                 inspir'd
                 Bards
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 Did
                 their
                 hereditary
                 Ills
                 deplore
                 :
              
               
                 From
                 tuneful
                 Chaucer's
                 ,
                 down
                 to
                 thy
                 own
                 
                 Dryden's
                 Muse.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 VI.
                 
              
               
                 Yet
                 pleas'd
                 with
                 gaudy
                 ruin
                 Youth
                 will
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 proud
                 by
                 publick
                 Fame
                 to
                 be
                 undone
                 :
              
               
                 Pleas'd
                 tho'he
                 does
                 the
                 worst
                 of
                 Labours
                 chuse
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 serve
                 a
                 
                   Barb'rous
                   Age
                
                 ,
                 and
                 an
                 ungrateful
                 Muse.
              
               
                 Since
                 
                 Dryden's
                 self
                 ,
                 to
                 Wit
                 's
                 great
                 Empire
                 born
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Genius
                 and
                 exalted
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 Triumph
                 with
                 all
                 the
                 Spoils
                 of
                 Wit
                 and
                 Fame
                 ;
              
               
                 Must
                 midst
                 the
                 loud
                 Applause
                 his
                 barren
                 Laurels
                 mourn
                 .
              
               
                 Even
                 that
                 Fam'd
                 Man
                 whom
                 all
                 the
                 World
                 admires
                 ,
              
               
                 Whom
                 every
                 Grace
                 adorns
                 ,
                 and
                 Muse
                 inspires
                 :
              
               
                 Like
                 the
                 great
                 injur'd
                 Tasso
                 shows
                 ,
              
               
                 Triumphant
                 in
                 the
                 midst
                 of
                 Woes
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 all
                 his
                 Wants
                 Majestick
                 still
                 appears
                 ,
              
               
                 Charming
                 the
                 Age
                 to
                 which
                 he
                 ows
                 his
                 Cares
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 cherishing
                 that
                 Muse
                 whose
                 
                   fatal
                   Curse
                
                 he
                 bears
                 .
              
               
                 
                   From
                   Mag.
                   Col.
                   Oxon.
                
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               ON
               His
               Mistress
               drown'd
               .
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               S
               —
            
             
               
                 SWeet
                 Stream
                 ,
                 that
                 dost
                 with
                 equal
                 pace
              
               
                 Both
                 thy self
                 fly
                 ,
                 and
                 thy self
                 chace
                 ,
              
               
                 Forbear
                 a
                 while
                 to
                 flow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 listen
                 to
                 my
                 Woe
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Then
                 go
                 ,
                 and
                 tell
                 the
                 Sea
                 that
                 all
                 its
                 brine
              
               
                 Is
                 fresh
                 ,
                 compar'd
                 to
                 mine
                 ;
              
               
                 Inform
                 it
                 that
                 the
                 gentler
                 Dame
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 was
                 the
                 life
                 of
                 all
                 my
                 Flame
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 Glory
                 of
                 her
                 Bud
              
               
                 Has
                 pass'd
                 the
                 fatal
                 Flood
                 .
              
               
               
                 Death
                 by
                 this
                 only
                 stroak
                 triumphs
                 above
              
               
                 The
                 greatest
                 power
                 of
                 Love
                 :
              
               
                 Alas
                 ,
                 alas
                 !
                 I
                 must
                 give
                 o're
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 sighs
                 will
                 let
                 me
                 add
                 no
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 Go
                 on
                 ,
                 sweet
                 Stream
                 ,
                 and
                 henceforth
                 rest
              
               
                 No
                 more
                 than
                 does
                 my
                 troubl'd
                 Breast
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 if
                 my
                 sad
                 Complaints
                 have
                 made
                 thee
                 stay
                 ,
              
               
                 These
                 tears
                 ,
                 these
                 tears
                 shall
                 mend
                 thy
                 way
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               To
               the
               Pious
               Memory
               Of
               the
               Accomplisht
               Young
               LADY
               Mrs.
               
                 ANNE
                 KILLIGREW
              
               .
               EXCELLENT
               In
               the
               two
               Sister-Arts
               of
               Poësie
               ,
               and
               Painting
               .
               An
               ODE
               .
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               DRYDEN
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 THou
                 youngest
                 Virgin-Daughter
                 of
                 the
                 Skies
                 ,
              
               
                 Made
                 in
                 the
                 last
                 Promotion
                 of
                 the
                 Blest
                 ;
              
               
                 Whose
                 Palms
                 ,
                 new
                 pluckt
                 from
                 Paradise
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 spreading
                 Branches
                 more
                 sublimely
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 Rich
                 with
                 Immortal
                 Green
                 above
                 the
                 rest
                 :
              
               
               
                 Whether
                 ,
                 adopted
                 to
                 some
                 Neighbouring
                 Star
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 rol'st
                 above
                 us
                 ,
                 in
                 thy
                 wand'ring
                 Race
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 ,
                 in
                 Procession
                 fixt
                 and
                 regular
                 ,
              
               
                 Mov'd
                 with
                 the
                 Heavens
                 Majestick
                 Pace
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 ,
                 call'd
                 to
                 more
                 Superiour
                 Bliss
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 tread'st
                 ,
                 with
                 Seraphims
                 ,
                 the
                 vast
                 Abyss
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 ever
                 happy
                 Region
                 is
                 thy
                 place
                 ,
              
               
                 Cease
                 thy
                 Celestial
                 Song
                 a
                 little
                 space
                 ;
              
               
                 (
                 Thou
                 wilt
                 have
                 time
                 enough
                 for
                 Hymns
                 Divine
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 Heav'ns
                 Eternal
                 Year
                 is
                 thine
                 .
                 )
              
               
                 Hear
                 then
                 a
                 Mortal
                 Muse
                 thy
                 Praise
                 rehearse
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 no
                 ignoble
                 Verse
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 such
                 as
                 thy
                 own
                 voice
                 did
                 practise
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 thy
                 first
                 Fruits
                 of
                 Poesie
                 were
                 giv'n
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 make
                 thy self
                 a
                 welcome
                 Inmate
                 there
                 :
              
               
                 While
                 yet
                 a
                 young
                 Probationer
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Candidate
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 If
                 by
                 Traduction
                 came
                 thy
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 Wonder
                 is
                 the
                 less
                 to
                 find
              
               
                 A
                 Soul
                 so
                 charming
                 from
                 a
                 Stock
                 so
                 good
                 ;
              
               
                 Thy
                 Father
                 was
                 transfus'd
                 into
                 thy
                 Blood
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 wert
                 thou
                 born
                 into
                 the
                 tuneful
                 strain
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 An
                 early
                 ,
                 rich
                 ,
                 and
                 inexhausted
                 Vein
                 .
                 )
              
               
                 But
                 if
                 thy
                 Praeexisting
                 Soul
              
               
                 Was
                 form'd
                 ,
                 at
                 first
                 ,
                 with
                 Myriads
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 did
                 through
                 all
                 the
                 Mighty
                 Poets
                 roul
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 Greek
                 or
                 Latine
                 Laurels
                 wore
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 was
                 that
                 Sappho
                 last
                 ,
                 which
                 once
                 it
                 was
                 before
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 so
                 ,
                 then
                 cease
                 thy
                 flight
                 ,
                 
                   O
                   Heav'n-born
                   Mind
                
                 !
              
               
                 Thou
                 hast
                 no
                 Dross
                 to
                 purge
                 from
                 thy
                 Rich
                 Ore
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 can
                 thy
                 Soul
                 a
                 fairer
                 Mansion
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 was
                 the
                 Beauteous
                 Frame
                 she
                 left
                 behind
                 :
              
               
                 Return
                 ,
                 to
                 fill
                 or
                 mend
                 the
                 Quire
                 ,
                 of
                 thy
                 Celestial
                 kind
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 May
                 we
                 presume
                 to
                 say
                 ,
                 that
                 at
                 thy
                 Birth
                 ,
              
               
                 New
                 joy
                 was
                 sprung
                 in
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 as
                 well
                 as
                 here
                 on
                 Earth
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 sure
                 the
                 Milder
                 Planets
                 did
                 combine
              
               
                 On
                 thy
                 Auspicious
                 Horoscope
                 to
                 shine
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ev'n
                 the
                 most
                 Malicious
                 were
                 in
                 Trine
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Brother-Angels
                 at
                 thy
                 Birth
              
               
                 Strung
                 each
                 his
                 Lyre
                 ,
                 and
                 tun'd
                 it
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 all
                 the
                 People
                 of
                 the
                 Skie
              
               
                 Might
                 know
                 a
                 Poetess
                 was
                 born
                 on
                 Earth
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 if
                 ever
                 ,
                 Mortal
                 Ears
              
               
                 Had
                 heard
                 the
                 Musick
                 of
                 the
                 Spheres
                 !
              
               
                 And
                 if
                 no
                 clust'ring
                 Swarm
                 of
                 Bees
              
               
                 On
                 thy
                 sweet
                 Mouth
                 distill'd
                 their
                 golden
                 Dew
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 that
                 ,
                 such
                 vulgar
                 Miracles
                 ,
              
               
                 Heav'n
                 had
                 not
                 Leasure
                 to
                 renew
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 all
                 the
                 Blest
                 Fraternity
                 of
                 Love
              
               
                 Solemniz'd
                 there
                 thy
                 Birth
                 ,
                 and
                 kept
                 thy
                 Holyday
                 above
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 O
                 Gracious
                 God!
                 How
                 far
                 have
                 we
              
               
                 Prophan'd
                 thy
                 Heav'nly
                 Gift
                 of
                 Poesy
                 ?
              
               
                 Made
                 prostitute
                 and
                 profligate
                 the
                 Muse
                 ,
              
               
                 Debas'd
                 to
                 each
                 obscene
                 and
                 impious
                 use
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Harmony
                 was
                 first
                 ordain'd
                 Above
              
               
                 For
                 Tongues
                 of
                 Angels
                 ,
                 and
                 for
                 Hymns
                 of
                 Love
                 ?
              
               
                 O
                 wretched
                 We
                 !
                 why
                 were
                 we
                 hurry'd
                 down
              
               
                 This
                 lubrique
                 and
                 adult'rate
                 age
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Nay
                 added
                 fat
                 Pollutions
                 of
                 our
                 own
                 )
              
               
                 T'
                 increase
                 the
                 steaming
                 Ordures
                 of
                 the
                 Stage
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 can
                 we
                 say
                 t'
                 excuse
                 our
                 
                   Second
                   Fall
                
                 ?
              
               
                 Let
                 this
                 thy
                 Vestal
                 ,
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 attone
                 for
                 all
                 !
              
               
                 Her
                 Arethusian
                 Stream
                 remains
                 unsoil'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Unmixt
                 with
                 Forreign
                 Filth
                 ,
                 and
                 undefil'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 Wit
                 was
                 more
                 than
                 Man
                 ,
                 her
                 Innocence
                 a
                 Child
                 !
              
            
             
               
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 Art
                 she
                 had
                 none
                 ,
                 yet
                 wanted
                 none
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 Nature
                 did
                 that
                 Want
                 supply
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 rich
                 in
                 Treasures
                 of
                 her
                 Own
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 might
                 our
                 boasted
                 Stores
                 defy
                 :
              
               
                 Such
                 Noble
                 Vigour
                 did
                 her
                 Verse
                 adorn
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 it
                 seem'd
                 borrow'd
                 ,
                 where'twasonly
                 born
                 .
              
               
                 Her
                 Morals
                 too
                 were
                 in
                 her
                 Bosom
                 bred
              
               
                 By
                 great
                 Examples
                 daily
                 fed
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 in
                 the
                 best
                 of
                 Books
                 ,
                 her
                 Father's
                 Life
                 ,
                 she
                 read
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 be
                 read
                 her self
                 she
                 need
                 not
                 fear
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 Test
                 ,
                 and
                 ev'ry
                 Light
                 ,
                 her
                 Muse
                 will
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 Though
                 Epictetus
                 with
                 his
                 Lamp
                 were
                 there
                 .
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 Lóve
                 (
                 for
                 Love
                 sometimes
                 her
                 Muse
                 exprest
                 )
              
               
                 Was
                 but
                 a
                 Lambent-flame
                 which
                 play'd
                 about
                 her
                 Breast
                 :
              
               
                 Light
                 as
                 the
                 Vapours
                 of
                 a
                 Morning
                 Dream
                 ,
              
               
               
                 So
                 cold
                 her self
                 ,
                 whilst
                 she
                 such
                 Warmth
                 exprest
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 Cupid
                 bathing
                 in
                 
                 Diana's
                 Stream
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 Born
                 to
                 the
                 Spacious
                 Empire
                 of
                 the
                 Nine
                 ,
              
               
                 One
                 wou'd
                 have
                 thought
                 ,
                 she
                 shou'd
                 have
                 been
                 content
              
               
                 To
                 manage
                 well
                 that
                 Mighty
                 Government
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 can
                 young
                 ambitious
                 Souls
                 confine
                 ?
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 next
                 Realm
                 she
                 stretcht
                 her
                 Sway
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Painture
                 near
                 adjoyning
                 lay
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 plenteous
                 Province
                 ,
                 and
                 alluring
                 Prey
                 .
              
               
                 
                   A
                   Chamber
                   of
                   Dependences
                
                 was
                 fram'd
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 As
                 Conquerors
                 will
                 never
                 want
                 Pretence
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 arm'd
                 ,
                 to
                 justifie
                 th'
                 Offence
                 )
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 whole
                 Fief
                 ,
                 in
                 right
                 of
                 Poetry
                 she
                 claim'd
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Country
                 open
                 lay
                 without
                 Defence
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 Poets
                 frequent
                 In-rodes
                 there
                 had
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 perfectly
                 cou'd
                 represent
              
               
                 The
                 Shape
                 ,
                 the
                 Face
                 ,
                 with
                 ev'ry
                 Lineament
                 ;
              
               
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 large
                 Demains
                 which
                 the
                 Dumb-sister
                 sway'd
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 bow'd
                 beneath
                 her
                 Government
                 ,
              
               
                 Receiv'd
                 in
                 Triumph
                 wheresoe're
                 she
                 went.
              
               
                 Her
                 Pencil
                 drew
                 ,
                 what
                 e're
                 her
                 Soul
                 design'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 oft
                 the
                 
                   happy
                   Draught
                
                 surpass'd
                 the
                 Image
                 in
                 her
                 Mind
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Sylvan
                 Scenes
                 of
                 Herds
                 and
                 Flocks
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fruitful
                 Plains
                 and
                 barren
                 Rocks
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 shallow
                 Brooks
                 that
                 flow'd
                 so
                 clear
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 bottom
                 did
                 the
                 top
                 appear
                 ;
              
               
                 Of
                 deeper
                 too
                 and
                 ampler
                 Floods
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 as
                 in
                 Mirrors
                 ,
                 shew'd
                 the
                 Woods
                 ;
              
               
                 Of
                 lofty
                 Trees
                 ,
                 with
                 Sacred
                 Shades
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Perspectives
                 of
                 pleasant
                 Glades
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Nymphs
                 of
                 brightest
                 Form
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 shaggy
                 Satyrs
                 standing
                 near
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 them
                 at
                 once
                 admire
                 and
                 fear
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Ruines
                 too
                 of
                 some
                 Majestick
                 Piece
                 ,
              
               
                 Boasting
                 the
                 Pow'r
                 of
                 ancient
                 Rome
                 or
                 Greece
                 .
              
               
               
                 Whose
                 Statues
                 ,
                 Freezes
                 ,
                 Columns
                 broken
                 lie
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 tho'
                 defac'd
                 ,
                 the
                 Wonder
                 of
                 the
                 Eye
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 
                   Nature
                   ,
                   Art
                
                 ,
                 bold
                 Fiction
                 e're
                 durst
                 frame
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 forming
                 Hand
                 gave
                 Feature
                 to
                 the
                 Name
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 strange
                 a
                 Concourse
                 ne're
                 was
                 seen
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 the
                 peopl'd
                 Ark
                 the
                 whole
                 Creation
                 bore
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 7.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 Scene
                 then
                 chang'd
                 ,
                 with
                 bold
                 Erected
                 Look
              
               
                 Our
                 Martial
                 King
                 the
                 sight
                 with
                 Reverence
                 strook
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 not
                 content
                 t'
                 express
                 his
                 Outward
                 Part
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 hand
                 call'd
                 out
                 the
                 Image
                 of
                 his
                 Heart
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Warlike
                 Mind
                 ,
                 his
                 Soul
                 devoid
                 of
                 Fear
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 High-designing
                 Thoughts
                 ,
                 were
                 figur'd
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 when
                 ,
                 by
                 Magick
                 ,
                 Ghosts
                 are
                 made
                 appear
                 .
              
               
                 Our
                 Phenix
                 Queen
                 was
                 portrai'd
                 too
                 so
                 bright
                 ,
              
               
                 Beauty
                 alone
                 cou'd
                 Beauty
                 take
                 so
                 right
                 :
              
               
                 Her
                 Dress
                 ,
                 her
                 Shape
                 ,
                 her
                 matchless
                 Grace
                 ,
              
               
                 Were
                 all
                 observ'd
                 ,
                 as
                 well
                 as
                 heav'nly
                 Face
                 .
              
               
               
                 With
                 such
                 a
                 Peerless
                 Majesty
                 she
                 stands
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 in
                 that
                 Day
                 she
                 took
                 the
                 Crown
                 from
                 Sacred
                 hands
                 :
              
               
                 Before
                 a
                 Train
                 of
                 Heroins
                 was
                 seen
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Beauty
                 foremost
                 ,
                 as
                 in
                 Rank
                 ,
                 the
                 Queen
                 !
              
               
                 Thus
                 nothing
                 to
                 her
                 Genius
                 was
                 deny'd
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 like
                 a
                 Ball
                 of
                 Fire
                 the
                 further
                 thrown
                 ,
              
               
                 Still
                 with
                 a
                 greater
                 Blaze
                 she
                 shone
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 her
                 bright
                 Soul
                 broke
                 out
                 on
                 ev'ry
                 side
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 next
                 she
                 had
                 design'd
                 ,
                 Heaven
                 only
                 knows
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 such
                 Immod'rate
                 Growth
                 her
                 Conquest
                 rose
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Fate
                 alone
                 its
                 Progress
                 cou'd
                 oppose
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 8.
                 
              
               
                 Now
                 all
                 those
                 Charms
                 ,
                 that
                 blooming
                 Grace
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 well-proportion'd
                 Shape
                 ,
                 and
                 beauteous
                 Face
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 never
                 more
                 be
                 seen
                 by
                 Mortal
                 Eyes
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 Earth
                 the
                 much
                 lamented
                 Virgin
                 lies
                 !
              
               
                 Not
                 Wit
                 ,
                 nor
                 Piety
                 cou'd
                 Fate
                 prevent
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 was
                 the
                 cruel
                 Destiny
                 content
              
               
               
                 To
                 finish
                 all
                 the
                 Murder
                 at
                 a
                 blow
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 sweep
                 at
                 once
                 her
                 Life
                 ,
                 and
                 Beauty
                 too
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 like
                 a
                 hardn'd
                 Fellon
                 ,
                 took
                 a
                 pride
              
               
                 To
                 work
                 more
                 Mischievously
                 slow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 plunder'd
                 first
                 ,
                 and
                 then
                 destroy'd
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 double
                 Sacriledge
                 on
                 things
                 Divine
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 rob
                 the
                 Relique
                 ,
                 and
                 deface
                 the
                 Shrine
                 !
              
               
                 But
                 thus
                 Orinda
                 dy'd
                 :
              
               
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 by
                 the
                 same
                 Disease
                 ,
                 did
                 both
                 translate
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 equal
                 were
                 their
                 Souls
                 ,
                 so
                 equal
                 was
                 their
                 Fate
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 9.
                 
              
               
                 Mean
                 time
                 her
                 
                   Warlike
                   Brother
                
                 on
                 the
                 Seas
              
               
                 His
                 waving
                 Streamers
                 to
                 the
                 Winds
                 displays
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 vows
                 for
                 his
                 Return
                 ,
                 with
                 vain
                 Devotion
                 ,
                 pays
                 .
              
               
                 Ah
                 ,
                 Generous
                 Youth
                 ,
                 that
                 Wish
                 forbear
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Winds
                 too
                 soon
                 will
                 waft
                 thee
                 here
                 !
              
               
                 Slack
                 all
                 thy
                 Sails
                 ,
                 and
                 fear
                 to
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 Alas
                 ,
                 thou
                 know'st
                 not
                 ,
                 thou
                 art
                 wreck'd
                 at
                 home
                 !
              
               
               
                 No
                 more
                 shalt
                 thou
                 behold
                 thy
                 Sister's
                 Face
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 hast
                 already
                 had
                 her
                 last
                 Embrace
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 look
                 aloft
                 ,
                 and
                 if
                 thou
                 ken'st
                 from
                 far
                 ,
              
               
                 Among
                 the
                 
                 Pleiad's
                 a
                 New-kindl'd
                 Star
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 any
                 sparkles
                 ,
                 than
                 the
                 rest
                 ,
                 more
                 bright
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 she
                 that
                 shines
                 in
                 that
                 propitious
                 Light.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 10.
                 
              
               
                 When
                 in
                 mid-Air
                 ,
                 the
                 Golden
                 Trump
                 shall
                 sound
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 raise
                 the
                 Nations
                 under
                 ground
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 in
                 the
                 Valley
                 of
                 Jehosaphat
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Judging
                 God
                 shall
                 close
                 the
                 book
                 of
                 Fate
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 there
                 the
                 last
                 Assizes
                 keep
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 those
                 who
                 Wake
                 ,
                 and
                 those
                 who
                 Sleep
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 ratling
                 Bones
                 together
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 the
                 four
                 Corners
                 of
                 the
                 Skie
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 Sinews
                 o're
                 the
                 Skeletons
                 are
                 spread
                 ,
              
               
                 Those
                 cloath'd
                 with
                 Flesh
                 ,
                 and
                 Life
                 inspires
                 the
                 Dead
                 ;
              
               
               
                 The
                 Sacred
                 Poets
                 first
                 shall
                 hear
                 the
                 Sound
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 formost
                 from
                 the
                 Tomb
                 shall
                 bound
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 they
                 are
                 cover'd
                 with
                 the
                 lightest
                 Ground
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 streight
                 ,
                 with
                 in
                 born
                 Vigour
                 ,
                 on
                 the
                 Wing
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 mounting
                 Larks
                 ,
                 to
                 the
                 New
                 Morning
                 sing
                 .
              
               
                 There
                 Thou
                 ,
                 sweet
                 Saint
                 ,
                 before
                 the
                 Quire
                 shalt
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 Harbinger
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 the
                 Way
                 to
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Way
                 which
                 thou
                 so
                 well
                 hast
                 learn'd
                 below
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               TO
               THE
               Earl
               of
               CARLISLE
               ,
               UPON
               THE
               DEATH
               of
               His
               SON
               BEFORE
               LUXEMBURG
               .
            
             
               
                 HE
                 's
                 gone
                 ,
                 and
                 was
                 it
                 then
                 by
                 your
                 Decree
                 ,
              
               
                 Ye
                 envious
                 Powers
                 ,
                 that
                 we
                 shou'd
                 only
                 see
              
               
                 This
                 Copy
                 of
                 your
                 own
                 Divinity
                 ?
              
               
                 Or
                 thought
                 ye
                 it
                 surpassing
                 Human
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 have
                 a
                 Blessing
                 lasting
                 as
                 't
                 was
                 Great
                 ?
              
               
                 Your
                 cruel
                 Skill
                 you
                 better
                 ne're
                 had
                 shown
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 you
                 so
                 soon
                 design'd
                 him
                 all
                 your
                 own
                 .
              
               
                 Such
                 torturing
                 Favours
                 to
                 the
                 Damn'd
                 are
                 given
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 to
                 encrease
                 their
                 Hell
                 ,
                 you
                 show
                 'em
                 Heav'n
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Was
                 it
                 too
                 Godlike
                 ,
                 he
                 shou'd
                 long
                 inherit
              
               
                 At
                 once
                 his
                 Father's
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Uncle's
                 Spirit
                 ?
              
               
                 Yet
                 as
                 much
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 and
                 as
                 calm
                 a
                 Breast
              
               
                 As
                 the
                 mild
                 Dame
                 ,
                 whose
                 teeming
                 Womb
                 he
                 blest
                 .
              
               
                 H'
                 had
                 all
                 the
                 Favours
                 Providence
                 cou'd
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 Except
                 its
                 own
                 Prerogative
                 to
                 live
                 :
              
               
                 Reserv'd
                 in
                 Pleasures
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 Dangers
                 bold
                 ,
              
               
                 Youthful
                 in
                 Action
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 Prudence
                 old
                 :
              
               
                 His
                 humble
                 Greatness
                 ,
                 and
                 submissive
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 Made
                 his
                 Life
                 full
                 of
                 Wonder
                 ,
                 as
                 his
                 Fate
                 .
              
               
                 One
                 ,
                 who
                 to
                 all
                 the
                 heights
                 of
                 Learning
                 bred
                 ,
              
               
                 Read
                 Books
                 ,
                 and
                 Men
                 ,
                 and
                 practis'd
                 what
                 he
                 read
                 .
              
               
                 Round
                 the
                 wide
                 Globe
                 searce
                 did
                 the
                 busie
                 Sun
              
               
                 With
                 greater
                 haste
                 ,
                 and
                 greater
                 Lustre
                 run
                 .
              
               
                 True
                 Gallantry
                 and
                 Grandure
                 he
                 descry'd
              
               
                 From
                 the
                 French
                 Fopperies
                 ,
                 and
                 German
                 Pride
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 like
                 th'
                 industrious
                 Bee
                 ,
                 where
                 e're
                 he
                 flew
                 ,
              
               
                 Gather'd
                 the
                 Sweets
                 which
                 on
                 sweet
                 Blossoms
                 grew
                 .
              
               
               
                 Babel's
                 confused
                 Speeches
                 on
                 his
                 Tongue
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 a
                 sweet
                 Harmony
                 and
                 Concord
                 hung
                 .
              
               
                 More
                 Countries
                 than
                 for
                 Homer
                 did
                 contest
                 ,
              
               
                 Do
                 strive
                 who
                 most
                 were
                 by
                 his
                 Presence
                 blest
                 .
              
               
                 Nor
                 did
                 his
                 Wisdom
                 damp
                 his
                 Martial
                 Fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Minerva
                 both
                 her
                 Portions
                 did
                 inspire
                 ,
              
               
                 Use
                 of
                 the
                 
                   Warlike
                   Bow
                
                 ,
                 and
                 
                   Peaceful
                   Lyre
                
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 Caesar
                 doubly
                 triumph'd
                 when
                 he
                 wrote
                 ,
              
               
                 Showing
                 like
                 Wit
                 ,
                 as
                 Valour
                 ,
                 when
                 he
                 fought
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 If
                 God
                 (
                 as
                 Plato
                 taught
                 )
                 Example
                 takes
              
               
                 From
                 his
                 own
                 Works
                 ,
                 and
                 Souls
                 by
                 Patterns
                 makes
                 ,
              
               
                 Much
                 of
                 himself
                 in
                 him
                 he
                 did
                 unfold
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 cast
                 him
                 in
                 his
                 Darling
                 Sidney's
                 Mold
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 too
                 refin'd
                 a
                 Substance
                 to
                 be
                 old
                 .
              
               
                 Both
                 did
                 alike
                 disdain
                 an
                 Hero's
                 Rage
                 ,
              
               
                 Shou'd
                 ,
                 come
                 like
                 an
                 Inheritance
                 by
                 Age.
              
               
               
                 Ambitiously
                 did
                 both
                 conspire
                 to
                 twist
              
               
                 Bays
                 with
                 the
                 Ivy
                 ,
                 which
                 their
                 Temples
                 kist
                 :
              
               
                 Scorning
                 to
                 wait
                 the
                 slow
                 advance
                 of
                 Time
                 ,
              
               
                 Both
                 fell
                 like
                 early
                 Blossoms
                 in
                 their
                 Prime
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 blind
                 Events
                 ,
                 and
                 Providence's
                 Crime
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 both
                 ,
                 like
                 Codrus
                 ,
                 o're
                 their
                 yielding
                 Foe
              
               
                 Obtain'd
                 the
                 Conquest
                 ,
                 in
                 their
                 Overthrow
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 longer
                 Life
                 do
                 purchase
                 by
                 their
                 Death
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Fame
                 compleating
                 what
                 they
                 want
                 in
                 breath
                 .
              
               
                 Oh!
                 had
                 kind
                 Fate
                 stretcht
                 the
                 contracted
                 Span
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 full
                 Glories
                 of
                 a
                 perfect
                 Man
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 as
                 he
                 grew
                 cou'd
                 every
                 rolling
                 Year
              
               
                 A
                 new
                 addition
                 to
                 our
                 Wonder
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 H
                 'had
                 paid
                 to
                 his
                 Illustrious
                 Line
                 that
                 Stock
              
               
                 Of
                 ancient
                 Honour
                 ,
                 which
                 from
                 thence
                 he
                 took
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 oh
                 !
              
               
                 So
                 hasty
                 Fruits
                 ,
                 and
                 too
                 ambitious
                 Flowers
                 ,
              
               
                 Scorning
                 the
                 Midwifery
                 of
                 ripening
                 Showers
                 ,
              
               
               
                 In
                 spight
                 of
                 Frosts
                 ,
                 spring
                 from
                 th'
                 unwilling
                 Earth
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 find
                 a
                 nip
                 untimely
                 as
                 their
                 birth
                 .
              
               
                 Abortive
                 Issues
                 so
                 delude
                 the
                 Womb.
              
               
                 And
                 scarce
                 have
                 Being
                 ,
                 e're
                 they
                 want
                 a
                 Tomb.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Forgive
                 (
                 my
                 Lord
                 )
                 the
                 Muse
                 that
                 does
                 aspire
              
               
                 With
                 a
                 new
                 breath
                 to
                 fan
                 your
                 raging
                 Fire
                 ;
              
               
                 Whose
                 each
                 officious
                 and
                 unskilful
                 sound
              
               
                 Can
                 with
                 fresh
                 Torture
                 but
                 enlarge
                 the
                 wound
                 .
              
               
                 Cou'd
                 I
                 ,
                 with
                 David
                 ,
                 curse
                 the
                 guilty
                 Plain
              
               
                 Where
                 one
                 more
                 lov'd
                 than
                 Jonathan
                 was
                 slain
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 cou'd
                 I
                 flights
                 high
                 as
                 his
                 Merits
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 Clear
                 as
                 his
                 Vertue
                 ,
                 deathless
                 as
                 his
                 Praise
                 ,
              
               
                 None
                 who
                 (
                 tho'
                 Laurels
                 crown'd
                 their
                 aged
                 Head
                 )
              
               
                 Admir'd
                 him
                 living
                 ,
                 and
                 ador'd
                 him
                 dead
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 more
                 Devotion
                 shou'd
                 enroll
                 his
                 Name
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 long
                 Consecrated
                 List
                 of
                 Fame
                 .
              
               
               
                 But
                 since
                 my
                 artless
                 and
                 unhallow'd
                 Strain
              
               
                 Will
                 the
                 high
                 worth
                 ,
                 it
                 should
                 commend
                 ,
                 prophane
                 ;
              
               
                 Since
                 I
                 despair
                 my
                 humble
                 Verse
                 shou'd
                 prove
              
               
                 Great
                 as
                 your
                 loss
                 ,
                 or
                 tender
                 as
                 your
                 Love
                 ;
              
               
                 My
                 Heart
                 with
                 sighings
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 tears
                 mine
                 Eye
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 the
                 defect
                 of
                 written
                 Grief
                 supply
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               INSECT
               .
               AGAINST
               BULK
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   
                     Inest
                     sua
                     gratia
                     parvis
                  
                   .
                
              
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               YALDEN.
               
            
             
               
                 WHere
                 Greatness
                 is
                 to
                 Nature's
                 Works
                 deny'd
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Worth
                 and
                 Beauty
                 it
                 is
                 well
                 supply'd
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 a
                 small
                 space
                 the
                 more
                 Perfection's
                 shown
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 what
                 is
                 exquisite
                 ,
                 in
                 Little
                 's
                 done
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 Beams
                 contracted
                 in
                 a
                 narrow
                 Glass
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 Flames
                 convert
                 their
                 larger
                 useless
                 Rays
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 'T
                 is
                 Nature's
                 smallest
                 products
                 please
                 the
                 Eye
                 ,
              
               
                 Whilst
                 greater
                 Births
                 pass
                 unreguarded
                 by
                 :
              
               
               
                 Her
                 Monsters
                 seem
                 a
                 Violence
                 to
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 're
                 form'd
                 for
                 Terrour
                 ,
                 Insects
                 to
                 delight
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 when
                 she
                 nicely
                 frames
                 a
                 piece
                 of
                 Art
                 ,
              
               
                 Fine
                 are
                 her
                 stroaks
                 ,
                 and
                 small
                 in
                 every
                 part
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 Labour
                 can
                 she
                 boast
                 more
                 wonderful
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 to
                 inform
                 an
                 Atom
                 with
                 a
                 Soul
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 animate
                 her
                 little
                 beauteous
                 Fly
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 cloath
                 it
                 in
                 her
                 gaudy'ft
                 Drapery
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 does
                 the
                 little
                 Epigram
                 delight
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 charm
                 us
                 with
                 its
                 minature
                 of
                 Wit
                 :
              
               
                 Whilst
                 tedious
                 Authors
                 give
                 the
                 Reader
                 pain
                 ,
              
               
                 Weary
                 his
                 thoughts
                 ,
                 and
                 make
                 him
                 toil
                 in
                 vain
                 ;
              
               
                 Whenin
                 less
                 Volumes
                 we
                 more
                 pleasure
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 what
                 diverts
                 ,
                 still
                 best
                 informs
                 the
                 Mind
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 'T
                 is
                 the
                 small
                 Infect
                 looks
                 correct
                 and
                 fair
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 seems
                 the
                 product
                 of
                 her
                 nicest
                 Care.
              
               
               
                 When
                 weary'd
                 out
                 with
                 the
                 stupendious
                 weight
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 forming
                 Prodigies
                 ,
                 and
                 Brutes
                 of
                 State
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 she
                 the
                 Infect
                 frames
                 ,
                 her
                 Masterpiece
                 ,
              
               
                 Made
                 for
                 Diversion
                 ,
                 and
                 design'd
                 to
                 please
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 Archimedes
                 ,
                 in
                 his
                 Crystal
                 Sphere
                 ,
              
               
                 Seem'd
                 to
                 correct
                 the
                 
                   World's
                   Artificer
                
                 :
              
               
                 Whilst
                 the
                 large
                 Globe
                 moves
                 round
                 with
                 long
                 delay
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 beauteous
                 Orbs
                 in
                 nimbler
                 Circles
                 play
                 ;
              
               
                 This
                 seem'd
                 the
                 Nobler
                 Labour
                 of
                 the
                 two
                 ,
              
               
                 Great
                 was
                 the
                 Sphere
                 above
                 ,
                 but
                 fine
                 below
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 smallest
                 things
                 have
                 a
                 peculiar
                 Grace
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 great
                 w'
                 admire
                 ,
                 but
                 't
                 is
                 the
                 little
                 please
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 since
                 the
                 least
                 so
                 beautifully
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 B'
                 advis'd
                 in
                 time
                 ,
                 my
                 Muse
                 ,
                 and
                 learn
                 to
                 know
              
               
                 A
                 Poet's
                 Lines
                 shou'd
                 be
                 correct
                 ,
                 and
                 few
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Written
               in
               a
               
               LADY's
               Advic̄e
               TO
               A
               DAUGHTER
               .
            
             
               'T
               Is
               true
               —
               in
               these
               well-polish'd
               Lines
               ,
            
             
               The
               
               Author
               's
               Noble
               Genius
               shines
               :
            
             
               A
               happy
               Wit
               ,
               a
               thought
               well
               weigh'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               a
               Charming
               Dress
               convey'd
               ,
            
             
               Adorn
               each
               curious
               Page
               —
               't
               is
               true
               :
            
             
               But
               what
               's
               all
               this
               ,
               fair
               Maid
               ,
               to
               You
               ?
            
             
               Have
               lovely
               Faces
               need
               of
               Paint
               ?
            
             
               Are
               Manuals
               useful
               to
               a
               Saint
               ?
            
             
               Let
               careless
               Nymphs
               be
               ply'd
               with
               Rules
               ,
            
             
               Let
               Wit
               be
               thrown
               among
               the
               Fools
               :
            
             
               In
               both
               of
               these
               You
               boast
               a
               Store
               ,
            
             
               Compar'd
               with
               which
               ,
               our
               
               Author
               's
               poor
               .
            
             
             
               Alas
               !
               as
               He
               directs
               his
               Pen
            
             
               To
               Maids
               ,
               shou'd
               You
               advise
               the
               Men
               ;
            
             
               Shou'd
               You
               your
               easie
               Minutes
               vex
               ,
            
             
               To
               make
               Reprisals
               on
               the
               Sex
               ,
            
             
               We
               great
               Pretenders
               then
               shou'd
               find
            
             
               Our Selves
               ,
               our
               Darling
               Selves
               ,
               out-shin'd
               ,
            
             
               Not
               more
               in
               Body
               ,
               than
               in
               Mind
               :
            
             
               She-Wit
               and
               Sense
               wou'd
               mount
               the
               Throne
               ,
            
             
               And
               our
               lov'd
               Salic-Law
               be
               gone
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Written
               in
               a
               LADY's
               WALLER
               .
            
             
               THE
               Lovely
               Owner
               of
               this
               Book
            
             
               Does
               here
               on
               her
               own
               Image
               look
               :
            
             
               Each
               happy
               Page
               ,
               each
               finish'd
               Line
            
             
               Does
               with
               Her
               matchless
               Graces
               shine
               ;
            
             
               And
               is
               ,
               with
               Common
               Verse
               compar'd
               ,
            
             
               What
               She
               is
               among
               
               Beauty's
               Herd
               .
            
             
               The
               Poet
               boasts
               a
               Lofty
               thought
               ,
            
             
               In
               Softest
               Numbers
               Smoothly
               wrought
               ;
            
             
               Has
               all
               that
               pleases
               the
               Severe
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               that
               charms
               a
               List'ning
               Ear.
            
             
               And
               such
               the
               Nymph
               is
               —
               blest
               with
               all
            
             
               That
               we
               can
               Sweet
               ,
               or
               Noble
               call
               :
            
             
               For
               never
               sure
               was
               any
               Mind
               ,
            
             
               Of
               all
               that
               from
               Heav'ns
               Treasury
               came
            
             
             
               Of
               better
               Make
               ,
               and
               more
               Refin'd
               ,
            
             
               Or
               lodg'd
               within
               a
               Fairer
               Frame
               .
            
             
               Such
               Angels
               seem
               ,
               when
               pleas'd
               to
               wear
            
             
               Some
               lovely
               Dress
               of
               colour'd
               Air
               !
            
