Poems by several hands, and on several occasions collected by N. Tate.
      
       
         
           1685
        
      
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             Poems by several hands, and on several occasions collected by N. Tate.
             Tate, Nahum, 1652-1715.
          
           [16], 445 p.
           
             Printed for J. Hindmarsh ...,
             London :
             1685.
          
           
             Poems by Cowley, Rochester, Sir Francis Fane, P. Ayers, J. Evelyn, Waller, Tate, and others.
             First ed. Cf. BM.
             Reproduction of original in Union Theological Seminary Library, New York.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           English poetry -- Early modern, 1500-1700.
        
      
    
     
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           POEMS
           BY
           
             Several
             Hands
          
           ,
           AND
           ON
           Several
           OCCASIONS
        
         
           Collected
           by
           
             N.
             Tate
          
           .
        
         
         
           LONDON
           :
           Printed
           for
           
             I.
             Hindmarsh
          
           ,
           at
           the
           
             Golden
             Ball
          
           ,
           over
           against
           the
           
             Royal
             Exchange
          
           in
           Cornhil
           ,
           1685.
           
        
      
       
         
         
         
           TO
           THE
           Right
           Honourable
           ,
           ROBERT
           Earl
           of
           Scarsdale
           ,
           Baron
           Deincourt
           ,
           Lord
           Lieutenant
           of
           Derbishire
           .
        
         
           
             SIR
             ,
          
        
         
           I
           Cannot
           think
           there
           needs
           much
           Apology
           for
           an
           Address
           of
           this
           Nature
           to
           your
           Lordship
           ,
           although
           from
           a
           Stranger
           .
           The
           Patronage
           of
           Poetry
           has
           always
           belong'd
           to
           the
           Noble
           and
           Virtuous
           :
           On
           this
           account
           
           therefore
           as
           well
           as
           others
           it
           is
           dangerous
           for
           any
           Person
           of
           Honour
           to
           be
           so
           early
           Eminent
           as
           your
           Lordship
           ,
           because
           those
           Excellencies
           that
           create
           Envy
           in
           evil
           Minds
           are
           sure
           to
           meet
           the
           Applause
           of
           the
           Muses
           ;
           which
           to
           some
           Tempers
           may
           be
           the
           greater
           Persecution
           .
           Such
           Characters
           indeed
           are
           now
           so
           thin
           sown
           in
           Courts
           that
           they
           are
           easily
           singled
           out
           .
           Your
           Lordship
           may
           think
           that
           Flattery
           which
           the
           World
           knows
           to
           be
           Truth
           ;
           
           I
           will
           not
           therefore
           pretend
           to
           draw
           your
           Lordships
           Character
           ,
           or
           to
           speak
           more
           properly
           I
           need
           not
           .
           As
           far
           as
           Constancy
           of
           Temper
           ,
           Loyalty
           ,
           Justice
           ,
           and
           Generosity
           in
           the
           most
           eninent
           degree
           can
           oblige
           a
           Nation
           :
           the
           Court
           and
           Age
           are
           indebted
           to
           your
           Lordship
           .
           It
           was
           this
           greatness
           and
           integrity
           of
           Soul
           that
           plac'd
           your
           Lordship
           above
           the
           example
           of
           Nature
           ,
           and
           against
           the
           general
           Frenzie
           made
           you
           declare
           for
           oppressed
           innocence
           .
           
           It
           is
           therefore
           no
           wonder
           that
           such
           endowments
           of
           mind
           have
           gain'd
           the
           Favour
           of
           the
           most
           Just
           and
           Pious
           Prince
           .
           I
           could
           descend
           to
           particular
           Instances
           of
           Honour
           and
           private
           Friendship
           ;
           but
           I
           design
           no
           Panegyric
           ,
           being
           only
           Ambitious
           to
           pay
           my
           Devotion
           to
           your
           Lordship
           by
           this
           small
           present
           ,
           most
           humbly
           Dedicated
           by
        
         
           
             My
             Lord
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Lorships
             most
             obedient
             Servant
             ,
             
               N.
               TATE
            
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           THE
           TABLE
           OF
           THE
           CONTENTS
           .
        
         
           
             A
             New
             Collection
             of
             Poems
             ,
             Written
             by
             several
             Authors
             .
             An
             Ode
             written
             by
             Mr.
             Abraham
             Cowley
             for
             Her
             Majesty
             ,
             Queen
             to
             King
             
               Charles
               I.
               Page
            
             1.
             
          
           
             The
             Grove
             .
             By
             the
             Earl
             of
             
               Roscommon
               ,
               p.
            
             3
          
           
             Upon
             Nothing
             .
             By
             the
             late
             Earl
             of
             
               Rochester
               ,
               p.
            
             5
          
           
             Upon
             his
             leaving
             his
             Mistris
             .
             By
             the
             same
             Author
             ,
             p.
             8
          
           
             Love
             and
             Life
             :
             A
             Song
             .
             By
             the
             same
             Author
             ,
             p.
             10.
             
          
           
             To
             the
             late
             Earl
             of
             Rochester
             ,
             upon
             the
             report
             of
             his
             Sickness
             in
             Town
             ,
             being
             newly
             recovered
             by
             his
             Lordships
             advice
             in
             the
             Country
             ,
             in
             Allusion
             to
             the
             Ode
             of
             Horace
             .
             By
             Sir
             
               Francis
               Fane
               ,
               p.
            
             11
          
           
             
             To
             a
             great
             Lord
             ,
             inviting
             him
             to
             Court
             ,
             or
             else
             to
             write
             a
             History
             in
             the
             Country
             .
             A
             Paraphrase
             upon
             the
             12th
             .
             Ode
             of
             Horace
             :
             l.
             2.
             
             By
             the
             same
             ,
             p.
             13
          
           
             To
             a
             Perjur'd
             Mistris
             ;
             the
             8th
             .
             Ode
             of
             Horace
             ,
             l.
             1.
             
             Imitated
             ,
             By
             the
             same
             ,
             p.
             16
          
           
             A
             Mask
             Made
             at
             request
             of
             the
             late
             Earl
             of
             Ro-Chester
             ,
             for
             the
             Tragedy
             of
             
               Vale●…inian
               .
               p.
            
             ●…7
          
           
             From
             
               Ovid.
               Amorum
            
             ,
             l.
             2.
             
             El.
             4.
             and
             Lucretius
             ,
             l.
             4.
             
             That
             he
             loves
             Women
             of
             all
             sorts
             and
             sizes
             .
             By
             Mr.
             
               R
               —
               p.
            
             33
          
           
             To
             Dorolissa
             ,
             On
             her
             being
             like
             my
             Lord
             Dorset
             .
             By
             the
             same
             ,
             p.
             27
          
           
             In
             Imitation
             of
             the
             Song
             ,
             That
             I
             love
             none
             .
             By
             
               Olinda
               ,
               p.
            
             38
          
           
             The
             Picture
             .
             By
             Mr.
             Adams
             ,
             By
             the
             same
             ,
             p.
             39
          
           
             A
             Pastoral
             ,
             Written
             at
             Dublin
             ,
             in
             May
             ,
             1683
             ,
             By
             the
             same
             ,
             p.
             44
          
           
             
               Vivamus
               mea
            
             Lesbia
             ,
             &c.
             Catul.
             By
             the
             same
             ,
             p.
             48
          
           
             Song
             ,
             p.
             50
          
           
             
               Parce
               meo
               Juveni
            
             ,
             &c.
             Tibullus
             ,
             p.
             51
          
           
             A
             Translation
             out
             of
             Statius
             ,
             To
             
               Sleep
               ,
               p.
            
             53
          
           
             The
             Atheist
             ,
             p.
             55
          
           
             A
             Pastoral
             Reflection
             on
             Death
             ,
             p.
             57
          
           
             Horatii
             Ode
             28.
             
             Lib.
             1.
             
             
               Persicos
               Odi
               puer
               apparatus
            
             .
             &c.
             p.
             64
          
           
             Horatii
             Epod.
             1.
             
               ad
               Populum
               Romanum
               ,
               Quoquo
               scelesti
               ruitis
               ?
            
             &c.
             p.
             65
          
           
             The
             Fly.
             By
             
               P.
               Ayres
            
             ,
             Esquire
             ,
             p.
             67
          
           
             To
             the
             Nightingale
             ,
             p.
             70
          
           
             
             On
             Nightingale
             that
             was
             drowned
             ,
             p.
             75
          
           
             Lov
             's
             new
             Philosophy
             ,
             p.
             76
          
           
             Cynisca
             ,
             Or
             ,
             the
             fourteenth
             Idylium
             of
             Theocritus
             imitated
             .
             By
             
               W.
               Bowls
            
             ,
             Fellow
             of
             Kings
             College
             
               Cambridge
               ,
               p.
            
             80
          
           
             Sapho's
             Ode
             out
             of
             
               Longinus
               ,
               p.
            
             85
          
           
             Ode
             13.
             
             Of
             the
             fourth
             Book
             
               ●…orace
               ,
               p.
            
             87
          
           
             The
             Immortality
             of
             Poesie
             .
             〈◊〉
             Mr.
             Evelyn
             .
             To
             Envy
             .
             
               Ovid.
               Amor.
               Lib.
            
             1.
             
             Eleg.
             15
             ,
             p.
             90
          
           
             Out
             of
             Martial
             Lib
             ,
             8.
             
             Epigr.
             56.
             
             
               Temporibus
               nostris
               Aetas
               ,
               p.
            
             93
          
           
             To
             Mr.
             
               &c.
               p.
            
             95
          
           
             Out
             of
             Horace
             ,
             Ode
             8.
             
             L.
             1.
             
             
               Lidia
               dic
               per
               omnes
            
             ,
             &c.
             p.
             99
          
           
             The
             Punishment
             ,
             p.
             100
          
           
             Part
             of
             Ajax's
             Speech
             ,
             
               Ovid
               Metam
            
             .
             l.
             13.
             p.
             101
          
           
             Out
             of
             
               Sannazar
               ,
               p.
            
             102
          
           
             Remedy
             of
             Love
             ,
             p.
             103
          
           
             Written
             on
             her
             Mask
             ,
             p.
             107
          
           
             To
             Mr.
             
               S.
               G.
               p.
            
             108
          
           
             A
             Gentleman
             going
             to
             his
             Country
             Farm
             ,
             which
             he
             had
             not
             seen
             for
             some
             time
             before
             ;
             at
             the
             request
             of
             a
             Lady
             writes
             these
             Verses
             .
             Whether
             in
             Love
             ,
             Men
             or
             Women
             have
             the
             advantage
             ;
             they
             in
             making
             ,
             or
             these
             in
             receiving
             ,
             their
             Court
             :
             Considered
             in
             a
             Dialogue
             betwixt
             Corinna
             and
             
               Lais
               ,
               p.
            
             115.
             
          
           
             On
             the
             Lords
             rejecting
             the
             
               Bill
               of
               Exclusion
            
             ,
             November
             15.
             1680.
             p.
             120
          
           
             Elegy
             On
             the
             Death
             of
             
               Christopher
               Sherard
            
             ,
             
               Esq
            
             Son
             and
             Heir
             Apparent
             to
             the
             Right
             Honourable
             
             Bennet
             Lord
             Sherard
             ,
             who
             died
             in
             the
             sixteenth
             year
             of
             his
             age
             ,
             Feb.
             19.
             1681.
             p.
             122
          
           
             On
             the
             Romantick
             
               Office
               of
               Credit
            
             ,
             proposed
             by
             
               Dr.
               C.
            
             and
             his
             Partners
             ,
             An.
             Dom.
             1682.
             p.
             124
          
           
             Occasioned
             by
             a
             sight
             of
             his
             Majesty
             ,
             walking
             near
             the
             River
             in
             the
             time
             of
             the
             
               Oxford
               Parliament
               ,
               p.
            
             126
          
           
             To
             
               Coelia
               ,
               p.
            
             128
          
           
             To
             a
             Gentleman
             ,
             his
             Friend
             ,
             who
             could
             decypher
             any
             Character
             .
             p.
             129
          
           
             Business
             ,
             p.
             131
          
           
             Horace
             Ode
             13.
             
             Lib.
             4.
             
             In
             Lycen
             Meretricen●…
             Vetulam
             .
             Audivêre
             ,
             Lyce
             ,
             Dii
             —
             
               Translated
               ,
               p.
            
             135
          
           
             On
             a
             Fair
             Lady
             Singing
             ,
             p.
             137
          
           
             The
             Recantation
             not
             accepted
             ,
             p.
             138
          
           
             
               Ca●…ul
               ad
               Lesbiam
            
             5.
             p.
             140
          
           
             On
             
             Caelia's
             Sickness
             ,
             p.
             141
          
           
             A
             Song
             ,
             p.
             142
          
           
             Life
             ,
             p.
             143
          
           
             To
             much
             admired
             Lady
             ,
             p.
             145
          
           
             To
             a
             very
             accompl●…ed
             Lady
             ,
             p.
             146
          
           
             To
             the
             same
             ,
             immoderately
             mourning
             the
             Death
             of
             a
             Relation
             ,
             p.
             148
          
           
             Secret
             Grief
             ,
             p.
             149
          
           
             Mart.
             L.
             1.
             
             Ep.
             58.
             p.
             150
          
           
             The
             Graces
             ,
             or
             
               Hieron
               Theocriti
               Idyl
            
             .
             16.
             p.
             151
          
           
             Anacrean's
             Odes
             Paraphras'd
             .
             Age.
             Ode
             47.
             
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
            
             ,
             &c.
             By
             Mr.
             Bristow
             ,
             late
             of
             All-Souls
             College
             ,
             p.
             158
          
           
             
             Age.
             Ode
             34.
             
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
            
             ,
             &c.
             By
             the
             same
             ,
             p.
             159
          
           
             Drinking
             .
             Ode
             25.
             
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
            
             ,
             &c.
             By
             the
             same
             ,
             p.
             160
          
           
             The
             first
             Elegy
             of
             
               Ovid's
               Amorum
            
             ,
             Translated
             into
             English
             by
             Mr.
             Ballow
             ,
             Fellow
             of
             Kings
             Colledge
             in
             
               Cambridge
               ,
               p.
            
             161
          
           
             Elegy
             II.
             p.
             164
          
           
             Elegy
             III
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             hand
             p.
             167
          
           
             Elegy
             IV
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             hand
             ,
             p.
             169
          
           
             Elegy
             V
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             ,
             p.
             173
          
           
             
               Libri
               Primi
               ,
               Ovid.
               Amor.
               Elegia
               Prima
               ,
               p.
            
             175
          
           
             
               Libri
               Primi
               ,
               Elegia
               Secunda
               ,
               p.
            
             178
          
           
             
               Libri
               Primi
               ,
               Elegia
               Tertia
               ,
               p.
            
             183
          
           
             
               Libri
               Primi
               ,
               Elegia
               Quinta
               ,
               p.
            
             184
          
           
             Tr.
             Mr.
             
               R.
               D.
            
             at
             
               Cambridge
               ,
               p.
            
             186
          
           
             The
             Soldier
             .
             Writ
             in
             April
             ,
             1684.
             when
             our
             English
             Voluntiers
             went
             into
             
               Flanders
               ,
               p.
            
             190
          
           
             Philander
             and
             
               Eirene
               ,
               p.
            
             193
          
           
             Of
             Divine
             Poesie
             ,
             two
             Cantoes
             ,
             By
             Mr.
             Waller
             Occasioned
             upon
             sight
             of
             the
             Fifty
             Third
             Chapter
             of
             Isaiah
             ,
             turn'd
             into
             Verse
             by
             a
             Lady
             ,
             p.
             214
          
           
             Canto
             2.
             p.
             217
          
           
             Answer
             to
             Mr.
             
               Waller
               .
               p.
            
             222
          
           
             The
             Change
             ,
             p.
             226
          
           
             Excusing
             himself
             to
             his
             Mistris
             for
             being
             Iealous
             ,
             p.
             228
          
           
             Content
             ,
             p.
             237
          
           
             To
             
               Lucinda
               ,
               p.
            
             244
          
           
             The
             Resolve
             ,
             p.
             246
          
           
             Parting
             with
             
               Lucinda
               ,
               p.
            
             248
          
           
             The
             Visit
             ,
             p.
             252
          
           
             
             By
             
               Charles
               How
            
             ,
             Esquire
             p.
             254
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             ,
             p.
             255
          
           
             A
             Saranade
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             ,
             p.
             256
          
           
             To
             my
             Lord
             Lansdowne
             ,
             at
             the
             Imperial
             Camp
             ,
             p.
             258
          
           
             On
             the
             sight
             and
             Sculpture
             of
             Mr.
             Gibbon's
             own
             most
             excellent
             head
             ,
             in
             Marble
             .
             By
             Mr.
             
               Johnson
               ,
               p.
            
             260
          
           
             The
             Denial
             ,
             p.
             263
          
           
             Kissing
             his
             Mistris
             ,
             p.
             264
          
           
             Despair
             ,
             p.
             266
          
           
             To
             
               Lucinda
               ,
               p.
            
             269
          
           
             Embracing
             his
             Mistris
             ,
             p.
             271
          
           
             The
             Unalterable
             ,
             p.
             273
          
           
             To
             
               Corinna
               ,
               p.
            
             275
          
           
             To
             
               Lucinda
               ,
               p.
            
             283
          
           
             The
             Captive
             ,
             p.
             284
          
           
             On
             
               Lucinda
               ,
               p.
            
             286
          
           
             The
             Command
             ,
             p.
             287
          
           
             The
             Convert
             ,
             p.
             289
          
           
             Vicissitude
             ,
             p.
             290
          
           
             The
             Cure
             worse
             than
             the
             Disease
             ,
             p.
             292
          
           
             The
             Denial
             ,
             p.
             293
          
           
             The
             Royal
             Canticle
             ,
             or
             the
             Song
             of
             
               Solomon
               ,
               p.
            
