Poems on several occasions and translations wherein the first and second books of Virgil's Æneis are attempted in English / by Tho. Fletcher ...
         Poems. Selections
         Fletcher, Thomas, 1666-1713.
      
       
         
           1692
        
      
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             Poems on several occasions and translations wherein the first and second books of Virgil's Æneis are attempted in English / by Tho. Fletcher ...
             Poems. Selections
             Fletcher, Thomas, 1666-1713.
             Virgil. Aeneis. Liber 1-2. English.
          
           [16], 138, [3] p.
           
             Printed for Charles Harper ...,
             London :
             1692.
          
           
             First ed. Cf. NUC pre-1956.
             "Licensed, Robert Midgley, Jan. 11, 1691"--P. [1].
             Advertisement on p. [1]-[2] at end.
             Reproduction of original in Yale University Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Occasional verse, English.
           Classical poetry -- Translations into English.
           English poetry -- Translations from Latin.
        
      
    
     
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           Licensed
           ,
           Robert
           Midgley
           .
           Jan.
           
             11.
             1691.
          
           
        
      
       
         
         
           POEMS
           On
           several
           OCCASIONS
           ,
           AND
           TRANSLATIONS
           WHEREIN
           The
           First
           and
           Second
           Books
           of
           
             Virgil's
             Aeneis
          
           are
           attempted
           ,
           In
           English.
           
        
         
           By
           
             Tho.
             Fletcher
          
           ,
           B.A.
           Fellow
           of
           New-College
           in
           Oxon.
           
        
         
           LONDON
           ,
           
             Printed
             for
          
           Charles
           Harper
           
             at
             the
          
           Flower-de-luce
           over
           against
           S.
           Dunstans
           Church
           ,
           Fleetstreet
           .
           1692.
           
        
      
       
         
         
         
           TO
           THE
           Reverend
           
             William
             Harris
          
           D.D.
           Schoolmaster
           of
           the
           College
           near
           Winton
           .
        
         
           
             SIR
             ,
          
        
         
           ALthough
           your
           Favours
           to
           me
           have
           been
           so
           many
           and
           so
           undeserved
           ,
           that
           I
           ought
           to
           take
           all
           Opportunities
           of
           acknowledging
           them
           ;
           yet
           the
           very
           nature
           of
           this
           little
           Work
           seem'd
           to
           design
           You
           for
           it's
           Patron
           ,
           and
           almost
           prevented
           my
           Choice
           .
           For
           to
           whom
           could
           I
           with
           so
           
           much
           Confidence
           address
           it
           ,
           as
           to
           You
           ,
           who
           are
           accustomed
           to
           encourage
           the
           Endeavours
           ,
           and
           pardon
           the
           Imperfections
           of
           Youth
           ?
           Many
           of
           these
           Verses
           were
           writt●n
           while
           I
           was
           under
           your
           Care
           ,
           and
           being
           the
           Product
           of
           Hours
           which
           I
           stole
           from
           the
           ordinary
           Bus●ness
           of
           your
           School
           ,
           and
           employed
           otherwise
           than
           You
           directed
           ;
           I
           am
           obliged
           to
           seize
           this
           only
           Opportunity
           ,
           which
           is
           left
           me
           ,
           of
           making
           You
           restitution
           .
           I
           am
           too
           sensible
           ,
           how
           mean
           and
           unworthy
           a
           Present
           I
           now
           offer
           You
           :
           o●ly
           I
           hope
           it
           may
           not
           seem
           so
           improper
           to
           You
           ,
           who
           are
           daily
           conversing
           with
           the
           ancient
           Poets
           ,
           and
           making
           new
           Ones
           ;
           as
           perhaps
           it
           might
           
           to
           any
           of
           my
           other
           Friends
           ,
           who
           are
           generally
           engag'd
           ,
           in
           more
           severe
           and
           serious
           (
           though
           none
           in
           more
           Vseful
           and
           Honourable
           )
           Studies
           .
        
         
           Sir
           ,
           I
           do
           not
           find
           that
           I
           have
           any
           great
           Talent
           in
           Complement
           ;
           and
           if
           I
           had
           ,
           I
           should
           at
           present
           think
           it
           Vseless
           :
           For
           I
           must
           beg
           your
           leave
           not
           to
           be
           so
           impertinent
           ,
           as
           to
           open
           to
           the
           World
           what
           an
           honourable
           Sense
           I
           justly
           entertain
           of
           your
           Worth
           ;
           since
           You
           are
           placed
           in
           a
           Station
           so
           eminent
           that
           your
           Learning
           and
           Prudence
           ,
           your
           Industry
           and
           Fidelity
           ,
           your
           Courtesie
           and
           Generosity
           ,
           and
           especially
           the
           Sweetness
           of
           your
           Temper
           and
           Conversation
           ,
           together
           with
           all
           your
           other
           Vertues
           ,
           
           must
           be
           much
           better
           and
           much
           farther
           known
           ,
           than
           I
           can
           hope
           this
           little
           Book
           ever
           will.
           I
           shall
           fully
           obtain
           all
           that
           I
           aim
           at
           by
           this
           Address
           ,
           if
           it
           may
           be
           accepted
           as
           a
           Testimony
           ,
           with
           what
           Respect
           I
           am
           ,
        
         
           
             
               Honoured
               Sir
            
             ,
             Your
             most
             Obliged
             humble
             Servant
             
               T.
               FLETCHER
            
             .
          
           
             Fairfield
             ,
             
               Nov.
               
                 6.
                 1691.
              
               
            
          
        
      
       
         
         
           THE
           PREFACE
           .
        
         
           I
           Am
           afraid
           the
           Reader
           need
           not
           be
           inform'd
           that
           these
           are
           youthful
           Poems
           .
           I
           have
           now
           spent
           very
           little
           more
           than
           a
           third
           part
           of
           my
           
             threescore
             years
             and
             ten
          
           ,
           and
           I
           was
           much
           younger
           when
           many
           o●●●ese
           Poems
           were
           written
           .
           Indeed
           they
           were
           generally
           the
           Performances
           of
           a
           School-boy
           or
           a
           Fresh-man
           ;
           which
           I
           hope
           may
           in
           some
           measure
           excuse
           the
           lightness
           of
           some
           of
           them
           ,
           and
           the
           meanness
           of
           all
           .
           The
           Translation
           
           of
           that
           part
           of
           Virgil
           ,
           which
           I
           here
           publish
           ,
           was
           indeed
           a
           work
           of
           time
           ,
           and
           crept
           upon
           me
           at
           broken
           Hours
           :
           when
           ,
           tir'd
           with
           Philosophical
           Studies
           ,
           I
           chose
           to
           let
           down
           my
           Soul
           ,
           and
           prepare
           my self
           for
           Conversation
           ,
           by
           entertaining
           my
           thoughts
           with
           the
           Elegancies
           of
           that
           unimitable
           Poet.
           Being
           pleased
           with
           his
           Thoughts
           in
           Latin
           ,
           it
           was
           natural
           to
           try
           how
           they
           would
           look
           in
           English
           ,
           and
           that
           Trial
           produced
           a
           Verse
           ,
           and
           another
           ,
           another
           ;
           till
           at
           length
           I
           found
           my self
           far
           gone
           in
           a
           bold
           Work
           ,
           before
           I
           knew
           what
           I
           was
           doing
           .
           Such
           as
           it
           is
           I
           now
           present
           it
           to
           
           publick
           view
           .
           And
           ,
           tho'
           I
           acknowledge
           it
           every
           way
           unworthy
           of
           the
           Original
           ;
           yet
           methinks
           there
           is
           nothing
           which
           I
           can
           so
           hardly
           forgive
           my self
           ,
           as
           that
           I
           took
           such
           pains
           to
           make
           it
           worse
           than
           I
           needed
           .
           I
           mean
           ,
           by
           confining
           my self
           to
           Rhime
           ,
           when
           blank
           Verse
           ,
           as
           it
           would
           have
           been
           more
           easie
           ,
           so
           I
           am
           perswaded
           it
           would
           have
           been
           more
           natural
           .
           Methinks
           blank
           Verse
           carries
           in
           it
           somewhat
           of
           the
           Majesty
           of
           Virgil
           ;
           when
           Rhimes
           ,
           even
           the
           most
           happy
           of
           them
           (
           after
           tedious
           pumping
           for
           them
           ,
           and
           having
           good
           Expressions
           balk'd
           for
           want
           of
           
           them
           )
           do
           but
           emasculate
           Heroick
           Verse
           ,
           and
           give
           it
           an
           unnatural
           Softness
           .
           In
           Songs
           ,
           Pastorals
           ,
           and
           the
           softer
           sorts
           of
           Poetry
           ,
           Rhimes
           may
           perhaps
           be
           not
           unelegantly
           retain'd
           ;
           but
           an
           Heroe
           drest
           up
           in
           them
           looks
           like
           Hercules
           with
           a
           Distaff
           .
           I
           have
           there●ore
           annex'd
           a
           few
           Specimens
           of
           Virgil
           Translated
           in
           blank
           Verse
           ;
           and
           because
           I
           would
           be
           impartial
           ,
           I
           took
           the
           beginnings
           of
           the
           three
           next
           Books
           .
           I
           hope
           my
           Failings
           will
           not
           be
           an
           Argument
           against
           my
           Opinion
           ;
           for
           tho'
           I
           am
           unable
           to
           perform
           so
           great
           a
           Task
           ,
           yet
           I
           perswade
           my self
           that
           ,
           if
           a
           Dryden
           (
           a
           
           Master
           of
           our
           Language
           and
           Poetry
           )
           would
           undertake
           to
           Translate
           Virgil
           in
           blank
           Verse
           ,
           we
           might
           hope
           to
           read
           him
           with
           as
           great
           pleasure
           in
           our
           Language
           ,
           as
           his
           own
           .
           Whether
           I
           have
           carried
           this
           Humour
           too
           far
           in
           writing
           a
           Blank
           
             Pindarique
             Ode
          
           ,
           let
           others
           judge
           :
           only
           this
           I
           have
           to
           say
           ,
           that
           the
           licentiousness
           of
           Rhiming
           ,
           which
           is
           usual
           in
           that
           sort
           of
           Poetry
           among
           us
           ,
           will
           make
           the
           want
           of
           it
           less
           discerned
           ;
           at
           least
           it
           will
           clear
           me
           from
           the
           imputation
           of
           chusing
           Blank
           Verse
           out
           of
           Laziness
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           THE
           CONTENTS
           .
        
         
           
             I.
             THE
             Second
             Epode
             of
             Horace
             Translated
             .
             
               Page
               1
            
          
           
             II.
             A
             Translation
             from
             the
             First
             Book
             of
             
               Boethius
               de
               Consol.
               Phil.
               p.
               5
            
          
           
             III.
             A
             Song
             to
             his
             Majesty
             at
             
               Winton
               .
               1686.
               p.
               7
            
          
           
             IV.
             Song
             .
             
               p.
               10
            
          
           
             V.
             Song
             .
             
               p.
               11
            
          
           
             VI.
             To
             Thomas
             Lord
             Bishop
             of
             Bath
             and
             Wells
             ,
             staying
             at
             VVinton
             ,
             after
             his
             Promotion
             to
             that
             See.
             
               1685.
               p.
               12
            
          
           
             VII
             .
             On
             the
             Recovery
             of
             the
             Spanish
             Wrack
             ,
             by
             Captain
             
               Phips
               .
               1686.
               p.
               16
            
          
           
             
             VIII
             .
             On
             the
             Feast
             of
             
               Cecilia
               .
               1686.
            
             
             An
             
               Ode
               .
               p.
               20
            
          
           
             IX
             .
             On
             a
             Lady's
             Birth
             Day
             .
             
               p.
               25
            
          
           
             X.
             On
             a
             Lady's
             Picture
             .
             
               p.
               27
            
          
           
             XI
             .
             Friendship
             .
             
               p.
               28
            
          
           
             XII
             .
             The
             Impatient
             .
             
               p.
               30
            
          
           
             XIII
             .
             The
             Resolution
             .
             
               p.
               32
            
          
           
             XIV
             .
             The
             Departure
             .
             
               p.
               34
            
          
           
             XV.
             Content
             .
             A
             
               Pastoral
               Dialogue
               .
               p.
               36
            
          
           
             XVI
             .
             To
             the
             King.
             
               p.
               43
            
          
           
             XVII
             .
             Eternity
             .
             A
             
               Pindarique
               Ode
               .
               p.
               53
            
          
           
             XVIII
             .
             The
             First
             Book
             of
             
               Virgil's
               Aeneis
            
             Translated
             .
             
               p.
               65
            
          
           
             XIX
             .
             Part
             of
             the
             Second
             Book
             .
             
               p.
               120
            
          
           
             XX.
             Part
             of
             the
             Third
             Book
             .
             
               p.
               124
            
          
           
             XXI
             .
             Part
             of
             the
             Fourth
             Book
             .
             
               p.
               129
            
          
           
             
               XXII
               .
               CHRIST
            
             Born.
             
               p.
               133
            
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
         
           POEMS
           AND
           TRANSLATIONS
           .
        
         
           
             The
             Second
             Epode
             of
             Horace
             Translated
             .
          
           
             
               HAppy
               the
               Man
               ,
               who
               free
               from
               Debts
               and
               Care
            
             
               (
               Such
               the
               first
               Mortals
               were
               )
            
             
               Enjoys
               his
               sma●l
               hereditary
               Field
               ,
            
             
               By
               his
               own
               Oxen
               till'd
               .
            
             
               No
               harsh
               Alarms
               of
               War
               disturb
               his
               E●s●
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               dreads
               he
               th'
               angry
               Seas
               ;
            
             
               He
               slies
               the
               Bar
               ,
               nor
               does
               he
               meanly
               wait
            
             
               At
               his
               Lordship's
               surly
               gate
               .
            
             
             
               But
               either
               to
               his
               stripling
               Poplars
               joyns
            
             
               The
               marriageable
               Vines
               :
            
             
               And
               pruning
               useless
               branches
               from
               his
               Trees
               ,
            
             
               Grafts
               happier
               in
               their
               place
               :
            
             
               Or
               in
               a
               winding
               Vale
               is
               pleas'd
               to
               see
            
             
               His
               lowing
               Cattle
               stray
               :
            
             
               Or
               his
               Bees
               labour
               in
               clean
               Vessels
               stows
               :
            
             
               Or
               shears
               his
               tender
               Ewes
               :
            
             
               Or
               ,
               if
               grave
               Autumn
               o'er
               the
               Fields
               erect
            
             
               His
               Head
               with
               Apples
               deckt
               .
            
             
               How
               pleas'd
               the
               use
               of
               well-plac'd
               Art
               he
               reaps
               ,
            
             
               ●●esh
               Pears
               ,
               and
               purple
               Grapes
               !
            
             
               Of
               these
               an
               Of●●ring
               to
               the
               Gods
               he
               yields
               ,
            
             
               The
               Guardian●
               of
               his
               Fields
               .
            
             
               Now
               on
               some
               Oak's
               large
               foot
               he
               rests
               his
               Head
               ,
            
             
               Now
               on
               the
               s●ow'ry
               Mead.
            
             
               Where
               thro'
               high
               Banks
               a
               neighb'ring
               Current
               plays
               :
            
             
               Birds
               murmur
               thro'
               the
               Trees
               :
            
             
             
               And
               chiding
               Rills
               ,
               which
               o'er
               the
               P●bbles
               creep
               ,
            
             
               Invite
               to
               tender
               sleep
               .
            
             
               But
               ,
               when
               cold
               Rains
               and
               Snow
               at
               
               Jove's
               Command
            
             
               Th'
               inverted
               Year
               attend
               ;
            
             
               With
               full-mouth'd
               Hounds
               into
               the
               crafty
               Snare
            
             
               He
               thrusts
               the
               foaming
               Boar
               :
            
             
               Or
               his
               thin
               Nets
               extended
               on
               the
               Bush
            
             
               Betray
               the
               greedy
               Thrush
               :
            
             
               The
               tim'rous
               Hare
               ,
               and
               foreign
               Crane
               requite
            
             
               With
               Profit
               his
               delight
               .
            
             
               Who
               cannot
               hence
               all
               anxious
               Cares
               remove
               ,
            
             
               And
               chiefly
               those
               of
               Love
               ?
            
             
               But
               if
               a
               modest
               frugal
               Matron
               share
            
             
               His
               Houshold
               ,
               and
               his
               Care
               :
            
             
               (
               Such
               as
               the
               brisk
               
               Apulian's
               Sunburnt
               Bride
               ,
            
             
               Or
               the
               chast
               Sabi●e
               Maid
               )
            
             
               Who
               makes
               the
               Hearth
               with
               aged
               fuel
               burn
               ,
            
             
               Against
               her
               Swain's
               return
               :
            
             
             
               Whose
               humble
               Hand
               thinks
               it
               no
               shame
               to
               pen
               ,
            
             
               And
               milk
               her
               wanton
               Kine
               :
            
             
               And
               in
               neat
               Vessels
               to
               her
               Lord
               does
               bear
            
             
               New
               Wine
               ,
               and
               unbought
               Fare
               ;
            
             
               Not
               all
               too
               bounteous
               Nature's
               Luxury
               ,
            
             
               The
               spoils
               of
               Land
               and
               Sea
               ,
            
             
               A
               gust
               so
               grateful
               ,
               as
               pick'd
               Olives
               ,
               yield
               ,
            
             
               Or
               Sallets
               from
               the
               Field
               ;
            
             
               Or
               Lamb
               ,
               or
               Kid
               slain
               at
               a
               solemn
               Feast
               ,
            
             
               With
               which
               choice
               Dainties
               blest
               ,
            
             
               What
               pleasure
               't
               is
               to
               see
               the
               fat
               Flocks
               come
            
             
               From
               Pasture
               bleating
               home
               !
            
             
               To
               see
               the
               weary
               Oxen
               faintly
               tow
            
             
               Home
               the
               inverted
               Plow
               !
            
             
               And
               with
               large
               swarms
               of
               useful
               Servants
               stor'd
            
             
               To
               see
               the
               wealthy
               Board
               !
            
             
               Thus
               wisely
               talk'd
               th'
               Old
               Banker
               ,
               weary
               grown
            
             
               Of
               Business
               and
               the
               Town
               ,
            
             
             
               Summon'd
               in
               all
               his
               Principals
               ,
               and
               then
               —
            
             
               He
               put
               'em
               out
               agen
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             A
             Translation
             from
             the
             first
             Book
             of
             Boethius
             de
             Consol.
             Phil.
             
          
           
             
               I
               Who
               in
               sprightly
               Verse
               once
               sung
               my
               Joy
               ,
            
             
               Must
               now
               sad
               thoughts
               and
               mournsul
               numbers
               try
            
             
               The
               sullen
               Muses
               only
               Grief
               inspire
               ,
            
             
               And
               Ills
               unfeign'd
               sad
               Elegies
               require
               .
            
             
               The
               Muses
               faithful
               to
               my
               suff'rings
               stay
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               dread
               th'
               Insection
               of
               Misery
               .
            
             
               These
               ,
               who
               did
               once
               my
               happier
               Youth
               engage
               ,
            
             
               Are
               now
               the
               comforts
               of
               my
               wretched
               Age.
            
             
               For
               I
               am
               Old
               ;
               Age
               hasten'd
               on
               with
               Cares
            
             
               And
               Sorrow
               claims
               the
               remnant
               of
               my
               Years
               .
            
             
               Untimely
               Snow
               deforms
               my
               careful
               Head
               ,
            
             
               And
               shrivel'd
               Skin
               o'er
               my
               craz'd
               body's
               spread
               .
            
             
             
               Death
               to
               Mankind
               a
               mighty
               Blessing
               were
            
             
               Would
               it
               our
               Youth
               and
               happy
               Minutes
               spare
               ,
            
             
               And
               only
               rescue
               us
               from
               Age
               and
               Care.
            
             
               But
               ah
               !
               the
               wretched
               's
               Cry
               it
               never
               hears
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               shuts
               those
               Eyes
               which
               are
               kept
               ope
               by
               tears
               .
            
             
               While
               faithless
               Chance
               her
               empty
               Goods
               supply'd
               ,
            
             
               Fate
               seem'd
               in
               hast
               ,
               and
               I
               had
               almost
               dy'd
               .
            
             
               But
               now
               forsaken
               ,
               and
               resign'd
               to
               Grief
               ,
            
             
               Death
               scorns
               me
               too
               ,
               and
               I
               am
               curst
               with
               Life
               .
            
             
               Why
               ,
               Friends
               ,
               so
               oft
               have
               ye
               pronounc'd
               me
               blest
               ,
            
             
               Secure
               ,
               above
               the
               reach
               of
               Fortune
               plac'd
               ?
            
             
               By
               sad
               Experience
               I
               've
               your
               Errour
               found
               ,
            
             
               He
               ,
               that
               could
               f●ll
               ,
               stood
               but
               on
               slipp'ry
               ground
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             Song
             to
             his
             Majesty
             at
             VVinton
             .
             1684.
             
          
           
             
               FRom
               the
               troubles
               of
               State
               ,
               and
               the
               Noise
               of
               the
               Town
               ,
            
             
               From
               being
               as
               busie
               as
               great
               ,
            
             
               From
               the
               tedious
               Pomp
               that
               attends
               on
               a
               Throne
               ,
            
             
               To
               Quiet
               and
               Us
               you
               retreat
               .
            
          
           
             
               Here
               you
               spend
               those
               soft
               hours
               in
               Princely
               delight
               ,
            
             
               Which
               alone
               do
               the
               recompence
               bring
            
             
               For
               the
               business
               and
               cares
               which
               wait
               on
               the
               Great
               ,
            
             
               For
               being
               so
               wise
               ,
               so
               gracious
               a
               King.
               
            
          
           
             
               Thus
               while
               the
               World
               was
               innocent
               and
               new
               ,
            
             
               Gods
               ,
               kind
               and
               bountiful
               ,
               like
               you
               ,
            
             
               Tir'd
               with
               the
               long
               Fatigue
               of
               Majesty
               ,
            
             
               Oft
               forsook
               their
               Thrones
               on
               high
               .
            
             
             
               And
               to
               some
               humble
               Cell
               vouchsaf'd
               to
               go
               ,
            
             
               And
               by
               their
               sweet
               Retreat
               below
               ,
            
             
               Bless'd
               both
               themselves
               and
               Mortals
               too
               .
            
          
           
             
               Cho.
               Welcome
               ,
               Great
               Sir
               ,
               with
               all
               the
               joy
            
             
               That
               's
               to
               your
               Sacred
               Presence
               due
               ;
            
             
               With
               all
               the
               Mirth
               which
               we
               enjoy
               ,
            
             
               That
               Mirth
               which
               we
               derive
               from
               you
               .
            
          
           
             
               ●er
               .
               Blest
               by
               your
               Presence
               every
               thing
            
             
               Does
               with
               new
               Vigour
               now
               appear
               .
            
             
               Another
               fresh
               and
               blooming
               Spring
            
             
               Seems
               to
               recall
               the
               aged
               Year
               .
            
             
               The
               happy
               Hours
               ,
               which
               hasten
               hither
               ,
            
             
               Creep
               hence
               unwillingly
               and
               slow
               .
            
             
               Time
               doubting
               stands
               ,
               and
               knows
               not
               whether
            
             
               Nature
               to
               obey
               or
               You.
            
             
               Y●t
               ,
               might
               it
               your
               acceptance
               s●●d
               ,
            
             
               Each
               Minute
               should
               for
               ever
               stay
               :
            
             
             
               But
               see
               !
               the
               Crouds
               ,
               which
               press
               behind
               ,
            
             
               Force
               the
               foremost
               Hours
               away
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ceres
               for
               you
               would
               have
               reserv'd
               her
               store
               ,
            
             
               But
               for
               such
               greatness
               thought
               the
               sight
               too
               poor
               :
            
             
               And
               not
               unjustly
               fear'd
               she
               might
               become
               ,
            
             
               By
               being
               too
               officious
               ,
               troublesome
               .
            
             
               And
               the
               God
               of
               our
               Art
               bid
               us
               come
               to
               salute
               you
               '
            
             
               And
               begs
               you
               would
               kindly
               accept
               of
               our
               Duty
               :
            
             
               But
               refus'd
               to
               assist
               us
               with
               his
               Divine
               Fires
               ,
            
             
               How
               should
               they
               want
               a
               God
               whom
               your
               Presence
               inspires
               .
            
          
           
             
               Cho.
               Therefore
               we
               freely
               come
               to
               praise
            
             
               You
               ,
               the
               Author
               of
               our
               Joys
               ;
            
             
               To
               own
               our
               happiness
               ,
               and
               grow
            
             
               Much
               more
               happy
               by
               doing
               so
               .
            
             
               For
               Angels
               themselves
               ,
               who
               are
               perfect
               in
               Joys
               ,
            
             
               No
               more
               happiness
               know
               than
               this
               ,
            
             
             
               To
               see
               ,
               and
               adore
               ,
               to
               love
               and
               to
               praise
            
             
               The
               Fountain
               of
               their
               Bliss
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Song
             .
          
           
             
               While
               you
               with
               Musick
               and
               with
               Beauty
               charm
               ,
            
             
               And
               ev'ry
               Sense
               alarm
               ;
            
             
               All
               Hearts
               their
               strange
               united
               Pow'r
               confess
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               dare
               not
               wish
               it
               less
               .
            
             
               Love
               finds
               to
               ev'ry
               Heart
               an
               easie
               Way
            
             
               Or
               thro'
               the
               Ear
               or
               Eye
               .
            
             
               So
               fair
               your
               Face
               ,
            
             
               So
               sweet
               your
               Voice
               ;
            
             
               You
               seem
               at
               once
               to
               be
            
             
               Both
               Orpheus
               and
               Eurydice
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               II.
               
            
             
               See
               how
               the
               Amorous
               ,
               the
               happy
               Air
               ,
            
             
               More
               happy
               far
               than
               I
               ,
            
             
               Proud
               to
               be
               moulded
               into
               Sounds
               by
               her
               ,
            
             
               About
               her
               Lips
               do's
               play
               !
            
             
               Till
               kist
               into
               a
               Note
               it
               skips
               away
               ,
            
             
               And
               prattles
               loud
               its
               Joy.
            
             
               Ah!
               Cruel
               Fair
               ,
            
             
               Your
               Scorn
               forbear
            
             
               Nor
               give
               that
               Liberty
            
             
               To
               Air
               ,
               which
               is
               deny'd
               to
               me
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Song
             .
          
           
             
               O
               Extasie
               Divine
               !
               I
               cannot
               hold
               !
            
             
               Farewel
               dull
               Earth
               !
               see
               !
               where
               my
               ravish'd
               Soul
            
             
               Stands
               shiv'ring
               on
               the
               edg
               of
               it's
               slow
               Clay
               !
            
             
               With
               the
               next
               rising
               Note
               't
               will
               fly
               away
               .
            
             
             
               I
               faint
               !
               I
               faint
               !
               the
               pow'rful
               Charm
               forbear
               !
            
             
               Nay
               ;
               but
               sing
               on
               ;
               sure
               that
               will
               keep
               it
               here
               .
            
             
               Whither
               fond
               Soul
               !
               Ah!
               whither
               would'st
               thou
               fly
               ?
            
             
               To
               Heav'n
               ?
               can
               there
               be
               sweeter
               Harmony
               ?
            
             
               'T
               is
               strange
               the
               Charms
               of
               Harmony
               ,
               which
               give
            
             
               To
               all
               things
               Life
               should
               make
               me
               cease
               to
               live
               .
            
             
               Yet
               is
               this
               Death
               ?
               If
               it
               be
               thus
               to
               die
               ,
            
             
               Death
               cannot
               be
               a
               Curse
               :
               or
               if
               it
               be
               ,
            
             
               Ye
               angry
               Pow'rs
               may
               't
               ever
               light
               on
               me
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             To
             Thomas
             Lord
             Bishop
             of
             Bath
             and
             Wells
             staying
             at
             Winton
             ,
             after
             his
             promotion
             to
             that
             See.
             1685.
             
          
           
             
               AS
               when
               of
               old
               on
               
               Ida's
               verdant
               Plain
            
             
               Paris
               the
               young
               ,
               the
               gay
               ,
               the
               charming
               Swain
               ,
            
             
               Long
               with
               success
               had
               reign'd
               the
               Shepherds
               Lord
               ,
            
             
               And
               their
               pride
               ;
               prais'd
               by
               all
               ,
               by
               all
               ador'd
               ,
            
             
             
               At
               length
               acknowledge
               mighty
               
               Priam's
               Son
               ,
            
             
               And
               warn'd
               to
               leave
               his
               Cottage
               for
               a
               Throne
               ,
            
             
               Forc'd
               to
               be
               great
               ,
               and
               ravish'd
               to
               a
               Crown
               ,
            
             
               Long
               doubtful
               thro'
               the
               pensive
               Shades
               he
               roves
               ,
            
             
               Loth
               to
               forsake
               his
               dear
               familiar
               Groves
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               his
               tender
               flocks
               ,
               and
               all
               his
               tender
               loves
               .
            
             
               Oft
               to
               the
               Nymphs
               and
               Swains
               he
               bids
               adieu
               ;
            
             
               Oft
               tells
               his
               Case
               ,
               and
               how
               he
               's
               forc'd
               to
               go
               .
            
             
               The
               Nymphs
               and
               Swains
               as
               much
               concern'd
               as
               he
               ,
            
             
               Weep
               ,
               doubting
               whether
               't
               is
               for
               Grief
               or
               Joy.
            
             
               To
               lose
               their
               darling
               Lord
               unwilling
               they
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               dare
               not
               bid
               him
               from
               a
               Kingdom
               stay
               .
            
             
               While
               diff'rent
               Passions
               thus
               distort
               their
               mind
               ,
            
             
               In
               their
               rack'd
               breast
               a
               doleful
               Joy
               they
               find
               ,
            
             
               And
               blame
               the
               Fates
               for
               being
               too
               severely
               kind
               .
            
             
               So
               you
               ,
               Great
               Sir
               ,
               our
               Joy
               ,
               our
               Pride
               ,
               our
               —
            
             
               (
               For
               your
               exalted
               State
               fain
               would
               I
               frame
            
             
               Some
               more
               expressive
               ,
               more
               endearing
               N●me
               ;
            
             
             
               But
               ah
               !
               you
               were
               so
               much
               our
               All
               before
               ,
            
             
               That
               now
               you
               are
               not
               ,
               nor
               can
               e're
               be
               more
               )
            
             
               To
               your
               Success
               what
               Tribute
               do
               we
               owe
               !
            