             
               Oh!
               had
               she
               liv'd
               ,
               before
               the
               old
            
             
               Bard
               had
               so
               many
               Winters
               told
               ;
            
             
               Then
               ,
               when
               his
               Youthful
               Veins
               ran
               high
               ,
            
             
               Enflam'd
               with
               Love
               ,
               and
               Poetry
               ;
            
             
               He
               only
               to
               This
               shining
               Maid
            
             
               The
               Tribute
               of
               his
               Verse
               had
               paid
               :
            
             
               No
               meaner
               Face
               ,
               no
               lesser
               Name
            
             
               Had
               fix'd
               his
               Eyes
               ,
               or
               fed
               his
               Flame
               ;
            
             
               Her
               Beauties
               had
               employ'd
               his
               Tongue
               ,
            
             
               And
               Sacharissa
               dy'd
               unsung
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Written
               in
               the
               Leaves
               of
               a
               FAN
               .
            
             
               FLAVIA
               the
               least
               and
               slightest
               Toy
            
             
               Can
               ,
               with
               resistless
               Art
               ,
               employ
               .
            
             
               This
               Fan
               ,
               in
               meaner
               Hands
               ,
               wou'd
               prove
            
             
               An
               Engine
               ,
               of
               small
               Force
               ,
               in
               Love.
            
             
               Yet
               she
               ,
               with
               Graceful
               Air
               and
               Meen
               ,
            
             
               (
               Not
               to
               be
               told
               !
               or
               safely
               seen
               !
               )
            
             
               Directs
               its
               wanton
               Motions
               so
               ,
            
             
               That
               it
               wounds
               more
               than
               
                 Cupid's
                 Bow
              
               :
            
             
               Gives
               Coolness
               to
               the
               matchless
               Dame
               ,
            
             
               To
               every
               other
               Breast
               a
               Flame
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               AN
               Incomparable
               ODE
               OF
               
               MALHERB's
               .
            
             
               Written
               by
               Him
               when
               the
               Marriage
               was
               afoot
               between
               this
               King
               of
               France
               ,
               and
               Anne
               of
               
                 Austria
                 .
                 Translated
                 by
                 a
                 Person
                 of
                 Quality
                 ,
                 a
                 great
                 Admirer
                 of
                 the
                 easiness
                 of
                 the
              
               French
               Poetry
               .
            
             
               
                 
                   
                     
                       CEtte
                       Anne
                       si
                       belle
                    
                     ,
                  
                   
                     THis
                     Anna
                     so
                     Fair
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     
                       Qu'on
                       vante
                       sifort
                    
                     ,
                  
                   
                     So
                     talk'd
                     of
                     by
                     Fame
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     
                       Pourquoy
                       ne
                       vient
                       Elle
                    
                     ?
                  
                   
                     Why
                     don't
                     she
                     appear
                     ?
                  
                
                 
                   
                     
                       Vrayment
                       ,
                       Elle
                       a
                       tort
                    
                     !
                  
                   
                     Indeed
                     ,
                     she
                     's
                     to
                     blame
                     !
                  
                
                 
                 
                   
                     
                       Son
                       Loüis
                       soûpire
                    
                  
                   
                     Lewis
                     sighs
                     for
                     the
                     sake
                  
                
                 
                   
                     
                       Apres
                       set
                       Appas
                    
                     :
                  
                   
                     Of
                     her
                     Charms
                     ,
                     as
                     they
                     say
                     :
                  
                
                 
                   
                     
                       Que
                       veut
                       elle
                       dire
                    
                     ,
                  
                   
                     What
                     excuse
                     can
                     she
                     make
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     
                       Que
                       elle
                       ne
                       vient
                       pas
                    
                     ?
                  
                   
                     For
                     not
                     coming
                     away
                     ?
                  
                
                 
                   
                     
                       Si
                       il
                       ne
                       la
                       possêde
                    
                     ,
                  
                   
                     If
                     he
                     does
                     n't
                     possess
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     
                       Il
                       s'en
                       va
                       Mourir
                    
                     ;
                  
                   
                     He
                     dies
                     with
                     Despair
                     ;
                  
                
                 
                   
                     
                       Donnons
                       y
                       Remede
                    
                     ,
                  
                   
                     Let
                     's
                     give
                     him
                     redress
                     ,
                  
                
                 
                   
                     
                       Allons
                       la
                       Querir
                    
                     .
                  
                   
                     And
                     go
                     find
                     out
                     the
                     Fair.
                     
                  
                
              
               
            
          
           
             
             
               On
               the
               Dutchess
               of
               
               Portsmouth's
               PICTURE
               .
            
             
               HAD
               she
               but
               liv'd
               in
               
               Cleopatra's
               Age
               ,
            
             
               When
               Beauty
               did
               the
               Earth's
               great
               Lords
               engage
               ,
            
             
               Brittain
               ,
               not
               Egypt
               ,
               had
               been
               Glorious
               made
               ;
            
             
               Augustus
               then
               ,
               like
               Julius
               ,
               had
               obey'd
               :
            
             
               A
               Nobler
               Theam
               had
               been
               the
               Poet's
               boast
               ,
            
             
               That
               all
               the
               World
               for
               Love
               had
               well
               been
               lost
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               SONG
               .
            
             
               By
               the
               Earl
               of
               Rochester
               .
            
             
               
                 Insulting
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 you
                 mispend
              
               
                 Those
                 Frowns
                 upon
                 your
                 Slave
                 ;
              
               
                 Your
                 Scorn
                 against
                 such
                 Rebels
                 bend
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 dare
                 with
                 confidence
                 pretend
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 other
                 Eyes
                 their
                 Hearts
                 defend
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 all
                 the
                 Charms
                 you
                 have
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Your
                 conquering
                 Eyes
                 so
                 partial
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 Mankind
                 is
                 so
                 dull
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 while
                 I
                 languish
                 in
                 Despair
                 ,
              
               
                 Many
                 proud
                 senseless
                 Hearts
                 declare
                 ,
              
               
               
                 They
                 find
                 you
                 not
                 so
                 killing
                 Fair
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 wish
                 you
                 merciful
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 They
                 an
                 Inglorious
                 Freedom
                 boast
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 triumph
                 in
                 my
                 Chain
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 am
                 I
                 unreveng'd
                 ,
                 though
                 lost
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 you
                 unpunish'd
                 ,
                 though
                 unjust
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 I
                 alone
                 ,
                 who
                 love
                 you
                 most
                 ,
              
               
                 Am
                 kill'd
                 with
                 your
                 Disdain
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               SONG
               For
               the
               
               KING's
               Birth-Day
               .
            
             
               
                 SHine
                 forth
                 ,
                 bright
                 Sun
                 ,
                 and
                 gild
                 the
                 Day
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 a
                 more
                 than
                 common
                 Ray.
              
               
                 The
                 Day
                 that
                 gave
                 us
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 all
                 the
                 rolling
                 Years
                 that
                 Thou
              
               
                 Hast
                 number'd
                 out
                 ,
                 cou'd
                 e're
                 bestow
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 Brittain
                 wish
                 before
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 From
                 greenness
                 of
                 Touth
                 ,
                 to
                 ripeness
                 of
                 Age
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 what
                 dangers
                 ,
                 what
                 troubles
                 did
                 Caesar
                 engage
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 Field
                 ,
                 on
                 the
                 Flood
                 ,
              
               
                 Through
                 the
                 Waves
                 ,
                 and
                 through
                 Blood
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Race
                 of
                 bright
                 Honour
                 he
                 ran
                 !
              
               
                 How
                 Great
                 in
                 Distress
                 ,
              
               
               
                 How
                 Calm
                 in
                 Success
                 !
              
               
                 In
                 both
                 ,
                 how
                 much
                 more
                 than
                 Man
                 !
              
               
                 CHORUS
                 .
              
               
                 Where-e're
                 his
                 Birth
                 had
                 been
                 by
                 Fortune
                 plac'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 Vertue
                 Heav'n
                 must
                 needs
                 have
                 crown'd
                 at
                 last
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Heav'n
                 has
                 been
                 just
                 ,
                 and
                 Right
                 has
                 prevail'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho'
                 by
                 Hell's
                 Malice
                 and
                 Forces
                 assail'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Rebellion
                 and
                 Faction
                 are
                 sunk
                 whence
                 they
                 rose
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Caesar
                 the
                 Wounds
                 of
                 his
                 Nation
                 does
                 close
                 ,
              
               
                 Rewarding
                 his
                 Friends
                 ,
                 and
                 forgiving
                 his
                 Foes
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 Glory
                 gain'd
                 by
                 War
                 ,
              
               
                 Vulgar
                 Hands
                 and
                 Fortune
                 share
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 the
                 more
                 Noble
                 and
                 Solid
                 Renown
              
               
                 That
                 arises
                 from
                 Pardon
                 to
                 Penitents
                 shown
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 render
                 to
                 Caesar
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 
                 Caesar's
                 alone
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Caesar
                 nobly
                 does
                 disdain
              
               
                 Over
                 less
                 than
                 Hearts
                 to
                 Reign
                 ;
              
               
                 Let
                 Tyrants
                 force
                 th'
                 ignobler
                 part
                 ,
              
               
                 God
                 and
                 Caesar
                 claim
                 the
                 Heart
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hark
                 how
                 the
                 Nation
                 United
                 rejoyces
              
               
                 In
                 the
                 glad
                 Consort
                 of
                 Hearts
                 and
                 of
                 Voices
                 !
              
               
                 What
                 Thanks
                 they
                 express
              
               
                 For
                 their
                 Plenty
                 and
                 Peace
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 long
                 desir'd
                 Blessings
                 of
                 Freedom
                 and
                 Ease
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Hark
                 ,
                 the
                 joyful
                 Song
                 goes
                 round
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 the
                 Universal
                 Sound
                 :
              
               
                 Long
                 may
                 Heaven
                 and
                 Caesar
                 smile
                 ,
              
               
                 Heaven
                 on
                 Him
                 ,
                 and
                 He
                 on
                 us
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Long
                 ,
                 long
                 may
                 he
                 Rule
                 our
                 Isle
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 long
                 ,
                 long
                 Rule
                 it
                 thus
                 !
              
               
                 As
                 lov'd
                 in
                 Peace
                 ,
                 as
                 fear'd
                 in
                 Arms
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ever
                 blest
                 in
                 
                 Gloriana's
                 Charms
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               SONG
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 AFter
                 the
                 fiercest
                 Pangs
                 of
                 hot
                 Desire
                 ,
              
               
                 Between
                 
                 Panthoea's
                 rising
                 Breasts
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 bending
                 Breast
                 Philander
                 rests
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 vanquisht
                 ,
                 yet
                 unknowing
                 to
                 retire
                 ,
              
               
                 Close
                 hugs
                 the
                 Charmer
                 ,
                 and
                 asham'd
                 to
                 yield
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho'
                 he
                 has
                 lost
                 the
                 day
                 ,
                 yet
                 keeps
                 the
                 Field
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 When
                 ,
                 with
                 a
                 sigh
                 ,
                 the
                 fair
                 Panthoea
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 Pity
                 't
                 is
                 ,
                 ye
                 Gods
                 ,
                 that
                 all
              
               
                 The
                 Noblest
                 Warriours
                 soonest
                 fall
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 with
                 a
                 Kiss
                 she
                 gently
                 rear'd
                 his
                 Head
                 ;
              
               
                 Arm'd
                 him
                 again
                 to
                 fight
                 ,
                 for
                 nobly
                 she
              
               
                 More
                 lov'd
                 the
                 Combat
                 than
                 the
                 Victory
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 more
                 enrag'd
                 ,
                 for
                 being
                 beat
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 his
                 strength
                 he
                 does
                 prepare
              
               
                 More
                 fiercely
                 to
                 renew
                 the
                 War
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 ceas'd
                 he
                 till
                 the
                 Noble
                 Prize
                 he
                 bore
                 :
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 her
                 much
                 wondrous
                 Courage
                 did
                 surprise
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 hugs
                 the
                 Dart
                 that
                 wounded
                 her
                 ,
                 and
                 dies
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               SONG
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 THrough
                 
                   mournful
                   Shades
                
                 ,
                 and
                 
                   solitary
                   Groves
                
                 ,
              
               
                 Fann'd
                 with
                 the
                 sighs
                 of
                 unsuccessful
                 Loves
                 ,
              
               
                 Wild
                 with
                 Despairs
                 ,
                 young
                 Thyrsis
                 strays
                 ,
              
               
                 Thinks
                 over
                 all
                 
                 Amyra's
                 Heav'nly
                 Charms
                 ,
              
               
                 Thinks
                 he
                 now
                 sees
                 her
                 in
                 another's
                 Arms
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 at
                 some
                 Willow's
                 Root
                 himself
                 he
                 lays
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Loveliest
                 ,
                 most
                 unhappy
                 Swain
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 thus
                 to
                 the
                 wild
                 Woods
                 he
                 does
                 complain
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 How
                 art
                 thou
                 chang'd
                 ,
                 O
                 Thyrsis
                 ,
                 since
                 the
                 time
              
               
                 When
                 thou
                 cou'dst
                 love
                 ,
                 and
                 hope
                 without
                 a
                 Crime
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 Nature's
                 Pride
                 ,
                 and
                 Earth's
                 Delight
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 through
                 her
                 shady
                 Evening
                 Grove
                 she
                 past
                 ,
              
               
               
                 And
                 a
                 new
                 day
                 did
                 all
                 around
                 her
                 cast
                 ;
              
               
                 Cou'd
                 see
                 ,
                 nor
                 be
                 offended
                 at
                 the
                 sight
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 melting
                 ,
                 sighing
                 ,
                 wishing
                 Swain
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 now
                 must
                 never
                 hope
                 to
                 wish
                 again
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 Riches
                 and
                 Titles
                 !
                 why
                 shou'd
                 they
                 prevail
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Duty
                 ,
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 Adoration
                 fail
                 ?
              
               
                 Lovely
                 Amyra
                 ,
                 shou'dst
                 thou
                 prize
              
               
                 The
                 empty
                 noise
                 that
                 a
                 fine
                 Title
                 makes
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 the
                 vile
                 Trash
                 that
                 with
                 the
                 Vulgar
                 takes
                 ,
              
               
                 Before
                 a
                 Heart
                 that
                 bleeds
                 for
                 thee
                 ,
                 and
                 dies
                 :
              
               
                 Unkind
                 !
                 but
                 pity
                 the
                 poor
                 Swain
              
               
                 Your
                 Rigour
                 kills
                 ,
                 nor
                 Triumph
                 in
                 the
                 Slain
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               SONG
               .
            
             
               
                 YOU
                 say
                 you
                 love
                 !
                 Repeat
                 again
                 ,
              
               
                 Repeat
                 th'
                 amazing
                 Sound
                 ;
              
               
                 Repeat
                 the
                 ease
                 of
                 all
                 my
                 pain
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Cure
                 of
                 ev'ry
                 Wound
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 What
                 you
                 to
                 thousands
                 have
                 deny'd
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 me
                 you
                 freely
                 give
                 ;
              
               
                 Whilst
                 I
                 in
                 humble
                 Silence
                 dy'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Mercy
                 bids
                 me
                 live
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 So
                 on
                 cold
                 Latmos
                 top
                 each
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 Endymion
                 sighing
                 lay
                 ,
              
               
                 Gaz'd
                 on
                 the
                 Moon
                 's
                 transcendant
                 Light
                 ,
              
               
                 Despair'd
                 ,
                 and
                 durst
                 not
                 Pray
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 But
                 Divine
                 Cynthia
                 saw
                 his
                 Grief
                 ,
              
               
                 Th'
                 effect
                 of
                 conquering
                 Charms
                 ;
              
               
                 Unask'd
                 ,
                 the
                 Goddess
                 brings
                 relief
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 falls
                 into
                 his
                 Arms.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               SONG
               .
            
             
               
                 FAirest
                 of
                 thy
                 Sex
                 ,
                 and
                 best
                 ,
              
               
                 Admit
                 my
                 humble
                 Tale
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 will
                 ease
                 the
                 Torment
                 of
                 my
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 Tho'
                 I
                 shall
                 ne're
                 prevail
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 No
                 fond
                 Ambition
                 me
                 does
                 move
              
               
                 Your
                 Favour
                 to
                 implore
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 ask
                 not
                 for
                 return
                 of
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Freedom
                 to
                 adore
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               To
               the
               King.
               In
               the
               Year
               1686.
               
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               
                 George
                 Granville
              
               .
            
             
               HEroes
               of
               old
               ,
               by
               Rapine
               and
               by
               Spoil
               ,
            
             
               In
               search
               of
               Fame
               ,
               did
               all
               the
               World
               embroil
               ,
            
             
               Thus
               to
               their
               Gods
               each
               then
               ally'd
               his
               Name
               ,
            
             
               This
               sprang
               from
               Jove
               ,
               and
               that
               from
               Titan
               came
               ;
            
             
               With
               equal
               Valour
               ,
               and
               with
               like
               Success
               ,
            
             
               Dread
               King
               ,
               might'st
               thou
               the
               Universe
               oppress
               ;
            
             
               But
               Christian
               Rules
               constrain
               thy
               Martial
               Pride
               ;
            
             
               Peace
               is
               thy
               Choice
               ,
               and
               Piety
               thy
               Guide
               :
            
             
               By
               thy
               Example
               Kings
               may
               learn
               to
               sway
               ,
            
             
               Heroes
               are
               taught
               to
               fight
               ,
               and
               Saints
               to
               pray
               .
            
             
             
               The
               Grecian
               Chiefs
               had
               Vertue
               but
               in
               share
               ;
            
             
               Nestor
               was
               wise
               ,
               but
               Ajax
               brave
               in
               War
               :
            
             
               Their
               very
               Deities
               were
               grac'd
               no
               more
               ,
            
             
               Mars
               had
               the
               Courage
               ,
               Jove
               the
               Thunder
               bore
               :
            
             
               But
               all
               Perfections
               meet
               in
               James
               alone
               ,
            
             
               And
               
               Brittain's
               King
               is
               all
               the
               Gods
               in
               one
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               HARRY
               MARTEN's
               EPITAPH
               ,
               BY
               HIMSELF
               .
            
             
               HEre
               ,
               or
               elsewhere
               (
               all
               's
               one
               to
               you
               ,
               to
               me
               )
            
             
               Earth
               ,
               Air
               ,
               or
               Water
               gripes
               my
               Ghostless
               Dust
               ,
            
             
               None
               knowing
               when
               brave
               Fire
               shall
               set
               it
               free
               ;
            
             
               Reader
               ,
               if
               you
               an
               oft
               try'd
               Rule
               will
               trust
               ,
            
             
               
                 You
                 'll
                 gladly
                 Do
                 and
                 Suffer
                 what
                 you
                 must
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               To
               his
               Friend
               Captain
               Chamberline
               ;
               In
               Love
               with
               a
               Lady
               he
               had
               taken
               in
               an
               Algeriene
               Prize
               at
               Sea.
               
                 In
                 Allusion
                 to
                 the
                 4th
                 Ode
                 of
              
               Horace
               ,
               
                 Lib.
                 the
                 2d
              
               .
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               YALDEN.
               
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 'T
                 Is
                 no
                 disgrace
                 (
                 brave
                 Youth
                 )
                 to
                 own
              
               
                 By
                 a
                 fair
                 Slave
                 you
                 are
                 undone
                 :
              
               
                 Why
                 dost
                 thou
                 blush
                 to
                 hear
                 that
                 Name
                 !
              
               
                 And
                 stifle
                 thus
                 a
                 Generous
                 Flame
                 !
              
               
                 Did
                 not
                 the
                 fair
                 Briseis
                 heretofore
              
               
                 With
                 powerful
                 Charms
                 subdue
                 ?
              
               
               
                 What
                 tho'
                 a
                 Captive
                 ,
                 still
                 she
                 bore
              
               
                 Those
                 Eyes
                 that
                 Freedom
                 cou'd
                 restore
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 make
                 her
                 haughty
                 Lord
                 ,
                 the
                 proud
                 
                   Achilles
                   bow
                
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 Stern
                 Ajax
                 ,
                 tho'
                 renown'd
                 in
                 Arms
                 ,
              
               
                 Did
                 yield
                 to
                 bright
                 
                 Tecmessa's
                 Charms
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Laurels
                 he
                 had
                 won
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 Trophies
                 at
                 her
                 Feet
                 were
                 thrown
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 beautiful
                 in
                 tears
                 ,
                 he
                 view'd
                 the
                 mourning
                 Fair
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Hero
                 felt
                 her
                 Power
                 :
              
               
                 Tho'
                 great
                 in
                 Camps
                 ,
                 and
                 fierce
                 in
                 War
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 softer
                 looks
                 he
                 cou'd
                 not
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 Proud
                 to
                 become
                 her
                 Slave
                 ,
                 tho'late
                 her
                 Conquerour
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 When
                 Beauty
                 in
                 Distress
                 appears
                 ,
              
               
                 An
                 irresistless
                 Charm
                 it
                 bears
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 every
                 Breast
                 does
                 pity
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 Pity
                 the
                 tender'st
                 part
                 of
                 Love.
              
               
               
                 Amidst
                 his
                 Triumphs
                 great
                 Atrides
                 shew'd
              
               
                 Unto
                 a
                 Weeping
                 Maid
                 :
              
               
                 Tho'
                 Troy
                 was
                 by
                 his
                 Arms
                 subdu'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Greece
                 the
                 bloody
                 Trophies
                 view'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 at
                 a
                 Captive's
                 feet
                 the
                 imploring
                 Victor
                 laid
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 Think
                 not
                 ,
                 thy
                 Charming
                 Maid
                 can
                 be
              
               
                 Of
                 a
                 base
                 Stock
                 ,
                 a
                 mean
                 Degree
                 :
              
               
                 Her
                 Shape
                 ,
                 her
                 Air
                 ,
                 her
                 every
                 Grace
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 more
                 than
                 
                   Vulgar
                   Birth
                
                 confess
                 .
              
               
                 Yes
                 ,
                 yes
                 ,
                 my
                 Friend
                 ,
                 with
                 
                   Royal
                   Blood
                
                 she
                 's
                 great
                 ,
              
               
                 Sprung
                 from
                 some
                 Monarch's
                 bed
                 :
              
               
                 Now
                 mourns
                 her
                 Family's
                 hard
                 Fate
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 mighty
                 Fall
                 ,
                 and
                 abject
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 her
                 Illustrious
                 Race
                 conceals
                 with
                 Noble
                 Pride
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 Ah
                 think
                 not
                 an
                 Ignoble
                 House
                 !
              
               
                 Cou'd
                 such
                 a
                 Heroine
                 produce
                 :
              
               
               
                 Nor
                 think
                 such
                 generous
                 sprightly
                 Blood
                 ,
              
               
                 Cou'd
                 flow
                 the
                 corrupted
                 Crowd
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 view
                 her
                 Courage
                 ,
                 her
                 undaunted
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Soul
                 with
                 Vertues
                 crown'd
                 :
              
               
                 Where
                 dazling
                 Int'rest
                 cannot
                 blind
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Youth
                 ,
                 nor
                 Gold
                 admittance
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 still
                 her
                 Honour
                 's
                 fix'd
                 ,
                 and
                 Vertue
                 keeps
                 its
                 Ground
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 View
                 well
                 her
                 great
                 Majestick
                 Air
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 modest
                 Looks
                 Divinely
                 Fair
                 :
              
               
                 Too
                 bright
                 for
                 Fancy
                 to
                 improve
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 worthy
                 of
                 thy
                 Noblest
                 Love.
              
               
                 But
                 yet
                 suspect
                 not
                 thy
                 officious
                 Friend
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 jealous
                 thoughts
                 remove
                 :
              
               
                 Tho'
                 I
                 with
                 Youthful
                 heat
                 commend
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Thee
                 I
                 all
                 my
                 Wishes
                 send
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 if
                 she
                 makes
                 Thee
                 blest
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 all
                 I
                 ask
                 of
                 Love
                 ,
              
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               SONG
               .
            
             
               BY
               A
               LADY
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 YE
                 Virgin
                 Powers
                 ,
                 defend
                 my
                 Heart
              
               
                 From
                 am'rous
                 Looks
                 and
                 Smiles
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 sawcy
                 Love
                 ,
                 or
                 nicer
                 Art
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 most
                 our
                 Sex
                 beguiles
                 ;
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 From
                 Sighs
                 and
                 Vows
                 ,
                 from
                 awful
                 Fears
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 do
                 to
                 pity
                 move
                 ;
              
               
                 From
                 speaking
                 Silence
                 ,
                 and
                 from
                 Tears
                 ,
              
               
                 Those
                 Springs
                 that
                 water
                 Love.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 if
                 through
                 Passion
                 I
                 grow
                 blind
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 Honour
                 be
                 my
                 Guide
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 where
                 frail
                 Nature
                 seems
                 inclin'd
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 place
                 a
                 Guard
                 of
                 Pride
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 An
                 Heart
                 whose
                 Flames
                 are
                 seen
                 ,
                 tho'
                 pure
                 ,
              
               
                 Needs
                 every
                 Vertues
                 aid
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 she
                 who
                 thinks
                 her self
                 secure
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 soonest
                 is
                 betray'd
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Written
               by
               a
               LADY
               .
            
             
               
                 STREPHON
                 hath
                 Fashion
                 ,
                 Wit
                 ,
                 and
                 Youth
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 things
                 else
                 that
                 please
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 nothing
                 wants
                 but
                 Love
                 and
                 Truth
              
               
                 To
                 ruin
                 me
                 with
                 ease
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 he
                 is
                 Flint
                 ,
                 and
                 bears
                 the
                 Art
              
               
                 To
                 kindle
                 fierce
                 Desire
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Pow'r
                 enflames
                 another's
                 Heart
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 he
                 ne're
                 feels
                 the
                 Fire
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 O
                 how
                 it
                 does
                 my
                 Soul
                 perplex
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 I
                 his
                 Charms
                 recall
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 think
                 he
                 shou'd
                 despise
                 our
                 Sex
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 ,
                 what
                 's
                 worse
                 ,
                 love
                 'em
                 all
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 So
                 that
                 my
                 Heart
                 ,
                 like
                 
                 Noah's
                 Dove
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 has
                 sought
                 for
                 rest
                 ,
              
               
                 Finding
                 no
                 hopes
                 to
                 fix
                 my
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 Returns
                 into
                 my
                 Breast
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               PARAPHRAS'D
               
                 Out
                 of
              
               Horace
               ,
               
                 the
                 23d
                 Ode
                 of
                 the
                 2d
                 Book
                 .
              
            
             
               BY
               Dr.
               POPE
               .
            
             
               THe
               wary
               Gods
               lock
               up
               in
               Cells
               of
               Night
            
             
               Future
               Events
               ,
               and
               laugh
               at
               Mortals
               here
               .
            
             
               If
               they
               to
               pry
               into
               'em
               take
               delight
               ,
            
             
               If
               they
               too
               much
               presume
               ,
               or
               too
               much
               fear
               .
            
             
               O
               Man
               !
               for
               thy
               short
               time
               below
            
             
               Enjoy
               thy self
               ,
               and
               what
               the
               Gods
               bestow
               :
            
             
               Unequal
               Fortunes
               here
               below
               are
               shar'd
               ,
            
             
               Life
               to
               a
               River's
               course
               may
               justly
               be
               compar'd
               :
            
             
               Sometimes
               within
               its
               bed
               ,
            
             
               Without
               an
               angry
               Curl
               or
               Wave
               ,
            
             
             
               From
               the
               Spring
               head
            
             
               It
               gently
               glides
               to
               the
               Ocean
               ,
               its
               Grave
               .
            
             
               Then
               unawares
               ,
               upon
               a
               sudden
               Rain
               ,
            
             
               It
               madly
               overflows
               the
               Neighb'ring
               Plain
               :
            
             
               It
               ploughs
               up
               beauteous
               Ranks
            
             
               Of
               Trees
               ,
               that
               shaded
               and
               adorn'd
               its
               Banks
               ;
            
             
               Overturns
               Houses
               ,
               Bridges
               ,
               Rocks
               ,
            
             
               Drowns
               Shepherds
               and
               their
               Flocks
               :
            
             
               Horror
               and
               Death
               rage
               all
               the
               Valley
               o're
               ,
            
             
               The
               Forrests
               tremble
               ,
               and
               the
               Mountains
               roar
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               
               LOVE's
               Antidote
               .
            
             
               WHen
               I
               sigh
               by
               my
               Mistress
               ,
               and
               gaze
               on
               those
               Eyes
            
             
               Where
               all-conquering
               Love
               in
               Garrison
               lies
               .
            
             
               When
               her
               Nose
               I
               commend
               with
               a
               true
               Roman
               bend
               ,
            
             
               And
               run
               on
               in
               Flattery
               World
               without
               end
               :
            
             
               On
               her
               ample
               high
               Forehead
               ,
               and
               her
               little
               soft
               hand
               ,
            
             
               To
               which
               ,
               if
               compar'd
               ,
               the
               best
               Ivory
               is
               tann'd
               :
            
             
               On
               the
               words
               which
               with
               Grace
               from
               her
               Rosie
               Lips
               flow
               ,
            
             
               And
               such
               Harmony
               make
               ,
               as
               was
               ne're
               heard
               below
               ,
            
             
               Then
               she
               bridles
               the
               Pride
               ,
               and
               swells
               with
               Disdain
               ,
            
             
               And
               slights
               her
               Adorer
               ,
               now
               fast
               in
               her
               Chain
               .
            
             
               With
               Scorn
               in
               her
               haughty
               looks
               ,
               and
               in
               her
               words
               Thunder
               ,
            
             
               Then
               drunken
               with
               Love
               do
               I
               reel
               to
               the
               Wonder
               :
            
             
             
               Then
               with
               three
               or
               four
               Glasses
               my
               languishing
               passes
               ,
            
             
               And
               off
               slides
               the
               Load
               ,
               Love
               lays
               on
               his
               Asses
               .
            
             
               Then
               I
               swear
               I
               'le
               for
               ever
               keep
               out
               of
               the
               scrape
               ,
            
             
               Love's
               Soveraign
               Antidote
               is
               the
               blood
               of
               the
               Grape
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Anacreon
               imitated
               .
            
             
               OFT
               the
               Reverend
               Dotards
               cry
               ,
            
             
               Why
               so
               loving
               ,
               Daphnis
               ,
               why
               ?
            
             
               Love
               's
               a
               thing
               for
               Age
               alone
               :
            
             
               Love
               's
               a
               God
               ,
               and
               you
               're
               too
               young
               .
            
             
               Let
               the
               Harvest
               crown
               your
               Brow
               ,
            
             
               And
               adorn
               your
               Head
               with
               Snow
               :
            
             
               Love
               may
               boldly
               enter
               then
               :
            
             
               Years
               will
               countenance
               your
               Flame
               .
            
             
               Fruits
               ,
               unripe
               ,
               disgust
               the
               taste
               ;
            
             
               Falling
               ripe
               they
               please
               us
               best
               .
            
             
               Colts
               are
               skittish
               ;
               but
               the
               Dam
               ,
            
             
               (
               Once
               a
               Colt
               )
               is
               still
               and
               tame
               :
            
             
               Reverend
               Dotards
               ,
               why
               so
               wise
               ?
            
             
               Why
               these
               Reverend
               Fooleries
               ?
            
             
             
               Who
               neglects
               to
               back
               the
               Horse
               ,
            
             
               Till
               his
               Years
               compute
               him
               worse
               ?
            
             
               Generous
               Brutes
               that
               latest
               die
               ,
            
             
               Early
               to
               Enjoyment
               fly
               :
            
             
               Vigorous
               Nature
               scorns
               a
               Tie
               .
            
             
               Gather'd
               Fruit
               are
               best
               of
               all
               ;
            
             
               We
               despise
               them
               when
               they
               fall
               .
            
             
               Thus
               your
               Follies
               show
               to
               me
               ,
            
             
               What
               my
               Reverend
               Age
               shall
               be
               .
            
             
               Bring
               the
               Glass
               then
               ,
               bring
               the
               Fair
               ,
            
             
               Fill
               it
               ,
               't
               is
               a
               Health
               to
               her
               .
            
             
               For
               experimental
               I
            
             
               Will
               a
               great
               Example
               be
            
             
               To
               convince
               such
               Reverend
               Fools
            
             
               Of
               their
               own
               mistaken
               Rules
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Anacreon
               imitated
               .
            
             
               OH
               how
               pleasant
               is't
               !
               how
               sweet
               !
            
             
               While
               with
               Beauties
               exquisite
            
             
               Nature
               paints
               the
               fragrant
               Grove
               ,
            
             
               Thus
               to
               walk
               and
               talk
               of
               Love.
            
             
               Here
               no
               envious
               Eastern
               Gale
            
             
               Sells
               us
               Pleasure
               by
               Retail
               .
            
             
               Western
               breezes
               here
               dispence
            
             
               Joys
               so
               full
               ,
               they
               cloy
               the
               sense
               .
            
             
               Gods
               !
               oh
               Gods
               !
               how
               sweet
               a
               Shade
            
             
               Has
               that
               Honey-Suckle
               made
               ,
            
             
               Clasping
               round
               that
               spreading
               Tree
               ,
            
             
               Clasping
               fast
               ,
               and
               apeing
               me
               .
            
             
               Me
               who
               ,
               there
               with
               Celia
               laid
               ,
            
             
               First
               inform'd
               this
               lovely
               Maid
            
             
               So
               to
               clasp
               ,
               and
               so
               to
               twine
               .
            
             
               Oh!
               how
               sweet
               a
               life
               is
               mine
               !
            
          
           
             
             
               Anacreon
               imitated
               .
            
             
               COme
               fill
               't
               up
               ,
               and
               fill
               it
               high
               ,
            
             
               The
               barren
               Earth
               is
               always
               dry
               ;
            
             
               But
               we
               'll
               steep't
               in
               kindly
               Show'rs
               ,
            
             
               It
               laughs
               in
               Dew
               ,
               and
               smiles
               in
               Flow'rs
               .
            
             
               The
               Jovial
               Gods
               did
               ,
               sure
               ,
               design
               ,
            
             
               By
               the
               Immortal
               Gift
               of
               Wine
               ,
            
             
               To
               drown
               our
               Sighs
               ,
               and
               ease
               our
               Care
               ,
            
             
               And
               make's
               content
               to
               Revel
               here
               .
            
             
               To
               Revel
               ,
               and
               to
               reign
               in
               Love
               ,
            
             
               And
               be
               throughout
               like
               those
               above
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               FROM
               
               Virgil's
               1st
               Georgick
               ,
            
             
               Beginning
               at
               
                 
                   
                     Imprimis
                     venerare
                     Deos
                  
                   ,
                   &c.
                   
                
              
            
             
               Translated
               into
               ENGLISH
               VERSE
               BY
               
                 H.
                 SACHEVERILL
              
               .
            
             
               Dedicated
               to
               Mr.
               DRYDEN
               .
            
             
               FIrst
               let
               thy
               Altars
               smoak
               with
               Sacred
               Fire
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               Earthly
               Labours
               the
               just
               Gods
               require
               .
            
             
               Let
               Ceres
               Blessings
               usher
               in
               the
               Year
               ,
            
             
               To
               give
               an
               Omen
               to
               thy
               future
               Care.
            
             
             
               With
               Sacrifice
               adorn
               her
               Grassy
               Shrine
               ,
            
             
               With
               Milk
               ,
               with
               Honey
               ,
               and
               with
               flowing
               Wine
               .
            
             
               Then
               go
               ,
               the
               mighty
               Goddess
               to
               adore
               ,
            
             
               When
               Spring
               buds
               forth
               ,
               and
               Winter
               is
               no
               more
               .
            
             
               Then
               well
               fed
               Lambs
               thy
               plenteous
               Tables
               load
               ,
            
             
               And
               mellow
               Wines
               give
               appetite
               to
               Food
               .
            
             
               Whilst
               the
               cool
               Shade
               by
               small
               refreshing
               Streams
            
             
               Invite
               soft
               Sleep
               ,
               and
               gentle
               pleasing
               Dreams
               .
            
             
               The
               Rustick
               Youth
               the
               Goddess
               shou'd
               implore
            
             
               To
               bless
               their
               Fruits
               ,
               and
               to
               encrease
               their
               Store
               .
            
             
               Thrice
               let
               the
               Sacrifice
               in
               Triumph
               led
            
             
               Crown
               the
               new
               Off-spring
               of
               her
               fruitful
               Bed.
            
             
               A
               joyful
               Quire
               shall
               sing
               her
               Praises
               round
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               unequal
               Motions
               beat
               the
               Ground
               .
            
             
               Whilst
               Oaken
               Branches
               on
               their
               Temples
               twine
               ,
            
             
               To
               shew
               the
               better
               use
               of
               Corn
               and
               Wine
               .
            
             
               The
               Goddess
               thus
               appeas'd
               ,
               will
               bend
               her
               Ear
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               a
               
                 plenteous
                 Harvest
              
               will
               reward
               your
               Care.
            
             
             
               The
               certain
               Seasons
               of
               the
               Year
               to
               know
            
             
               Great
               Jove
               has
               taught
               us
               ,
               and
               from
               whence
               they
               flow
               ,
            
             
               
                 Droughts
                 ,
                 Rains
              
               ,
               and
               Winds
               their
               certain
               Signs
               forego
               ,
            
             
               Those
               Messengers
               of
               Fate
               fly
               to
               provide
               the
               way
               ,
            
             
               To
               give
               the
               Signal
               of
               a
               gloomy
               Day
               .
            
             
               The
               Moon
               her
               Tokens
               constantly
               fulfils
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               her
               Beams
               points
               out
               th'
               approaching
               Ills.
            
             
               Her
               waining
               Orb
               puts
               on
               a
               various
               Form
            
             
               To
               give
               the
               Sign
               of
               an
               impending
               Storm
               .
            
             
               When
               South
               Winds
               rise
               the
               Herdsmen
               justly
               fear
               ,
            
             
               And
               seek
               a
               Shelter
               when
               the
               Tempest
               's
               near
               .
            
             
               First
               from
               a
               gentle
               blast
               the
               Winds
               arise
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               Infant
               Voice
               in
               whisp'ring
               Murmurs
               flys
               ,
            
             
               Then
               with
               loud
               Clamours
               fills
               the
               troubled
               Skies
               .
            
             
               By
               small
               degrees
               advanc'd
               ,
               it
               stronger
               grows
               ,
            
             
               Till
               every
               Point
               each
               other
               does
               oppose
               .
            
             
               Then
               through
               the
               jarring
               Zones
               it
               frets
               and
               roars
               ,
            
             
               And
               lifts
               the
               swelling
               Billows
               to
               the
               Shores.
            
             
             
               Vast
               watry
               Mountains
               rowl
               upon
               the
               Sand
               ,
            
             
               And
               angry
               Surges
               beat
               the
               trembling
               Land.
            