             294
          
           
             The
             last
             parting
             of
             Hector
             with
             Andromache
             and
             his
             Son
             Astyanx
             ,
             when
             he
             went
             to
             assault
             the
             Grecians
             in
             their
             Camp
             ;
             in
             the
             end
             of
             which
             Expedition
             ,
             he
             was
             slain
             by
             
               Achilles
               ,
               p.
            
             324
          
           
             To
             the
             late
             King
             ,
             at
             Kings
             College
             ,
             p.
             33●…
          
           
             Cupid
             arm'd
             ,
             A
             la-modern
             ,
             p.
             333
          
           
             
             An
             Ode
             ,
             in
             Imitation
             of
             Pindar
             ,
             on
             the
             Death
             of
             the
             Right
             Honourable
             ,
             Thomas
             ,
             Earl
             of
             
               Ossory
               ,
               p.
            
             335
          
           
             The
             Pisatory
             Eclogues
             of
             Sanazarius
             .
             The
             first
             Eclogue
             entituled
             Phillis
             ,
             By
             Mr.
             Tate
             :
             Inscribed
             to
             Dr.
             
               Conquest
               ,
               p.
            
             346
          
           
             Lycidas
             and
             
               Mycon
               ,
               p.
            
             347
          
           
             The
             second
             Eclogue
             .
             By
             the
             same
             ,
             p.
             354
          
           
             The
             third
             Eclogue
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             .
             
               Celadon
               ,
               Mopsus
               ,
               p.
            
             359
          
           
             Proteus
             .
             Eclogue
             the
             fourth
             ,
             p.
             366
          
           
             Ode
             for
             an
             Anniversary
             of
             Musick
             on
             St.
             
             Cecilia's
             Day
             ,
             p.
             373
          
           
             The
             twentieth
             Ode
             of
             the
             second
             Book
             of
             
               Horace
               ,
               p.
            
             376
          
           
             Sanaz.
             Ep.
             on
             
               Venice
               ,
               p.
            
             377
          
           
             The
             Rape
             of
             Philomel
             .
             A
             Paraphrase
             of
             
             Ovid's
             sixth
             Book
             .
             ,
             p.
             378
          
           
             An
             Elegie
             on
             the
             Earl
             of
             
               Rochester
               ,
               p.
            
             392
          
           
             On
             the
             Coronation
             of
             the
             High
             and
             Mighty
             Monarch
             
               JAMES
               II
               ,
               p.
            
             394
          
           
             Martial
             .
             Lib.
             10.
             
             Epigr.
             47.
             
             
               Vitam
               quae
               faciant
               beatiorem
               .
               p.
            
             397
          
           
             A
             Pindari●…
             Essay
             upon
             Musick
             ,
             By
             Mr.
             
               Wilson
               ,
               p.
            
             398
          
           
             Anacreon
             .
             To
             himself
             .
             
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
            
             ,
             p.
             403
          
           
             Another
             
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
            
             .
             By
             the
             same
             hand
             .
             p.
             404
          
           
             Strada's
             Nightingale
             ,
             p.
             405
          
           
             A
             Translation
             of
             the
             fourth
             Chorns
             in
             
             Seneca's
             
               Troas
               ,
               p.
            
             409
          
           
             Lyricks
             to
             Love
             ,
             p.
             411
          
           
             
             The
             Request
             ,
             p.
             412
          
           
             Part
             of
             the
             last
             Scene
             of
             
               Seneca's
               Troas
            
             done
             into
             English
             ,
             Beginning
             at
             
               Est
               una
               magna
               Turris
               è
               Troj●…
               super
               ,
            
             &c.
             p.
             413
          
           
             A
             Poem
             on
             the
             Death
             of
             our
             late
             dread
             Sovereign
             ,
             
               CHARLES
               II.
            
             of
             Blessed
             and
             Immortal
             Memory
             ,
             
               p.
               p.
            
             418
          
        
      
       
         
         
           THE
           PUBLISHER
           TO
           THE
           READER
           .
        
         
           I
           
             have
             with
             some
             pains
             and
             trouble
             collected
             the
             following
             Poems
             :
             in
             which
             undertaking
             I
             have
             one
             pretence
             to
             your
             Favour
             ,
             which
             is
             ,
             that
             I
             have
             in
             the
             Volumn
             troubled
             you
             with
             very
             little
             of
             my
             Own.
             Amongst
             such
             various
             Hands
             and
             Arguments
             ,
             it
             cannot
             be
             expected
             that
             they
             should
             all
             be
             equally
             perfect
             ,
             neither
             if
             they
             were
             so
             ,
             would
             they
             be
             so
             esteemed
             by
             Readers
             of
             different
             Palats
             .
             It
             is
             sufficient
             that
             we
             presume
             there
             are
             none
             unworthy
             perusal
             ,
             and
             I
             am
             certain
             ,
             none
             that
             can
             give
             offence
             to
             the
             chastest
             Ear.
             
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
         
           A
           NEW
           COLLECTION
           OF
           POEMS
           .
        
         
           Written
           by
           several
           Authors
           .
        
         
           
             An
             ODE
             
               Written
               by
               Mr.
            
             Abraham
             Cowley
             
               For
               Her
            
             Majesty
             ,
             
               Queen
               to
               King
            
             Charles
             I.
             
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               COme
               Poetry
               ,
               and
               with
               thee
               bring
               along
            
             
               A
               rich
               and
               painted
               throng
            
             
               Of
               noblest
               words
               into
               my
               Song
               ;
            
             
               Into
               my
               numbers
               let
               them
               gently
               flow
               ,
            
             
               Soft
               and
               smooth
               ,
               and
               thick
               as
               Snow
               ,
            
             
               And
               turn
               the
               Numbers
               till
               they
               prove
            
             
               Smooth
               as
               the
               smoothest
               Sphear
               above
               ,
            
             
               And
               like
               a
               Sphear
               harmoniously
               move
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Little
               do'st
               thou
               mean
               Song
               the
               Fortune
               know
            
             
               That
               thou
               art
               destin'd
               to
               ;
            
             
               Or
               what
               thy
               Stars
               intend
               to
               do
               .
            
             
               Among
               a
               Thousand
               Songs
               ,
               but
               few
               can
               be
            
             
               Born
               to
               the
               Honour
               promis'd
               Thee
               ;
            
             
               Urania's
               self
               shall
               Thee
               reheas●…
               ,
            
             
               And
               a
               just
               Blessing
               to
               Thee
               give
               ;
            
             
               Thou
               in
               her
               sweet
               and
               tuneful
               breath
               shall
               Live.
               
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Her
               pleasing
               Tongue
               with
               Thee
               shall
               freely
               play
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               on
               her
               Lips
               shalt
               stray
               ,
            
             
               And
               dance
               upon
               that
               Rosy
               way
               ;
            
             
               What
               Prince
               alive
               ,
               that
               would
               not
               envy
               Thee
               !
            
             
               And
               think
               Thee
               higher
               far
               than
               He
               !
            
             
               And
               how
               wil●…
               Thou
               Thy
               Author
               Crown
               ,
            
             
               When
               fair
               Urania
               shall
               be
               known
               ,
            
             
               To
               sing
               my
               words
               ,
               when
               She
               but
               speaks
               Her
               own
               !
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             GROVE
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             Earl
             of
             Roscommon
             .
          
           
             AH
             happy
             Grove
             !
             dark
             and
             secure
             retreat
             ,
          
           
             Of
             Sacred
             silence
             ,
             rests
             Eternal
             Seat
             ;
          
           
             How
             well
             your
             cool
             and
             unfrequented
             shade
          
           
             Suits
             with
             the
             chasts
             retirements
             of
             a
             Maid
             ;
          
           
             Oh!
             if
             kind
             Heav'n
             had
             been
             so
             much
             my
             friend
             ,
          
           
             To
             make
             my
             Fate
             upon
             my
             choice
             depend
             ;
          
           
             All
             my
             ambition
             I
             would
             here
             confine
             ,
          
           
             And
             only
             this
             Elezyum
             should
             be
             mine
             :
          
           
             Fond
             Men
             by
             Passion
             wilfully
             betray'd
             ,
          
           
             Adore
             those
             Idols
             which
             their
             fancy
             made
             ;
          
           
             Purchasing
             Riches
             ,
             with
             our
             time
             and
             care
             ,
          
           
             We
             lose
             our
             freedom
             in
             a
             gilded
             Snare
             ;
          
           
             And
             having
             all
             ,
             all
             to
             our selves
             ,
             refuse
             ,
          
           
             Opprest
             with
             Blessings
             which
             we
             fear
             to
             use
             .
          
           
             Fame
             is
             at
             best
             but
             an
             inconstant
             good
             ,
          
           
             Vain
             are
             the
             boasted
             Titles
             of
             our
             Blood
             ;
          
           
           
             We
             soonest
             lose
             what
             we
             most
             highly
             prise
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             our
             youth
             our
             short-liv'd
             beauty
             dyes
             ;
          
           
             In
             vain
             our
             Fields
             and
             Flocks
             increase
             our
             store
             ,
          
           
             If
             our
             abundance
             makes
             us
             wish
             for
             more
             ;
          
           
             How
             happy
             is
             the
             harmless
             Country
             Maid
             ,
          
           
             Who
             rich
             by
             Nature
             scorns
             superfluous
             aid
             !
          
           
             Whose
             modest
             Cloaths
             no
             wanton
             eyes
             invite
             ,
          
           
             But
             like
             her
             Soul
             preserves
             the
             native
             white
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             little
             store
             her
             well-taught
             Mind
             does
             please
             ,
          
           
             Not
             pinch'd
             with
             want
             ,
             nor
             cloy'd
             with
             wanton
             ease
             ,
          
           
             Whofree
             from
             Storms
             which
             on
             the
             great
             ones
             fall
             ,
          
           
             Makes
             but
             few
             Wishes
             ,
             and
             enjoys
             them
             all
             ;
          
           
             No
             care
             but
             Love
             can
             discompose
             her
             breast
             ,
          
           
             Love
             of
             all
             cares
             the
             sweetest
             and
             the
             best
             ;
          
           
             Whil'st
             on
             sweet
             grass
             her
             bleating
             charge
             does
             lye
             ,
          
           
             Our
             happy
             Lover
             feeds
             upon
             her
             eye
             ;
          
           
             Not
             one
             on
             whom
             or
             Gods
             or
             Men
             impose
             ,
          
           
             But
             one
             whom
             Love
             has
             for
             this
             Lover
             chose
             ,
          
           
             Under
             some
             favourit
             Mirtels
             shady
             Boughs
             ,
          
           
             They
             speak
             their
             Passions
             in
             repeated
             Vows
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             whilst
             a
             Blush
             confesses
             how
             she
             burns
             ,
          
           
             His
             faithful
             heart
             makes
             as
             sincere
             returns
             ;
          
           
             Thus
             in
             the
             Arms
             of
             Love
             and
             Peace
             they
             lye
             ,
          
           
             And
             whilst
             they
             Live
             ,
             their
             flames
             can
             never
             dye
             .
          
        
         
           
             Upon
             NOTHING
             ,
          
           
             By
             the
             Late
             Earl
             of
             ROCHESTER
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               NOthing
               thouElder
               Brother
               ev'n
               to
               shade
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               hadst
               a
               Being
               ,
               e're
               the
               World
               was
               made
               ,
            
             
               And
               (
               well-fixt
               )
               are
               alone
               of
               ending
               not
               afraid
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               E're
               time
               and
               place
               were
               time
               and
               place
               were
               not
               ,
            
             
               When
               
                 Primitive
                 Nothing
              
               ,
               something
               strait
               begot
               ,
            
             
               Then
               all
               proceeded
               from
               the
               great
               united-What
               ?
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Something
               ,
               the
               gen'ral
               Attribute
               of
               all
               ,
            
             
               Sever'd
               from
               thee
               ,
               its
               sole
               Original
               .
            
             
               Into
               thy
               boundless
               self
               ,
               must
               undistinguish'd
               fall
               .
            
          
           
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               Yet
               something
               did
               thy
               mighty
               Pow'r
               command
               ,
            
             
               And
               from
               thy
               fruitful
               emptinesses
               hand
               ,
            
             
               Snatcht
               Men
               ,
               Beasts
               ,
               Birds
               ,
               Fire
               ,
               Air
               ,
               and
               Land.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               V.
               
            
             
               Matter
               the
               wicked'st
               Off-spring
               of
               thy
               Race
               ,
            
             
               By
               form
               assisted
               ,
               flew
               from
               thy
               embrace
               ,
            
             
               And
               Rebel
               Light
               ,
               obscur'd
               thy
               reverend
               dusky
               face
               .
            
          
           
             
               VI.
               
            
             
               With
               form
               ,
               and
               Matter
               ,
               time
               and
               place
               did
               joyn
               ,
            
             
               Body
               ,
               thy
               Foe
               ,
               with
               thee
               did
               Leagues
               combine
               ,
            
             
               To
               spoil
               thy
               peaceful
               Realm
               ,
               and
               ruine
               all
               thy
               Line
               .
            
          
           
             
               VII
               .
            
             
               But
               Turn-Coat
               Time
               ,
               assists
               the
               Foe
               in
               vain
               ,
            
             
               And
               brib'd
               by
               thee
               ,
               assists
               thy
               short-liv'd
               Reign
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               thy
               hungry
               Womb
               ,
               drives
               back
               thy
               Slaves
               again
               .
            
          
           
             
               VIII
               .
            
             
               Tho'
               Misteries
               are
               barr'd
               from
               Laick
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               Divine
               alone
               with
               Warrant
               pryes
               ,
            
             
               Into
               thy
               Bosome
               ,
               where
               thy
               truth
               in
               private
               lyes
               .
            
          
           
             
               IX
               .
            
             
               Yet
               this
               of
               thee
               ,
               the
               wise
               may
               freely
               say
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               from
               the
               Virtuous
               ,
               nothing
               tak'st
               away
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               be
               part
               of
               thee
               ,
               the
               Wicked
               wisely
               pray
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               X.
               
            
             
               Great
               Negative
               ,
               how
               vainly
               would
               the
               Wise
               ,
            
             
               Enquire
               ,
               desine
               ,
               distinguish
               ,
               teach
               ,
               devise
               ,
            
             
               Didst
               thou
               not
               stand
               to
               point
               their
               dull
               Philosophies
               .
            
          
           
             
               XI
               .
            
             
               Is
               ,
               or
               is
               not
               ,
               the
               Two
               great
               ends
               of
               Fate
               ,
            
             
               And
               true
               ,
               or
               false
               ,
               the
               subject
               of
               debate
               ,
            
             
               That
               perfect
               ,
               or
               destroy
               ,
               the
               vast
               designs
               of
               Fate
               .
            
          
           
             
               XII
               .
            
             
               When
               they
               have
               rack'd
               the
               Politicians
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               Within
               thy
               Bosome
               ,
               most
               securely
               rest
               ,
            
             
               And
               when
               reduc'd
               to
               thee
               are
               least
               unsafe
               ,
               and
               best
               .
            
          
           
             
               XIII
               .
            
             
               But
               Nothing
               ,
               why
               does
               something
               still
               permit
               ,
            
             
               That
               Sacred
               Monarchs
               ,
               should
               at
               Council
               sit
               ,
            
             
               Which
               Persons
               highly
               thought
               ,
               at
               best
               for
               
                 Nothing
                 fit
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               XIV
               .
            
             
               Whil'st
               weighty
               Something
               ,
               modestly
               abstains
               ,
            
             
               From
               Princes
               Coffers
               ,
               and
               from
               States-mens
               Brains
               ,
            
             
               And
               Nothing
               there
               ,
               like
               stately
               Nothing
               reigns
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               XV.
               
            
             
               Nothing
               who
               dwell'st
               with
               Fools
               in
               grave
               disguise
               ,
            
             
               For
               whom
               thy
               Reverend
               shapes
               ,
               and
               forms
               devise
               ,
            
             
               Lawn-sleeves
               ,
               and
               Furrs
               ,
               and
               Gowns
               ,
               when
               they
               like
               thee
               look
               wise
               .
            
          
           
             
               XVI
               .
            
             
               French
               Truth
               ,
               Dutch
               Prowess
               ,
               British
               Policy
               ,
            
             
               Hybernians
               Learning
               ,
               Scotch
               Civility
               ,
            
             
               Spaniards
               dispatch
               ,
               Danes
               Wit
               ,
               are
               mainly
               seen
               in
               thee
               .
            
          
           
             
               XVII
               .
            
             
               The
               great
               Mans
               gratitude
               ,
               to
               his
               best
               Friend
               ,
            
             
               Court
               Promises
               ,
               Whores
               Vows
               ,
               towards
               thee
               they
               bend
               ,
            
             
               Flow
               swiftly
               into
               thee
               ,
               and
               in
               thee
               ever
               end
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Upon
             his
             leaving
             his
             Mistress
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             Author
             .
          
           
             
               T
               Is
               not
               that
               I
               am
               weary
               grown
               ,
            
             
               Of
               being
               yours
               ,
               and
               yours
               alone
               ;
            
             
             
               But
               with
               what
               Face
               can
               I
               incline
               ,
            
             
               To
               damn
               you
               to
               be
               only
               mine
               ?
            
             
               You
               whom
               some
               kinder
               Pow'r
               did
               fashion
               ,
            
             
               By
               merit
               and
               by
               inclination
               ,
            
             
               The
               joy
               at
               least
               of
               one
               whole
               Nation
               .
            
          
           
             
               Let
               meaner
               Spirits
               of
               your
               Sex
               ,
            
             
               With
               humbler
               aims
               ,
               their
               thoughts
               perplex
               ,
            
             
               And
               boast
               ,
               if
               by
               their
               arts
               they
               can
            
             
               Contrive
               to
               make
               one
               happy
               Man
               ;
            
             
               Whil'st
               mov'd
               by
               an
               impartial
               Sense
               ,
            
             
               Favours
               like
               Nature
               you
               dispense
               ,
            
             
               With
               universal
               influence
               .
            