             
               We
               would
               be
               grateful
               ,
               but
               we
               know
               not
               how
               .
            
             
               To
               shew
               our
               Joy
               were
               but
               to
               bid
               you
               go
               ;
            
             
               Such
               farewels
               are
               to
               parting
               Tyrants
               due
               ,
            
             
               To
               base
               ,
               dull
               men
               ,
               and
               all
               who
               are
               unlike
               to
               you
               .
            
             
               Yet
               can
               we
               grieve
               ,
               and
               wish
               you
               always
               here
               ?
            
             
               Meer
               Envy
               that
               ,
               and
               no
               less
               Madness
               were
               ,
            
             
               Than
               to
               wish
               our
               Friends
               ,
               who
               with
               th'
               Immortal
               reign
            
             
               Themselves
               Immortal
               ,
               here
               on
               Earth
               again
               .
            
             
               Yet
               you
               vouchsafe
               to
               bless
               us
               with
               your
               stay
               ,
            
             
               And
               slowly
               hence
               even
               to
               Glory
               ●ly
               :
            
             
               But
               smiling
               thro'
               these
               peaceful
               Shades
               you
               glide
               ,
            
             
               Like
               some
               calm
               Ghost
               where
               all
               his
               Treasure
               's
               hid
               .
            
             
               You
               ,
               who
               had
               largely
               clear'd
               your
               Debts
               before
               ,
            
             
               Now
               out
               of
               Charity
               t'o'repay
               the
               score
               .
            
             
             
               Thrice
               happy
               Bath
               to
               you
               with
               joy
               does
               bow
               ,
            
             
               Much
               to
               Great
               Charles
               she
               ows
               ,
               and
               much
               to
               you
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               does
               she
               more
               to
               her
               own
               Blad●d
               owe.
            
             
               She
               now
               shall
               feel
               those
               strong
               Meridian
               Rays
            
             
               Of
               that
               bright
               Sun
               which
               in
               our
               East
               did
               rise
               .
            
             
               But
               tho
               he
               shine
               with
               greater
               lustre
               there
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               were
               his
               beams
               more
               close
               and
               tender
               here
               .
            
             
               For
               still
               the
               Sun
               most
               vital
               warmth
               bestows
            
             
               On
               that
               blest
               Earth
               ,
               from
               which
               himself
               arose
               .
            
             
               Nor
               shall
               this
               Age
               alone
               your
               Glory
               know
               ,
            
             
               But
               ev'n
               Posterity
               shall
               boast
               of
               you
               .
            
             
               When
               future
               times
               shall
               
               Wickham's
               off
               spring
               count
               ,
            
             
               Who
               did
               by
               steps
               the
               Seat
               of
               Honour
               mount
               ,
            
             
               Then
               ,
               then
               shall
               you
               ,
               and
               only
               you
               ,
               be
               found
               ,
            
             
               Who
               reach'd
               a
               Mitre
               from
               so
               low
               a
               ground
               .
            
             
               When
               others
               oft●n
               pitch'd
               an●
               stop'd
               for
               ease
               ,
            
             
               At
               one
               bold
               flight
               you
               gain'd
               the
               mighty
               Space
               .
            
             
             
               Thus
               all
               e'en
               the
               Uninteress'd
               admire
            
             
               The
               glorious
               height
               you
               've
               reach'd
               ,
               and
               with
               you
               high'r
               .
            
             
               Full
               Tides
               of
               Joy
               all
               shores
               and
               Channels
               fill
               ,
            
             
               And
               on
               each
               Brow
               sits
               a
               contented
               smile
               .
            
             
               Only
               we
               feel
               a
               dull
               ,
               imperfect
               Joy
               ,
            
             
               Fear'd
               absence
               present
               Comforts
               does
               allay
               .
            
             
               Yet
               why
               should
               we
               by
               discontented
               moan
            
             
               Idly
               disturb
               your
               pleasures
               ,
               and
               our
               own
               ?
            
             
               For
               thus
               Rome
               lost
               (
               if
               that
               a
               loss
               could
               be
               )
            
             
               Her
               Founder
               to
               be
               made
               a
               Deity
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             On
             the
             Recovery
             of
             the
             Spanish
             Wrack
             ,
             by
             Captain
             Phips
             .
             1686.
             
          
           
             
               LOng
               uncontroul'd
               had
               the
               proud
               Ocean
            
             
               Usurp'd
               a
               lawless
               Tyranny
               o'er
               Man.
            
             
               Where'er
               it
               roll'd
               ,
               the
               Arbitrary
               Tide
            
             
               Plunder'd
               ,
               and
               Nature's
               useless
               Laws
               desy'd
               .
            
             
             
               〈…〉
               ●●●●re
               to
               Marin●rs
               was
               I
               n●w●
               ,
            
             
               ●or
               were
               th●ir
               Goods
               ,
               n●r
               were
               th●ms●l●●●
               〈…〉
               .
            
             
               O●t●au●ht
               in
               S●●●●s
               by
               wanton
               W●i●●
               〈…〉
               ,
            
             
               They
               and
               ●h●ir
               Ho●●●
               together
               sunk
               ●nd
               dy'd
               .
            
             
               In
               vain
               did
               they
               the
               pity
               in●
               Heav'n
               im●●ore
               ,
            
             
               H●av'n
               th●●
               should
               pity
               them
               ,
               was
               s●arce
               s●●●r●
               .
            
             
               So
               great
               the
               R●ge
               and
               Av'rice
               of
               the
               S●●
               ,
            
             
               Not
               all
               it's
               Floo●s
               coul●
               wash
               it's
               Guilt
               away
               .
            
             
               Tho
               on
               each
               Wave
               th●re
               rode
               a
               B●caui●r
               ,
            
             
               T●o
               
                 Tunis
                 ,
                 Sall●
                 ▪
                 Trip●ly
              
               were
               there
               ,
            
             
               N●
               greater
               Pirate
               than
               it
               s●lf
               it
               〈◊〉
               .
            
             
               〈◊〉
               ,
               first
               of
               a●l
               the
               H●r
               〈…〉
               ,
            
             
               Durst
               ma●e
               R●p●izal
               on
               the
               〈…〉
               .
            
             
               He
               N●p●●ne
               first
               with
               ●q●●l
               pow●●
               〈◊〉
               ,
            
             
               A●d
               fi●st
               by
               him
               the
               Sea
               it
               s●l●
               〈…〉
               .
            
             
               B●neath
               v●st
               D●pths
               where
               Wa●●
               r●tire
               〈◊〉
               .
            
             
               N●r
               Moons
               nor
               Win●s
               the
               sl●●p●●●
               〈…〉
               ;
            
             
             
               A
               Mass
               of
               harmless
               Virgin-wealth
               there
               lay
               ,
            
             
               Unstain'd
               by
               Avarice
               or
               Luxury
               ;
            
             
               Which
               had
               not
               Justice
               yet
               ,
               nor
               Peace
               oppos'd
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               Pardons
               bought
               for
               Sins
               it self
               had
               caus'd
               .
            
             
               It
               there
               ,
               while
               thousand
               Tides
               their
               Circuits
               run
               ,
            
             
               Lay
               unregarded
               ,
               and
               despair'd
               the
               Sun
               :
            
             
               Till
               Phips
               at
               last
               the
               wond'ring
               Metal
               drew
            
             
               From
               deeper
               Mines
               ,
               than
               where
               at
               first
               it
               grew
               .
            
             
               Thro'
               harmless
               Waves
               the
               wanton
               Divers
               play
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               dissembled
               drowning
               ,
               mock
               the
               Sea.
            
             
               The
               wond'ring
               Fish
               on
               their
               new
               Brethren
               gaze
               ,
            
             
               And
               greet
               the
               strange
               Appendix
               to
               their
               Race
               .
            
             
               Secure
               of
               danger
               play'd
               the
               wat'ry
               kind
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               fear'd
               the
               Net
               for
               nobler
               prey
               design'd
               :
            
             
               Soon
               had
               they
               fill'd
               the
               lab'ring
               Ship
               with
               Coin
               ,
            
             
               Almost
               enough
               to
               sink
               it
               back
               again
               .
            
             
               Thence
               with
               swell'd
               hearts
               and
               sails
               they
               homeward
               fly
               ,
            
             
               And
               trembling
               Waves
               bring
               their
               own
               wealth
               away
               .
            
             
             
               And
               first
               ,
               Great
               Monarch
               ,
               at
               your
               feet
               they
               lay
            
             
               This
               humble
               Tribute
               of
               your
               Subject
               Sea.
            
             
               'T
               is
               true
               ,
               the
               British
               Monarchs
               long
               in
               vain
            
             
               Have
               boasted
               Sov'reign
               Lordship
               o'er
               the
               Main
               ;
            
             
               But
               never
               was
               their
               Pow'r
               confest
               till
               now
               ,
            
             
               By
               Fate
               that
               Blessing
               was
               reserv'd
               for
               you
               .
            
             
               Long
               did
               the
               sloating
               World
               your
               Courage
               dread
               ,
            
             
               Your
               Fame
               as
               far
               ,
               as
               Seas
               themselves
               ,
               is
               spread
               .
            
             
               When
               other
               Foes
               have
               all
               your
               Pow'r
               confest
               ,
            
             
               You
               triumph
               o'er
               the
               Sea
               it self
               at
               last
               .
            
             
               Next
               to
               Great
               Monk
               the
               largest
               Prize
               accru'd
               ,
            
             
               Monk
               ,
               who
               was
               born
               of
               a
               recov'ring
               Blood.
            
             
               When
               Western
               Islands
               were
               design'd
               his
               care
               .
            
             
               These
               the
               kind
               Omens
               of
               his
               Fortune
               were
               .
            
             
               T
               is
               thought
               ,
               when
               Neptune
               his
               preferment
               heard
               ,
            
             
               He
               sent
               this
               Present
               to
               his
               future
               Lord.
               
            
          
        
         
           
           
             On
             the
             Feast
             of
             Cecilia
             .
             1686.
             
             An
             ODE
             .
          
           
             
               1.
               
            
             
               I
               O!
               With
               triumphant
               Noise
               ,
            
             
               With
               Musick
               's
               loudest
               Voice
               ,
            
             
               This
               day
               a
               solemn
               Feast
               proclame
               .
            
             
               A
               s●l●mn
               Feast
               to
               Great
               
               Cecilia's
               Name
               .
            
             
               No
               cloudy
               Thought
               ,
               no
               sullen
               Tear
               ,
            
             
               No
               tumultuous
               Care
               or
               Fear
            
             
               Approach
               the
               limits
               of
               this
               sacred
               Day
               ,
            
             
               Sacred
               to
               Musick
               and
               Cecilia
               ;
            
             
               But
               all
               be
               sweet
               ,
               serene
               and
               gay
               ;
            
             
               Sweet
               as
               the
               Saint
               to
               whom
               these
               Rites
               we
               pay
               ;
            
             
               Sweet
               as
               the
               Not●s
               she
               did
               below
               ,
               or
               now
               above
               does
               play
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               2
            
             
               Musick
               !
               thou
               only
               perfect
               Joy
               ,
            
             
               Which
               neither
               pres●nt
               Fears
               all●y
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               aft●r
               pangs
               destroy
               !
            
             
               The
               dear
               remembrance
               of
               the
               Pleasure
               past
            
             
               Shall
               no
               Repentance
               cost
               ,
            
             
               Bring
               with
               it
               no
               Regret
               ,
            
             
               But
               be
               ,
               like
               it's
               own
               Eccho
               sweet
               .
            
             
               Musick
               !
               thou
               mighty
               Soul
               o'
               th'
               Univers●
               !
            
             
               Which
               dost
               ,
               like
               (
               thine
               own
               G●d
               )
               the
               S●●
               .
            
             
               Thro'
               all
               thine
               active
               pow'r
               disp●rs●
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               the
               stupid
               Mass
               with
               life
               and
               beauty
               cr●w●
               :
            
             
               M●thinks
               I
               now
               b●hold
               sweet
               Orpheus
               sit
            
             
               On
               
               S●●●●●'s
               Bank
               ,
               and
               tune
               his
               Lyre
            
             
               T●
               Sounds
               w●ich
               life
               and
               vig'rous
               joys
               inspire
               :
            
             
               ●●●●d
               him
               the
               l●s●'ning
               B●●sts
               their
               food
               forg●t
               ,
            
             
               Forget
               to
               play
               ,
            
             
               And
               without
               moti●n
               round
               the
               Char●●r
               st●y
               .
            
             
             
               But
               nimbler
               Trees
               ,
               when
               they
               the
               Musick
               hear
               ,
            
             
               (
               Musick
               which
               gives
               them
               ear
               )
            
             
               Leap
               forth
               ,
               and
               wanton
               round
               the
               place
               ;
            
             
               Trees
               skip
               ,
               like
               Beasts
               ;
               Beasts
               stand
               unmov'd
               ,
               like
               Trees
               .
            
             
               Pines
               ,
               Elins
               ,
               and
               Cedars
               in
               long
               rows
               advance
               ,
            
             
               An
               aged
               Oak
               leads
               up
               the
               Dance
               :
            
             
               Two
               hundred
               years
               it
               stood
               the
               Wood's
               chief
               pride
               ,
            
             
               S●
               long
               
               Jove's
               Bolts
               and
               strugling
               Winds
               desy'd
               ;
            
             
               Now
               from
               it's
               bed
               of
               Earth
               away
               it
               tears
               ,
            
             
               And
               round
               it's
               spreading
               roots
               a
               weighty
               Mountain
               bears
               .
            
          
           
             
               3.
               
            
             
               Hark!
               Hark!
               th'
               harmonious
               accents
               move
               ,
            
             
               Thro'
               the
               brisk
               Air
               th'
               enliven'd
               Numbers
               rove
               ;
            
             
               About
               they
               dance
               ,
               about
               they
               play
               ,
            
             
               And
               call
               the
               ravish'd
               Soul
               away
               :
            
             
               The
               Soul
               th'
               harmonious
               Summons
               does
               obey
               ;
            
             
               The
               Soul
               ,
               which
               is
               it self
               all
               Harmony
               .
            
             
             
               With
               all
               it
               's
               sprightly
               train
               of
               Faculties
               ,
            
             
               Out
               at
               the
               Ear
               it
               flies
               .
            
             
               Hence
               't
               is
               ,
               that
               oft
               with
               height
               of
               Extasie
            
             
               We
               faint
               and
               die
               away
               .
            
             
               The
               Soul
               ,
               in
               hast
               to
               be
               at
               large
               ,
            
             
               And
               heedless
               of
               it's
               Charge
               ,
            
             
               Leaves
               almost
               uninform'd
               the
               stupid
               Clay
               .
            
             
               Now
               o'er
               the
               trembling
               strings
               it
               bounds
               ,
            
             
               Now
               thro'
               the
               Air
               pursues
               the
               flitting
               Sounds
               ;
            
             
               Then
               lured
               back
               again
               ,
            
             
               By
               some
               more
               gentle
               strain
               ,
            
             
               Calm
               and
               languishing
               it
               lies
               ,
            
             
               Grasping
               the
               new-born
               Accents
               as
               they
               rise
               ;
            
             
               Greets
               all
               th'
               harmonious
               Brethren
               as
               they
               pass
               ;
            
             
               Does
               each
               soft
               Note
               embrace
               :
            
             
               And
               fain
               would
               here
               acquainted
               grow
            
             
               With
               that
               ,
               that
               only
               Joy
               ,
            
             
             
               W●●ch
               ,
               ●f
               all
               those
               we
               s●●m
               to
               ha●●●elow
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               wi●h
               it
               s●l●
               share
               Immortality
               .
            
          
           
             
               4.
               
            
             
               To
               〈…〉
               G●●●●an
               Saint
               ,
               to
               thee
            
             
               T●●s
               〈…〉
               Ti●e
               and
               Art
               we
               pay
               .
            
             
               〈…〉
               Thou●hts
               and
               sweetest
               Lays
            
             
               〈…〉
               Maker's
               praise
               ;
            
             
               W●
               (
               ●ho
               '
               〈…〉
               Verse
               ,
               in
               ●●r●er
               strain
               )
               .
            
             
               Pres●m●
               〈…〉
               thi●●
               .
            
             
               M●●●
               〈…〉
               ●l●ss
               and
               Care
               ,
            
             
               A●ove
               thou
               〈…〉
               ●●●●●t'st
               it
               h●re
               ,
            
             
               So
               that
               〈◊〉
               h●●●●o
               s●y
               ,
            
             
               T●●
               a
               b●ess●●t
               Mus●●k
               〈…〉
               Musick
               th●●
               .
            
          
           
             
               C●●●us
               .
            
             
               T●●
               s●●n●r
               ●●t
               the
               ro●●ing
               Y●●r
               f●rget
               ,
            
             
               Amo●●
               〈…〉
               T●●in
               ,
            
             
               To
               〈…〉
               ●●ppy
               Day
               〈◊〉
               ,
            
             
               Than
               we
               〈◊〉
               y●●●●
               〈◊〉
               to
               cel●br●●●
               :
            
             
             
               And
               let
               each
               sweet
               Intelligence
               above
               ,
            
             
               Which
               to
               harmonious
               Sounds
               does
               move
            
             
               His
               Golden
               Sphere
               ,
            
             
               When
               he
               beholds
               this
               glitt'ring
               Day
            
             
               Return
               ,
               and
               in
               the
               Dance
               of
               Time
               app●●r
               ,
            
             
               Strike
               the
               Chords
               full
               ,
               and
               m●ke
               an
               unive●s●l
               ●ymphony
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             On
             a
             Lady's
             Birth-day
             .
          
           
             
               As
               wh●n
               an
               Envoy
               from
               some
               pow'r●●
               King
            
             
               To
               needy
               States
               does
               peace●ul
               〈◊〉
               bring
               ,
            
             
               T●●●●●an●s●
               Servants
               ,
               who
               att●nd
               his
               T●ai●
               ,
            
             
               Th●ir
               part
               of
               Honour
               and
               Res●ect
               ●l●●in
               :
            
             
               So
               when
               s●me
               signal
               Bless●●g
               ●rom
               ●●●●e
            
             
               〈…〉
               H●ppin
               s●
               ,
               and
               H●av●'s
               Love
               ;
            
             
               〈…〉
               Hou●●
               ,
               〈…〉
               ●●●y
               Goo●
               ,
            
             
               
            
             
             
               Hence
               ,
               Madam
               ,
               't
               is
               we
               now
               prepare
               to
               pay
            
             
               Our
               grateful
               Honours
               to
               th'
               ensuing
               Day
               .
            
             
               And
               sure
               thus
               much
               to
               this
               kind
               Time
               is
               due
               ,
            
             
               This
               Time
               ,
               that
               all
               ,
               for
               which
               to
               Heav'n
               we
               sue
               ,
            
             
               Our
               Hopes
               and
               Wishes
               brought
               ,
               that
               brought
               us
               You.
            
             
               By
               one
               day's
               Duty
               thus
               we
               cheaply
               pay
            
             
               For
               Blessings
               which
               we
               all
               the
               Year
               enjoy
               .
            
             
               See!
               how
               the
               eager
               Moments
               justle
               forth
               ,
            
             
               Proud
               to
               be
               seen
               ,
               and
               conscious
               of
               their
               worth
               !
            
             
               Some
               witness
               ,
               by
               sad
               Looks
               and
               sullen
               Frowns
               ,
            
             
               They
               saw
               your
               Mother's
               pangs
               and
               heard
               her
               groans
               :
            
             
               But
               ever
               gazing
               backward
               seem
               to
               shew
            
             
               The
               hours
               behind
               should
               recompence
               her
               Woe
               .
            
             
               And
               lo
               !
               the
               joyful
               hour
               at
               length
               appears
               ,
            
             
               Which
               eas'd
               your
               Mother's
               pangs
               and
               Father's
               fears
               !
            
             
               How
               beautiful
               ,
               how
               chearful
               does
               it
               pass
               !
            
             
               As
               if
               't
               had
               learn'd
               from
               You
               the
               Art
               to
               please
               .
            
             
             
               And
               hear
               me
               ,
               Courteous
               Moment
               ,
               e'er
               thou
               go
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               hast
               my
               Thanks
               ,
               receive
               my
               Wishes
               too
               ,
            
             
               May'st
               thou
               each
               year
               (
               if
               possible
               )
               add
               more
            
             
               Fresh
               Charms
               and
               Blessings
               to
               her
               former
               store
               !
            
             
               And
               (
               since
               our
               Wishes
               can
               no
               higher
               rise
               )
            
             
               Make
               her
               ,
               Oh!
               only
               make
               her
               what
               she
               is
               !
            
             
               May'st
               thou
               her
               Years
               ,
               and
               our
               Joys
               oft
               renew
               !
            
             
               Thus
               may'st
               thou
               oft
               return
               ,
               but
               very
               slow
               ;
            
             
               For
               such
               alas
               !
               so
               frail
               a
               thing
               is
               Man
               ;
            
             
               Ev'n
               that
               kind
               Moment
               ,
               which
               his
               Life
               began
               ,
            
             
               By
               frequent
               Visits
               takes
               it
               back
               again
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             On
             a
             Lady's
             Picture
             .
          
           
             
               BElieve
               ,
               Posterity
               ,
               believe
               it
               true
               ,
            
             
               This
               from
               no
               fancied
               Form
               the
               Pencil
               drew
               ;
            
             
               No
               Angel
               sate
               ,
               with
               lucid
               Visions
               sent
               ,
            
             
               To
               bless
               the
               Eyes
               of
               some
               departing
               Saint
               .
            
             
             
               N●●
               all
               the
               Charms
               which
               on
               this
               ●icture
               dwell
            
             
               (
               And
               ah
               what
               pity
               '
               t
               is
               !
               )
               are
               mortal
               all
               .
            
             
               T●●●●uch
               't
               is
               sit
               to
               let
               the
               Picture
               speak
               ,
            
             
               L●st
               this
               for
               some
               bri●●t
               Being
               they
               mistake
            
             
               O●
               〈…〉
               ;
               and
               to
               Mankind
               be
               lost
            
             
               〈…〉
               H●nour
               it
               could
               ever
               boast
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Friendship
             .
          
           
             
               HE
               ●ho
               (
               ●f
               any
               such
               )
               shall
               condescend
            
             
               With
               worthl●ss
               me
               to
               share
               the
               name
               of
               Friend
               ,
            
             
               〈…〉
               of
               Love
               ,
               Oh!
               may
               he
               be
            
             
               〈…〉
               Vice
               ,
               and
               sow'r
               ill
               Nature
               free
               :
            
             
               No
               〈◊〉
               w●●m
               Passi●n
               in
               his
               B●som
               reign
               ,
            
             
               N●●●●r●●e
               ,
               nor
               ●●vy
               ●i●
               good
               Nature
               stain
               ,
            
             
               M●●
               〈◊〉
               w●●t
               himself
               ,
               and
               eas'ly
               pardo●
               min●
               .
            
             
             
               Or
               rather
               some
               small
               Failings
               let
               him
               have
               ,
            
             
               He
               'll
               learn
               ,
               by
               being
               forgiven
               ,
               to
               forgive
               .
            
             
               Stanch
               to
               our
               mutual
               Secrets
               let
               him
               be
               ;
            
             
               One
               I
               may
               trust
               ,
               and
               one
               who
               dares
               trust
               me
               :
            
             
               Not
               sullen
               ,
               nor
               impertinently
               kind
               ,
            
             
               Whom
               Choice
               to
               me
               ,
               not
               Chance
               or
               Int'●al
               ▪
               j●yn'd
               :
            
             
               Who
               rose
               from
               an
               Acquaintant
               to
               a
               Friend
               :
            
             
               Not
               too
               unequal
               in
               Estate
               or
               Blood
               ,
            
             
               Lest
               Distance
               sneaking
               seem
               ,
               or
               Freedome
               ru●e
               ;
            
             
               A
               friend
               to
               Thought
               and
               Books
               ,
               and
               might
               I
               chuse
            
             
               Not
               wholly
               unacquainted
               with
               a
               Muse.
            
             
               One
               who
               (
               which
               Heav'n
               forbi●
               )
               can
               cease
               ●o
               be
            
             
               A
               Friend
               ,
               yet
               not
               become
               an
               Enemy
               .
            
             
               From
               ill
               Reports
               ,
               who
               ●ares
               his
               utmost
               do
               ,
            
             
               To
               clear
               me
               when
               they
               're
               〈…〉
               m●
               w●en
               they
               're
               true
               .
            
             
               My
               Praise
               ,
               when
               just
               ,
               let
               him
               〈…〉
               ,
            
             
               But
               Flatt'ry
               let
               him
               scorn
               to
               〈◊〉
               ,
               or
               〈◊〉
               .
            
             
             
               Who
               can
               with
               me
               chat
               a
               spare
               Hour
               away
               .
            
             
               Yet
               censure
               not
               what
               others
               do
               or
               say
               :
            
             
               Bold
               to
               reprove
               ,
               when
               Vertue
               I
               offend
               ,
            
             
               Only
               to
               me
               ,
               not
               to
               my
               Faults
               ,
               a
               Friend
               .
            
             
               Thus
               may
               we
               long
               hold
               Friendship
               ,
               and
               adore
            
             
               Only
               our
               Honour
               ,
               and
               our
               Conscience
               more
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Impatient
             .
          
           
             
               ENough
               ,
               enough
               of
               this
               worlds
               fruitless
               Care
               ,
            
             
               And
               ev'n
               it's
               Pleasures
               I
               have
               suffer'd
               here
               .
            
             
               I
               'm
               weary
               of
               Life's
               gross
               Hypocrisie
               ,
            
             
               With
               Plenty
               starv'd
               ,
               cloy'd
               with
               Variety
               .
            
             
               O
               happy
               ,
               happy
               State
               ,
               when
               I
               shall
               be
            
             
               From
               fancy'd
               Good
               ,
               and
               real
               Evil
               free
               !
            
             
               When
               one
               short
               well
               spent
               Sigh
               shall
               me
               remove
            
             
               From
               all
               the
               Cheats
               mistaken
               Mortals
               love●
            
             
             
               When
               ,
               undeceiv'd
               by
               fancy'd
               shadows
               ,
               I
            
             
               Shall
               very
               Beauty
               in
               it's
               Fountain
               see
               !
            
             
               O
               happy
               ,
               happy
               State
               !
               Why
               do
               I
               stay
               ?
            
             
               Move
               faster
               ,
               Time
               ,
               how
               slowly
               dost
               thou
               fly
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               the
               weight
               of
               Years
               had
               crippled
               thee
               ?
            
             
               Thou
               ,
               Death's
               Procurer
               ,
               quickly
               bring
               me
               safe
            
             
               Into
               the
               cold
               Embraces
               of
               the
               Grave
               ;
            
             
               There
               shall
               I
               blest
               ,
               at
               least
               shall
               quiet
               lie
               ,
            
             
               Till
               the
               Angelick
               Summons
               from
               on
               High
            
             
               Call
               me
               to
               Bliss
               and
               real
               Life
               away
               .
            
             
               Then
               shall
               devouring
               Flame
               ,
               with
               fury
               hurl'd
               ,
            
             
               Revenge
               my
               quarrel
               on
               th'
               injurious
               World.
            
             
               Then
               thou
               shalt
               cease
               ,
               and
               Death
               himself
               shall
               die
               ;
            
             
               And
               both
               together
               lost
               and
               bury'd
               lie
               ,
            
             
               He
               in
               eternal
               Life
               ,
               and
               thou
               in
               vast
               Eternity
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Resolution
             .
          
           
             
               TH●●ks
               〈…〉
               scorn
               ,
               I
               now
               at
               ●●n●th
               am
               ●●●e
               :
            
             
               I
               〈…〉
               Fools
               c●ll
               Cru●●ty
               :
            
             
               For
               th●
               would
               〈…〉
               ,
               for
               this
               r●pine
               ?
            
             
               I
               'm
               sure
               he●
               Kin●n●ss
               had
               more
               cruel
               〈◊〉
               .
            
             
               No●
               〈…〉
               World
               ,
               that
               weight
               o●
               s●●●n
               ,
               wh●●h
               she
            
             
               Thr●w
               ●n
               ●y
               head
               ,
               I
               thus
               return
               on
               th●●
               .
            
             
               I
               now
               thy
               〈◊〉
               and
               thy
               Ma●●●
               slig●●
            
             
               And
               will
               be
               happy
               ,
               even
               out
               of
               spig●●
               .
            
             
               I●
               〈◊〉
               no
               more
               ●y
               Vows
               and
               Tears
               ●●all
               los●
               ,
            
             
               No
               more
               in
               frui●less
               Sighs
               my
               breath
               abuse
               ;
            
             
               Sin
               ●h●ll
               have
               all
               my
               Sighs
               and
               Tears
               ;
               and
               Ver●u●
               all
               my
               V●w●
               .
            
             
               〈…〉
               ,
               be
               th●
               〈◊〉
               H●av'n
               my
               〈◊〉
            
             
               〈…〉
               my
               Thought●
               a●●
               〈◊〉
               are
               ,
            
             
               〈…〉
               ,
               ●o
               〈…〉
               ●●●re
               .
            
             
             
               Pardon
               ,
               dear
               Heav'n
               ,
               my
               hours
               in
               Folly
               spent
               ,
            
             
               The
               Crime
               it self
               was
               it's
               own
               Punishment
               !
            
             
               But
               now
               unpeg'd
               from
               Earth
               I
               upward
               move
               ,
            
             
               To
               thee
               ,
               Essential
               Fair
               ,
               Eternal
               Love
               :
            
             
               The
               Sphere
               of
               Earth's
               Activity
               I
               've
               past
               ,
            
             
               Here
               it
               's
               Magnetick
               Influence
               is
               lost
               .
            
             
               I
               come
               ,
               great
               Love
               ;
               my
               panting
               Soul
               does
               fly
               ,
            
             
               With
               all
               it's
               Weight
               still
               pressing
               up
               to
               thee
               .
            
             
               And
               now
               do
               thou
               thy
               needful
               Succour
               lend
               ,
            
             
               From
               Vice
               ,
               and
               from
               my self
               ,
               my self
               defend
               .
            
             
               So
               shall
               I
               Death
               and
               Life
               it self
               defie
               ;
            
             
               That
               smiling
               ,
               but
               more
               dang'rous
               Enemy
               :
            
             
               And
               my
               last
               breath
               in
               sullen
               Sighs
               I
               'll
               vent
               ,
            
             
               Only
               for
               Grief
               that
               't
               was
               no
               sooner
               spent
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Departure
             .
          