             
               A
               harsh
               ,
               shrill
               noise
               the
               ecchoing
               Caverns
               fills
               ,
            
             
               And
               strikes
               the
               Ear
               from
               the
               resounding
               Hills
               ;
            
             
               Whose
               
                 Reverend
                 Tops
              
               ,
               with
               aged
               Pine-trees
               crown'd
               ,
            
             
               Rock
               with
               the
               Wind
               ,
               and
               tremble
               with
               the
               sound
               .
            
             
               Then
               threatning
               Surges
               hardly
               can
               forbear
            
             
               The
               tatter'd
               Vessel
               ,
               while
               the
               Seamen
               fear
            
             
               Each
               rowling
               Billow
               shou'd
               their
               last
               appear
               .
            
             
               The
               frightned
               Native
               of
               the
               troubled
               Waves
            
             
               His
               long
               accustom'd
               Habitation
               leaves
               .
            
             
               Now
               born
               aloft
               a
               winged
               Army
               soar
            
             
               To
               seek
               for
               safety
               on
               a
               calmer
               Shore
               .
            
             
               The
               More-Hen
               ,
               conscious
               of
               the
               Tempest
               near
               ,
            
             
               Plays
               on
               the
               Sand
               ,
               and
               so
               prevents
               her
               fear
               .
            
             
               The
               Hern
               forsakes
               his
               ancient
               marshy
               Bed
               ,
            
             
               And
               tow'rs
               to
               Heav'n
               while
               Clouds
               bedew
               his
               head
               .
            
             
               Sometimes
               he
               's
               met
               by
               a
               descending
               Star
               ,
            
             
               Which
               warns
               the
               Tempest
               rushing
               from
               afar
               .
            
             
             
               The
               headlong
               Planet
               glides
               in
               fiery
               Streams
               ,
            
             
               And
               shoots
               through
               Darkness
               with
               its
               
                 Radiant
                 Beams
              
               .
            
             
               It
               cuts
               the
               Shadows
               with
               a
               Train
               of
               Light
               ,
            
             
               And
               makes
               a
               Medley
               of
               the
               Day
               and
               Night
               .
            
             
               A
               sportive
               Whirlwind
               lifts
               the
               moving
               Sand
               ,
            
             
               In
               my
               stick
               Circles
               dancing
               on
               the
               Land.
            
             
               Now
               wanton
               Feathers
               whiten
               all
               the
               Flood
               ;
            
             
               And
               sapless
               Leaves
               fly
               o're
               the
               shaken
               Wood
               ,
            
             
               At
               distance
               black'ning
               in
               a
               dusky
               Cloud
               .
            
             
               But
               when
               a
               
                 new-fledg'd
                 Storm
              
               comes
               blust'ring
               forth
               ,
            
             
               And
               quits
               the
               thund'ring
               Regions
               of
               the
               North
               :
            
             
               When
               East
               and
               West
               in
               distant
               Poles
               conspire
               ,
            
             
               Uniting
               Rage
               ,
               to
               swell
               the
               Deluge
               higher
               ,
            
             
               With
               rapid
               Streams
               the
               full-charg'd
               Chanels
               flow
               ,
            
             
               Collecting
               Forces
               as
               they
               farther
               go
               .
            
             
               Th'
               unruly
               Tide
               no
               sturdy
               Banks
               controul
               ,
            
             
               O're
               unknown
               Plains
               the
               furious
               Torrents
               rowl
               .
            
             
               The
               Reapers
               mourn
               to
               see
               the
               Deluge
               bear
            
             
               Their
               long
               expected
               Labours
               of
               the
               Year
               .
            
          
           
             
               
               
                 
                   LA
                   jeune
                   Iris
                   aux
                   cheveux
                   gris
                
                 
                   Disoit
                   à
                   Theodate
                   ,
                
                 
                   Retournons
                   ,
                   mon
                   cher
                   à
                   Paris
                   ,
                
                 
                   Avant
                   que
                   l'on
                   combatte
                   ;
                
              
               
                 
                   Vous
                   me
                   donnés
                   trop
                   de
                   souci
                   ,
                
                 
                   Car
                   Guillaume
                   ne
                   raille
                   .
                
                 
                   Helas
                   !
                   que
                   feriez-vous
                   icy
                   ?
                
                 
                   Le
                   jour
                   d'une
                   bataille
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Il
                   est
                   vray
                   que
                   vous
                   partirés
                
                 
                   Sans
                   Lauriers
                   &
                   sans
                   Gloire
                   ,
                
                 
                   Et
                   que
                   vous
                   Embarrasserés
                
                 
                   Ceux
                   qui
                   font
                   Vôtre
                   Histoire
                   ;
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Mais
                   vous
                   devés
                   laisser
                   ces
                   soins
                
                 
                   A
                   D'Espreaux
                   &
                   Corneille
                   ;
                
                 
                   Vous
                   ne
                   les
                   payeriés
                   pas
                   moins
                   ,
                
                 
                   Quand
                   vous
                   feriés
                   merveille
                   ,
                
              
               
                 
                   Vous
                   punirez
                   une
                   autre
                   fois
                
                 
                   Ces
                   gens
                   qui
                   m'ont
                   pillée
                   .
                
                 
                   Qu'elle
                   honte
                   qu'à
                   Charleroy
                
                 
                   Ils
                   m'ûssent
                   ameneé
                   !
                
              
               
                 
                   Quoy
                   que
                   je
                   sois
                   ainée
                   de
                   vous
                   ,
                
                 
                   Et
                   que
                   je
                   sois
                   bien
                   sage
                   ,
                
                 
                   Jaurois
                   passé
                   parmy
                   ces
                   fous
                
                 
                   Pour
                   un
                   Rebut
                   de
                   Page
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 A
                 Paraphrase
                 on
                 the
                 French.
                 
              
               
                 
                   IN
                   Gray-hair'd
                   
                   Celia's
                   wither'd
                   Arms
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   Mighty
                   Lewis
                   lay
                   ,
                
                 
                   She
                   cry'd
                   ,
                   if
                   I
                   have
                   any
                   Charms
                   ,
                
                 
                   My
                   Dearest
                   let
                   's
                   away
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   I
                   tremble
                   for
                   you
                   when
                   I
                   hear
                
                 
                   Of
                   Drums
                   the
                   dreadful
                   Rattle
                   :
                
                 
                   Alas
                   ,
                   Sir
                   !
                   what
                   shou'd
                   you
                   do
                   here
                
                 
                   In
                   dreadful
                   day
                   of
                   battle
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Perhaps
                   you
                   'll
                   ask
                   what
                   can
                   repair
                
                 
                   The
                   Ruines
                   of
                   your
                   Glory
                   :
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   fit
                   you
                   leave
                   so
                   mean
                   a
                   Care
                
                 
                   To
                   those
                   who
                   Pen
                   your
                   Story
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                 
                   Are
                   not
                   D'Espreaux
                   and
                   Corneile
                   paid
                
                 
                   For
                   Panegyrick
                   writing
                   ?
                
                 
                   They
                   know
                   how
                   Heroes
                   may
                   be
                   made
                
                 
                   Without
                   the
                   help
                   of
                   fighting
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Your
                   Foes
                   too
                   saucily
                   approach
                   ,
                
                 
                   'T
                   is
                   best
                   to
                   leave
                   them
                   fairly
                   :
                
                 
                   Put
                   six
                   good
                   Horses
                   in
                   your
                   Coach
                   ,
                
                 
                   And
                   carry
                   Me
                   to
                   Marly
                   .
                
              
               
                 
                   Let
                   Bousters
                   ,
                   to
                   secure
                   your
                   Fame
                   ,
                
                 
                   Go
                   take
                   some
                   Town
                   ,
                   or
                   buy
                   it
                   ;
                
                 
                   Whilst
                   you
                   ,
                   great
                   Sir
                   ,
                   at
                   Nostredame
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     Te
                     Deum
                  
                   sing
                   in
                   quiet
                   .
                
              
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               SONG
            
             
               BY
               Sir
               
                 JOHN
                 EATON
              
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 TEll
                 me
                 not
                 I
                 my
                 time
                 mispend
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 time
                 lost
                 to
                 reprove
                 me
                 ;
              
               
                 Persue
                 thou
                 thine
                 ,
                 I
                 have
                 my
                 end
              
               
                 So
                 Chloris
                 only
                 love
                 me
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 Tell
                 me
                 not
                 others
                 Flocks
                 are
                 full
                 ,
              
               
                 Mine
                 poor
                 ,
                 '
                 let
                 them
                 despise
                 me
              
               
                 Who
                 more
                 abound
                 with
                 Milk
                 and
                 Wool
                 ,
                 '
              
               
                 So
                 Chloris
                 only
                 prize
                 me
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 Tire
                 others
                 easier
                 Ears
                 with
                 these
              
               
                 Unappertaining
                 Stories
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 never
                 felt
                 the
                 World's
                 Disease
              
               
                 Who
                 car'd
                 not
                 for
                 its
                 Glories
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 For
                 pity
                 Thou
                 that
                 wiser
                 art
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 thoughts
                 lie
                 wide
                 of
                 mine
                 ;
              
               
                 Let
                 me
                 alone
                 with
                 my
                 own
                 Heart
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 I
                 'le
                 ne're
                 envy
                 thine
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 Nor
                 blame
                 him
                 who
                 e're
                 blames
                 my
                 Wit
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 seeks
                 no
                 higher
                 Prize
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 in
                 unenvy'd
                 Shades
                 to
                 sit
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sing
                 of
                 Chloris
                 Eyes
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Another
               SONG
               In
               Imitation
               of
               Sir
               JOHN
               EATON's
               Songs
               .
            
             
               By
               the
               Late
               Earl
               of
               ROCHESTER
               .
            
             
               
                 TOO
                 late
                 ,
                 alas
                 !
                 I
                 must
                 confess
              
               
                 You
                 need
                 no
                 Arts
                 to
                 move
                 me
                 :
              
               
                 Such
                 Charms
                 by
                 Nature
                 you
                 possess
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 were
                 madness
                 not
                 to
                 love
                 you
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Then
                 spare
                 a
                 Heart
                 you
                 may
                 surprise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 give
                 my
                 Tongue
                 the
                 Glory
              
               
                 To
                 boast
                 ,
                 tho'
                 my
                 unfaithful
                 Eyes
              
               
                 Betray
                 a
                 kinder
                 Story
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               A
               SONG
            
             
               BY
               
                 SIDNY
                 GODOLPHIN
              
               ,
               
                 Esq
              
               ON
               
                 Tom.
                 Killigrew
              
               and
               
                 Will.
                 Murrey
              
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 TOM
                 and
                 Will
                 were
                 Shepherds
                 twain
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 Liv'd
                 and
                 Lov'd
                 together
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 Fair
                 Pastora
                 crost
                 the
                 Plain
                 ,
              
               
                 Alack
                 ,
                 why
                 came
                 the
                 thither
                 !
              
               
                 
                 Pastora's
                 Fair
                 and
                 Lovely
                 Locks
              
               
                 Set
                 both
                 their
                 Hearts
                 on
                 fire
                 ,
              
               
                 Although
                 they
                 did
                 divide
                 their
                 Flocks
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 had
                 but
                 one
                 desire
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 Tom
                 came
                 of
                 a
                 Gentile
                 Race
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 Father
                 and
                 by
                 Mother
                 ,
              
               
                 Will
                 was
                 Noble
                 ,
                 but
                 alas
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 was
                 a
                 Younger
                 Brother
                 .
              
               
                 Neither
                 of
                 them
                 no
                 Huntsman
                 was
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Fisher
                 ,
                 nor
                 no
                 Fowler
                 ;
              
               
                 Tom
                 was
                 stil'd
                 the
                 prop'rer
                 Lad
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 Will
                 the
                 better
                 Bowler
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 Tom
                 wou'd
                 Drink
                 her
                 Health
                 and
                 Swear
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Nation
                 cou'd
                 not
                 want
                 her
                 ;
              
               
                 Will
                 wou'd
                 take
                 her
                 by
                 the
                 Ear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 his
                 Voice
                 Enchant
                 her
                 .
              
               
                 Tom
                 was
                 always
                 in
                 her
                 sight
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ne're
                 forgot
                 his
                 Duty
                 ;
              
               
                 Will
                 was
                 Witty
                 ,
                 and
                 cou'd
                 write
              
               
                 Sweet
                 Sonnets
                 on
                 her
                 Beauty
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 Which
                 of
                 them
                 she
                 Loved
                 most
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 whither
                 she
                 Lov'd
                 either
                 ;
              
               
                 T
                 was
                 thought
                 they
                 found
                 it
                 to
                 their
                 cost
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 she
                 indeed
                 Lov'd
                 neither
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 yet
                 she
                 was
                 so
                 sweet
                 a
                 She
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 comly
                 of
                 behaviour
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 Tom
                 thought
                 He
                 ,
                 and
                 Will
                 thought
                 He
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 greatest
                 in
                 her
                 Favour
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 Pastora
                 was
                 a
                 Beauteous
                 Lass
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 a
                 charming
                 sprightly
                 Nature
                 ,
              
               
                 Divinely
                 Good
                 and
                 Kind
                 she
                 was
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 smil'd
                 on
                 ev'ry
                 Creature
                 .
              
               
                 Of
                 Favours
                 she
                 was
                 provident
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 yet
                 not
                 over
                 sparing
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 gave
                 no
                 loose
                 Encouragement
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 kept
                 Men
                 from
                 despairing
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 Now
                 flying
                 Fame
                 had
                 made
                 report
              
               
                 Of
                 Fair
                 
                 Pastora's
                 Beauty
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 she
                 must
                 needs
                 unto
                 the
                 Court
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 to
                 perform
                 her
                 Duty
                 .
              
               
                 Unto
                 the
                 Court
                 
                 Pastora's
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 It
                 were
                 no
                 Court
                 without
                 her
                 ,
                 )
              
               
                 The
                 Queen
                 her self
                 ,
                 with
                 all
                 her
                 Train
                 ,
              
               
                 Had
                 none
                 so
                 Fair
                 about
                 her
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 7.
                 
              
               
                 Tom
                 hung
                 his
                 Dog
                 ,
                 and
                 flung
                 away
              
               
                 His
                 Sheep-hook
                 and
                 his
                 Wallet
                 ;
              
               
                 Will
                 broke
                 his
                 Pipes
                 ,
                 and
                 curst
                 the
                 day
              
               
                 That
                 e're
                 he
                 made
                 a
                 Ballet
                 .
              
               
                 Their
                 Nine-pins
                 and
                 their
                 Bowls
                 they
                 broke
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Tunes
                 were
                 turn'd
                 to
                 Tears
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 time
                 for
                 me
                 to
                 make
                 an
                 end
                 ,
              
               
                 Let
                 them
                 go
                 shake
                 their
                 Ears
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               RONDELAY
               .
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               DRYDEN
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 CHLOE
                 found
                 Amyntas
                 lying
              
               
                 All
                 in
                 Tears
                 ,
                 upon
                 the
                 Plain
                 ;
              
               
                 Sighing
                 to
                 himself
                 ,
                 and
                 crying
                 ,
              
               
                 Wretched
                 I
                 ,
                 to
                 love
                 in
                 vain
                 !
              
               
                 Kiss
                 me
                 ,
                 Dear
                 ,
                 before
                 my
                 dying
                 ;
              
               
                 Kiss
                 me
                 once
                 ,
                 and
                 ease
                 my
                 pain
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 Sighing
                 to
                 himself
                 ,
                 and
                 crying
              
               
                 Wretched
                 I
                 ,
                 to
                 love
                 in
                 vain
                 :
              
               
                 Ever
                 scorning
                 and
                 denying
              
               
                 To
                 reward
                 your
                 faithful
                 Swain
                 :
              
               
                 Kiss
                 me
                 ,
                 Dear
                 ,
                 before
                 my
                 dying
                 ;
              
               
                 Kiss
                 me
                 once
                 ,
                 and
                 ease
                 my
                 pain
                 !
              
            
             
               
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 Ever
                 scorning
                 ,
                 and
                 denying
              
               
                 To
                 reward
                 your
                 faithful
                 Swain
                 ;
              
               
                 Chloe
                 ,
                 laughing
                 at
                 his
                 crying
                 ,
              
               
                 Told
                 him
                 that
                 he
                 lov'd
                 in
                 vain
                 :
              
               
                 Kiss
                 me
                 ,
                 Dear
                 ,
                 before
                 my
                 dying
                 ;
              
               
                 Kiss
                 me
                 once
                 ,
                 and
                 ease
                 my
                 pain
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 Chloe
                 ,
                 laughing
                 at
                 his
                 crying
                 ,
              
               
                 Told
                 him
                 that
                 he
                 lov'd
                 in
                 vain
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 repenting
                 ,
                 and
                 complying
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 he
                 kiss'd
                 ,
                 she
                 kiss'd
                 again
                 :
              
               
                 Kiss'd
                 him
                 up
                 ,
                 before
                 his
                 dying
                 ;
              
               
                 Kiss'd
                 him
                 up
                 ,
                 and
                 eas'd
                 his
                 pain
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               In
               a
               Letter
               to
               the
               Honourable
               Mr.
               
                 Charles
                 Montague
              
               .
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               PRIOR
               .
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 HOwe're
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 well
                 ,
                 that
                 whilst
                 Mankind
                 ,
              
               
                 Through
                 Fate
                 's
                 Fantastic
                 Mazes
                 errs
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 can
                 imagin'd
                 Pleasures
                 find
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 combat
                 against
                 real
                 Cares
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 Fancies
                 and
                 Notions
                 we
                 pursue
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 ne're
                 had
                 Being
                 but
                 in
                 thought
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 like
                 the
                 doating
                 Artist
                 woo
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Image
                 we
                 our selves
                 have
                 wrought
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 Against
                 Experience
                 we
                 believe
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 argue
                 against
                 Demonstration
                 ;
              
               
                 Pleas'd
                 that
                 we
                 can
                 our selves
                 deceive
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 set
                 our
                 Judgment
                 by
                 our
                 Passion
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 hoary
                 Fool
                 ,
                 who
                 ,
                 many
                 Days
                 ,
              
               
                 Has
                 struggled
                 with
                 continued
                 Sorrow
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Renews
                 his
                 Hope
                 ,
                 and
                 blindly
                 lays
              
               
                 The
                 desp'rate
                 Bet
                 upon
                 to
                 Morrow
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 To
                 Morrow
                 comes
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 Noon
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 day
                 like
                 all
                 the
                 former
                 fled
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 on
                 he
                 runs
                 to
                 seek
                 Delight
              
               
                 To
                 Morrow
                 ,
                 till
                 too
                 Night
                 he
                 's
                 dead
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 Our
                 Hopes
                 ,
                 like
                 tow'ring
                 Falcons
                 ,
                 aim
              
               
                 At
                 Objects
                 in
                 an
                 Airy
                 height
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 all
                 the
                 Pleasure
                 of
                 the
                 Game
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 afar
                 off
                 to
                 view
                 the
                 Flight
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 7.
                 
              
               
                 The
                 worthless
                 Prey
                 but
                 only
                 shows
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Joy
                 consisted
                 in
                 the
                 Strife
                 ;
              
               
                 Whate're
                 we
                 take
                 ,
                 as
                 soon
                 we
                 lose
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Homer's
                 Riddle
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 Life
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 8.
                 
              
               
                 So
                 whilst
                 in
                 Fev'rish
                 Sleeps
                 we
                 think
              
               
                 We
                 taste
                 what
                 waking
                 we
                 desire
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Dream
                 is
                 better
                 than
                 the
                 Drink
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 only
                 feeds
                 the
                 sickly
                 Fire
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 9.
                 
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 Minds
                 Eye
                 things
                 well
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 At
                 distance
                 through
                 an
                 artful
                 Glass
                 ;
              
               
                 Bring
                 but
                 the
                 flatt'ring
                 Objects
                 near
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 're
                 all
                 a
                 senseless
                 gloomy
                 Mass.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 10.
                 
              
               
                 Seeing
                 aright
                 ,
                 we
                 see
                 our
                 Woes
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 what
                 avails
                 it
                 to
                 have
                 Eyes
                 ?
              
               
                 From
                 Ignorance
                 our
                 Comfort
                 flows
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 only
                 wretched
                 are
                 the
                 Wise.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 11.
                 
              
               
                 We
                 wearied
                 shou'd
                 lie
                 down
                 in
                 Death
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 Cheat
                 of
                 Life
                 wou'd
                 take
                 no
                 more
                 ;
              
               
                 If
                 you
                 thought
                 Fame
                 but
                 stinking
                 Breath
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 ,
                 Phillis
                 but
                 a
                 perjur'd
                 Whore.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
               An
               ODE
               .
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               PRIOR
            
             
               
                 1.
                 
              
               
                 WHilst
                 blooming
                 Youth
                 and
                 gay
                 Delight
              
               
                 In
                 all
                 thy
                 Looks
                 and
                 Gestures
                 shine
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Thou
                 hast
                 ,
                 my
                 Dear
                 ,
                 undoubted
                 Right
              
               
                 To
                 Rule
                 this
                 destin'd
                 Heart
                 of
                 mine
                 ;
              
               
                 My
                 Reason
                 bends
                 to
                 what
                 your
                 Eyes
                 ordain
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 I
                 was
                 born
                 to
                 love
                 ,
                 and
                 you
                 to
                 reign
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 But
                 wou'd
                 you
                 meanly
                 then
                 rely
              
               
                 On
                 Power
                 ,
                 you
                 know
                 I
                 must
                 obey
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 but
                 a
                 Legal
                 Tyranny
              
               
                 To
                 do
                 an
                 Ill
                 ,
                 because
                 you
                 may
                 .
              
               
                 Why
                 must
                 I
                 thee
                 ,
                 as
                 Atheists
                 Heav'n
                 adore
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 see
                 thy
                 Mercy
                 ,
                 and
                 but
                 dread
                 thy
                 Pow'r
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 Take
                 heed
                 ,
                 my
                 Dear
                 ,
                 Youth
                 flies
                 apace
                 ,
              
               
                 Time
                 equally
                 with
                 Love
                 is
                 blind
                 ;
              
               
                 Soon
                 must
                 those
                 Glories
                 of
                 thy
                 Face
              
               
                 The
                 Fate
                 of
                 
                   Vulgar
                   Beauty
                
                 find
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 thousand
                 Loves
                 that
                 arm
                 thy
                 potent
                 Eye
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 drop
                 their
                 Quivers
                 ,
                 flag
                 their
                 Wings
                 ,
                 and
                 die
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 Then
                 thou
                 wilt
                 sigh
                 ,
                 when
                 in
                 each
                 Frown
              
               
                 A
                 hateful
                 wrinckle
                 more
                 appears
                 ;
              
               
               
                 And
                 putting
                 peevish
                 humours
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 Seems
                 but
                 the
                 sad
                 effect
                 of
                 Years
                 :
              
               
                 Even
                 Kindness
                 then
                 too
                 weak
                 a
                 Charm
                 will
                 prove
              
               
                 To
                 raise
                 the
                 Ghost
                 of
                 my
                 departed
                 Love.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 Forc'd
                 Complements
                 and
                 formal
                 Bows
              
               
                 Will
                 show
                 Thee
                 Just
                 above
                 Neglect
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 heat
                 with
                 which
                 thy
                 Lover
                 glows
              
               
                 Will
                 settle
                 into
                 cold
                 Respect
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 talking
                 dull
                 Platonick
                 I
                 shall
                 turn
                 ,
              
               
                 Learn
                 to
                 be
                 civil
                 ,
                 when
                 I
                 cease
                 to
                 burn
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 Then
                 shun
                 the
                 ill
                 ,
                 and
                 know
                 ,
                 my
                 Dear
                 ,
              
               
                 Kindness
                 and
                 Constancy
                 will
                 prove
              
               
                 The
                 only
                 Pillars
                 fit
                 to
                 bear
              
               
                 So
                 vast
                 a
                 weight
                 as
                 that
                 of
                 Love
                 :
              
               
                 If
                 thou
                 canst
                 wish
                 to
                 make
                 my
                 Flames
                 endure
                 ,
              
               
                 Thine
                 must
                 be
                 very
                 fierce
                 ,
                 and
                 very
                 pure
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 7.
                 
              
               
                 Haste
                 Celia
                 ,
                 haste
                 ,
                 whilst
                 Love
                 invites
                 ,
              
               
                 Obey
                 the
                 Godhead's
                 gentle
                 Voice
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Fill
                 every
                 Sense
                 with
                 soft
                 Delights
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 give
                 thy
                 Soul
                 a
                 loose
                 to
                 Joys
                 ;
              
               
                 Let
                 millions
                 of
                 repeated
                 Blisses
                 prove
              
               
                 That
                 thou
                 art
                 Kindness
                 all
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 all
                 love
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 8.
                 
              
               
                 Be
                 mine
                 ,
                 and
                 only
                 mine
                 ,
                 take
                 care
                 to
                 guide
              
               
                 Your
                 Looks
                 ,
                 your
                 Thoughts
                 ,
                 your
                 Dreams
              
               
                 To
                 me
                 alone
                 ,
                 nor
                 come
                 so
                 far
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 liking
                 any
                 Youth
                 beside
                 :
              
               
                 What
                 Men
                 e're
                 court
                 thee
                 ,
                 fly
                 'em
                 ,
                 and
                 believe
              
               
                 They
                 're
                 Serpents
                 all
                 ,
                 and
                 thou
                 the
                 tempted
                 Eve.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 9.
                 
              
               
                 So
                 shall
                 I
                 court
                 thy
                 dearest
                 Truth
              
               
                 When
                 Beauty
                 ceases
                 to
                 engage
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 thinking
                 on
                 thy
                 charming
                 Youth
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 love
                 it
                 o're
                 again
                 in
                 Age.
              
               
                 So
                 time
                 it self
                 our
                 Raptures
                 shall
                 improve
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 still
                 we
                 'll
                 wake
                 to
                 Joy
                 ,
                 and
                 live
                 to
                 Love.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               TO
               A
               LADY
               of
               Quality's
               
                 Playing
                 on
                 the
                 Lute
              
               .
            
             
               By
               Mr.
               PRIOR
               .
            
             
               
                 WHat
                 Charms
                 you
                 have
                 ,
                 from
                 what
                 high
                 Race
                 you
                 sprung
                 ,
              
               
                 Have
                 been
                 the
                 Subject
                 of
                 our
                 Daring
                 Song
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 you
                 pleas'd
                 to
                 show
                 the
                 lab'ring
                 Muse
              
               
                 What
                 greater
                 Theams
                 your
                 Musick
                 could
                 produce
                 ;
              
               
                 Our
                 Babling
                 Praises
                 we
                 repeat
                 no
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 hear
                 ,
                 rejoyce
                 ,
                 stand
                 silent
                 ,
                 and
                 adore
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 Persians
                 thus
                 ,
                 first
                 gazing
                 on
                 the
                 Sun
                 ,
              
               
                 Admir'd
                 how
                 high
                 't
                 was
                 plac'd
                 ,
                 how
                 bright
                 it
                 shone
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 as
                 
                   his
                   Pow'r
                
                 was
                 known
                 ,
                 
                   their
                   Thoughts
                
                 were
                 rais'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 soon
                 they
                 worship'd
                 ,
                 what
                 at
                 first
                 they
                 prais'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 
                 Eliza's
                 Glory
                 lives
                 in
                 
                 Spencer's
                 Song
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 
                 Cowley's
                 Verse
                 keeps
                 fair
                 Orinda
                 young
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 you
                 in
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 Birth
                 excell
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Muse
                 might
                 dictate
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Poet
                 tell
                 ;
              
               
                 Your
                 Art
                 ,
                 no
                 other
                 Art
                 can
                 speak
                 ,
                 and
                 you
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 shew
                 how
                 well
                 you
                 play
                 ,
                 must
                 play
                 anew
                 :
              
               
                 Your
                 Musick
                 's
                 pow'r
                 your
                 Musick
                 must
                 disclose
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 what
                 Light
                 is
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 only
                 Light
                 that
                 shows
                 .
              
               
                 Strange
                 force
                 of
                 Harmony
                 that
                 thus
                 Controuls
              
               
                 Our
                 inmost
                 Thoughts
                 ,
                 and
                 sanctifies
                 our
                 Souls
                 :
              
               
                 Whilst
                 with
                 its
                 utmost
                 Art
                 your
                 Sex
                 could
                 move
              
               
                 Our
                 Wonder
                 only
                 ,
                 or
                 at'best
                 our
                 Love.
              
               
                 You
                 far
                 beyond
                 both
                 these
                 your
                 God
                 did
                 place
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 your
                 high
                 power
                 might
                 worldly
                 thoughts
                 destroy
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 with
                 your
                 Numbers
                 you
                 our
                 Zeal
                 might
                 raise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 like
                 himself
                 ,
                 Communicate
                 your
                 Joy.
              
               
               
                 When
                 to
                 your
                 Native
                 Heaven
                 you
                 shall
                 repair
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 your
                 Presence
                 Crown
                 the
                 Blessings
                 there
              
               
                 Your
                 Lute
                 may
                 wind
                 its
                 strings
                 but
                 little
                 higher
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 tune
                 their
                 Notes
                 to
                 that
                 Immortal
                 Quire.
              
               
                 Your
                 Art
                 is
                 perfect
                 here
                 ,
                 your
                 Numbers
                 do
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 than
                 our
                 Books
                 ,
                 make
                 the
                 rude
                 Atheist
                 know
              
               
                 That
                 there
                 's
                 a
                 Heaven
                 ,
                 by
                 what
                 he
                 heàrs
                 below
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 in
                 some
                 Piece
                 ,
                 whilst
                 Luke
                 his
                 Skill
                 exprest
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Cunning
                 Angel
                 came
                 and
                 drew
                 the
                 rest
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 ,
                 whilst
                 you
                 play
                 ,
                 some
                 Godhead
                 does
                 impart
              
               
                 Harmonious
                 aid
                 ,
                 Divinity
                 helps
                 Art
                 ;
              
               
                 Some
                 Cherub
                 finishes
                 what
                 you
                 begun
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 a
                 Miracle
                 improves
                 a
                 Tune
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 To
                 burning
                 Rome
                 when
                 frantick
                 Nero
                 play'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Viewing
                 your
                 Face
                 ,
                 no
                 more
                 he
                 had
                 survey'd
              
               
               
                 The
                 
                   reigning
                   flames
                
                 ,
                 but
                 struck
                 with
                 strange
                 surprize
                 ,
              
               
                 Confess
                 'em
                 less
                 than
                 those
                 of
                 
                 Anna's
                 Eyes
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 had
                 he
                 heard
                 thy
                 Lute
                 ,
                 he
                 soon
                 had
                 found
              
               
                 His
                 Rage
                 eluded
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Crime
                 atton'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Thine
                 ,
                 like
                 
                 Amphion's
                 Hand
                 had
                 rais'd
                 the
                 Stone
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 Destruction
                 call'd
                 a
                 Fairer
                 Town
                 ;
              
               
                 Malice
                 to
                 Musick
                 had
                 been
                 forc'd
                 to
                 yield
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 could
                 he
                 Burn
                 so
                 fast
                 ,
                 as
                 thou
                 couldst
                 Build
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 An
                 EPITAPH
                 ON
                 THE
                 Lady
              
               WHITMORE
               .
            
             
               
                 BY
                 Mr.
              
               DRYDEN
               .
            
             
               
                 FAir
                 ,
                 Kind
                 ,
                 and
                 True
                 ,
                 a
                 Treasure
                 each
                 alone
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 Wife
                 ,
                 a
                 Mistress
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 Friend
                 in
                 one
                 ;
              
               
                 Rest
                 in
                 this
                 Tomb
                 ,
                 rais'd
                 at
                 thy
                 Husband
                 's
                 cost
                 ,
              
               
                 Here
                 sadly
                 summing
                 ,
                 what
                 he
                 had
                 ,
                 and
                 lost
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Come
                 Virgins
                 ,
                 e're
                 in
                 equal
                 Bands
                 you
                 join
                 ,
              
               
                 Come
                 first
                 and
                 offer
                 at
                 her
                 Sacred
                 Shrine
                 ;
              
               
                 Pray
                 but
                 for
                 half
                 the
                 Vertues
                 of
                 this
                 Wife
                 ,
              
               
                 Compound
                 for
                 all
                 the
                 rest
                 ,
                 with
                 longer
                 Life
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wish
                 your
                 Vows
                 ,
                 like
                 hers
                 may
                 be
                 return'd
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 Lov'd
                 when
                 Living
                 ,
                 and
                 when
                 Dead
                 so
                 Mourn'd
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               
                 AN
                 EPITAPH
                 ,
                 ON
                 Sir
              
               Palmes
               Fairborne's
               
                 TOMB
                 IN
              
               Westminster
               
                 -
                 Abby
              
               .
            
             
               
                 By
                 Mr.
              
               DRYDEN
               .
            
             
               Sacred
               
                 To
                 the
                 Immortal
                 Memory
                 of
                 Sir
              
               Palmes
               Fairborne
               ,
               
                 Knight
                 ,
                 Governor
                 of
              
               Tangier
               ;
               
                 in
                 execution
                 of
                 which
                 Command
                 he
                 was
                 mortally
                 wounded
                 by
                 a
                 Shot
                 from
                 the
              
               Moors
               ,
               
                 then
                 Besieging
                 the
                 Town
                 ,
                 in
                 the
                 46th
                 .
                 year
                 of
                 his
                 Age.
              
               October
               
                 24th
                 .
                 1680.
              
               
            
             
               YE
               Sacred
               Relicks
               which
               your
               Marble
               keep
               ,
            
             
               Here
               undisturb'd
               by
               Wars
               in
               quiet
               sleep
               :
            
             
               Discharge
               the
               trust
               which
               when
               it
               was
               below
            
             
               
               Fairborne's
               undaunted
               Soul
               did
               undergo
               ,
            
             
               And
               be
               the
               Towns
               Palladium
               from
               the
               Foe
               .
            
             
               Alive
               and
               dead
               these
               Walls
               he
               will
               defend
               ,
            
             
               Great
               Actions
               great
               Examples
               must
               attend
               .
            
             
             
               The
               Candian
               Siege
               his
               early
               Valour
               knew
               ,
            
             
               Where
               Turkish
               Blood
               did
               his
               young
               hands
               imbrew
               .
            
             
               From
               thence
               returning
               with
               deserv'd
               Applause
               ,
            
             
               Against
               the
               Moors
               his
               well-flesh'd
               Sword
               be
               draws
               ;
            
             
               The
               same
               the
               Courage
               ,
               and
               the
               same
               the
               Cause
               .
            
             
               His
               Youth
               and
               Age
               ,
               his
               Life
               and
               Death
               combine
               ,
            
             
               As
               in
               some
               great
               and
               regular
               design
               ,
            
             
               All
               of
               a
               Piece
               throughout
               ,
               and
               all
               Divine
               .
            
             
               Still
               nearer
               Heaven
               his
               Vertues
               shone
               more
               bright
               ,
            
             
               Like
               rising
               flames
               expanding
               in
               their
               height
               ,
            
             
               The
               
               Martyr's
               Glory
               Crown'd
               the
               Soldiers
               Fight
               .
            
             
               More
               bravely
               Brittish
               General
               never
               fell
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               General
               's
               Death
               was
               e're
               reveng'd
               so
               well
               ,
            
             
               Which
               his
               pleas'd
               Eyes
               beheld
               before
               their
               close
               ,
            
             
               Follow'd
               by
               thousand
               Victims
               of
               his
               Foes
               .
            
             
               To
               his
               lamented
               loss
               for
               time
               to
               come
               ,
            
             
               His
               pious
               Widow
               Consecrates
               this
               Tomb.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               To
               the
               Reverend
               Dr.
               SHERLOCK
               ,
               Dean
               of
               St.
               
               Paul's
               ;
               ON
               His
               Practical
               Discourse
               Concerning
               DEATH
               .
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               PRIOR
               .
            
             
               
                 FOrgive
                 the
                 Muse
                 ,
                 who
                 in
                 unhallow'd
                 Strains
              
               
                 The
                 Saint
                 one
                 Moment
                 from
                 his
                 God
                 detains
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 sure
                 ,
                 what
                 e're
                 you
                 do
                 ,
                 where
                 e're
                 you
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 all
                 but
                 one
                 good
                 Work
                 ,
                 one
                 constant
                 Pray'r
                 .
              
               
                 Forgive
                 her
                 :
                 and
                 intreat
                 that
                 God
                 ,
                 to
                 whom
              
               
                 Thy
                 favour'd
                 Vows
                 with
                 kind
                 acceptance
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 raise
                 her
                 Numbers
                 to
                 that
                 blest
                 Degree
              
               
                 That
                 suits
                 a
                 Song
                 of
                 Piety
                 and
                 Thee
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Wondrous
                 good
                 Man
                 !
                 whose
                 Labours
                 may
                 repel
              
               
                 The
                 force
                 of
                 Sin
                 ,
                 may
                 stop
                 the
                 Rage
                 of
                 Hell
                 :
              
               
                 Who
                 ,
                 like
                 the
                 Baptist
                 ,
                 from
                 thy
                 God
                 wert
                 sent
              
               
                 To
                 be
                 the
                 Voice
                 ,
                 and
                 bid
                 the
                 World
                 repent
                 :
              
               
                 Thee
                 ,
                 Youth
                 shall
                 study
                 ;
                 and
                 no
                 more
                 engage
              
               
                 His
                 flatt'ring
                 Wishes
                 for
                 uncertain
                 Age
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 more
                 ,
                 with
                 fruitless
                 Care
                 ,
                 and
                 cheated
                 Strife
                 ,
              
               
                 Chace
                 fleeting
                 Pleasure
                 through
                 this
                 Maze
                 of
                 Life
                 ;
              
               
                 Finding
                 the
                 wretched
                 All
                 He
                 here
                 can
                 have
              
               
                 But
                 present
                 Food
                 ,
                 and
                 but
                 a
                 future
                 Grave
                 ;
              
               
                 Each
                 ,
                 great
                 as
                 
                 Philip's
                 Son
                 ,
                 shall
                 sit
                 and
                 view
              
               
                 This
                 sordid
                 World
                 ,
                 and
                 ,
                 weeping
                 ,
                 ask
                 a
                 New.
              