          
           
             
               See
               the
               kind
               seed
               receiving
               Earth
               ,
            
             
               To
               ev'ry
               Grain
               affords
               a
               Birth
               ;
            
             
               On
               her
               no
               show'rs
               unwelcome
               fall
               ,
            
             
               Her
               willing
               Womb
               retains
               'em
               all
               ;
            
             
               And
               shall
               my
               Celia
               be
               confin'd
               ?
            
             
               No
               ,
               live
               up
               to
               thy
               mind
               ,
            
             
               And
               be
               the
               Mistress
               of
               Mankind
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Love
             and
             Life
             ,
             a
             Song
             by
             the
             same
             Author
             .
          
           
             
               ALL
               my
               past
               Life
               is
               mine
               no
               more
               ,
            
             
               The
               flying
               hours
               are
               gone
               ?
            
             
               Like
               Transitory
               Dreams
               giv'n
               o're
               ,
            
             
               VVhose
               Images
               are
               kept
               in
               store
               ,
            
             
               By
               Memory
               alone
               .
            
          
           
             
               VVhatever
               is
               to
               come
               ,
               is
               not
               ,
            
             
               How
               can
               it
               then
               be
               mine
               ?
            
             
               The
               present
               Moment's
               all
               my
               Lot
               ,
            
             
               And
               that
               as
               fast
               as
               it
               is
               got
               ,
            
             
               Phillis
               is
               wholly
               thine
               .
            
          
           
             
               Then
               talk
               not
               of
               inconstancy
               ,
            
             
               False
               Hearts
               ,
               and
               broken
               Vows
               ,
            
             
               If
               I
               by
               Miracle
               can
               be
               ,
            
             
               This
               live-long
               Minute
               true
               to
               thee
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               all
               that
               Heav'n
               allows
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             To
             the
             late
             Earl
             of
             Rochester
             ,
             upon
             the
             report
             of
             His
             Sickness
             in
             Town
             ,
             being
             newly
             Recovered
             by
             His
             Lordships
             advice
             in
             the
             Country
             .
             In
             Allusion
             to
             the
             Ode
             of
             Horace
             .
          
           
             
               By
               Sir
            
             FRANCIS
             FANE
             .
          
           
             VVHat
             means
             this
             tumult
             in
             my
             Veins
             ,
          
           
             These
             eccho'd
             Groans
             and
             Sympathetick
             pains
             ?
          
           
             Ah
             cruel
             Lord
             !
             why
             do'st
             thou
             wound
          
           
             Him
             whom
             so
             late
             thy
             pity
             found
             ?
          
           
             Or
             did'st
             thou
             spare
             my
             Life
             ,
             that
             I
          
           
             A
             nobler
             Death
             for
             thee
             should
             dy
             ?
          
           
             It
             is
             not
             possible
             ,
             nor
             just
             ,
          
           
             The
             little
             Off-springs
             of
             the
             dust
             ,
          
           
             The
             Sun
             extinct
             should
             him
             survive
             ,
          
           
             By
             whose
             kind
             beams
             they
             're
             kept
             alive
             ;
          
           
             Oh!
             rather
             let
             me
             dy
             before
             ,
          
           
             Perish
             Ten
             Thousand
             more
             ,
          
           
           
             To
             spy
             the
             Bounds
             of
             th'
             indiscover'd
             shore
             ,
          
           
             ●…hough
             with
             less
             hopes
             than
             they
             ,
             that
             sought
             the
             Indian
             Oar.
          
           
             How
             dar'st
             thou
             bold
             disease
             surprize
          
           
             The
             joy
             ,
             and
             Glory
             of
             our
             eyes
             ;
          
           
             Mankinds
             delight
             wits
             utmost
             Goal
             ,
          
           
             Heav'ns
             Masterpiece
             ,
             spirit
             of
             Soul
             :
          
           
             We
             need
             thee
             not
             to
             make
             his
             Fame
             more
             bright
          
           
             Officious
             Death
             ,
             to
             lesser
             Stars
             requir'd
             ,
          
           
             Who
             never
             shine
             out
             clear
             ,
             but
             in
             thy
             Night
          
           
             He
             is
             all
             Flame
             ,
             all
             Light
             ,
          
           
             And
             lives
             unenvy'd
             ,
             though
             by
             all
             admir'd
             :
          
           
             Free
             as
             the
             Angels
             in
             their
             blest
             Estate
             ,
          
           
             What
             none
             can
             reach
             ,
             there
             's
             none
             will
             emulate
             .
          
           
             Quench
             Feaver
             ,
             quench
             thy
             too
             presumtuous
             heat
             ,
          
           
             Tremble
             to
             Ice
             at
             so
             August
             a
             name
             ,
          
           
             Or
             if
             thou
             need'st
             wilt
             be
             by
             mischiefs
             great
             ,
          
           
             Fire
             on
             ,
             and
             set
             the
             World
             on
             Flame
             .
          
           
             Had
             credulous
             England
             ,
             fond
             of
             Foreign
             News
             ,
          
           
             And
             from
             remotest
             parts
             the
             World
             above
             ,
          
           
             Receiv'd
             the
             
               Indian
               Faith
            
             ,
             which
             none
             else
             does
             refuse
             ,
          
           
           
             Did
             Men
             believe
             ,
             that
             after
             their
             remove
          
           
             From
             Earth
             ,
             they
             should
             enjoy
             the
             Friends
             they
             Love
             ;
          
           
             With
             all
             their
             Wit
             ,
             their
             Rhetorick
             ,
             and
             sence
             ,
          
           
             Which
             with
             immortal
             ease
             they
             could
             dispence
             :
          
           
             What
             Crowds
             would
             leap
             into
             his
             Funeral
             Pile
             ,
          
           
             London
             would
             desert
             ,
             Kingless
             be
             the
             Isle
             ;
          
           
             The
             Strand
             instead
             of
             Men
             ,
             would
             Acrons
             yield
             ,
          
           
             White-hall
             a
             Meadow
             be
             ,
             th'
             Exchange
             a
             Field
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             a
             great
             Lord
             ,
             inviting
             him
             to
             Court
             ,
             or
             else
             to
             Write
             a
             History
             in
             the
             Country
             .
             A
             Paraphrase
             upon
             the
             12th
             .
             Ode
             of
             Horace
             :
             l.
             2.
             
               by
               the
               same
            
             .
          
           
             
               URge
               me
               not
               to
               be
               poorly
               great
               ,
            
             
               To
               steep
               Ascents
               in
               slippery
               places
               ,
            
             
               Much
               less
               Posterity
               to
               cheat
            
             
               By
               Histories
               with
               Ianus
               Faces
               ;
            
             
             
               Alas
               !
               I
               cannot
               act
               ,
               nor
               write
               ,
            
             
               Unfit
               for
               Counsel
               ,
               or
               for
               Fight
               ;
            
             
               Careless
               what
               mortal
               sits
               above
               ,
            
             
               I
               've
               full
               imployment
               in
               my
               Love
               ;
            
             
               I
               have
               no
               time
               for
               publick
               cares
               ,
            
             
               Too
               busie
               still
               to
               mind
               such
               toys
               ,
            
             
               Dark
               Prophecies
               of
               State
               affairs
               ,
            
             
               And
               future
               fears
               for
               present
               joys
               :
            
             
               Divert
               me
               not
               from
               my
               sublimest
               bliss
               ,
            
             
               I
               should
               destroy
               a
               Kingdom
               for
               a
               Kiss
               .
            
             
               Ah!
               my
               good
               Lord
               ,
               would
               you
               not
               lose
            
             
               The
               Incomes
               of
               the
               Golden
               Isles
               ?
            
             
               Tag●…s
               his
               Treasures
               ,
               or
               Per●…s
               ,
            
             
               For
               one
               of
               my
               Lycymnia's
               Smiles
               ?
            
             
               When
               she
               her
               fragant
               lips
               withdraws
               ,
            
             
               Grants
               and
               denies
               ,
            
             
               With
               scornful
               words
               ,
               inviting
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               will
               confine
               Coelestial
               joys
               to
               humane
               Laws
               :
            
             
               But
               with
               her
               amorous
               thrist
            
             
               Makes
               me
               to
               steal
               a
               gift
               .
            
             
             
               Then
               in
               a
               sudden
               freakish
               Vein
            
             
               Invades
               my
               hungry
               lips
               again
               ,
            
             
               And
               finding
               there
               her
               heedless
               Prey
               ,
            
             
               Sucks
               out
               my
               Soul
               ,
               and
               spirits
               it
               away
               .
            
          
           
             
               Would
               you
               not
               leave
               the
               Council
               board
            
             
               If
               she
               past
               by
               ,
               and
               gave
               the
               word
               ?
            
             
               And
               start
               up
               in
               furious
               mood
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               't
               were
               for
               the
               publick
               good
               ;
            
             
               Quarrel
               with
               him
               that
               spoke
               the
               last
               ,
            
             
               And
               leave
               your
               well-weigh'd
               Notes
               for
               hast
               :
            
             
               Throw
               up
               the
               Land
               to
               Pope
               ,
               or
               Knox
               ,
            
             
               To
               Wars
               ,
               to
               Famine
               ,
               Plague
               ,
               or
               Pox
               ?
            
             
               Rather
               than
               lose
               with
               her
               one
               minutes
               joy
               ,
            
             
               Where
               sight
               alone
               can
               fill
               ,
               fruition
               never
               cloy
               .
            
          
           
             
               Let
               others
               spend
               their
               slavish
               days
               ,
            
             
               Hard
               Labourers
               for
               gawdy
               praise
               ;
            
             
               Beg
               of
               just
               Heav'n
               their
               Plagues
               and
               Pains
               ,
            
             
               Their
               painted
               joys
               and
               gilded
               Chains
               :
            
             
               And
               faintly
               smile
               ,
               profoundly
               grone
               ,
            
             
               Happy
               in
               all
               thoughts
               ,
               but
               their
               own
               :
            
             
             
               Though
               all
               the
               Charms
               of
               Pride
               advise
               ,
            
             
               And
               Terrors
               fright
               from
               Earth
               ,
               or
               Skies
               ;
            
             
               Rap'd
               to
               Elyzium
               with
               a
               strong
               desire
               ,
            
             
               Held
               fast
               in
               Snowy
               Snares
               I
               will
               expire
               ,
            
             
               And
               still
               kiss
               on
               ,
               were
               all
               the
               world
               on
               fire
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             To
             a
             
               Perjur'd
               Mistress
            
             ;
             the
             8th
             .
             Ode
             of
             Horace
             ,
             lib.
             1.
             
             Imitated
             ,
             
               by
               the
               same
            
             .
          
           
             FAlsest
             of
             fair
             ones
             ,
             swear
             again
             ,
          
           
             And
             add
             to
             thy
             Transcending
             store
             ,
          
           
             Of
             prosperous
             Perjuries
             Ten
             Thousand
             more
             ,
          
           
             Dull
             Truth
             becomes
             thee
             not
             ,
             it
             looks
             too
             plain
             :
          
           
             Did
             Heaven
             those
             mortal
             sins
             resent
             ,
          
           
             But
             with
             some
             Venial
             Punishment
             ,
          
           
             Were
             the
             least
             blemish
             on
             thy
             face
             ,
          
           
             One
             Hair
             ,
             or
             Nail
             out
             of
             its
             place
             ,
          
           
             I
             should
             believe
             ,
             but
             still
             you
             rise
          
           
             More
             beautiful
             by
             Blasphemies
             ;
          
           
           
             By
             Disobedience
             made
             divine
             ,
          
           
             The
             more
             you
             swear
             ,
             the
             more
             you
             shine
             ;
          
           
             As
             if
             the
             Gods
             had
             nought
             to
             do
             ,
          
           
             But
             to
             be
             wrong'd
             ,
             and
             thankful
             too
             .
          
           
             Then
             swear
             ,
             and
             shine
             again
             ,
          
           
             Let
             each
             false
             Oath
             augment
             thy
             Lovers
             Train
             ,
          
           
             And
             make
             this
             Wonder
             plain
             ,
          
           
             That
             Mankind
             never
             has
             more
             Piety
          
           
             Than
             when
             they
             least
             believe
             their
             Deity
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               A
               MASK
            
             .
             Made
             at
             the
             Request
             of
             the
             late
             Earl
             of
             Rochester
             ,
             for
             the
             Tragedy
             of
             Valentinian
             .
          
           
             The
             SCENE
             .
             
               Lucina
               ,
               Maximus
            
             his
             Wife
             ,
             sleeping
             .
             Enter
             Zephyrus
             and
             Favonius
             ,
             ushering
             in
             the
             MOON
             .
          
           
             
               Zephy
               .
            
             
               HAil
               sacred
               Cynthia
               !
               mutable
               ,
               but
               chaste
            
             
               As
               the
               cold
               Air
               by
               which
               thou
               art
               embrac'd
               ,
            
             
             
               Changing
               thy
               Shape
               as
               often
               as
               thy
               Stations
            
             
               With
               new
               Disguises
               and
               false
               Assignations
               ;
            
             
               Or
               hid
               in
               an
               Eclipses
               Vizard-Mask
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               cheat'st
               the
               Gods
               in
               Love's
               laborious
               Task
               .
            
             
               Mother
               of
               calmest
               Thoughts
               and
               sacred
               Dreams
               ,
            
             
               The
               Earths
               best
               neighbour
               ,
               lending
               thy
               kind
               beams
            
             
               To
               plants
               ,
               to
               beasts
               to
               men
               ,
               to
               grounds
               ,
               and
               streams
               ,
            
             
               Without
               whose
               Influence
               not
               a
               Hair
               grows
               well
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               spire
               of
               Grass
               ,
               nor
               Blood
               ,
               nor
               Waves
               can
               swell
               ;
            
             
               Parent
               of
               temp'rate
               Passions
               still
               allay'd
            
             
               By
               thy
               decrease
               ,
               as
               by
               thy
               fulness
               made
               .
            
          
           
             
               Fav
               .
            
             
               Falsly
               believ'd
               
               Sol's
               Sister
               ,
               thou'
               rt
               his
               Wife
            
             
               Impregnated
               with
               fertile
               Worlds
               of
               Life
               ,
            
             
               Breeding
               or
               teeming
               still
               ,
               and
               bring'st
               to
               's
               Bed
            
             
               A
               new
               Face
               every
               day
               ,
               a
               monthly
               Maiden-head
               .
            
             
               Sol
               that
               delights
               in
               chaste
               Polygamy
               ,
            
             
               Casts
               fruitful
               Beams
               on
               Tellus
               ,
               and
               on
               thee
               .
            
             
               Contented
               Wives
               the
               Earth
               ,
               and
               Moon
               repay
            
             
               Light
               to
               each
               other
               from
               their
               Husband's
               Ray.
            
             
               Chaste
               Relict
               of
               the
               Sun
               !
               thou
               weep'st
               his
               Fate
            
             
               In
               dewy
               Tears
               ,
               and
               mak'st
               him
               lie
               in
               State
               :
            
             
             
               Thy
               heavenly
               Hall
               with
               Blacks
               and
               Lamps
               adorning
            
             
               Hid
               at
               his
               Resurrection
               in
               the
               Morning
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               Splendour
               to
               thy
               Husband's
               Beams
               resigning
               ,
            
             
               And
               humbly
               in
               his
               Absence
               only
               shining
               .
            
             
               Proceed
               ,
               Great
               Queen
               ,
               to
               thy
               divine
               Intent
               ,
            
             
               Preserve
               this
               Loyal
               Wife
               ,
               and
               Crimes
               prevent
               .
            
             
               Sweeping
               with
               gentle
               Gales
               the
               Cyprian
               Coast
               ,
            
             
               I
               blow
               some
               VVhispers
               from
               the
               heavenly
               Host.
            
             
               Hermes
               and
               Venus
               were
               in
               Consultation
            
             
               Upon
               their
               flight
               to
               the
               All-conquering
               Nation
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               time
               some
               powerful
               God
               should
               mischiefs
               stay
               ,
            
             
               VVhen
               Love
               and
               Eloquence
               are
               on
               their
               way
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               Moon
               .
            
             
               Now
               thrice
               seven
               times
               ,
               since
               my
               Increase
               ,
               have
               I
            
             
               Walk'd
               round
               the
               sleeping
               World
               in
               watchful
               Sky
               ,
            
             
               And
               summon'd
               all
               my
               twinkling
               Spies
               to
               know
            
             
               Th'
               effects
               of
               Passions
               they
               impress'd
               below
               ,
            
             
               (
               VVhere
               we
               sow
               joys
               ,
               &
               griefs
               ,
               &
               hopes
               ,
               &
               fears
               ,
            
             
               As
               men
               sow
               Herbs
               and
               Flowers
               in
               their
               Parterres
               ,
            
             
               For
               Physick
               some
               ,
               some
               planted
               for
               Delight
               ,
            
             
               (
               And
               happy
               those
               that
               know
               to
               use
               them
               right
               ,
               )
            
             
             
               But
               have
               not
               found
               a
               Mortal
               so
               opprest
               ,
            
             
               Honour
               pursu'd
               ,
               and
               panting
               in
               the
               Breast
            
             
               Of
               this
               bright
               spotless
               Dame
               ,
               now
               takes
               some
               rest
               .
            
             
               VVell
               done
               ,
               good
               Somnus
               ,
               powerfully
               repair
            
             
               VVith
               thy
               chaste
               Opiates
               that
               weighty
               Care
            
             
               That
               friendly
               Foe
               frail
               VVomen
               cannot
               spare
               .
            
             
               Ah
               lovely
               Face
               !
               which
               justly
               might
               excuse
            
             
               Thy
               Prince
               ,
               if
               he
               did
               beg
               for
               a
               Refuse
               ,
            
             
               And
               tempt
               thee
               to
               the
               Glory
               to
               deny
               ,
            
             
               For
               Vertue
               brighter
               shines
               than
               Sol
               ,
               or
               I
               ;
            
             
               But
               he
               would
               uncontroul'd
               do
               all
               like
               us
               ,
            
             
               Poor
               Titular
               God
               ,
               and
               envies
               Maximus
               .
            