           
             
               1.
               
            
             
               DIssuade
               me
               not
               ;
               I
               cannot
               stay
               ;
            
             
               Hence
               with
               cruel
               Piety
               !
            
             
               If
               ye
               from
               Death
               would
               set
               me
               free
               ,
            
             
               Quickly
               ,
               Oh!
               quickly
               let
               me
               die
               !
            
             
               Hark!
               I
               am
               summon'd
               hence
               ;
               I
               must
               depart
               ;
            
             
               The
               joyful
               Halleluja's
               now
               begun
            
             
               To
               him
               that
               sits
               on
               the
               Eternal
               Throne
               ,
            
             
               In
               which
               I
               'm
               call'd
               to
               bear
               a
               Part.
               
            
          
           
             
               2.
               
            
             
               Oh!
               what
               a
               Scene
               of
               Glory
               opens
               there
               !
            
             
               See!
               where
               the
               Martyrs
               valiant
               Hosts
               appear
               !
            
             
             
               With
               Crimson
               Garlands
               Crown'd
               ,
               and
               white
               attire
               ;
            
             
               With
               Hymns
               of
               Joy
               their
               Lord
               they
               greet
               ,
            
             
               His
               and
               their
               Sufferings
               repeat
               ,
            
             
               And
               now
               in
               Flames
               of
               Love
               almost
               expire
               .
            
          
           
             
               3.
               
            
             
               There
               spotless
               Infants
               sit
               and
               smile
               ,
            
             
               Whom
               Guilt
               or
               Care
               did
               ne'er
               defile
               !
            
             
               See
               ,
               what
               bright
               Rays
               of
               Glory
               they
               dispense
               ,
            
             
               Clad
               in
               white
               Robes
               ,
               and
               whiter
               Innocence
               !
            
             
               There
               Angels
               ,
               Heav'ns
               bright
               Ministers
               ,
               I
               see
            
             
               Gaze
               ,
               and
               admire
               the
               Mystery
               .
            
             
               Aloud
               their
               thankful
               Hymns
               are
               heard
               ,
            
             
               Pleas'd
               to
               se●
               their
               younger
               Brethren
               to
               themselves
               prefer'd
               .
            
          
           
             
               4.
               
            
             
               And
               is
               there
               here
               a
               place
               for
               me
            
             
               To
               sit
               awhile
               ,
               and
               see
            
             
               (
               For
               sure
               it
               were
               too
               much
               t'
               enjoy
               )
            
             
               The
               glorious
               Solemnity
               ?
            
             
             
               Oh!
               in
               this
               happy
               place
               let
               me
               but
               serve
               !
            
             
               I
               scarce
               can
               wish
               for
               more
               ,
               and
               I
               much
               less
               deserve
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             CONTENT
             .
             A
             Pastoral
             Dialogue
             .
          
           
             
               Thyrsis
               .
            
             
               BY
               your
               Pipe
               's
               leave
               ,
               good
               Damon
               ,
               say
            
             
               (
               If
               thou
               canst
               ought
               but
               sing
               and
               play
               )
            
             
               Why
               ,
               when
               all
               the
               Swains
               complain
               ,
            
             
               These
               of
               Drought
               ,
               and
               those
               of
               Rain
               ;
            
             
               Some
               that
               Ewes
               unnat'ral
               prove
               ;
            
             
               Some
               pine
               for
               Envy
               ,
               some
               for
               Love
               ;
            
             
               Only
               thou
               ,
               of
               all
               the
               Swains
               ,
            
             
               With
               Songs
               and
               Smiles
               divert'st
               the
               Plains
               ?
            
             
               Say
               ,
               my
               gentle
               Shepherd
               ,
               say
               ,
            
             
               Why
               art
               thou
               so
               blith
               and
               gay
               ?
            
          
           
             
             
               Damon
               .
            
             
               Rather
               ,
               Shepherd
               ,
               tell
               me
               ,
               why
               ,
            
             
               If
               Swains
               will
               be
               Fools
               ,
               must
               I
            
             
               Play
               the
               Fool
               for
               Company
               ?
            
             
               Swains
               unwisely
               do
               complain
               ,
            
             
               Some
               of
               Drought
               ,
               and
               some
               of
               Rain
               ;
            
             
               They
               may
               thank
               themselves
               for
               what
               's
               amiss
               :
            
             
               They
               make
               their
               own
               Unhappiness
               .
            
             
               Some
               wish
               ,
               and
               see
               their
               Flocks
               increase
               ;
            
             
               They
               gain
               Wealth
               ,
               but
               lose
               their
               Peace
               :
            
             
               Folds
               enlarg'd
               enlarge
               their
               Care
               ;
            
             
               Who
               have
               much
               ,
               for
               much
               must
               fear
               :
            
             
               Others
               see
               their
               Flocks
               decay
               ;
            
             
               With
               their
               Flocks
               they
               pine
               away
               .
            
             
               The
               Shepherd
               ,
               who
               would
               happy
               be
               ,
            
             
               Must
               not
               seek
               Causes
               for
               his
               Joy
               ;
            
             
               Must
               not
               for
               Pretences
               tarry
               :
            
             
               But
               be
               unreasonably
               merry
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Thyr.
               
            
             
               But
               ,
               Damon
               ,
               if
               thy
               Folds
               decrease
               ;
            
             
               If
               Frost
               thy
               falling
               Lambkins
               seize
               ;
            
             
               Does
               not
               thy
               Breast
               with
               Sorrow
               swell
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Dam.
               
            
             
               No
               ;
               yet
               I
               love
               my
               Lambkins
               well
               !
            
             
               Whatsoe'r
               by
               Pan
               is
               sent
               ,
            
             
               Still
               I
               think
               a
               Blessing
               meant
               :
            
             
               If
               he
               will
               retrench
               my
               store
               ,
            
             
               He
               takes
               but
               what
               he
               gave
               before
               .
            
             
               Life
               's
               an
               Art
               ,
               and
               Happiness
            
             
               A
               Knack
               ,
               which
               Swains
               may
               learn
               with
               ease
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thyr.
               
            
             
               Ah!
               gentle
               Shepherd
               !
               only
               show
               ,
            
             
               How
               I
               may
               blest
               and
               happy
               grow
               .
            
             
               This
               Sheep-Crook
               ,
               which
               I
               long
               have
               kept
               ,
            
             
               See!
               't
               is
               rich
               Wood
               ,
               and
               finely
               shap'd
               :
            
             
               'T
               was
               good
               
               Menalcas's
               Legacy
               ,
            
             
               When
               he
               left
               the
               World
               and
               me
               ;
            
             
               (
               Damon
               ,
               that
               falling
               Tear
               forgive
               ,
            
             
               Menalcas
               did
               deserve
               my
               Grief
               )
               :
            
             
             
               He
               the
               pretty
               Sheep-crook
               gave
               ,
            
             
               Which
               oft
               did
               my
               Lycoris
               crave
               :
            
             
               Oft
               she
               crav'd
               ,
               but
               ne'er
               could
               gain
               :
            
             
               Yet
               shew
               me
               this
               ,
               and
               it
               is
               thine
               .
            
          
           
             
               Dam.
               
            
             
               I
               too
               can
               boast
               t'
               have
               shar'd
               a
               part
               ,
            
             
               When
               time
               was
               ,
               in
               Menalcas
               Heart
               .
            
             
               And
               ,
               Thyrsis
               ,
               for
               his
               sake
               I
               'll
               show
               ,
            
             
               How
               thou
               may'st
               blest
               and
               happy
               grow
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               thou
               shalt
               keep
               thy
               Sheep-crook
               too
               .
            
             
               Not
               that
               I
               pretend
               to
               be
            
             
               From
               Troubles
               or
               from
               Passion
               free
               ;
            
             
               But
               still
               my
               Thoughts
               I
               fasten
               there
               ,
            
             
               Where
               I
               find
               least
               ground
               for
               Care.
            
             
               Heav'n
               wisely
               tempers
               Humane
               Life
               ;
            
             
               Wisely
               mingles
               Joy
               and
               Grief
               .
            
             
               And
               I
               still
               chuse
               to
               mind
               the
               best
               ;
            
             
               Let
               who
               will
               think
               upon
               the
               rest
               .
            
             
             
               If
               Frost
               my
               falling
               Lambs
               destroy
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               my
               Ewes
               I
               still
               enjoy
               :
            
             
               But
               if
               they
               should
               perish
               too
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               I
               ,
               Methinks
               ,
               were
               blest
               enow
               .
            
             
               Still
               my
               Pipe
               and
               Verse
               remain
               ;
            
             
               The
               Poem
               ,
               Alcon
               brag'd
               ,
               was
               mine
               .
            
             
               Sometimes
               my
               other
               Songs
               I
               've
               shew'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               Shepherds
               seem
               to
               think
               they
               're
               good
               .
            
             
               Yes
               !
               and
               they
               call
               me
               Poet
               too
               ;
            
             
               But
               I
               'm
               too
               wise
               to
               think
               it
               true
               .
            
             
               Vdemia
               ,
               sweetest
               ,
               fairest
               M●id
               !
            
             
               For
               her
               these
               two
               white
               Kids
               I
               feed
               .
            
             
               The
               Gift
               is
               hearty
               ,
               tho'
               but
               small
               ;
            
             
               In
               Gifts
               the
               Giver's
               Mind
               is
               all
               .
            
             
               For
               her
               I
               wish
               my
               Flock's
               increase
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               she
               shall
               never
               break
               my
               Peace
               .
            
             
               I
               'm
               blest
               enough
               ,
               if
               kind
               she
               prove
               ;
            
             
               If
               not
               :
               she
               do'nt
               deserve
               my
               Love.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               Thyr.
               
            
             
               Hold
               a
               while
               ,
               good
               Damon
               ,
               hold
               !
            
             
               Yonder
               Ram
               has
               broke
               the
               Fold
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               a
               cross
               ,
               unlucky
               thing
               :
            
             
               Go
               there
               ,
               Lightfoot
               ,
               fetch
               him
               in
               !
            
             
               Shepherd
               ,
               now
               resume
               thy
               Lays
               ,
            
             
               And
               I
               'll
               crown
               thy
               head
               with
               Bays
               .
            
          
           
             
               Dam.
               
            
             
               If
               tuneful
               Birds
               salute
               the
               Spring
               .
            
             
               From
               the
               Birds
               I
               learn
               to
               sing
               ;
            
             
               If
               the
               Heavens
               laugh
               a
               while
               ,
            
             
               From
               the
               Heav'ns
               I
               learn
               to
               smile
               :
            
             
               But
               if
               Mists
               obscure
               the
               Day
               .
            
             
               And
               black
               Clouds
               fright
               the
               Sun
               away
               ;
            
             
               I
               never
               dread
               the
               angry
               Sky
               ;
            
             
               Why
               should
               I
               think
               it
               frown●
               on
               me
               ?
            
             
               I
               to
               my
               peaceful
               Cell
               retreat
               ;
            
             
               Yonder
               see
               the
               homely
               Seat●
            
             
               'T
               is
               what
               Nature
               did
               provide
               ▪
            
             
               (
               Nature
               I
               ever
               make
               my
               Gui●e
               )
            
             
             
               There
               I
               sit
               ,
               and
               there
               I
               play
               ,
            
             
               Cheat
               my
               Cares
               and
               Hours
               away
               :
            
             
               Reflect
               on
               honest
               Pleasures
               past
               ,
            
             
               Or
               which
               I
               shall
               hereafter
               tast
               :
            
             
               Think
               on
               the
               Time
               ,
               when
               I
               shall
               be
            
             
               From
               Clouds
               and
               Storms
               for
               ever
               free
               ;
            
             
               Plac'd
               in
               Elysium
               ;
               where
               ,
               they
               say
               ,
            
             
               Blest
               Ghosts
               enjoy
               Eternal
               Day
               ,
            
             
               Eternal
               Spring
               ;
               where
               ,
               all
               the
               year
               ,
            
             
               The
               Fields
               their
               freshest
               Honours
               wear
               .
            
             
               So
               I
               heard
               old
               Sophron
               say
               ;
            
             
               I
               heard
               ,
               and
               almost
               wish'd
               to
               die
               .
            
             
               In
               vain
               the
               sullen
               Heavens
               scowl
               ,
            
             
               Storms
               and
               Tempests
               round
               me
               howl
               ;
            
             
               I
               make
               fair
               Weather
               in
               my
               Soul
               :
            
             
               All
               Occasions
               I
               embrace
               ,
            
             
               Which
               may
               give
               me
               Joy
               and
               Peace
               :
            
             
             
               And
               drive
               bad
               Objects
               from
               my
               Thought
               ;
            
             
               What
               can't
               be
               cur'd
               ,
               is
               best
               forgot
               .
            
             
               Now
               say
               ,
               my
               honest
               Thyrsis
               ,
               say
               ,
            
             
               Why
               should
               not
               I
               be
               blith
               and
               gay
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Thyr.
               
            
             
               Be
               ever
               blith
               ,
               be
               ever
               gay
               ;
            
             
               Pan
               reward
               thy
               Courtesie
               :
            
             
               Blessings
               on
               thy
               Pipe
               ,
               and
               thee
               !
            
             
               Health
               to
               thy
               Flock
               ,
               Peace
               to
               thy
               Mind
               ;
            
             
               And
               be
               thy
               lov'd
               Vdemia
               kind
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             To
             the
             King.
             
          
           
             
               1
            
             
               NO
               Rest
               ,
               no
               Leisure
               to
               the
               breathless
               Muse
               ,
            
             
               No
               Respite
               ,
               Mighty
               Monarch
               ,
               you
               allow
               :
            
             
               As
               if
               your
               Conquests
               might
               be
               sung
               by
               us
            
             
               With
               as
               much
               Ease
               as
               they
               are
               gain'd
               by
               you
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               2.
               
            
             
               But
               where
               ?
               Ah!
               where
               's
               that
               sinewy
               Son
               of
               Wit
               ,
            
             
               Who
               can
               sufficient
               Strength
               for
               Verse
               supply
               ?
            
             
               If
               each
               bold
               Foe
               fresh
               Triumphs
               must
               beget
               ,
            
             
               And
               you
               subdue
               as
               fast
               as
               they
               can
               fly
               .
            
          
           
             
               3.
               
            
             
               If
               to
               each
               vanquish'd
               Realm
               a
               Verse
               be
               due
               ,
            
             
               (
               And
               sure
               a
               vanquish'd
               Realm
               deserves
               no
               less
               )
            
             
               The
               Nine
               must
               yield
               themselves
               o'er
               power'd
               too
               ,
            
             
               And
               but
               by
               Silence
               publish
               your
               Success
               .
            
          
           
             
               4.
               
            
             
               Methinks
               with
               Ease
               and
               Pleasure
               we
               could
               pay
            
             
               To
               your
               great
               Name
               a
               yearly
               Tax
               of
               Wit
               ;
            
             
               But
               ah
               !
               who
               knows
               what
               Years
               to
               come
               may
               be
               ?
            
             
               Alass
               ▪
               there
               's
               a
               whole
               World
               unconquer'd
               yet
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               5.
               
            
             
               When
               disintangled
               from
               Domestick
               War
               ,
            
             
               The
               full
               Strength
               of
               your
               Arm
               shall
               there
               be
               shown
               ,
            
             
               Where
               our
               Third
               Edward
               ,
               and
               Fifth
               Henry
               ,
               where
            
             
               You
               th'
               greater
               Heroe
               have
               such
               wonders
               done
               .
            
          
           
             
               6.
               
            
             
               Then
               Monthly
               ,
               daily
               Conquests
               must
               engage
            
             
               Our
               Pens
               ,
               till
               all
               the
               Fund
               of
               Wit
               be
               spent
               ;
            
             
               Till
               we
               sit
               dumb
               ,
               and
               like
               impoverish'd
               Age
               ,
            
             
               In
               vain
               our
               past
               Extravagance
               repent
               .
            
          
           
             
               7.
               
            
             
               Yet
               shall
               the
               future
               rob
               the
               present
               ?
               shall
            
             
               We
               be
               unjust
               for
               Fear
               of
               being
               poor
               ?
            
             
               Let
               's
               pay
               this
               Debt
               :
               't
               will
               be
               excusable
            
             
               Ingratitude
               when
               we
               can
               give
               no
               more
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               8.
               
            
             
               Accept
               then
               ,
               happy
               Prince
               ,
               our
               grateful
               Praise
               ,
            
             
               For
               mighty
               Deeds
               which
               you
               alone
               could
               do
               ;
            
             
               Accept
               the
               only
               Trophies
               we
               can
               raise
               ,
            
             
               For
               Dangers
               you
               alone
               could
               undergoe
               .
            
          
           
             
               9.
               
            
             
               Witness
               that
               dreadful
               ,
               yet
               that
               lucky
               Day
               ;
            
             
               When
               random
               Deaths
               unfear'd
               about
               you
               flew
               ,
            
             
               When
               one
               bold
               Ruffian-shot
               ,
               as
               through
               the
               Sky
            
             
               It
               took
               it's
               Flight
               ,
               durst
               aim
               it self
               at
               you
               .
            
          
           
             
               10.
               
            
             
               But
               the
               wing'd
               Fate
               your
               Guardian
               Angel
               saw
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               officious
               Hast
               he
               put
               it
               by
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               by
               a
               gentle
               Stroke
               did
               th'
               Danger
               shew
               ,
            
             
               Lest
               the
               kind
               Office
               should
               unheeded
               die
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               11.
               
            
             
               Soon
               as
               the
               dismal
               Chance
               was
               whisper'd
               round
               ,
            
             
               The
               Legions
               trembling
               stood
               and
               scarce
               drew
               Breath
               !
            
             
               As
               if
               the
               Army
               had
               receiv'd
               a
               Wound
               ,
            
             
               And
               from
               your
               Bruise
               each
               man
               had
               fear'd
               his
               Death
               .
            
          
           
             
               12.
               
            
             
               Fate
               in
               all
               other
               Shapes
               they
               could
               despise
               ,
            
             
               (
               To
               kill
               and
               die
               their
               Pleasure
               and
               their
               Trade
               )
            
             
               But
               now
               their
               Souls
               unusual
               Horrors
               seize
               ,
            
             
               Death
               ,
               their
               great
               Master
               in
               this
               form
               they
               dread
               .
            
          
           
             
               13.
               
            
             
               But
               when
               next
               Morn
               you
               led
               them
               forth
               to
               fight
               ,
            
             
               Fearless
               and
               chearful
               march'd
               th'
               imbatteld
               host
               ;
            
             
               Resolv'd
               that
               slaughter'd
               Enemies
               e're
               Night
               ,
            
             
               Should
               pay
               large
               Int'rest
               for
               the
               Blood
               you
               lost
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               14.
               
            
             
               Bu●
               〈◊〉
               bold
               Muse
               shall
               sing
               that
               glorious
               Day
               ,
            
             
               When
               led
               by
               Fame
               through
               
               Boyn's
               Rebellious
               Flood
               ;
            
             
               Tho'
               Foes
               and
               Nature
               did
               obstruct
               your
               Way
               ,
            
             
               Ev'n
               Foes
               and
               Nature
               you
               at
               once
               subdu'd
               ?
            
          
           
             
               15.
               
            
             
               There
               em'lous
               Nations
               from
               your
               Royal
               Breath
               ,
            
             
               Dreading
               Repulse
               ,
               did
               Wounds
               and
               Dangers
               crave
               ;
            
             
               From
               you
               each
               begg'd
               the
               foremost
               place
               in
               Death
               ,
            
             
               And
               almost
               envy'd
               Foes
               the
               Wounds
               they
               gave
               .
            
          
           
             
               16.
               
            
             
               In
               vain
               they
               beg'd
               ;
               you
               chose
               your self
               ;
               a●●
               〈◊〉
            
             
               Th'
               impotent
               Troops
               where
               thickest
               ●●●ager
               lay
               ;
            
             
               The
               doubtful
               Enemy
               half
               fought
               ,
               half
               fled
               ,
            
             
               Asham'd
               to
               live
               ,
               and
               yet
               afraid
               to
               die
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               17.
               
            
             
               O!
               what
               a
               Scene
               of
               Blood
               did
               th●n
               appear
               !
            
             
               Death
               too
               that
               day
               a
               mighty
               Conquest
               gain'd
               ;
            
             
               Thick
               Widow'd
               Souls
               fled
               trembling
               through
               the
               air
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               they
               fear'd
               another
               Death
               behind
               .
            
          
           
             
               18.
               
            
             
               Malicious
               Spirits
               throng'd
               the
               upper
               Air
               ,
            
             
               Their
               Nostrils
               with
               fat
               Steams
               of
               Blood
               to
               feast
               ;
            
             
               The
               King
               of
               Terrors
               reign'd
               unquestion'd
               there
               ,
            
             
               Mere
               Carcasses
               his
               settled
               Pow'r
               confest
               .
            
          
           
             
               19
            
             
               But
               here
               did
               ●●re
               its
               work
               unfinish'd
               shew
               ,
            
             
               Imper●e●●
               Life
               lay
               strugling
               thro'
               the
               Wound
               ;
            
             
               〈◊〉
               grumbling
               Soul
               curst
               the
               too
               gentle●●e
               ,
            
             
               〈◊〉
               Body
               〈◊〉
               a●●
               champ'd
               th●
               purple
               ground
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               20.
               
            
             
               Let
               others
               sing
               how
               you
               with
               angry
               Hast
            
             
               Pursu'd
               your
               Conquest
               o'er
               the
               bloody
               Plain
               ;
            
             
               Pursu'd
               ,
               as
               long
               as
               Rage
               and
               Day
               did
               last
               ,
            
             
               As
               long
               as
               Foes
               were
               found
               who
               dar'd
               be
               slain
               .
            
          
           
             
               21.
               
            
             
               Stay
               thou
               my
               Muse
               ,
               and
               drop
               a
               pious
               Tear
               ;
            
             
               Where
               by
               bold
               hands
               the
               aged
               Gen'ral
               lies
               ,
            
             
               There
               let
               fresh
               Garlands
               flourish
               all
               the
               year
               ,
            
             
               And
               o'er
               his
               Urn
               Eternal
               Laurels
               rise
               .
            
          
           
             
               22.
               
            
             
               The
               aged
               Gen'ral
               ,
               who
               ,
               nurst
               up
               in
               War
               ,
            
             
               Grown
               old
               in
               Fights
               ▪
               yet
               none
               successless
               knew
               ▪
            
             
               And
               now
               his
               Fall
               undecent
               would
               appear
               ,
            
             
               But
               in
               the
               Field
               ,
               and
               when
               victorious
               too
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               23.
               
            
             
               And
               now
               proceed
               !
               the
               Conqu'ring
               King
               attend
               :
            
             
               But
               lo
               !
               he
               's
               gone
               ;
               like
               Lightning
               cuts
               his
               way
               ;
            
             
               See!
               Fame
               her self
               lies
               panting
               far
               behind
               ,
            
             
               And
               only
               Conquest
               bears
               him
               Company
               .
            
          
           
             
               24.
               
            
             
               Whither
               Great
               Prince
               ,
               ah
               !
               whither
               will
               you
               press
               ?
            
             
               Stake
               not
               that
               Life
               against
               a
               worthless
               Foe
               ,
            
             
               For
               which
               all
               Kingdoms
               were
               too
               mean
               a
               Price
               ;
            
             
               England
               has
               all
               she
               asks
               while
               she
               has
               you
               .
            
          
           
             
               25.
               
            
             
               Yet
               you
               for
               us
               uncertain
               Chances
               prove
               ,
            
             
               To
               Fame
               through
               Toil
               and
               Danger
               force
               your
               way
               ;
            
             
               Tho'
               here
               soft
               Ease
               ,
               and
               a
               fond
               Peoples
               Love
               ,
            
             
               And
               a
               yet
               fonder
               Princess
               court
               your
               st●y
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               26.
               
            
             
               A
               Princess
               ,
               worthy
               Partner
               of
               your
               Throne
               ,
            
             
               No
               ornamental
               Burthen
               ,
               useless
               Pride
               ;
            
             
               A
               Princess
               You
               ,
               ev'n
               warlike
               You
               ,
               may
               own
               ,
            
             
               Who
               can
               your
               Cares
               ,
               as
               well
               as
               Joys
               ,
               divide
               .
            
          
           
             
               27.
               
            
             
               You
               here
               in
               soft
               ignoble
               Ease
               might
               sit
               ,
            
             
               And
               dictate
               Battles
               from
               a
               lazy
               Throne
               ;
            
             
               You
               by
               vicarious
               Courage
               might
               grow
               great
               ,
            
             
               And
               crown
               your
               Front
               with
               Laurels
               not
               your
               own
            
          
           
             
               28.
               
            
             
               But
               Greatness
               you
               thro'
               arduous
               Paths
               pursue
               ,
            
             
               You
               share
               in
               Danger
               ,
               as
               in
               Fame
               ,
               require
               ;
            
             
               And
               scarce
               your
               Health
               its
               needful
               Care
               allow
               ;
            
             
               Your
               Peoples
               Fase
               is
               all
               that
               you
               desire
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               29.
               
            
             
               So
               the
               kind
               Sun
               with
               never
               ceasing
               Toil
               ,
            
             
               Large
               Journeys
               takes
               its
               Blessings
               to
               dispense
               :
            
             
               But
               the
               dull
               Earth
               sits
               idle
               all
               the
               while
               ,
            
             
               And
               undisturb'd
               enjoys
               it's
               Influence
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             ETERNITY
             .
             A
             Pindarique
             ODE
             .
          
           
             
               1.
               
            
             
               COme
               ,
               Goddess
               ,
               come
               ,
               said
               I
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               who
               to
               thy
               Golden
               Lyre
            
             
               Sing'st
               mighty
               Men
               and
               mighty
               Things
               ;
            
             
               Come
               ,
               and
               with
               uncommon
               Strains
            
             
               Inspire
               my
               ravish'd
               Soul.
            
             
               Teach
               me
               new
               flights
               of
               Thought
               and
               Verse
               .
            
             
               Verse
               wond'rous
               sweet
               ,
               Thoughts
               wond'rous
               high
               .
            
             
             
               Which
               may
               deserve
               my
               Theme
               .
            
             
               〈…〉
               unfetter'd
               from
               the
               Clog
               of
               Rhime
            
             
               B●ar
               me
               aloft
               ;
            
             
               〈◊〉
               p●●haps
               ,
               from
               any
               height
               ,
            
             
               May
               a
               full
               Prospect
               have
            
             
               O●
               〈◊〉
               wi●●
               〈◊〉
               o●
               Eternity
               .
            
             
               T●●
               Mu●●
               ob●●●●nt
               came
               ,
               and
               I
            
             
               ●●on
               ●id
               〈◊〉
               to
               thing●
               b●low
               .
            
             
               And
               〈◊〉
               ●n
               the
               Poe●●
               Mys●ie
               Horse
               ;
            
             
               (
               W●●●
               〈…〉
               ,
               fancy's
               Emblem
               true
               ,
               )
            
             
               T●●
               〈…〉
               upward
               ,
               till
               ,
            
             
               Thro
               that
               〈◊〉
               Curtain
               ,
               which
            
             
               ●●●ps
               th●●●
               〈…〉
               hid
               from
               Mortal
               Sight
               ,
            
             
               I
               came
               or
               ●t
               ●●●h
               ,
            
             
               A●●e
               the
               s●●●ry
               For●ix
               of
               the
               Sky
               ;
            
             
               〈◊〉
               Ideal
               World
               ,
               where
               Angels
               breath
            
             
               A●ther
               refin'd
               ;
            
             
               Wh●re
               they
               mysterious
               Truths
            
             
             
               Discover
               at
               one
               Glance
               intuitive
               ;
            
             
               Where
               things
               unmade
               and
               made
               in
               their
               first
               Patterns
               lie
               .
            
          
           
             
               2
            
             
               I
               stood
               ,
               and
               fix'd
               my
               Eye
               in
               ●●
            
             
               Upon
               E●●rnity
               :
            
             
               And
               fain
               would
               learn
               what
               that
               great
               Name
               cont●in'd
               :
            
             
               What
               Nature
               ,
               and
               in
               any
               Bounds
               it
               had
               ;
            
             
               Whether
               it
               were
               an
               ●ndless
               Round
               of
               Years
               ,
            
             
               Where
               Suns
               in
               vain
               their
               annual
               Courses
               run
               ;
            
             
               Still
               the
               same
               Point
               returns
               ,
            
             
               And
               Labours
               finish'd
               only
               bring
               them
               back
               ▪
            
             
               Fresh
               Labours
               to
               begin
               :
            
             
               Or
               whether
               one
               fix'd
               undivided
               Point
               ,
            
             
               In
               which
               past
               ,
               present
               ,
               and
               to
               come
               ,
            
             
               Daughters
               of
               variation
               have
               no
               place
               :
            
             
               If
               it
               were
               Twin
               to
               the
               Almighty
               Pow'r
               ;
            
             
               Or
               only
               He
               himself
               .
            
             
             
               I
               gaz'd
               ,
               but
               ah
               !
               the
               Object
               was
               too
               bright
               ,
            
             
               And
               mortal
               Sight
               too
               weak
               .
            
             
               Sometimes
               ,
               methought
               ,
               I
               saw
               it
               plain
               ,
            
             
               And
               't
               was
               a
               glorious
               Sight
               :
            
             
               But
               soon
               in
               broken
               Mists
               away
               it
               danc'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               left
               mishapen
               Figures
               in
               mine
               Eye
               .
            
             
               Yet
               not
               despairing
               ,
               a
               brisk
               Thought
               I
               chose
               ,
            
             
               Long
               wing'd
               and
               made
               for
               hasty
               Flight
               ;
            
             
               Which
               I
               had
               oft
               successfully
               employ'd
            
             
               To
               search
               the
               Regions
               Intellectual
               .
            
             
               Her
               I
               sent
               off
               ,
               to
               see
               ,
            
             
               If
               any
               where
               flat
               Shore
               ,
               or
               butting
               Cape
            
             
               Appear'd
               to
               terminate
               the
               wild
               Abyss
               :
            
             
               Or
               if
               perhaps
               at
               distance
               she
               might
               hear
            
             
               The
               breaking
               Billows
               rutt
               upon
               the
               Beach
               .
            
             
               But
               after
               wandring
               long
               ,
            
             
               And
               many
               fruitless
               Gyres
               ,
            
             
               Back
               to
               her
               Ark
               she
               panting
               came
               ;
            
             
             
               And
               by
               short
               Breath
               and
               drooping
               Wings
            
             
               Confest
               no
               Land
               was
               to
               be
               found
               ,
            
             
               No
               where
               to
               rest
               her
               weary
               Foot
               ;
            
             
               But
               all
               was
               one
               vast
               Globe
               and
               Ocean
               .
            