               
                 Decrepit
                 Age
                 shall
                 read
                 Thee
                 ,
                 and
                 consess
              
               
                 Thy
                 Labours
                 can
                 asswage
                 ,
                 where
                 Medcine
                 's
                 cease
                 :
              
               
                 Shall
                 bless
                 thy
                 Words
                 ,
                 their
                 wounded
                 Souls
                 relief
              
               
                 The
                 drops
                 that
                 sweeten
                 their
                 last
                 Dregs
                 of
                 Life
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Shall
                 look
                 to
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 and
                 laugh
                 at
                 all
                 beneath
                 ,
              
               
                 Own
                 Riches
                 gather'd
                 Trouble
                 ;
                 Fame
                 ,
                 a
                 breath
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Life
                 an
                 Ill
                 ,
                 whose
                 only
                 Cure
                 is
                 Death
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 even
                 thoughts
                 with
                 so
                 much
                 plainness
                 flow
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Sense
                 untutor'd
                 Infancy
                 may
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 to
                 that
                 height
                 is
                 all
                 that
                 plainness
                 wrought
                 ,
              
               
                 Wit
                 may
                 admire
                 ,
                 and
                 letter'd
                 Pride
                 be
                 taught
                 :
              
               
                 Easie
                 in
                 words
                 thy
                 Style
                 ,
                 in
                 Sense
                 sublime
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 its
                 blest
                 Steps
                 each
                 Age
                 and
                 Sex
                 may
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 like
                 the
                 Ladder
                 in
                 the
                 Patriarch's
                 Dream
                 ,
              
               
                 Its
                 foot
                 on
                 Earth
                 ,
                 its
                 height
                 beyond
                 the
                 Skies
                 .
              
               
                 Diffus'd
                 its
                 Vertue
                 ,
                 boundless
                 is
                 its
                 Pow'r
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 publick
                 Health
                 ,
                 and
                 Universal
                 Cure
                 :
              
               
                 Of
                 Heav'nly
                 Manna
                 't
                 is
                 a
                 second
                 Feast
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Nation
                 's
                 Food
                 ,
                 and
                 All
                 to
                 every
                 taste
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 To
                 its
                 last
                 height
                 mad
                 
                 Brittain's
                 Guilt
                 was
                 rear'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 various
                 Deaths
                 for
                 various
                 Crimes
                 she
                 fear'd
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 your
                 kind
                 Works
                 her
                 drooping
                 Hopes
                 revive
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 bid
                 her
                 read
                 ,
                 repent
                 ,
                 adore
                 ,
                 and
                 live
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 wrest
                 the
                 Bolt
                 from
                 Heav'ns
                 avenging
                 hand
                 ,
              
               
                 Stop
                 ready
                 Death
                 ,
                 and
                 save
                 a
                 sinking
                 Land.
              
               
                 O
                 save
                 us
                 still
                 !
                 still
                 bless
                 us
                 with
                 thy
                 stay
                 !
              
               
                 O
                 want
                 thy
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 till
                 we
                 have
                 learnt
                 the
                 way
                 !
              
               
                 Refuse
                 to
                 leave
                 thy
                 destin'd
                 Charge
                 too
                 soon
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 the
                 Church's
                 good
                 ,
                 defer
                 thy
                 own
                 !
              
               
                 O
                 live
                 !
                 and
                 let
                 thy
                 Works
                 urge
                 our
                 belief
                 !
              
               
                 Live
                 to
                 explain
                 thy
                 Doctrine
                 by
                 thy
                 Life
                 ;
              
               
                 Till
                 future
                 Infancy
                 ,
                 baptiz'd
                 by
                 thee
                 ,
              
               
                 Grow
                 ripe
                 in
                 Years
                 ,
                 and
                 old
                 in
                 Piety
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 Christians
                 ,
                 yet
                 unborn
                 ,
                 be
                 taught
                 to
                 die
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 in
                 full
                 Age
                 ,
                 and
                 hoary
                 Holiness
              
               
                 Retire
                 ,
                 great
                 Teacher
                 ,
                 to
                 thy
                 promis'd
                 Bliss
                 :
              
               
               
                 Untoucht
                 thy
                 Tomb
                 ,
                 uninjur'd
                 be
                 thy
                 Dust
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 thy
                 own
                 Fame
                 amongst
                 the
                 future
                 Just
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 in
                 last
                 Sounds
                 the
                 dreaded
                 Trumpet
                 speaks
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 Judgment
                 calls
                 ,
                 and
                 quickned
                 Nature
                 wakes
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 through
                 the
                 utmost
                 Earth
                 ,
                 and
                 deepest
                 Sea
              
               
                 Our
                 scatter'd
                 Atoms
                 find
                 their
                 hidden
                 way
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 haste
                 to
                 cloath
                 their
                 Kindred
                 Souls
                 again
                 ,
              
               
                 Perfect
                 our
                 State
                 ,
                 and
                 build
                 Immortal
                 Man
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 fearless
                 ,
                 Thou
                 ,
                 who
                 well
                 sustain'dst
                 the
                 Fight
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 Paths
                 of
                 Joy
                 ,
                 and
                 Worlds
                 of
                 endless
                 Light
                 ,
              
               
                 Lead
                 up
                 all
                 those
                 who
                 heard
                 thee
                 ,
                 and
                 believ'd
                 ;
              
               
                 '
                 Midst
                 thy
                 own
                 Flock
                 ,
                 great
                 Shepherd
                 ,
                 be
                 receiv'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 glad
                 all
                 Heav'n
                 with
                 Millions
                 thou
                 hast
                 sav'd
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               ON
               EXODUS
               3.
               14.
               
               
                 I
                 am
                 that
                 I
                 am
              
               .
               A
               Pindarique
               ODE
               .
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               PRIOR
               .
            
             
               
                 MAN
                 !
                 foolish
                 Man
                 !
              
               
                 Scarce
                 know'st
                 thou
                 how
                 thy self
                 began
                 ,
              
               
                 Scarce
                 hast
                 thou
                 Thought
                 enough
                 to
                 prove
                 
                   Thou
                   art
                
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 steel'd
                 with
                 study'd
                 boldness
                 ,
                 thou
                 dar'st
                 try
              
               
                 To
                 send
                 thy
                 doubting
                 Reason's
                 dazled
                 Eye
              
               
                 Through
                 the
                 mysterious
                 Gulph
                 of
                 vast
                 Immensity
                 .
              
               
                 Much
                 thou
                 canst
                 there
                 discern
                 ,
                 and
                 much
                 impart
                 ,
              
               
                 Vain
                 Wretch
                 !
                 suppress
                 thy
                 knowing
                 Pride
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Mortifie
                 thy
                 Learned
                 Lust
                 ;
              
               
                 Vain
                 are
                 thy
                 thoughts
                 ,
                 whilst
                 thou
                 thy self
                 art
                 Dust.
              
               
                 Wisdom
                 her
                 Oars
                 ,
                 and
                 Wit
                 her
                 Sails
                 may
                 lend
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Helm
                 let
                 Politick
                 Experience
                 guide
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 cease
                 to
                 hope
                 ,
                 thy
                 short-liv'd
                 Bark
                 shall
                 ride
              
               
                 Down
                 spreading
                 Fate
                 's
                 unnavigable
                 Tide
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 tho'
                 still
                 it
                 farther
                 tend
                 ?
              
               
                 Still
                 't
                 is
                 further
                 from
                 its
                 end
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 the
                 bosom
                 of
                 that
                 boundless
                 Sea
              
               
                 Loses
                 it self
                 ,
                 and
                 its
                 increasing
                 way
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 2.
                 
              
               
                 With
                 daring
                 Pride
                 and
                 insolent
                 Delight
              
               
                 You
                 boast
                 your
                 Doubts
                 resolv'd
                 ,
                 your
                 Labours
                 crown'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                   〈◊〉
                
                 your
                 God
                 ,
                 forsooth
                 ,
                 is
                 found
              
               
                 Incomprehensible
                 and
                 Infinite
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 is
                 he
                 therefore
                 found
                 ?
                 Vain
                 Searcher
                 !
                 no
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 your
                 imperfect
                 Definition
                 show
              
               
                 That
                 nothing
                 less
                 than
                 nothing
                 you
                 the
                 weak
                 Definer
                 know
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 3.
                 
              
               
                 Say
                 why
                 shou'd
                 the
                 collected
                 Main
              
               
                 It self
                 within
                 it self
                 contain
                 ?
              
               
                 Why
                 to
                 its
                 Caverns
                 shou'd
                 it
                 sometimes
                 creep
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 delighted
                 Silence
                 sleep
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 lov'd
                 Bosom
                 of
                 its
                 Parent
                 Deep
                 ?
              
               
                 Why
                 shou'd
                 its
                 numerous
                 Waters
                 stay
              
               
                 In
                 comely
                 Discipline
                 ,
                 and
                 fair
                 Array
                 ,
              
               
                 Prepar'd
                 to
                 meet
                 its
                 high
                 Commands
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 diffus'd
                 Obedience
                 spread
              
               
                 Their
                 op'ning
                 Ranks
                 o're
                 Earth's
                 submissive
                 head
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 march
                 through
                 different
                 Paths
                 to
                 different
                 Lands
                 ?
              
               
                 Why
                 shou'd
                 the
                 constant
                 Sun
              
               
                 With
                 measur'd
                 steps
                 his
                 Radiant
                 Journeys
                 run
                 ?
              
               
                 Why
                 does
                 he
                 order
                 the
                 Diurnal
                 Hours
              
               
                 To
                 leave
                 Earth's
                 other
                 part
                 ,
                 and
                 rise
                 in
                 ours
                 ?
              
               
                 Why
                 does
                 he
                 wake
                 the
                 correspondent
                 Moon
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 filling
                 her
                 willing
                 Lamp
                 with
                 liquid
                 Light
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Commanding
                 her
                 with
                 delegated
                 Power
              
               
                 To
                 beautifie
                 the
                 World
                 ,
                 and
                 bless
                 the
                 Night
                 ?
              
               
                 Why
                 shou'd
                 each
                 animated
                 Star
              
               
                 Love
                 the
                 just
                 Limits
                 of
                 its
                 proper
                 Sphere
                 ?
              
               
                 Why
                 shou'd
                 each
                 consenting
                 Sign
              
               
                 With
                 prudent
                 Harmony
                 combine
              
               
                 To
                 keep
                 in
                 order
                 ,
                 and
                 gird
                 up
                 the
                 regulated
                 Year
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 4.
                 
              
               
                 Man
                 does
                 with
                 dangerous
                 Curiosity
              
               
                 These
                 unfathom'd
                 Wonders
                 try
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 fancy'd
                 Rules
                 and
                 Arbitrary
                 Laws
                 ,
              
               
                 Matter
                 and
                 Motion
                 he
                 restrains
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 studied
                 Lines
                 and
                 fictious
                 Circles
                 draws
                 ;
              
               
                 Then
                 with
                 imagin'd
                 Sov'raignty
              
               
                 Lord
                 of
                 his
                 new
                 Hypothesis
                 he
                 reigns
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 reigns
                 :
                 how
                 long
                 ?
                 till
                 some
                 Usurper
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 he
                 too
                 ,
                 mighty
                 Thoughtful
                 ,
                 mighty
                 Wise
                 ,
              
               
                 Studies
                 new
                 Lines
                 ,
                 new
                 Circles
                 feigns
                 ,
              
               
               
                 On
                 t'other's
                 Ruine
                 rears
                 his
                 Throne
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 shewing
                 his
                 mistakes
                 ,
                 maintains
                 his
                 own
                 .
              
               
                 Well
                 then
                 !
                 from
                 this
                 
                   new
                   toil
                
                 what
                 Knowledge
                 flows
                 !
              
               
                 Just
                 as
                 much
                 ,
                 perhaps
                 ,
                 as
                 shows
              
               
                 That
                 former
                 Searchers
                 were
                 but
                 bookish
                 Fools
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 choice
                 Remarks
                 ,
                 their
                 Darling
                 Rules
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 canting
                 Error
                 all
                 ,
                 and
                 Jargon
                 of
                 the
                 Schools
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 5.
                 
              
               
                 Through
                 the
                 aerial
                 Seas
                 ,
                 and
                 watry
                 Skies
                 ,
              
               
                 Mountainous
                 heaps
                 of
                 Wonders
                 rise
                 ;
              
               
                 Whose
                 tow'ring
                 Strength
                 will
                 ne're
                 submit
              
               
                 To
                 Reason's
                 Batteries
                 ,
                 or
                 the
                 Mines
                 of
                 Wit.
              
               
                 Yet
                 still
                 Enquiring
                 ,
                 still
                 Mistaking
                 Man
                 ,
              
               
                 Each
                 hour
                 repuls'd
                 ,
                 each
                 hour
                 dare
                 onward
                 press
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 levelling
                 at
                 God
                 his
                 wandring
                 Guess
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 That
                 feeble
                 Engine
                 of
                 his
                 Reasoning
                 War
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 guides
                 his
                 Doubts
                 ,
                 and
                 combats
                 his
              
               
                 Despair
                 ,
                 )
              
               
               
                 Laws
                 to
                 his
                 Maker
                 the
                 learn'd
                 Wretch
                 can
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 Can
                 bound
                 that
                 Nature
                 ,
                 and
                 prescribe
                 that
                 Will
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 pregnant
                 Word
                 did
                 either
                 Ocean
                 fill
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 tell
                 us
                 how
                 all
                 Beings
                 are
                 ,
                 and
                 how
                 they
                 move
                 and
                 live
                 .
              
               
                 Vain
                 Man
                 !
                 that
                 pregnant
                 Word
                 sent
                 forth
                 again
                 ,
              
               
                 Through
                 either
                 Ocean
                 ,
              
               
                 Might
                 to
                 a
                 World
                 extend
                 each
                 Atom
                 there
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 each
                 drop
                 call
                 forth
                 a
                 Sea
                 ,
                 a
                 Heav'n
                 for
                 every
                 Star.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 6.
                 
              
               
                 Let
                 cunning
                 Earth
                 her
                 fruitful
                 Wonders
                 hide
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 only
                 lift
                 thy
                 staggering
                 Reason
                 up
              
               
                 To
                 trembling
                 
                 Calvary's
                 astonish'd
                 top
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 mock
                 thy
                 Knowledge
                 ,
                 and
                 confound
                 thy
                 Pride
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 telling
                 thee
                 ,
                 Perfection
                 suffer'd
                 Pain
                 ,
              
               
                 An
                 Eternal
                 Essence
                 dy'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Death's
                 Vanquisher
                 by
                 vanquish'd
                 Death
                 was
                 slain
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 promis'd
                 Earth
                 prophan'd
                 with
                 Deicide
                 .
              
               
               
                 Then
                 down
                 with
                 all
                 thy
                 boasted
                 Volumes
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 Only
                 reserve
                 the
                 Sacred
                 One
                 ;
              
               
                 Low
                 ,
                 reverently
                 low
                 ,
              
               
                 Make
                 thy
                 stubborn
                 Knowledge
                 bow
                 ;
              
               
                 Weep
                 out
                 thy
                 Reason's
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 Body's
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 Deject
                 thy self
                 ,
                 that
                 thou
                 may'st
                 rise
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 see
                 Heaven
                 be
                 blind
                 to
                 all
                 below
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 Faith
                 ,
                 for
                 Reason's
                 glimmering
                 light
                 ,
                 shall
                 give
              
               
                 Her
                 Immortal
                 Perspective
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Grace's
                 presence
                 Nature's
                 loss
                 retrieve
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 thy
                 enliv'ned
                 Soul
                 shall
                 know
              
               
                 That
                 all
                 the
                 Volumes
                 of
                 Philosophy
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 their
                 Comments
                 ,
                 never
                 cou'd
                 invent
              
               
                 So
                 politick
                 an
                 Instrument
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 fit
                 ,
                 as
                 
                 Jacob's
                 Ladder
                 was
                 to
                 scale
                 the
                 distant
                 Skie
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               THE
               Last
               parting
               OF
               Hector
               and
               Andromache
               .
               FROM
               THE
               SIXTH
               BOOK
               OF
               
               Homer's
               Iliads
               .
               Translated
               from
               the
               Original
            
             
               BY
               Mr.
               DRYDEN
               .
            
             
               
                 ARGUMENT
                 .
              
               
                 Hector
                 ,
                 
                   returning
                   from
                   the
                   Field
                   of
                   Battel
                   ,
                   to
                   visit
                
                 Helen
                 
                   his
                   Sister-in-Law
                   ,
                   and
                   his
                   Brother
                
                 Paris
                 ,
                 
                   who
                   had
                   fought
                   unsuccessfully
                   hand
                   to
                   hand
                   ,
                   with
                
                 Menelaus
                 ,
                 
                   from
                   thence
                   goes
                   to
                   his
                   own
                   Palace
                   to
                   see
                   his
                   Wife
                
                 Andromache
                 ,
                 
                   and
                   his
                   Infant
                   Son
                
                 Astyanax
                 .
                 
                   The
                   description
                   of
                   that
                   Interview
                   ,
                   is
                   the
                   Subject
                   of
                   this
                   Translation
                   .
                
              
            
             
               
               
                 THus
                 having
                 said
                 ,
                 brave
                 Hector
                 went
                 to
                 see
              
               
                 His
                 Virtuous
                 Wife
                 ,
                 the
                 fair
                 Andromache
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 found
                 her
                 not
                 at
                 home
                 ;
                 for
                 she
                 was
                 gone
              
               
                 (
                 Attended
                 by
                 her
                 Maid
                 and
                 Infant
                 Son
                 ,
                 )
              
               
                 To
                 climb
                 the
                 steepy
                 Tow'r
                 of
                 Ilion
                 .
              
               
                 From
                 whence
                 with
                 heavy
                 Heart
                 she
                 might
                 survey
              
               
                 The
                 bloody
                 business
                 of
                 the
                 dreadful
                 Day
                 .
              
               
                 Her
                 mournful
                 Eyes
                 she
                 cast
                 around
                 the
                 Plain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 sought
                 the
                 Lord
                 of
                 her
                 Desires
                 in
                 vain
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 he
                 ,
                 who
                 thought
                 his
                 peopled
                 Palace
                 bare
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 she
                 ,
                 his
                 only
                 Comfort
                 ,
                 was
                 not
                 there
                 ;
              
               
                 Stood
                 in
                 the
                 Gate
                 ,
                 and
                 ask'd
                 of
                 ev'ry
                 one
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 way
                 she
                 took
                 ,
                 and
                 whither
                 she
                 was
                 gone
                 :
              
               
                 If
                 to
                 the
                 Court
                 ,
                 or
                 with
                 his
                 Mother's
                 Train
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 long
                 Procession
                 to
                 
                 Minerva's
                 Fane
                 ?
              
               
               
                 The
                 Servants
                 answer'd
                 ,
                 neither
                 to
                 the
                 Court
              
               
                 Where
                 
                 Priam's
                 Sons
                 and
                 Daughters
                 did
                 resort
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 to
                 the
                 Temple
                 was
                 she
                 gone
                 ,
                 to
                 move
              
               
                 With
                 Prayers
                 the
                 blew-ey'd
                 Progeny
                 of
                 Jove
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 more
                 solicitous
                 for
                 him
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 all
                 their
                 safety
                 ,
                 to
                 the
                 Tow'r
                 was
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 to
                 survey
                 the
                 Labours
                 of
                 the
                 Field
                 ;
              
               
                 Where
                 the
                 Greeks
                 conquer
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Trojans
                 yield
                 .
              
               
                 Swiftly
                 she
                 pass'd
                 ,
                 with
                 Fear
                 and
                 Fury
                 wild
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Nurse
                 went
                 lagging
                 after
                 with
                 the
                 Child
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 This
                 heard
                 ,
                 the
                 Noble
                 Hector
                 made
                 no
                 stay
                 ;
              
               
                 Th'
                 admiring
                 Throng
                 divide
                 ,
                 to
                 give
                 him
                 way
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 pass'd
                 through
                 every
                 Street
                 ,
                 by
                 which
                 he
                 came
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 at
                 the
                 Gate
                 he
                 met
                 the
                 mournful
                 Dame.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 His
                 Wife
                 beheld
                 him
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 eager
                 pace
                 ,
              
               
                 Flew
                 to
                 his
                 Arms
                 ,
                 to
                 meet
                 a
                 dear
                 Embrace
                 :
              
               
               
                 His
                 Wife
                 ,
                 who
                 brought
                 in
                 Dow'r
                 
                 Cilicia's
                 Crown
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 in
                 her self
                 ,
                 a
                 greater
                 Dow'r
                 alone
                 :
              
               
                 
                 Aëtion's
                 Heyr
                 ,
                 who
                 on
                 the
                 Woody
                 Plain
              
               
                 Of
                 Hippoplacus
                 did
                 in
                 Thebe
                 reign
                 .
              
               
                 Breathless
                 she
                 flew
                 ,
                 with
                 Joy
                 and
                 Passion
                 wild
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Nurse
                 came
                 lagging
                 after
                 with
                 her
                 Child
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 
                   Royal
                   Babe
                
                 upon
                 her
                 Breast
                 was
                 laid
                 ;
              
               
                 Who
                 ,
                 like
                 the
                 Morning
                 Star
                 ,
                 his
                 beams
                 display'd
                 .
              
               
                 Scamandrius
                 was
                 his
                 Name
                 which
                 Hector
                 gave
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 that
                 fair
                 Flood
                 which
                 
                 Ilion's
                 Wall
                 did
                 lave
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 him
                 Astyanax
                 the
                 Trojans
                 call
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 his
                 great
                 Father
                 who
                 defends
                 the
                 Wall.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Hector
                 beheld
                 him
                 with
                 a
                 silent
                 Smile
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 tender
                 Wife
                 stood
                 weeping
                 by
                 ,
                 the
                 while
                 :
              
               
                 Prest
                 in
                 her
                 own
                 ,
                 his
                 Warlike
                 hand
                 she
                 took
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 sigh'd
                 ,
                 and
                 thus
                 Prophetically
                 spoke
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Thy
                 dauntless
                 Heart
                 (
                 which
                 I
                 foresee
                 too
                 late
                 ,
                 )
              
               
                 Too
                 daring
                 Man
                 ,
                 will
                 urge
                 thee
                 to
                 thy
                 Fate
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 dost
                 thou
                 pity
                 ,
                 with
                 a
                 Parent
                 's
                 mind
                 ,
              
               
                 This
                 helpless
                 Orphan
                 whom
                 thou
                 leav'st
                 behind
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 me
                 ,
                 th'
                 unhappy
                 Partner
                 of
                 thy
                 Bed
                 ;
              
               
                 Who
                 must
                 in
                 Triumph
                 by
                 the
                 Greeks
                 be
                 led
                 :
              
               
                 They
                 seek
                 thy
                 Life
                 ;
                 and
                 in
                 unequal
                 Fight
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 many
                 will
                 oppress
                 thy
                 single
                 Might
                 :
              
               
                 Better
                 it
                 were
                 for
                 miserable
                 me
              
               
                 To
                 die
                 before
                 the
                 Fate
                 which
                 I
                 foresee
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 ah
                 what
                 comfort
                 can
                 the
                 World
                 bequeath
              
               
                 To
                 
                 Hector's
                 Widow
                 ,
                 after
                 
                 Hector's
                 death
                 !
              
            
             
               
                 Eternal
                 Sorrow
                 and
                 perpetual
                 Tears
              
               
                 Began
                 my
                 Youth
                 ,
                 and
                 will
                 conclude
                 my
                 Years
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 have
                 no
                 Parents
                 ,
                 Friends
                 ,
                 nor
                 Brothers
                 left
                 ;
              
               
                 By
                 stern
                 Achilles
                 all
                 of
                 Life
                 bereft
                 .
              
               
               
                 Then
                 when
                 the
                 Walls
                 of
                 Thebes
                 he
                 o'rethrew
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 fatal
                 Hand
                 my
                 Royal
                 Father
                 slew
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 slew
                 Action
                 ,
                 but
                 despoil'd
                 him
                 not
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 in
                 his
                 hate
                 the
                 Funeral
                 Rites
                 forgot
                 ;
              
               
                 Arm'd
                 as
                 he
                 was
                 he
                 sent
                 him
                 whole
                 below
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 reverenc'd
                 thus
                 the
                 Manes
                 of
                 his
                 Foe
                 :
              
               
                 A
                 Tomb
                 he
                 rais'd
                 ;
                 the
                 Mountain
                 Nymphs
                 around
                 ,
              
               
                 Enclos'd
                 with
                 planted
                 Elms
                 the
                 Holy
                 Ground
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 My
                 sev'n
                 brave
                 Brothers
                 in
                 one
                 fatal
                 Day
              
               
                 To
                 Death's
                 dark
                 Mansions
                 took
                 the
                 mournful
                 way
                 :
              
               
                 Slain
                 by
                 the
                 same
                 Achilles
                 ,
                 while
                 they
                 keep
              
               
                 The
                 bellowing
                 Oxen
                 and
                 the
                 bleating
                 Sheep
                 .
              
               
                 My
                 Mother
                 ,
                 who
                 the
                 Royal
                 Scepter
                 sway'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Was
                 Captive
                 to
                 the
                 cruel
                 Victor
                 made
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 hither
                 led
                 :
                 but
                 hence
                 redeem'd
                 with
                 Gold
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 Native
                 Country
                 did
                 again
                 behold
                 .
              
               
               
                 And
                 but
                 beheld
                 :
                 for
                 soon
                 
                 Diana's
                 Dart
              
               
                 In
                 an
                 unhappy
                 Chace
                 transfix'd
                 her
                 Heart
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 thou
                 ,
                 my
                 Hector
                 ,
                 art
                 thy self
                 alone
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Parents
                 ,
                 Brothers
                 ,
                 and
                 my
                 Lord
                 in
                 one
                 :
              
               
                 O
                 kill
                 not
                 all
                 my
                 Kindred
                 o're
                 again
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 tempt
                 the
                 Dangers
                 of
                 the
                 dusty
                 Plain
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 in
                 this
                 Tow'r
                 ,
                 for
                 our
                 Defence
                 ,
                 remain
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Wife
                 and
                 Son
                 are
                 in
                 thy
                 Ruin
                 lost
                 :
              
               
                 This
                 is
                 a
                 Husband
                 's
                 and
                 a
                 Father's
                 Post.
              
               
                 The
                 Scoean
                 Gate
                 commands
                 the
                 Plains
                 below
                 ;
              
               
                 Here
                 marshal
                 all
                 thy
                 Souldiers
                 as
                 they
                 go
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 hence
                 ,
                 with
                 other
                 Hands
                 ,
                 repel
                 the
                 Foe
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 yon
                 wild
                 Fig-tree
                 lies
                 their
                 chief
                 ascent
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thither
                 all
                 their
                 Pow'rs
                 are
                 daily
                 bent
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 two
                 Ajaces
                 have
                 I
                 often
                 seen
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 wrong'd
                 Husband
                 of
                 the
                 Spartan
                 Queen
                 :
              
               
               
                 With
                 him
                 his
                 greater
                 Brother
                 ;
                 and
                 with
                 these
              
               
                 Fierce
                 Diomede
                 and
                 bold
                 Meriones
                 :
              
               
                 Uncertain
                 if
                 by
                 Augury
                 ,
                 or
                 chance
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 by
                 this
                 easie
                 rise
                 they
                 all
                 advance
                 ;
              
               
                 Guard
                 well
                 that
                 Pass
                 ,
                 secure
                 of
                 all
                 beside
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 whom
                 the
                 Noble
                 Hector
                 thus
                 reply'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 That
                 and
                 the
                 rest
                 are
                 in
                 my
                 daily
                 care
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 shou'd
                 I
                 shun
                 the
                 Dangers
                 of
                 the
                 War
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 scorn
                 the
                 Trojans
                 wou'd
                 reward
                 my
                 pains
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 their
                 proud
                 Ladies
                 with
                 their
                 sweeping
                 Trains
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Grecian
                 Swords
                 and
                 Lances
                 I
                 can
                 bear
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 loss
                 of
                 Honour
                 is
                 my
                 only
                 Fear
                 .
              
               
                 Shall
                 Hector
                 ,
                 born
                 to
                 War
                 ,
                 his
                 Birth-right
                 yield
                 ,
              
               
                 Belie
                 his
                 Courage
                 and
                 forsake
                 the
                 Field
                 ?
              
               
                 Early
                 in
                 rugged
                 Arms
                 I
                 took
                 delight
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 still
                 have
                 been
                 the
                 foremost
                 in
                 the
                 Fight
                 :
              
               
               
                 With
                 dangers
                 dearly
                 have
                 I
                 bought
                 Renown
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 am
                 the
                 Champion
                 of
                 my
                 Father's
                 Crown
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 And
                 yet
                 my
                 mind
                 forebodes
                 ,
                 with
                 sure
                 presage
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 Troy
                 shall
                 perish
                 by
                 the
                 Grecian
                 Rage
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 fatal
                 Day
                 draws
                 on
                 ,
                 when
                 I
                 must
                 fall
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Universal
                 Ruine
                 cover
                 all
                 .
              
               
                 Not
                 Troy
                 it self
                 ,
                 tho'
                 built
                 by
                 Hands
                 Divine
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Priam
                 ,
                 nor
                 his
                 People
                 ,
                 nor
                 his
                 Line
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Mother
                 ,
                 nor
                 my
                 Brothers
                 of
                 Renown
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Valour
                 yet
                 defends
                 th'
                 unhappy
                 Town
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 these
                 ,
                 nor
                 all
                 their
                 Fates
                 which
                 I
                 foresee
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 half
                 of
                 that
                 concern
                 I
                 have
                 for
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 see
                 ,
                 I
                 see
                 thee
                 in
                 that
                 fatal
                 Hour
                 ,
              
               
                 Subjected
                 to
                 the
                 Victor's
                 cruel
                 Pow'r
                 :
              
               
                 Led
                 hence
                 a
                 Slave
                 to
                 some
                 insulting
                 Sword
                 :
              
               
                 Forlorn
                 and
                 trembling
                 at
                 a
                 Foreign
                 Lord.
              
               
               
                 A
                 spectacle
                 in
                 Argos
                 ,
                 at
                 the
                 Loom
                 ,
              
               
                 Gracing
                 with
                 Trojan
                 Fights
                 ,
                 a
                 Grecian
                 Room
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 from
                 deep
                 Wells
                 ,
                 the
                 living
                 Stream
                 to
                 take
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 on
                 thy
                 weary
                 Shoulders
                 bring
                 it
                 back
                 .
              
               
                 While
                 ,
                 groaning
                 under
                 this
                 laborious
                 Life
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 insolently
                 call
                 thee
                 
                 Hector's
                 Wife
                 .
              
               
                 Upbraid
                 thy
                 Bondage
                 with
                 thy
                 Husband's
                 name
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 my
                 Glory
                 propagate
                 thy
                 Shame
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 when
                 they
                 say
                 ,
                 thy
                 Sorrows
                 will
                 encrease
              
               
                 With
                 anxious
                 thoughts
                 of
                 former
                 Happiness
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 he
                 is
                 dead
                 who
                 cou'd
                 thy
                 wrongs
                 redress
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 I
                 opprest
                 with
                 Iron
                 Sleep
                 before
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 hear
                 thy
                 unavailing
                 Cries
                 no
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 said
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 ,
                 holding
                 forth
                 his
                 Arms
                 ,
                 he
                 took
                 his
                 Boy
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 The
                 Pledge
                 of
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 other
                 hope
                 of
                 
                   Troy
                   ;
                
                 )
              
               
                 The
                 fearful
                 Infant
                 turn'd
                 his
                 Head
                 away
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 on
                 his
                 Nurse's
                 Neck
                 reclining
                 lay
                 ,
              
               
               
                 His
                 unknown
                 Father
                 shunning
                 with
                 affright
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 looking
                 back
                 on
                 so
                 uncouth
                 a
                 fight
                 .
              
               
                 Daunted
                 to
                 see
                 a
                 Face
                 with
                 Steel
                 o're-spread
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 his
                 high
                 Plume
                 ,
                 that
                 nodded
                 o're
                 his
                 Head.
              
               
                 His
                 Sire
                 and
                 Mother-smil'd
                 with
                 silent
                 Joy
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Hector
                 hasten'd
                 to
                 relieve
                 his
                 Boy
                 ;
              
               
                 Dismiss'd
                 his
                 burnish'd
                 Helm
                 ,
                 that
                 shone
                 afar
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 The
                 Pride
                 of
                 Warriours
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Pomp
                 of
                 War
                 :
                 )
              
               
                 Th'
                 
                   Illustrious
                   Babe
                
                 ,
                 thus
                 reconcil'd
                 ,
                 he
                 took
                 :
              
               
                 Hugg'd
                 in
                 his
                 Arms
                 ,
                 and
                 kiss'd
                 ,
                 and
                 thus
                 he
                 spoke
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Parent
                 of
                 Gods
                 ,
                 and
                 Men
                 ,
                 propitious
                 Jove
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 you
                 bright
                 Synod
                 of
                 the
                 Pow'rs
                 above
                 ;
              
               
                 On
                 this
                 my
                 son
                 your
                 Gracious
                 Gifts
                 bestow
                 ;
              
               
                 Grant
                 him
                 to
                 live
                 ,
                 and
                 great
                 in
                 Arms
                 to
                 grow
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 Reign
                 in
                 Troy
                 ;
                 to
                 Govern
                 with
                 Renown
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 shield
                 the
                 People
                 ,
                 and
                 assert
                 the
                 Crown
                 :
              
               
               
                 That
                 ,
                 when
                 hereafter
                 he
                 from
                 War
                 shall
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 bring
                 his
                 Trojans
                 Peace
                 and
                 Triumph
                 home
                 ,
              
               
                 Some
                 aged
                 Man
                 ,
                 who
                 lives
                 this
                 act
                 to
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 who
                 in
                 former
                 times
                 remember'd
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 May
                 say
                 the
                 Son
                 in
                 Fortitude
                 and
                 Fame
              
               
                 Out-goes
                 the
                 Mark
                 ;
                 and
                 drowns
                 his
                 Father's
                 Name
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 at
                 these
                 words
                 his
                 Mother
                 may
                 rejoyce
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 add
                 her
                 Suffrage
                 to
                 the
                 publick
                 Voice
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 having
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 first
                 with
                 suppliant
                 Hands
                 the
                 Gods
                 ador'd
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 to
                 the
                 Mother's
                 Arms
                 the
                 Child
                 restor'd
                 :
              
               
                 With
                 Tears
                 and
                 Smiles
                 she
                 took
                 her
                 Son
                 ,
                 and
                 press'd
              
               
                 Th'
                 Illustrious
                 Infant
                 to
                 her
                 fragrant
                 Breast
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 wiping
                 her
                 fair
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 indulg'd
                 her
                 Grief
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 eas'd
                 her
                 Sorrows
                 with
                 this
                 last
                 Relief
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 My
                 Wife
                 and
                 Mistress
                 ,
                 drive
                 thy
                 fears
                 away
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 give
                 so
                 bad
                 an
                 Omen
                 to
                 the
                 Day
                 :
              
               
               
                 Think
                 not
                 it
                 lies
                 in
                 any
                 
                 Grecian's
                 Pow'r
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 take
                 my
                 Life
                 before
                 the
                 fatal
                 Hour
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 that
                 arrives
                 ,
                 nor
                 good
                 nor
                 bad
                 can
                 fly
              
               
                 Th'
                 irrevocable
                 Doom
                 of
                 Destiny
                 .
              
               
                 Return
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 divert
                 thy
                 thoughts
                 at
                 home
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 task
                 thy
                 Maids
                 ,
                 and
                 exercise
                 the
                 Loom
                 ,
              
               
                 Employ'd
                 in
                 Works
                 that
                 Womankind
                 become
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Toils
                 of
                 War
                 ,
                 and
                 Feats
                 of
                 Chivalry
              
               
                 Belong
                 to
                 Men
                 ,
                 and
                 most
                 of
                 all
                 to
                 me
                 .
              
               
                 At
                 this
                 ,
                 for
                 new
                 Replies
                 he
                 did
                 not
                 stay
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 lac'd
                 his
                 Crested
                 Helm
                 ,
                 and
                 strode
                 away
                 :
              
            
             
               
                 His
                 lovely
                 Consort
                 to
                 her
                 House
                 return'd
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 looking
                 often
                 back
                 in
                 silence
                 mourn'd
                 :
              
               
                 Home
                 when
                 she
                 came
                 ,
                 her
                 secret
                 Woe
                 she
                 vents
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fills
                 the
                 Palace
                 with
                 her
                 loud
                 Laments
                 :
              
               
                 Those
                 loud
                 Laments
                 her
                 ecchoing
                 Maids
                 restore
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Hector
                 ,
                 yet
                 alive
                 ,
                 as
                 dead
                 deplore
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
      
       
         
           
             
             
               SYPHILIS
               .
            
             
               Written
               (
               IN
               LATIN
               )
               By
               that
               Famous
               POET
               and
               PHYSICIAN
               Fracastorius
               .
            
             
               ENGLISH'D
               BY
               Mr.
               TATE
               .
            
          
           
             
             
             
               THE
               TRANSLATOR
               TO
               
                 Dr.
                 THO.
                 HOBBS
              
               .
            
             
               ACcept
               ,
               great
               Son
               of
               Art
               ,
               this
               faint
               effect
            
             
               Of
               a
               most
               active
               ,
               and
               unfeign'd
               Respect
               :
            
             
               Numbers
               that
               yield
               (
               Alas
               !
               )
               too
               just
               survey
            
             
               Of
               Physick's
               growth
               and
               Poetry's
               decay
               .
            
             
               That
               shew
               a
               generous
               Muse
               impair'd
               by
               Me
               ,
            
             
               As
               much
               as
               th'
               Author's
               skill's
               out-done
               by
               Thee
               .
            
             
               This
               Indian
               Conqu'rer's
               fatal
               March
               he
               sung
               ,
            
             
               To
               the
               same
               Lyre
               his
               own
               Apollo
               strung
               ;
            
             
             
               Whose
               Notes
               yet
               fail'd
               the
               Monster
               to
               asswage
               ,
            
             
               Revenging
               Here
               ,
               invading
               
               Spaniard's
               Rage
               .
            
             
               Dear
               was
               the
               Conquest
               of
               a
               new
               found
               World
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               Plague
               e're
               since
               through
               all
               the
               Old
               is
               hurl'd
               .
            
             
               Had
               Fracastorius
               ,
               who
               in
               Numbers
               told
            
             
               (
               Numbers
               more
               rich
               than
               those
               new
               Lands
               of
               Gold
               )
            
             
               This
               great
               Destroyer's
               Progress
               ,
               seen
               this
               Age
            
             
               And
               thy
               Success
               against
               the
               Tyrant's
               Rage
               ,
            
             
               Bembus
               ,
               had
               then
               been
               no
               immortal
               Name
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               and
               thy
               Art
               had
               challeng'd
               all
               his
               Flame
               !
            
             
               Thou
               driv'st
               th'
               Usurper
               to
               his
               last
               Retreats
               ,
            
             
               Repairing
               as
               Thou
               go'st
               the
               ruin'd
               Seats
               :
            
             
               Thus
               while
               the
               Foe
               is
               by
               thy
               Art
               remov'd
               ,
            
             
               The
               Holds
               are
               strengthen'd
               ,
               and
               the
               Soil
               improv'd
               .
            
             
               Thy
               happy
               Conquest
               do's
               at
               once
               Expell
            
             
               Th'
               Invader's
               force
               ,
               and
               inbred
               Factions
               quell
               .
            