             
               Too
               happy
               Maximus
               !
               could
               Fortune
               stay
               ,
            
             
               And
               from
               those
               dangerous
               heights
               not
               roll
               away
               ,
            
             
               Great
               Joys
               are
               to
               be
               fear'd
               for
               their
               Allay
               .
            
             
               But
               Vertue
               ,
               Fortune's
               Queen
               ,
               preserves
               entire
            
             
               Eternal
               Rules
               ;
               bold
               mortals
               that
               enquire
               ,
            
             
               Curiously
               stirring
               up
               ,
               put
               out
               the
               holy
               Fire
               .
            
             
               Safe
               in
               those
               Laws
               ,
               Lucina
               ,
               might
               thou
               rest
            
             
               VVith
               mutual
               Love
               ,
               Vertues
               best
               safeguard
               blest
               :
            
             
               But
               Man
               ,
               that
               compound
               Mortal's
               ne're
               secure
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               Souls
               are
               sleepy
               ,
               and
               the
               Flesh
               impure
               .
            
             
             
               Here
               ,
               take
               these
               Lillies
               ,
               arm'd
               for
               thy
               defence
            
             
               [
               Throws
               down
               Lillies
            
             
               As
               white
               and
               cold
               as
               Snow
               or
               Innocence
            
             
               Steep'd
               in
               the
               Ice-house
               of
               the
               River
               Styx
               ,
            
             
               Where
               Iove
               drinks
               Healths
               to
               strangers
               when
               they
               mix
            
             
               With
               heavenly
               Beings
               ,
               and
               must
               cease
               to
               know
            
             
               Th'
               uneasie
               Joys
               of
               the
               poor
               World
               below
               .
            
             
               Sleep
               on
               ,
               fair
               Saint
               ,
               with
               heavenly
               Visions
               blest
               ,
            
             
               Let
               no
               black
               Dreams
               defile
               thy
               snowy
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               Fiends
               corrupt
               thee
               ,
               tho
               like
               Angels
               drest
               .
            
             
               Enter
               Mercury
               and
               Venus
               .
            
          
           
             
               Mer.
               
            
             
               Has
               Flesh
               and
               Blood
               need
               of
               a
               Power
               divine
            
             
               To
               raise
               their
               Sympathy
               ,
               and
               make
               'em
               joyn
               ?
            
             
               Is
               't
               not
               enough
               to
               pimp
               for
               sacred
               Iove
               ,
            
             
               But
               every
               Prince
               below
               must
               have
               a
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Inflexible
               to
               all
               but
               Bawds
               above
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Ven.
               
            
             
               You
               run
               too
               fast
               my
               Agent
               ,
               Rome
               declines
               ,
            
             
               The
               Eagles
               mew
               their
               wings
               ,
               which
               heaven
               designs
            
             
               Shall
               further
               fly
               .
               The
               Pilot
               drunk
               with
               Love
            
             
               The
               great
               Ship
               runs
               aground
               .
               Shall
               mighty
               Iove
            
             
               Enrich
               a
               Prince
               with
               all
               the
               powerful
               Charms
            
             
               Of
               Beauty
               ,
               Wit
               ,
               and
               Vertue
               ,
               Arts
               ,
               and
               Arms
               ?
            
             
             
               And
               shall
               a
               wretched
               half-concocted
               She
            
             
               Depose
               a
               Demy-God
               ,
               cramp
               Victory
               ,
            
             
               Rebellious
               to
               her
               Prince
               ,
               to
               Iove
               ,
               and
               Me
               ?
            
             
               Destroy
               an
               Empire
               for
               this
               monstrous
               Crime
            
             
               'Gainst
               Honour
               ,
               only
               fit
               for
               Plays
               in
               Rhyme
               ,
            
             
               Idle
               Discourse
               ,
               not
               Action
               ,
               that
               gay
               Dame
            
             
               For
               all
               her
               shifts
               of
               Gawdery
               ,
               not
               of
               Name
            
             
               Or
               Quality
               in
               Heaven
               above
               :
               an
               odious
               Broker
            
             
               Betwixt
               rich
               Vertues
               ,
               Daughters
               of
               the
               Gods
               ,
            
             
               And
               bankrupt
               Sins
               the
               brats
               of
               needy
               Mortals
               .
            
             
               Dost
               thou
               ,
               t'
               assist
               me
               ,
               shod
               with
               wings
               repine
               ?
            
             
               Thy
               Master's
               Credit
               lies
               at
               stake
               ,
               not
               mine
               .
            
          
           
             
               Me.
               
            
             
               Why
               ,
               Madam
               Venus
               ,
               you
               can
               take
               your
               sport
               ,
            
             
               Cuckold
               your
               Husband
               ,
               sing
               ,
               and
               dance
               at
               Court
               ,
            
             
               And
               like
               a
               lazy
               Lady
               coach
               about
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               I
               must
               trudge
               my
               Legs
               and
               Feathers
               out
               .
            
             
               My
               Errands
               are
               so
               quick
               ,
               my
               Time
               so
               short
               ,
            
             
               That
               I
               can
               get
               no
               Wife
               ,
               nor
               Mistress
               for
               't
               .
            
             
               There
               's
               ne're
               a
               Lawyer
               ,
               but
               his
               ven●…al
               Tongue
            
             
               Is
               tip'd
               by
               me
               :
               dark
               points
               of
               right
               and
               wrong
               ,
            
             
             
               Not
               obvious
               to
               all
               Hearers
               ,
               I
               can
               clear
            
             
               To
               the
               doubt-making
               Judge
               ,
               tell
               how
               ,
               and
               where
            
             
               The
               puzzled
               Audience
               with
               Contention
               spent
            
             
               A
               Bribe
               may
               safely
               make
               a
               President
               .
            
             
               Never
               a
               Tradesman
               cheats
               ,
               Sectarist
               prays
               ,
            
             
               Stationer
               sells
               ,
               or
               Poet
               steals
               his
               Plays
               ,
            
             
               Rhetorical
               Fool
               must
               prate
               ,
               or
               be
               in
               Print
               ,
            
             
               Insuring
               Statesman
               Plot
               ,
               but
               Mercury
               is
               in
               't
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ven.
               
            
             
               I
               tell
               thee
               ,
               Mercury
               ,
               thy
               Trade's
               but
               small
            
             
               To
               mine
               ,
               that
               does
               ingross
               and
               swallow
               all
               .
            
             
               Mine's
               like
               the
               Ocean
               ,
               whence
               I
               took
               my
               Birth
               ,
            
             
               All
               streams
               of
               Bus'ness
               crowd
               from
               churlish
               Earth
               ,
            
             
               Breaking
               from
               Customs
               bounds
               and
               living
               Graves
               ,
            
             
               Seek
               Liberty
               in
               our
               ungovern'd
               waves
               .
            
             
               Vices
               Cabal
               each
               other
               does
               supply
               ,
            
             
               Pride
               Rapine
               moves
               ,
               Rapine
               feeds
               Luxury
               ;
            
             
               But
               all
               their
               motions
               tend
               to
               amorous
               Joy
               :
            
             
               VVhat
               's
               more
               than
               that
               ,
               for
               Mankind
               is
               too
               high
               .
            
             
               What
               makes
               the
               street-bespatter'd
               Lawyer
               trudge
               ?
            
             
               What
               oyl's
               the
               turn-stile
               Conscience
               of
               a
               Judge
               ?
            
             
             
               They
               squeeze
               the
               juicy
               Rich
               ,
               and
               bruise
               the
               Poor
               ,
            
             
               Refunding
               Fees
               to
               their
               more
               griping
               Whore.
            
             
               When
               Sisters
               throng
               into
               the
               Meeting-place
               ,
            
             
               I
               dress
               up
               Cupid
               like
               a
               Babe
               of
               Grace
               .
            
             
               The
               Teacher
               is
               to
               Repetition
               brought
               ,
            
             
               Swaddled
               with
               Neck-cloath
               ,
               tender
               ,
               over-wrought
               ,
            
             
               Rub'd
               ,
               and
               repair'd
               with
               Cordials
               ,
               he
               becomes
            
             
               A
               secret
               Morsel
               for
               the
               hallowed
               Gums
               .
            
             
               If
               Poets
               write
               ,
               and
               Love
               be
               not
               their
               Text
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               Women
               hear
               them
               ,
               Fame
               will
               leave
               them
               next
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               I
               that
               do
               inspire
               the
               Sword
               or
               Pill
               ,
            
             
               Make
               Souldiers
               spare
               ,
               and
               make
               Physicians
               kill
               ;
            
             
               Repairing
               Murders
               still
               with
               Propagations
               ;
            
             
               I
               root
               out
               sapless
               Plants
               ,
               but
               people
               Nations
               .
            
             
               Beauty
               's
               the
               current
               Coin
               that
               none
               refuses
               ,
            
             
               The
               Bribe
               of
               
                 Mars
                 ,
                 Minerva
              
               ,
               and
               the
               Muses
               :
            
             
               Love's
               grown
               so
               general
               ,
               more
               Gods
               should
               be
               made
            
             
               To
               carry
               on
               the
               busie
               amorous
               Trade
               ;
            
             
               'T
               is
               from
               a
               liberal
               Art
               turn'd
               a
               Disease
               ,
            
             
               Infecting
               those
               that
               have
               not
               Strength
               nor
               Ease
               ;
            
             
               Each
               dying
               Letcher
               keeps
               a
               hungry
               Female
            
             
             
               To
               gaze
               upon
               ,
               and
               handle
               ,
               like
               fine
               knacks
               ,
            
             
               Religious
               Pictures
               ,
               pretty
               Saints
               in
               Wax
               :
            
             
               But
               Flesh
               and
               Blood
               abhors
               Idolatry
               ,
            
             
               By
               Foot-men
               eas'd
               of
               their
               Divinity
               ;
            
             
               Nay
               every
               Porter
               keeps
               a
               Miss
               ,
               must
               wear
            
             
               On
               her
               gay
               Limbs
               ,
               the
               Labour
               of
               〈◊〉
               Year
               .
            
             
               I
               am
               the
               Mother
               of
               Delights
               ,
               refreshing
            
             
               The
               weary
               World
               with
               Love
               ,
               of
               Pleasures
               the
               supreme
               ,
            
             
               'Cause
               Nature
               highest
               ends
               to
               it
               assign'd
               ,
            
             
               All
               others
               serve
               but
               Man
               ,
               and
               this
               Mankind
               .
            
          
           
             
               Mer.
               
            
             
               Weak
               is
               the
               power
               of
               Wits
               affected
               noise
            
             
               To
               the
               dumb
               Rhetorick
               of
               charming
               Eyes
               .
            
             
               Goddess
               you
               've
               conquer'd
               ,
               and
               it
               is
               your
               Part
            
             
               Both
               to
               subdue
               and
               mollifie
               her
               Heart
               :
            
             
               I
               've
               tip'd
               his
               Tongue
               with
               all
               the
               charms
               of
               Wit
               ,
            
             
               Would
               melt
               a
               Rock
               ,
               d●…bauch
               an
               Anchorit
               ,
            
             
               Calm
               a
               tempestuous
               Sea
               ,
               tempt
               a
               fix'd
               Star
            
             
               From
               Heaven
               ,
               or
               make
               a
               Tyger
               lye
               in
               's
               Lap
               ;
            
             
               Make
               Cynthia
               turn
               a
               Whore
               ,
               or
               thee
               a
               Nun
               :
            
             
               Yet
               all
               these
               words
               ,
               like
               ruffling
               winds
               ,
               make
               her
            
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
               Sit
               safer
               in
               white
               Robes
               of
               Innocence
               ,
            
             
               Wrapping
               them
               close
               about
               her
               :
            
             
               Try
               if
               thy
               sultry
               amorous
               Heats
               can
               make
            
             
               Her
               throw
               them
               of
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ven.
               
            
             
               Oh!
               I
               have
               fir'd
               her
               Blood
               ,
               and
               fill'd
               her
               Mind
            
             
               VVith
               the
               Idea's
               of
               all
               brave
               mankind
               ;
            
             
               To
               which
               her
               Husband
               seems
               a
               Crest-fall'n
               monster
               ,
            
             
               Put
               Stars
               into
               the
               Emperor's
               Eyes
               ,
               soft
               heavenly
               motions
            
             
               Into
               his
               Limbs
               ,
               gentle
               surprizing
               Vigor
               ,
            
             
               VVhich
               with
               its
               smooth
               and
               regular
               Approaches
            
             
               VVould
               make
               defenceless
               a
               rude
               Amazon
               ,
            
             
               Or
               steal
               into
               the
               Trenches
               of
               a
               Vestal
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               true
               I
               never
               call'd
               my
               Son
               ,
               too
               sure
            
             
               Kings
               ,
               without
               
               Cupid's
               Aid
               ,
               might
               Love
               procure
               .
            
          
           
             
               Mer.
               
            
             
               Then
               call
               him
               strait
               ,
               and
               let
               him
               arm
               his
            
             
               Peirce
               and
               repeirce
               the
               Adamantine
               Foe
               Bow
               ,
            
             
               With
               his
               new
               Darts
               whet
               on
               
               Iove's
               Thunder-bolt
               ,
            
             
               Feather'd
               with
               Sparrows
               wings
               ,
               shafted
               with
               Mirtle
            
             
               Steep'd
               in
               the
               Blood
               of
               Goats
               ,
               and
               Lovers
               tears
               :
            
             
             
               Barb'd
               with
               the
               Ir'n
               of
               Nets
               which
               Vulcan
               threw
            
             
               On
               Mars
               and
               thee
               ,
               when
               Gods
               were
               call'd
               to
               view
               ,
            
             
               Sharp
               as
               the
               Tongue
               of
               a
               forsaken
               Scold
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ven.
               
            
             
               Cupid
               ,
               come
               down
               ,
               our
               Deities
               controul'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               bring
               the
               Quiver
               Iove
               with
               Kisses
               gave
               thee
            
             
               For
               's
               New-years-gift
               ,
               then
               see
               who
               dares
               out-brave
               thee
               .
            
             
               
                 [
                 Cupid
              
               descends
               and
               shoots
               ;
               the
               Arrow
               breaks
               .
               ]
            
          
           
             
               Mer.
               
            
             
               If
               gentle
               heavenly
               Gods
               cannot
               reclaim
            
             
               The
               haggard
               heart
               of
               an
               ill-manner'd
               Dame
               ,
            
             
               Let
               's
               ask
               Advice
               of
               Hell's
               great
               Lords
               ,
               to
               tame
            
             
               The
               only
               Woman
               of
               this
               awkard
               frame
               .
            
          
           
             
               Ven.
               
            
             
               Rise
               Pluto
               ,
               rise
               ,
               with
               all
               th'
               infernal
               Powers
               ,
            
             
               Proud
               Mortals
               learn
               new
               Laws
               ,
               and
               scoff
               at
               ours
               :
            
             
               The
               Honour
               of
               the
               Gods
               is
               now
               engag'd
               ;
            
             
               Ne're
               Woman
               was
               so
               cool
               ,
               nor
               Goddess
               so
               enrag'd
               .
            
             
               
                 [
                 Pluto
              
               rises
               with
               his
               Infernal
               Train
               .
               ]
            
             
               VVhat
               trifling
               's
               this
               !
               so
               many
               Gods
               combin'd
            
             
               Against
               a
               thoughtless
               ,
               custom-ridden
               Female
               ,
            
             
               Much
               weaker
               than
               the
               He
               presumptuous
               VVight
               ,
            
             
               VVho
               only
               'cause
               he
               prates
               ,
               and
               walks
               upright
               ,
            
             
             
               Values
               himself
               'bove
               other
               Animals
               ,
            
             
               VVeaker
               than
               Beasts
               in
               pleasures
               and
               in
               sense
               ,
            
             
               VVeaker
               in
               Prudence
               and
               his
               own
               Defence
               :
            
             
               A
               god-like
               Victory
               ,
               a
               most
               coelestial
               Prize
               ,
            
             
               To
               make
               a
               Female
               take
               her
               wish'd-for
               Joys
               .
            
             
               The
               under-shrubs
               of
               Men
               give
               VVomen
               odds
               ;
            
             
               Are
               these
               Proceedings
               fit
               for
               Kings
               or
               Gods
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Ven.
               
            
             
               If
               Beauty
               ,
               VVit
               ,
               and
               Greatness
               she
               despise
               ,
            
             
               What
               more
               alluring
               Baits
               can'st
               thou
               devise
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Plu.
               
            
             
               Must
               those
               be
               courted
               that
               are
               made
               to
               yield
            
             
               Who
               parlies
               with
               a
               Foe
               that
               wants
               a
               Shield
               ,
            
             
               Or
               asks
               men
               leave
               to
               do
               them
               Courtesies
               ?
            
             
               Clients
               sometimes
               must
               force
               the
               gap't-for
               Fees.
            
             
               What
               faintly
               offer'd
               ,
               scarce
               deserves
               the
               Thanks
            
             
               Of
               the
               Receiver
               :
               Gratitude
               t'
               excite
               ,
            
             
               Press
               Bounties
               home
               ,
               and
               make
               men
               feel
               their
               weight
               .
            
             
               Women
               were
               made
               on
               purpose
               to
               be
               ravish'd
               ,
            
             
               Nature
               had
               arm'd
               them
               else
               ,
               nor
               left
               unguarded
            
             
               The
               Avenues
               of
               Love
               :
            
             
               Honour
               commands
               an
               open
               Citadel
               ,
            
             
               The
               Traytor
               makes
               a
               show
               ,
               but
               can't
               ,
               nor
               won't
               repell
               .
            
             
             
               Who
               would
               stand
               knocking
               at
               an
               unlock'd
               Gate
               ?
            
             
               Or
               ,
               who
               in
               's
               Porch
               can
               hope
               to
               save
               his
               Plate
               ?
            
             
               For
               shame
               dispatch
               ,
               and
               disabuse
               the
               Prince
               ,
            
             
               Give
               him
               his
               Play-thing
               ,
               he
               'll
               be
               quiet
               straight
               .
            