          
           
             
               3.
               
            
             
               For
               thee
               ,
               great
               Name
               ,
               what
               will
               not
               Mortal●
               da●e
               ?
            
             
               For
               thee
               alike
               the
               Good
               and
               Impious
               strive
               ,
            
             
               Certain
               to
               raise
               to
               raise
               a
               durable
               ,
            
             
               Regardless
               whether
               good
               or
               evil
               ,
               Fame
               :
            
             
               For
               thee
               Erostratus
               ,
               bold
               Villain
               ,
               dar'd
            
             
               Destroy
               th'
               Ephesian
               Temple
               with
               it's
               Goddess
               ,
            
             
               Vain
               Idol
               (
               but
               not
               such
               to
               him
               )
            
             
               Tho'
               her
               fond
               Vot'ries
               feign
            
             
               She
               absent
               was
               that
               Night
               ,
            
             
               Attending
               at
               the
               Birth
            
             
               Of
               the
               great
               Macedonian
               Conquerour
               .
            
             
             
               Beneath
               the
               lofty
               Roof
               he
               stood
               ,
            
             
               And
               upward
               cast
               an
               Envious
               Look
               ;
            
             
               And
               ,
               shall
               these
               VValls
               ,
               said
               he
               ,
            
             
               Remain
               the
               VVonder
               of
               all
               Nations
               ,
            
             
               And
               endless
               Ages
               yet
               to
               come
               ,
            
             
               VVhen
               I
               shall
               be
               forgotten
               in
               the
               Grave
               ?
            
             
               Nay
               ;
               but
               Ill
               try
               by
               this
               great
               Action
               ,
               which
            
             
               Perhaps
               fond
               Men
               will
               not
               call
               Good
               ,
            
             
               To
               make
               my self
               Immortal
               ,
               as
               the
               Goddess
               .
            
             
               Perhaps
               all
               future
               Times
               will
               curse
               my
               Name
               ;
            
             
               Let
               them
               ;
               they
               must
               remember
               what
               they
               curse
               .
            
             
               He
               said
               :
               And
               in
               the
               kindled
               Ball
               he
               threw
               .
            
             
               VVhich
               soon
               thro'
               all
               the
               House
            
             
               It
               's
               sulphurous
               Infection
               spread
               .
            
             
               Up
               rose
               the
               Flames
            
             
               Crackling
               ,
               and
               in
               their
               pitchy
               Arms
            
             
               To
               Cinders
               crush'd
               the
               VVonder
               of
               the
               World
               ,
            
             
               And
               Pride
               of
               Ephesus
               .
            
             
             
               So
               daring
               ,
               so
               extravagant
               a
               Crime
            
             
               Could
               the
               thirst
               of
               Eternity
               persuade
               !
            
          
           
             
               4.
               
            
             
               But
               how
               much
               better
               th●y
               ,
            
             
               VVho
               climbing
               to
               the
               same
               Eternity
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               trod
               the
               paths
               of
               Vertue
               and
               of
               Honour
            
             
               Heroes
               who
               bravely
               di●d
               ,
            
             
               Their
               Countries
               Fall
               preventing
               by
               their
               own
               !
            
             
               This
               was
               the
               Purchase
               of
               their
               Sufferings
               ;
            
             
               Ev'n
               dying
               still
               they
               hop'd
               ,
            
             
               The
               loss
               of
               some
               few
               wretch●d
               Years
            
             
               Should
               be
               repaid
               with
               everlasting
               F●me
               :
            
             
               This
               from
               all
               Nations
               dr●w
            
             
               Young
               daring
               Champions
               to
               th'
               Olympian
               Plains
               :
            
             
               For
               this
               the
               VVr●s●ler
               f●rove
               :
            
             
               This
               was
               the
               Racci'●
               Goal
               .
            
             
             
               Not
               slow'ry
               G●rlands
               ,
               and
               one
               years
               Applause
            
             
               They
               sought
               ;
               but
               to
               be
               Register'd
            
             
               In
               the
               Records
               of
               Fame
               ,
               and
               to
               be
               known
               for
               ever
               .
            
             
               This
               they
               all
               sought
               ;
               but
               ah
               !
               how
               few
               obtain'd
               ▪
            
             
               
                 Hier●
                 ,
                 Theron
              
               ,
               and
               some
               happy
               few
            
             
               Has
               Pindar
               sav'd
            
             
               From
               the
               Iron
               Teeth
               of
               Time
               ;
            
             
               And
               l●ft
               their
               Names
               richly
               embalm'd
            
             
               In
               Spicy
               Verse
               ,
            
             
               To
               be
               the
               Envy
               of
               succeeding
               Heroes
               .
            
             
               And
               th●y
               shall
               live
               ;
               but
               all
               the
               rest
            
             
               Long
               since
               unremember'd
               lie
               ,
            
             
               Lost
               in
               the
               Grave
               and
               mix'd
               with
               nameless
               things
               .
            
          
           
             
               5.
               
            
             
               N●t
               so
               Thee
               ,
               William
               ,
               best
               of
               British
               Kings
               ,
            
             
               The
               sole
               Defence
               of
               Neighb'ring
               States
               ,
            
             
             
               And
               Glory
               of
               your
               own
               ,
            
             
               Ever
               shall
               ungrateful
               Years
            
             
               Resign
               to
               Night
               and
               dark
               Oblivion
               :
            
             
               But
               ,
               after
               long
               Descents
               have
               handed
               down
            
             
               The
               Lamp
               of
               Life
               to
               late
               Posterity
               ,
            
             
               Your
               Name
               and
               Praise
               shall
               still
               remain
               ;
            
             
               Still
               shall
               Aged
               Fathers
               sit
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               their
               list'ning
               Children
               tell
               ,
            
             
               How
               sweet
               you
               were
               in
               Peace
               ,
               how
               rough
               in
               War
               :
            
             
               How
               fierce
               you
               led
               your
               Squadrons
               forth
               :
            
             
               With
               what
               an
               Artful
               Grace
            
             
               You
               broke
               the
               foaming
               Steed
               ,
               but
               he
            
             
               Bounds
               prancing
               forward
               ,
               and
               disdains
               the
               Ground
            
             
               How
               bright
               your
               dawn
               of
               Youth
               :
            
             
               How
               strong
               your
               Manhood
               shone
               :
            
             
               The
               honourable
               Wound
               you
               gain'd
            
             
               At
               
               Boyn's
               rebellious
               Stream
               :
            
             
               VVhat
               Conquests
               there
               you
               won
            
             
             
               (
               Conquests
               ,
               which
               I
               attempted
               in
               bold
               Verse
               ,
            
             
               Ple●s'd
               with
               my
               Theme
               ,
            
             
               Tho'
               much
               inferiour
               to
               so
               great
               a
               Task
               .
               )
            
             
               VVhat
               an●ry
               Counsels
               now
               you
               meditate
            
             
               On
               the
               Batavian
               Plains
               ;
            
             
               Resolv●d
               to
               rescue
               Captive
               Rhine
               ,
            
             
               VVhere
               he
               runs
               sobbing
               on
               ,
            
             
               By
               ruin'd
               Cities
               ,
               heretofore
               it
               's
               Glory
               ,
            
             
               Now
               Grief
               ;
               and
               Desolations
               wide
               ;
            
             
               ●laudable
               Effects
               of
               Gallick
               Cruelty
               .
            
          
           
             
               6.
               
            
             
               Yet
               think
               not
               ,
               Mighty
               Prince
               !
            
             
               Think
               not
               Eternity
               the
               Warriour's
               Meed
               :
            
             
               Think
               not
               that
               Fame
               can
               give
            
             
               That
               Immortality
               which
               you
               deserve
               .
            
             
             
               The
               World
               it self
               is
               Mortal
               ,
               and
               must
               die
               :
            
             
               Materials
               for
               it's
               Fun'ral
               Pile
            
             
               Already
               are
               prepar'd
               ;
            
             
               VVithin
               the
               sooty
               Bowels
               of
               the
               Earth
               .
            
             
               Then
               Time
               shall
               cease
               ,
               and
               thou
               ,
               my
               Soul.
            
             
               Shalt
               then
               a
               Portion
               have
            
             
               In
               that
               which
               now
               thou
               canst
               not
               comprehend
               .
            
             
               Then
               ,
               if
               innoffensive
               Life
               ,
            
             
               If
               Faith
               and
               Piety
               have
               been
               thy
               Care
               :
            
             
               Mixt
               with
               Angelick
               Poets
               ,
               thou
            
             
               Shalt
               Endless
               Hallelujah's
               sing
            
             
               To
               the
               Eternal
               Potentate
               ,
            
             
               And
               who
               alone
               hath
               Immortality
               .
            
          
           
             The
             End.
             
          
        
         
           
           
           
             
               The
               First
               BOOK
               OF
               VIRGIL'S
               AENEIS
               TRANSLATED
               .
            
             
               
                 I
                 Sing
                 of
                 Wars
                 ,
                 and
                 that
                 great
                 Exile's
                 Fame
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 first
                 from
                 Troy
                 to
                 destin'd
                 Latium
                 came
                 :
              
               
                 Long
                 exercis'd
                 with
                 storms
                 at
                 Land
                 and
                 Sea
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 stress
                 of
                 Fate
                 and
                 
                 Juno's
                 Cruelty
                 :
              
               
                 Much
                 too
                 by
                 Chance
                 of
                 doubtful
                 War
                 distress'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Ere
                 he
                 or
                 his
                 tir'd
                 Gods
                 could
                 fix
                 their
                 rest
                 .
              
               
                 Hence
                 sprung
                 the
                 Glory
                 of
                 the
                 Latin
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 Hence
                 
                 Alba's
                 State
                 and
                 
                 P●rne's
                 proud
                 Turrets
                 came
                 .
              
               
               
                 But
                 thou
                 ,
                 my
                 Muse
                 ,
                 unfold
                 the
                 secret
                 Cause
                 ,
              
               
                 Whence
                 
                 Juno
                 's
                 so
                 undecent
                 Anger
                 rose
                 :
              
               
                 Why
                 she
                 in
                 such
                 Variety
                 of
                 Ills
                 ,
              
               
                 L●borious
                 Dangers
                 ,
                 and
                 uncertain
                 Toils
                 ,
              
               
                 Engag'd
                 an
                 Heroe
                 sam'd
                 for
                 Piety
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 can
                 the
                 Pow'rs
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 malicious
                 be
                 ?
              
               
                 Facing
                 th'
                 Italian
                 Shore
                 ,
                 and
                 
                 Tyber's
                 Flood
                 ,
              
               
                 An
                 antient
                 Colony
                 of
                 Tyrians
                 stood
                 ,
              
               
                 Expe●t
                 in
                 Arts
                 of
                 War
                 ,
                 mighty
                 in
                 Wealth
                 ,
              
               
                 Carthage
                 its
                 Name
                 .
                 —
              
               
                 This
                 of
                 all
                 Lands
                 was
                 
                 Juno's
                 darling
                 Seat
                 ,
              
               
                 Not
                 her
                 own
                 Samos
                 more
                 belov'd
                 than
                 it
                 :
              
               
                 Here
                 all
                 the
                 Symbols
                 of
                 her
                 Deity
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 Chariot
                 ,
                 Launce
                 ,
                 all
                 her
                 Regalia
                 lay
                 :
              
               
                 This
                 she
                 (
                 should
                 Fate
                 prove
                 to
                 her
                 Purpose
                 kind
                 )
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 then
                 for
                 Empress
                 of
                 the
                 World
                 design'd
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 she
                 had
                 hear'd
                 of
                 some
                 ,
                 who
                 ,
                 sprung
                 from
                 Troy
                 ,
              
               
                 Should
                 her
                 Design
                 and
                 Carthage
                 Walls
                 destroy
                 :
              
               
               
                 A
                 People
                 hence
                 in
                 Strength
                 and
                 Empire
                 great
              
               
                 Should
                 Libya
                 wast
                 :
                 such
                 was
                 the
                 will
                 of
                 Fate
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 Fear
                 perplex'd
                 the
                 anxious
                 
                 Juno's
                 Thought
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 was
                 the
                 Quarrel
                 of
                 her
                 Greeks
                 forgot
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 were
                 th'
                 Orig'nal
                 Causes
                 of
                 her
                 Hate
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 first
                 Indignities
                 forgiven
                 yet
                 :
              
               
                 Deep
                 at
                 her
                 Heart
                 young
                 
                 Paris's
                 rash
                 Decree
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 Affront
                 of
                 her
                 scorn'd
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 lay
                 .
              
               
                 Too
                 well
                 she
                 knew
                 whence
                 sprung
                 the
                 Trojan
                 Race
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 
                 Ganymed's
                 hated
                 Honours
                 ,
                 her
                 Disgrace
                 .
              
               
                 Fir'd
                 with
                 these
                 Thoughts
                 ,
                 the
                 broken
                 force
                 of
                 Troy
              
               
                 (
                 Slender
                 Remains
                 of
                 Grecian
                 Cruelty
                 )
              
               
                 She
                 far
                 from
                 Latium
                 kept
                 ,
                 long
                 wandring
                 o'er
                 the
                 Sea.
              
               
                 O'er
                 all
                 the
                 Main
                 ,
                 long
                 were
                 they
                 driv'n
                 by
                 Fate
                 :
              
               
                 So
                 much
                 it
                 cost
                 to
                 raise
                 the
                 Roman
                 State.
              
               
                 Scarce
                 out
                 of
                 Sight
                 of
                 fruitful
                 Sicily
              
               
                 Their
                 Sails
                 they
                 spread
                 ,
                 and
                 plow'd
                 the
                 frothy
                 Sea
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 Juno
                 —
              
               
               
                 Eternal
                 Malice
                 glowing
                 in
                 her
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 Thus
                 with
                 her self
                 :
                 A
                 nd
                 must
                 I
                 yield
                 at
                 last
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 must
                 the
                 Trojan
                 King
                 in
                 spite
                 of
                 me
              
               
                 In
                 Latium
                 reign
                 ?
                 Forsooth
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 Fate
                 's
                 Decree
                 .
              
               
                 Could
                 Pallas
                 then
                 for
                 Ajax
                 Sin
                 alone
              
               
                 The
                 Grecian
                 Navy
                 burn
                 ,
                 the
                 Grecians
                 drown
                 ?
              
               
                 She
                 from
                 the
                 Clouds
                 
                 Jove's
                 rapid
                 Thunder
                 cast
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Fire
                 the
                 Fleet
                 ,
                 the
                 Sea
                 with
                 Winds
                 opprest
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 poor
                 Criminal
                 ,
                 with
                 Thunder
                 struck
                 ,
              
               
                 Snatch'd
                 thro'
                 a
                 Storm
                 ,
                 and
                 stak'd
                 him
                 on
                 a
                 Rock
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 I
                 ,
                 the
                 Sister
                 and
                 the
                 Wife
                 of
                 Jove
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Queen
                 of
                 Gods
                 ,
                 thus
                 long
                 in
                 vain
                 have
                 strove
              
               
                 With
                 this
                 one
                 Race
                 :
                 and
                 who
                 henceforth
                 will
                 sue
              
               
                 To
                 
                 Juno's
                 Name
                 ?
                 who
                 at
                 her
                 Altars
                 bow
                 ?
              
               
                 Thu●●●●'d
                 ,
                 and
                 certain
                 of
                 Revenge
                 ,
                 with
                 speed
              
               
                 The
                 ●●llen
                 Goddess
                 to
                 Aeolia
                 fled
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Land
                 where
                 Tempests
                 dwell
                 ▪
                 where
                 Whirlwinds
                 breed
                 .
              
               
               
                 Here
                 mighty
                 Aeolus
                 the
                 struggling
                 Winds
              
               
                 And
                 noisie
                 Tempests
                 in
                 strong
                 Caverns
                 binds
                 :
              
               
                 They
                 in
                 hoarse
                 Murmurs
                 round
                 the
                 Mountains
                 howl
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 their
                 great
                 King
                 from
                 his
                 high
                 Throne
                 does
                 rule
              
               
                 Their
                 mad
                 Desires
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 their
                 Rage
                 controul
                 .
              
               
                 Were
                 't
                 not
                 for
                 him
                 ,
                 soon
                 fr●m
                 the
                 Roots
                 they
                 'd
                 tear
              
               
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 Earth
                 ,
                 and
                 Seas
                 ;
                 and
                 swe●p
                 them
                 thro
                 the
                 Air
              
               
                 But
                 the
                 Almighty
                 Father
                 ,
                 fea●ing
                 this
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 gloomy
                 Caves
                 consin'd
                 the
                 boistrous
                 Race
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 strong
                 Rocks
                 and
                 pond'rous
                 Mountains
                 barr'd
              
               
                 The
                 Avenues
                 ;
                 and
                 plac'd
                 a
                 Sov'raign
                 Lord
                 ,
              
               
                 VVho
                 should
                 by
                 standing
                 Laws
                 know
                 to
                 asswage
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 ,
                 when
                 commanded
                 ,
                 to
                 allow
                 their
                 Rage
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 And
                 thus
                 to
                 him
                 did
                 Juno
                 humbly
                 pray
                 :
              
               
                 Great
                 Aeolus
                 ,
                 Controuler
                 of
                 the
                 Sea
                 ,
              
               
                 Whom
                 ,
                 next
                 to
                 Jove
                 ,
                 the
                 Winds
                 and
                 Waves
                 obey
                 ,
              
               
               
                 A
                 R●ce
                 I
                 hate
                 o'er
                 Tuscan
                 VVaters
                 steer
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 their
                 once
                 vanquish'd
                 Gods
                 to
                 Latium
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 Purpo●'●
                 to
                 raise
                 another
                 Ilium
                 there
                 .
              
               
                 S●nd
                 forth
                 thy
                 VVinds
                 ;
                 sink
                 that
                 rebellious
                 Train
                 ;
              
               
                 O●●●atr●●d
                 let
                 th●m
                 never
                 meet
                 again
                 :
              
               
                 Twice
                 s●v'n
                 bri●ht
                 N●mphs
                 now
                 in
                 my
                 Palace
                 shine
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 wh●●●
                 ,
                 if
                 th●e
                 comply
                 with
                 my
                 Design
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 fairest
                 ●●i●●cia
                 shall
                 be
                 thine
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 in
                 thy
                 Arms
                 she
                 m●y
                 long
                 Ages
                 lead
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 a
                 be●uteou●
                 ,
                 Off-spring
                 crown
                 thy
                 Bed.
              
               
                 To
                 her
                 th●
                 King
                 〈◊〉
                 VVinds
                 made
                 this
                 Reply
                 :
              
               
                 Immortal
                 Queen
                 ,
                 you
                 can't
                 more
                 ready
                 be
              
               
                 To
                 speak
                 ●●●r
                 VVill
                 ,
                 than
                 I
                 am
                 to
                 Obey
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 my
                 D●minion
                 is
                 your
                 Gift
                 ,
                 to
                 you
              
               
                 I
                 this
                 my
                 S●epter
                 and
                 Jov●●
                 Favou●
                 owe.
              
               
                 You
                 first
                 preferr'd
                 me
                 to
                 the
                 heav'nly
                 Board
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 of
                 the●e
                 Storms
                 and
                 Tempests
                 made
                 me
                 Lord.
              
               
               
                 Thus
                 having
                 said
                 ,
                 with
                 an
                 impetuous
                 Stroke
              
               
                 Of
                 his
                 inverted
                 Spear
                 he
                 stoop'd
                 the
                 Rock
                 :
              
               
                 Thro'
                 the
                 wide
                 Breach
                 the
                 Winds
                 their
                 sally
                 make
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Land
                 and
                 Sea
                 with
                 dismal
                 Tempests
                 shake
                 :
              
               
                 
                   East
                   ,
                   South
                
                 ,
                 and
                 rainy
                 West
                 together
                 roar
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 roll
                 vast
                 Billows
                 to
                 th'
                 affrighted
                 Shore
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 cracking
                 Cables
                 ,
                 and
                 hoarse
                 Seamens
                 Cries
              
               
                 Mix
                 woful
                 Sounds
                 ,
                 Despair
                 is
                 in
                 the
                 Noise
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 scowling
                 Heav'ns
                 in
                 dusky
                 Clouds
                 are
                 hid
                 ,
              
               
                 Thick
                 Fogs
                 the
                 sight
                 of
                 Day
                 and
                 Heav'n
                 forbid
                 ;
              
               
                 Darkness
                 and
                 Winds
                 which
                 on
                 the
                 Waters
                 lay
                 ,
              
               
                 Increase
                 the
                 native
                 Terror
                 of
                 the
                 Sea.
              
               
                 Strong
                 Thunder
                 rocks
                 the
                 Poles
                 ,
                 and
                 thro'
                 the
                 Air
              
               
                 Brisk
                 Lightning
                 plays
                 ,
                 and
                 Death
                 is
                 ev'ry
                 where
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Aeneas
                 trembles
                 at
                 this
                 strange
                 Surprize
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 lifting
                 both
                 his
                 Hands
                 to
                 th'
                 unseen
                 Skies
                 ,
              
               
               
                 He
                 thus
                 complains
                 :
                 Oh!
                 more
                 than
                 happy
                 they
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 ,
                 underneath
                 the
                 lofty
                 Walls
                 of
                 Troy
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 their
                 Friends
                 Sight
                 had
                 the
                 good
                 Luck
                 to
                 die
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 Valiant
                 Diomed
                 ,
                 thy
                 Nations
                 pride
                 !
              
               
                 Oh!
                 that
                 at
                 Troy
                 I
                 by
                 thy
                 Hands
                 had
                 dy'd
                 !
              
               
                 Why
                 then
                 w●s
                 Death
                 to
                 hapless
                 me
                 deny'd
                 ?
              
               
                 VVhere
                 Hector
                 by
                 Achilles
                 fell
                 ,
                 where
                 brave
              
               
                 Sarpedon
                 found
                 an
                 honourable
                 Grave
                 ;
              
               
                 VVhere
                 bloody
                 Simois
                 down
                 to
                 the
                 Main
              
               
                 Swept
                 Arms
                 and
                 Carcasses
                 of
                 Heroes
                 slain
                 .
              
               
                 Thu●
                 speaking
                 ,
                 from
                 the
                 North
                 an
                 adverse
                 Gust
              
               
                 Struck
                 thwart
                 his
                 Sails
                 ,
                 and
                 Waves
                 to
                 Heav'n
                 tost
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Oars
                 all
                 broke
                 ,
                 the
                 shatter'd
                 Bark
                 gives
                 way
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 drives
                 at
                 Mercy
                 of
                 the
                 foaming
                 Sea.
              
               
                 Some
                 hang
                 supported
                 on
                 a
                 swelling
                 Wave
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 some
                 the
                 g●ping
                 Waters
                 shew
                 their
                 Grave
                 ;
              
               
                 Three
                 Ships
                 driv'n
                 by
                 the
                 South
                 on
                 blind
                 Rocks
                 fall
                 ;
              
               
                 (
                 R●cks
                 Half
                 S●●
                 o'er
                 which
                 Latines
                 Arae
                 call
                 )
              
               
               
                 Three
                 ,
                 by
                 an
                 Eastern
                 blast
                 (
                 Oh
                 dismal
                 Sight
                 !
                 )
              
               
                 Forc'd
                 to
                 the
                 Shore
                 ,
                 on
                 shelves
                 and
                 quicksands
                 light
                 :
              
               
                 One
                 ,
                 which
                 the
                 Lycians
                 and
                 Orontes
                 bore
              
               
                 Before
                 his
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 a
                 mighty
                 Sea
                 breaks
                 o'er
              
               
                 Her
                 Poop
                 ,
                 the
                 waves
                 from
                 Helm
                 the
                 Master
                 sweep
              
               
                 Headlong
                 o'er
                 Board
                 ,
                 and
                 thrice
                 the
                 reeling
                 Ship
              
               
                 Whirls
                 circling
                 round
                 ,
                 then
                 sinks
                 into
                 the
                 Deep
                 :
              
               
                 Thin
                 ,
                 sloating
                 on
                 the
                 surface
                 of
                 the
                 Sea
              
               
                 Arms
                 ,
                 Men
                 ,
                 and
                 Planks
                 ,
                 and
                 Trojan
                 Tre●sures
                 lay
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 the
                 Ships
                 ,
                 which
                 other
                 L●aders
                 bore
                 ,
              
               
                 Resist
                 the
                 Fury
                 of
                 the
                 Waves
                 no
                 more
                 :
              
               
                 Their
                 gaping
                 Planks
                 to
                 Ruine
                 open
                 stood
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 treach'rous
                 Leaks
                 invite
                 th'
                 invading
                 Flood
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Now
                 Neptune
                 heard
                 the
                 lab'●ing
                 Waves
                 complain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 felt
                 the
                 strong
                 Convulsions
                 of
                 the
                 Main
                 :
              
               
                 Misgiving
                 whence
                 such
                 Tumults
                 should
                 proceed
                 ,
              
               
                 Above
                 the
                 Deep
                 he
                 ra●s'd
                 his
                 welcome
                 Head.
              
               
               
                 Opprest
                 he
                 sees
                 the
                 Trojan
                 Navy
                 lie
              
               
                 VVith
                 Storms
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 the
                 ruine
                 of
                 the
                 Sky
                 :
              
               
                 Hi●
                 Sisters
                 Fraud
                 and
                 Malice
                 soon
                 he
                 spy'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 summoning
                 the
                 Winds
                 thus
                 check'd
                 their
                 pride
                 :
              
               
                 VVhence
                 your
                 Presumption
                 ?
                 from
                 your
                 noble
                 Race
                 ?
              
               
                 Base
                 Fog-b●rn
                 Slaves
                 !
                 to
                 vex
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 Earth
                 ,
                 and
                 Seas
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thus
                 unbid
                 disturb
                 my
                 Kingdom
                 's
                 Peace
                 ?
              
               
                 I
                 'll
                 —
                 But
                 the
                 troubled
                 Waters
                 call
                 me
                 hence
                 ;
              
               
                 Exp●ct
                 worse
                 Usage
                 for
                 your
                 next
                 Offence
                 .
              
               
                 G●
                 ,
                 g●t
                 you
                 hence
                 ,
                 and
                 tell
                 your
                 King
                 ,
                 from
                 me
                 ,
              
               
                 '
                 Twa●
                 n●●
                 h●●
                 Lot
                 ,
                 but
                 mine
                 to
                 rule
                 the
                 Sea
                 :
              
               
                 Let
                 him
                 〈◊〉
                 R●●ks
                 and
                 Caves
                 his
                 Pow'r
                 confine
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 l●●●●m
                 〈◊〉
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 your
                 Prisons
                 reign
                 .
              
               
                 Sc●rc●
                 h●●
                 〈…〉
                 ;
                 all
                 calm
                 the
                 Waters
                 lay
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Clouds
                 b●●w
                 off
                 ,
                 ●he
                 Sun
                 renews
                 the
                 Day
                 ;
              
               
                 ●●nd
                 Nymphs
                 and
                 Tritons
                 their
                 Assistance
                 give
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 pointed
                 Rocks
                 the
                 sound'ring
                 Barks
                 relieve
                 .
              
               
               
                 Nor
                 does
                 the
                 God
                 his
                 needful
                 Aid
                 deny
                 ,
              
               
                 Thro'
                 unlock'd
                 Sands
                 he
                 sets
                 their
                 Vessels
                 free
                 :
              
               
                 Calms
                 all
                 ,
                 and
                 gently
                 sports
                 it
                 o'er
                 the
                 quiet
                 Sea.
              
               
                 As
                 in
                 large
                 Towns
                 ,
                 when
                 Pop'lar
                 rage
                 runs
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Mob
                 are
                 up
                 they
                 know
                 not
                 why
                 ;
              
               
                 VVhen
                 Club
                 ,
                 and
                 Fire
                 the
                 neighb'ring
                 streets
                 alarms
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 hasty
                 Wrath
                 turns
                 ev'ry
                 thing
                 to
                 Arms
                 :
              
               
                 If
                 then
                 perchance
                 a
                 Patriot
                 they
                 spy
                 ,
              
               
                 Rever'd
                 for
                 Worth
                 ,
                 and
                 Deeds
                 of
                 Piety
                 ;
              
               
                 Straight
                 all
                 is
                 husht
                 ,
                 with
                 prick'd
                 up
                 E●rs
                 they
                 stand
                 ,
              
               
                 Yield
                 to
                 fair
                 Words
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 in
                 Peace
                 disband
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 when
                 great
                 Neptune
                 o'er
                 the
                 VVaters
                 rode
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Waves
                 their
                 Rage
                 forgot
                 ,
                 and
                 own'd
                 their
                 God.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 The
                 weary
                 Trojan●
                 straight
                 look
                 out
                 for
                 Land
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 the
                 nearest
                 Shore
                 of
                 Affrick
                 stand
                 :
              
               
                 Behind
                 an
                 Island
                 lies
                 a
                 quiet
                 Bay
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 sides
                 protect
                 it
                 from
                 the
                 VVind
                 and
                 Sea
                 :
              
               
               
                 On
                 either
                 side
                 of
                 which
                 vast
                 Mountains
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 threaten
                 with
                 their
                 Tops
                 the
                 neighb'ring
                 Skies
                 .
              
               
                 Low
                 at
                 the
                 foot
                 of
                 these
                 the
                 silent
                 Floods
              
               
                 Sleep
                 undisturb'd
                 ;
                 their
                 Heads
                 are
                 crown'd
                 with
                 Woods
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 their
                 side
                 a
                 Grott
                 ,
                 some
                 
                 Naiad's
                 Throne
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 it
                 fresh
                 Springs
                 ,
                 and
                 seats
                 of
                 Native
                 Stone
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 weary
                 Vessels
                 ride
                 secure
                 from
                 Fear
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 ask
                 the
                 Cable's
                 ,
                 nor
                 the
                 Anchor's
                 Care
                 :
              
               
                 Hither
                 Aeneas
                 ,
                 when
                 the
                 Storm
                 expir'd
                 ,
              
               
                 VVith
                 only
                 sev'n
                 of
                 all
                 his
                 Fleet
                 retir'd
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Trojan
                 Youth
                 impatient
                 leap
                 to
                 Land
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 rest
                 their
                 w●aried
                 Bodies
                 on
                 the
                 Strand
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 first
                 Achates
                 ,
                 with
                 a
                 mutual
                 Stroke
              
               
                 Of
                 Flints
                 ,
                 the
                 sleeping
                 Seeds
                 of
                 Fire
                 awoke
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 dry
                 L●afs
                 ,
                 and
                 tender
                 Fuel
                 nurst
              
               
                 The
                 Infant
                 Spark
                 ,
                 till
                 to
                 a
                 Flame
                 it
                 burst
                 .
              