             
             
               Thy
               Patients
               and
               
               Augusta's
               fate
               's
               the
               same
               ,
            
             
               To
               rise
               more
               fair
               and
               lasting
               for
               the
               Flame
               :
            
             
               While
               meaner
               Artists
               this
               bold
               Task
               essay
               ,
            
             
               I'
               th'
               little
               
                 World
                 of
                 Man
              
               they
               lose
               their
               way
               .
            
             
               Thou
               know'st
               the
               secret
               Passes
               to
               each
               Part
               ,
            
             
               And
               ,
               skill'd
               in
               Nature
               ,
               can'st
               not
               fail
               in
               Art.
               
            
          
           
             
             
             
               THE
               LIFE
               OF
               Fracastorius
               .
            
             
               FRacastorius
               was
               descended
               from
               the
               Fracastorian
               Family
               of
               great
               Antiquity
               in
               Verona
               .
               He
               seemed
               not
               only
               to
               rival
               the
               Fame
               of
               Catullus
               and
               Pliny
               ,
               who
               had
               long
               before
               made
               that
               City
               renown'd
               ,
               but
               to
               have
               very
               far
               exceeded
               all
               his
               Contemporaries
               ,
               for
               Learning
               and
               Poetry
               .
               His
               Parents
               were
               
                 Paulo-Philippus
                 Fracastorius
              
               ,
               and
               
                 Camilla
                 Mascarellia
              
               ,
               both
               of
               great
               Reputation
               .
               He
               was
               so
               well
               educated
               by
               his
               Father
               ,
               that
               he
               gave
               early
               proofs
               of
               a
               great
               Genius
               ,
               so
               that
               in
               his
               Childhood
               all
               men
               conceived
               hopes
               of
               an
               extraordinary
               man.
               Nor
               was
               Providence
               wanting
               to
               give
               him
               a
               signal
               Testimony
               ,
               forasmuch
               as
               when
               he
               was
               an
               Infant
               in
               the
               Arms
               of
               his
               Mother
               ,
               a
               sudden
               Tempest
               arising
               ,
               in
               which
               the
               Mother
               was
               struck
               dead
               by
               
               Lightning
               ,
               the
               Child
               received
               no
               harm
               .
               He
               was
               sent
               for
               literature
               while
               very
               young
               to
               Padua
               ,
               where
               even
               in
               that
               Age
               with
               indefatigable
               labour
               ,
               he
               opened
               his
               way
               to
               that
               height
               of
               Glory
               which
               he
               afterwards
               attained
               :
               After
               the
               initiatory
               Arts
               he
               applied
               himself
               to
               the
               secrets
               of
               distinct
               Sciences
               ,
               but
               infinitely
               delighted
               with
               the
               Mathematicks
               ,
               in
               all
               ,
               assisted
               by
               a
               Memory
               equal
               to
               his
               Ingenuity
               .
               After
               several
               years
               spent
               in
               Philosophical
               studies
               under
               the
               Tutorship
               of
               
                 Peter
                 Pomponatius
              
               of
               Mantua
               ;
               he
               devoted
               himself
               by
               the
               dictates
               of
               his
               Genius
               to
               Physick
               ,
               with
               such
               resolution
               and
               success
               ,
               that
               in
               the
               School
               disputations
               ,
               not
               only
               his
               fellow
               Students
               ,
               but
               most
               experienc'd
               Doctors
               ,
               were
               sensible
               that
               he
               was
               designed
               by
               Providence
               for
               great
               Undertakings
               .
               Accordingly
               they
               then
               gave
               him
               the
               honour
               of
               the
               Pulpit
               ,
               which
               had
               never
               before
               been
               permitted
               to
               any
               person
               till
               they
               had
               perfected
               their
               studies
               ,
               and
               were
               arrived
               to
               the
               years
               of
               Manhood
               .
               This
               School
               being
               dissolv'd
               by
               the
               breaking
               out
               of
               the
               War
               ,
               while
               he
               had
               thoughts
               of
               returning
               to
               his
               Countrey
               (
               his
               Father
               being
               then
               dead
               )
               he
               was
               on
               honourable
               conditions
               invited
               by
               Livianus
               ,
               General
               of
               the
               Venetian
               Forces
               ,
               and
               a
               noble
               Patron
               of
               Wit
               ,
               to
               the
               College
               Forojuliensis
               ,
               &c.
               —
               and
               lodged
               in
               the
               same
               apartment
               of
               
                 Andrea
                 Naugerus
              
               and
               
                 Johannes
                 Cottac
              
               ,
               two
               excellent
               Poets
               .
               He
               had
               not
               long
               resided
               here
               before
               he
               published
               Verses
               on
               every
               extraordinary
               Occasion
               that
               happened
               ,
               which
               were
               received
               with
               such
               general
               applause
               throughout
               Italy
               ,
               that
               their
               fame
               has
               to
               this
               day
               stifled
               the
               performances
               of
               his
               Companions
               .
               Having
               afterwards
               accompanied
               Livianus
               through
               many
               Wars
               ,
               the
               General
               being
               at
               last
               overthrown
               and
               taken
               Prisoner
               by
               the
               French
               at
               Abdua
               ;
               he
               returned
               late
               into
               his
               native
               
               Countrey
               ,
               where
               in
               the
               general
               devastation
               he
               found
               his
               Patrimony
               almost
               utterly
               destroyed
               .
            
             
               He
               marry'd
               ,
               but
               was
               soon
               unhappy
               in
               the
               loss
               of
               two
               Sons
               ,
               whose
               untimely
               Death
               he
               bewailed
               in
               a
               most
               passionate
               Elegy
               .
               He
               was
               low
               of
               Stature
               ,
               but
               of
               good
               bulk
               ,
               his
               Shoulders
               broad
               ,
               his
               Hair
               black
               and
               long
               ,
               his
               Face
               round
               ,
               his
               Eyes
               black
               ,
               his
               Nose
               short
               and
               turning
               upwards
               by
               his
               continual
               contemplation
               of
               the
               Stars
               ,
               a
               lively
               air
               was
               spread
               over
               his
               Countenance
               ,
               that
               displayed
               the
               Serenity
               and
               Ingenuity
               of
               his
               Mind
               .
               He
               affected
               a
               quiet
               and
               private
               life
               ,
               as
               being
               a
               Man
               free
               from
               abmitious
               desires
               ;
               contenting
               himself
               with
               a
               moderate
               fortune
               ,
               and
               placing
               his
               happiness
               in
               improvement
               of
               his
               knowledge
               .
               He
               was
               cheerful
               though
               frugal
               at
               his
               Table
               ,
               having
               a
               constant
               regard
               to
               his
               health
               ;
               his
               Wit
               being
               always
               the
               best
               part
               of
               his
               Banquet
               .
               He
               was
               notwithstanding
               sparing
               in
               his
               Speech
               ,
               and
               affecting
               no
               vanity
               in
               his
               Dress
               :
               he
               was
               never
               censorious
               of
               other
               Mens
               performances
               ,
               but
               always
               glad
               of
               an
               occasion
               to
               commend
               ;
               for
               which
               he
               was
               deservedly
               celebrated
               by
               
                 Johannes
                 Baptista
              
               in
               a
               noble
               Epigram
               .
               He
               spent
               his
               time
               in
               curing
               the
               diseased
               ,
               a
               divine
               Power
               seeming
               always
               to
               attend
               his
               endeavours
               ,
               above
               the
               sordid
               desire
               of
               gain
               ,
               and
               thought
               himself
               best
               rewarded
               in
               the
               health
               of
               his
               Patient
               .
               By
               these
               means
               he
               contracted
               many
               friendships
               ,
               and
               had
               (
               deservedly
               )
               no
               Enemy
               .
            
             
               He
               was
               not
               only
               esteemed
               for
               his
               skill
               in
               his
               own
               Countrey
               ,
               but
               was
               sought
               to
               by
               foreign
               Princes
               in
               desperate
               sickness
               ,
               for
               which
               though
               vast
               rewards
               were
               offered
               ,
               he
               brought
               nothing
               home
               beside
               their
               Friendship
               .
            
             
               In
               his
               leisure
               he
               diverted
               himself
               with
               reading
               History
               ,
               at
               which
               time
               Polybius
               ,
               or
               Plutarch
               were
               never
               
               out
               of
               his
               hands
               .
               He
               sometimes
               relieved
               his
               Studies
               with
               Mathematicks
               and
               Musick
               ,
               and
               made
               no
               ●mall
               performances
               in
               Cosmography
               .
               He
               was
               much
               alone
               ,
               yet
               always
               employed
               ;
               and
               though
               by
               reason
               of
               his
               backwardness
               to
               discourse
               ,
               he
               seemed
               of
               a
               Saturnine
               Temper
               ,
               yet
               none
               were
               more
               chearful
               and
               pleasant
               when
               entred
               into
               Coversation
               .
               He
               performed
               wonders
               by
               his
               exact
               knowledge
               of
               Herbs
               and
               Simples
               ,
               by
               searching
               the
               best
               Books
               of
               the
               Ancients
               .
               That
               most
               excellent
               Antidote
               called
               Diascordium
               ,
               was
               of
               his
               preparing
               ;
               we
               are
               likewise
               beholding
               to
               his
               judgment
               for
               specifying
               many
               useful
               Herbs
               ,
               of
               which
               the
               Ancients
               had
               left
               uncertain
               description
               .
               The
               Age
               in
               which
               he
               lived
               saw
               nothing
               equal
               to
               his
               Learning
               ,
               but
               his
               honesty
               .
               In
               his
               retreat
               from
               the
               City
               ,
               while
               the
               Pestilence
               raged
               ,
               he
               found
               leisure
               to
               compose
               the
               following
               Poem
               ,
               a
               work
               of
               such
               elegance
               ,
               that
               Sanazarius
               freely
               acknowledged
               it
               to
               excell
               his
               own
               ,
               
                 De
                 partu
                 Virginis
              
               ,
               that
               had
               cost
               him
               above
               twenty
               years
               labour
               and
               correction
               .
               His
               Treatises
               in
               Prose
               and
               efforts
               of
               Poetry
               are
               too
               numerous
               to
               be
               recited
               on
               this
               occasion
               .
            
             
               In
               all
               which
               he
               affected
               so
               little
               vanity
               ,
               that
               he
               never
               preserv'd
               a
               Copy
               ;
               and
               we
               are
               beholding
               for
               what
               are
               extant
               ,
               to
               the
               Industry
               of
               his
               Friends
               that
               collected
               them
               after
               his
               death
               .
            
             
               He
               was
               above
               70
               years
               old
               when
               he
               dyed
               ,
               which
               was
               by
               an
               Apoplexy
               that
               seiz'd
               him
               while
               he
               was
               at
               Dinner
               at
               his
               Countrey
               seat
               .
               He
               was
               Sensible
               of
               his
               malady
               ,
               though
               speechless
               ,
               often
               putting
               his
               Hand
               upon
               the
               top
               of
               his
               Head
               ,
               by
               which
               sign
               he
               would
               have
               had
               his
               Servants
               administer
               a
               Cupping-Glass
               to
               the
               part
               affected
               ,
               by
               which
               he
               had
               formerly
               cured
               a
               Nun
               in
               Verona
               ,
               labouring
               under
               the
               same
               Distemper
               .
               But
               
               his
               Domesticks
               ,
               not
               conceiving
               his
               meaning
               ,
               apply'd
               first
               one
               thing
               and
               then
               another
               ,
               till
               in
               the
               Evening
               he
               gently
               Expired
               .
               He
               was
               Interr'd
               at
               Verona
               :
               His
               Statue
               ,
               together
               with
               that
               of
               
                 Andrea
                 Naugerus
              
               ,
               delicately
               cast
               in
               Brass
               ,
               was
               erected
               in
               the
               School
               of
               Padua
               by
               
                 Johannes
                 Baptista
                 Rhamnusius
              
               .
               His
               fellow
               Citizens
               of
               Verona
               ,
               not
               to
               be
               behind
               Rhamnusius
               in
               respect
               (
               two
               years
               after
               the
               erecting
               the
               brazen
               Statue
               in
               Padua
               )
               set
               up
               his
               Image
               in
               marble
               at
               Verona
               ,
               in
               imitation
               of
               their
               Ancestours
               ,
               who
               had
               performed
               the
               same
               honour
               to
               their
               Catullus
               and
               Pliny
               ;
               with
               Laurel
               round
               their
               Heads
               .
            
          
           
             
             
             
               TO
               His
               Friend
               ,
               The
               Writer
               of
               the
               ENSUING
               TRANSLATION
               .
            
             
               WEll
               has
               thy
               Fate
               directed
               thee
               to
               chuse
            
             
               An
               Author
               ,
               worthy
               of
               the
               noblest
               Muse
               :
            
             
               His
               learned
               Pen
               has
               ,
               what
               was
               long
               unknown
               ,
            
             
               In
               Roman
               language
               ,
               like
               a
               Roman
               shown
               .
            
             
               And
               thine
               as
               sweet
               ,
               in
               British
               numbers
               taught
            
             
               The
               Labours
               of
               his
               vast
               Poetick
               thought
               .
            
             
               Of
               Earth
               ,
               of
               Seas
               ,
               of
               putrid
               Air
               He
               sung
               ,
            
             
               To
               search
               from
               whence
               that
               dire
               Contagion
               sprung
               ,
            
             
               Which
               now
               does
               worse
               than
               fellest
               Plagues
               deface
            
             
               The
               beauteous
               Form
               of
               God's
               resembling
               Race
               .
            
             
             
               From
               the
               Malignant
               influence
               of
               the
               Skies
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               sure
               the
               Seeds
               of
               most
               Diseases
               rise
               .
            
             
               But
               if
               this
               merciless
               ,
               consuming
               Flame
               ,
            
             
               From
               Vapours
               ,
               or
               infectious
               Planets
               came
               ;
            
             
               Why
               rag'd
               it
               not
               much
               more
               in
               ancient
               Times
               ,
            
             
               From
               Exhalations
               of
               impurer
               Climes
               ?
            
             
               Besides
               ;
               no
               settled
               Consequence
               can
               spring
            
             
               From
               whatsoe're
               contingent
               Causes
               bring
               .
            
             
               The
               raging
               Pestilence
               ,
               that
               long
               lays
               wast
            
             
               The
               spotted
               Prey
               ,
               devours
               it self
               at
               last
               .
            
             
               And
               sure
               had
               this
               been
               ne're
               so
               strong
               entail'd
               ,
            
             
               The
               vile
               succession
               must
               e're
               now
               bave
               fail'd
               .
            
             
               Blame
               not
               the
               Stars
               ;
               't
               is
               plain
               it
               neither
               fell
            
             
               From
               the
               distemper'd
               Heavens
               ,
               nor
               rose
               from
               Hell.
            
             
               Nor
               need
               we
               to
               the
               distant
               Indies
               rome
               ;
            
             
               The
               curst
               Originals
               are
               nearer
               home
               .
            
             
               Whence
               should
               that
               foul
               infectious
               Torment
               flow
               ,
            
             
               But
               from
               the
               baneful
               source
               of
               all
               our
               wo
               ?
            
             
             
               That
               wheedling
               ,
               charming
               Sex
               ,
               that
               draws
               us
               in
            
             
               To
               ev'ry
               punishment
               and
               ev'ry
               sin
               .
            
             
               While
               Man
               ,
               by
               Heav'ns
               command
               ,
               and
               Nature
               led
               ,
            
             
               Through
               this
               vast
               Globe
               his
               Maker's
               Image
               spread
               ;
            
             
               The
               Godlike
               Figure
               form'd
               in
               ev'ry
               Womb
            
             
               Prolifick
               stems
               ,
               for
               Ages
               yet
               to
               come
               .
            
             
               Uncurst
               ,
               because
               he
               did
               not
               vainly
               toil
               ,
            
             
               On
               barren
               Mountains
               ,
               or
               impregnant
               soil
               ;
            
             
               Healthful
               and
               vigorous
               ,
               He
               ,
               o're
               the
               face
            
             
               Of
               the
               wide
               Earth
               ,
               dispers'd
               the
               Sacred
               race
               .
            
             
               But
               now
               ,
               that
               Tribe
               ,
               who
               all
               our
               Rights
               invade
               ,
            
             
               Pervert
               the
               wise
               Decrees
               which
               Nature
               made
               .
            
             
               Prompt
               to
               all
               ill
               ,
               Insatiately
               they
               fire
            
             
               At
               ev'ry
               pamper'd
               Brutes
               untam'd
               desire
               :
            
             
               And
               while
               they
               prostitute
               themselves
               to
               more
            
             
               Than
               Eastern
               Kings
               had
               concubines
               before
               ;
            
             
               The
               foul
               Promiscuous
               Coition
               breeds
               ,
            
             
               Like
               jarring
               Elements
               ,
               those
               pois'nous
               seeds
               ,
            
             
             
               Which
               all
               the
               dreadful
               host
               of
               Symptoms
               bring
               ;
            
             
               And
               with
               one
               curst
               Disease
               a
               Legion
               spring
               .
            
             
               Were
               the
               decay'd
               ,
               degen'rate
               race
               of
               Man
               ,
            
             
               Untainted
               now
               ,
               as
               when
               it
               first
               began
               ;
            
             
               And
               there
               were
               no
               such
               tort'ring
               Plague
               on
               Earth
               ,
            
             
               The
               first
               inconstant
               Wretch
               wou'd
               give
               it
               birth
               .
            
             
               Shun
               her
               ,
               as
               you
               wou'd
               fly
               from
               splitting
               Rocks
               ;
            
             
               Not
               Wolves
               so
               fatal
               are
               to
               tender
               Flocks
               :
            
             
               Though
               round
               the
               world
               the
               dire
               Contagion
               flew
               ,
            
             
               She
               'll
               poison
               more
               ,
               than
               e're
               Pandora
               slew
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             
             
               A
               POETICAL
               HISTORY
               OF
               THE
               
                 FRENCH
                 DISEASE
              
               .
            
             
               THrough
               what
               adventures
               this
               unknown
               Disease
            
             
               So
               lately
               did
               astonisht
               Europe
               seize
               ,
            
             
               Through
               Asian
               Coasts
               and
               Libyan
               Cities
               ran
               ,
            
             
               And
               from
               what
               Seeds
               the
               Malady
               began
               ,
            
             
               Our
               Song
               shall
               tell
               :
               To
               Naples
               first
               it
               came
            
             
               From
               France
               ,
               and
               justly
               took
               from
               France
               his
               Name
               ,
            
             
               Companion
               of
               the
               War
               —
            
             
             
               The
               Methods
               next
               of
               Cure
               we
               shall
               express
               ,
            
             
               The
               wondrous
               Wit
               of
               Mortals
               in
               distress
               :
            
             
               But
               when
               their
               Skill
               too
               faint
               Resistence
               made
               ,
            
             
               We
               'll
               shew
               the
               Gods
               descending
               to
               their
               aid
               .
            
             
               To
               reach
               the
               secret
               Causes
               we
               must
               rise
            
             
               Above
               the
               Clouds
               ,
               and
               travell
               o'er
               the
               Skies
               .
            
             
               The
               daring
               Subject
               let
               us
               then
               pursue
               ,
            
             
               Transported
               with
               an
               Argument
               so
               new
               ,
            
             
               While
               springing
               Groves
               and
               tunefuli
               Birds
               invite
               ,
            
             
               And
               Muses
               that
               in
               wondrous
               Theams
               delight
               .
            
             
               O
               Bembus
               ,
               Ornament
               of
               Italy
               ,
            
             
               If
               yet
               from
               Cares
               of
               State
               thou
               canst
               be
               free
               ,
            
             
               If
               
               Leo's
               Councils
               yet
               can
               spare
               thy
               skill
               ,
            
             
               And
               let
               the
               Business
               of
               the
               World
               stand
               still
               ;
            
             
               O
               steal
               a
               visit
               to
               those
               cool
               retreats
               ,
            
             
               The
               Muses
               dearest
               most
               frequented
               Seats
               ;
            
             
               And
               ,
               gentle
               Bembus
               ,
               do
               not
               there
               disdain
            
             
               A
               Member
               of
               the
               Esculapian
               Train
               ,
            
             
             
               Attempting
               Physicks
               practice
               to
               rehearse
               ,
            
             
               And
               clothing
               low
               Experiments
               in
               Verse
               .
            
             
               A
               God
               instructs
               ,
               these
               mysteries
               of
               old
            
             
               By
               great
               
               Apollo's
               self
               in
               equal
               streins
               were
               told
               .
            
             
               The
               smallest
               objects
               oft
               attract
               our
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               But
               here
               ,
               beneath
               a
               small
               appearance
               ,
               lies
            
             
               A
               Source
               ,
               that
               greatest
               wonder
               will
               create
               ,
            
             
               Of
               Nature
               much
               and
               very
               much
               of
               Fate
               .
            
             
               But
               thou
               ,
               Urania
               ,
               who
               alone
               canst
               trace
            
             
               First
               Causes
               ,
               measure
               out
               the
               Starry
               space
               ;
            
             
               That
               know'st
               the
               Planets
               number
               ,
               force
               and
               use
               ,
            
             
               And
               what
               Effects
               the
               vari'd
               Orbs
               produce
               :
            
             
               So
               may
               the
               Sphears
               thy
               Heavenly
               Course
               admire
               ,
            
             
               The
               Stars
               with
               envy
               at
               thy
               Beams
               retire
               ;
            
             
               As
               thou
               a
               while
               shalt
               Condescend
               to
               dwell
               ,
            
             
               With
               me
               on
               Earth
               ,
               and
               make
               this
               Grove
               thy
               Cell
               ;
            
             
               While
               Zephyrus
               ,
               can
               my
               head
               ,
               with
               Myrtle
               bound
               ,
            
             
               And
               imitating
               Rocks
               my
               Song
               resound
               .
            
             
             
               Say
               ,
               Goddess
               ,
               to
               what
               Cause
               we
               shall
               at
               last
            
             
               Assign
               this
               Plague
               ,
               unknown
               to
               Ages
               past
               ;
            
             
               If
               from
               the
               Western
               Climes
               't
               was
               wafted
               o'er
               ,
            
             
               When
               daring
               Spaniards
               left
               their
               Native
               shore
               ;
            
             
               Resolv'd
               beyond
               th'
               Atlantick
               to
               descry
               ,
            
             
               Conjectur'd
               Worlds
               ,
               or
               in
               the
               search
               to
               dye
               .
            
             
               For
               Fame
               Reports
               this
               Grief
               perpetual
               there
               ,
            
             
               From
               Skies
               infected
               and
               polluted
               Air
               :
            
             
               From
               whence
               't
               is
               grown
               so
               Epidemical
               ,
            
             
               Whole
               Cities
               Victims
               to
               its
               Fury
               fall
               ;
            
             
               Few
               scape
               ,
               for
               what
               relief
               where
               vital
               Breath
               ,
            
             
               The
               Gate
               of
               Life
               ,
               is
               made
               the
               Road
               of
               death
               ?
            
             
               If
               then
               by
               Traffick
               thence
               this
               Plague
               was
               brought
               ,
            
             
               How
               Dearly
               Dearly
               was
               that
               Traffick
               bought
               !
            
             
               This
               Prodigy
               of
               sickness
               ,
               weak
               at
               first
               ,
            
             
               (
               Like
               Infant
               Tyrants
               and
               in
               secret
               Nurst
               )
            
             
               When
               once
               confirm'd
               ,
               with
               sudden
               rage
               breaks
               forth
            
             
               And
               scatters
               dessolation
               through
               the
               Earth
               .
            
             
             
               So
               while
               the
               Shepherd
               travelling
               through
               the
               dark
            
             
               Strikes
               his
               dim
               Torch
               ,
               some
               unsuspected
               Spark
            
             
               Falls
               in
               the
               Stubble
               ,
               where
               it
               smothers
               long
            
             
               But
               by
               degrees
               becomes
               at
               last
               so
               strong
               ,
            
             
               That
               now
               it
               spreads
               o'er
               all
               the
               Neighbouring
               soil
               ,
            
             
               Devours
               at
               once
               the
               Plowmans
               hope
               and
               Toil
               ;
            
             
               The
               sacred
               Grove
               next
               Sacrifice
               must
               be
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               Jove
               can
               save
               his
               dedicated
               Tree
               ;
            
             
               The
               Grove
               Foments
               its
               Rage
               from
               whence
               it
               flies
            
             
               In
               curling
               flames
               and
               seems
               to
               fire
               the
               Skies
               .
            
             
               Yet
               observation
               rightly
               taken
               draws
            
             
               This
               new
               Distemper
               from
               some
               newer
               Cause
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               Reason
               can
               allow
               that
               this
               Disease
               ,
            
             
               Came
               first
               by
               Comerce
               from
               beyond
               the
               Seas
               ;
            
             
               Since
               instances
               in
               divers
               Lands
               are
               shown
               ,
            
             
               To
               whom
               all
               Indian
               Traffick
               is
               unknown
               :
            
             
               Nor
               could
               th'
               Infection
               from
               the
               Western
               Clime
            
             
               Seize
               distant
               Nations
               at
               the
               self
               same
               time
               ;
            
             
             
               And
               in
               Remoter
               parts
               begin
               its
               Reign
               ,
            
             
               As
               fierce
               and
               early
               as
               it
               did
               in
               Spain
               .
            
             
               What
               slaughter
               in
               our
               Italy
               was
               made
            
             
               Where
               Tiber's
               Tribute
               to
               the
               Oceans
               paid
               ;
            
             
               Where
               Poe
               does
               through
               a
               hundred
               Cities
               glide
               ,
            
             
               And
               pours
               as
               many
               Streams
               into
               the
               Tide
               .
            
             
               All
               at
               one
               Season
               ,
               all
               without
               relief
               ,
            
             
               Receiv'd
               and
               languisht
               with
               the
               common
               grief
               .
            
             
               Nor
               can
               th'
               Infection
               first
               be
               charg'd
               on
               Spain
               ,
            
             
               That
               sought
               new
               Worlds
               beyond
               the
               Western
               Main
               .
            
             
               Since
               from
               
               Pyrene's
               foot
               ,
               to
               Italy
               ,
            
             
               It
               shed
               its
               Bane
               on
               France
               ,
               while
               Spain
               was
               free
               .
            
             
               As
               soon
               the
               fertile
               Rhine
               its
               fury
               found
               ,
            
             
               And
               Regions
               with
               eternal
               Winter
               bound
               :
            
             
               Nor
               yet
               did
               Southern
               Climes
               its
               vengeance
               shun
               ,
            
             
               But
               felt
               a
               flame
               more
               scorching
               than
               the
               Sun.
            
             
               The
               Palms
               of
               Ida
               now
               neglected
               stood
               ,
            
             
               And
               Egypt
               languisht
               while
               her
               Nile
               o'erflow'd
               ;
            
             
             
               From
               whence
               't
               is
               plain
               this
               Pest
               must
               be
               assign'd
            
             
               To
               some
               more
               pow'rfull
               Cause
               and
               hard
               to
               find
               .
            
             
               In
               all
               productions
               of
               wise
               Nature's
               hand
               ,
            
             
               Whether
               Conceiv'd
               in
               Air
               on
               Sea
               or
               Land
               ;
            
             
               No
               constant
               method
               does
               direct
               her
               way
               ,
            
             
               But
               various
               Beings
               various
               Laws
               obey
               ;
            
             
               Such
               things
               as
               from
               few
               Principles
               arise
               ,
            
             
               In
               every
               place
               and
               season
               meet
               our
               eyes
               ;
            
             
               But
               what
               are
               fram'd
               of
               Principles
               abstruce
               ,
            
             
               Such
               places
               onely
               and
               such
               times
               produce
               .
            
             
               Effects
               of
               yet
               a
               more
               stupendious
               Birth
               ,
            
             
               And
               such
               as
               Nature
               must
               with
               pangs
               bring
               forth
               ,
            
             
               Where
               violent
               and
               various
               Seeds
               unite
               ,
            
             
               Break
               slowly
               from
               the
               Bosome
               of
               the
               Night
               ;
            
             
               Long
               in
               the
               Womb
               of
               Fate
               the
               Embryo's
               worn
               ,
            
             
               Whole
               Ages
               pass
               before
               the
               Monster
               's
               born
               .
            
             
               Diseases
               thus
               which
               various
               Seeds
               compound
               ,
            
             
               As
               various
               in
               their
               Birth
               and
               date
               are
               found
               .
            
             
             
               Some
               always
               seen
               ,
               some
               long
               in
               darkness
               hurld
               ,
            
             
               That
               break
               their
               chains
               at
               last
               to
               scourge
               the
               World.
            
             
               To
               which
               black
               List
               this
               Plague
               must
               be
               assign'd
               ,
            
             
               Nights
               foulest
               Birth
               and
               Terrour
               of
               Mankind
               .
            
             
               Nor
               must
               we
               yet
               think
               this
               escape
               the
               first
               ,
            
             
               Since
               former
               Ages
               with
               the
               like
               were
               curst
               .
            
             
               Long
               since
               he
               scatter'd
               his
               Infernal
               flame
               ,
            
             
               And
               always
               Being
               had
               ,
               though
               not
               a
               Name
               ,
            
             
               At
               least
               what
               Name
               it
               bore
               is
               now
               unfound
               :
            
             
               Both
               Names
               and
               things
               in
               times
               Abyss
               lye
               drown'd
               ,
            
             
               How
               vainly
               then
               do
               we
               project
               to
               keep
            
             
               Our
               Names
               remembred
               when
               our
               Bodies
               sleep
               ?
            
             
               Since
               late
               Succession
               searching
               their
               descent
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               neither
               find
               our
               dust
               nor
               Monument
               .
            
             
               Yet
               where
               the
               Western
               Ocean
               finds
               its
               bound
            
             
               (
               The
               World
               so
               lately
               by
               the
               Spaniards
               found
               )
            
             
               Beneath
               this
               Pest
               the
               wretched
               Natives
               groan
            
             
               In
               every
               Nation
               there
               and
               always
               known
               ,
            
             
             
               Such
               dire
               Effects
               depend
               upon
               a
               Clime
               ,
            
             
               On
               varying
               Skies
               and
               long
               Revolving
               time
               :
            
             
               The
               temper
               of
               their
               Air
               this
               Plague
               brought
               forth
               ,
            
             
               The
               Soil
               it self
               dispos'd
               for
               such
               a
               Birth
               .
            
             
               All
               things
               conspir'd
               to
               raise
               the
               Tyrant
               there
               ,
            
             
               But
               time
               alone
               cou'd
               fix
               his
               Conquest
               here
               .
            
             
               If
               therefore
               more
               distinctly
               we
               would
               know
            
             
               Each
               Source
               from
               whence
               this
               deadly
               Bane
               did
               flow
               ,
            
             
               His
               Progress
               in
               the
               Earth
               we
               must
               survey
            
             
               How
               many
               Cities
               groan
               beneath
               his
               sway
               .
            
             
               And
               when
               his
               great
               Advancement
               we
               have
               trac'd
               ,
            
             
               We
               must
               allow
               his
               Principles
               as
               vast
               .
            
             
               That
               Earth
               nor
               Sea
               th'
               Ingredients
               cou'd
               prepare
            
             
               And
               wholly
               must
               ascribe
               it
               to
               the
               Air
               ,
            
             
               The
               Tyrant's
               seat
               ,
               his
               Magazine
               is
               there
               .
            
             
               The
               Air
               that
               do's
               both
               Earth
               and
               Sea
               surround
               ,
            
             
               As
               easily
               can
               Earth
               and
               Sea
               confound
               ;
            
             
             
               What
               Fence
               for
               Bodies
               when
               at
               every
               pore
            
             
               The
               soft
               Invader
               has
               an
               open
               door
               ?
            
             
               What
               fence
               ,
               where
               poyson's
               drawn
               with
               vitall
               Breath
               ,
            
             
               And
               Father
               Air
               the
               Authour
               proves
               of
               Death
               ?
            
             
               Of
               subtile
               substance
               that
               with
               ease
               receives
            
             
               Infection
               ,
               which
               as
               easily
               it
               gives
               .
            
             
               Now
               by
               what
               means
               this
               dire
               Contagion
               first
               ,
            
             
               Was
               form'd
               aloft
               ,
               by
               what
               Ingredients
               nurst
               ,
            
             
               Our
               Song
               shall
               tell
               ;
               and
               in
               this
               wondrous
               Course
               ,
            
             
               Revolving
               times
               and
               varying
               Planets
               force
               .
            
             
               First
               then
               the
               Sun
               with
               all
               his
               train
               of
               Stars
               ,
            
             
               Amongst
               our
               Elements
               raise
               endless
               Wars
               ;
            
             
               And
               when
               the
               Planets
               from
               their
               Stations
               Range
               ,
            
             
               Our
               Orb
               is
               influenc'd
               ,
               and
               feels
               the
               Change.
            
             
               The
               chiefest
               instance
               is
               the
               Suns
               retreat
               ,
            
             
               No
               sooner
               he
               withdraws
               his
               vital
               heat
               ,
            
             
               But
               fruitless
               Fields
               with
               Snow
               are
               cover'd
               o'er
               ,
            
             
               The
               pretty
               Fountains
               run
               and
               talk
               no
               more
               .
            
             
             
               Yet
               when
               his
               Chariot
               to
               the
               Crab
               returns
               ,
            
             
               The
               Air
               ,
               the
               Earth
               ,
               the
               very
               Ocean
               burns
               .
            
             
               The
               Queen
               of
               Night
               can
               boast
               no
               less
               a
               sway
               ,
            
             
               At
               least
               all
               humid
               things
               her
               power
               obey
               .
            
             
               Malignant
               
               Saturn's
               Star
               as
               much
               can
               claim
               ,
            
             
               With
               friendly
               
               Jove's
               ,
               bright
               Mars
               ,
               and
               Venus
               flame
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               the
               host
               of
               Lights
               without
               a
               Name
               .
            
             
               Our
               Elements
               beneath
               their
               influence
               lye
               ,
            
             
               Slaves
               to
               the
               very
               Rabble
               of
               the
               Sky
               .
            
             
               But
               most
               when
               many
               meet
               in
               one
               abode
               ,
            
             
               Or
               when
               some
               Planet
               enters
               a
               new
               road
               ,
            
             
               Far
               distant
               from
               the
               Course
               he
               us'd
               to
               run
               ,
            
             
               Some
               mighty
               work
               of
               Fate
               is
               to
               be
               done
               .
            
             
               Long
               tracts
               of
               time
               indeed
               must
               first
               be
               spent
               ,
            
             
               Before
               completion
               of
               the
               vast
               event
               ;
            
             
               But
               when
               the
               Revolution
               once
               is
               made
            
             
               What
               mischiefs
               Earth
               and
               Sea
               at
               once
               Invade
               !
            
             
             
               Poor
               Mortals
               then
               shall
               all
               extremes
               sustain
            
             
               While
               Heav'n
               dissolves
               in
               Deluges
               of
               Rain
               ;
            
             
               Which
               from
               the
               mountains
               with
               impetuous
               course
               ,
            
             
               And
               headlong
               Rage
               ,
               Trees
               ,
               Rocks
               and
               Towns
               shall
               force
               ,
            
             
               O'er
               swelling
               Ganges
               then
               shall
               sweep
               the
               Plain
               ,
            
             
               And
               peacefull
               Poe
               outroar
               the
               Stormy
               Main
               .
            
             
               In
               other
               parts
               the
               Springs
               as
               low
               shall
               lye
               ,
            
             
               And
               Nymphs
               with
               Tears
               ,
               exhausted
               streams
               supply
               .
            
             
               Where
               neither
               Drought
               nor
               Deluges
               destroy
               ,
            
             
               The
               winds
               their
               utmost
               fury
               shall
               employ
               ;
            
             
               Whlie
               Hurricans
               whole
               Cities
               shall
               o'erthrow
               ,
            
             
               Or
               Earthquakes
               Gorge
               them
               in
               the
               depths
               below
               .
            
             
               Perhaps
               the
               Season
               shall
               arrive
               (
               if
               Fate
            
             
               And
               Nature
               once
               agree
               upon
               the
               date
               )
            
             
               When
               this
               most
               cultivated
               Earth
               shall
               be
            
             
               Unpeopled
               quite
               ,
               or
               drench'd
               beneath
               the
               Sea
               ;
            
             
             
               When
               ev'n
               the
               Sun
               another
               Course
               shall
               steer
               ,
            
             
               And
               other
               Seasons
               constitute
               the
               year
               :
            
             
               The
               wondring
               North
               shall
               see
               the
               springing
               Vine
               ,
            
             
               And
               Moors
               admire
               at
               Snow
               beneath
               the
               Line
               .
            
             
               New
               Species
               then
               of
               Creatures
               shall
               arise
            
             
               A
               new
               Creation
               Nature's
               self
               surprise
               .
            
             
               Then
               Youth
               shall
               lend
               fresh
               vigour
               to
               the
               Earth
               ,
            
             
               And
               give
               a
               second
               breed
               of
               Gyants
               birth
               .
            
             
               By
               whom
               a
               new
               assault
               shall
               be
               perform'd
               ,
            
             
               Hills
               heap'd
               on
               Hills
               ,
               and
               Heaven
               once
               more
               be
               storm'd
               .
            
             
               Since
               Nature's
               then
               so
               lyable
               to
               change
               ,
            
             
               Why
               should
               we
               think
               this
               late
               Contagion
               strange
               ;
            
             
               Or
               that
               the
               Planets
               where
               such
               mischiefs
               grow
               ,
            
             
               Should
               shed
               their
               poyson
               on
               the
               Earth
               below
               ?
            
             
               Two
               hundred
               rowling
               years
               are
               past
               away
               ,
            
             
               Since
               Mars
               and
               Saturn
               in
               Conjunction
               lay
               .
            
             
             
               When
               through
               the
               East
               an
               unknown
               Fever
               Rag'd
               ,
            
             
               Of
               strange
               Effects
               and
               by
               no
               Arts
               Asswag'd
               ;
            
             
               From
               suffocated
               Lungs
               with
               pain
               they
               drew
            
             
               Their
               breath
               ,
               and
               bloud
               for
               spittle
               did
               ensue
               ;
            
             
               Four
               days
               the
               wretches
               with
               this
               Plague
               were
               griev'd
               ,
            
             
               (
               Oh
               dismal
               sight
               )
               and
               then
               by
               death
               reliev'd
               .
            
             
               From
               thence
               to
               Persia
               the
               Contagion
               came
               ,
            
             
               Of
               whom
               th'
               Assyrians
               catch'd
               the
               spreading
               flame
               .
            
             
               Euphrates
               next
               and
               Tigris
               did
               complain
               ,
            
             
               Arabia
               too
               stil'd
               happy
               now
               in
               vain
               ;
            
             
               Then
               Phrygia
               mourn'd
               ,
               from
               whence
               it
               crost
               the
               Sea
            
             
               (
               Too
               small
               to
               quench
               its
               flame
               )
               to
               Italy
               .
            
             
               Then
               from
               this
               lower
               Orb
               with
               me
               remove
            
             
               To
               view
               the
               Starry
               Palaces
               above
               ,
            
             
               Through
               all
               the
               Roads
               of
               wandring
               Planets
               rove
               .
            