             
               The
               Empire
               will
               grow
               strong
               ,
               and
               Armies
               fight
               ,
            
             
               And
               more
               Souls
               tumble
               to
               eternal
               night
               ;
            
             
               Ambition
               damns
               more
               Mortals
               ,
               than
               Delight
               .
            
          
           
             
               Mer.
               
            
             
               Spoke
               like
               great
               
                 Pluto
                 ,
                 Venus
              
               ,
               don't
               repine
            
             
               To
               lose
               the
               Glory
               ,
               getting
               your
               Design
               .
            
             
               The
               matter
               lies
               not
               what
               ,
               but
               how
               to
               have
               ;
            
             
               What
               more
               can
               Mankind
               give
               ,
               or
               Woman
               crave
               ?
            
             
               None
               e're
               was
               ravish'd
               ,
               but
               with
               close
               consent
               ;
            
             
               Shame
               makes
               them
               sometimes
               quarrel
               ,
               ne'r
               repent
               .
            
             
               Was
               e're
               ambitious
               man
               forc'd
               to
               a
               Crown
               ,
            
             
               Hunger
               compell'd
               to
               feed
               ?
               Are
               wearied
               men
            
             
               Said
               to
               be
               robb'd
               of
               Burdens
               ?
               Do
               I
               force
            
             
               The
               falling
               fruit
               that
               drops
               into
               my
               hand
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Ven.
               
            
             
               Oh
               senseless
               Males
               !
               must
               Women
               lose
               the
               Pride
            
             
               Of
               Courtship
               ,
               self-reflexion
               ,
               Joys
               beside
            
             
             
               Of
               Dalliance
               ,
               and
               the
               yielding
               Arts
               of
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Embrac'd
               by
               all
               ,
               whom
               their
               Attractions
               move
               ?
            
             
               Must
               that
               rough
               Sex
               our
               tender
               Breasts
               invade
               ,
            
             
               Without
               the
               fawning
               ,
               and
               th'
               indearing
               Trade
               ,
            
             
               Th'
               Esteem
               ,
               the
               Tenderness
               ,
               the
               Adoration
               ,
            
             
               And
               take
               the
               sacred
               prize
               without
               Gradation
            
             
               And
               due
               Respect
               ?
               I
               hate
               so
               hard
               a
               shift
               .
            
          
           
             
               Mer.
               
            
             
               Bart'ring
               makes
               Love
               a
               Bargain
               ,
               Rape
               a
               gift
               ,
            
             
               Plainly
               consenting
               Women
               buy
               delight
               ,
            
             
               Part
               with
               their
               Pride
               ,
               to
               please
               their
               Appetite
               :
            
             
               A
               bold
               Invasion
               does
               loath'd
               Debt
               prevent
               ,
            
             
               Love
               's
               sweeter
               when
               't
               is
               given
               than
               when
               't
               is
               lent
               .
            
          
           
             
               Plu.
               
            
             
               Well
               urg'd
               ,
               right
               Apprehensive
               Lord
               of
               th'
               upper
               house
               :
            
             
               Love
               is
               the
               Sauce
               ,
               but
               Lust's
               the
               wholsome
               Meat
            
             
               Which
               nicest
               Stomachs
               ne're
               refuse
               to
               eat
               .
            
             
               Proud
               Beggars
               ne're
               confess
               their
               wants
               ,
               tho
               ask'd
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               decent
               Charity
               to
               steal
               into
            
             
               Their
               hands
               an
               Alms.
               If
               heavenly
               Arrows
               fail
               ,
            
             
               The
               Darts
               of
               Flesh
               must
               the
               proud
               Flesh
               assail
               ;
            
             
             
               Which
               cure
               by
               Sympathy
               the
               hardest
               heart
               ,
            
             
               Like
               
               Pelia's
               Spear
               ,
               both
               wound
               and
               heal
               the
               smart
               .
            
          
           
             
               Mer.
               to
               Ven.
               
            
             
               Fair
               scornful
               Dame
               ,
               great
               Casuist
               in
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Raising
               the
               price
               of
               Lust
               t'
               enslave
               Mankind
               ,
            
             
               Playing
               the
               Whore
               with
               Grandeur
               and
               Discretion
               ;
            
             
               Love
               is
               a
               cheat
               t'ingross
               in
               private
               hands
            
             
               The
               staple
               trade
               of
               Lust
               ,
               meant
               for
               the
               publick
               .
            
             
               What
               you
               deny
               is
               more
               Mankinds
               than
               yours
               ,
            
             
               A
               Right
               no
               Vestal
               e're
               can
               give
               away
               ,
            
             
               A
               Right
               inherent
               ,
               not
               to
               be
               refus'd
            
             
               Nor
               limited
               ,
               'cause
               relative
               to
               all
               ;
            
             
               No
               more
               than
               Palates
               kept
               from
               various
               Tasts
               ,
            
             
               Iron
               to
               one
               Load-stone
               ,
               Amber
               to
               one
               Straw
               .
            
             
               If
               I
               have
               Title
               to
               a
               common
               Ground
               ,
            
             
               Tho
               't
               is
               inclos'd
               within
               anothers
               Bound
               ,
            
             
               All
               Laws
               allow
               free
               way
               to
               fetch
               my
               Shares
               :
            
             
               But
               these
               are
               double-fac'd
               terrestrial
               Cares
               ;
            
             
               Where
               right
               and
               wrong
               lye
               mix'd
               like
               Earth
               and
               Water
               ,
            
             
               Or
               Fire
               and
               Air
               ,
               none
               can
               divide
               'em
               clearly
               ;
            
             
             
               Such
               Rubs
               stop
               not
               the
               Gods.
               'T
               is
               writ
               above
               ,
            
             
               Great
               Valentinian
               shall
               enjoy
               his
               Love
               !
            
          
           
             
               Ven.
               
            
             
               Well
               ,
               if
               I
               must
               obey
               ,
               I
               'll
               ne're
               assist
            
             
               Such
               lewd
               base
               Acts
               ,
               nor
               lend
               a
               simp'ring
               smile
               ,
            
             
               But
               when
               't
               is
               done
               ,
               I
               'll
               help
               to
               reconcile
               .
            
          
           
             
               Plu.
               
            
             
               We
               knew
               you
               would
               be
               there
               .
               Come
               then
               ,
               I
               'll
               call
            
             
               My
               Satyrs
               to
               prepare
               the
               willing
               Fall
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               soft
               Dreams
               preach
               Honour's
               Funeral
               .
            
             
               Enter
               Satyrs
               ,
               and
               Dance
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             From
             Ovid
             Amorum
             ,
             l.
             2.
             
             El.
             4.
             and
             Lucretius
             l.
             4.
             
             That
             he
             loves
             Women
             of
             all
             sorts
             and
             sizes
             .
          
           
             By
             
               Mr.
               R
            
             —
          
           
             ALL
             Blots
             I
             cannot
             from
             my
             Manners
             wipe
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             say
             I
             walk
             uprightly
             when
             I
             slip
             :
          
           
             Press'd
             with
             my
             Thoughts
             ,
             I
             to
             Confession
             fall
             ,
          
           
             In
             pain
             ,
             and
             mad
             ,
             till
             I
             lay
             open
             all
             .
          
           
             I
             sin
             ,
             and
             I
             repent
             ,
             clear
             off
             the
             Score
             ,
          
           
             Then
             run
             ,
             like
             wild
             ,
             to
             dip
             again
             for
             more
             .
          
           
             I
             cannot
             rule
             my self
             ,
             like
             Pinnace
             tost
          
           
             In
             storms
             ,
             the
             Rudder
             gone
             ,
             and
             Compass
             lost
             .
          
           
             No
             certain
             Shape
             ,
             or
             Features
             ,
             stint
             my
             Mind
             ,
          
           
             I
             still
             for
             Love
             a
             thousand
             Reasons
             find
             .
          
           
             Here
             one
             commends
             my
             Verse
             ;
             In
             Equity
          
           
             If
             I
             please
             her
             ,
             she
             surely
             pleases
             me
             .
          
           
             But
             if
             
               malicious
               witty
            
             things
             she
             said
             ,
          
           
             I
             think
             how
             she
             wou'd
             repartee
             in
             bed
             :
          
           
           
             And
             for
             the
             Lashes
             that
             her
             Tongue
             bestow'd
             ,
          
           
             Had
             I
             my
             wish
             ,
             how
             I
             wou'd
             kiss
             the
             Rod.
          
           
             If
             artless
             they
             ,
             my
             Heart
             on
             Nature
             doats
             ;
          
           
             If
             learn'd
             ,
             I
             long
             to
             be
             conserring
             notes
             :
          
           
             If
             no
             great
             Sense
             or
             Parts
             the
             Damsel
             show
             ,
          
           
             Still
             I
             conclude
             ,
             she
             wants
             it
             not
             below
             .
          
           
             The
             mild
             one
             stays
             me
             with
             her
             pouting
             Lip
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             love
             a
             Shrew
             ,
             because
             she
             is
             no
             Sheep
             .
          
           
             I
             like
             whom
             pious
             Education
             fools
             ;
          
           
             Who
             would
             not
             try
             to
             put
             her
             past
             her
             Rules
             ?
          
           
             Tho'
             Look
             demure
             ,
             her
             Inclinations
             swerve
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             once
             let
             loose
             ,
             she
             jiggs
             without
             reserve
             .
          
           
             Who
             
               without
               Flame
            
             ,
             they
             have
             the
             Air
             of
             France
             ,
          
           
             
               Not
               clean
            
             ,
             or
             sweet
             are
             
               Ala
               Negligence
            
             .
          
           
             Sanguine
             her
             looks
             ,
             the
             Colour
             high
             and
             good
             ;
          
           
             For
             all
             the
             rest
             I
             trust
             her
             Flesh
             and
             Blood.
          
           
             Here
             living
             Snow
             my
             Passion
             strangely
             warms
             ,
          
           
             And
             strait
             I
             wish
             her
             melting
             in
             mine
             arms
             :
          
           
             
               White
               ,
               Red
            
             ,
             or
             Guinny
             -
             black
             ,
             or
             Gipsey
             -
             brown
             ,
          
           
             My
             dearly
             well-beloved
             every
             one
             .
          
           
           
             If
             she
             is
             tall
             ,
             my
             Courage
             mounts
             as
             high
             ,
          
           
             To
             stamp
             some
             new
             heroick
             Progeny
             .
          
           
             If
             little
             ,
             Oh!
             how
             quick
             the
             Spirit
             moves
             ?
          
           
             If
             large
             ,
             who
             wou'd
             not
             roul
             in
             what
             he
             loves
             ?
          
           
             The
             Lean
             provokes
             me
             with
             her
             naughty
             rubs
             ;
          
           
             But
             if
             she
             's
             plump
             ,
             't
             is
             then
             my
             
               pretty
               Fubs
            
             .
          
           
             And
             doubtless
             ,
             one
             might
             truck
             convenient
             sport
          
           
             With
             either
             fat
             or
             lean
             ,
             or
             long
             or
             short
             .
          
           
             The
             tripping
             Gate
             so
             tickles
             /
             yet
             if
             wide
          
           
             She
             steps
             ,
             Oh!
             then
             she
             swoups
             me
             with
             Stride
             .
          
           
             That
             waddle
             was
             a
             Grace
             in
             Montespan
             ,
          
           
             These
             
               drowsie
               Eyes
            
             are
             perfect
             C
             —
          
           
             With
             yellow
             Curls
             Aurora
             pleas'd
             her
             Top
             ,
          
           
             And
             
               Leda
               (
               Iove
            
             well
             saw
             )
             was
             black-a-top
             .
          
           
             The
             black
             or
             yellow
             are
             alike
             to
             me
             ,
          
           
             My
             Love
             will
             suit
             with
             every
             History
             .
          
           
             If
             
               Cloe
               sing
            
             ,
             she
             ,
             like
             a
             Syrene
             ,
             draws
             ;
          
           
             If
             she
             sing
             not
             ,
             we
             kiss
             without
             a
             pause
             :
          
           
             I
             love
             to
             risle
             amongst
             Gems
             and
             Dress
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             lumber
             they
             ,
             to
             god-like
             Nakedness
             .
          
           
           
             Buzzards
             and
             Owls
             on
             special
             quarry
             fall
             ;
          
           
             Mine
             is
             a
             generous
             Love
             ,
             and
             flies
             at
             all
             .
          
           
             I
             like
             the
             Rich
             ,
             'cause
             she
             is
             pamper'd
             high
             ,
          
           
             And
             merry
             Beggar
             love
             ,
             for
             Charity
             ;
          
           
             Widow
             or
             Wife
             ,
             I
             'm
             for
             a
             Pad
             that
             's
             way'd
             ;
          
           
             If
             Virgin
             ,
             troth
             ,
             who
             wou'd
             not
             love
             a
             Maid
             ?
          
           
             If
             she
             be
             young
             ,
             I
             take
             her
             in
             the
             nick
             ;
          
           
             If
             she
             has
             Age
             she
             helps
             it
             with
             a
             trick
             .
          
           
             If
             nothing
             charms
             me
             in
             her
             Wit
             or
             Face
             ,
          
           
             She
             has
             her
             Fiddle
             in
             some
             other
             place
             .
          
           
             Come
             every
             sort
             and
             size
             ,
             the
             great
             or
             small
             ,
          
           
             My
             Love
             will
             find
             a
             Tally
             for
             'em
             all
             .
          
           
             
               The
               foregoing
               Elegy
               ,
               having
               been
               publish'd
               imperfect
               ,
               is
               here
               Printed
               from
               the
               best
               Copy
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             
               To
               DOROLISSA
            
             ,
             On
             her
             being
             like
             my
             Lord
             Dorset
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             ADd
             all
             to
             Man
             that
             Man's
             Perfection
             makes
             ,
          
           
             Woman
             has
             something
             still
             that
             strangely
             takes
             :
          
           
             Why
             run
             we
             else
             ,
             at
             
             Dorolissa's
             Call
             ,
          
           
             In
             Crowds
             to
             Hersham
             ,
             and
             neglect
             Copt-Hall
             ?
          
           
             But
             who
             cou'd
             hope
             ,
             from
             
             Dorset's
             Noble
             Frame
             ,
          
           
             To
             find
             a
             Female
             of
             the
             very
             same
             ;
          
           
             Such
             inward
             Beauty
             ,
             and
             such
             outward
             Grace
             ,
          
           
             All
             met
             again
             together
             in
             one
             place
             ?
          
           
             The
             same
             free
             Looks
             that
             no
             disguises
             bear
             ,
          
           
             The
             same
             sweet
             ,
             generous
             ,
             Melancholy
             are
             ?
          
           
             That
             perfect
             Smile
             ,
             and
             that
             half-bended
             frown
             ,
          
           
             These
             glances
             too
             are
             
             Dorset's
             every
             one
             :
          
           
             Yet
             Nature
             ,
             that
             she
             might
             us
             not
             perplex
             ,
          
           
             The
             manly
             Stroaks
             with
             finer
             touches
             checks
             ,
          
           
             In
             a
             just
             Care
             to
             the
             dear
             fairer
             Sex.
          
           
           
             Nor
             do
             their
             Persons
             only
             come
             so
             near
             ,
          
           
             Her
             Soul
             's
             as
             high
             ,
             and
             every
             way
             his
             Peer
             .
          
           
             Tho
             the
             same
             mighty
             Genius
             so
             prevails
          
           
             In
             one
             ,
             in
             one
             particular
             it
             fails
             .
          
           
             To
             all
             the●…e
             Gifts
             of
             Body
             and
             of
             Mind
             ,
          
           
             A
             Conduct
             thus
             reserv'd
             is
             ,
             odly
             ,
             joyn'd
             :
          
           
             This
             suits
             but
             ill
             with
             the
             Heroick
             kind
             .
          
           
             Great
             Dorset
             wou'd
             his
             Love
             communicate
             ,
          
           
             Not
             turn
             away
             from
             a
             warm
             willing
             Mate
             .
          
           
             Here
             wou'd
             we
             live
             ,
             nor
             think
             of
             Joys
             above
             ,
          
           
             Were
             you
             ,
             ah
             !
             were
             you
             like
             him
             in
             your
             Love.
             
          
        
         
           
             In
             Imitation
             of
             the
             Song
             ,
             
               That
               I
               love
               none
            
             .
          
           
             By
             OLINDA
             .
          
           
             
               SOme
               say
               ,
               I
               for
               Olinda
               dye
               ,
            
             
               My
               Breast
               so
               violent
               Passion
               warms
               ,
            
             
               Most
               think
               my
               hour
               is
               scarce
               so
               nigh
               ,
            
             
               But
               ,
               ah
               !
               these
               little
               know
               her
               Charms
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               My
               Heart
               all
               witty
               fair
               ones
               sway
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               sad
               difficulty
               bring
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               none
               so
               cruel
               quite
               to
               slay
            
             
               The
               harmless
               ,
               poor
               ,
               good
               natur'd
               thing
               .
            
          
           
             
               My
               Heart
               is
               Love's
               mere
               Tennis
               ball
               ,
            
             
               Here
               toss'd
               ,
               there
               bandy'd
               up
               and
               down
               ;
            
             
               But
               in
               good
               hands
               if
               once
               it
               fall
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               lodg'd
               ,
               't
               is
               then
               ,
               for
               ever
               ,
               gone
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             PICTURE
             .
          
           
             By
             Mr.
             Adams
             .
          
           
             
               COme
               gentle
               Love
               ,
               't
               is
               only
               thou
            
             
               Can'st
               
               Celidia's
               Beauties
               know
               ;
            
             
               Thou
               ,
               for
               he
               trusts
               none
               but
               thee
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               my
               pretty
               Painter
               be
               :
            
             
               But
               no
               mortal
               Colours
               may
            
             
               My
               
               Celidia's
               form
               display
               .
            
             
               Fetch
               me
               then
               Love
               ,
               fetch
               the
               same
            
             
               Nature
               uses
               through
               this
               frame
               .
            