               
                 Their
                 m●●●t
                 Provisions
                 next
                 to
                 Land
                 they
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 various
                 Arts
                 of
                 Cookery
                 prepare
                 .
              
               
               
                 Mean
                 while
                 Aeneas
                 climb'd
                 the
                 Mountain's
                 Head.
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 wide
                 surface
                 of
                 the
                 Deep
                 survey'd
                 ;
              
               
                 If
                 thence
                 perhaps
                 his
                 wishing
                 Eye
                 might
                 meet
              
               
                 Some
                 wandring
                 Remnant
                 of
                 his
                 scatter'd
                 Fleet
                 :
              
               
                 No
                 Sail
                 in
                 view
                 ;
                 but
                 on
                 the
                 Strand
                 appear'd
              
               
                 Three
                 Royal
                 Stags
                 ,
                 Chiefs
                 of
                 a
                 num'rous
                 Herd
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhich
                 after
                 their
                 proud
                 Leaders
                 brouzing
                 stray'd
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 spreading
                 Droves
                 along
                 the
                 Valley
                 fed
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 stepping
                 back
                 ,
                 with
                 eager
                 Hands
                 he
                 caught
              
               
                 His
                 Bow
                 and
                 Shafts
                 ,
                 which
                 good
                 Achates
                 brought
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 first
                 the
                 Leaders
                 ,
                 whose
                 high
                 Foreheads
                 bore
              
               
                 Large
                 Groves
                 of
                 Horn
                 ,
                 fell
                 bleeding
                 on
                 the
                 Shore
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 th'
                 vulgar
                 Herd
                 ,
                 as
                 thro'
                 the
                 Woods
                 they
                 fled
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 random
                 Arrows
                 undistinguish'd
                 dy'd
                 .
              
               
                 Still
                 he
                 pursu'd
                 the
                 easie
                 Victory
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 by
                 his
                 prudent
                 Hand
                 there
                 sl●ughter'd
                 lay
                 ;
              
               
                 Sev'n
                 mighty
                 Beasts
                 ,
                 to
                 ev'ry
                 Crew
                 a
                 Prey
                 .
              
               
               
                 Hence
                 to
                 the
                 Port
                 his
                 welcome
                 Game
                 he
                 bore
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 pierc'd
                 rich
                 Wines
                 ,
                 which
                 on
                 
                 Sicilia's
                 Shore
              
               
                 Acestes
                 ,
                 when
                 he
                 took
                 his
                 mournful
                 Leave
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 his
                 last
                 Present
                 to
                 the
                 Heroe
                 gave
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Dainties
                 to
                 his
                 hungry
                 Mates
                 he
                 shar'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 w●●
                 :
                 ●hese
                 words
                 their
                 drooping
                 spirits
                 chear'd
                 :
              
               
                 Ye
                 de●●●●●mpanions
                 of
                 my
                 harsher
                 days
                 ,
              
               
                 Expert
                 〈◊〉
                 aff'rings
                 ,
                 practis'd
                 in
                 Distress
                 ,
              
               
                 Ye
                 oft
                 have
                 weather'd
                 greater
                 storms
                 than
                 these
                 ;
              
               
                 Ye've
                 seen
                 the
                 end
                 of
                 many
                 a
                 threat'ning
                 Woe
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 these
                 e're
                 long
                 shall
                 have
                 their
                 Period
                 too
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Rocks
                 of
                 Scylla
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 
                 Cyclop's
                 Caves
                 ,
              
               
                 Dens
                 of
                 fierce
                 Monsters
                 these
                 ,
                 those
                 of
                 fierce
                 Waves
                 ,
              
               
                 Ye
                 '
                 ve
                 past
                 ,
                 that
                 noble
                 Spirit
                 now
                 resume
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 which
                 your
                 former
                 Ills
                 were
                 overcome
                 .
              
               
                 Perhaps
                 ere
                 long
                 of
                 these
                 no
                 more
                 shall
                 last
                 ,
              
               
                 Than
                 ●w●●t
                 Remembrances
                 of
                 Dangers
                 past
                 .
              
               
               
                 These
                 Toils
                 and
                 Hazards
                 all
                 to
                 Latium
                 lead
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 have
                 the
                 Fates
                 our
                 final
                 Rest
                 decreed
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 there
                 shall
                 Troy
                 resume
                 it's
                 antient
                 State
                 :
              
               
                 Wisely
                 reserve
                 your selves
                 for
                 better
                 Fate
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 did
                 his
                 words
                 and
                 looks
                 false
                 P●ssions
                 shew
                 ,
              
               
                 Dissembled
                 Hope
                 sate
                 smiling
                 on
                 his
                 Brow
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 at
                 his
                 Heart
                 Despair
                 and
                 secret
                 Woe
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 They
                 to
                 their
                 Feast
                 apply
                 their
                 only
                 Care
                 ,
              
               
                 Some
                 nimbly
                 chase
                 ,
                 and
                 some
                 break
                 up
                 the
                 Deer
                 ;
              
               
                 Some
                 spit
                 th'
                 yet
                 panting
                 Members
                 ;
                 others
                 raise
              
               
                 The
                 weighty
                 Cauldrons
                 :
                 some
                 the
                 Fire
                 increase
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 on
                 the
                 grassy
                 Plain
                 stretch'd
                 at
                 full
                 length
                 ,
              
               
                 Fat
                 Ven'son
                 and
                 old
                 Wine
                 repair
                 their
                 lessen'd
                 strength
                 .
              
               
                 Their
                 Hunger
                 eas'd
                 ,
                 their
                 Tables
                 mov'd
                 away
                 ,
              
               
                 Absent
                 Companions
                 their
                 next
                 Care
                 employ
                 :
              
               
               
                 Unknowing
                 which
                 to
                 trust
                 ,
                 their
                 Hope
                 or
                 Fear
                 ;
              
               
                 Uncertain
                 ,
                 if
                 they
                 yet
                 breath
                 upper
                 Air
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 dead
                 refuse
                 the
                 Cries
                 of
                 mourning
                 Friends
                 to
                 hear
                 .
              
               
                 Chiefly
                 Aeneas
                 does
                 their
                 Loss
                 bewail
                 ,
              
               
                 Weeps
                 o'er
                 the
                 Story
                 of
                 Orontes
                 Fall
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Lycus
                 sad
                 Mischance
                 with
                 Sighs
                 repeats
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Gyas
                 and
                 Cleanthus
                 harder
                 Fates
                 .
              
               
                 VVhen
                 Jove
                 ,
                 as
                 on
                 Heav'ns
                 Battlements
                 he
                 stood
                 ,
              
               
                 Th'
                 inferiour
                 World
                 at
                 one
                 large
                 Prospect
                 view'd
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 with
                 peculiar
                 Care
                 he
                 fix'd
                 his
                 Eye
              
               
                 On
                 Libyan
                 Realms
                 ;
                 while
                 Schemes
                 of
                 Destiny
              
               
                 And
                 providential
                 Plots
                 employ'd
                 his
                 Head
                 :
              
               
                 Fair
                 Venus
                 ,
                 now
                 by
                 sorrow
                 fairer
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 Thus
                 to
                 the
                 God
                 complain'd
                 ,
                 and
                 weeping
                 said
                 :
              
               
                 O
                 thou
                 ,
                 whose
                 irresistible
                 Decree
              
               
                 Aw'd
                 by
                 thy
                 Thunder
                 ,
                 Heav'n
                 and
                 Earth
                 obey
                 ;
              
               
                 VVhat
                 Crime
                 so
                 great
                 could
                 my
                 Aeneas
                 do
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 mi●hty
                 G●i●t
                 does
                 
                 Troy's
                 last
                 Hopes
                 pursue
                 :
              
               
               
                 VVhy
                 ,
                 after
                 num'rous
                 Deaths
                 and
                 long
                 Distress
                 ,
              
               
                 Are
                 they
                 thus
                 punish'd
                 for
                 Unhappiness
                 ?
              
               
                 VVhy
                 ,
                 'cause
                 their
                 promis'd
                 Latium
                 is
                 deny'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Must
                 they
                 be
                 barr'd
                 from
                 all
                 the
                 World
                 beside
                 ?
              
               
                 For
                 sure
                 you
                 promis'd
                 ,
                 that
                 
                 Rome's
                 pow'rful
                 State
              
               
                 (
                 When
                 Time
                 had
                 ripen'd
                 the
                 Designs
                 of
                 Fate
                 )
              
               
                 Should
                 from
                 my
                 Trojans
                 spring
                 ;
                 from
                 them
                 should
                 rise
              
               
                 Warriours
                 renown'd
                 ,
                 whose
                 spreading
                 Victories
              
               
                 Should
                 grasp
                 the
                 farthest
                 Lands
                 and
                 widest
                 Main
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 ,
                 Father
                 ,
                 what
                 has
                 alter'd
                 your
                 design
                 ?
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 with
                 this
                 hope
                 ,
                 that
                 future
                 good
                 should
                 pay
              
               
                 For
                 present
                 Ill
                 ,
                 I
                 eas'd
                 the
                 Fall
                 of
                 Troy.
              
               
                 In
                 vain
                 !
                 alas
                 .
                 The
                 same
                 hard
                 Fates
                 attend
              
               
                 Troys
                 Relicks
                 still
                 .
                 Ah!
                 Soveraign
                 Pow'r
                 ,
                 what
                 End
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 Respite
                 ,
                 shall
                 their
                 growing
                 Labours
                 find
                 ?
              
               
               
                 Secure
                 th'
                 Illyrian
                 Gulf
                 Antenor
                 past
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 deep
                 into
                 Liburnian
                 Kingdoms
                 prest
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 fi●rce
                 Timavus
                 to
                 his
                 Fountains
                 trac'd
                 ;
              
               
                 VVhere
                 ro●ring
                 fro●
                 nine
                 Heads
                 he
                 sweeps
                 his
                 way
              
               
                 O'er
                 delug'd
                 Fields
                 ,
                 himself
                 almost
                 a
                 Sea
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 now
                 the
                 fair
                 
                 Patavia's
                 Walls
                 he
                 rears
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Place
                 his
                 Name
                 and
                 quiet
                 Standards
                 bea●s
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 he
                 his
                 peaceful
                 Realms
                 enjoys
                 ,
                 nor
                 future
                 labour
                 fears
                 .
              
               
                 VVe
                 ,
                 who
                 deriv'd
                 from
                 Jove
                 our
                 Godhead
                 boast
                 ,
              
               
                 E●joy
                 the
                 Priviledge
                 of
                 being
                 crost
                 ;
              
               
                 Of
                 having
                 N●vie●
                 ▪
                 having
                 Kingdoms
                 lost
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 ease
                 her
                 Spight
                 —
                 is
                 this
                 the
                 huge
                 Reward
              
               
                 Of
                 Piety
                 ▪
                 thus
                 are
                 our
                 Crowns
                 restor'd
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 With
                 that
                 calm
                 Brow
                 which
                 surly
                 Storms
                 allays
                 ,
              
               
                 An●●o●ks
                 the
                 troubled
                 Heav'ns
                 into
                 Peace
                 ,
              
               
                 T●e
                 〈◊〉
                 God
                 thus
                 eas'd
                 his
                 Daughters
                 Care
                 :
              
               
                 C●ase
                 ,
                 Cytherea
                 ,
                 cease
                 your
                 causeless
                 Fear
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Unmov'd
                 remains
                 your
                 Trojans
                 better
                 Fate
                 ;
              
               
                 
                 Lavinium's
                 promis'd
                 Walls
                 and
                 rising
                 State
              
               
                 You
                 soon
                 shall
                 see
                 ,
                 and
                 brave
                 Aeneas
                 rang'd
              
               
                 VVith
                 equal
                 Gods
                 ,
                 nor
                 is
                 my
                 Purpose
                 chang'd
                 .
              
               
                 Yet
                 ,
                 since
                 so
                 anxious
                 ,
                 so
                 importunate
              
               
                 Your
                 Fears
                 ,
                 attend
                 ,
                 while
                 I
                 the
                 Will
                 of
                 Fate
              
               
                 Abstruse
                 ,
                 and
                 dark
                 Futurities
                 relate
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 long
                 and
                 bloody
                 ,
                 but
                 successful
                 ,
                 War
              
               
                 VVaits
                 his
                 Arrival
                 on
                 th'
                 Italian
                 Shore
                 .
              
               
                 Till
                 Victories
                 his
                 fatal
                 Title
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 barb'rous
                 Nations
                 to
                 his
                 Scepter
                 bow
                 ;
              
               
                 Barb'rous
                 ,
                 till
                 he
                 within
                 just
                 Bounds
                 restrain
              
               
                 The
                 savage
                 Race
                 ,
                 and
                 break
                 them
                 into
                 Men
                 ;
              
               
                 Giving
                 them
                 Walls
                 and
                 Laws
                 ;
                 and
                 awful
                 grown
                 ,
              
               
                 Himself
                 three
                 years
                 shall
                 fill
                 his
                 setled
                 Thro●e
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 young
                 Ascanius
                 ,
                 call'd
                 Iulus
                 now
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 Ilus
                 his
                 Name
                 ,
                 till
                 ruin'd
                 Ilium
                 grew
              
               
                 A
                 sad
                 Remembrance
                 ,
                 and
                 a
                 Name
                 o●
                 W●●
                 .
              
               
               
                 Ascanius
                 shall
                 the
                 fatal
                 Scepter
                 hold
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 thirty
                 years
                 have
                 round
                 their
                 Axles
                 roll'd
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 from
                 Lavinium
                 t'
                 Alba
                 shall
                 transfer
              
               
                 His
                 Court
                 ,
                 and
                 six
                 the
                 seat
                 of
                 Empire
                 there
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 Monarchs
                 sprung
                 from
                 Troys
                 immortal
                 Line
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 full
                 three
                 hundred
                 years
                 unquestion'd
                 reign
                 .
              
               
                 Till
                 Royal
                 Ilia
                 to
                 the
                 God
                 of
                 War
              
               
                 Shall
                 at
                 one
                 happy
                 Birth
                 twin
                 Heroes
                 bear
                 .
              
               
                 Thence
                 Romulus
                 ,
                 proud
                 of
                 that
                 Skin
                 which
                 clad
              
               
                 His
                 Foster-wolf
                 ,
                 shall
                 to
                 the
                 Throne
                 succeed
                 :
              
               
                 He
                 shall
                 new
                 Walls
                 and
                 a
                 large
                 City
                 rear
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 Romans
                 call'd
                 their
                 founder's
                 Name
                 shall
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 them
                 eternal
                 Empire
                 I
                 allow
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Bounds
                 ,
                 nor
                 End
                 shall
                 their
                 Dominion
                 know
                 ,
              
               
                 J●no
                 her self
                 ,
                 who
                 now
                 with
                 causeless
                 Rage
              
               
                 D●●●●
                 in
                 her
                 Quarrel
                 Heav'n
                 and
                 Earth
                 engage
                 ,
              
               
                 S●all
                 then
                 to
                 better
                 Resolutions
                 come
                 ,
              
               
                 A●d
                 joyn'd
                 with
                 me
                 promote
                 the
                 Cause
                 of
                 Rome
                 .
              
               
               
                 So
                 't
                 is
                 Resolv'd
                 :
                 —
              
               
                 And
                 Years
                 to
                 come
                 shall
                 see
                 the
                 Sons
                 of
                 Troy
              
               
                 O'er
                 Argian
                 Realms
                 their
                 conqu'ring
                 Arms
                 display
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 the
                 Greeks
                 their
                 old
                 Indignities
                 repay
                 :
              
               
                 Hence
                 Caesar
                 sprung
                 shall
                 raise
                 the
                 Trojan
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Sea
                 shall
                 bound
                 his
                 Empire
                 ,
                 Heav'n
                 his
                 Fame
                 .
              
               
                 Him
                 from
                 Iulus
                 ,
                 both
                 in
                 Name
                 and
                 Blood
              
               
                 Descended
                 ,
                 after
                 th'
                 Eastern
                 Realms
                 subdu'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Glutted
                 with
                 Spoils
                 ,
                 secure
                 thou
                 shalt
                 receive
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 him
                 Divinity
                 and
                 Heav'n
                 I
                 give
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 Deity
                 his
                 Earthly
                 Honours
                 crown
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 frequent
                 Vot'ries
                 shall
                 his
                 Godhead
                 own
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 thro'
                 the
                 World
                 shall
                 Wars
                 and
                 Discord
                 c●a●●
                 ▪
              
               
                 And
                 milder
                 Times
                 shall
                 learn
                 the
                 Arts
                 of
                 Peace
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 Rev'rend
                 Truth
                 and
                 Piety
                 shall
                 reign
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 Brother
                 be
                 by
                 jealous
                 Brother
                 sl●in
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Then
                 pious
                 Hands
                 shall
                 close
                 the
                 Gates
                 of
                 War
                 ;
              
               
                 VVithin
                 imprison'd
                 Rage
                 shall
                 sit
                 and
                 roar
                 ,
              
               
                 Bound
                 down
                 with
                 brazen
                 Cords
                 ,
                 he
                 there
                 in
                 vain
              
               
                 Shall
                 foam
                 black
                 Blood
                 ,
                 ●nd
                 champ
                 upon
                 his
                 Chain
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 He
                 said
                 ,
                 and
                 down
                 from
                 Heav'n's
                 unmeasur'd
                 height
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 bids
                 the
                 Son
                 of
                 M●●●
                 t●ke
                 his
                 Flight
                 ;
              
               
                 Down
                 to
                 the
                 Court
                 of
                 Cart●ag●
                 ,
                 to
                 prepare
              
               
                 The
                 wan●'ring
                 Tr●jan●
                 kind
                 Reception
                 there
                 :
              
               
                 Lest
                 Did●
                 ignorant
                 of
                 H●av'ns
                 Decree
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 fre●dom
                 of
                 her
                 Infant
                 State
                 deny
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 thro'
                 the
                 vast
                 Expans●
                 shot
                 quickly
                 down
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 Li●ya
                 stop'd
                 hi●●light
                 :
                 his
                 Message
                 done
              
               
                 As
                 J●ve
                 had
                 will'd
                 :
                 the
                 Tyrians
                 soon
                 forget
              
               
                 Th●ir
                 native
                 Roughn●ss
                 and
                 inclement
                 Heat
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 s●●●e●●
                 P●●sion●
                 
                 Did●'s
                 tender
                 Bre●st
              
               
                 And
                 For
                 〈…〉
                 ●atable
                 possest
                 .
              
               
               
                 But
                 good
                 Aeneas
                 ,
                 all
                 the
                 sleepless
                 N●ght
              
               
                 Revolving
                 various
                 Cares
                 ,
                 with
                 the
                 first
                 Light
              
               
                 Resolv'd
                 to
                 rise
                 ,
                 and
                 search
                 what
                 unknown
                 Coasts
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhat
                 Land
                 he
                 ow'd
                 the
                 Winds
                 ;
                 if
                 M●n
                 or
                 Beasts
              
               
                 (
                 For
                 all
                 around
                 he
                 sees
                 untill'd
                 and
                 bare
                 )
              
               
                 The
                 Tenants
                 of
                 those
                 Desart
                 Regions
                 were
                 .
              
               
                 Beneath
                 an
                 hanging
                 Rock
                 ,
                 whose
                 thickest
                 Wood●
              
               
                 Drop'd
                 a
                 brown
                 Darkness
                 ●n
                 the
                 silent
                 flood●
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Fleet
                 he
                 shelter'd
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Fortune
                 try'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Two
                 Jav'lins
                 in
                 his
                 Hand
                 ,
                 Ac●a●es
                 by
                 his
                 side
                 .
              
               
                 As
                 thro'
                 the
                 Woods
                 they
                 pass
                 ,
                 he
                 near
                 him
                 sees
              
               
                 His
                 Goddess
                 mother
                 shining
                 thro'
                 the
                 Tr●●s
                 ;
              
               
                 Like
                 some
                 brisk
                 Spartan
                 Maid
                 in
                 Garb
                 and
                 F●ce
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 fierce
                 Harpalyce
                 on
                 the
                 Hills
                 of
                 Thrace
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 she
                 upbraids
                 in
                 flight
                 th'
                 unequal
                 Spe●d
              
               
                 Of
                 Coursers
                 swift
                 ,
                 and
                 
                 Heber's
                 rapid
                 T●d●
              
               
                 Fix'd
                 cross
                 her
                 Shoulders
                 hung
                 a
                 decent
                 Bow
                 ,
              
               
                 Her
                 Robes
                 close
                 girt
                 ,
                 but
                 loose
                 her
                 Tresses
                 slow
                 ,
              
               
               
                 The
                 sport
                 of
                 Winds
                 .
                 Hoa
                 !
                 gentle
                 Youths
                 ,
                 said
                 she
                 ,
              
               
                 Saw
                 ye
                 my
                 Sister
                 Huntresses
                 this
                 way
                 ?
              
               
                 VVith
                 Lynxes
                 Skins
                 and
                 Quivers
                 by
                 their
                 side
                 ,
              
               
                 ●ager
                 in
                 Chase
                 ?
                 When
                 thus
                 her
                 Son
                 reply'd
                 :
              
               
                 N●
                 Nymph
                 ,
                 but
                 you
                 ,
                 has
                 bless'd
                 mine
                 Ear
                 or
                 Eye
                 ;
              
               
                 None
                 ,
                 but
                 you
                 ,
                 fair
                 unknown
                 !
                 —
                 What
                 shall
                 I
                 say
                 ?
              
               
                 Fai●
                 unknown
                 Goddess
                 !
                 for
                 alass
                 in
                 vain
              
               
                 D●s●uis'd
                 a
                 false
                 Mortality
                 you
                 feign
                 ;
              
               
                 You
                 're
                 all
                 Divine
                 ,
                 that
                 charming
                 Voice
                 and
                 Eye
              
               
                 In
                 spight
                 of
                 you
                 confess
                 your
                 Deity
                 :
              
               
                 Diana
                 or
                 some
                 Nymph
                 !
                 what
                 e're
                 you
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 Only
                 be
                 ●ind
                 and
                 ease
                 a
                 Stranger
                 's
                 Care
                 ;
              
               
                 By
                 stormy
                 Winds
                 on
                 this
                 strange
                 Country
                 thrown
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Place
                 and
                 P●ople
                 equally
                 unknown
                 :
              
               
                 What
                 Clim●●
                 what
                 Land
                 ?
                 instruct
                 us
                 ,
                 Heav'nly
                 Maid
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 g●●teful
                 Vows
                 shall
                 own
                 the
                 pious
                 Deed
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 〈◊〉
                 Victims
                 on
                 your
                 Altars
                 bleed
                 .
              
               
               
                 Alass
                 !
                 said
                 she
                 ,
                 in
                 vain
                 you
                 thus
                 abuse
              
               
                 Great
                 Names
                 and
                 Titles
                 which
                 I
                 must
                 refuse
                 ;
              
               
                 This
                 Quiver
                 and
                 these
                 Buskins
                 ,
                 which
                 I
                 wear
                 ,
              
               
                 Speak
                 me
                 a
                 Tyrian
                 Virgin
                 and
                 no
                 more
                 :
              
               
                 It
                 is
                 our
                 Country
                 Garb
                 ;
                 our
                 Country
                 this
                 ;
              
               
                 Here
                 Tyrian
                 Exiles
                 a
                 new
                 Empire
                 raise
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 all
                 around
                 it
                 Libyan
                 Kingdoms
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 Stern
                 Nations
                 and
                 unsoilable
                 in
                 War.
              
               
                 Dido
                 a
                 Tyrian
                 Princess
                 sways
                 the
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 Forc'd
                 from
                 her
                 Native
                 Home
                 by
                 unjust
                 Hate
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 cruel
                 Brother's
                 unjust
                 Hate
                 ;
                 too
                 long
              
               
                 And
                 intricate
                 the
                 story
                 of
                 her
                 Wrong
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 thus
                 in
                 short
                 :
                 Sychoeus
                 was
                 her
                 Lord
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 her
                 with
                 great
                 but
                 hapless
                 Love
                 ador'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Him
                 did
                 her
                 Sire
                 with
                 her
                 first
                 Nuptials
                 bless
                 ,
              
               
                 Great
                 was
                 his
                 Wealth
                 ,
                 nor
                 was
                 her
                 Passion
                 less
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 her
                 base
                 Brother
                 ra●'d
                 the
                 Tyrian
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 ●●●malion
                 in
                 Guilt
                 ,
                 as
                 Empire
                 ,
                 great
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Of
                 all
                 ,
                 whom
                 Hell
                 with
                 blackest
                 Villanies
              
               
                 Inspir'd
                 ,
                 supreme
                 ,
                 and
                 eminent
                 in
                 Vice.
              
               
                 He
                 ,
                 blind
                 with
                 Passion
                 and
                 the
                 Thirst
                 of
                 Oar
                 ,
              
               
                 Fearless
                 Sychaeus
                 in
                 a
                 secret
                 hour
              
               
                 Kneeling
                 before
                 the
                 Altars
                 of
                 his
                 God
              
               
                 Surpriz'd
                 ,
                 and
                 stain'd
                 the
                 sacred
                 Floor
                 with
                 Blood
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 could
                 the
                 Altars
                 ,
                 nor
                 could
                 Nature
                 move
              
               
                 His
                 Pity
                 ,
                 nor
                 his
                 wretched
                 Sisters
                 Love.
              
               
                 Long
                 he
                 with
                 artful
                 Lies
                 conceal'd
                 the
                 Deed
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 vain
                 Hopes
                 th'impatient
                 Lover
                 fed
                 :
              
               
                 Till
                 ,
                 in
                 a
                 Dream
                 before
                 her
                 slumb'ring
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 saw
                 her
                 murder'd
                 Husband's
                 Image
                 rise
              
               
                 All
                 ghastly
                 pale
                 ;
                 he
                 shew'd
                 his
                 wounded
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 black
                 Deed
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 black
                 Scene
                 confest
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 he
                 persuades
                 her
                 instantly
                 to
                 fly
              
               
                 The
                 guilty
                 Shore
                 ;
                 and
                 to
                 assist
                 her
                 way
                 ,
              
               
                 Shews
                 where
                 a
                 Nest
                 of
                 hidden
                 Treasures
                 lay
              
               
               
                 Convinc'd
                 of
                 all
                 the
                 Vision
                 had
                 declar'd
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 Means
                 and
                 Partners
                 of
                 her
                 Flight
                 prepar'd
                 .
              
               
                 All
                 Male-contents
                 in
                 her
                 Design
                 engage
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 who
                 had
                 felt
                 or
                 fear'd
                 the
                 Tyrants
                 Rage
                 ;
              
               
                 Some
                 Ships
                 ,
                 which
                 ready
                 in
                 the
                 Harbour
                 lay
                 ,
              
               
                 They
                 seize
                 ,
                 and
                 thither
                 all
                 their
                 Wealth
                 convey
                 :
              
               
                 Away
                 the
                 Waves
                 
                 Pygmalion's
                 Treasure
                 bring
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 Woman
                 disappoints
                 the
                 greedy
                 King.
              
               
                 Hither
                 where
                 now
                 new
                 Walls
                 and
                 Towr's
                 you
                 'll
                 see
                 ,
              
               
                 Hither
                 they
                 came
                 ,
                 here
                 as
                 much
                 Land
                 they
                 buy
                 ,
              
               
                 As
                 they
                 could
                 compass
                 with
                 an
                 Oxe's
                 Hide
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 call'd
                 it
                 Byrsa
                 from
                 the
                 crafty
                 Deed.
              
               
                 If
                 this
                 Relation
                 has
                 oblig'd
                 your
                 Ear
                 ,
              
               
                 Requite
                 it
                 by
                 declaring
                 who
                 you
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 what
                 Land
                 you
                 come
                 ,
                 and
                 for
                 what
                 Land
                 you
                 steer
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Aeneas
                 then
                 sigh'd
                 out
                 this
                 sad
                 Reply
              
               
                 To
                 what
                 she
                 ask'd
                 ;
                 Divinest
                 Pow'r
                 ,
                 should
                 I
              
               
               
                 Begin
                 the
                 Story
                 of
                 our
                 Woes
                 ,
                 and
                 you
              
               
                 VVould
                 have
                 the
                 patience
                 to
                 hear
                 it
                 thro'
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Sun
                 would
                 not
                 :
                 the
                 Day
                 it self
                 would
                 fail
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 half
                 unfinish'd
                 leave
                 the
                 mournful
                 Tale.
              
               
                 VVe
                 from
                 old
                 
                 Troy's
                 unhappy
                 Ruines
                 came
                 ,
              
               
                 (
                 If
                 your
                 Ears
                 are
                 not
                 Strangers
                 to
                 that
                 Name
                 )
              
               
                 But
                 now
                 thro'
                 all
                 the
                 spreading
                 Ocean
                 tost
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Tempest
                 threw
                 us
                 on
                 the
                 Libyan
                 Coast
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 I
                 the
                 good
                 Aeneas
                 am
                 ,
                 a
                 Name
              
               
                 Perhaps
                 not
                 utterly
                 unknown
                 to
                 Fame
                 :
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 I
                 who
                 rescu'd
                 from
                 th'
                 insulting
                 Foe
              
               
                 My
                 Houshold
                 Goods
                 ,
                 now
                 Part'ners
                 of
                 my
                 Woe
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 ,
                 for
                 the
                 Shore
                 of
                 Italy
                 design
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Jove
                 I
                 boast
                 the
                 Author
                 of
                 my
                 Line
                 :
              
               
                 VVith
                 twice
                 ten
                 Sail
                 I
                 stem'd
                 the
                 Phrygian
                 Tide
                 ,
              
               
                 F●●e
                 and
                 my
                 Goddess
                 mother
                 were
                 my
                 Guide
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Now
                 all
                 but
                 sev'n
                 by
                 Storms
                 are
                 lost
                 ,
                 and
                 I
              
               
                 Helpless
                 ,
                 unknown
                 ,
                 thro'
                 Libyan
                 Desarts
                 stray
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 〈◊〉
                 from
                 Asia
                 torn
                 ,
                 from
                 Europe
                 by
                 the
                 Sea.
              