             
               To
               search
               in
               what
               position
               they
               have
               stood
               ,
            
             
               And
               what
               Conjectures
               were
               from
               them
               made
               good
               .
            
             
             
               To
               find
               what
               Signs
               did
               former
               times
               direct
               ,
            
             
               And
               what
               the
               present
               Age
               is
               to
               expect
               :
            
             
               From
               hence
               perhaps
               we
               shall
               with
               ease
               descry
            
             
               The
               Source
               of
               this
               stupendious
               Malady
               .
            
             
               Behold
               how
               Cancer
               with
               portentous
               harms
            
             
               Before
               Heav'ns
               Gate
               unfolds
               his
               threatning
               Armes
               ;
            
             
               Prodigious
               ills
               must
               needs
               from
               thence
               ensue
               ,
            
             
               In
               which
               one
               House
               we
               may
               distinctly
               view
            
             
               A
               numerous
               Cabal
               of
               Stars
               conspire
               ,
            
             
               To
               hurl
               at
               once
               on
               Air
               their
               bainsull
               fire
               .
            
             
               All
               this
               the
               Rev'rend
               Artist
               did
               descry
            
             
               Who
               nightly
               watch'd
               the
               Motions
               of
               the
               Sky
               ,
            
             
               Ye
               Gods
               (
               he
               cry'd
               )
               what
               does
               your
               rage
               prepare
               ,
            
             
               What
               unknown
               Plague
               engenders
               in
               the
               Air
               ?
            
             
               Besides
               ,
               I
               see
               dire
               Wars
               on
               Europe
               shed
               ,
            
             
               Ausonian
               Fields
               with
               Native
               Gore
               o'erspread
               .
            
             
               Thus
               Sung
               the
               Sage
               ,
               and
               to
               prevent
               debate
               ,
            
             
               In
               writing
               left
               the
               Story
               of
               our
               Fate
               .
            
             
             
               When
               any
               certain
               Course
               of
               years
               is
               run
            
             
               E'er
               the
               next
               Revolution
               be
               begun
               ,
            
             
               Heavens
               Method
               is
               ,
               for
               Jove
               in
               all
               his
               State
               ,
            
             
               To
               weigh
               Events
               and
               to
               determine
               Fate
               ;
            
             
               To
               search
               the
               Book
               of
               destiny
               and
               show
            
             
               What
               change
               shall
               rise
               in
               Heav'n
               or
               Earth
               below
               .
            
             
               Behold
               him
               then
               in
               awfull
               Robes
               array'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               calling
               his
               known
               Counsel
               to
               his
               aid
               ;
            
             
               Saturn
               and
               Mars
               the
               Thundring
               Summons
               call
               ,
            
             
               The
               
               Crab's
               portentous
               Armes
               unlock
               the
               Hall
               ,
            
             
               Mark
               with
               what
               various
               meen
               the
               Gods
               repair
               ,
            
             
               First
               Mars
               with
               sparkling
               Eyes
               and
               flaming
               Hair
               ,
            
             
               So
               furious
               and
               addicted
               to
               Alarms
               ,
            
             
               He
               dreams
               of
               Battels
               ,
               though
               in
               Venus
               Armes
               .
            
             
               But
               see
               with
               what
               august
               and
               peacefull
               brow
            
             
               (
               Of
               Gold
               his
               Chariot
               if
               the
               Fates
               allow
               )
            
             
               Great
               Jove
               appears
               ,
               who
               do's
               to
               all
               extend
            
             
               Impartial
               Justice
               ,
               Heav'n
               and
               Nature's
               friend
               .
            
             
             
               Old
               Saturn
               last
               with
               heavy
               pace
               comes
               on
               ,
            
             
               Loath
               to
               obey
               the
               Summons
               of
               his
               Son
               ;
            
             
               Oft
               going
               stopt
               ,
               oft
               pender'd
               in
               his
               mind
            
             
               Heaven's
               Empire
               lost
               ,
               oft
               to
               return
               inclin'd
               ;
            
             
               Thus
               ,
               much
               distracted
               ,
               and
               arriving
               late
               ,
            
             
               Sits
               grudging
               down
               beside
               the
               Chair
               of
               State.
            
             
               Jove
               now
               unfolds
               what
               Fate
               's
               dark
               laws
               contain
               ,
            
             
               Which
               Jove
               alone
               has
               Wisedom
               to
               Explain
               :
            
             
               Sees
               ripning
               Mischiefs
               ready
               to
               be
               hurl'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               much
               Condoles
               the
               Suffrings
               of
               the
               World
               :
            
             
               Unfolded
               views
               deaths
               Adamantine
               Gates
               ,
            
             
               War
               ,
               Slaughters
               ,
               Factions
               and
               subverted
               States
               .
            
             
               But
               most
               astonish'd
               at
               a
               new
               Disease
               ,
            
             
               That
               must
               forthwith
               on
               helpless
               Mortals
               seize
               ,
            
             
               These
               secrets
               he
               unfolds
               ,
               and
               shakes
               the
               Skies
               :
            
             
               The
               Gods
               Condole
               and
               from
               the
               Council
               rise
               .
            
             
               Hell's
               Agent
               thus
               no
               sooner
               quits
               his
               Cage
               ,
            
             
               But
               on
               the
               starting
               Spheres
               he
               hurles
               his
               rage
               :
            
             
             
               The
               purer
               Orbs
               disdain
               th'
               Infernal
               foe
               ,
            
             
               And
               shake
               the
               Taint
               upon
               the
               Air
               below
               .
            
             
               The
               grosser
               Air
               receives
               the
               banefull
               Seeds
               ,
            
             
               Converting
               to
               the
               Poison
               which
               it
               feeds
               :
            
             
               Whether
               the
               Sun
               from
               Earth
               this
               Vapour
               drew
               ,
            
             
               In
               late
               Conjunction
               with
               his
               fiery
               Crew
               ;
            
             
               Or
               from
               Fermenting
               Seas
               by
               Neptune
               sent
            
             
               In
               Envy
               to
               the
               higher
               Element
               ,
            
             
               Is
               hard
               to
               say
               ;
               or
               if
               more
               Powers
               combin'd
               ,
            
             
               Sent
               forth
               this
               Prodigy
               to
               fright
               Mankind
               .
            
             
               The
               Offices
               of
               Nature
               to
               define
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               each
               Cause
               a
               true
               effect
               assign
               ,
            
             
               Must
               be
               a
               Task
               both
               hard
               and
               doubtfull
               too
               ,
            
             
               Since
               various
               consequences
               oft
               ensue
               :
            
             
               Nor
               Nature
               always
               to
               her self
               is
               true
               .
            
             
               Some
               Principles
               shall
               on
               the
               Instant
               work
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               others
               shall
               for
               tedious
               Ages
               lurk
               :
            
             
             
               Besides
               the
               Power
               of
               Chance
               shall
               oft
               prevail
               ,
            
             
               On
               Natures
               force
               ,
               and
               cause
               Events
               to
               fail
               .
            
             
               Nor
               is
               the
               influence
               of
               Maladies
            
             
               Less
               various
               than
               the
               Seeds
               from
               whence
               they
               rise
               .
            
             
               Sometimes
               th'
               infected
               Air
               hurts
               Trees
               alone
               ,
            
             
               To
               grass
               and
               tender
               flowers
               pernicious
               known
               .
            
             
               The
               blast
               sometimes
               destroys
               the
               furrow'd
               soil
               ,
            
             
               With
               mildew'd
               Ears
               not
               worth
               the
               Reapers
               toil
               .
            
             
               Or
               if
               some
               Dale
               with
               Grain
               seems
               more
               enrich'd
               ,
            
             
               It
               moulds
               and
               rots
               before
               the
               sheaves
               are
               pitchd
               .
            
             
               When
               Earth
               yields
               store
               ,
               yet
               oft
               some
               strange
               Disease
            
             
               Shall
               fall
               and
               onely
               on
               poor
               Cattel
               seize
               .
            
             
               Here
               it
               shall
               sweep
               the
               Stock
               ,
               while
               there
               it
               sheds
            
             
               Its
               fury
               onely
               on
               devoted
               Heads
               .
            
             
               My
               own
               Remembrance
               to
               this
               hour
               retains
               ,
            
             
               An
               Autumn
               drown'd
               with
               never
               ceasing
               Rains
               :
            
             
               Yet
               this
               Malignant
               Luxury
               the
               breed
            
             
               Of
               Goats
               alone
               did
               rue
               ,
               the
               rest
               were
               freed
               .
            
             
             
               See
               how
               at
               break
               of
               day
               their
               number
               's
               told
               ,
            
             
               See
               how
               the
               Keeper
               drives
               them
               from
               the
               Fold
               :
            
             
               Behold
               him
               next
               beneath
               a
               hanging
               Rock
               ,
            
             
               And
               chearing
               with
               his
               Reed
               the
               browzing
               Flock
               ,
            
             
               While
               them
               he
               charms
               nor
               is
               himself
               less
               pleas'd
               ,
            
             
               With
               a
               sharp
               sudden
               Cough
               some
               darling
               Kid
               is
               seiz'd
            
             
               The
               Cough
               his
               knell
               ,
               for
               with
               a
               giddy
               round
            
             
               He
               whirls
               ,
               and
               streight
               falls
               dead
               upon
               the
               ground
               .
            
             
               This
               fever
               thus
               to
               Goats
               and
               Kids
               severe
            
             
               While
               Autumn
               held
               ,
               confined
               his
               Vengeance
               there
               ;
            
             
               Next
               Spring
               ,
               both
               lowing
               Herd
               and
               Bleating
               Flock
            
             
               At
               once
               it
               seiz'd
               ,
               spar'd
               none
               but
               swept
               the
               Stock
               :
            
             
               With
               such
               uncertainty
               from
               tainted
               Skies
            
             
               In
               Bodies
               plac't
               on
               Earth
               effects
               arise
               .
            
             
               Since
               then
               by
               dear
               experiment
               we
               find
            
             
               Diseases
               various
               in
               their
               Rise
               and
               Kind
               :
            
             
             
               Of
               this
               Contagion
               let
               us
               take
               a
               view
               ,
            
             
               More
               terrible
               for
               being
               Strange
               and
               new
               ,
            
             
               That
               with
               the
               proudest
               Son
               of
               Slaughter
               vies
               ,
            
             
               And
               claims
               no
               lower
               kindred
               than
               the
               Skies
               ;
            
             
               And
               as
               he
               did
               aloft
               conceive
               his
               Flame
               ,
            
             
               The
               proud
               Destroyer
               seeks
               no
               common
               Game
               ,
            
             
               He
               scorns
               the
               well
               finn'd
               Sporters
               of
               the
               Flood
               ,
            
             
               He
               scorns
               the
               well
               plum'd
               Singers
               of
               the
               wood
               ;
            
             
               Disdains
               the
               wanton
               Browzers
               of
               the
               Rock
               ,
            
             
               Disdains
               the
               lowing
               Herd
               and
               bleating
               Flock
               ;
            
             
               With
               Wolf
               or
               Bear
               ,
               despizes
               to
               engage
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               can
               the
               generous
               Horse
               provoke
               his
               rage
               :
            
             
               The
               Lords
               of
               Nature
               onely
               he
               annoys
               ,
            
             
               And
               humane
               frame
               ,
               Heav'ns
               Images
               ,
               destroys
               .
            
             
               The
               bloud
               's
               black
               viscous
               parts
               he
               seizes
               first
               ,
            
             
               By
               whose
               malignant
               Aliments
               he
               's
               nurst
               ;
            
             
               And
               e'er
               he
               can
               the
               fierce
               Assault
               begin
               ,
            
             
               Factions
               of
               humours
               take
               his
               part
               within
               ;
            
             
             
               The
               strongest
               Holds
               of
               nature
               thus
               he
               gains
               ,
            
             
               Quar'tring
               his
               cruel
               Troops
               throughout
               the
               veins
               ,
            
             
               While
               some
               more
               noble
               Seat
               the
               Tyrant's
               Throne
               contains
               .
            
             
               Such
               principles
               brought
               this
               Distemper
               forth
               ,
            
             
               Such
               Aliments
               maintain'd
               the
               dreadfull
               Birth
               .
            
             
               His
               certain
               signs
               and
               symptoms
               to
               rehearse
               ,
            
             
               Is
               the
               next
               taske
               of
               our
               instructing
               Verse
               .
            
             
               O
               ,
               may
               it
               prove
               of
               such
               a
               lasting
               date
               ,
            
             
               To
               conquer
               Time
               ,
               and
               Triumph
               over
               Fate
               .
            
             
               
               Apollo's
               self
               inspires
               the
               usefull
               Song
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               that
               to
               Apollo
               do's
               belong
               ,
            
             
               Like
               him
               ,
               should
               ever
               ,
               live
               and
               be
               for
               ever
               young
               .
            
             
               How
               shall
               Posterity
               admire
               our
               skill
               ,
            
             
               Taught
               by
               our
               Muse
               to
               know
               the
               lurking
               ill
               ,
            
             
               And
               when
               his
               dreadfull
               Visage
               they
               behold
               ,
            
             
               Cry
               ,
               this
               is
               the
               Disease
               whose
               Signs
               of
               old
            
             
               Th'inspir'd
               Physician
               in
               bright
               numbers
               told
               .
            
             
             
               For
               thô
               th'
               infernal
               Pest
               should
               quit
               the
               Earth
               ,
            
             
               Absconding
               in
               the
               Hell
               ,
               that
               gave
               it
               Birth
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               after
               lazy
               Revolutions
               past
            
             
               The
               unsuspected
               Prodigy
               at
               last
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               from
               the
               womb
               of
               Night
               once
               more
               be
               hurl'd
               ,
            
             
               T'
               infect
               the
               Skies
               ,
               and
               to
               amaze
               the
               World.
            
             
               What
               therefore
               seems
               most
               wondrous
               in
               his
               course
            
             
               Is
               that
               he
               should
               so
               long
               conceal
               his
               Force
               ;
            
             
               For
               when
               the
               Foe
               his
               secret
               way
               has
               made
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               our
               Intrails
               strong
               detachments
               laid
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               oft
               the
               Moon
               four
               monthly
               rounds
               shall
               steer
            
             
               Before
               convincing
               Symptoms
               shall
               appear
               ;
            
             
               So
               long
               the
               Malady
               shall
               lurk
               within
               ,
            
             
               And
               grow
               confirm'd
               before
               the
               danger
               's
               seen
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               with
               Disturbance
               to
               the
               wretch
               diseas'd
               ,
            
             
               Who
               with
               unwonted
               heaviness
               is
               seiz'd
               ,
            
             
               With
               drooping
               Spirits
               ,
               his
               affairs
               persues
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               his
               Limbs
               their
               offices
               refuse
               ,
            
             
             
               The
               chearfull
               glories
               of
               his
               Eyes
               decay
               ,
            
             
               And
               from
               his
               Cheeks
               the
               Roses
               fade
               away
               ,
            
             
               A
               leaden
               hue
               o'er
               all
               his
               Face
               is
               spread
               ,
            
             
               And
               greater
               weights
               depress
               his
               drooping
               Head
               ;
            
             
               Till
               by
               degrees
               the
               Secret
               parts
               shall
               show
               ,
            
             
               By
               open
               proofs
               the
               undermining
               Foe
               ;
            
             
               Who
               now
               his
               dreadfull
               ensigns
               shall
               display
               ,
            
             
               Devour
               ,
               and
               harass
               in
               the
               sight
               of
               day
               .
            
             
               Again
               ,
               when
               chearfull
               Light
               has
               left
               the
               Skies
               ,
            
             
               And
               Night's
               ungratefull
               shades
               and
               Vapors
               rise
               ;
            
             
               When
               Nature
               to
               our
               Spirits
               sounds
               retreat
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               the
               Vitals
               calls
               Her
               stragling
               Heat
               ;
            
             
               When
               th'out
               works
               are
               no
               more
               of
               warmth
               possest
               ,
            
             
               Bloudless
               ,
               and
               with
               a
               load
               of
               humours
               prest
               ;
            
             
               When
               ev'ry
               kind
               Relief's
               retir'd
               within
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               then
               the
               Execrable
               Pains
               begin
               ;
            
             
               Armes
               ,
               Shoulders
               ,
               Legs
               ,
               with
               restless
               Arches
               vext
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               Convulsions
               ev'ry
               Nerve
               perplext
               ;
            
             
             
               For
               when
               through
               all
               our
               Veins
               th'
               Infection
               's
               spread
               ,
            
             
               And
               by
               what
               e'er
               should
               feed
               the
               Body
               fed
               ;
            
             
               When
               Nature
               strives
               the
               Vitals
               to
               defend
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               destructive
               humours
               outward
               send
               :
            
             
               These
               being
               viscous
               ,
               gross
               and
               loath
               to
               start
               ,
            
             
               In
               its
               dull
               March
               shall
               torture
               ev'ry
               Part
               ;
            
             
               Whence
               to
               the
               Bloudless
               Nerves
               dire
               Pains
               ensue
               ,
            
             
               At
               once
               contracted
               ,
               and
               extended
               too
               ;
            
             
               The
               thinner
               Parts
               will
               yet
               not
               stick
               so
               fast
               ,
            
             
               But
               to
               the
               Surface
               of
               the
               Skin
               are
               cast
               ,
            
             
               Which
               in
               foul
               Botches
               o'er
               the
               Body
               spread
               ,
            
             
               Prophane
               the
               Bosome
               ,
               and
               deform
               the
               Head
               :
            
             
               Here
               Puscles
               in
               the
               form
               of
               Achorns
               swell'd
               ,
            
             
               In
               form
               alone
               ,
               for
               these
               with
               Stench
               are
               fill'd
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               Ripness
               is
               Corruption
               ,
               that
               in
               time
               ,
            
             
               Disdain
               confinement
               ,
               and
               discharge
               the
               slime
               ;
            
             
             
               Yet
               oft
               the
               Foe
               would
               turn
               his
               Forces
               back
               ,
            
             
               The
               Brawn
               and
               inmost
               Muscles
               to
               attack
               ,
            
             
               And
               pierce
               so
               deep
               ,
               that
               the
               bare
               Bones
               have
               been
            
             
               Betwixt
               the
               dreadfull
               fleshy
               Breaches
               seen
               ;
            
             
               When
               on
               the
               vocal
               parts
               his
               Rage
               was
               spent
               ,
            
             
               Imperfect
               sounds
               ,
               for
               tunefull
               Speech
               was
               sent
               .
            
             
               As
               on
               a
               springing
               Plant
               ,
               you
               have
               beheld
            
             
               The
               juice
               that
               through
               the
               tender
               Bark
               has
               swell'd
               ,
            
             
               That
               from
               the
               Sap's
               more
               viscous
               part
               did
               come
               ,
            
             
               Till
               by
               the
               Sun
               condens'd
               into
               a
               Gumm
               :
            
             
               So
               when
               this
               Bane
               is
               once
               receiv'd
               within
               ,
            
             
               With
               such
               Eruptions
               he
               shall
               force
               the
               Skin
               ;
            
             
               And
               when
               the
               Humour
               for
               a
               time
               has
               flow'd
               ,
            
             
               Grow
               fixt
               at
               last
               ,
               and
               harden
               to
               a
               Node
               .
            
             
               Hence
               some
               young
               Swain
               ,
               as
               on
               the
               Rocks
               he
               stood
               ,
            
             
               To
               view
               his
               Picture
               in
               the
               crystal
               Flood
               ,
            
             
               And
               finding
               there
               his
               lovely
               Cheeks
               deform'd
               ,
            
             
               Against
               the
               Stars
               ,
               against
               the
               Gods
               he
               storm'd
               :
            
             
             
               Mean
               while
               the
               Sable
               Wings
               of
               Night
               are
               spread
               ,
            
             
               And
               balmy
               Sleep
               on
               ev'ry
               creature
               shed
               .
            
             
               These
               wretches
               onely
               no
               Repose
               could
               take
               ,
            
             
               By
               this
               tormenting
               Fiend
               still
               kept
               Awake
               ;
            
             
               Impatient
               till
               the
               Morn
               restor'd
               the
               Light
               ,
            
             
               Then
               curst
               her
               Beams
               ,
               and
               wish'd
               again
               for
               Night
               .
            
             
               Ceres
               in
               vain
               her
               blessings
               did
               afford
               ,
            
             
               In
               vain
               the
               flowing
               Goblet
               crown'd
               the
               Board
               ;
            
             
               No
               comfort
               they
               in
               large
               Possessions
               had
               ,
            
             
               Of
               Farms
               ,
               or
               Towns
               ,
               but
               e'en
               in
               Banquets
               sad
               :
            
             
               In
               vain
               the
               Streams
               ,
               and
               Meads
               they
               did
               frequent
               ,
            
             
               The
               dismal
               Thought
               persu'd
               wheree'er
               they
               went
               ;
            
             
               And
               when
               for
               Prospect
               they
               would
               climb
               the
               Hill
               ,
            
             
               The
               dire
               Remembrance
               Hagg'd
               their
               Fancy
               still
               :
            
             
               In
               vain
               the
               Gods
               themselves
               they
               did
               invoke
               ,
            
             
               Adorn'd
               their
               Shrines
               ,
               and
               made
               their
               Altars
               smoak
               :
            
             
               They
               Brib'd
               and
               Pray'd
               ,
               yet
               still
               reliefless
               lay
               ,
            
             
               Their
               offer'd
               Gumms
               consum'd
               less
               fast
               than
               they
               .
            
             
             
               Shall
               I
               relate
               what
               I
               my self
               beheld
               ,
            
             
               Where
               Ollius
               stream
               with
               gentle
               plenty
               swell'd
               ?
            
             
               In
               those
               fair
               Meads
               where
               Ollius
               cuts
               his
               way
               ,
            
             
               A
               Youth
               of
               Godlike
               form
               I
               did
               survey
               ,
            
             
               By
               all
               the
               World
               besides
               unparallel'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               ev'n
               in
               Italy
               by
               none
               excell'd
               ;
            
             
               First
               Signs
               of
               Manhood
               on
               his
               Cheeks
               were
               shown
               ,
            
             
               A
               tender
               Harvest
               ,
               and
               but
               thinly
               sown
               ,
            
             
               Besides
               those
               charms
               that
               did
               his
               Person
               grace
               ,
            
             
               Descended
               from
               a
               rich
               and
               noble
               Race
               :
            
             
               What
               transport
               in
               Spectatours
               did
               he
               breed
               ,
            
             
               Mounted
               ,
               and
               managing
               the
               fiery
               Steed
               ,
            
             
               What
               Joy
               at
               once
               ,
               and
               Terrour
               did
               we
               feel
               ,
            
             
               When
               he
               prepar'd
               for
               Field
               ,
               and
               shone
               in
               Steel
               ?
            
             
               Of
               equal
               Strength
               and
               Skill
               for
               Exercise
               ,
            
             
               All
               conflicts
               try'd
               ,
               but
               never
               lost
               a
               Prize
               ;
            
             
               Oft
               in
               the
               Chase
               his
               Courser
               he
               'd
               forgo
               ,
            
             
               Trust
               his
               own
               Feet
               ,
               and
               turn
               the
               swiftest
               Roe
               .
            
             
             
               For
               him
               each
               Nymph
               ,
               for
               him
               each
               Goddess
               strove
               ,
            
             
               Of
               Hill
               ,
               of
               Plain
               ,
               of
               Meadow
               ,
               Stream
               and
               Grove
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               can
               we
               doubt
               that
               in
               this
               numerous
               Train
               ,
            
             
               Some
               One
               (
               neglected
               )
               did
               to
               Heaven
               complain
            
             
               Who
               though
               in
               vain
               She
               lov'd
               ,
               yet
               did
               not
               Curse
               in
               vain
               ;
            
             
               For
               whilst
               the
               Youth
               did
               to
               his
               Strength
               confide
               ,
            
             
               And
               Nerves
               in
               ev'ry
               Task
               of
               hardship
               try'd
               .
            
             
               This
               finish'd
               Piece
               ,
               this
               celebrated
               Frame
               ,
            
             
               The
               Mansion
               of
               a
               loath'd
               Disease
               became
               :
            
             
               But
               of
               such
               banefull
               ,
               and
               malignant
               Kind
               ,
            
             
               As
               Ages
               past
               ne'er
               knew
               ,
               and
               future
               ne'er
               shall
               find
               .
            
             
               Now
               might
               you
               see
               his
               Spring
               of
               Youth
               decay
               ,
            
             
               The
               Verdure
               dye
               ,
               the
               Blossoms
               fall
               away
               ;
            
             
               The
               foul
               Infection
               o'er
               his
               Body
               spread
               ,
            
             
               Prophanes
               his
               Bosome
               ,
               and
               deforms
               his
               Head
               ;
            
             
               His
               wretched
               Limbs
               with
               filth
               and
               stench
               o'er
               flow
               ,
            
             
               While
               Flesh
               divides
               ,
               and
               shews
               the
               Bones
               below
               .
            
             
             
               Dire
               Ulcers
               (
               can
               the
               Gods
               permit
               them
               )
               prey
            
             
               On
               his
               fair
               Eye-balls
               ,
               and
               devour
               their
               Day
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               the
               neat
               Pyramid
               below
               ,
               falls
               Moulding
               quite
               away
               .
            
             
               Him
               neighbouring
               Alps
               bewail'd
               with
               constant
               Dew
            
             
               Ollius
               ;
               no
               more
               his
               wonted
               Passage
               knew
               ,
            
             
               Hills
               ,
               Valleys
               ,
               Rocks
               ,
               Streams
               ,
               Groves
               ,
               his
               Fate
               Bemoan'd
               ,
            
             
               Sebinus
               Lake
               from
               deepest
               Caverns
               groan'd
               .
            
             
               From
               hence
               malitious
               
               Saturn's
               Force
               is
               known
               ,
            
             
               From
               whose
               malignantOrbthisPlague
               was
               thrown
               ,
            
             
               To
               whom
               more
               cruel
               Mars
               assistence
               lent
               ,
            
             
               And
               club'd
               his
               Influence
               to
               the
               dire
               Event
               :
            
             
               Nor
               could
               the
               malice
               of
               the
               Stars
               suffice
               ,
            
             
               To
               make
               such
               execrable
               Mischief
               rise
               ;
            
             
               For
               certainly
               e'er
               this
               Disease
               began
               ,
            
             
               Through
               Hells
               dark
               Courts
               the
               cursing
               Furies
               ran
               ,
            
             
             
               Where
               to
               astonisht
               Ghosts
               they
               did
               relate
               ,
            
             
               In
               dreadfull
               Songs
               ,
               the
               Burthen
               of
               our
               Fate
               ;
            
             
               The
               Stygian
               Pool
               did
               to
               the
               bottome
               rake
               ,
            
             
               And
               from
               its
               Dregs
               the
               curst
               Ingredients
               take
               ,
            
             
               Which
               scatter'd
               since
               through
               Europe
               wide
               and
               far
               ,
            
             
               Bred
               Pestilence
               ,
               and
               more
               consuming
               War.
            
             
               Ye
               Deities
               who
               once
               our
               Guardians
               were
               ,
            
             
               Who
               made
               th'
               Ausonian
               fields
               your
               special
               Care
               ,
            
             
               And
               thou
               O
               Saturn
               ,
               Father
               of
               our
               Breed
               ,
            
             
               From
               whence
               do's
               this
               unwonted
               Rage
               proceed
            
             
               Against
               thy
               ancient
               Seats
               ?
            
             
               Has
               Fate
               's
               dark
               Store
               a
               Plague
               yet
               left
               ,
               which
               we
            
             
               Have
               not
               sustain'd
               ev'n
               to
               Extremity
               ?
            
             
               First
               let
               Parthenope
               her
               griefs
               declare
               ,
            
             
               Her
               Kings
               destroy'd
               her
               Temples
               sack't
               in
               War.
            
             
               Who
               can
               the
               Slaughter
               of
               that
               Day
               recite
               ,
            
             
               When
               hand
               to
               hand
               we
               joyn'd
               the
               Gauls
               in
               fight
               ,
            
             
             
               When
               Tarrus
               Brook
               was
               so
               o'er-swell'd
               with
               Bloud
            
             
               Men
               ,
               Horses
               ,
               Arms
               ,
               rowl'd
               down
               th'
               impetuous
               Flood
               ?
            
             
               Eridanus
               in
               wandring
               Banks
               receives
            
             
               The
               purple
               Stream
               ,
               and
               for
               our
               Fate
               with
               Brother
               Tarrus
               grieves
               .
            
             
               To
               what
               estate
               ,
               O
               wretched
               Italy
            
             
               Has
               civil
               Strife
               reduc'd
               ,
               and
               mouldr'd
               Thee
               !
            
             
               Where
               now
               are
               all
               thy
               ancient
               Glories
               hurl'd
               ?
            
             
               Where
               is
               thy
               boasted
               Empire
               of
               the
               World
               ?
            
             
               What
               nook
               in
               Thee
               from
               barb'rous
               Rage
               is
               freed
               ,
            
             
               And
               has
               not
               seen
               her
               captive
               Children
               bleed
               ?
            
             
               That
               was
               not
               first
               to
               savage
               Arms
               a
               Prey
               ,
            
             
               And
               do's
               not
               yet
               more
               savage
               Laws
               obey
               ?
            
             
               Answer
               ye
               Hills
               where
               peacefull
               Clusters
               grew
               ,
            
             
               And
               never
               till
               this
               hour
               disturbance
               knew
               ,
            
             
               Calm
               as
               the
               Flood
               which
               at
               your
               Feet
               ye
               View
               ;
            
             
               Calm
               as
               Erethenus
               who
               on
               each
               side
               ,
            
             
               Beholds
               your
               Vines
               ,
               and
               ravisht
               with
               their
               Pride
               ,
            
             
               Moves
               slowly
               with
               his
               Tribute
               to
               the
               Tide
               .
            
             
             
               O
               Italy
               ,
               our
               Ancient
               happy
               Seat
               ,
            
             
               Glory
               of
               Nations
               ,
               and
               the
               Gods
               Retreat
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               fruitfull
               Fields
               for
               peopled
               Towns
               provide
               ,
            
             
               Where
               Athesis
               ,
               and
               smooth
               Benacus
               glide
               ,
            
             
               What
               words
               have
               force
               ,
               thy
               Sufferings
               to
               relate
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               servile
               Yoke
               ,
               and
               ignominious
               Fate
               .
            
             
               Now
               dive
               ,
               Benacus
               ,
               thy
               fam'd
               course
               give
               o'er
            
             
               And
               lead
               thy
               Streams
               through
               Laurel-Banks
               no
               more
               .
            
             
               Yet
               ,
               when
               our
               Mis'ries
               thus
               were
               at
               their
               height
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               our
               Sorrows
               still
               had
               wanted
               weight
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               our
               former
               Plagues
               had
               been
               too
               small
               ,
            
             
               We
               saw
               our
               Hope
               ,
               
               Minerva's
               Darling
               fall
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               Funeral
               ,
               Marcus
               ,
               we
               did
               then
               survey
            
             
               Snatcht
               from
               the
               Muses
               Armes
               before
               thy
               day
               ,
            
             
               Benacus
               Banks
               at
               thy
               Interment
               groan'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               neighbouring
               Athesis
               thy
               Fate
               bemoan'd
               ;
            
             
             
               Where
               by
               the
               Moon
               's
               pale
               Beams
               ,
               Catullus
               came
               ,
            
             
               And
               nightly
               still
               was
               heard
               to
               sound
               thy
               Name
               ,
            
             
               His
               Songs
               once
               more
               his
               native
               Seats
               inspire
               ,
            
             
               The
               Groves
               were
               charm'd
               ,
               and
               knew
               their
               Master's
               Lyre
               .
            
             
               '
               I
               was
               now
               the
               Galls
               began
               their
               fierce
               Alarms
               ,
            
             
               And
               crusht
               Liguria
               with
               victorious
               Arms
               ,
            
             
               While
               other
               Provinces
               as
               fast
               expire
            
             
               By
               
               Caesar's
               Sword
               ,
               and
               more
               destructive
               Fire
               ;
            
             
               No
               Latian
               Seat
               was
               free
               from
               Slaughter
               found
               ,
            
             
               But
               all
               alike
               with
               Tears
               and
               Bloud
               were
               drown'd
               .
            
             
               Now
               for
               our
               second
               Task
               ,
               and
               what
               Relief
            
             
               Our
               Age
               has
               found
               against
               this
               raging
               Grief
               ,
            
             
               The
               Methods
               now
               of
               Cure
               we
               will
               express
               ,
            
             
               The
               wondrous
               Wit
               of
               Mortals
               in
               distress
               .
            
             
               Astonisht
               long
               they
               lay
               ,
               no
               Remedy
            
             
               At
               first
               they
               knew
               ,
               nor
               Courage
               had
               to
               try
               ,
            
             
             
               But
               learnt
               by
               slow
               Experience
               to
               appease
               ,
            
             
               To
               check
               ,
               and
               last
               to
               vanquish
               the
               Disease
               .
            
             
               Yet
               after
               all
               our
               Study
               we
               must
               own
            
             
               Some
               Secrets
               were
               by
               Revelation
               known
               :
            
             
               For
               though
               the
               Stars
               in
               dark
               Cabals
               combin'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               for
               our
               Ruine
               with
               the
               Furies
               join'd
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               were
               we
               not
               to
               last
               Destruction
               left
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               of
               the
               Gods
               Protection
               quite
               berest
               .
            
             
               If
               strange
               and
               dreadfull
               Maladies
               have
               reign'd
               ,
            
             
               If
               Wars
               ,
               dire
               Massacres
               we
               have
               sustain'd
               ,
            
             
               If
               Flames
               have
               laid
               our
               Fields
               and
               Cities
               waste
               ,
            
             
               Our
               Temples
               too
               in
               common
               Rubbish
               cast
               ;
            
             
               If
               swelling
               Streams
               no
               more
               in
               Banks
               were
               kept
               ,
            
             
               But
               Men
               ,
               Herds
               ,
               Houses
               with
               theFlood
               were
               swept
               ;
            
             
               If
               few
               surviv'd
               these
               Plagues
               ,
               and
               Famine
               slew
               ,
            
             
               The
               greater
               Part
               of
               that
               surviving
               Few
               .
            
             
               Yet
               of
               such
               great
               Adventures
               we
               are
               proud
               ,
            
             
               As
               Fate
               had
               to
               no
               former
               Age
               allow'd
               .
            
             
             
               For
               ,
               what
               no
               Mortals
               ever
               dar'd
               before
               ,
            
             
               We
               have
               the
               Ocean
               stemm'd
               from
               sight
               of
               Shore
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               was
               't
               enough
               ,
               by
               Atlas
               farthest
               bound
               ,
            
             
               That
               we
               the
               fair
               Hesperian
               Gardens
               found
               ,
            
             
               That
               we
               t'
               Arabia
               a
               new
               Passage
               sought
               ,
            
             
               While
               Ships
               for
               Camels
               the
               rich
               Lading
               brought
               :
            
             
               To
               th'
               outmost
               East
               ,
               we
               since
               a
               Voiage
               made
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               the
               rising
               Sun
               our
               Sails
               display'd
               ,
            
             
               Beyond
               the
               Ind
               large
               tracts
               of
               Land
               did
               find
               ,
            
             
               And
               left
               the
               World's
               reputed
               bounds
               behind
               ,
            
             
               To
               pass
               the
               World
               's
               reputed
               bounds
               was
               small
            
             
               Performances
               ,
               of
               greater
               Glory
               call
            
             
               Our
               fam'd
               Adventures
               on
               the
               western
               Shore
               ,
            
             
               Discovering
               Stars
               ,
               and
               Worlds
               unknown
               before
               ;
            
             
               But
               waving
               these
               ,
               our
               Age
               has
               yet
               beheld
            
             
               An
               inspir'd
               Poet
               ,
               and
               by
               none
               excell'd
               ,
            
             
               Parthenope
               extoll'd
               the
               Songs
               he
               made
               ,
            
             
               
               Sebethe's
               God
               ,
               and
               
               Virgil's
               sacred
               Shade
               ,
            
             
             
               From
               Gardens
               to
               the
               Stars
               his
               Muse
               would
               rise
               ,
            
             
               And
               made
               the
               Earth
               acquainted
               with
               the
               Skies
               .
            
             
               His
               Name
               might
               well
               the
               Ages
               pride
               sustain
               ,
            
             
               But
               many
               more
               exalted
               Souls
               remain
               ;
            
             
               Who
               ,
               when
               Expir'd
               ,
               and
               Envy
               with
               them
               dead
            
             
               To
               equal
               the
               best
               Ancients
               shall
               be
               said
               :
            
             
               But
               ,
               Bembus
               ,
               while
               this
               List
               we
               do
               unfold
               ,
            
             
               In
               which
               Heav'ns
               blessings
               on
               the
               Age
               are
               told
               ,
            
             
               Leo
               ,
               the
               most
               illustrious
               place
               do's
               claim
               ,
            
             
               The
               great
               Restorer
               of
               the
               Roman
               Name
               ;
            
             
               By
               whose
               mild
               Aspects
               ,
               and
               auspicious
               Fire
               ,
            
             
               Malignant
               Planets
               to
               their
               Cells
               retire
               .
            
             
               
               Jove's
               friendly
               Star
               once
               more
               is
               seen
               to
               rise
            
             
               And
               scatters
               healing
               Lustre
               through
               the
               Skies
               ,
            
             
               He
               ,
               onely
               He
               ,
               our
               Losses
               could
               repair
               ,
            
             
               And
               call
               the
               Muses
               to
               their
               native
               Air
               ,
            
             
               Restore
               the
               ancient
               Laws
               of
               Right
               and
               Just
               ,
            
             
               Polish
               Religion
               ,
               from
               Barbarian
               Rust.
            
             
             
               For
               Heav'n
               ,
               and
               Rome
               engag'd
               in
               fierce
               Alarms
               ,
            
             
               With
               pious
               Vengeance
               ,
               and
               with
               sacred
               Arms
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               terrour
               to
               Euphrates
               Banks
               was
               spread
               ,
            
             
               While
               Nile
               retir'd
               t'
               his
               undiscover'd
               Head
               ,
            
             
               And
               frighted
               Doris
               div'd
               into
               hisoozy
               Bed.
            
             
               While
               some
               more
               able
               Muse
               shall
               fing
               his
               Name
               ,
            
             
               In
               Numbers
               equal
               to
               his
               Deeds
               and
               Fame
               .
            
             
               While
               Bembus
               thou
               shalt
               this
               great
               Theme
               rehearse
               ,
            
             
               And
               weave
               his
               Praises
               in
               eternal
               Verse
               ,
            
             
               Let
               me
               ,
               in
               what
               I
               have
               propos'd
               ,
               proceed
            
             
               With
               Subject
               suted
               to
               my
               slender
               Reed
               .
            