             
             
               When
               she
               Spring
               most
               fain
               would
               show
               ,
            
             
               Or
               she
               paints
               the
               watry
               Bow
               —
            
             
               So
               ,
               how
               swift
               thy
               Motions
               be
               ,
            
             
               Scarce
               thy
               Darts
               more
               swift
               than
               thee
               .
            
             
               Now
               first
               —
               stay
               let
               me
               see
               —
               first
               try
            
             
               Thy
               matchless
               Skill
               upon
               her
               Eye
               ;
            
             
               Paint
               it
               black
               ,
               and
               full
               ,
               and
               bright
               ,
            
             
               Quick
               ,
               and
               peircing
               as
               the
               Light
               ;
            
             
               Let
               it
               sparkle
               humid
               Fire
               ,
            
             
               Let
               it
               languish
               with
               desire
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               let
               a
               majestick
               Air
            
             
               Mid'st
               some
               pretty
               scorn
               appear
               ,
            
             
               Such
               as
               may
               inspire
               fear
               ,
            
             
               Such
               as
               may
               soft
               Love
               inspire
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               chastise
               too
               bold
               desire
               ;
            
             
               As
               may
               threaten
               yet
               invite
               ,
            
             
               Temp'ring
               Terror
               with
               Delight
               .
            
             
               Now
               let
               's
               see
               —
               well
               this
               might
               do
            
             
               Could'st
               thou
               paint
               the
               Motion
               too
               .
            
             
             
               Next
               ,
               let
               her
               faultless
               Nose
               descend
               ,
            
             
               Which
               Envy
               ,
               Nature
               cannot
               mend
               .
            
             
               But
               now
               gentle
               Love
               ,
               oh
               now
               !
            
             
               Thou
               thy
               Skill
               ,
               thy
               Art
               must
               show
               :
            
             
               Canst
               thou
               something
               here
               design
            
             
               That
               may
               Sweetness
               breath
               divine
               ?
            
             
               Can'st
               thou
               paint
               thy
               Mother's
               Smile
            
             
               When
               she
               would
               some
               God
               beguile
               ?
            
             
               Then
               might'st
               thou
               attempt
               to
               feign
            
             
               Her
               well
               form'd
               Mouth
               —
               Yet
               then
               in
               vain
               ,
            
             
               But
               for
               once
               thou
               shalt
               be
               try'd
               :
            
             
               Let
               the
               Lip
               with
               humble
               Pride
            
             
               Gently
               swell
               ,
               in
               Blushes
               dy'd
            
             
               Of
               native
               Purple
               ,
               and
               let
               there
            
             
               A
               perpetual
               Dew
               appear
               ,
            
             
               Such
               as
               flows
               on
               opening
               Roses
            
             
               When
               the
               Morn
               their
               Sweets
               discloses
               :
            
             
               While
               Fancy
               forms
               in
               every
               Kiss
               ,
            
             
               Joy
               ,
               Rapture
               ,
               and
               immortal
               Bliss
               .
            
             
             
               O!
               still
               the
               Grace
               ,
               the
               charming
               Air
               ,
            
             
               The
               melting
               Softness
               ,
               is
               not
               there
               .
            
             
               Well
               ,
               prithee
               go
               on
               ,
               o're
               her
               fair
               Eyes
            
             
               Let
               her
               lofty
               Fore-head
               rise
               :
            
             
               Like
               some
               Hill
               of
               Snow
               ,
               whose
               height
            
             
               Above
               the
               Sun
               contemns
               his
               heat
               .
            
             
               Now
               let
               on
               her
               Cheeks
               be
               laid
            
             
               Such
               a
               White
               and
               such
               a
               Red
               ,
            
             
               As
               the
               new-●…leec'd
               Snow
               does
               wear
               ,
            
             
               Unsully'd
               by
               the
               neither
               Air
               ;
            
             
               As
               most
               sweetly
               is
               display'd
            
             
               On
               the
               poor
               timerous
               ,
               wishing
               Maid
               ,
            
             
               Whom
               some
               blest
               Youth
               does
               first
               invade
               .
            
             
               Then
               let
               her
               dishevel'd
               Hair
            
             
               Here
               curl
               ,
               and
               there
               disappear
               :
            
             
               Here
               return
               ,
               then
               downward
               stray
               ,
            
             
               As
               it
               fain
               would
               lose
               its
               way
               ;
            
             
               Black
               let
               that
               be
               ,
               black
               ,
               as
               made
            
             
               The
               beauteous
               Piece's
               decent
               Shade
               ,
            
             
             
               As
               if
               she
               were
               enwrap'd
               in
               Night
            
             
               Thy
               gentle
               Season
               of
               Delight
               .
            
             
               Then
               O!
               then
               draw
               her
               swelling
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               Where
               Gods
               ,
               where
               amorous
               Gods
               would
               rest
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               ne're
               by
               Man
               or
               God
               yet
               prest
               .
            
             
               Let
               it
               such
               motion
               seem
               to
               find
               ,
            
             
               As
               Seas
               saluted
               by
               the
               Wind
               ,
            
             
               Which
               the
               lov'd
               Waves
               just
               Kisses
               o're
               ,
            
             
               And
               whispers
               Passion
               to
               the
               inclining
               Shore
               .
            
             
               O
               Love
               !
               methinks
               this
               is
               not
               well
               ,
            
             
               Methinks
               it
               does
               not
               panting
               swell
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               is
               the
               lovely
               Mouth
               the
               same
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               darts
               the
               Eye
               the
               well-known
               Flame
               .
            
          
           
             
               While
               thus
               I
               spoke
               ,
               Love
               angry
               grew
               ,
            
             
               The
               Tablet
               tore
               ,
               and
               down
               he
               threw
            
             
               The
               Pencil
               ,
               and
               away
               he
               flew
               .
            
             
               Whether
               the
               God
               himself
               did
               move
               ,
            
             
               And
               Love
               did
               operate
               on
               Love
               ;
            
             
               So
               fear'd
               to
               stir
               my
               rival
               Flame
               ,
            
             
               Should
               he
               draw
               her
               too
               much
               the
               same
               :
            
             
             
               Or
               he
               thought
               I
               should
               vex
               more
            
             
               When
               his
               Pencil
               should
               come
               lower
               ;
            
             
               'T
               was
               that
               the
               little
               God
               well
               knew
               ,
            
             
               The
               Painter
               so
               his
               Mother
               drew
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               the
               Waste
               her
               form
               did
               shew
               :
            
             
               But
               then
               he
               spread
               a
               circling
               Wave
               ,
            
             
               As
               Modesty
               had
               made
               him
               leave
               ;
            
             
               Tho
               't
               is
               most
               sure
               his
               Pencil
               he
               supprest
               ,
            
             
               Because
               he
               never
               could
               describe
               the
               rest
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             A
             PASTORAL
             ,
             Written
             at
             Dublin
             ,
             in
             May
             1683.
             
          
           
             
               Coridon
               .
            
             
               THyrsis
               ,
               since
               here
               we
               be
               together
               laid
               ,
            
             
               Where
               these
               kind
               Trees
               embraces
               weave
               a
               Shade
               ,
            
             
               Sing
               gentle
               Youth
               ,
               and
               with
               some
               tuneful
               Lay
               ,
            
             
               Beguile
               our
               Labour
               ,
               and
               deceive
               the
               day
               ;
            
             
               Thelgon
               will
               seed
               our
               Flocks
               ;
               and
               when
               they
               're
               fed
               ,
            
             
               Th●…lgon
               our
               Flocks
               will
               to
               the
               River
               lead
               .
            
          
           
             
               
               Thyrsis
               .
            
             
               OCoridon
               !
               Who
               shall
               presume
               to
               sing
               ?
            
             
               Who
               to
               these
               Groves
               shall
               foreign
               Numbers
               bring
               ?
            
             
               Where
               once
               great
               Spencer
               did
               triumphant
               reign
               ,
            
             
               The
               best
               ,
               the
               sweetest
               ,
               of
               the
               inspir'd
               Train
               ;
            
             
               Scarce
               from
               the
               God
               of
               Wit
               such
               Verse
               did
               flow
               ,
            
             
               When
               he
               vouchsaf'd
               to
               follow
               Sheep
               below
               :
            
             
               Here
               sigh'd
               the
               love-sick
               Swain
               ,
               here
               fed
               his
               Sheep
            
             
               Near
               Mullas
               Stream
               ,
               whose
               Waves
               he
               taught
               to
               weep
               :
            
             
               While
               hungry'st
               Herds
               forgot
               the
               flowry
               Meads
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               unshorn
               Hills
               inclin'd
               their
               list'ning
               Shades
               ;
            
             
               Oft
               as
               I
               've
               heard
               the
               Muses
               hither
               came
               ,
            
             
               The
               Muses
               slighted
               the
               inspiring
               Stream
               ,
            
             
               Charm'd
               with
               the
               merit
               of
               their
               Colin's
               fame
               :
            
             
               While
               hoarser
               Goatherds
               in
               some
               wretched
               strain
            
             
               Invok'd
               the
               absent
               Deities
               in
               vain
               .
            
             
               Ah!
               liv'd
               he
               now
               ,
               what
               Subjects
               might
               he
               chuse
               ,
            
             
               The
               deathless
               Theams
               of
               his
               immortal
               Muse
               ,
            
             
               Of
               God-like
               Ossory
               his
               Song
               would
               tell
               ,
            
             
               How
               much
               belov'd
               he
               liv'd
               ,
               how
               much
               bewail'd
               he
               fell
               .
            
             
             
               In
               War
               unconquer'd
               ,
               but
               betray'd
               in
               Peace
            
             
               By
               fraud
               of
               Death
               ,
               and
               snares
               of
               a
               Disease
               .
            
             
               Then
               he
               'd
               to
               late
               Posterity
               declare
               ,
            
             
               How
               well
               Great
               Arran
               did
               the
               loss
               repair
               ;
            
             
               That
               when
               Good
               Ormond
               would
               his
               Age
               release
            
             
               In
               no
               mean
               Pleasures
               ,
               no
               inglorious
               Ease
               ,
            
             
               He
               with
               like
               Vertue
               rul'd
               ,
               with
               like
               success
               :
            
             
               So
               when
               old
               Atlas
               eas'd
               his
               stooping
               Years
               ,
            
             
               Alcides
               only
               could
               support
               the
               Sphears
               .
            
             
               Well
               hast
               thou
               chose
               ,
               Great
               Monarch
               !
               well
               design'd
            
             
               So
               vast
               a
               Burthen
               for
               so
               vast
               a
               Mind
               !
            
             
               He
               all
               the
               worth
               of
               his
               long
               line
               does
               show
               ,
            
             
               As
               Rivers
               largest
               when
               they
               furthest
               flow
               ;
            
             
               No
               false
               Cabal
               his
               Vertue
               could
               engage
               ,
            
             
               Flowing
               unmix'd
               through
               a
               Rebellious
               Age
               ,
            
             
               Unmix'd
               and
               pure
               ,
               as
               the
               swift
               Rhônedos
               take
            
             
               His
               liquid
               way
               ,
               through
               dull
               
               Geneva's
               Lake
               .
            
             
               But
               whither
               am
               I
               brought
               by
               unknown
               ways
               ,
            
             
               Forc'd
               by
               the
               mighty
               Current
               of
               his
               Praise
               ?
            
             
             
               Say
               happy
               Bard
               !
               immortal
               Spencer
               say
               !
            
             
               What
               numbers
               would'st
               thou
               choose
               ,
               what
               Praise
               display
               ,
            
             
               When
               of
               Armagh
               thy
               mighty
               Song
               should
               be
               ,
            
             
               Of
               
               Armagh's
               Justice
               and
               his
               Piety
               ?
            
             
               Armagh
               !
               who
               Innocence
               secures
               from
               wrong
               ,
            
             
               In
               whom
               the
               poor
               are
               rich
               ,
               the
               weak
               are
               strong
               ,
            
             
               The
               VVidows
               Plenty
               ,
               and
               the
               Orphans
               Song
               .
            
             
               Armagh
               !
               the
               good
               ,
               whom
               Men
               and
               Angels
               love
               ,
            
             
               Chief
               Priest
               of
               Themis
               ,
               and
               Chief
               Priest
               of
               Iove
               :
            
             
               'T
               is
               he
               ,
               my
               much-lov'd
               Coridon
               !
               't
               is
               he
               ,
            
             
               Through
               whom
               my
               Flocks
               thus
               wander
               as
               you
               see
               .
            
             
               He
               too
               permits
               my
               Verse
               ,
               nor
               does
               disdain
            
             
               The
               humble
               Tribute
               of
               a
               grateful
               Swain
               .
            
             
               O
               could
               I
               !
               could
               I
               my
               low
               measures
               raise
               ,
            
             
               VVorthy
               his
               Name
               ,
               and
               worthy
               of
               his
               Praise
               !
            
             
               VVhile
               weary
               Flocks
               rejoyc'd
               in
               Shades
               ,
               while
               Showers
            
             
               Of
               silent
               dew
               reviv'd
               expiring
               Flowers
               ,
            
             
               VVhile
               breathing
               VVinds
               should
               slow
               through
               yonder
               Grove
               ,
            
             
               And
               Shepherdesses
               should
               submit
               to
               Love
               ;
            
             
             
               Armagh
               should
               be
               the
               Universal
               Theam
               ;
            
             
               Our
               Mountains
               of
               themselves
               should
               speak
               his
               Name
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               the
               ecchoing
               Plains
               ,
               th'
               attentive
               Woods
            
             
               Of
               Armagh
               sing
               ,
               of
               Armagh
               all
               the
               Floods
               .
            
          
           
             
               Coridon
               .
            
             
               Thrice
               happy
               Youth
               ,
               thy
               Gratitude
               exceeds
            
             
               The
               humble
               measures
               of
               our
               rural
               Reeds
               .
            
             
               O
               may
               he
               oft
               vouchsafe
               thy
               Verse
               to
               hear
               ,
            
             
               When
               noble
               Pleasures
               shall
               unbend
               his
               Care
               ;
            
             
               But
               see
               ,
               the
               Day
               Night
               silently
               invades
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               departing
               Sun
               doubles
               the
               encreasing
               Shades
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Vivamus
             mea
             Lesbia
             ,
             &c
             Catull.
             
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             
               LEt
               's
               live
               ,
               my
               Lesbia
               ,
               while
               we
               may
               ,
            
             
               In
               Love
               let
               's
               pass
               the
               thoughtless
               day
               ,
            
             
               While
               Impotence
               and
               Envy
               rage
            
             
               In
               a
               severe
               censorious
               Age
               :
            
             
               Yonder
               Sun
               which
               sets
               to
               night
               ,
            
             
               Returns
               to
               morrow
               with
               new
               Light
               :
            
             
             
               But
               when
               once
               our
               day
               goes
               down
               ,
            
             
               All
               our
               Mirth
               ,
               our
               Joys
               are
               gone
               ,
            
             
               One
               small
               stroak
               our
               Hearts
               will
               sever
               ,
            
             
               And
               we
               sleep
               ,
               we
               sleep
               for
               ever
               .
            
             
               A
               thousand
               Kisses
               then
               ,
               my
               Dear
               ,
            
             
               A
               hundred
               more
               ,
               nay
               yet
               I
               swear
            
             
               Another
               thousand
               does
               remain
               ,
            
             
               Now
               the
               hundred
               o're
               again
               ,
            
             
               Then
               another
               thousand
               more
               ,
            
             
               Then
               a
               hundred
               as
               before
               ;
            
             
               Thus
               when
               many
               thousand
               past
               ,
            
             
               We
               'll
               mix
               ,
               we
               'll
               shuffle
               'em
               so
               last
               ,
            
             
               That
               nor
               Thou
               ,
               nor
               I
               may
               know
            
             
               What
               is
               done
               ,
               or
               what
               to
               do
               ,
            
             
               And
               no
               Envy
               blast
               our
               Bliss
            
             
               When
               our
               Joys
               are
               numberless
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             SONG
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               NO
               faith
               ,
               No
               ,
               I
               will
               not
               now
               ;
            
             
               Could'st
               thou
               not
               one
               ,
               not
               one
               Repulse
               allow
               ?
            
             
               What
               a
               silly
               Whore
               art
               thou
               ?
            
             
               Have
               a
               care
               of
               Care
               ,
               of
               dull
               Permission
               ;
            
             
               Women
               may
               rule
               us
               ,
            
             
               If
               they
               please
               to
               fool
               us
               ,
            
             
               Make
               us
               sigh
               ,
               and
               make
               us
               wish
               on
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               I
               hate
               the
               coming
               Maid
               ,
            
             
               Love
               is
               by
               nauseous
               fondness
               over-laid
               ,
            
             
               Becalm'd
               as
               in
               the
               Marriage-Bed
               .
            
             
               Give
               me
               a
               bouncing
               tempestuous
               Beauty
               ,
            
             
               Let
               her
               pet
               and
               grumble
               ,
            
             
               Bite
               ,
               and
               toss
               ,
               and
               tumble
               ,
            
             
               Or
               I
               'm
               slow
               as
               Husbands
               upon
               Duty
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Call
               Honour
               ,
               Fame
               ,
               and
               Modesty
               ,
            
             
               All
               the
               airy
               Guards
               of
               nice
               Virginity
               ,
            
             
               Through
               all
               I
               'de
               force
               each
               Inch
               of
               thee
               ,
            
             
               Inhance
               thy self
               by
               frequent
               denial
               ,
            
             
               Make
               us
               think
               't
               is
               somewhat
            
             
               We
               labour
               so
               to
               come
               at
               ,
            
             
               For
               who
               ,
               O
               who
               would
               seek
               it
               if
               he
               knew
               all
               ?
            
          
        
         
           
             Parce
             meo
             Iuveni
             ,
             
               &c.
               Tibullus
            
             .
          
           
             
               SPare
               gentle
               Beast
               !
               ah
               ,
               spare
               my
               lovely
               Boy
               ,
            
             
               Whether
               thou
               do'st
               the
               Hill
               or
               Plain
               enjoy
               !
            
             
               Do
               not
               !
               ah
               do
               not
               thy
               sharp
               Tusks
               prepare
            
             
               For
               fierce
               Encounters
               and
               relentless
               War
               !
            