               
                 Venus
                 ,
                 who
                 could
                 his
                 Plaint
                 no
                 longer
                 hear
                 ,
              
               
                 Thus
                 interrupts
                 his
                 Grief
                 :
                 Who
                 e're
                 you
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 dare
                 believe
                 the
                 Gods
                 ,
                 whose
                 Providence
              
               
                 Directed
                 you
                 to
                 Carthage
                 ,
                 are
                 your
                 Friends
                 :
              
               
                 Thither
                 proceed
                 ,
                 and
                 to
                 asswage
                 your
                 Care
                 ,
              
               
                 Prepare
                 to
                 meet
                 your
                 lost
                 Companions
                 there
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 (
                 if
                 there
                 's
                 any
                 Faith
                 in
                 Augury
                 )
              
               
                 Your
                 Friends
                 and
                 Vessels
                 both
                 in
                 Safety
                 lie
                 .
              
               
                 See
                 those
                 twelve
                 Swans
                 !
                 how
                 careless
                 now
                 they
                 rove
              
               
                 Thro'
                 open
                 Air
                 !
                 whom
                 erst
                 the
                 Bird
                 of
                 Jove
                 .
              
               
                 Stooping
                 from
                 his
                 Ethereal
                 Perch
                 on
                 high
                 ,
              
               
                 Pursu'd
                 ,
                 and
                 drove
                 them
                 trembling
                 thro'
                 the
                 Sky
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 now
                 secure
                 and
                 proud
                 of
                 their
                 Escape
                 ,
              
               
                 Some
                 pitching
                 ease
                 their
                 Wings
                 :
                 some
                 idly
                 sweep
              
               
               
                 The
                 Earth
                 ;
                 then
                 mount
                 ,
                 and
                 wanton
                 thro'
                 the
                 Sky
              
               
                 On
                 whistling
                 Wings
                 ,
                 and
                 loudly
                 sing
                 their
                 Joy.
              
               
                 Thus
                 all
                 your
                 Vessels
                 and
                 the
                 Trojan
                 Youth
              
               
                 Or
                 bear
                 full
                 Sail
                 into
                 the
                 Harbours
                 mouth
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 safe
                 at
                 Anchor
                 ride
                 :
                 Do
                 you
                 proceed
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 let
                 the
                 way
                 before
                 you
                 be
                 your
                 Guide
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 At
                 that
                 she
                 turn'd
                 ,
                 and
                 round
                 her
                 ,
                 as
                 she
                 goes
                 ,
              
               
                 Strange
                 Charms
                 and
                 unexpected
                 Beauties
                 rose
                 ;
              
               
                 Ambrosial
                 Odours
                 streaming
                 from
                 her
                 Hair
              
               
                 Divinely
                 sweet
                 enrich'd
                 the
                 ambient
                 Air.
              
               
                 Down
                 fell
                 her
                 Robes
                 into
                 a
                 graceful
                 Train
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 her
                 Majestick
                 Walk
                 own'd
                 her
                 Divine
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 ,
                 when
                 he
                 thus
                 his
                 Mother's
                 Form
                 descry'd
                 ,
              
               
                 ●ith
                 these
                 Complaints
                 pursu'd
                 her
                 as
                 she
                 fled
                 :
              
               
                 A●d
                 ●re
                 you
                 too
                 ,
                 and
                 are
                 you
                 cruel
                 grown
                 ?
              
               
                 VVhy
                 all
                 these
                 false
                 Delusions
                 to
                 your
                 Son
                 ?
              
               
                 Why
                 〈◊〉
                 but
                 Sha●es
                 assum'd
                 ,
                 and
                 Speeches
                 no●
                 your
                 own
                 ?
              
               
               
                 He
                 said
                 :
                 but
                 as
                 they
                 to
                 the
                 Town
                 proceed
                 ,
              
               
                 Round
                 them
                 a
                 misty
                 Veil
                 the
                 Goddess
                 spread
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 Air
                 condens'd
                 and
                 thickest
                 Vapors
                 made
                 :
              
               
                 That
                 they
                 might
                 pass
                 secure
                 ,
                 by
                 mortal
                 Eye
              
               
                 Unseen
                 ,
                 and
                 unmolested
                 in
                 their
                 way
                 .
              
               
                 Back
                 flies
                 the
                 smiling
                 Goddess
                 thro'
                 the
                 Sky
              
               
                 To
                 Paphian
                 Courts
                 ,
                 where
                 ,
                 to
                 her
                 Deity
                 ,
              
               
                 Soft
                 Youth
                 their
                 am'rous
                 sighs
                 and
                 Off'rings
                 pay
                 :
              
               
                 Sabaean
                 Spice
                 an
                 hundred
                 Altars
                 glows
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 slow'ry
                 Wreaths
                 perfume
                 the
                 sacred
                 House
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 with
                 Direction
                 of
                 the
                 Path
                 march'd
                 on
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 climb'd
                 the
                 Hill
                 ,
                 whose
                 jetting
                 Front
                 looks
                 down
              
               
                 On
                 the
                 high
                 Tur●●●s
                 ,
                 〈◊〉
                 ●o●s
                 o'er
                 the
                 Town
                 .
              
               
                 Aeneas
                 the
                 vast
                 P●ies
                 with
                 W●n●●r
                 view'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Rising
                 where
                 once
                 a
                 few
                 poor
                 L●●ges
                 stood
                 ;
              
               
                 Admiring
                 the
                 strong
                 Ga●es
                 〈…〉
                 W●ys
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 busi●
                 〈…〉
              
               
               
                 The
                 eager
                 Tyrians
                 various
                 Works
                 divide
                 ,
              
               
                 Some
                 with
                 the
                 Care
                 of
                 raising
                 Walls
                 employ'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Some
                 frame
                 the
                 Cittadel
                 ;
                 some
                 trace
                 the
                 Plow
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhere
                 private
                 Buildings
                 are
                 design'd
                 to
                 grow
                 .
              
               
                 These
                 sit
                 Materials
                 provide
                 ;
                 and
                 those
                 ,
              
               
                 Laws
                 ,
                 Magistrates
                 and
                 a
                 grave
                 Senate
                 chuse
                 :
              
               
                 Here
                 a
                 capacious
                 Haven
                 they
                 prepare
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 there
                 they
                 promise
                 a
                 large
                 Theatre
                 :
              
               
                 Vast
                 Pillars
                 from
                 Earth's
                 rocky
                 Entrails
                 wrought
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Pride
                 of
                 future
                 Scenes
                 ,
                 are
                 thither
                 brought
                 .
              
               
                 VVith
                 Toil
                 like
                 this
                 ,
                 while
                 yet
                 the
                 Summer's
                 new
                 ,
              
               
                 Industrious
                 Bees
                 their
                 annual
                 Tasks
                 pursue
                 :
              
               
                 VVhen
                 youthful
                 Swarms
                 repair
                 the
                 faling
                 Kind
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 when
                 their
                 liquid
                 Sweets
                 they
                 firmer
                 bind
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 in
                 full
                 Cells
                 their
                 yellow
                 Nectar
                 stow
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 forth
                 to
                 meet
                 their
                 weary
                 Brethren
                 go
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 when
                 ,
                 in
                 firm
                 Battalion
                 rang'd
                 ,
                 they
                 drive
              
               
                 The
                 lazy
                 Drones
                 and
                 Robbers
                 from
                 their
                 Hive
                 :
              
               
               
                 And
                 loud
                 they
                 Hum
                 ,
                 and
                 hot
                 the
                 Bustle
                 grows
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 around
                 a
                 fragrant
                 Odour
                 flows
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 happy
                 Men
                 whose
                 Walls
                 already
                 rise
                 !
              
               
                 VVhile
                 he
                 the
                 City's
                 growing
                 Height
                 surveys
                 ,
              
               
                 Said
                 the
                 brave
                 Prince
                 ;
                 and
                 in
                 dark
                 Mantle
                 hid
                 ,
              
               
                 Thro'
                 swarming
                 Crowds
                 he
                 goes
                 ,
                 by
                 none
                 descry'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 VVithin
                 the
                 City
                 stood
                 a
                 shady
                 Grove
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 first
                 ,
                 when
                 storms
                 to
                 land
                 the
                 Tyrians
                 drove
                 ;
              
               
                 Digging
                 ,
                 the
                 fatal
                 Horse's
                 Head
                 they
                 met
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhich
                 Juno
                 had
                 foreshewn
                 ,
                 a
                 Sign
                 the
                 State
              
               
                 Should
                 prove
                 renown'd
                 in
                 War
                 ,
                 in
                 Plenty
                 great
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 did
                 the
                 Queen
                 a
                 stately
                 Temple
                 frame
                 ,
              
               
                 Stupendous
                 Work
                 ,
                 to
                 
                 Juno's
                 awful
                 Name
                 :
              
               
                 Rich
                 Offerings
                 and
                 wealthy
                 Zealots
                 Vows
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 her
                 immediate
                 Presence
                 grac'd
                 the
                 House
                 ;
              
               
                 On
                 Brazen
                 steps
                 the
                 lofty
                 Entrance
                 rose
                 :
              
               
               
                 VVith
                 Brass
                 the
                 Beams
                 were
                 strengthen'd
                 and
                 enrich'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 brazen
                 Gates
                 on
                 brazen
                 Hinges
                 scriech'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Here
                 first
                 an
                 unexpected
                 Sight
                 reliev'd
              
               
                 Aeneas
                 Fears
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 faint
                 Hopes
                 reviv'd
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 while
                 he
                 there
                 expecting
                 Dido
                 stays
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 Condition
                 of
                 the
                 Place
                 surveys
                 ;
              
               
                 Admiring
                 all
                 that
                 skilful
                 Hands
                 had
                 done
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 State
                 and
                 Artful
                 Beauties
                 of
                 the
                 Town
                 ;
              
               
                 He
                 spies
                 the
                 Siege
                 of
                 Troy
                 ,
                 those
                 angry
                 Wars
              
               
                 Already
                 famous
                 thro'
                 the
                 Universe
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 adverse
                 Monarchs
                 ,
                 with
                 their
                 fighting
                 Youth
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 st●rn
                 Achilles
                 equal
                 Foe
                 to
                 both
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 stood
                 ,
                 and
                 we●ping
                 thus
                 bespoke
                 his
                 Friend
                 ;
              
               
                 VVhat
                 place
                 ,
                 Achates
                 ,
                 what
                 so
                 distant
                 Land
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhich
                 has
                 not
                 heard
                 our
                 Woes
                 ?
                 see
                 Priam
                 there
                 !
              
               
                 See!
                 Vertue
                 has
                 its
                 Honours
                 even
                 here
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Ev'n
                 here
                 our
                 Mis'ry
                 due
                 Compassion
                 finds
                 ,
              
               
                 Human
                 Misfortunes
                 work
                 on
                 human
                 Minds
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 fear
                 not
                 :
                 they
                 who
                 to
                 our
                 Suff'rings
                 give
              
               
                 So
                 just
                 Regard
                 ,
                 the
                 Suff'rers
                 will
                 relieve
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 said
                 ,
                 and
                 fed
                 his
                 Soul
                 on
                 th'
                 empty
                 piece
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 from
                 his
                 troubled
                 Breast
                 strong
                 Sighs
                 arise
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Floods
                 of
                 Tears
                 fall
                 streaming
                 from
                 his
                 Eyes
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 there
                 the
                 Tides
                 and
                 Ebbs
                 of
                 War
                 he
                 saw
                 ,
              
               
                 Saw
                 the
                 prevailing
                 Trojans
                 there
                 pursue
              
               
                 The
                 flying
                 Greeks
                 ;
                 the
                 Trojans
                 flying
                 here
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 fierce
                 Achilles
                 hanging
                 on
                 the
                 Rear
                 :
              
               
                 Next
                 the
                 white
                 Tents
                 of
                 Rhesus
                 he
                 beheld
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 while
                 first
                 sleep
                 the
                 weary
                 Thracians
                 held
                 ,
              
               
                 Tydides
                 entred
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 slaughter
                 fill'd
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 seiz'd
                 the
                 fiery
                 Horses
                 ere
                 they
                 came
              
               
                 To
                 tast
                 
                 Troy's
                 Food
                 ,
                 or
                 drink
                 of
                 Xanthus
                 stream
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 Troilus
                 disarm'd
                 his
                 Horses
                 drew
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhom
                 Chance
                 of
                 Battle
                 on
                 Achilles
                 threw
                 .
              
               
               
                 Unequal
                 Match
                 !
                 —
              
               
                 Down
                 from
                 his
                 empty
                 Seat
                 he
                 hung
                 supine
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 his
                 clench'd
                 Hand
                 still
                 grasp'd
                 the
                 useless
                 Rein
                 ;
              
               
                 His
                 beauteous
                 Head
                 seem'd
                 o'er
                 the
                 Stones
                 to
                 bound
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Spear
                 inverted
                 scrawl'd
                 the
                 dusty
                 Ground
                 .
              
               
                 There
                 went
                 the
                 Trojan
                 Dames
                 in
                 mournful
                 State
                 ,
              
               
                 T'
                 avert
                 with
                 Off'rings
                 fierce
                 
                 Minerva's
                 Hate
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 Hair
                 unfurl'd
                 ,
                 each
                 smote
                 her
                 tender
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Pomp
                 of
                 solemn
                 Grief
                 exprest
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 sullen
                 Goddess
                 yet
                 disdains
                 their
                 Vows
              
               
                 VVith
                 down-cast
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 nor
                 one
                 kind
                 Look
                 allows
                 .
              
               
                 Thrice
                 had
                 Achilles
                 round
                 the
                 Trojan
                 Walls
              
               
                 Dead
                 Hector
                 drag'd
                 ,
                 and
                 now
                 his
                 Carcase
                 sells
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 then
                 deep
                 Sighs
                 his
                 troubled
                 Bosom
                 rend
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 see
                 the
                 sad
                 Dishonours
                 of
                 his
                 Friend
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Spoils
                 ,
                 the
                 Chariot
                 ,
                 and
                 on
                 bended
                 Knee
              
               
                 Old
                 Pri●m
                 beg
                 the
                 wretched
                 Courtesie
                 .
              
               
               
                 Himself
                 engag'd
                 with
                 Grecian
                 Chiefs
                 he
                 spy'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Eastern
                 Bands
                 by
                 swarthy
                 Memnon
                 led
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 there
                 the
                 fierce
                 Penthesilea
                 leads
                 ,
              
               
                 Through
                 adverse
                 Troops
                 ,
                 her
                 Amazonian
                 Maids
                 :
              
               
                 Girds
                 up
                 her
                 Breast
                 ,
                 her
                 horned
                 Buckler
                 takes
                 ,
              
               
                 Thro'
                 yielding
                 Men
                 her
                 Conq'ring
                 way
                 she
                 makes
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 scorns
                 the
                 Disadvantage
                 of
                 her
                 Sex.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 While
                 this
                 surprizing
                 Piece
                 the
                 Prince
                 survey'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 this
                 one
                 Object
                 fixt
                 his
                 Soul
                 employ'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Attended
                 with
                 a
                 num'rous
                 youthful
                 Train
                 ,
              
               
                 Up
                 to
                 the
                 Temple
                 mov'd
                 the
                 beauteous
                 Queen
                 .
              
               
                 Such
                 as
                 Diana
                 on
                 the
                 slow'ry
                 Mead
              
               
                 VVhere
                 cool
                 Eurotas
                 flows
                 ,
                 or
                 Cynthus
                 Head
                 ;
              
               
                 VVhen
                 she
                 leads
                 forth
                 her
                 Virgin
                 Train
                 to
                 dance
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 num'rous
                 steps
                 a
                 thousand
                 Nymphs
                 advance
                 :
              
               
                 She
                 round
                 her
                 Neck
                 her
                 ratling
                 Q●iver
                 bears
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 Majestick
                 Goddess
                 still
                 appears
                 ,
              
               
               
                 In
                 graceful
                 Motion
                 high
                 above
                 the
                 rest
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 secret
                 Joy
                 tickles
                 
                 Latona's
                 Breast
                 .
              
               
                 Such
                 Dido
                 was
                 ,
                 so
                 beautiful
                 ,
                 so
                 pleas'd
                 ,
              
               
                 She
                 thro'
                 thick
                 Crouds
                 of
                 busie
                 Tyrians
                 past
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 still
                 their
                 Labour
                 urg'd
                 ,
                 and
                 still
                 improv'd
                 their
                 Hast.
              
               
                 Thence
                 to
                 the
                 Temple
                 ,
                 where
                 she
                 proudly
                 sate
                 ,
              
               
                 Supported
                 on
                 the
                 lofty
                 Throne
                 of
                 State
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 round
                 with
                 Guards
                 and
                 Loyal
                 Subjects
                 fenc'd
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 righteous
                 Laws
                 and
                 equal
                 Tasks
                 dispenc'd
                 .
              
               
                 VVhen
                 thro'
                 a
                 gaping
                 Crowd
                 Aeneas
                 sees
              
               
                 His
                 lost
                 Companions
                 making
                 to
                 the
                 Place
                 :
              
               
                 VVhom
                 far
                 dispers'd
                 ,
                 on
                 Mists
                 and
                 Darkness
                 lost
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 lowring
                 Storms
                 on
                 distant
                 Shores
                 had
                 tost
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 and
                 Achates
                 both
                 astonish'd
                 were
                 ,
              
               
                 Distracted
                 equally
                 'twixt
                 Joy
                 and
                 Fear
                 ;
              
               
                 Their
                 despair'd
                 Friends
                 fill
                 them
                 with
                 eager
                 Joy
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 yet
                 unknowing
                 what
                 their
                 Case
                 might
                 be
                 ,
              
               
               
                 They
                 in
                 the
                 Clouds
                 dark
                 Womb
                 conceal'd
                 remain
                 ,
              
               
                 Till
                 their
                 Friends
                 Fortune
                 should
                 itself
                 explain
                 .
              
               
                 At
                 length
                 they
                 free
                 Access
                 and
                 Audience
                 gain'd
                 ;
              
               
                 VVhen
                 calmly
                 thus
                 Ilioneus
                 complain'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Great
                 Queen
                 ,
                 whose
                 rising
                 Walls
                 kind
                 Gods
                 allow
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 whose
                 Command
                 these
                 haughty
                 Nations
                 bow
                 :
              
               
                 VVe
                 the
                 unhappy
                 Residue
                 of
                 Troy
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 adverse
                 Winds
                 long
                 driven
                 o'er
                 the
                 Sea
                 ,
              
               
                 Do
                 here
                 your
                 Justice
                 and
                 Protection
                 crave
                 ;
              
               
                 From
                 Ruine
                 undeserv'd
                 our
                 Vessels
                 save
                 ;
              
               
                 Spare
                 Innocence
                 ,
                 Ah!
                 spare
                 a
                 pious
                 Race
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 hear
                 ,
                 and
                 hearing
                 pity
                 our
                 Distress
                 .
              
               
                 VVe
                 came
                 not
                 to
                 invade
                 your
                 rising
                 State
                 ;
              
               
                 Our
                 humbled
                 Fortunes
                 no
                 such
                 Thoughts
                 admit
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Place
                 there
                 is
                 by
                 
                   Greeks
                   Hesperia
                
                 nam'd
                 ,
              
               
                 An
                 ancient
                 Land
                 ,
                 for
                 War
                 and
                 Plenty
                 fam'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Oenotrians
                 heretofore
                 the
                 Kingdom
                 held
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 now
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 said
                 ,
                 from
                 some
                 great
                 Gen'ral
                 call'd
              
               
               
                 Italia
                 .
                 Thither
                 was
                 our
                 Course
                 design'd
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhen
                 hidden
                 Tempests
                 and
                 a
                 wanton
                 Wind
              
               
                 Thro'
                 Waves
                 ,
                 o'er
                 Rocks
                 ,
                 and
                 Shelves
                 ,
                 our
                 Navy
                 tost
                 ;
              
               
                 Of
                 which
                 some
                 few
                 came
                 floating
                 on
                 your
                 Coast.
              
               
                 But
                 to
                 the
                 Scandal
                 of
                 Humanity
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 Guards
                 the
                 Refuge
                 of
                 your
                 Shore
                 deny
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 threaten
                 Fire
                 and
                 Sword
                 ,
                 and
                 needless
                 War
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 any
                 durst
                 attempt
                 their
                 landing
                 there
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 ye
                 Mankind
                 and
                 mortal
                 Pow'r
                 defie
                 ,
              
               
                 Yet
                 shall
                 just
                 Gods
                 revenge
                 such
                 Injury
                 .
              
               
                 Aeneas
                 was
                 our
                 King
                 ,
                 —
              
               
                 Than
                 whom
                 none
                 e'er
                 could
                 boast
                 a
                 greater
                 Share
              
               
                 Of
                 all
                 that
                 's
                 gen'rous
                 ,
                 both
                 in
                 Peace
                 and
                 War
                 ;
              
               
                 Oh!
                 If
                 kind
                 Fates
                 but
                 that
                 dear
                 Mortal
                 spare
                 !
              
               
                 Oh
                 if
                 he
                 live
                 ,
                 and
                 yet
                 breath
                 upper
                 Air
                 ,
              
               
                 Farewel
                 our
                 Fears
                 and
                 yours
                 :
                 none
                 shall
                 complain
              
               
                 They
                 e'er
                 oblig'd
                 a
                 Trojan
                 Prince
                 in
                 vain
                 .
              
               
               
                 Beside
                 Acestes
                 and
                 the
                 Sons
                 of
                 Troy
              
               
                 Enjoy
                 the
                 Realms
                 and
                 Pow'r
                 of
                 Sicily
                 .
              
               
                 VVe
                 only
                 beg
                 Permission
                 to
                 refit
              
               
                 VVithin
                 your
                 Ports
                 the
                 Ruines
                 of
                 our
                 Fleet
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 then
                 ,
                 if
                 Heav'n
                 our
                 Mates
                 and
                 Prince
                 restore
                 ,
              
               
                 VVe
                 'll
                 ease
                 your
                 Realms
                 ,
                 and
                 seek
                 the
                 Latin
                 Shore
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 if
                 hard
                 Fates
                 that
                 great
                 Design
                 forbid
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 thou
                 ,
                 brave
                 Prince
                 ,
                 in
                 Libyan
                 Seas
                 art
                 dead
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 our
                 Hopes
                 of
                 young
                 Ascanius
                 sled
                 :
              
               
                 At
                 least
                 to
                 Sicily
                 our
                 Course
                 we
                 'll
                 steer
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 Acestes
                 surer
                 Realms
                 retire
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 spoke
                 Ilioneus
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 the
                 rest
              
               
                 Bow'd
                 ,
                 and
                 in
                 Murmurs
                 their
                 Consent
                 e●prest
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 whom
                 the
                 Queen
                 return'd
                 this
                 short
                 Reply
                 :
              
               
                 Far
                 be
                 your
                 Jealousie
                 ,
                 ye
                 Sons
                 of
                 Troy
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Rawness
                 of
                 our
                 Realms
                 and
                 daily
                 Fear
              
               
                 Demand
                 our
                 strongest
                 Guards
                 and
                 strictest
                 C●r●
                 .
              
               
               
                 VVho
                 but
                 the
                 Trojan
                 Race
                 ,
                 their
                 high
                 Renown
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 daring
                 Champions
                 ,
                 and
                 fierce
                 Wars
                 have
                 known
                 ?
              
               
                 Such
                 stupid
                 Hearts
                 we
                 Tyrians
                 do
                 not
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 is
                 the
                 Sun
                 so
                 great
                 a
                 Stranger
                 here
                 .
              
               
                 If
                 for
                 th'
                 Hesperian
                 Realms
                 ye
                 are
                 design'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 for
                 the
                 Shore
                 of
                 Sicily
                 intend
                 ,
              
               
                 Be
                 sure
                 of
                 all
                 th'
                 Assistance
                 we
                 can
                 lend
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 if
                 my
                 Kingdoms
                 and
                 this
                 rising
                 Town
              
               
                 Have
                 ought
                 to
                 tempt
                 your
                 stay
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 all
                 your
                 own
                 :
              
               
                 Trojans
                 and
                 Tyrians
                 shall
                 one
                 People
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Equal
                 ,
                 and
                 equally
                 belov'd
                 by
                 me
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 I
                 could
                 wish
                 the
                 same
                 kind
                 Storm
                 had
                 tost
              
               
                 Your
                 Prince
                 ,
                 the
                 brave
                 Aeneas
                 ,
                 on
                 this
                 Coast
                 :
              
               
                 Nay
                 ;
                 I
                 will
                 send
                 and
                 search
                 ,
                 if
                 haply
                 he
              
               
                 Lost
                 in
                 thick
                 Woods
                 ,
                 or
                 some
                 blind
                 Village
                 stray
                 .
              
               
               
                 At
                 this
                 news
                 Joy
                 and
                 lively
                 Hopes
                 possest
              
               
                 Aeneas
                 and
                 Achates
                 doubtful
                 Breast
                 ;
              
               
                 Now
                 eager
                 to
                 disband
                 their
                 useless
                 Mist.
              
               
                 VVhen
                 thus
                 Achates
                 to
                 the
                 Prince
                 began
                 :
              
               
                 Great
                 Son
                 of
                 Venus
                 ,
                 now
                 what
                 Doubts
                 remain
                 ?
              
               
                 No
                 more
                 of
                 Danger
                 now
                 ,
                 of
                 Fear
                 no
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 kinder
                 Gods
                 your
                 Fleet
                 and
                 Friends
                 restore
                 ,
              
               
                 All
                 but
                 that
                 one
                 ,
                 who
                 perish'd
                 in
                 our
                 View
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 all
                 the
                 rest
                 your
                 Mother's
                 Words
                 are
                 true
                 .
              
               
                 Scarce
                 had
                 he
                 spoke
                 :
                 when
                 off
                 the
                 Vapours
                 clear
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Clouds
                 disband
                 ,
                 and
                 purge
                 themselves
                 to
                 Air
                 :
              
               
                 There
                 circled
                 round
                 with
                 Light
                 Aeneas
                 stood
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Shape
                 and
                 Feature
                 like
                 some
                 beauteous
                 God
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 round
                 him
                 all
                 her
                 Charms
                 his
                 Mother
                 threw
                 ,
              
               
                 Beauty
                 and
                 blushing
                 Youth
                 bloom'd
                 on
                 his
                 Brow
                 ;
              
               
                 Such
                 Grace
                 the
                 Artist's
                 hand
                 to
                 Iv'ry
                 lends
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 with
                 pale
                 Silver
                 ,
                 Gold
                 its
                 florid
                 Yellow
                 blends
                 .
              
               
               
                 VVhen
                 he
                 with
                 Words
                 th'
                 Assembly
                 and
                 Queen
              
               
                 Surpriz'd
                 ,
                 and
                 unexpected
                 thus
                 began
                 :
              
               
                 See!
                 to
                 prevent
                 your
                 Search
                 ,
                 and
                 ease
                 your
                 Fear
                 ,
              
               
                 See!
                 that
                 Aeneas
                 whom
                 you
                 seek
                 is
                 here
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 you
                 ,
                 what
                 Thanks
                 sufficient
                 can
                 we
                 pay
                 ,
              
               
                 Great
                 Queen
                 ,
                 the
                 only
                 Friend
                 of
                 ruin'd
                 Troy
                 ?
              
               
                 VVho
                 us
                 ,
                 it
                 s
                 hapless
                 Remnant
                 ,
                 whom
                 the
                 Sword
              
               
                 Of
                 Grecian
                 Foes
                 almost
                 in
                 vain
                 had
                 spar'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Distress'd
                 by
                 Sea
                 and
                 Land
                 ,
                 forelorn
                 and
                 Poor
                 ,
              
               
                 Here
                 to
                 new
                 Homes
                 ,
                 and
                 other
                 Realms
                 restore
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 we
                 ,
                 nor
                 all
                 the
                 scatter'd
                 Race
                 of
                 Troy
                 ,
              
               
                 Can
                 e'er
                 return
                 this
                 Royal
                 Courtesie
                 .
              
               
                 No!
                 may
                 the
                 Gods
                 ,
                 and
                 sure
                 if
                 Gods
                 there
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 VVho
                 of
                 the
                 Good
                 and
                 Innocent
                 take
                 care
                 ;
              
               
                 It
                 Justice
                 ,
                 Conscience
                 ,
                 ought
                 but
                 Phantoms
                 be
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Debts
                 which
                 we
                 cannot
                 They
                 will
                 repay
                 .
              
               
                 VVhat
                 more
                 than
                 Mortal
                 Parents
                 could
                 bestow
              
               
                 On
                 this
                 blest
                 Age
                 such
                 Worth
                 as
                 shines
                 in
                 you
                 ?
              
               
               
                 For
                 me
                 ,
                 while
                 Rivers
                 to
                 the
                 Ocean
                 flow
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhile
                 rising
                 Mountains
                 shade
                 the
                 Vales
                 below
                 ;
              
               
                 VVhile
                 Stars
                 seed
                 round
                 the
                 Pole
                 ;
                 your
                 Memory
              
               
                 And
                 Name
                 ,
                 whatever
                 Land
                 my
                 Portion
                 be
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 still
                 be
                 honour'd
                 ,
                 still
                 be
                 dear
                 to
                 me
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 He
                 said
                 :
                 and
                 then
                 in
                 close
                 Embraces
                 meets
              
               
                 His
                 welcome
                 Friends
                 ,
                 and
                 each
                 in
                 order
                 greets
                 .
              
               
                 Dido
                 surpriz'd
                 ,
                 with
                 what
                 her self
                 had
                 seen
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 unusual
                 Fortune
                 of
                 the
                 Man
                 ,
              
               
                 Long
                 silent
                 stood
                 ;
                 at
                 length
                 she
                 thus
                 began
                 :
              
               
                 What
                 Fate
                 unkind
                 ,
                 brave
                 Prince
                 ,
                 thro'
                 much
                 distress
                 ,
              
               
                 Pursues
                 and
                 drives
                 you
                 to
                 this
                 barb'rous
                 Place
                 ?
              
               
                 Are
                 you
                 th'
                 Aeneas
                 ,
                 whom
                 on
                 Simois
                 Shore
              
               
                 Kind
                 Venus
                 to
                 her
                 dear
                 Anchises
                 bore
                 ?
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 and
                 I
                 well
                 remember
                 ,
                 when
                 for
                 Aid
              
               
                 Teucer
                 expell'd
                 from
                 Home
                 to
                 Sidon
                 fled
                 ;
              
               
               
                 To
                 make
                 his
                 Fortune
                 on
                 some
                 foreign
                 Coast
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 gain
                 new
                 Kingdoms
                 since
                 his
                 own
                 were
                 lost
                 .
              