             
               First
               ,
               then
               your
               Patient's
               Constitution
               learn
               ,
            
             
               And
               well
               the
               Temper
               of
               his
               Bloud
               discern
               ,
            
             
               If
               that
               be
               pure
               ,
               with
               so
               much
               greater
               ease
            
             
               You
               will
               engage
               ,
               and
               vanquish
               the
               Disease
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               venome
               ,
               where
               black
               Choler
               choaks
               the
               Veins
               ,
            
             
               Takes
               firmer
               hold
               ,
               and
               will
               exact
               more
               Pains
            
             
             
               More
               violent
               Assaults
               you
               there
               must
               make
               ,
            
             
               And
               on
               the
               batter'd
               Frame
               no
               pity
               take
               .
            
             
               Who
               e'er
               can
               soon
               discern
               the
               lurking
               Grief
               ,
            
             
               With
               far
               less
               labour
               may
               expect
               Relief
               ;
            
             
               But
               when
               the
               Foe
               has
               deeper
               inroads
               made
               ,
            
             
               And
               gain'd
               the
               factious
               humours
               to
               his
               Aid
               ,
            
             
               What
               Toil
               ,
               what
               Conflicts
               must
               be
               first
               sustain'd
            
             
               Before
               he
               's
               dispossest
               ,
               and
               Health
               regain'd
               ;
            
             
               Therefore
               with
               Care
               his
               first
               approaches
               find
               ,
            
             
               And
               hoard
               these
               usefull
               Precepts
               in
               thy
               Mind
               .
            
             
               From
               noxious
               Winds
               preserve
               your self
               with
               care
               ,
            
             
               And
               such
               are
               all
               that
               from
               the
               South
               repair
            
             
               Of
               Fens
               and
               Lakes
               ,
               avoid
               th'unwholsome
               Air.
            
             
               To
               open
               fields
               and
               sunny
               Mountains
               fly
            
             
               Where
               Zephyr
               fans
               ,
               and
               Boreas
               sweeps
               the
               Sky
               :
            
             
               Nor
               must
               you
               there
               indulge
               Repose
               ,
               but
               stray
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               continu'd
               actions
               spend
               the
               Day
               ;
            
             
             
               With
               ev'ry
               Beast
               of
               Prey
               loud
               Warproclaim
               ,
            
             
               And
               make
               the
               grizly
               Boar
               your
               constant
               Game
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               yet
               amongst
               these
               great
               Attempts
               disdain
               ,
            
             
               To
               rouse
               the
               Stag
               ,
               and
               force
               him
               to
               the
               Plain
               .
            
             
               Some
               I
               have
               known
               to
               th'Chase
               so
               much
               inclin'd
               ,
            
             
               That
               in
               the
               Woods
               they
               left
               their
               Grief
               behind
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               yet
               think
               fcorn
               the
               sordid
               Plow
               to
               guide
               ,
            
             
               Or
               with
               the
               pondrous
               Rake
               the
               Clods
               divide
               ,
            
             
               With
               heavy
               Ax
               ,
               and
               many
               weary
               blow
               ,
            
             
               The
               towring
               Pine
               ,
               and
               spreading
               Oak
               o'erthrow
               ;
            
             
               The
               very
               House
               yields
               Exercise
               ,
               the
               Hall
            
             
               Has
               room
               for
               Fencing
               ,
               and
               the
               bounding
               Ball.
            
             
               Rouze
               ,
               rouze
               ,
               shake
               off
               your
               fond
               desire
               of
               Ease
               ,
            
             
               For
               Sleep
               foments
               and
               feeds
               the
               foul
               Disease
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               then
               th'Invader
               do's
               the
               Vitals
               seize
               .
            
             
               But
               chiefly
               from
               thy
               Thoughts
               all
               sorrows
               drive
               .
            
             
               Nor
               with
               
               Minerva's
               knotty
               Precepts
               strive
               ,
            
             
             
               With
               lighter
               Labours
               of
               the
               Muses
               sport
               ,
            
             
               And
               seek
               the
               Plains
               where
               Swains
               and
               Nymphs
               resort
               .
            
             
               Abstain
               however
               from
               the
               Act
               of
               Love
               ,
            
             
               For
               nothing
               can
               so
               much
               destructive
               prove
               :
            
             
               Bright
               Venus
               hates
               polluted
               Mysteries
               ,
            
             
               And
               ev'ry
               Nymph
               from
               foul
               Embraces
               flies
               .
            
             
               Dire
               practice
               !
               Poison
               with
               Delight
               to
               bring
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               the
               Lovers
               Dart
               ,
               the
               Serpent's
               sting
               .
            
             
               A
               proper
               Diet
               you
               must
               next
               prepare
               ,
            
             
               Than
               which
               there
               's
               nothing
               more
               requires
               your
               care
               ;
            
             
               All
               Food
               that
               from
               the
               Fens
               is
               brought
               resuse
               ,
            
             
               Whate'er
               the
               standing
               Lakes
               or
               Seas
               produce
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               must
               long
               Custome
               pass
               for
               an
               Excuse
               ;
            
             
               Therefore
               from
               Fish
               in
               general
               I
               dissuade
               ,
            
             
               All
               these
               are
               of
               a
               washy
               Substance
               made
               ,
            
             
               Which
               though
               the
               luscious
               Palate
               they
               content
               ,
            
             
               Convert
               to
               Humours
               more
               than
               Nourishment
               ;
            
             
             
               Ev'n
               Giltheads
               ,
               though
               most
               tempting
               to
               the
               sight
               ,
            
             
               And
               sharp-fin'd
               Perch
               that
               in
               the
               Rocks
               delight
               .
            
             
               All
               sorts
               of
               Fowl
               that
               on
               the
               Water
               prey
               ,
            
             
               By
               the
               same
               Rule
               I
               'd
               have
               remov'd
               away
               ,
            
             
               Forbear
               the
               Drake
               ,
               and
               leave
               
               Rome's
               ancient
               Friend
            
             
               The
               Capitol
               and
               City
               to
               Defend
               .
            
             
               No
               less
               the
               Bustard's
               luscious
               Flesh
               decline
               ,
            
             
               Forbear
               the
               Back
               and
               Entrails
               of
               the
               Swine
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               with
               the
               hunted
               Boar
               thy
               Hunger
               stay
               ,
            
             
               Enjoy
               the
               Sport
               ,
               but
               still
               forbear
               the
               Prey
               .
            
             
               I
               hold
               nor
               Cucumber
               nor
               Mushroms
               good
               ,
            
             
               And
               Artichoke
               is
               too
               salacious
               Food
               :
            
             
               Nor
               yet
               the
               use
               of
               Milk
               would
               I
               enjoin
               ,
            
             
               Much
               less
               of
               Vinegar
               or
               eager
               Wine
               ,
            
             
               Such
               as
               from
               Rhaetia
               comes
               ,
               and
               from
               the
               Rhine
               ;
            
             
               The
               Sabine
               Vintage
               is
               of
               safer
               Use
               ,
            
             
               Which
               mellow
               and
               Well-water'd
               fields
               produce
               :
            
             
             
               But
               if
               your
               Banquets
               with
               the
               Gods
               you
               'd
               make
            
             
               Of
               Herbs
               and
               Roots
               the
               unbought
               Dainties
               take
               ;
            
             
               Be
               fure
               that
               Mint
               and
               Endive
               still
               abound
               ,
            
             
               And
               Sowthistle
               ,
               with
               leaves
               in
               Winter
               crown'd
               .
            
             
               And
               Sian
               by
               clear
               Fountains
               always
               found
               ;
            
             
               To
               these
               add
               Calamint
               ,
               and
               Savery
            
             
               Burrage
               and
               Balm
               ,
               whose
               mingled
               sweets
               agree
               ,
            
             
               Rochet
               and
               Sorrel
               I
               as
               much
               approve
               :
            
             
               The
               climbing
               Hop
               grows
               wild
               in
               ev'ry
               Grove
               ,
            
             
               Take
               thence
               the
               infant
               Buds
               ,
               and
               with
               them
               join
            
             
               The
               curling
               Tendrells
               of
               the
               springing
               Vine
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               Armes
               have
               yet
               no
               friendly
               shade
               allow'd
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               with
               the
               weight
               of
               juicy
               Clusters
               bow'd
               .
            
             
               Particulars
               were
               endless
               to
               rehearse
               ,
            
             
               And
               weightier
               Subjects
               now
               demand
               our
               Verse
               .
            
             
               We
               'll
               draw
               the
               Muses
               from
               Aonian
               Hills
               ,
            
             
               To
               Natures
               Garden
               ,
               Groves
               and
               humble
               Rills
               ,
            
             
             
               Where
               if
               no
               Laurels
               spring
               ,
               or
               if
               I
               find
            
             
               That
               those
               are
               all
               for
               Conquerours
               design'd
               ;
            
             
               With
               Oaken
               Leaves
               at
               least
               I
               'll
               bind
               my
               Brow
               ,
            
             
               For
               millions
               sav'd
               you
               must
               that
               Grace
               allow
               .
            
             
               At
               first
               approach
               of
               Spring
               ,
               I
               would
               advise
               ,
            
             
               Or
               ev'n
               in
               Autumn
               months
               if
               strength
               suffice
               ,
            
             
               To
               bleed
               your
               Patient
               in
               the
               regal
               Vein
               ,
            
             
               And
               by
               degrees
               th'
               infected
               Current
               drein
               :
            
             
               But
               in
               all
               Seasons
               fail
               not
               to
               expell
               ,
            
             
               And
               purge
               the
               noxious
               Humours
               from
               their
               Cell
               ;
            
             
               But
               fit
               Ingredients
               you
               must
               first
               collect
               ,
            
             
               And
               then
               their
               different
               Qualities
               respect
               ,
            
             
               Make
               firm
               the
               Liquid
               and
               the
               Gross
               dissect
               .
            
             
               Take
               ,
               therefore
               ,
               care
               to
               gather
               ,
               in
               their
               prime
               ,
            
             
               The
               sweet
               Corycian
               and
               Pamphilian
               Tyme
               ,
            
             
               These
               you
               must
               boil
               ,
               together
               with
               the
               Rest
            
             
               In
               this
               ensuing
               Catalogue
               exprest
               ;
            
             
             
               Fennell
               and
               Hop
               that
               close
               Embraces
               weaves
               ,
            
             
               Parsley
               and
               Fumitory's
               bitter
               Leaves
               ;
            
             
               Wild
               Fern
               on
               ev'ry
               Down
               and
               Heath
               you
               'll
               meet
            
             
               With
               Leaves
               resembling
               
               Polypus's
               shagg'd
               feet
               ,
            
             
               And
               Mayden-hair
               ,
               of
               virtue
               strange
               ,
               but
               true
            
             
               For
               dipt
               in
               Fountains
               ,
               it
               reteins
               no
               Dew
               :
            
             
               Hart's-tongue
               and
               Citarch
               must
               be
               added
               too
               .
            
             
               The
               greater
               Part
               ,
               and
               with
               success
               more
               sure
               ,
            
             
               By
               Mercury
               perform
               the
               happy
               Cure
               ;
            
             
               A
               wondrous
               virtue
               in
               that
               Mineral
               lies
               ,
            
             
               Whether
               by
               force
               of
               various
               Qualities
            
             
               Of
               Cold
               and
               Heat
               ,
               it
               flies
               into
               the
               Veins
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               a
               fiercer
               Fire
               their
               Flame
               restrains
               ,
            
             
               Conqu'ring
               the
               raging
               Humours
               in
               their
               Seat
               ,
            
             
               As
               glowing
               Steel
               exceeds
               the
               Forge's
               heat
               ,
            
             
               Or
               whether
               his
               keen
               Particles
               (
               combin'd
            
             
               With
               strange
               connexion
               )
               when
               th'
               are
               once
               disjoin'd
               ,
            
             
             
               Disperse
               ,
               all
               Quarters
               of
               the
               Foe
               to
               seize
               ,
            
             
               And
               burn
               the
               very
               Seeds
               of
               the
               Disease
               ;
            
             
               Or
               whether
               't
               is
               with
               some
               more
               hidden
               force
            
             
               Endow'd
               by
               Nature
               to
               perform
               its
               Course
               ,
            
             
               Is
               hard
               to
               say
               ,
               but
               though
               the
               Gods
               conceal
            
             
               The
               virtual
               Cause
               ,
               they
               did
               its
               use
               reveal
               .
            
             
               Now
               by
               what
               means
               't
               was
               found
               our
               Song
               shall
               shew
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               may
               we
               let
               Heav'ns
               Gifts
               in
               Silence
               go
               .
            
             
               In
               Syrian
               Vales
               where
               Groves
               of
               Osier
               grow
               ,
            
             
               And
               where
               Callirrhoe's
               sacred
               Fountains
               flow
               .
            
             
               Ilceus
               the
               Huntsman
               ,
               who
               with
               Zeal
               ador'd
            
             
               The
               rural
               Gods
               ,
               with
               Gifts
               their
               Altars
               stor'd
               ;
            
             
               Was
               yet
               afflicted
               with
               this
               restless
               Grief
               ,
            
             
               And
               ,
               if
               Tradition
               may
               obtain
               belief
               ,
            
             
               As
               he
               was
               watering
               there
               each
               spicy
               Bed
               ,
            
             
               Thus
               to
               entreat
               the
               Sylvan
               Pow'rs
               ,
               is
               said
               .
            
             
               You
               Deities
               by
               me
               ador'd
               ,
               and
               Thou
               ,
            
             
               Callirrhoe
               ,
               who
               do'st
               Relief
               allow
            
             
             
               'Gainst
               all
               Diseases
               ,
               as
               I
               slew
               for
               .
               Thee
            
             
               The
               Stag
               ,
               and
               fix'd
               his
               Head
               upon
               a
               Tree
               ;
            
             
               A
               Tree
               that
               do's
               with
               lesser
               Branches
               spread
               ,
            
             
               Than
               those
               that
               join
               to
               that
               most
               horrid
               Head
               :
            
             
               You
               sacred
               Pow'rs
               if
               you
               'll
               remove
               away
            
             
               This
               plague
               that
               Racks
               my
               Frame
               all
               Night
               and
               Day
               ,
            
             
               I
               ,
               all
               the
               mingled
               glories
               of
               the
               Spring
               ,
            
             
               Lilies
               and
               Violets
               to
               your
               Seats
               will
               bring
               ,
            
             
               With
               Daffadills
               first
               budding
               Roses
               weave
               ,
            
             
               And
               on
               your
               Shrines
               the
               fragrant
               Garland
               leave
               .
            
             
               He
               said
               ,
               and
               down
               upon
               the
               Herbage
               lay
               ,
            
             
               Tir'd
               with
               the
               raging
               Pain
               ,
               and
               raging
               Day
               .
            
             
               Callirrhoe
               (
               bathing
               in
               the
               neighbouring
               Well
               ,
            
             
               With
               Musk
               that
               grew
               in
               Plenty
               round
               the
               Cell
               )
            
             
               Heard
               the
               Youth's
               pray'r
               and
               streight
               in
               soft
               repose
               ,
            
             
               Th'indulgent
               Nymph
               his
               heavy
               Eyes
               did
               close
               ,
            
             
               Then
               to
               his
               Fancy
               ,
               from
               her
               sacred
               Streams
               ,
            
             
               Appear'd
               and
               charm'd
               him
               with
               prophetick
               Dreams
               .
            
             
             
               Ilceus
               (
               said
               she
               )
               my
               Servant
               ,
               and
               my
               Care
               ,
            
             
               The
               Gods
               at
               last
               have
               hearken'd
               to
               thy
               Pray'r
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               ,
               on
               the
               Earth
               ,
               as
               far
               as
               Sol
               can
               spy
               ,
            
             
               For
               thy
               Disease
               remains
               no
               Remedy
               .
            
             
               Cynthia
               and
               Phoebus
               too
               at
               her
               Request
               ,
            
             
               Into
               thy
               tortur'd
               Veins
               have
               sent
               this
               Pest
               ,
            
             
               The
               Stag
               to
               her
               was
               sacred
               which
               you
               slew
               ,
            
             
               And
               this
               the
               Punishment
               that
               did
               ensue
               ,
            
             
               For
               which
               the
               Earth
               ,
               as
               far
               as
               Sol
               can
               see
               ,
            
             
               The
               spacious
               Earth
               ,
               affords
               no
               Remedy
               :
            
             
               Then
               since
               her
               Surface
               no
               relief
               canlend
               ,
            
             
               To
               her
               dark
               Entrails
               for
               thy
               Cure
               descend
               ;
            
             
               A
               Cave
               there
               is
               its
               self
               an
               awfull
               shade
               ,
            
             
               But
               by
               
               Jove's
               spreading
               Tree
               more
               dreadfull
               made
               ,
            
             
               Where
               mingling
               Cedars
               wanton
               with
               the
               Air
               ,
            
             
               Thither
               at
               first
               approach
               of
               Day
               repair
               ;
            
             
               A
               jet-black
               Ram
               before
               the
               Entrance
               slay
               ,
            
             
               And
               cry
               ,
               these
               Rites
               great
               Ops
               to
               Thee
               I
               pay
               .
            
             
             
               The
               lesser
               Pow'rs
               ,
               pale
               Ghosts
               and
               Nymphs
               of
               Night
               ,
            
             
               The
               Smoak
               of
               Yew
               and
               Cypress
               shall
               invite
               ;
            
             
               These
               Nymphs
               shall
               at
               the
               outmost
               Entrance
               stay
               ,
            
             
               And
               through
               the
               dark
               Retreats
               conduct
               thy
               way
               .
            
             
               Rise
               ,
               rise
               ,
               nor
               think
               all
               this
               an
               idle
               Dream
               ,
            
             
               For
               know
               I
               am
               the
               Goddess
               of
               this
               Stream
               .
            
             
               This
               for
               thy
               pious
               Homage
               to
               my
               Cell
               —
            
             
               So
               spake
               the
               Nymph
               ,
               and
               div'd
               into
               the
               Well
               .
            
             
               The
               Youth
               starts
               up
               astonish'd
               ,
               but
               restor'd
               ,
            
             
               With
               gratefull
               pray'rs
               th'obliging
               Nymph
               ador'd
               :
            
             
               Thy
               Voice
               ,
               bright
               Goddess
               ,
               I
               'll
               with
               speed
               Obey
               ,
            
             
               O
               still
               assist
               and
               bless
               me
               on
               my
               Way
               .
            
             
               With
               the
               next
               Dawn
               the
               sacred
               Cave
               he
               found
               ,
            
             
               With
               spreading
               Oaks
               and
               towring
               Cedars
               crown'd
               ;
            
             
               A
               jet-black
               Ram
               did
               at
               the
               Entrance
               slay
               ,
            
             
               And
               cry'd
               these
               Rites
               ,
               great
               Ops
               ,
               to
               thee
               I
               pay
               :
            
             
             
               The
               lesser
               Pow'rs
               ,
               pale
               Ghosts
               and
               Nymphs
               of
               Night
               ,
            
             
               The
               Smoak
               of
               Yew
               and
               Cypress
               did
               invite
               .
            
             
               His
               Voice
               resounding
               through
               the
               hollow
               Seats
               ,
            
             
               Disturb'd
               the
               Nymphs
               within
               their
               deep
               Retreats
               .
            
             
               Those
               Nymphs
               that
               toil
               in
               Metals
               underground
               ,
            
             
               Gave
               o'er
               their
               Work
               at
               th'
               unexpected
               Sound
               ;
            
             
               Some
               Quicksilver
               and
               Sulphur
               others
               brought
               ,
            
             
               From
               which
               calcin'd
               ,
               the
               golden
               Oar
               was
               wrought
               ;
            
             
               Of
               pure
               AEtherial
               Light
               a
               hundred
               beams
               ,
            
             
               Of
               Subterranean
               fire
               a
               hundred
               Streams
               ,
            
             
               With
               various
               seeds
               of
               Earth
               and
               Sea
               they
               joyn'd
               ,
            
             
               For
               humane
               Eyes
               too
               subtle
               and
               refin'd
               .
            
             
               But
               Lipare
               who
               forms
               the
               richer
               Oar
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               the
               Furnace
               brings
               the
               Sulph'rous
               store
               ,
            
             
               To
               Ilceus
               through
               the
               dark
               Recesses
               broke
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               these
               words
               the
               trembling
               Youth
               bespoke
               .
            
             
             
               Ilceus
               (
               for
               I
               have
               heard
               your
               Name
               and
               Grief
               )
            
             
               Callirrhoe
               sends
               you
               hither
               for
               relief
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               has
               the
               Goddess
               counsell'd
               you
               in
               vain
               ,
            
             
               These
               Cells
               afford
               a
               Med'cine
               for
               your
               Pain
               ;
            
             
               Take
               courage
               therefore
               ,
               and
               the
               Charge
               obey
               ,
            
             
               She
               said
               ,
               and
               through
               the
               Cavern
               leads
               the
               way
            
             
               He
               follows
               wondring
               at
               the
               dark
               aboads
               ,
            
             
               The
               spacious
               Voids
               and
               Subterranean
               Roads
               ;
            
             
               Astonisht
               there
               to
               see
               those
               Rivers
               move
               ,
            
             
               Which
               he
               observ'd
               to
               lose
               themselves
               above
               :
            
             
               Each
               Cave
               ,
               cry'd
               Lipare
               ,
               some
               Pow'r
               contains
               ,
            
             
               I'
               th
               lowest
               Mansion
               Proserpine
               remains
               ;
            
             
               The
               middle
               Regions
               
               Pluto's
               Treasure
               hold
               ,
            
             
               And
               Nymphs
               that
               work
               in
               Silver
               ,
               Brass
               and
               Gold
               ,
            
             
               Of
               which
               rich
               Train
               am
               I
               ,
               whose
               Veins
               extend
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               
               Callirrhoe's
               Stream
               the
               smoaking
               Sulphur
               send
               .
            
             
             
               Thus
               through
               the
               Realms
               of
               Night
               they
               took
               their
               way
               ,
            
             
               And
               heard
               from
               far
               the
               Forge
               and
               Furnace
               play
               .
            
             
               These
               (
               said
               the
               Nymph
               )
               the
               Beds
               of
               Metals
               are
               ,
            
             
               That
               give
               you
               wretched
               Mortals
               so
               much
               Care.
            
             
               By
               thousand
               Nymphs
               of
               Earth
               and
               Night
               enjoy'd
               ,
            
             
               Who
               yet
               in
               various
               Tasks
               are
               all
               employ'd
               .
            
             
               Some
               turn
               the
               Current
               ,
               some
               the
               Seeds
               dissect
            
             
               Of
               Earth
               and
               Sea
               ,
               which
               some
               again
               collect
               ,
            
             
               That
               ,
               mixt
               with
               Lightning
               ,
               make
               the
               golden
               Oar
               ,
            
             
               While
               others
               quench
               in
               Streams
               the
               shining
               store
               .
            
             
               Not
               far
               from
               hence
               the
               Cyclop's
               Cave
               is
               found
               ,
            
             
               See
               how
               it
               glows
               ,
               hark
               how
               their
               Anvils
               sound
               .
            
             
               But
               here
               turn
               off
               ,
               and
               take
               the
               right-hand
               way
               ,
            
             
               This
               Path
               do's
               to
               that
               sacred
               Stream
               convey
               ,
            
             
               In
               which
               thy
               onely
               Hope
               remains
               :
               She
               said
               ,
            
             
               And
               under
               golden
               Roofs
               her
               Patient
               led
               ,
            
             
             
               Hard
               by
               ,
               the
               Lakes
               of
               liquid
               Silver
               slow'd
               ,
            
             
               Which
               to
               the
               wondring
               Youth
               the
               Goddess
               show'd
               ;
            
             
               Thrice
               washt
               in
               these
               (
               said
               she
               )
               thy
               Pains
               shall
               end
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               the
               Stench
               into
               the
               Stream
               descend
               .
            
             
               Thrice
               with
               her
               Virgin
               hands
               the
               Goddess
               threw
            
             
               On
               all
               his
               suffering
               Limbs
               the
               healing
               Dew
               :
            
             
               He
               ,
               at
               the
               falling
               Filth
               admiring
               stood
               ,
            
             
               And
               scarce
               believ'd
               for
               joy
               ,
               the
               virtue
               of
               the
               Flood
               .
            
             
               When
               therefore
               you
               return
               to
               open
               Day
               ,
            
             
               With
               Sacrifice
               
               Diana's
               Rage
               allay
               ,
            
             
               And
               Homage
               to
               the
               Fountain's
               Goddess
               pay
               .
            
             
               Thus
               spake
               the
               Nymph
               ,
               and
               through
               the
               Realms
               of
               Night
               ,
            
             
               Restor'd
               the
               gratefull
               Youth
               to
               open
               Light.
            
             
               This
               strange
               Invention
               soon
               obtain'd
               belief
               ,
            
             
               And
               flying
               Fame
               divulg'd
               the
               sure
               Relief
               .
            
             
               But
               first
               Experiments
               did
               onely
               joyn
               ,
            
             
               And
               for
               a
               Vehicle
               use
               lard
               of
               Swine
               :
            
             
             
               Larch-gum
               and
               Turpentine
               were
               added
               next
               ,
            
             
               That
               wrought
               more
               safe
               and
               less
               the
               Patient
               vext
               ;
            
             
               Horse-grease
               and
               Bears
               with
               them
               they
               did
               compound
               ,
            
             
               Bdellium
               and
               Gum
               of
               Cedar
               usefull
               found
               ;
            
             
               Then
               Myrrh
               ,
               and
               Frankincense
               were
               us'd
               by
               some
               ,
            
             
               With
               living
               Sulphur
               and
               Arabian
               Gum
               ;
            
             
               But
               if
               black
               Helebore
               be
               added
               too
               ,
            
             
               With
               Rain-bow
               Flowers
               your
               Method
               I
               allow
               ;
            
             
               Benzoin
               and
               Galbanum
               I
               next
               require
               ,
            
             
               Lint-Oil
               ,
               and
               Sulphur's
               e'er
               it
               feels
               the
               Fire
               .
            
             
               With
               these
               Ingredients
               mix'd
               ,
               you
               must
               not
               fear
            
             
               Your
               suffering
               Limbs
               and
               Body
               to
               besmear
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               let
               the
               foulness
               of
               the
               Course
               displease
               ,
            
             
               Obscene
               indeed
               ,
               but
               less
               than
               your
               Disease
               :
            
             
               Yet
               when
               you
               do
               anoint
               ,
               take
               special
               care
            
             
               That
               both
               your
               Head
               and
               tender
               Breast
               you
               spare
            
             
               This
               done
               ,
               wrapt
               close
               and
               swath'd
               ,
               repair
               to
               Bed
               ,
            
             
               And
               there
               let
               such
               thick
               Cov'rings
               be
               o'e-rspred
               ,
            
             
             
               Till
               streams
               of
               Sweat
               from
               ev'ry
               pore
               you
               force
               :
            
             
               For
               twice
               five
               Days
               you
               must
               repeat
               this
               Course
               ;
            
             
               Severe
               indeed
               but
               you
               your
               Fate
               must
               bear
               ,
            
             
               And
               signs
               of
               coming
               Health
               will
               streight
               appear
               .
            
             
               The
               Mass
               of
               Humours
               now
               dissolv'd
               within
               ,
            
             
               To
               purge
               themselves
               by
               Spittle
               shall
               begin
               ,
            
             
               Till
               you
               with
               wonder
               at
               your
               feet
               shall
               see
               ,
            
             
               A
               tide
               of
               Filth
               ,
               and
               bless
               the
               Remedy
               .
            
             
               For
               Ulcers
               that
               shall
               then
               the
               Mouth
               offend
               ,
            
             
               Boil
               Flowers
               that
               Privet
               and
               Pomgranets
               send
               .
            
             
               Now
               ,
               onely
               now
               ,
               I
               would
               forbid
               the
               Use
            
             
               Of
               generous
               Wine
               that
               noble
               Soils
               produce
               ;
            
             
               All
               sorts
               without
               distinction
               you
               must
               fly
               ,
            
             
               The
               sparkling
               Bowl
               with
               all
               its
               Charms
               deny
               .
            
             
               Rise
               ,
               now
               victorious
               ,
               Health
               is
               now
               at
               hand
               ,
            
             
               One
               labour
               more
               is
               all
               I
               shall
               command
               ,
            
             
             
               Easie
               and
               pleasant
               ;
               you
               must
               last
               prepare
            
             
               Your
               Bath
               ,
               with
               Rosemary
               and
               Lavander
               ,
            
             
               Vervain
               and
               Yarrow
               too
               must
               both
               be
               there
               ;
            
             
               'Mongst
               these
               your
               steeping
               Body
               you
               must
               lay
               ,
            
             
               To
               chear
               you
               ,
               and
               to
               wash
               all
               Dreggs
               away
               .
            
             
               But
               now
               the
               verdant
               Blessings
               that
               belong
            
             
               To
               new
               discover'd
               Worlds
               demand
               our
               Song
               .
            
             
               Beyond
               Herculean
               bounds
               the
               Ocean
               roars
            
             
               With
               loud
               applause
               to
               those
               far
               distant
               Shoars
               .
            
             
               The
               sacred
               Tree
               must
               next
               our
               Muse
               employ
               ,
            
             
               That
               onely
               could
               this
               raging
               Plague
               destroy
               ;
            
             
               Just
               Praise
               
                 (
                 Urania
              
               )
               to
               this
               Plant
               allow
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               its
               happy
               Leaves
               upon
               thy
               Brow
               ,
            
             
               Through
               all
               our
               Latian
               Cities
               take
               thy
               way
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               admiring
               Croud
               the
               healing
               Boughs
               display
               ;
            
             
               E'en
               I
               may
               self
               shall
               prize
               my
               Streins
               the
               more
               ,
            
             
               For
               Blessings
               never
               Seen
               nor
               Sung
               before
               .
            
             
             
               Perhaps
               some
               more
               exalted
               Poet
               (
               warm'd
               ,
            
             
               For
               Martial
               Streins
               )
               with
               this
               new
               subject
               Charm'd
            
             
               Shall
               quit
               the
               noble
               business
               of
               the
               Field
               ,
            
             
               Bequeath
               to
               Rust
               the
               Sword
               and
               polisht
               Shield
               ,
            
             
               Leave
               wrangling
               Heroes
               that
               o'ercome
               or
               Dye
               ,
            
             
               Both
               shrouded
               in
               the
               same
               obscurity
               ;
            
             
               Pass
               o'er
               the
               harast
               Soil
               and
               bloudy
               Stream
               ,
            
             
               To
               prosecute
               this
               more
               delightfull
               Theme
               ;
            
             
               To
               tell
               how
               first
               auspicious
               Navies
               made
            
             
               More
               bold
               attempts
               ,
               and
               th'
               Ocean's
               bounds
               essay'd
               ;
            
             
               To
               sing
               vast
               Tracts
               of
               Land
               beyond
               the
               Main
               ,
            
             
               By
               former
               Ages
               guess'd
               ,
               and
               wisht
               in
               Vain
               ,
            
             
               Strange
               Regions
               ,
               Floods
               and
               Cities
               to
               rehearse
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               true
               Prodigies
               adorn
               their
               Verse
               ;
            
             
               New
               Lands
               ,
               new
               Seas
               ,
               and
               still
               new
               Lands
               to
               spy
               ,
            
             
               Another
               Heaven
               ,
               and
               other
               Stars
               descry
               .
            
             
               When
               this
               is
               done
               resume
               their
               Martial
               Strein
               ,
            
             
               And
               crown
               our
               Conquests
               in
               each
               savage
               Plain
               ,
            
             
             
               That
               ev'n
               from
               Vanquishment
               advantage
               draws
               ,
            
             
               Enrich'd
               with
               European
               Arts
               and
               Laws
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               sing
               (
               what
               future
               Ages
               will
               confound
               )
            
             
               How
               Earth
               and
               Sea
               one
               Vessel
               did
               Surround
               .
            
             
               Thrice
               happy
               to
               Bard
               whom
               indulgent
               Heav'n
               ,
            
             
               A
               Soul
               capacious
               of
               this
               Work
               has
               giv'n
               .
            
             
               My
               weaker
               Muse
               shall
               think
               her
               Office
               done
               ,
            
             
               Of
               all
               these
               wonders
               to
               record
               but
               one
               :
            
             
               One
               single
               Plant
               which
               these
               glad
               Lands
               produce
            
             
               To
               specifie
               and
               shew
               it's
               sov'reign
               Use
               ,
            
             
               By
               what
               adventures
               found
               ,
               and
               wasted
               o'er
            
             
               From
               unknown
               Worlds
               to
               
               Europe's
               wondring
               shore
               .
            
             
               Far
               Westward
               hence
               where
               th'
               Ocean
               seems
               to
               boil
            
             
               Beneath
               fierce
               Cancer
               ,
               lies
               a
               spacious
               Isle
               ,
            
             
               Descry'd
               by
               Spaniards
               roving
               on
               the
               Main
               ,
            
             
               And
               justly
               honour'd
               with
               the
               Name
               of
               Spain
               .
            
             
               Fertile
               in
               Gold
               but
               far
               more
               blest
               to
               be
               ,
            
             
               The
               Garden
               of
               this
               consecrated
               Tree
               :
            
             
             
               Its
               Trunk
               erect
               ,
               but
               on
               his
               Top
               is
               seen
               ,
            
             
               A
               spreading
               Grove
               with
               Branches
               ever
               Green
               ;
            
             
               Upon
               his
               Boughs
               a
               little
               Nut
               is
               found
               ,
            
             
               But
               poignant
               and
               with
               Leaves
               encompass'd
               round
               ;
            
             
               The
               stubborn
               Substance
               toothless
               makes
               the
               Saw
               ,
            
             
               And
               scarcely
               from
               the
               Axe
               receives
               a
               flaw
               ;
            
             
               Dissected
               ,
               various
               Colours
               meet
               your
               view
               ,
            
             
               The
               outward
               Bark
               is
               of
               the
               Laurel
               hue
               ;
            
             
               The
               next
               like
               Box
               ,
               the
               parts
               more
               inwards
               set
               ,
            
             
               Of
               dusky
               grain
               but
               not
               so
               dark
               as
               Jet
               ;
            
             
               If
               to
               these
               mixtures
               you
               will
               add
               the
               Red
               ,
            
             
               All
               colours
               of
               the
               gaudy
               Bow
               are
               spread
               .
            
             
               This
               Plant
               the
               Natives
               conscious
               of
               its
               use
            
             
               Adore
               ,
               and
               with
               religious
               Care
               produce
               ;
            
             
               On
               ev'ry
               Hill
               ,
               in
               ev'ry
               Vale
               't
               is
               found
               ,
            
             
               And
               held
               the
               greatest
               Blessing
               of
               the
               ground
            
             
               Against
               this
               Pest
               that
               always
               Rages
               there
               ,
            
             
               From
               Skies
               infected
               and
               polluted
               Air
               :
            
             
             
               The
               outward
               Bark
               as
               useless
               they
               refuse
               ,
            
             
               But
               with
               their
               utmost
               force
               the
               Timber
               bruise
               ,
            
             
               Or
               break
               in
               Splinters
               ,
               which
               they
               steep
               a
               while
            
             
               In
               fountains
               ,
               and
               when
               soak'd
               ,
               in
               Vessels
               boil
               ,
            
             
               Regardless
               how
               too
               fierce
               a
               fire
               may
               make
            
             
               The
               juice
               run
               o'er
               ,
               whose
               healing
               Froth
               they
               take
               ,
            
             
               With
               which
               they
               Bath
               their
               Limbs
               where
               Pustles
               breed
               ,
            
             
               And
               heal
               the
               Breaches
               where
               dire
               Ulcers
               feed
               .
            
             
               Half
               boil'd
               away
               the
               Remnant
               they
               retain
               ,
            
             
               And
               adding
               Hony
               boil
               the
               Chips
               again
               :
            
             
               To
               use
               no
               other
               Liquor
               when
               they
               Dine
               ,
            
             
               Their
               Countries
               Law
               ,
               and
               greater
               Priest
               enjoyn
               :
            
             
               The
               first
               Decoction
               with
               the
               rising
               Light
            
             
               They
               drink
               ,
               and
               once
               again
               at
               fall
               of
               Night
               ;
            
             
               This
               course
               they
               strictly
               hold
               when
               once
               begun
               ,
            
             
               Till
               Cynthia
               has
               her
               monthly
               Progress
               run
               ,
            
             
               Hous'd
               all
               the
               while
               where
               no
               offensive
               Wind
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               the
               least
               breath
               of
               Air
               can
               entrance
               find
               .
            
             
             
               But
               who
               will
               yield
               us
               credit
               to
               proceed
               ,
            
             
               And
               tell
               how
               wondrous
               slenderly
               they
               Feed
               ;
            
             
               Just
               so
               much
               Food
               as
               can
               bare
               Life
               preserve
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               its
               joint
               connect
               each
               seeble
               Nerve
               :
            
             
               Yet
               let
               not
               this
               strange
               Abstinence
               deter
               ,
            
             
               And
               make
               you
               think
               the
               Method
               too
               severe
               .
            
             
               This
               Drink
               it self
               will
               wasted
               Strength
               repair
               ,
            
             
               For
               Nectar
               and
               Ambrosia
               too
               are
               there
               ;
            
             
               All
               offices
               of
               Nature
               it
               maintains
               ,
            
             
               The
               Heart
               refreshes
               ,
               and
               recruits
               the
               Veins
               .
            
             
               When
               the
               Draught's
               tane
               ,
               for
               two
               hours
               and
               no
               more
            
             
               The
               Patient
               on
               his
               Couch
               is
               cover'd
               o'er
               ;
            
             
               For
               by
               this
               means
               the
               Liquor
               with
               more
               ease
               ,
            
             
               Expells
               in
               streams
               of
               Sweat
               the
               foul
               Disease
               .
            
             
               All
               Parts
               (
               O
               prodigy
               !
               )
               grow
               found
               within
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               any
               Filth
               remains
               upon
               the
               Skin
               ;
            
             
               Fresh
               youth
               in
               ev'ry
               Limb
               ,
               fresh
               vigour's
               found
               ,
            
             
               And
               now
               the
               Moon
               has
               run
               her
               monthly
               Round
               .
            
             
             
               What
               God
               did
               first
               the
               wondrous
               use
               display
               ,
            
             
               Of
               this
               blest
               Plant
               ,
               what
               chance
               did
               first
               convey
            
             
               Our
               European
               Fleet
               to
               that
               rich
               shore
               ,
            
             
               That
               for
               their
               Toil
               so
               rich
               a
               Traffique
               bore
               ,
            
             
               Our
               Song
               shall
               now
               unfold
               ;
               a
               Navy
               bound
            
             
               For
               no
               known
               Port
               nor
               yet
               discover'd
               Ground
               ,
            
             
               Resolv'd
               the
               secrets
               of
               the
               Main
               to
               find
               ,
            
             
               And
               now
               they
               leave
               their
               Native
               shore
               behind
               ,
            
             
               Clap
               on
               more
               Sail
               and
               skudd
               before
               the
               Wind.
            