             
               Thou
               gentle
               Love
               ,
               his
               faithful
               Guardian
               be
               !
            
             
               Thou
               gentle
               Love
               ,
               preserve
               him
               safe
               to
               me
               !
            
             
               Curst
               be
               the
               Dogs
               ,
               curst
               be
               the
               woody
               shade
            
             
               Whose
               solitary
               Pleasure
               can
               perswade
            
             
               To
               follow
               Beasts
               ,
               and
               fly
               a
               dying
               Maid
               ?
            
             
             
               What
               Fury
               is
               't
               ?
               Ah!
               what
               is
               thy
               Design
               !
            
             
               While
               thou
               the
               nets
               round
               some
               rough
               Hill
               dos●…
               gain
               ,
            
             
               To
               hunt
               those
               Hands
               ,
               those
               tender
               Hands
               of
               thine
               ;
            
             
               Where
               is
               the
               Pleasure
               of
               the
               surest
               Trace
               ,
            
             
               VVhile
               the
               hook'd
               Thorns
               those
               snowy
               Legs
               deface
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               yet
               ,
               so
               I
               my self
               might
               wander
               too
               ,
            
             
               So
               I
               with
               thee
               my
               lovely
               Youth
               might
               go
               ,
            
             
               My self
               secure
               of
               any
               future
               fear
               ,
            
             
               O're
               ●…raggy
               Rocks
               the
               twis●…ed
               Nets
               would
               ●…ear
               ;
            
             
               My self
               the
               Fleetest
               Deer
               would
               nimbly
               trace
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               swift
               Dogs
               uncouple
               for
               the
               Chase
               :
            
             
               Then
               you
               blest
               Woods
               ,
               O
               then
               ye'd
               please
               me
               too
               !
            
             
               If
               I
               might
               with
               my
               lov'd
               Ch●…rynthus
               go
               .
            
             
               If
               in
               your
               amorous
               ●…ling
               Shade
            
             
               We
               might
               together
               by
               the
               ●…oils
               ●…e
               laid
               ,
            
             
               Then
               should
               the
               Beast
               securely
               ma●…ch
               away
               ,
            
             
               We'd
               only
               be
               our selves
               each
               others
               Prey
               ,
            
             
               No
               care
               of
               sport
               ,
               the
               Boa●…
               should
               then
               destroy
            
             
               The
               sweet
               Perfection
               of
               our
               eager
               Joy
               ;
            
             
             
               Then
               should'st
               thou
               have
               no
               other
               Love
               but
               me
               ,
            
             
               As
               I
               would
               only
               sigh
               and
               ●…urn
               for
               thee
               ;
            
             
               That
               so
               my
               Dear
               ,
               after
               
               Diana's
               ●…aw
               ,
            
             
               With
               a
               chas●…e
               hand
               thou
               might'st
               the
               chas●…e
               net
               draw
               .
            
             
               Yet
               if
               by
               cunning
               s●…ealth
               some
               Rival
               Maid
            
             
               Should
               the
               soft
               Pleasures
               of
               my
               Love
               invade
               ,
            
             
               May
               some
               unknown
               misfortune
               meet
               her
               ,
               may
            
             
               She
               suddenly
               become
               some
               wild
               Beasts
               prey
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               thou
               ,
               fair
               Youth
               ,
               such
               rough
               Delights
               forbear
               ,
            
             
               And
               let
               thy
               Father
               of
               the
               Chase
               take
               care
               :
            
             
               Thou
               softer
               Pleasures
               follow
               ,
               Thou
               and
               I
               ,
            
             
               And
               quickly
               to
               my
               Bosom
               ,
               quickly
               fly
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             A
             Translation
             out
             of
             
               〈◊〉
               To
               SLEEP
            
             .
          
           
             WHat
             horrid
             Crime
             did
             gentle
             Sleep
             displease
             ?
          
           
             That
             he
             refuses
             me
             the
             common
             ease
          
           
             Of
             Bird
             and
             Beast
             ?
             nay
             ,
             ev'ry
             breeding
             Tr●…e
          
           
             Seems
             but
             to
             nod
             with
             Sleep
             to
             waking
             me
             .
          
           
           
             Fierce
             Rivers
             softly
             glide
             ,
             Seas
             faintly
             roar
             ,
          
           
             And
             roul
             themselves
             asleep
             upon
             the
             Shore
             .
          
           
             Seven
             times
             the
             Moon
             has
             measur'd
             out
             the
             night
             ,
          
           
             Seven
             times
             my
             Eyes
             out-watch'd
             her
             borrow'd
             Light.
          
           
             The
             shining
             Stars
             ,
             as
             in
             their
             Orbs
             they
             move
             ,
          
           
             As
             oft
             have
             seen
             me
             waking
             from
             above
             .
          
           
             Still
             my
             Complaints
             reviv'd
             ,
             Aurora
             hears
             ,
          
           
             And
             mov'd
             with
             Pity
             ,
             baths
             me
             with
             her
             Tears
             .
          
           
             How
             will
             my
             Strength
             to
             bear
             my
             Grief
             suffice
             ?
          
           
             Like
             Argus
             ,
             I
             have
             not
             a
             thousand
             Eyes
             ,
          
           
             That
             may
             alternately
             their
             watching
             take
             ,
          
           
             His
             Body
             never
             was
             all
             o're
             awake
             .
          
           
             Perhaps
             some
             amorous
             Youth
             kind
             Sleep
             denies
          
           
             To
             lodge
             ,
             at
             present
             ,
             in
             his
             wanton
             eyes
             :
          
           
             With
             waking
             Arms
             he
             clasps
             the
             yielding
             Dame
             ,
          
           
             And
             quits
             his
             Rest
             to
             ease
             a
             restless
             Flame
             .
          
           
             Let
             the
             ill-treated
             God
             take
             Wing
             to
             me
          
           
             Who
             have
             so
             long
             beg'd
             for
             his
             Company
             ;
          
           
             I
             will
             not
             ask
             him
             a
             whole
             Night
             to
             stay
             ,
          
           
             A
             happier
             Man
             must
             for
             that
             Blessing
             pray
             ,
          
           
             Let
             him
             but
             call
             upon
             me
             in
             his
             way
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             ATHEIST
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               GReat
               knowing
               Hero
               !
               Who
               dares
               boast
            
             
               A
               Conquest
               o're
               the
               Lord
               of
               Host
               !
            
             
               Thou
               wear'st
               a
               Soul
               that
               scorns
               to
               be
            
             
               Corrupted
               with
               the
               Notion
               of
               a
               Deity
               ;
            
             
               Thou
               know'st
               this
               World
               was
               made
               by
               chance
               ,
            
             
               In
               thy
               eternal
               Atoms
               luckey
               Dance
               ,
            
             
               That
               in
               their
               heedless
               motion
               hit
            
             
               At
               last
               on
               thee
               ,
               thou
               mighty
               Man
               of
               Wit.
            
             
               Thy
               shuffl'd
               Atoms
               that
               thus
               joyn'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               make
               a
               World
               combin'd
               ,
            
             
               By
               the
               last
               Trumps
               inliv'ning
               sound
            
             
               Shall
               be
               without
               blind
               chance
               calld
               from
               the
               world
               round
               ;
            
             
               And
               when
               they
               're
               all
               together
               met
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               the
               Agony
               beget
               ,
            
             
               Then
               thou
               shall
               be
            
             
               Rebuilt
               to
               an
               Eternity
            
             
             
               Of
               still
               beginning
               misery
               ,
            
             
               And
               thy
               great
               Nature
               too
               shall
               fall
               like
               thee
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Nature
               ,
               God's
               Steward
               ,
               only
               can
               disburse
            
             
               Events
               which
               he
               before
               ordain'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               uncontroul'd
               ne're
               govern'd
               us
               ,
            
             
               But
               like
               the
               Causes
               too
               is
               chain'd
               .
            
             
               If
               God
               from
               Nature
               should
               withdraw
               his
               hand
               ,
            
             
               The
               seeble
               Atlas
               reels
               ,
               and
               cannot
               stand
               .
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Proud
               Fool
               !
               recant
               thy
               vain
               Philosophy
            
             
               That
               of
               thy
               God
               so
               long
               has
               cousin'd
               thee
               :
            
             
               Thy
               pinion'd
               Reason
               ,
               Flesh
               with
               Faith
               and
               Soar
            
             
               Above
               thy
               Reason
               ,
               Nature's
               God
               t'
               adore
               :
            
             
               This
               will
               correct
               thy
               Reason
               and
               thy
               Pride
               ,
            
             
               And
               shew
               thee
               the
               Eternal
               ,
               crucified
               ;
            
             
               Tho
               you
               before
               did
               think
               his
               Blood
               did
               never
               glide
            
             
               But
               in
               a
               Picture
               from
               his
               Side
               ;
            
             
               And
               that
               God
               only
               in
               a
               pious
               Romance
               dy'd
               .
            
             
             
               This
               surely
               ,
               Lord
               ,
               thy
               Torments
               must
               renew
               ,
            
             
               And
               crucifie
               thy
               God-head
               too
               :
            
             
               For
               't
               is
               a
               double
               Pain
            
             
               To
               dye
               for
               Man
               that
               will
               an
               Infidel
               remain
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             A
             Pastoral
             Reflexion
             on
             Death
             .
          
           
             
               Strephon
               and
               Damon
               .
            
             
               Beneath
               a
               gloomy
               Yiew's
               unhealthy
               Shade
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               noxious
               Coverts
               shun'd
               by
               Bird
               and
               Beast
               ,
            
             
               The
               wretched
               Damon
               lay
               ,
               with
               Arms
               a-cross
            
             
               His
               labouring
               Breast
               ,
               quick
               like
               a
               sickly
               Pulse
               ,
            
             
               His
               Heart
               with
               Passion
               seem'd
               to
               throb
               and
               beat
               .
            
             
               From
               's
               half-clos'd
               eyes
               there
               stole
               a
               falling
               tear
            
             
               Along
               the
               fallow
               Furrows
               of
               his
               Cheeks
               ,
            
             
               The
               deep
               ingraven
               Characters
               of
               Grief
               .
            
             
               The
               Pipe
               which
               he
               with
               tuneful
               Breath
               inspir'd
               ,
            
             
             
               And
               made
               the
               vocal
               Organ
               of
               his
               Lays
               ,
            
             
               Lay
               broke
               ,
               and
               silent
               by
               ,
               the
               dire
               effect
            
             
               Of
               raging
               Sorrow
               ,
               for
               in
               that
               was
               lost
            
             
               The
               Wonder
               and
               Delight
               of
               all
               the
               Plains
               .
            
             
               As
               Strephon
               chanc'd
               to
               shape
               his
               course
               that
               way
               ,
            
             
               In
               quest
               of
               two
               lost
               Ewes
               that
               lately
               stray'd
               ,
            
             
               He
               spy'd
               the
               Shepherd
               stretch'd
               upon
               the
               ground
               .
            
             
               Amaz'd
               at
               the
               sad
               Spectacle
               of
               War
               ,
            
             
               He
               silent
               stood
               ,
               then
               
                 Damon
                 ,
                 Damon
              
               ,
               cry'd
               .
            
             
               Being
               thus
               provoked
               ,
               he
               rais'd
               his
               giddy
               Head
               ,
            
             
               That
               strait
               recoil'd
               ,
               and
               gently
               sunk
               to
               rest
               ;
            
             
               At
               last
               ,
               with
               's
               Elbow
               pillow'd
               from
               the
               ground
               ,
            
             
               He
               gave
               attention
               to
               his
               speaking
               Friend
               .
            
          
           
             
               Strephon.
               
            
             
               What
               makes
               my
               Damon
               secretly
               retire
               ,
            
             
               Resolv'd
               in
               private
               to
               possess
               his
               Grief
               ,
            
             
               When
               
               Damon's
               Sheep
               require
               their
               
               Damon's
               care
               ?
            
             
               Last
               night
               I
               heard
               the
               Wolves
               run
               howling
               by
               ,
            
             
               That
               with
               fierce
               eyes
               devour'd
               all
               our
               Flocks
               :
            
             
               Their
               Fear
               above
               their
               Hunger
               scarce
               prevail'd
               ,
            
             
             
               For
               two
               Lambs
               in
               my
               view
               they
               almost
               seis'd
               .
            
             
               In
               yonder
               Village
               too
               I
               heard
               this
               day
               ,
            
             
               That
               Thieves
               have
               basely
               visited
               our
               Folds
               .
            
             
               Rise
               Damon
               ,
               rise
               ,
               and
               leave
               thy
               Cares
               behind
               .
            
          
           
             
               Damon
               .
            
             
               All
               this
               cannot
               provoke
               my
               Diligence
               ,
            
             
               For
               fear
               more
               rav'nous
               Wolves
               have
               seis'd
               on
               me
               ,
            
             
               And
               make
               my
               panting
               heart
               their
               wretched
               prey
            
             
               That
               vainly
               strives
               to
               shift
               the
               cruel
               Pain
               .
            
             
               My
               Breast
               was
               ne're
               infested
               with
               wild
               care
            
             
               As
               long
               as
               dear
               Mirtillo
               liv'd
               ,
               whose
               Charms
            
             
               Cou'd
               calm
               the
               roughest
               Tempests
               of
               my
               Mind
               .
            
             
               A
               discontinued
               Sun-shine
               I
               enjoy'd
            
             
               Till
               dear
               Mirtillo
               set
               in
               his
               dark
               Grave
               .
            
             
               Now
               there
               's
               no
               lucid
               Interval
               of
               Peace
               ,
            
             
               Or
               pause
               of
               Quiet
               to
               my
               troubled
               Mind
               .
            
             
               Sad
               Death
               must
               be
               the
               Period
               of
               my
               Woe
            
             
               And
               Life
               ,
               then
               Damon
               ,
               like
               Mirtillo
               ,
               dye
               .
            
          
           
             
               
               Strephon.
               
            
             
               Thy
               Soul
               ,
               fond
               Shepherd
               ,
               is
               with
               Passion
               craz'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               thy
               distemper'd
               Reason
               falsly
               takes
            
             
               The
               dreadful
               King
               of
               Terrors
               for
               thy
               Friend
               .
            
             
               Shou'd
               he
               but
               lay
               his
               icy
               hand
               on
               thee
               ,
            
             
               Affrighted
               Nature
               would
               recant
               the
               Wish
               ,
            
             
               Which
               you
               in
               trouble
               made
               with
               too
               much
               haste
               ;
            
             
               And
               like
               the
               Grass
               before
               the
               Mowers
               Sythe
               ,
            
             
               Wou'd
               ,
               bending
               ,
               try
               to
               'scape
               the
               fatal
               stroke
               .
            
             
               If
               Death
               's
               so
               pleasant
               ,
               why
               shou'd
               you
               lament
            
             
               
               Mirtillo's
               Fate
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Strephon.
               
            
             
               Because
               the
               lowly
               Youth
            
             
               Wou'd
               willingly
               have
               suffered
               tedious
               Life
               .
            
             
               The
               strong
               Convulsions
               of
               his
               Friendship
               were
            
             
               More
               sierce
               than
               the
               last
               Agonies
               of
               Death
               :
            
             
               His
               parting
               Soul
               by
               ling'ring
               here
               below
               ,
            
             
               Did
               seem
               to
               catch
               at
               Life
               to
               stay
               with
               me
               .
            
             
               But
               when
               resistless
               Fate
               had
               summon'd
               him
               ,
            
             
             
               He
               kindly
               fix'd
               his
               closing
               Eyes
               on
               mine
               ,
            
             
               Then
               beckon'd
               me
               to
               follow
               to
               the
               Grave
               .
            
             
               This
               makes
               me
               think
               't
               is
               no
               hard
               task
               to
               dye
               ;
            
             
               For
               harmless
               Shepherds
               ,
               whose
               unspotted
               Lives
            
             
               Are
               innocent
               as
               are
               the
               Flocks
               they
               feed
               :
            
             
               Fear
               is
               but
               the
               Result
               of
               Guilt
               .
            
          
           
             
               Strephon.
               
            
             
               I
               know
            
             
               Death
               has
               his
               Terrors
               chiefly
               from
               our
               Crimes
               ,
            
             
               And
               Virtue
               can
               disarm
               the
               gastly
               Foe
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               Nature
               too
               still
               fears
               to
               be
               dissolv'd
               ,
            
             
               Like
               tender
               Lambs
               that
               dread
               the
               Butchers
               Knise
            
             
               Although
               they
               nothing
               fear
               beyond
               the
               Blow
               .
            
             
               For
               who
               can
               boast
               a
               perfect
               Innocence
               ,
            
             
               Or
               run
               the
               nimble
               Race
               of
               humane
               Life
            
             
               Always
               along
               a
               spotless
               milkey
               way
               ?
            
             
               There
               's
               no
               such
               Path
               but
               in
               the
               Heavens
               above
               ,
            
             
               Which
               we
               at
               penning
               time
               so
               plainly
               see
               .
            
             
               Methinks
               I
               quiver
               whilst
               I
               talk
               of
               Death
               ,
            
             
               Being
               almost
               frighted
               with
               my
               own
               Discourse
               .
            
             
             
               Thus
               I
               anticipate
               the
               fatal
               hour
            
             
               That
               must
               snatch
               me
               from
               chaste
               
               Dorinda's
               Arms
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               dear
               pledges
               of
               our
               mutual
               Love.
            
             
               When
               I
               am
               dead
               ,
               who
               'll
               teach
               my
               lovely
               Boys
            
             
               To
               use
               the
               Hook
               ,
               or
               help
               the
               labouring
               Ewe
               .
            
             
               Dorinda
               ,
               Boys
               ,
               and
               Sheep
               ,
               must
               all
            
             
               Be
               left
               a
               Prey
               to
               Man
               ,
               that
               unto
               Man
            
             
               Proves
               the
               most
               savage
               Wolf
               ,
               the
               strong
            
             
               Worry
               the
               weak
               ,
               remorsless
               Avarice
               ,
            
             
               Urging
               the
               hungry
               Miser
               to
               oppress
               ;
            
             
               And
               wild
               Ambition
               treads
               upon
               the
               Poor
               ,
            
             
               Its
               footing
               sure
               ,
               and
               that
               which
               will
               subvert
            
             
               The
               ill-laid
               Greatness
               of
               aspiring
               Man.
            