               
                 Cyprus
                 for
                 him
                 my
                 Father
                 Belus
                 took
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 made
                 it
                 bow
                 beneath
                 his
                 Conq'ring
                 Yoke
                 :
              
               
                 E'er
                 since
                 have
                 I
                 the
                 Trojan
                 Story
                 known
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Names
                 of
                 Grecian
                 Leaders
                 ,
                 and
                 your
                 own
                 .
              
               
                 Himself
                 to
                 Trojan
                 Foes
                 just
                 Praise
                 allow'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Himself
                 he
                 boasted
                 sprang
                 from
                 Trojan
                 Blood.
              
               
                 Come
                 then
                 ,
                 my
                 welcome
                 Youths
                 ,
                 kindly
                 receive
              
               
                 Such
                 Entertainment
                 as
                 my
                 Court
                 can
                 give
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 too
                 ,
                 before
                 I
                 setled
                 here
                 my
                 Throne
                 ,
              
               
                 Have
                 like
                 Severities
                 of
                 Fortune
                 known
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 ,
                 by
                 the
                 Sense
                 of
                 my
                 own
                 Suff'rings
                 taught
              
               
                 Have
                 learn'd
                 to
                 pity
                 the
                 Unfortunate
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 she
                 :
                 and
                 in
                 she
                 leads
                 her
                 Trojan
                 Guest
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 the
                 Gods
                 proclaims
                 a
                 solemn
                 Feast
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 ,
                 not
                 unmindful
                 of
                 their
                 absent
                 Friends
                 ,
              
               
                 Twenty
                 large
                 Oxen
                 to
                 the
                 Port
                 she
                 sends
                 ;
              
               
               
                 The
                 bristly
                 Flitches
                 of
                 an
                 hundred
                 Sows
                 ;
              
               
                 An
                 hundred
                 fat
                 Lambs
                 ,
                 with
                 an
                 hundred
                 Ewes
                 .
              
               
                 Mean
                 while
                 the
                 Rooms
                 of
                 State
                 their
                 Pride
                 display
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 Pomp
                 of
                 Royal
                 Luxury
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 well-wrought
                 Furniture
                 with
                 Purple
                 shone
                 ,
              
               
                 VVith
                 massy
                 Plate
                 the
                 burthen'd
                 Tables
                 groan
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 labour'd
                 Gold
                 in
                 lively
                 Portraiture
                 ,
              
               
                 Heroick
                 Acts
                 of
                 great
                 Forefathers
                 bore
                 ;
              
               
                 A
                 tedious
                 Chronicle
                 of
                 Deeds
                 and
                 Men
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 him
                 who
                 first
                 the
                 noble
                 Race
                 began
                 .
              
               
                 Aeneas
                 still
                 remains
                 dissatisfy'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Doubts
                 from
                 paternal
                 Love
                 his
                 Ease
                 forbid
                 :
              
               
                 All
                 's
                 vain
                 if
                 his
                 Ascanius
                 be
                 not
                 there
                 ,
              
               
                 Ascanius
                 the
                 fond
                 Parent
                 's
                 only
                 Care.
              
               
                 Away
                 he
                 sends
                 Achates
                 ,
                 to
                 the
                 Port
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 bear
                 the
                 News
                 and
                 bring
                 the
                 Lad
                 to
                 Court
                 ;
              
               
                 Bids
                 him
                 withal
                 such
                 Presents
                 bring
                 ,
                 as
                 he
              
               
                 Had
                 snatch'd
                 from
                 Ruin
                 and
                 the
                 Flames
                 of
                 Troy
                 :
              
               
               
                 The
                 Gown
                 and
                 flower'd
                 Veil
                 ,
                 which
                 Helen
                 clad
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhen
                 she
                 to
                 Troy
                 and
                 guilty
                 Nuptials
                 fled
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Scepter
                 of
                 Ilione
                 ;
                 her
                 Crown
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Neck-lace
                 ,
                 which
                 with
                 richest
                 Jewels
                 shone
                 ;
              
               
                 Presents
                 not
                 mean
                 ,
                 With
                 these
                 Instructions
                 sent
                 ,
              
               
                 Away
                 Achates
                 to
                 the
                 Navy
                 went.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 But
                 Cytherea
                 in
                 her
                 thoughtful
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 New
                 Counsels
                 fram'd
                 ,
                 and
                 other
                 Arts
                 design'd
                 ;
              
               
                 That
                 Cupid
                 should
                 Ascanius
                 Shape
                 assume
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 his
                 stead
                 disguis'd
                 to
                 Carthage
                 come
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 th'
                 heedless
                 Queen
                 with
                 treach'rous
                 Presents
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 her
                 fond
                 Heart
                 inspire
                 with
                 secret
                 Love
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 still
                 the
                 Faithless
                 Tyrians
                 cause
                 her
                 fear
                 ,
              
               
                 Still
                 she
                 suspects
                 their
                 doubtful
                 Safety
                 there
                 :
              
               
                 Malicious
                 Juno
                 wrings
                 her
                 jealous
                 Breast
                 ,
              
               
                 Black
                 Dreams
                 and
                 frightful
                 Starts
                 disturb
                 her
                 Rest.
              
               
               
                 Uneasie
                 therefore
                 to
                 the
                 Tent
                 she
                 fled
              
               
                 Of
                 winged
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 thus
                 implor'd
                 his
                 Aid
                 :
              
               
                 My
                 Son
                 ,
                 my
                 Strength
                 ,
                 my
                 Empire
                 's
                 only
                 Stay
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 dar'st
                 thy
                 Fathers
                 angry
                 Bolts
                 defie
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 for
                 assistance
                 to
                 thy
                 Godhead
                 fly
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 Storms
                 at
                 Sea
                 ,
                 what
                 Miseries
                 at
                 Land
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Brother
                 ,
                 my
                 Aeneas
                 has
                 sustain'd
                 ;
              
               
                 How
                 he
                 has
                 felt
                 th'
                 effects
                 of
                 
                 Juno's
                 Spleen
                 ,
              
               
                 Too
                 well
                 thou
                 know'st
                 ;
                 and
                 oft
                 thy self
                 hast
                 been
              
               
                 Griev'd
                 at
                 his
                 Wrongs
                 ,
                 and
                 mix'd
                 thy
                 Tears
                 with
                 mine
                 .
              
               
                 
                   Phenician
                   Dido
                
                 with
                 a
                 specious
                 shew
              
               
                 Of
                 Kindness
                 and
                 fair
                 Words
                 detains
                 him
                 now
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 still
                 I
                 fear
                 some
                 secret
                 Danger
                 nigh
              
               
                 VVhen
                 Juno
                 entertains
                 the
                 Sons
                 of
                 Troy
                 ;
              
               
                 Her
                 watchful
                 Malice
                 will
                 not
                 let
                 her
                 miss
              
               
                 An
                 Opportunity
                 so
                 great
                 as
                 this
                 .
              
               
               
                 Therefore
                 my
                 Fears
                 bid
                 me
                 prevent
                 with
                 Art
              
               
                 The
                 Queen
                 ,
                 and
                 place
                 thee
                 Guardian
                 of
                 her
                 Heart
                 ;
              
               
                 Lest
                 any
                 Pow'r
                 corrupt
                 to
                 worse
                 Design
              
               
                 Her
                 Will
                 ,
                 for
                 my
                 Aeneas
                 may
                 she
                 pine
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 love
                 him
                 with
                 a
                 Passion
                 great
                 as
                 mine
                 .
              
               
                 So
                 I
                 've
                 resolv'd
                 ,
                 nor
                 are
                 the
                 Means
                 unknown
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Royal
                 Youth
                 ,
                 who
                 my
                 chief
                 Care
                 is
                 grown
                 ,
              
               
                 Obeys
                 his
                 Father's
                 Summons
                 to
                 the
                 Town
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 him
                 Presents
                 bears
                 ,
                 which
                 still
                 remain
              
               
                 Sav'd
                 from
                 
                 Troy's
                 Flames
                 and
                 th'
                 fury
                 of
                 the
                 Main
                 .
              
               
                 Him
                 will
                 I
                 folded
                 in
                 the
                 Arms
                 of
                 Sleep
              
               
                 On
                 high
                 C●t●●ra
                 or
                 Idalia
                 keep
                 ;
              
               
                 L●st
                 close
                 Restraint
                 disturb
                 his
                 jealous
                 Thought
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 intervening
                 crush
                 th'
                 abortive
                 Plot.
              
               
                 Do
                 th●●
                 one
                 Night
                 disguis'd
                 like
                 him
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 One
                 Night
                 h●s
                 s●●●pe
                 and
                 well
                 known
                 Features
                 wear
                 :
              
               
               
                 So
                 when
                 the
                 Queen
                 ,
                 softned
                 with
                 Royal
                 Feasts
              
               
                 And
                 freer
                 Wine
                 ,
                 shall
                 clasp
                 thee
                 to
                 her
                 Breasts
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 kiss
                 thy
                 lovely
                 Cheek
                 ;
                 do
                 thou
                 inspire
              
               
                 Thy
                 pleasing
                 Venom
                 and
                 unheeded
                 Fire
                 .
              
               
                 Obsequious
                 Love
                 his
                 Mother's
                 Will
                 obeys
                 ,
              
               
                 Aside
                 his
                 Wings
                 and
                 Heav'nly
                 Form
                 he
                 lays
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 counterfeits
                 Iulus
                 Pace
                 and
                 Tongue
                 ,
              
               
                 Pleas'd
                 with
                 the
                 Change
                 ;
                 and
                 prattling
                 trips
                 along
                 .
              
               
                 Venus
                 mean
                 while
                 the
                 true
                 Ascanius
                 kept
              
               
                 In
                 pleasing
                 Dreams
                 and
                 dewy
                 Slumbers
                 wrapt
                 :
              
               
                 Lull'd
                 in
                 her
                 Arms
                 the
                 Goddess
                 bore
                 away
              
               
                 To
                 her
                 Idalian
                 Groves
                 the
                 sleeping
                 Boy
                 ;
              
               
                 Where
                 their
                 delicious
                 Breaths
                 sweet
                 Herbs
                 and
                 Flowrs
              
               
                 Round
                 him
                 exhale
                 ,
                 and
                 rise
                 to
                 shady
                 Bow'rs
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 now
                 ,
                 with
                 Presents
                 fraught
                 ,
                 the
                 Heav'nly
                 Boy
              
               
                 Pleas'd
                 with
                 his
                 Guide
                 ,
                 to
                 Carthage
                 makes
                 his
                 way
                 .
              
               
                 When
                 he
                 arriv'd
                 ,
                 the
                 Queen
                 strait
                 took
                 her
                 Seat
              
               
                 I'
                 th'
                 midst
                 ,
                 upon
                 a
                 golden
                 Couch
                 of
                 State
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Round
                 her
                 Aeneas
                 and
                 the
                 Youth
                 of
                 Troy
              
               
                 In
                 order
                 all
                 on
                 Purple
                 Carpets
                 lay
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Servants
                 Water
                 brought
                 ,
                 and
                 plac'd
                 the
                 Bread
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 well-wrought
                 Napkins
                 round
                 the
                 Tables
                 laid
                 :
              
               
                 VVithin
                 did
                 fifty
                 Damsels
                 neatly
                 drest
              
               
                 Manage
                 the
                 State
                 and
                 Order
                 of
                 the
                 Feast
                 :
              
               
                 An
                 hundred
                 ,
                 with
                 as
                 many
                 Pages
                 joyn'd
              
               
                 Of
                 equal
                 Years
                 ,
                 round
                 the
                 large
                 Boards
                 attend
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Tyrians
                 too
                 ,
                 in
                 swarms
                 to
                 Court
                 repair
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 th'
                 Publick
                 Mirth
                 and
                 Entertainment
                 share
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Presents
                 all
                 admire
                 ,
                 admire
                 the
                 Lad
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 God's
                 fresh
                 Looks
                 ,
                 and
                 counterfeited
                 Chat.
              
               
                 But
                 hapless
                 Dido
                 ,
                 doom'd
                 to
                 future
                 Woes
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 End
                 ,
                 no
                 Measure
                 of
                 her
                 Fondness
                 knows
                 ;
              
               
                 Gazes
                 ,
                 and
                 ever
                 gazing
                 Fonder
                 grows
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Boy
                 and
                 Gifts
                 her
                 Admiration
                 move
              
               
                 Alike
                 ,
                 and
                 both
                 alike
                 provoke
                 her
                 Love.
              
               
               
                 He
                 having
                 long
                 on
                 his
                 false
                 Father
                 hung
              
               
                 And
                 eas'd
                 his
                 Soul
                 ,
                 away
                 to
                 Dido
                 sprung
                 .
              
               
                 Her
                 Eyes
                 ,
                 her
                 Heart
                 dwell
                 setled
                 on
                 the
                 Boy
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 oft
                 she
                 dandles
                 him
                 upon
                 her
                 Knee
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 knows
                 what
                 Weight
                 she
                 bears
                 of
                 Deity
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 mindful
                 of
                 his
                 Mother's
                 Charge
                 soon
                 ras'd
              
               
                 All
                 Thoughts
                 of
                 dead
                 Sicheus
                 from
                 her
                 Breast
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 with
                 new
                 lively
                 Passion
                 strives
                 to
                 move
              
               
                 Her
                 listless
                 Heart
                 ,
                 and
                 long
                 unus'd
                 to
                 Love.
              
               
                 Soon
                 as
                 the
                 Edge
                 of
                 Appetite
                 was
                 laid
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Boards
                 were
                 clear'd
                 ,
                 and
                 full
                 crown'd
                 Bowls
                 succeed
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Ecchoing
                 Courts
                 around
                 divide
                 the
                 Joy
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 loud
                 Huzza's
                 through
                 all
                 the
                 Palace
                 fly
                 .
              
               
                 Lamps
                 hanging
                 from
                 high
                 Roofs
                 dart
                 vig'rous
                 Light
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 drive
                 far
                 off
                 the
                 heavy
                 Shades
                 of
                 Night
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 did
                 the
                 Queen
                 for
                 that
                 rich
                 Goblet
                 call
                 .
              
               
                 In
                 which
                 Old
                 Belus
                 us'd
                 to
                 drink
                 ,
                 and
                 all
              
               
               
                 From
                 Belus
                 down
                 to
                 her
                 :
                 Then
                 ,
                 Silence
                 made
                 ,
              
               
                 Dido
                 the
                 Goblet
                 took
                 ,
                 and
                 thus
                 she
                 pray'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Grant
                 mighty
                 Jove
                 ,
                 (
                 for
                 thou
                 ,
                 the
                 Strangers
                 Friend
                 ,
              
               
                 Giv'st
                 Laws
                 of
                 Hospitality
                 to
                 Men
                 ;
                 )
              
               
                 Grant
                 ,
                 that
                 thro'
                 all
                 succeeding
                 Times
                 ,
                 this
                 Day
              
               
                 May
                 both
                 to
                 Trojans
                 and
                 to
                 Tyrians
                 be
              
               
                 A
                 Day
                 of
                 Mirth
                 ,
                 and
                 glad
                 Solemnity
                 ;
              
               
                 Juno
                 and
                 Bacchus
                 smile
                 upon
                 our
                 Feast
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Gods
                 be
                 kind
                 ,
                 and
                 ye
                 my
                 Tyrians
                 pleas'd
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 on
                 the
                 B●ard
                 she
                 sp●ll'd
                 a
                 ●●ered
                 Drop
                 ;
              
               
                 Her self
                 scarce
                 kis●'d
                 the
                 Lips
                 of
                 the
                 wide
                 Cup
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 smacking
                 ●av't
                 to
                 Bitias
                 :
                 but
                 he
              
               
                 At
                 no
                 large
                 Draught
                 took
                 down
                 the
                 frothy
                 Sea.
              
               
                 Round
                 went
                 the
                 Bowl
                 :
                 while
                 curl'd
                 Iopas
                 strung
              
               
                 His
                 golden
                 Harp
                 ,
                 and
                 Works
                 of
                 Nature
                 sung
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 Atlas
                 taught
                 :
                 th'
                 Excursions
                 of
                 the
                 Moon
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 never
                 c●asing
                 L●bours
                 of
                 the
                 Sun
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Whence
                 Men
                 and
                 Beasts
                 ,
                 Thunder
                 and
                 Rain
                 proceed
                 ;
              
               
                 How
                 Stars
                 by
                 Night
                 their
                 reg'lar
                 Mazes
                 tread
                 ;
              
               
                 VVhat
                 makes
                 the
                 Winter
                 Sun
                 so
                 hasty
                 go
              
               
                 Down
                 to
                 the
                 Sea
                 ;
                 what
                 makes
                 the
                 Nights
                 so
                 slow
                 .
              
               
                 Tyrians
                 and
                 Trojans
                 equally
                 combine
              
               
                 To
                 praise
                 the
                 Song
                 ,
                 and
                 loud
                 Applauses
                 joyn
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 the
                 fond
                 Queen
                 with
                 various
                 Discourse
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 needless
                 Queries
                 still
                 protracts
                 the
                 Hours
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 long
                 Occasions
                 of
                 Love
                 she
                 takes
                 ,
              
               
                 Vain
                 Doubts
                 of
                 Priam
                 and
                 of
                 Hector
                 makes
                 ;
              
               
                 Enquiring
                 oft
                 what
                 Armour
                 Memn●n
                 wore
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 oft
                 what
                 part
                 the
                 fierce
                 Achilles
                 bore
                 .
              
               
                 Nay
                 come
                 ,
                 says
                 she
                 ,
                 dear
                 Guest
                 ,
                 begin
                 and
                 tell
              
               
                 The
                 Grecian
                 Treach'ry
                 ,
                 
                 Troy's
                 unhappy
                 Fall
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 your
                 own
                 Travels
                 :
                 for
                 sev'n
                 times
                 the
                 Sun
              
               
                 Has
                 brought
                 back
                 Summer
                 ,
                 since
                 your
                 Toils
                 begun
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Part
               of
               the
               Second
               Book
               .
            
             
               
                 ALL
                 husht
                 and
                 mute
                 with
                 Expectation
                 sate
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 thus
                 Aeneas
                 from
                 his
                 Throne
                 began
                 :
              
               
                 Sad
                 is
                 the
                 Task
                 ,
                 great
                 Queen
                 ,
                 which
                 you
                 enjoyn
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 Suff'rings
                 to
                 repeat
                 :
                 how
                 wretched
                 Troy
                 ,
              
               
                 It
                 's
                 Pow'r
                 and
                 Wealth
                 ,
                 by
                 Cruel
                 Greeks
                 were
                 spoil'd
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 all
                 the
                 dismal
                 Things
                 I
                 saw
                 ,
                 of
                 them
              
               
                 My self
                 no
                 inconsiderable
                 Part.
              
               
                 VVho
                 the
                 most
                 savage
                 of
                 our
                 Enemies
                 ;
              
               
                 What
                 ha●dy
                 Soldier
                 from
                 Vlysses
                 Camp
              
               
                 Could
                 without
                 Tears
                 such
                 Miseries
                 relat●
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 now
                 the
                 dewy
                 Wheels
                 of
                 Night
                 hast
                 down
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 Western
                 Steep
                 of
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 and
                 falling
                 Stars
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Rather
                 to
                 Sleep
                 and
                 needful
                 Rest
                 advise
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 if
                 so
                 great
                 your
                 Curiosity
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 learn
                 our
                 Fortunes
                 ,
                 and
                 
                 Troy's
                 last
                 sad
                 Hour
                 ;
              
               
                 Tho'
                 my
                 Soul
                 at
                 the
                 black
                 Remembrance
                 start
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Grief
                 recoiling
                 ;
                 yet
                 I
                 will
                 begin
                 .
              
               
                 By
                 Fate
                 and
                 Pow'r
                 repell'd
                 the
                 Grecian
                 Chiefs
                 ,
              
               
                 After
                 so
                 many
                 Years
                 successless
                 War
                 ,
              
               
                 Contrive
                 a
                 mighty
                 Horse
                 of
                 Mountain
                 bulk
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 curious
                 Architecture
                 fram'd
                 ,
                 and
                 senc'd
              
               
                 With
                 Planks
                 his
                 wooden
                 Ribs
                 ;
                 pretending
                 it
              
               
                 A
                 Vow
                 for
                 their
                 Return
                 ;
                 so
                 't
                 was
                 given
                 out
                 ;
              
               
                 But
                 in
                 his
                 darksom
                 Entrails
                 secretly
              
               
                 They
                 stow'd
                 the
                 Flow'r
                 of
                 their
                 remaining
                 Troops
              
               
                 And
                 fill
                 with
                 Arms
                 and
                 Men
                 his
                 hollow
                 Womb.
              
               
                 In
                 Sight
                 lies
                 I●enedos
                 ,
                 an
                 Isle
                 Renown'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Renown'd
                 for
                 Wealth
                 ,
                 while
                 
                 Priam's
                 Empire
                 stood
                 ;
              
               
                 Now
                 only
                 a
                 small
                 Creek
                 ,
                 and
                 dang'rous
                 Road
                 :
              
               
                 Hither
                 the
                 Grecian
                 Fleet
                 retir'd
                 from
                 sight
              
               
               
                 Behind
                 the
                 Rocks
                 and
                 unfrequented
                 Shore
                 ;
              
               
                 We
                 thought
                 them
                 sail'd
                 directly
                 back
                 for
                 Greece
                 .
              
               
                 Troy
                 therefore
                 soon
                 forgot
                 her
                 long
                 Distress
                 ,
              
               
                 Open
                 were
                 slung
                 the
                 Gates
                 ;
                 and
                 pleasant
                 't
                 was
              
               
                 To
                 view
                 the
                 Grecian
                 Camp
                 ,
                 the
                 Country
                 clear'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 abandon'd
                 Shore
                 .
                 Here
                 lay
                 the
                 Band
              
               
                 Of
                 Dolopes
                 :
                 there
                 stern
                 Achilles
                 march'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Here
                 rode
                 the
                 Fleet
                 :
                 there
                 were
                 fierce
                 Battels
                 joyn'd
                 .
              
               
                 Most
                 had
                 their
                 Eyes
                 with
                 Admiration
                 fix'd
              
               
                 On
                 Pallas
                 bulky
                 Gift
                 ,
                 their
                 future
                 Ruine
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 first
                 Thymaetes
                 ,
                 whether
                 mov'd
                 by
                 Fate
              
               
                 Or
                 Treachery
                 ,
                 advis'd
                 it
                 to
                 be
                 brought
              
               
                 Within
                 the
                 City
                 ,
                 and
                 plac'd
                 in
                 the
                 Tow'r
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 Capys
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 wiser
                 Heads
                 persuade
              
               
                 To
                 drown
                 or
                 burn
                 the
                 Greeks
                 suspicious
                 Gift
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 bore
                 and
                 wisely
                 search
                 its
                 hollow
                 Womb.
              
               
                 The
                 doubtful
                 Vulgar
                 various
                 Thoughts
                 divide
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 first
                 La●●●●n
                 with
                 angry
                 Hast
              
               
               
                 From
                 the
                 high
                 Tower
                 ,
                 with
                 a
                 num'rous
                 Train
                 ,
              
               
                 Runs
                 foaming
                 down
                 ,
                 and
                 bellows
                 from
                 afar
                 :
              
               
                 What
                 Frenzy
                 thus
                 misleads
                 my
                 Countrymen
                 ?
              
               
                 Do
                 ye
                 believe
                 our
                 Foes
                 thus
                 tamely
                 gone
                 ?
              
               
                 Or
                 do
                 ye
                 think
                 Greek
                 Gifts
                 can
                 want
                 Design
                 ?
              
               
                 And
                 is
                 Vlysses
                 yet
                 no
                 better
                 known
                 ?
              
               
                 Either
                 this
                 treach'rous
                 Wood
                 is
                 lin'd
                 with
                 Greeks
              
               
                 Or
                 't
                 is
                 an
                 Engine
                 fram'd
                 against
                 our
                 Walls
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 seale
                 our
                 Works
                 and
                 overlook
                 the
                 Town
                 :
              
               
                 Or
                 't
                 is
                 some
                 sly
                 Design
                 ;
                 wh●te'er
                 it
                 be
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 dread
                 the
                 very
                 Kindness
                 of
                 the
                 Greeks
              
               
                 He
                 said
                 ;
                 and
                 with
                 full
                 strength
                 his
                 Jav'lin
                 whirl'd
              
               
                 Against
                 the
                 Horses
                 side
                 ,
                 that
                 trembling
                 stood
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 strait
                 a
                 grumbling
                 Sound
                 follow'd
                 the
                 stroke
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 it's
                 hollow
                 Entrails
                 came
                 a
                 Groan
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 had
                 not
                 Fate
                 arm'd
                 all
                 our
                 Thoughts
                 askew
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Greeks
                 had
                 dy'd
                 ,
                 in
                 their
                 own
                 Ambush
                 caught
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Troy
                 and
                 
                 Pri●●●'s
                 Court
                 had
                 still
                 remain'd
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Part
               of
               the
               Third
               Book
               .
            
             
               
                 SInce
                 it
                 so
                 pleas'd
                 the
                 Gods
                 our
                 Asian
                 State
              
               
                 And
                 
                 Priam's
                 guiltless
                 Nation
                 must
                 be
                 lost
                 ;
              
               
                 Since
                 haughty
                 Ilium
                 was
                 now
                 no
                 more
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 
                 Neptune's
                 Work
                 lay
                 smoaking
                 on
                 the
                 ground
                 .
              
               
                 We
                 by
                 the
                 Oracles
                 of
                 Gods
                 are
                 urg'd
              
               
                 To
                 leave
                 our
                 Native
                 Lands
                 ,
                 and
                 seek
                 new
                 Homes
                 :
              
               
                 Under
                 Antandros
                 ,
                 at
                 the
                 foot
                 of
                 Ide
                 ,
              
               
                 VVe
                 build
                 a
                 Fleet
                 ,
                 (
                 unknowing
                 whither
                 Fate
              
               
                 Would
                 call
                 ,
                 or
                 where
                 we
                 might
                 expect
                 to
                 rest
                 )
              
               
                 And
                 raise
                 what
                 Force
                 we
                 could
                 ;
                 Summer
                 scarce
                 peep'd
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 by
                 my
                 aged
                 Father
                 we
                 are
                 bid
              
               
                 To
                 hoise
                 ,
                 and
                 trust
                 our
                 Sails
                 to
                 Providence
                 .
              
               
               
                 Weeping
                 I
                 bid
                 my
                 Native
                 Shores
                 adieu
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Phrygian
                 Ports
                 ,
                 and
                 Fields
                 where
                 Troy
                 once
                 stood
                 ;
              
               
                 By
                 Fate
                 an
                 Exile
                 forc'd
                 I
                 to
                 the
                 Waves
              
               
                 My Self
                 ,
                 my
                 Friends
                 ,
                 my
                 Son
                 ,
                 and
                 Gods
                 commit
                 .
              
               
                 Far
                 hence
                 there
                 lies
                 a
                 Land
                 ,
                 by
                 Thracians
                 till'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 in
                 times
                 past
                 severe
                 Lycurgus
                 reign'd
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 amicable
                 League
                 Allied
                 to
                 Troy
              
               
                 While
                 Troy
                 its
                 Grandeur
                 held
                 ;
                 here
                 in
                 ill
                 Hour
              
               
                 I
                 first
                 touch'd
                 Land
                 ,
                 and
                 on
                 the
                 crooked
                 Shore
              
               
                 Rais'd
                 my
                 first
                 Walls
                 ,
                 and
                 gave
                 it
                 mine
                 own
                 Name
                 .
              
               
                 Here
                 to
                 my
                 Mother
                 sacred
                 Rites
                 I
                 paid
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 the
                 Gods
                 who
                 favour'd
                 my
                 Design
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 Jove
                 a
                 Milk-white
                 Bull
                 bled
                 on
                 the
                 Shore
                 .
              
               
                 Fast
                 by
                 there
                 rose
                 a
                 little
                 Hill
                 ,
                 thick
                 stuck
              
               
                 With
                 Shrubs
                 and
                 Myrtle
                 Spears
                 .
                 I
                 went
                 ,
                 and
                 strove
              
               
                 To
                 ravish
                 from
                 it's
                 Earth
                 the
                 sprouting
                 Grove
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 shade
                 my
                 Altars
                 with
                 it's
                 leafy
                 Boughs
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 a
                 strange
                 Prodigy
                 surpriz'd
                 my
                 Sight
                 :
              
               
               
                 For
                 the
                 first
                 Tree
                 ,
                 which
                 from
                 the
                 Earth
                 I
                 forc'd
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 his
                 torn
                 Roots
                 trickled
                 black
                 Drops
                 of
                 Blood
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 stain'd
                 the
                 Ground
                 with
                 Gore
                 :
                 a
                 shiv'ring
                 Fear
              
               
                 Shot
                 thro'
                 my
                 Veins
                 ,
                 and
                 curdled
                 all
                 my
                 Blood.
              
               
                 Desirous
                 yet
                 to
                 learn
                 the
                 secret
                 Cause
              
               
                 Of
                 an
                 Effect
                 so
                 strange
                 ,
                 a
                 second
                 Twig
              
               
                 I
                 pluck'd
                 ,
                 and
                 from
                 a
                 second
                 Twig
                 drop'd
                 Blood
                 :
              
               
                 Amaz'd
                 ,
                 and
                 troubled
                 to
                 the
                 Nymphs
                 I
                 kneel'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Mars
                 ,
                 the
                 Guardian
                 of
                 those
                 Lands
                 ,
                 besought
              
               
                 The
                 Omen
                 to
                 avert
                 ,
                 and
                 turn
                 't
                 to
                 good
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 while
                 I
                 fix'd
                 my
                 Knees
                 to
                 ground
                 ,
                 and
                 strove
              
               
                 With
                 all
                 my
                 strength
                 from
                 Earth
                 to
                 pluck
                 a
                 third
                 ;
              
               
                 (
                 Shall
                 I
                 proceed
                 ,
                 or
                 leave
                 the
                 rest
                 untold
                 ?
                 )
              
               
                 Deep
                 from
                 the
                 Earth
                 there
                 came
                 a
                 mournful
                 groan
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 a
                 sad
                 Voice
                 thus
                 speaking
                 reach'd
                 my
                 Ears
                 :
              
               
                 Forbear
                 ,
                 Aeneas
                 ,
                 to
                 torment
                 the
                 dead
                 ;
              
               
                 Stain
                 not
                 with
                 Cruelty
                 thy
                 Righteous
                 Hands
                 .
              