             
               Thus
               on
               the
               spreading
               Ocean
               they
               did
               stray
               ,
            
             
               For
               many
               Weeks
               uncertain
               of
               their
               way
               :
            
             
               The
               thronging
               Sea-Nymphs
               wondring
               at
               the
               Pride
               ,
            
             
               Of
               each
               tall
               Ship
               appear
               above
               the
               Tide
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               proportion'd
               speed
               around
               them
               glide
               ,
            
             
               Charm'd
               with
               each
               painted
               Stern
               and
               golden
               Prow
               ,
            
             
               With
               each
               gay
               Streamer
               ,
               striving
               as
               they
               go
            
             
               To
               catch
               their
               Pictures
               in
               the
               Flood
               below
               .
            
             
             
               'T
               was
               night
               ,
               but
               Cynthia
               did
               such
               beams
               display
               .
            
             
               So
               strong
               as
               more
               than
               half
               restor'd
               the
               Day
               .
            
             
               When
               the
               bold
               Leader
               of
               this
               roving
               Train
               ,
            
             
               (
               The
               bravest
               Youth
               that
               ever
               stemm'd
               the
               Main
               ;
               )
            
             
               As
               on
               the
               Decks
               he
               lay
               with
               anxious
               care
               ,
            
             
               And
               watchfull
               o'er
               his
               charge
               ,
               conceiv'd
               this
               Pray'r
               ;
            
             
               Bright
               Goddess
               of
               the
               night
               (
               said
               he
               )
               whose
               sway
               ,
            
             
               All
               humid
               Things
               and
               these
               vast
               Seas
               obey
               ;
            
             
               Twice
               have
               we
               seen
               thy
               infant
               Crescents
               spring
               ,
            
             
               And
               twice
               united
               in
               a
               glorious
               Ring
               ,
            
             
               Since
               first
               this
               Fleet
               commenc'd
               her
               restless
               toil
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               yet
               have
               gain'd
               the
               Sight
               of
               any
               Soil
               .
            
             
               O
               Virgin
               Star
               ,
               of
               nightly
               Planets
               chief
               ,
            
             
               Vouchsafe
               your
               weary
               Wanderers
               relief
               ;
            
             
               Let
               some
               fair
               Continent
               at
               last
               arise
               ,
            
             
               Or
               some
               less
               distant
               Isle
               salute
               our
               Eyes
               ;
            
             
               At
               least
               some
               Rock
               with
               one
               small
               Rill
               and
               Port
               ,
            
             
               For
               these
               o'er-labour'd
               Boats
               and
               Youths
               support
               .
            
             
             
               The
               Goddess
               heard
               not
               this
               Address
               in
               Vain
               ,
            
             
               But
               leaves
               to
               her
               nocturnal
               Steeds
               the
               Rein
               ,
            
             
               And
               like
               a
               Sea-Nymph
               floats
               upon
               the
               Main
               :
            
             
               So
               well
               disguis'd
               That
               
               Clotho's
               self
               might
               be
            
             
               Deceiv'd
               ,
               and
               take
               her
               for
               Cymothoe
               ;
            
             
               With
               such
               a
               meen
               she
               cut
               the
               yielding
               Tide
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               these
               words
               bespoke
               the
               wandring
               Guide
               ;
            
             
               Take
               courage
               ,
               for
               the
               next
               approaching
               Day
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               see
               these
               Ships
               safe
               riding
               in
               the
               Bay
               ;
            
             
               But
               stay
               not
               long
               where
               first
               your
               Anchors
               fall
               ,
            
             
               The
               Fates
               to
               yet
               more
               distant
               Regions
               call
               ;
            
             
               Find
               Ophyre
               high-seated
               in
               the
               Main
               ;
            
             
               Those
               Seats
               for
               you
               the
               Destinies
               ordain
               .
            
             
               She
               said
               ,
               and
               pusht
               the
               Keel
               ;
               a
               brisker
               Gale
            
             
               Forthwith
               descends
               and
               pregnates
               ev'ry
               Sail
               :
            
             
               Now
               from
               the
               East
               the
               Sun
               invites
               their
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               As
               fast
               they
               westward
               see
               the
               Mountains
               rise
            
             
             
               Like
               clouds
               at
               first
               ,
               but
               as
               they
               nearer
               drew
               ,
            
             
               Rocks
               ,
               Groves
               and
               Springs
               were
               open'd
               to
               their
               View
               ;
            
             
               High
               on
               the
               Decks
               the
               joyfull
               Sailers
               stand
               ,
            
             
               And
               thrice
               with
               Shouts
               salute
               th'
               expected
               Land.
            
             
               Then
               safely
               Anchor'd
               in
               the
               promis'd
               Bay
               ,
            
             
               First
               to
               the
               Gods
               their
               just
               Devotion
               pay
               .
            
             
               Four
               days
               ,
               no
               more
               ,
               are
               spent
               upon
               this
               Soil
               ,
            
             
               To
               fit
               their
               shatter'd
               Ships
               for
               farther
               Toil
               ,
            
             
               Each
               hand
               once
               more
               is
               to
               his
               Charge
               assign'd
               ,
            
             
               All
               take
               advantage
               of
               the
               friendly
               Wind
               ;
            
             
               A
               swift
               and
               steddy
               course
               they
               now
               maintain
               ,
            
             
               And
               leave
               Anthylia
               floating
               on
               the
               Main
               :
            
             
               With
               
               Hagia's
               coast
               ,
               and
               tall
               
               Ammeria's
               Isle
               ,
            
             
               The
               Cannibals
               most
               execrable
               Soil
               ,
            
             
               O'er
               all
               the
               Deep
               they
               now
               see
               Turrets
               rise
               ,
            
             
               And
               Islands
               without
               number
               meet
               their
               Eyes
               ;
            
             
             
               'Mongst
               these
               they
               singled
               one
               from
               whence
               they
               hear'd
            
             
               Streams
               fall
               ,
               while
               spreading
               Groves
               aloft
               appear'd
               ,
            
             
               Charm'd
               with
               these
               Objects
               there
               they
               put
               to
               shore
               ,
            
             
               Where
               first
               the
               Islands
               Genius
               they
               adore
               ,
            
             
               Then
               spread
               their
               Banquet
               on
               the
               verdant
               ground
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               Bowls
               of
               sparkling
               Wine
               go
               nimbly
               round
               ;
            
             
               Refresht
               ,
               they
               separate
               ,
               someto
               descry
            
             
               The
               country
               ,
               others
               more
               o'er-joy'd
               to
               spye
            
             
               Beneath
               the
               Flood
               pure
               Gold
               lye
               mixt
               with
               Sand
               ,
            
             
               And
               seize
               the
               shining
               Oar
               with
               greedy
               hand
               .
            
             
               At
               length
               a
               Flock
               of
               painted
               Birds
               they
               view
               ,
            
             
               With
               azure
               Plumes
               and
               Beaks
               of
               Coral-hue
               ,
            
             
               Which
               fearless
               through
               the
               Glades
               did
               seem
               to
               rove
               ,
            
             
               And
               percht
               securely
               in
               their
               native
               Grove
               ;
            
             
               The
               Youths
               to
               temper'd
               Engins
               have
               recourse
            
             
               That
               imitate
               the
               Thunders
               dreadfull
               Force
               ,
            
             
             
               
               Vulcan's
               invention
               while
               with
               wondrous
               Art
               ,
            
             
               He
               did
               to
               Men
               the
               Arms
               of
               Jove
               impart
               ;
            
             
               Each
               takes
               his
               Stand
               and
               singles
               out
               his
               Mark
               ,
            
             
               The
               dire
               Ingredients
               with
               a
               sudden
               Spark
            
             
               Enflam'd
               ,
               discharge
               with
               rage
               the
               whizzing
               Ball
               ,
            
             
               The
               unsuspecting
               Birds
               by
               hundreds
               fall
               ;
            
             
               The
               Air
               with
               Smoak
               and
               Fire
               is
               cover'd
               round
               ,
            
             
               The
               Groves
               and
               Rocks
               astonisht
               with
               the
               sound
               ,
            
             
               And
               shaking
               Sands
               beneath
               the
               Seas
               rebound
               .
            
             
               The
               Remnant
               of
               the
               Flock
               with
               terrour
               fly
            
             
               To
               Rocks
               whose
               Turrets
               seem'd
               to
               pierce
               the
               Sky
               ;
            
             
               From
               whence
               with
               humane
               Voice
               (
               O
               dire
               Portent
               !
               )
            
             
               One
               of
               this
               feather'd
               Tribe
               these
               Numbers
               sent
               .
            
             
               You
               who
               have
               Sacrilegioufly
               assay'd
               ,
            
             
               The
               Sun'slov'd
               Birds
               ,
               and
               impious
               slaughter
               made
               ,
            
             
               Hear
               what
               th'
               enrag'd
               avenging
               God
               prepares
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               prophetick
               Sounds
               by
               me
               declares
               .
            
             
             
               Know
               ,
               you
               at
               last
               have
               reacht
               your
               promis'd
               soil
               ,
            
             
               For
               this
               is
               
               Ophyre's
               long
               expected
               Isle
               ,
            
             
               But
               destin'd
               Empire
               shall
               not
               yet
               obtain
            
             
               Of
               Provinces
               beyond
               the
               western
               Main
               ,
            
             
               The
               Natives
               of
               long
               Liberty
               deprive
               ,
            
             
               Found
               Cities
               ,
               and
               a
               new
               Religion
               give
               ,
            
             
               Till
               Toils
               by
               Earth
               and
               Sea
               are
               undergone
               ,
            
             
               And
               many
               dreadfull
               Battels
               lost
               and
               won
               ;
            
             
               For
               ,
               most
               shall
               leave
               your
               Trunks
               on
               foreign
               Land
               ,
            
             
               Few
               shatter'd
               Ships
               shall
               reach
               your
               native
               Sand
               ;
            
             
               In
               vain
               shall
               some
               Sail
               back
               again
               to
               find
               ,
            
             
               Their
               wretched
               Comrades
               whom
               they
               left
               behind
               ;
            
             
               Whose
               Bones
               of
               flesh
               devested
               shall
               be
               found
               ,
            
             
               For
               Cyclops
               too
               in
               these
               dire
               Coasts
               abound
               :
            
             
               Your
               Foes
               o'er-come
               ,
               your
               Fleet
               in
               Civil
               Rage
            
             
               Shall
               disagree
               ,
               and
               Ship
               with
               Ship
               engage
               .
            
             
               Nor
               end
               your
               sufferings
               here
               ,
               a
               strange
               Disease
               ,
            
             
               And
               most
               obscene
               shall
               on
               your
               Bodies
               seize
               ;
            
             
             
               In
               this
               distress
               your
               Errour
               you
               shall
               mourn
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               these
               injur'd
               Groves
               for
               Cure
               return
               ;
            
             
               This
               dreadfull
               Doom
               the
               feather'd
               Prophet
               spoke
               ,
            
             
               And
               sculkt
               within
               the
               Covert
               of
               the
               Rock
               .
            
             
               Astonisht
               with
               the
               unexpected
               sound
               ,
            
             
               Th'
               offending
               Men
               fell
               prostrate
               on
               the
               ground
               ;
            
             
               Forgiveness
               from
               the
               sacred
               Flock
               to
               gain
               ,
            
             
               But
               chiefly
               Phoebus
               Pardon
               to
               obtain
               .
            
             
               The
               Guardians
               of
               the
               Grove
               to
               reconcile
               ,
            
             
               And
               once
               more
               hail
               the
               fair
               Ophyrian
               Isle
               .
            
             
               These
               Rites
               perform'd
               ,
               returning
               on
               their
               way
               ,
            
             
               A
               race
               with
               humane
               Shape
               they
               did
               survey
               ,
            
             
               But
               black
               as
               Jet
               ,
               who
               sally'd
               from
               the
               Wood
               ,
            
             
               And
               made
               the
               Vale
               more
               dark
               in
               which
               they
               stood
               ;
            
             
               No
               Garment
               o'er
               their
               Breasts
               or
               Shoulders
               spread
               ,
            
             
               And
               wreaths
               of
               peacefull
               Olive
               on
               their
               Head
               ;
            
             
               Unarm'd
               ,
               yet
               more
               with
               wonder
               struck
               than
               fear
               ,
            
             
               They
               view'd
               the
               Strangers
               ,
               and
               approach'd
               more
               near
               ;
            
             
             
               Astonisht
               at
               their
               glittering
               Arms
               ,
               but
               more
            
             
               At
               each
               proud
               Vessel
               lodg'd
               upon
               the
               Shore
               ,
            
             
               The
               Flags
               and
               Streamers
               sporting
               with
               the
               Wind
               ,
            
             
               And
               thought
               their
               Owners
               more
               than
               humane
               kind
               ,
            
             
               Some
               Gods
               or
               Heroes
               to
               the
               Gods
               ally'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               more
               than
               Mortal
               reverence
               apply'd
               ;
            
             
               But
               to
               our
               Chief
               their
               first
               Respect
               they
               paid
               ,
            
             
               And
               cheap
               ,
               but
               yet
               most
               royal
               Presents
               made
               ,
            
             
               Rich
               golden
               Oar
               ,
               of
               use
               and
               worth
               unknown
               ,
            
             
               And
               onely
               priz'd
               by
               them
               because
               it
               shone
               ,
            
             
               With
               which
               the
               blessings
               of
               their
               Fields
               were
               born
               ,
            
             
               Ripe
               blushing
               Fruits
               and
               pondrous
               Ears
               of
               Corn
               ;
            
             
               Unpolisht
               but
               capacious
               Vessels
               fill'd
            
             
               With
               Hony
               from
               each
               fragrant
               Tree
               distill'd
               ,
            
             
               Which
               did
               from
               Heaven
               in
               nightly
               Dew
               arrive
               ,
            
             
               Without
               the
               tedious
               labours
               of
               the
               Hive
               .
            
             
             
               With
               them
               our
               Garments
               like
               Reception
               found
               ,
            
             
               And
               now
               the
               Tribes
               sate
               mingled
               on
               the
               Ground
               ,
            
             
               With
               Indian
               Food
               and
               Spanish
               Vintage
               crown'd
               :
            
             
               Who
               can
               express
               the
               Savages
               delight
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               the
               Gods
               some
               Mortal
               shou'd
               invite
            
             
               To
               heavenly
               Courts
               ,
               and
               with
               the
               
               Nectar-bowl
            
             
               Into
               a
               Deity
               exalt
               his
               ravisht
               Soul.
            
             
               By
               chance
               the
               solemn
               Day
               was
               drawing
               near
               ,
            
             
               The
               greatest
               Festival
               of
               all
               the
               Year
               ;
            
             
               And
               to
               the
               Sun
               their
               greatest
               God
               belong'd
               ,
            
             
               To
               which
               from
               ev'ry
               part
               the
               Natives
               throng'd
               ,
            
             
               With
               whom
               their
               Neighbours
               of
               Hesperia
               met
               ;
            
             
               And
               now
               within
               the
               sacred
               Vale
               were
               set
            
             
               Each
               Sex
               ,
               and
               all
               degrees
               of
               Age
               were
               seen
               ,
            
             
               But
               plac'd
               without
               distinction
               on
               the
               Green
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               from
               the
               Infant
               to
               the
               grizled
               Head
               ,
            
             
               A
               cloud
               of
               Grief
               o'er
               ev'ry
               Face
               was
               spread
               ,
            
             
             
               All
               languish'd
               with
               the
               same
               obscene
               Disease
               ,
            
             
               And
               years
               ,
               not
               Strength
               distinguisht
               the
               Degrees
               ;
            
             
               Dire
               flames
               upon
               their
               Vitals
               fed
               within
               ,
            
             
               While
               Sores
               and
               crusted
               Filth
               prophan'd
               their
               Skin
               .
            
             
               At
               last
               the
               Priest
               in
               snowy
               Robes
               array'd
               ,
            
             
               The
               Boughs
               of
               healing
               Guiacum
               display'd
               ,
            
             
               Which
               (
               dipt
               in
               living
               Streams
               )
               he
               shook
               around
            
             
               To
               purge
               ,
               for
               holy
               Rites
               the
               tainted
               Ground
               .
            
             
               An
               Heifer
               then
               before
               the
               Altar
               slew
               ,
            
             
               A
               Swain
               stood
               near
               on
               whom
               the
               Bloud
               he
               threw
               ;
            
             
               Then
               to
               the
               Sun
               began
               his
               mystick
               Song
               ,
            
             
               And
               streight
               was
               seconded
               by
               all
               the
               Throng
               .
            
             
               Both
               Swine
               and
               Heifers
               now
               by
               thousands
               bleed
               ,
            
             
               And
               Natives
               on
               their
               roasted
               Entrails
               feed
               .
            
             
               Our
               Train
               with
               wonder
               saw
               these
               Rites
               ,
               but
               more
            
             
               Astonisht
               at
               the
               Plague
               unseen
               before
               :
            
             
               Mean
               while
               our
               Leader
               in
               his
               carefull
               breast
               ,
            
             
               Form'd
               sad
               Conjectures
               of
               this
               dreadfull
               Pest
               ,
            
             
             
               This
               ,
               this
               said
               he
               (
               the
               Gods
               avert
               our
               Fate
               )
            
             
               Is
               that
               dire
               Curse
               which
               Phoebus
               did
               relate
               ;
            
             
               The
               Birds
               prodigious
               Song
               I
               now
               recall
               ,
            
             
               The
               strange
               Disease
               that
               on
               our
               Troops
               shou'd
               fall
               .
            
             
               As
               therefore
               from
               the
               Altar
               they
               retir'd
               ,
            
             
               Our
               Gen'ral
               of
               the
               Native
               Prince
               enquir'd
               ,
            
             
               To
               what
               dread
               Power
               these
               Off'rings
               did
               belong
               ?
            
             
               What
               meant
               that
               languishing
               infected
               Throng
               ?
            
             
               And
               why
               the
               Shepherd
               by
               the
               Altar
               stood
               ?
            
             
               And
               wherefore
               Sprinkled
               with
               the
               gushing
               bloud
               ?
            
             
               To
               which
               the
               Island
               Monarch
               ,
               noble
               Guest
               ,
            
             
               With
               annual
               Zeal
               these
               Off'rings
               are
               addrest
               ,
            
             
               To
               Phoebus
               enrag'd
               Deity
               assign'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               by
               our
               Ancestours
               of
               old
               enjoin'd
               ;
            
             
               But
               if
               a
               foreign
               Nations
               toils
               to
               learn
               ,
            
             
               And
               less
               refin'd
               be
               worth
               your
               least
               concern
               ,
            
             
               If
               you
               have
               any
               Sense
               of
               Strangers
               fate
               ,
            
             
               From
               its
               first
               source
               the
               Story
               I
               'll
               relate
               :
            
             
             
               Perhaps
               you
               may
               have
               heard
               of
               Atlas
               name
               ,
            
             
               From
               whom
               in
               long
               descent
               great
               Nations
               came
               ;
            
             
               From
               him
               we
               sprang
               ,
               and
               once
               a
               happy
               Race
               ,
            
             
               Belov'd
               of
               Heav'n
               while
               Piety
               had
               place
               ,
            
             
               While
               to
               the
               Gods
               our
               Ancestours
               did
               Pray
               ,
            
             
               And
               gratefull
               Off'rings
               on
               their
               Altars
               lay
               .
            
             
               But
               when
               the
               Powers
               to
               be
               despis'd
               began
               ,
            
             
               When
               to
               leud
               Luxury
               our
               Nation
               ran
               ;
            
             
               Who
               can
               express
               the
               Mis'ries
               that
               ensu'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               Plagues
               with
               each
               returning
               Day
               renew'd
               ?
            
             
               Then
               fair
               Atlantia
               once
               an
               Isle
               of
               fame
               ;
            
             
               (
               That
               from
               the
               mighty
               Atlas
               took
               its
               Name
               ,
            
             
               Who
               there
               had
               govern'd
               long
               with
               upright
               Sway
               )
            
             
               Was
               gorg'd
               intire
               ,
               and
               swallowed
               by
               the
               Sea.
            
             
               With
               which
               our
               Flocks
               and
               Herds
               were
               wholly
               drown'd
               ,
            
             
               Not
               one
               preserv'd
               or
               ever
               after
               found
               .
            
             
               Since
               when
               outlandish
               Cattle
               here
               are
               slain
               ,
            
             
               And
               Bulls
               of
               foreign
               Breed
               our
               Altars
               stain
               ;
            
             
             
               In
               that
               dire
               Season
               this
               Disease
               was
               bred
               ,
            
             
               That
               thus
               o'er
               all
               our
               tortur'd
               Limbs
               is
               spread
               :
            
             
               Most
               universal
               from
               it
               Birth
               it
               grew
               ,
            
             
               And
               none
               have
               since
               escap'd
               or
               very
               few
               ;
            
             
               Sent
               from
               above
               to
               scourge
               that
               vicious
               Age
               ,
            
             
               And
               chiefly
               by
               incens'd
               
               Apollo's
               Rage
               ,
            
             
               For
               which
               these
               annual
               Rites
               were
               first
               ordain'd
               ,
            
             
               Whereof
               this
               firm
               Tradition
               is
               retain'd
               .
            
             
               A
               Shepherd
               once
               (
               distrust
               not
               ancient
               Fame
               )
            
             
               Possest
               these
               Downs
               ,
               and
               Syphilus
               his
               Name
               .
            
             
               A
               thousand
               Heifers
               in
               these
               Vales
               he
               fed
               ,
            
             
               A
               thousand
               Ews
               to
               those
               fair
               Rivers
               led
               :
            
             
               For
               King
               Alcithous
               he
               rais'd
               this
               Stock
               ,
            
             
               And
               shaded
               in
               the
               Covert
               of
               a
               Rock
               ,
            
             
               For
               now
               't
               was
               Solstice
               ,
               and
               the
               Syrian
               Star
            
             
               Increast
               the
               Heat
               and
               shot
               his
               Beams
               afar
               ;
            
             
               The
               Fields
               were
               burnt
               to
               ashes
               ,
               and
               the
               Swain
            
             
               Repair'd
               for
               shade
               to
               thickest
               Woods
               in
               vain
               ,
            
             
             
               No
               Wind
               to
               fan
               the
               scorching
               Air
               was
               found
               ,
            
             
               No
               nightly
               Dew
               refresht
               the
               thirsty
               Ground
               :
            
             
               This
               Drought
               our
               Syphilus
               beheld
               with
               pain
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               could
               the
               suff'rings
               of
               his
               Flock
               sustain
               ,
            
             
               But
               to
               the
               Noon-day
               Sun
               with
               up-cast
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               In
               rage
               threw
               these
               reproaching
               Blasphemies
               ,
            
             
               Is
               it
               for
               this
               O
               Sol
               ,
               that
               thou
               art
               styl'd
            
             
               Our
               God
               and
               Parent
               ?
               how
               are
               we
               beguil'd
            
             
               Dull
               Bigots
               to
               pay
               Hom'age
               to
               thy
               Name
               ?
            
             
               And
               with
               rich
               Spices
               feed
               thy
               Altar's
               flame
               :
            
             
               Why
               do
               we
               yearly
               Rites
               for
               thee
               prepare
               ,
            
             
               Who
               tak'st
               of
               our
               affairs
               so
               little
               Care
               ?
            
             
               At
               least
               thou
               might'st
               between
               the
               Rabble
               Kine
            
             
               Distinguish
               ,
               and
               these
               royal
               Herds
               of
               Mine
               .
            
             
               These
               to
               the
               great
               Alcithous
               belong
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               ought
               to
               perish
               with
               the
               Vulgar
               throng
               .
            
             
               Or
               shall
               I
               rather
               think
               your
               Deity
            
             
               With
               envious
               Eyes
               our
               thriving
               Stock
               did
               see
               ?
            
             
             
               I
               grant
               you
               had
               sufficient
               cause
               indeed
               ,
            
             
               A
               thousand
               Heifers
               of
               the
               snowy
               Breed
               ,
            
             
               A
               thousand
               Ews
               of
               mine
               these
               Downs
               didfeed
               ;
            
             
               Whilst
               one
               Etherial
               Bull
               was
               all
               your
               stock
               ,
            
             
               One
               Ram
               ,
               and
               to
               preserve
               this
               mighty
               Flock
               ,
            
             
               You
               must
               forsooth
               your
               Syrian
               Dog
               maintain
               ,
            
             
               Why
               do
               I
               worship
               then
               a
               Pow'r
               so
               Vain
               ?
            
             
               Henceforth
               I
               to
               Alcithous
               will
               bring
            
             
               My
               Off'rings
               and
               Adore
               my
               greater
               King
               ,
            
             
               Who
               do's
               such
               spacious
               Tracts
               of
               Land
               possess
               ,
            
             
               And
               whose
               vast
               Pow'r
               the
               conquer'd
               Seas
               confess
               .
            
             
               Him
               I
               'll
               invoke
               my
               Suff'rings
               to
               redress
               .
            
             
               Hee
               'll
               streight
               command
               the
               cooling
               Winds
               to
               blow
               ,
            
             
               Refreshing
               Show'rs
               on
               Trees
               and
               Herbs
               bestow
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               suffer
               Thirst
               ,
               both
               Flock
               and
               Swain
               to
               kill
               :
            
             
               He
               said
               ,
               and
               forth
               with
               on
               a
               neighbouring
               Hill
            
             
               Erects
               an
               Altar
               to
               his
               Monarch's
               name
               ,
            
             
               The
               Swains
               from
               far
               bring
               Incense
               to
               the
               Flame
               ;
            
             
             
               At
               length
               to
               greater
               Victims
               they
               proceed
               ,
            
             
               Till
               Swine
               and
               Heifers
               too
               by
               hundreds
               Bleed
               ,
            
             
               On
               whose
               half
               roasted
               Flesh
               the
               impious
               Wretches
               feed
               .
            
             
               All
               quarters
               soon
               were
               fill'd
               with
               the
               Report
               ,
            
             
               That
               ceas'd
               not
               till
               it
               reacht
               the
               Monarch's
               Court
               ;
            
             
               Th'
               aspiring
               Prince
               with
               Godlike
               Rites
               o'er
               joy'd
               ,
            
             
               Commands
               all
               Altars
               else
               to
               be
               destroy'd
               ,
            
             
               Proclaims
               Himself
               in
               Earth's
               low
               sphere
               to
               be
            
             
               The
               onely
               and
               sufficient
               Deity
               ;
            
             
               That
               Heav'nly
               Pow'rs
               liv'd
               too
               remote
               and
               high
               ,
            
             
               And
               had
               enough
               to
               do
               to
               Rule
               the
               Sky
               .
            
             
               Th'
               all-seeing
               Sun
               no
               longer
               could
               sustain
            
             
               These
               practices
               ,
               but
               with
               enrag'd
               Disdain
            
             
               Darts
               forth
               such
               pestilent
               malignant
               Beams
               ,
            
             
               As
               shed
               Infection
               on
               Air
               ,
               Earth
               and
               Streams
               ;
            
             
               From
               whence
               this
               Malady
               its
               birth
               receiv'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               first
               th'
               offending
               Syphilus
               was
               griev'd
               ,
            
             
             
               Who
               rais'd
               forbidden
               Altars
               on
               the
               Hill
               ,
            
             
               And
               Victims
               bloud
               with
               impious
               Hands
               did
               spill
               ;
            
             
               He
               first
               wore
               Buboes
               dreadfull
               to
               the
               sight
               ,
            
             
               First
               felt
               strange
               Pains
               and
               sleepless
               past
               the
               Night
               ;
            
             
               From
               him
               the
               Malady
               receiv'd
               its
               name
               ,
            
             
               The
               neighbouring
               Shepherds
               catcht
               the
               spreading
               Flame
               :
            
             
               At
               last
               in
               City
               and
               in
               Court
               't
               was
               known
               ,
            
             
               And
               seiz'd
               th'
               ambitious
               Monarch
               on
               his
               Throne
               ;
            
             
               In
               this
               distress
               the
               wretched
               Tribes
               repair
            
             
               To
               Ammerice
               the
               Gods
               Interpreter
               ,
            
             
               Chief
               Priestess
               of
               the
               consecrated
               Wood
               ,
            
             
               In
               whose
               Retreats
               the
               awfull
               Tripod
               stood
               ,
            
             
               From
               whence
               the
               Gods
               responsal
               she
               exprest
               ;
            
             
               The
               Crowd
               enquire
               what
               Cause
               produc'd
               this
               Pest
               ,
            
             
               What
               God
               enrag'd
               ?
               and
               how
               to
               be
               appeas'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               last
               what
               Cure
               remain'd
               for
               the
               Diseas'd
               ?
            
             
               To
               whom
               the
               Nymph
               reply'd
               —
               the
               Sun
               incens'd
               ,
            
             
               With
               just
               revenge
               these
               Torments
               has
               commenc'd
               .
            
             
             
               What
               man
               can
               with
               immortal
               Pow'rs
               compare
               ?
            
             
               Fly
               ,
               wretches
               ,
               fly
               ,
               his
               Altars
               soon
               repair
               ,
            
             
               Load
               them
               with
               Incense
               ,
               Him
               with
               Pray'rs
               invade
               ,
            
             
               His
               Anger
               will
               not
               easily
               be
               laid
               ;
            
             
               Your
               Doom
               is
               past
               ,
               black
               Styx
               has
               heard
               him
               swear
               ,
            
             
               This
               Plague
               should
               never
               be
               extinguisht
               here
               ,
            
             
               Since
               then
               your
               Soil
               must
               ne'er
               be
               wholly
               free
               ,
            
             
               Beg
               Heav'n
               at
               least
               to
               yield
               some
               Remedy
               :
            
             
               A
               milkwhite
               Cow
               on
               
               Juno's
               Altar
               lay
               ,
            
             
               To
               Mother
               Earth
               a
               jet-black
               Heifer
               slay
               ;
            
             
               One
               from
               above
               the
               happy
               Seeds
               shall
               shed
               ,
            
             
               The
               other
               rear
               the
               Grove
               and
               make
               it
               spread
               ,
            
             
               That
               onely
               for
               your
               Grief
               a
               Cure
               shall
               yield
               .
            
             
               She
               said
               :
               the
               Croud
               return'd
               to
               th'
               open'd
               Field
               ,
            
             
               Rais'd
               Altars
               to
               the
               Sun
               without
               delay
               ,
            
             
               To
               Mother
               Earth
               ,
               and
               Juno
               Victims
               slay
               .
            
             
               'T
               will
               seem
               most
               strange
               what
               now
               I
               shall
               declare
               .
            
             
               But
               by
               our
               Gods
               and
               Ancestours
               I
               swear
               ,
            
             
             
               'T
               is
               sacred
               Truth
               —
            
             
               These
               Groves
               that
               spread
               so
               wide
               and
               look
               so
               green
            
             
               Within
               this
               Isle
               ,
               till
               then
               ,
               were
               never
               seen
               ,
            
             
               But
               now
               before
               their
               Eyes
               the
               Plants
               were
               found
            
             
               To
               spring
               ,
               and
               in
               an
               instant
               Shade
               the
               ground
               ,
            
             
               The
               Priest
               forthwith
               bids
               Sacrifice
               be
               done
               ,
            
             
               And
               Justice
               paid
               to
               the
               offended
               Sun
               ;
            
             
               Some
               destin'd
               Head
               t'
               attone
               the
               Crimes
               of
               all
               ,
            
             
               On
               Syphilus
               the
               dreadfull
               Lot
               did
               fall
               ,
            
             
               Who
               now
               was
               plac'd
               before
               the
               Altar
               bound
               ,
            
             
               His
               head
               with
               sacrificial
               Garlands
               crown'd
               ,
            
             
               His
               Throat
               laid
               open
               to
               the
               lifted
               Knife
               ,
            
             
               But
               interceding
               Juno
               spar'd
               his
               Life
               ,
            
             
               Commands
               them
               in
               his
               stead
               a
               Heifer
               slay
               ,
            
             
               For
               Phoebus
               Rage
               was
               now
               remov'd
               away
               .
            
             
               This
               made
               our
               gratefull
               Ancestours
               enjoin
               ,
            
             
               When
               first
               these
               annual
               Rites
               they
               did
               assign
               ,
            
             
             
               That
               to
               the
               Altar
               bound
               a
               Swine
               each
               time
            
             
               Should
               sland
               ,
               to
               witness
               Syphilus
               his
               Crime
               .
            
             
               All
               this
               infected
               Throng
               whom
               you
               behold
               ,
            
             
               Smart
               for
               their
               Ancestours
               Offence
               of
               old
               :
            
             
               To
               heal
               their
               Plague
               this
               Sacrifice
               is
               done
               ,
            
             
               And
               reconcile
               them
               to
               th'
               offended
               Sun.
            
             
               The
               Rites
               perform'd
               ,
               the
               hallow'd
               Boughs
               they
               seize
               ,
            
             
               The
               speedy
               certain
               Cure
               for
               their
               Disease
               .
            
             
               With
               such
               discourse
               the
               Chiefs
               their
               Cares
               deceive
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               Tribes
               of
               different
               Worlds
               united
               live
               ,
            
             
               Till
               now
               the
               Ships
               sent
               back
               to
               Europes
               shore
               ,
            
             
               Return
               and
               bring
               prodigious
               Tidings
               o'er
               .
            
             
               That
               this
               Disease
               did
               now
               through
               Europe
               rage
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               any
               Med'cine
               found
               that
               cou'd
               assuage
               ,
            
             
               That
               in
               their
               Ships
               no
               slender
               Number
               mourn'd
               ,
            
             
               With
               Boils
               without
               and
               inward
               Ulcers
               burn'd
               .
            
             
               Then
               call'd
               to
               mind
               the
               Bird
               's
               prophetick
               sound
               ,
            
             
               That
               in
               those
               Groves
               Relief
               was
               to
               be
               found
               .
            
             
             
               Then
               each
               with
               solemn
               Vows
               the
               Sun
               entreats
               ,
            
             
               And
               gentle
               Nymphs
               the
               Gardians
               of
               those
               Seats
               .
            
             
               With
               lusty
               Strokes
               the
               Grove
               they
               next
               invade
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               weighty
               Boughs
               are
               on
               their
               Shoulders
               laid
               ,
            
             
               Which
               with
               the
               Natives
               methods
               they
               prepare
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               the
               healing
               Draughts
               their
               Health
               repair
               ,
            
             
               But
               not
               forgetfull
               of
               their
               Country's
               good
               ,
            
             
               They
               fraight
               their
               largest
               Ships
               with
               this
               rich
               Wood
               ,
            
             
               To
               try
               if
               in
               our
               Climate
               it
               would
               be
            
             
               Of
               equal
               use
               ,
               for
               the
               same
               Malady
               :
            
             
               The
               years
               mild
               Season
               seconds
               their
               desire
               ,
            
             
               And
               western
               Winds
               their
               willing
               Sails
               inspire
               .
            
             
               Iberian
               Coasts
               you
               first
               were
               happy
               made
            
             
               With
               this
               rich
               Plant
               ,
               and
               wonder'd
               at
               its
               Aid
               ;
            
             
               Known
               now
               to
               France
               and
               neighbouring
               Germany
            
             
               Cold
               Seythian
               Coasts
               and
               temp'rate
               Italy
               ,
            
             
               To
               
               Europe's
               Bounds
               all
               bless
               the
               vital
               Tree
               .
            
             
             
               Hail
               heav'n-born
               Plant
               whose
               Rival
               ne'er
               was
               seen
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               Virtues
               like
               thy
               Leaves
               are
               ever
               green
               ;
            
             
               Hope
               of
               Mankind
               and
               Comfort
               of
               their
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               Of
               new
               discover'd
               Worlds
               the
               richest
               Prize
               .
            
             
               Too
               happy
               would
               Indulgent
               Gods
               allow
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               Groves
               in
               
               Europe's
               nobler
               Clime
               to
               grow
               :
            
             
               Yet
               if
               my
               Streins
               have
               any
               force
               ,
               thy
               Name
            
             
               Shall
               flourish
               here
               ,
               and
               Europe
               sing
               thy
               Fame
               .
            
             
               If
               not
               remoter
               Lands
               with
               Winter
               bound
               ,
            
             
               Eternal
               Snow
               ,
               nor
               
               Libya's
               scorching
               Ground
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               Latium
               and
               Benacus
               cool
               Retreats
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               thee
               resound
               ,
               with
               Athesis
               fair
               Seats
               .
            
             
               Too
               ,
               blest
               if
               Bembus
               live
               thy
               Growth
               to
               see
               ,
            
             
               And
               on
               the
               Banks
               of
               Tyber
               gather
               thee
               ,
            
             
               If
               he
               thy
               matchless
               Virtues
               once
               rehearse
               ,
            
             
               And
               crown
               thy
               Praises
               with
               eternal
               Verse
               .
            
             
               FINIS
               .
            
          
           
             
               ERRATA
               .
               
                 Page
                 5.
                 line
                 12
                 for
                 newer
                 reade
                 never
                 ,
                 p.
                 35
                 l.
                 3.
                 for
                 wandring
                 r.
                 wondring
                 ,
                 p.
                 58
                 l.
                 5.
                 for
                 ,
                 to
                 Bard
                 r.
                 Bard
                 to
                 .
              
            
             
             
             
          
        
         
      
    
     
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A36624-e25400
           
             *
             *
             Titles
             of
             Honour
             .
          
           
             *
             *
             Edmerus
             ,
             Fleta
             .
          
           
             †
             †
             De
             diis
             Syris
             .
          
           
             ‖
             ‖
             Marmora
             Arundeliana
             .
          
           
             *
             *
             Mare
             Clausum
             .
          
           
             *
             *
             His
             Epitaph
             made
             by
             himself
             in
             the
             Temple
             Chappel
             .
          
        
         
           Notes for div A36624-e55630
           
             *
             *
             Orestes
             .
          
        
         
           Notes for div A36624-e57240
           
             *
             *
             Tarpeia
             .
          
        
         
           Notes for div A36624-e68920
           
             *
             *
             Leander
             .
          
           
             *
             *
             Hero.
             
          
        
         
           Notes for div A36624-e78030
           
             
               NOTE
               .
            
             
               The
               Translator
               propos'd
               to
               turn
               this
               Ode
               with
               all
               imaginable
               Exactness
               ;
               and
               he
               hopes
               he
               has
               been
               pretty
               just
               to
               Malherb
               ,
               only
               in
               the
               sixth
               Line
               he
               has
               made
               a
               small
               Addition
               of
               these
               three
               words
               
                 —
                 as
                 they
                 say
              
               —
               which
               he
               thinks
               is
               excusable
               ,
               if
               we
               consider
               that
               the
               French
               Poet
               there
               talks
               a
               little
               too
               familiarly
               of
               the
               King's
               Passion
               ,
               as
               if
               the
               King
               himself
               had
               owned
               it
               to
               him
               .
               The
               Translator
               thinks
               it
               more
               mannerly
               and
               respectful
               in
               Malherb
               to
               preterd
               to
               have
               the
               Account
               of
               it
               only
               by
               Hear-say
               .