               
               
                 That
                 which
                 thou
                 now
                 behold'st
                 drop
                 from
                 these
                 Trees
              
               
                 Is
                 Trojan
                 Blood
                 and
                 near
                 Ally'd
                 to
                 thine
                 ;
              
               
                 Oh!
                 fly
                 this
                 cruel
                 Land
                 ,
                 this
                 greedy
                 Shore
                 .
              
               
                 For
                 I
                 am
                 Polydore
                 :
                 a
                 Grove
                 of
                 Spears
              
               
                 Here
                 slew
                 ,
                 and
                 cover'd
                 me
                 ;
                 and
                 in
                 my
                 Flesh
              
               
                 Fixing
                 their
                 Iron
                 Heads
                 ,
                 took
                 Root
                 and
                 grew
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 new
                 Amazement
                 seiz'd
                 my
                 doubtful
                 Mind
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Hair
                 stood
                 upright
                 ,
                 and
                 Fear
                 cramp'd
                 my
                 Tongue
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 Polydore
                 unhappy
                 Priam
                 sent
              
               
                 VVith
                 mighty
                 Treasure
                 to
                 the
                 Thracian
                 King
                 ;
              
               
                 VVhen
                 he
                 began
                 to
                 doubt
                 the
                 Fate
                 of
                 Troy
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 saw
                 his
                 Walls
                 girt
                 with
                 a
                 threat'ning
                 Siege
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 ,
                 when
                 he
                 saw
                 the
                 Trojan
                 Pow'r
                 decay
                 ,
              
               
                 Took
                 Fortune's
                 part
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 the
                 Conqu'ror
                 joyn'd
              
               
                 Forgot
                 all
                 Right
                 ;
                 young
                 Polydore
                 he
                 slew
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 by
                 unjust
                 Violence
                 his
                 Treasure
                 seiz'd
                 .
              
               
                 O
                 Gold
                 !
                 how
                 do's
                 the
                 curst
                 Desire
                 of
                 thee
              
               
                 VVork
                 irresistibly
                 on
                 mortal
                 Hearts
                 !
              
               
               
                 At
                 length
                 ,
                 recovering
                 from
                 deep
                 Amaze
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 to
                 my
                 Chieftains
                 ,
                 and
                 my
                 Father
                 first
              
               
                 Disclose
                 the
                 Prodigies
                 ,
                 and
                 ask
                 their
                 Thoughts
                 ;
              
               
                 Unanimous
                 they
                 all
                 agree
                 to
                 leave
              
               
                 The
                 treach'rous
                 unhospitable
                 Shore
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 Polydore
                 we
                 Fun'ral
                 Rites
                 perform'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Made
                 him
                 a
                 Tomb
                 of
                 Earth
                 ,
                 and
                 Altars
                 rais'd
              
               
                 To
                 the
                 infernal
                 Pow'rs
                 ,
                 with
                 Purple
                 Fillets
              
               
                 And
                 Cypress
                 Garlands
                 mournfully
                 adorn'd
                 .
              
               
                 VVith
                 Hair
                 dishevel'd
                 stood
                 the
                 Trojan
                 Dames
                 :
              
               
                 Bowls
                 frothing
                 with
                 warm
                 Milk
                 and
                 hallow'd
                 Gore
              
               
                 VVe
                 sacrifice
                 ;
                 and
                 to
                 the
                 quiet
                 Grave
              
               
                 Commit
                 his
                 Ghost
                 ,
                 and
                 hail
                 him
                 off
                 to
                 Rest.
                 
              
            
          
           
             
             
               Part
               of
               the
               Fourth
               Book
               .
            
             
               
                 ALready
                 was
                 the
                 Queen
                 struck
                 deep
                 with
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 sly
                 Disease
                 creeps
                 circling
                 round
                 her
                 Veins
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 secret
                 Flames
                 within
                 prey
                 on
                 her
                 Heart
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Hero's
                 Vertue
                 ,
                 and
                 his
                 Country's
                 Fame
              
               
                 Are
                 the
                 perpetual
                 Objects
                 of
                 her
                 Thought
                 :
              
               
                 Still
                 present
                 she
                 beholds
                 his
                 Charming
                 Face
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 charming
                 Voice
                 still
                 Ecchoes
                 in
                 her
                 Ears
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 careful
                 Love
                 ,
                 kept
                 waking
                 all
                 the
                 Night
                 .
              
               
                 Now
                 had
                 next
                 morning
                 Sun
                 with
                 radiant
                 Light
              
               
                 Gilded
                 the
                 East
                 ,
                 and
                 dewy
                 Night
                 dispell'd
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 to
                 her
                 Sister
                 thus
                 distracted
                 she
              
               
                 Unfolds
                 her
                 secret
                 Grief
                 :
                 Ah!
                 dearest
                 Ann
                 ,
              
               
                 What
                 mean
                 these
                 troubled
                 thoughts
                 which
                 break
                 my
                 nights
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 my
                 weary
                 Eye-lids
                 grant
                 no
                 rest
                 ?
              
               
                 What
                 noble
                 Stranger
                 do
                 we
                 entertain
                 !
              
               
                 How
                 charming
                 are
                 his
                 Looks
                 !
                 how
                 brave
                 his
                 Soul
                 !
              
               
                 VVell
                 !
                 I
                 believe
                 (
                 and
                 justly
                 I
                 believe
                 )
              
               
               
                 That
                 he
                 indeed
                 is
                 sprung
                 of
                 Race
                 Divine
                 ,
              
               
                 Base
                 low-born
                 Souls
                 are
                 by
                 their
                 Fear
                 betray'd
                 :
              
               
                 VVhat
                 Shocks
                 of
                 adverse
                 Fortune
                 bravely
                 born
                 ,
              
               
                 VVhat
                 hard
                 Exploits
                 of
                 War
                 did
                 he
                 relate
                 !
              
               
                 VVere
                 not
                 my
                 Soul
                 unalterably
                 fix'd
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 more
                 to
                 link
                 my self
                 in
                 Nuptial
                 Bands
                 ,
              
               
                 Since
                 my
                 first
                 Love
                 by
                 Death
                 was
                 disappointed
                 ;
              
               
                 Did
                 I
                 not
                 hate
                 the
                 name
                 of
                 Love
                 and
                 Wedlock
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 this
                 one
                 Fault
                 perhaps
                 I
                 could
                 submit
                 :
              
               
                 For
                 I
                 must
                 own
                 ,
                 since
                 poor
                 Sichaeus
                 dy'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 stain'd
                 with
                 Blood
                 his
                 Brother
                 's
                 guilty
                 Walls
                 ,
              
               
                 None
                 e'er
                 so
                 far
                 inclin'd
                 my
                 Soul
                 to
                 Love
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 were
                 my
                 Resolutions
                 e'er
                 so
                 shock'd
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 feel
                 my
                 former
                 ●lame
                 returning
                 strong
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 may
                 the
                 yawning
                 Earth
                 first
                 swallow
                 me
                 ;
              
               
                 Or
                 Thunder
                 strike
                 me
                 to
                 the
                 Shades
                 below
                 ,
              
               
                 Pale
                 Shades
                 of
                 Frebus
                 ,
                 and
                 Night
                 profound
                 ,
              
               
                 ●'er
                 I
                 the
                 Laws
                 of
                 Chastity
                 transgress
                 :
              
               
               
                 No
                 ;
                 he
                 who
                 first
                 my
                 Vows
                 and
                 Heart
                 engag'd
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 bore
                 away
                 my
                 Love
                 to
                 his
                 cold
                 Grave
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 let
                 it
                 lie
                 buried
                 with
                 him
                 for
                 ever
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 said
                 she
                 mournful
                 ,
                 and
                 with
                 show'rs
                 of
                 Tears
                 ,
              
               
                 Water'd
                 her
                 Bosom
                 ;
                 when
                 thus
                 Ann
                 replies
                 :
              
               
                 O
                 dearer
                 to
                 thy
                 Sister
                 than
                 this
                 Light
                 ,
              
               
                 Why
                 will
                 you
                 lose
                 the
                 pretious
                 Bloom
                 of
                 Youth
              
               
                 In
                 solitary
                 Grief
                 ?
                 nor
                 know
                 the
                 Joys
              
               
                 Of
                 pretty
                 Babes
                 ,
                 and
                 all
                 the
                 Sweets
                 of
                 Love
                 ?
              
               
                 Think
                 you
                 cold
                 Ashes
                 and
                 departed
                 Souls
              
               
                 Regard
                 such
                 Matter
                 ?
                 or
                 ,
                 suppose
                 they
                 do
                 ,
              
               
                 He
                 cannot
                 think
                 you
                 easie
                 ,
                 who
                 so
                 long
              
               
                 Remain'd
                 irreconcileable
                 to
                 Love
                 :
              
               
                 Nor
                 could
                 Iarbas
                 ,
                 nor
                 what
                 other
                 Chiefs
              
               
                 Victorious
                 Affrick
                 breeds
                 ,
                 acceptance
                 find
                 .
              
               
                 And
                 will
                 you
                 still
                 resist
                 the
                 Charms
                 of
                 Love
                 ?
              
               
                 Regard
                 at
                 least
                 the
                 Dangers
                 of
                 your
                 State
                 ;
              
               
                 On
                 every
                 side
                 by
                 warlike
                 Neighbours
                 girt
                 .
              
               
               
                 H●re
                 fierce
                 Getulians
                 spread
                 their
                 Conqu'ring
                 Arms
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 wild
                 Numidians
                 :
                 there
                 a
                 Desart
                 wide
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 the
                 far
                 ravaging
                 Darceans
                 lie
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 need
                 I
                 mind
                 you
                 of
                 your
                 Brother's
                 Threats
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Wars
                 prepar'd
                 to
                 follow
                 us
                 from
                 Tyre
                 ?
              
               
                 To
                 me
                 the
                 Trojans
                 seem
                 by
                 Heaven
                 sent
              
               
                 And
                 
                 Juno's
                 friendly
                 Care
                 to
                 be
                 our
                 Guard.
              
               
                 Strengthen'd
                 by
                 such
                 Alliance
                 how
                 shall
                 we
              
               
                 Ad●ance
                 your
                 growing
                 State
                 !
                 to
                 what
                 a
                 height
              
               
                 Of
                 Glory
                 shall
                 you
                 see
                 your
                 Carthage
                 rise
                 !
              
               
                 Only
                 do
                 you
                 by
                 Pray'r
                 and
                 Sacrifice
              
               
                 Propitiate
                 Heav'n
                 ,
                 then
                 to
                 your
                 Guest
                 be
                 kind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 frame
                 Excuses
                 for
                 his
                 longer
                 stay
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 stormy
                 Season
                 ,
                 and
                 tempestuous
                 Stars
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 shatter'd
                 Fleet
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 unruly
                 Sky
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 she
                 with
                 Words
                 fuel'd
                 her
                 am'rous
                 Flame
                 ,
              
               
                 Wip'd
                 off
                 all
                 Shame
                 ,
                 and
                 let
                 her
                 loose
                 to
                 Love.
                 
              
            
          
        
         
           
           
             CHRIST
             Born.
             
          
           
             A
             Pastoral
             .
          
           
             
               A
               Trend
               ,
               ye
               Shepherds
               ,
               to
               my
               rural
               Song
               ;
            
             
               Rural
               ,
               but
               sweet
               ,
               and
               with
               high
               matter
               fraught
            
             
               My
               Meditation
               ,
               while
               full
               of
               Thought
            
             
               From
               
               Fairfield's
               ever
               hospitable
               Seat
               ;
            
             
               Great
               in
               it self
               ,
               but
               in
               it's
               Owners
               more
               .
            
             
               (
               Swains
               must
               not
               flatter
               ,
               but
               may
               give
               just
               Praise
               )
            
             
               To
               aged
               
               Severn's
               rocky
               Shore
               I
               walk
               ,
            
             
               And
               roam
               the
               Fields
               ,
               heedless
               of
               any
               Path
            
             
               For
               so
               I
               use
               ,
               a
               poor
               contented
               Swain
               .
            
             
               Sweet
               are
               the
               Fields
               to
               them
               who
               early
               walk
               ,
            
             
               And
               pleasant
               sounds
               from
               far
               the
               murm'ring
               Sea.
            
             
               
                 Attend
                 ,
                 ye
                 Shepherds
                 ,
                 to
                 my
                 rural
                 Song
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Safe
                 are
                 your
                 Flocks
                 ;
                 nor
                 tedious
                 is
                 my
                 Verse
                 .
              
            
             
             
               Disdaming
               humble
               Furzes
               and
               low
               Shrubs
               ,
            
             
               Fond
               Shepherds
               wanton
               Loves
               ,
               and
               sordid
               Cares
               ;
            
             
               To
               higher
               Thoughts
               I
               tune
               my
               Past'ral
               Reed
               :
            
             
               Such
               as
               Sicilian
               Muse
               of
               old
               ne'er
               joyn'd
            
             
               To
               oaten
               Pipe
               ;
               nor
               he
               who
               Mantua
               bred
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               could
               :
               tho'
               sweeter
               far
               his
               Lays
               than
               mine
               .
            
             
               I
               the
               great
               Shepherd
               sing
               ,
               whose
               wond'rous
               Birth
            
             
               Angelic
               Quires
               to
               humble
               Shepherds
               sung
               .
            
             
               An
               arduous
               ,
               but
               not
               improper
               ,
               Task
               ,
            
             
               Since
               all
               to
               Shepherds
               and
               their
               Flocks
               confin'd
               .
            
             
               
                 Attend
                 ye
                 Shepherds
                 to
                 my
                 rural
                 Song
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Safe
                 are
                 your
                 Flocks
                 ;
                 nor
                 tedious
                 is
                 my
                 Verse
                 .
              
            
             
               In
               
               Bethlem's
               verdant
               Pastures
               ,
               round
               their
               Folds
            
             
               Shepherds
               by
               Night
               their
               careful
               Watches
               kept
               ,
            
             
               Fearless
               of
               Blastings
               ,
               Dews
               and
               midnight
               Cold
               :
            
             
               So
               great
               their
               Love
               of
               Flocks
               or
               Thirst
               of
               Gain
               .
            
             
               By
               chance
               together
               they
               had
               pitch'd
               their
               Folds
               ,
            
             
               Protected
               safer
               thus
               by
               mutual
               Aid
               ;
            
             
             
               Where
               ,
               after
               each
               had
               walk'd
               his
               nightly
               Rounds
               ,
            
             
               They
               met
               ;
               and
               ,
               as
               befell
               ,
               mix'd
               various
               Chat
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               not
               of
               am'rous
               Toys
               ,
               or
               female
               Guiles
               ;
            
             
               But
               with
               wise
               Talk
               deceiv'd
               the
               Hours
               of
               Night
               .
            
             
               What
               mean
               ,
               said
               one
               (
               and
               round
               he
               tuckt
               his
               Cloak
            
             
               Close
               to
               his
               Breast
               ,
               as
               bent
               on
               long
               Discourse
               )
            
             
               VVhat
               mean
               the
               People
               ,
               who
               on
               tiptoe
               stand
            
             
               Expecting
               the
               Deliv'rer
               ,
               who
               should
               come
               ,
            
             
               And
               rescue
               Israel
               from
               long
               Servitude
               ?
            
             
               For
               so
               I
               heard
               ,
               when
               to
               the
               Temple
               late
            
             
               I
               drove
               my
               tender
               Lambs
               ,
               meek
               Offerings
               .
            
             
               These
               careful
               Watches
               then
               we
               need
               not
               keep
               ,
            
             
               Tame
               Wolves
               and
               Lambs
               shall
               then
               together
               play
               ,
            
             
               Lions
               with
               fearless
               Kids
               ;
               so
               't
               is
               foretold
               .
            
             
               
                 Attend
                 ,
                 ye
                 Shepherds
                 ,
                 to
                 my
                 rural
                 Song
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Safe
                 are
                 your
                 Flocks
                 ;
                 nor
                 tedious
                 is
                 my
                 Verse
                 .
              
            
             
               Are
               now
               the
               years
               fulfill'd
               ?
               is
               this
               the
               time
            
             
               VVhere
               our
               inspired
               Prophets
               have
               foretold
               ,
            
             
             
               A
               Branch
               of
               Jesse
               ,
               sprung
               from
               
               David's
               Loyns
               ,
            
             
               His
               Father's
               Scepter
               shall
               resume
               ,
               and
               rule
            
             
               All
               Nations
               ;
               and
               whose
               Reign
               shall
               never
               end
               ?
            
             
               Sure
               when
               he
               comes
               ,
               we
               shall
               not
               be
               forgot
               ,
            
             
               For
               David
               was
               a
               Shepherd
               ere
               a
               King.
            
             
               Come
               when
               he
               will
               ,
               two
               of
               my
               fattest
               Lambs
            
             
               Shall
               ,
               as
               a
               Vow
               ,
               on
               th'
               holy
               Altars
               bleed
               .
            
             
               Thus
               talk'd
               the
               Swain
               ,
               and
               he
               much
               more
               had
               talk'd
            
             
               Ev'n
               till
               the
               Morning
               Star
               and
               Day
               arose
               :
            
             
               But
               suddenly
               a
               glorious
               Glare
               of
               Light
            
             
               Surpriz'd
               the
               sleeping
               Field
               :
               a
               glorious
               Light
            
             
               Bright
               as
               the
               mid-day
               Sun
               ,
               when
               from
               the
               Crab
            
             
               He
               stares
               with
               glowing
               Eyes
               on
               the
               parch'd
               Earth
               ;
            
             
               Then
               Shepherds
               ,
               lead
               your
               Flocks
               beneath
               the
               Shade
               ,
            
             
               Or
               to
               some
               Silver
               stream
               ;
               for
               Heat
               breeds
               Thirst
               ,
            
             
               
                 Attend
                 ,
                 ye
                 Shepherds
                 ,
                 to
                 my
                 rural
                 Song
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Safe
                 are
                 your
                 Flocks
                 ;
                 nor
                 tedious
                 is
                 my
                 Verse
                 .
              
            
             
             
               Rest
               ,
               rest
               again
               ,
               ye
               Sheep
               ,
               't
               is
               a
               false
               Day
               ;
            
             
               Rest
               ,
               till
               Day
               break
               indeed
               ,
               and
               Night
               be
               gone
               .
            
             
               Amidst
               the
               Glory
               was
               an
               Angel
               seen
               ,
            
             
               And
               thus
               he
               spake
               :
               Cease
               ,
               Shepherds
               ,
               cease
               to
               fear
               :
            
             
               To
               you
               ,
               from
               the
               Eternal
               I
               am
               sent
               ,
            
             
               VVith
               Tidings
               sent
               ,
               which
               ye
               shall
               joy
               to
               hear
               ,
            
             
               Ye
               and
               all
               Nations
               :
               for
               this
               Day
               is
               born
            
             
               Your
               Saviour
               ;
               
               David's
               long
               expected
               Son.
            
             
               And
               lest
               ye
               doubt
               ,
               strait
               hence
               to
               Bethlem
               go
               ,
            
             
               There
               in
               a
               Manger
               ,
               humble
               Cradle
               ,
               lies
            
             
               The
               smiling
               Babe
               ;
               go
               ye
               ,
               and
               see
               him
               there
               .
            
             
               VVhile
               thus
               he
               spake
               ,
               a
               Quire
               of
               Angels
               came
            
             
               VVasting
               thro'
               Air
               ,
               and
               hovering
               on
               Wing
            
             
               Chanted
               Celestial
               Hymns
               ;
               and
               Glory
               sung
            
             
               To
               him
               that
               sits
               on
               the
               Eternal
               Throne
               ,
            
             
               On
               the
               Earth
               Peace
               ,
               and
               good
               Will
               toward
               Men
               ,
            
             
               
                 Attend
                 ,
                 ye
                 Shepherds
                 ,
                 to
                 my
                 rural
                 Song
              
               ;
            
             
               
                 Safe
                 are
                 your
                 Flocks
                 ;
                 nor
                 tedious
                 is
                 my
                 Verse
                 .
              
            
             
             
               They
               joyful
               went
               ,
               and
               going
               ,
               much
               they
               talk'd
            
             
               Of
               what
               they
               saw
               ,
               and
               what
               they
               were
               to
               see
               .
            
             
               VVhy
               this
               to
               us
               ,
               said
               they
               ,
               of
               all
               Mankind
               ?
            
             
               Sure
               Heav'n
               is
               partial
               to
               the
               Shepherds
               Life
               ,
            
             
               Since
               righteous
               Abel
               first
               acceptance
               found
               ;
            
             
               Our
               great
               Lawgiver
               kept
               his
               Father's
               Sheep
            
             
               And
               David
               from
               his
               Fold
               was
               call'd
               to
               reign
               :
            
             
               No
               Wolf
               ,
               nor
               Thief
               ,
               ye
               Sheep
               ,
               infest
               your
               Folds
               ,
            
             
               But
               rest
               in
               Peace
               untill
               your
               Swains
               return
               .
            
          
           
             FINIS
             .
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           BOOKS
           Printed
           for
           and
           Sold
           by
           
             Charles
             Harper
          
           at
           the
           Flower-de-Luce
           over
           against
           S.
           
           Dunstan's
           Church
           in
           Fleetstreet
           .
        
         
           DOctor
           
           Willi's
           Practice
           of
           Physick
           being
           the
           whole
           Works
           of
           that
           Renowned
           and
           Famous
           Physitian
           ,
           Rendred
           into
           English.
           Second
           Edit
           with
           Forty
           Copper
           Plates
           .
           Fol.
           
        
         
           The
           Historical
           and
           Miscellaneous
           Tracts
           of
           the
           Reverend
           and
           Learned
           
             Peter
             Heylyn
          
           ,
           D.D.
           now
           colle●ted
           into
           one
           Vol.
           And
           an
           Account
           of
           the
           Life
           of
           the
           Author
           ,
           never
           before
           Published
           ,
           Fol.
           
        
         
           The
           Religion
           of
           Protestants
           ,
           a
           safe
           Way
           to
           Salvation
           ,
           with
           a
           Discourse
           of
           the
           Apostolical
           Institution
           of
           Episcopacy
           .
           By
           
             W.
             C●●dingworth
          
           ,
           M.A.
           To
           which
           in
           this
           Edit
           .
           is
           added
           ▪
           shewing
           the
           Reason
           why
           he
           left
           Popery
           ,
           Fol.
           
        
         
           The
           History
           of
           
             Qu.
             Elizabeth
          
           :
           By
           
             W.
             Cambden
          
           King
           at
           Arms.
           Fourth
           Edition
           .
           Fol.
           
        
         
           The
           Second
           and
           Third
           Parts
           of
           the
           Works
           of
           Mr
           
             Abraham
             Cowley
          
           ,
           The
           Second
           containing
           what
           was
           Written
           and
           Published
           by
           himself
           to
           his
           younger
           Years
           :
           Now
           Reprinted
           together
           .
           Sixth
           Edition
           .
           The
           Third
           Part
           containing
           his
           Six
           Books
           of
           Plants
           never
           before
           Published
           in
           
             English.
             viz.
          
           The
           first
           and
           Second
           of
           Herbs
           the
           Third
           and
           Fourth
           of
           Flowers
           the
           Fifth
           and
           Sixth
           of
           Trees
           Now
           made
           English
           by
           several
           Hands
           ,
           with
           necessary
           Tables
           to
           both
           Parts
           ,
           and
           divers
           Poems
           in
           Praise
           of
           the
           Author
           ,
           Fol.
           
        
         
           An
           Impartial
           Collection
           of
           the
           great
           Affai●s
           of
           State
           from
           the
           beginning
           of
           the
           Scotch
           Rebellion
           in
           the
           Year
           163●
           to
           the
           Murther
           of
           King
           Charles
           the
           First
           ,
           Fo●
           .
           in
           2
           Vol.
           By
           Dr
           〈◊〉
           .
        
         
           Dugda●es
           Monasticon
           Anglicana
           .
           ●
           .
        
         
           The
           History
           of
           the
           L●e
           ▪
           Reign
           and
           Death
           of
           Edwa●d
           II.
           King
           of
           England
           and
           Lord
           of
           
             ●●e●and
             ,
             F●●
          
           .
        
         
           The
           Laws
           of
           
             Jamaica
             ,
             Fo●
             ..
          
        
         
           Dr.
           
           W●llis's
           practical
           Part
           of
           Physick
           ●
           .
           With
           his
           Treatise
           of
           the
           Plague
           .
        
         
           Bishop
           
           Vsher's
           Power
           of
           the
           ●rinc●
           and
           the
           Obedience
           required
           of
           the
           Subject
           ,
           with
           a
           large
           Preface
           by
           Bishop
           ●a●derson
           ,
           8.
           
        
         
           Some
           Animadversions
           upon
           a
           Book
           Intituled
           ,
           The
           Theory
           of
           the
           Earth
           ,
           by
           Herbert
           Lord
           Bishop
           of
           Hereford
           ,
           8.
           
        
         
           A
           Treatise
           of
           Moral
           and
           Intellectual
           Vertues
           wherein
           their
           Nature
           is
           fully
           explained
           ,
           and
           their
           Usefulness
           proved
           ,
           as
           being
           the
           be●t
           Rules
           of
           Life
           ,
           and
           the
           Causes
           of
           their
           Decay
           are
           inquired
           into
           ,
           concluding
           with
           such
           Arguments
           as
           tend
           to
           revive
           the
           Practice
           of
           them
           .
           With
           a
           Preface
           shewing
           the
           Vanity
           and
           Deceitfulness
           of
           Vice
           ,
           by
           
             J.
             Har●●●●f
          
           B.D.
           and
           Fellow
           of
           Kings
           College
           Ca●●●idge
           .
           Pric●
           ●s
           .
        
         
           
           
             Law
             Books
             .
          
           
             The
             Lord
             
             Coke's
             Reports
             in
             
               English
               ,
               Fol.
            
             
          
           
             Judge
             
             Crook's
             Reports
             in
             3
             Vol.
             Third
             Edit
             .
             with
             References
             to
             all
             the
             late
             Reports
             ,
             Fol.
             
          
           
             The
             Lord
             
             Coke's
             Commentary
             on
             
               Littleton
               ,
               Fol.
            
             
          
           
             —
             His
             Commentary
             on
             
               Magna
               Charta
               .
               Fol.
            
             
          
           
             —
             His
             Pleas
             of
             the
             Crown
             ,
             of
             the
             Third
             Part
             of
             the
             Institutes
             .
             Fol.
             
          
           
             —
             His
             Jurisdi●tion
             of
             Cour●s
             or
             Fourth
             Part
             of
             the
             Institutes
             .
          
           
             —
             His
             Eleven
             Reports
             in
             French
             Fol.
             
          
           
             
             Buistrede's
             Reports
             with
             new
             References
             ,
             Fol
          
           
             
             Leonard's
             Reports
             in
             Four
             Parts
             with
             new
             References
             ,
             Fol.
             
          
           
             The
             Year
             Books
             in
             Ten
             Vol.
             the
             last
             Edit
             .
             with
             new
             Notes
             and
             T●bles
             to
             them
             all
             ,
             Fol.
             
          
           
             The
             Reports
             of
             the
             L.
             Keep.
             
               Littleton
               ▪
            
             in
             the
             time
             of
             K
             Ch.
             I.
             Fol.
             
          
           
             The
             Reports
             of
             the
             le●rned
             Judge
             Sir
             
               Henry
               H●bart
            
             ,
             the
             Fourth
             〈◊〉
             corrected
             and
             amended
             ,
             Fol.
             
          
           
             Reports
             in
             the
             Court
             of
             
               Kings
               Bench
            
             at
             Westminster
             ,
             from
             the
             12th
             in
             the
             3●th
             .
             Year
             of
             King
             Charles
             II.
             by
             
               Jos.
               Keble
            
             of
             Grays●●n
             ,
             Esq.
             in
             3.
             
             Vol
             Fol.
             
          
           
             
             Ke●ray's
             Reports
             with
             new
             References
             to
             all
             the
             late
             Reports
             ,
             Fol.
             
          
           
             Reports
             of
             several
             especial
             Cases
             in
             the
             Court
             of
             Common
             Pleas
             ,
             by
             
               S.
               Carter
            
             of
             the
             
               Inner
               Temple
            
             Esq
             Fol.
             
          
           
             An
             Assi●●ance
             to
             Justices
             of
             the
             Peace
             ,
             for
             the
             easier
             Performance
             of
             their
             Duty
             the
             First
             Part
             containing
             the
             particular
             Clauses
             of
             all
             men
             Statutes
             from
             
               Magna
               Charta
            
             ,
             until
             the
             1st
             .
             of
             King
             James
             II.
             that
             do
             any
             ways
             concern
             a
             Justice
             of
             Peace
             ;
             in
             the
             other
             Part
             the
             whole
             Office
             of
             a
             Justice
             of
             Pe●ce
             is
             methodically
             dige●●ed
             ▪
             with
             the
             most
             approved
             Presidents
             under
             proper
             Heads
             to
             which
             is
             now
             added
             a
             T●ble
             for
             the
             ready
             ●nding
             ●●t
             the
             Presidents
             ,
             never
             before
             Printed
             ,
             by
             
               J.
               〈◊〉
            
             o●
             〈◊〉
             .
             Esq
          
           
             An
             〈◊〉
             A●●●gment
             of
             the
             Records
             in
             the
             Tower
             of
             London
             ,
             being
             o●
             〈◊〉
             Use
             for
             all
             that
             are
             concerned
             in
             Parliamentary
             Affairs
             ,
             and
             Professors
             of
             the
             Laws
             of
             this
             Realm
             ,
             collected
             by
             Sir
             
               Rob
               Cott●●
            
             K●●ght
             ●●d
             Baronet
             ,
             F●●
             .
          
           
             
             .
          
           
             Th●
             W●ol●
             〈…〉
             Man
             ,
             a●●o●●●●
             to
             the
             L●w
             of
             Natu●●
             ,
             by
             that
             〈…〉
             S●●●
             〈…〉
             of
             to
             Laws
             of
             Nat●●e
             and
             N●tio●s
             in
             th●
             Univ●r●●ty
             〈…〉
             Univer●●ty
             ,
             now
             made
             Eng●●sh
             〈…〉
             .
          
           
             〈…〉
             a
             D●●tor
             of
             D●vin●ty
             ,
             and
             a
             Stud●●t
             in
             the
             〈…〉
             the
             said
             Laws
             and
             of
             Conf●●ences
             ,
             newly
             revi●●d
             〈…〉
             .
          
           
             〈…〉
             of
             the
             most
             reverend
             J●dge
             Mr.
             
               〈◊〉
               .
               Fitz-H●●●
            
             〈…〉
             .