             
               Such
               Thoughts
               as
               these
               Mirtillo
               had
               ,
               when
               Life
            
             
               Did
               ,
               as
               you
               say
               ,
               seem
               pleasing
               to
               the
               Youth
               .
            
          
           
             
               Damon
               .
            
             
               Why
               wou'd
               you
               abrogate
               my
               firm
               Resolve
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               these
               Fears
               repeal
               the
               thoughts
               of
               Death
               ?
            
             
               Did
               you
               but
               know
               how
               sweetly
               they
               repose
            
             
               On
               Beds
               of
               Earth
               that
               are
               lodg'd
               under
               ground
               ,
            
             
             
               Unintercepted
               Rest
               they
               all
               enjoy
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               the
               wants
               of
               Life
               are
               blest
               by
               Death
               :
            
             
               They
               but
               retreat
               to
               a
               far
               greater
               World.
            
             
               For
               how
               few
               tread
               the
               Surface
               of
               the
               Globe
               ,
            
             
               Compar'd
               to
               crowding
               Colonies
               that
               Fate
            
             
               Sends
               daily
               to
               the
               Bowels
               of
               the
               Earth
               ,
            
             
               That
               has
               been
               peopling
               ever
               since
               old
               time
               ,
            
             
               Commenc'd
               the
               subterranean
               Universe
               ,
            
             
               Still
               gapes
               to
               swallow
               down
               the
               upper
               World.
            
             
               But
               when
               my
               
               Body's
               ●…arthen
               Pitcher's
               broke
            
             
               By
               Nature's
               stroke
               of
               Fortune's
               random
               blow
               ;
            
             
               My
               Lord
               ,
               like
               
               Gideon's
               Lamp
               from
               his
               crack'd
               urn
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               Death's
               black
               Night
               turn
               to
               eternal
               Day
               ;
            
             
               For
               all
               the
               Spots
               of
               my
               poor
               sullied
               Soul
            
             
               Shall
               be
               wash'd
               off
               by
               Heav'ns
               eternal
               Lamb
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               tender
               Veins
               spouted
               a
               Bath
               o●…
               Blood
               ,
            
             
               The
               sacred
               Laver
               of
               all
               faithful
               Swains
               .
            
          
           
             
               Strephon.
               
            
             
               When
               you
               shall
               tread
               the
               confines
               of
               the
               Grave
               ,
            
             
               And
               your
               Soul
               is
               to
               a
               strange
               somewhere
               bound
               ,
            
             
             
               (
               For
               Nature
               still
               will
               combate
               lively
               Faith
               )
            
             
               'T
               is
               great
               relief
               to
               have
               such
               cheerful
               hopes
            
             
               That
               will
               repress
               the
               horrors
               of
               the
               Mind
               :
            
             
               We
               only
               by
               the
               Opticks
               of
               our
               Faith
            
             
               Can
               travel
               to
               the
               promis'd
               Land
               above
               .
            
             
               Yet
               we
               must
               not
               precipitate
               our
               Fate
               ,
            
             
               But
               wait
               Heav'ns
               Pleasure
               ,
               therefore
               
                 (
                 Damon
                 )
                 pray
              
               ,
            
             
               For
               my
               sake
               live
               to
               night
               ,
               to
               morrow
               dye
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Horatii
             Ode
             28.
             
             Lib.
             1.
             
             Persicos
             Odi
             puer
             apparatus
             ,
             &c.
             
          
           
             THE
             Persian
             Bravery
             I
             hate
             ,
          
           
             Boy
             !
             I
             will
             not
             drink
             in
             state
             .
          
           
             No
             Roses
             'bout
             my
             Temples
             twine
             ,
          
           
             Seek
             no
             late
             Rose
             ,
             but
             rosie
             Wine
             :
          
           
             But
             be
             sure
             ,
             get
             the
             Myrtle
             Tree
             ,
          
           
             For
             that
             becomes
             both
             thee
             and
             me
             ,
          
           
             When
             underneath
             the
             Mother
             Vine
          
           
             I
             enjoy
             her
             Daughter
             ,
             Wine
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Horatii
             Epod.
             1.
             ad
             Populum
             Romanum
             ,
             Quoquo
             scelesti
             ruitis
             ?
             &c.
             
          
           
             WHither
             d'
             ye
             rush
             with
             impious
             haste
             ?
          
           
             Or
             why
             d'
             ye
             try
             to
             sit
          
           
             To
             your
             right-hands
             your
             well-sheath'd
             Swords
             ,
          
           
             More
             Murders
             to
             commit
             ?
          
           
             How
             long
             is
             't
             since
             each
             Field
             and
             Stream
          
           
             Did
             flow
             with
             English
             Blood
             ?
          
           
             O!
             can
             they
             both
             so
             quickly
             thirst
          
           
             For
             such
             another
             Flood
             ?
          
           
             Against
             the
             purse-proud
             Hollander
          
           
             Turn
             your
             unnatural
             Rage
             ;
          
           
             Or
             ,
             if
             you
             want
             a
             nobler
             Foe
             ,
          
           
             The
             warlike
             French
             engage
             .
          
           
             Who
             eagerly
             do
             long
             to
             see
          
           
             You
             fall
             by
             your
             own
             hand
             ,
          
           
             They
             covertly
             keep
             you
             in
             pay
          
           
             To
             ruine
             your
             own
             Land.
          
           
           
             A
             salvage
             Madness
             yet
             unknown
          
           
             To
             the
             wild
             Wolf
             or
             Bear
             ,
          
           
             Lyon
             on
             Lyon
             ne're
             does
             prey
             ,
          
           
             All
             Beasts
             their
             kind
             do
             spare
             .
          
           
             Is
             it
             blind
             Fury
             ,
             or
             hard
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             That
             makes
             you
             disagree
             ?
          
           
             Or
             is
             it
             some
             unpunish'd
             Crime
             ?
          
           
             Pray
             ,
             Country-men
             ,
             tell
             me
             .
          
           
             Silent
             with
             Shame
             ,
             they
             all
             wax
             pale
             ,
          
           
             Amaz'd
             with
             Guilt
             they
             stand
             ;
          
           
             But
             I
             have
             found
             why
             angry
             Heaven
          
           
             Has
             Curs'd
             our
             native
             Land
             :
          
           
             Great
             Charles
             his
             Blood
             must
             be
             reveng'd
             ,
          
           
             Just
             Heaven
             has
             so
             decreed
             ;
          
           
             For
             such
             a
             murder'd
             Monarch's
             Death
          
           
             A
             Nation
             ought
             to
             bleed
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             FLY
             .
          
           
             By
             
               P.
               Ayres
            
             ,
             Esquire
             .
          
           
             
               Thus
               from
               the
               Wine-Pot
               cry'd
               the
               Fly
               ,
            
             
               To
               the
               Frog
               of
               the
               Pool
               who
               sat
               croaking
               by
               ,
            
             
               Rather
               than
               lead
               such
               a
               Life
               as
               thine
               ,
            
             
               I
               'd
               be
               stop'd
               in
               a
               Cask
               ,
               and
               dye
               in
               Wine
               .
            
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               VVAter
               I
               cou'd
               ne're
               endure
               ,
            
             
               Tho
               ne're
               so
               chrystalline
               and
               pure
               :
            
             
               Water
               's
               a
               Murmurer
               ,
               and
               they
            
             
               Design
               more
               Mischief
               than
               they
               say
               .
            
             
               Where
               Rivers
               smoothest
               are
               ,
               and
               clear
               ,
            
             
               There
               's
               the
               Danger
               ,
               there
               's
               the
               Fear
               ;
            
             
               But
               I
               'll
               not
               grieve
               to
               dye
               in
               Wine
               ,
            
             
               The
               Name
               is
               sweet
               ,
               the
               sound
               divine
               .
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 from
                 the
                 Wine-Pot
              
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Dull
               Fish
               in
               Water
               live
               we
               know
               ,
            
             
               And
               such
               insipid
               Souls
               as
               thou
               ,
            
             
               While
               to
               sip
               of
               the
               Grape
               so
               merrily
               fly
            
             
               Many
               ,
               many
               ,
               such
               pretty
               Birds
               as
               I.
            
             
               'T
               is
               Wine
               makes
               me
               gay
               ,
               as
               the
               flowers
               after
               rain
               ,
            
             
               It
               purifies
               my
               Blood
               ,
               and
               inspires
               my
               Brain
               :
            
             
               And
               when
               the
               Tory-Boys
               so
               merrily
               Sing
               ,
            
             
               I
               joyn
               in
               the
               Chorus
               ,
               and
               Buz
               for
               the
               King
               ,
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 from
                 the
                 Wine-Pot
              
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               I
               am
               more
               belov'd
               than
               thou
               can'st
               be
               ,
            
             
               All
               Creatures
               shun
               thy
               Company
               .
            
             
               Unbid
               ,
               go
               I
               to
               each
               jolly
               Feast
               ,
            
             
               Where
               I
               stay
               for
               no
               Grace
               ,
               but
               fall
               on
               the
               best
               .
            
             
               Thus
               while
               I
               feed
               and
               quaff
               the
               choicest
               Wine
               ,
            
             
               On
               Puddle-water
               thou
               dost
               dine
               ;
            
             
               Which
               makes
               thee
               such
               a
               phlegmatick
               croaking
               thing
               .
            
             
               Learn
               to
               drink
               Wine
               ,
               thou
               Fool
               ,
               and
               sing
               .
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 from
                 the
                 Wine-Pot
              
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               In
               Gardens
               I
               delight
               to
               stray
               ,
            
             
               Amongst
               the
               Planters
               sing
               and
               play
               ;
            
             
               Thy
               Tune
               no
               Mortal
               does
               avail
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               art
               the
               
               Dutch-man's
               Nightingale
               .
            
             
               Would'st
               thou
               with
               Wine
               but
               wet
               thy
               Throat
               ,
            
             
               Sure
               thou
               would'st
               leave
               that
               dismal
               Note
               :
            
             
               Lewd
               Water
               has
               spoil'd
               thy
               Organs
               quite
               ,
            
             
               And
               Wine
               alone
               can
               set
               them
               right
               .
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 from
                 the
                 Wine-Pot
              
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
           
             
               V.
               
            
             
               No
               Comrades
               hast
               thou
               save
               Newts
               and
               Frogs
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               Rendezvous
               Saw-pits
               ,
               old
               Ditches
               ,
               and
               Bogs
               ;
            
             
               While
               to
               Cities
               and
               Courts
               my
               Passage
               is
               free
               ,
            
             
               Wine
               makes
               me
               an
               Insect
               of
               Quality
               .
            
             
               Thou
               splenatick
               Wight
               ,
               did'st
               thou
               once
               but
               know
            
             
               What
               Transports
               the
               Juice
               of
               the
               Grape
               does
               bestow
               ,
            
             
             
               To
               be
               stopt
               in
               a
               Cask
               thou
               would'st
               never
               repine
               ,
            
             
               As
               Clarence
               the
               Peer
               was
               in
               Muscadine
               .
            
             
               Thus
               from
               the
               Wine-Pot
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             To
             the
             NIGHTINGALE
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             
               Why
               ,
               little
               Charmer
               of
               the
               Air
               ,
            
             
               Dost
               thou
               in
               Musick
               spend
               the
               Morn
               ,
            
             
               While
               I
               thus
               languish
               in
               Despair
               ,
            
             
               Opprest
               by
               
               Cynthia's
               Fate
               and
               Scorn
               ?
            
             
               Why
               dost
               thou
               sing
               to
               hear
               me
               cry
               ,
            
             
               Wanton
               Songster
               ,
               tell
               me
               why
               ?
            
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               VVIlt
               thou
               not
               cease
               at
               my
               Desire
               ?
            
             
               Will
               these
               small
               Organs
               never
               Tire
               ?
            
             
               Nature
               did
               these
               Shades
               prepare
            
             
               Not
               for
               thy
               Musick
               ,
               but
               my
               Care.
            
             
               Then
               why
               wilt
               thou
               persist
               to
               sing
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               beautiful
               malicious
               thing
               .
            
             
             
               When
               kind
               Aurora
               first
               appears
               ,
            
             
               She
               weeps
               in
               pity
               to
               my
               Tears
               .
            
             
               If
               thus
               thou
               think'st
               to
               bring
               Relief
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               never
               knew'st
               a
               Lover's
               Grief
               .
            
             
               Why
               little
               Charmer
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Then
               feather'd
               Atom
               ,
               where
               in
               thee
            
             
               Can
               be
               compriz'd
               such
               Harmony
               ?
            
             
               In
               whose
               small
               Fabrick
               does
               remain
            
             
               What
               Composition
               can
               contain
               .
            
             
               All
               Griefs
               but
               mine
               are
               at
               a
               stand
            
             
               When
               thy
               surprizing
               Tunes
               command
               .
            
             
               How
               can
               so
               small
               a
               Pipe
               and
               Throat
            
             
               Express
               so
               loud
               and
               sweet
               a
               Note
               ?
            
             
               Thou
               hast
               more
               various
               Points
               at
               will
               ,
            
             
               Than
               Oxpheus
               had
               with
               all
               his
               Skill
               .
            
             
               Why
               little
               Charmer
               ,
               &c.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Great
               to
               the
               Ear
               ,
               tho
               small
               to
               sight
               ,
            
             
               The
               happy
               Lovers
               dear
               delight
               ,
            
             
               Fly
               to
               the
               Bow'r
               where
               such
               are
               laid
               ,
            
             
               And
               there
               bestow
               thy
               Serenade
               ;
            
             
               But
               from
               my
               Sorrow
               haste
               away
               ,
            
             
               Alas
               !
               there
               's
               danger
               in
               the
               stay
               ;
            
             
               Lest
               hearing
               me
               so
               oft
               complain
               ,
            
             
               Should
               make
               thee
               change
               thy
               cheerful
               Strain
               .
            
             
               Then
               timely
               from
               my
               Griefs
               remove
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               harmless
               Syron
               of
               the
               Grove
               .
            
             
               Cease
               pretty
               Charmer
               of
               the
               Air
               ,
            
             
               No
               more
               in
               Musick
               spend
               the
               Morn
            
             
               With
               me
               that
               languish
               in
               Despair
               ,
            
             
               Opprest
               by
               
               Cynthia's
               Hate
               and
               Scorn
               .
            
             
               Then
               do
               not
               that
               poor
               Boon
               deny
               ,
            
             
               I
               ask
               but
               Silence
               while
               I
               dye
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             To
             the
             WINDS
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               YE
               Winds
               ,
               that
               in
               your
               hasty
               flight
            
             
               Just
               kiss
               the
               Leaves
               ,
               and
               then
               away
               ,
            
             
               The
               Leaves
               that
               tremble
               with
               delight
               ,
            
             
               And
               murmur
               at
               so
               short
               a
               stay
               :
            
             
               Stop
               here
               ,
               and
               e're
               you
               further
               go
            
             
               Give
               Audience
               to
               a
               Lover's
               Woe
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Condoling
               Air
               !
               to
               thee
               I
               speak
               ,
            
             
               Since
               she
               is
               deaf
               to
               all
               my
               Grief
               ,
            
             
               She
               that
               caus'd
               my
               Heart
               to
               break
            
             
               You
               never
               wrong'd
               ,
               yet
               bring
               Relief
               .
            
             
               I
               'm
               sure
               you
               grieve
               to
               hear
               my
               Pain
               ,
            
             
               For
               when
               I
               sigh
               ,
               you
               sigh
               again
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Go
               gentle
               Air
               ,
               fly
               to
               my
               Dear
               ,
            
             
               That
               has
               with
               Love
               enflam'd
               my
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               And
               whisper
               softly
               in
               her
               Ear
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               she
               has
               rob'd
               my
               Soul
               of
               Rest
               :
            
             
               Express
               (
               if
               possible
               ,
               )
               such
               moans
            
             
               May
               imitate
               my
               dying
               Groans
               .
            
          
           
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               Then
               with
               a
               rougher
               Breath
               make
               bold
            
             
               To
               toss
               the
               Treasures
               of
               her
               Hair
               ,
            
             
               'Till
               thou
               dost
               ev'ry
               Curl
               unfold
               ,
            
             
               Which
               cunningly
               mens
               Hearts
               ensnare
               .
            
             
               Try
               all
               thy
               Skill
               to
               break
               the
               Net
               ,
            
             
               Till
               I
               ,
               like
               thee
               ,
               my
               Freedom
               get
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             On
             a
             NIGHTINGALE
             that
             was
             drown'd
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
          
           
             
               UPon
               a
               Bough
               hung
               trembling
               o're
               a
               Spring
               ,
            
             
               Sate
               Philomel
               to
               ease
               her
               Grief
               ,
               and
               sing
               ,
            
             
               Tuning
               such
               various
               Notes
               there
               seem'd
               to
               nest
            
             
               A
               Quire
               of
               little
               Songsters
               in
               her
               Breast
               :
            
             
               Pleas'd
               Eccho
               at
               the
               close
               of
               every
               Strain
               ,
            
             
               Return'd
               the
               Musick
               Note
               for
               Note
               again
               .
            
             
               The
               jealous
               Bird
               who
               ne're
               had
               Rival
               known
               ,
            
             
               Not
               thinking
               the
               sweet
               Accents
               were
               her
               own
               .
            
             
               So
               fill'd
               with
               Emulation
               grew
               ,
               that
               she
            
             
               Express'd
               her
               outmost
               Art
               and
               Harmony
               ;
            
             
               Till
               ,
               as
               she
               eagerly
               her
               Conquest
               try'd
               ,
            
             
               Her
               shadow
               in
               the
               Stream
               below
               she
               spy'd
               ,
            
             
               Then
               heard
               the
               Waters
               bubling
               ,
               but
               mistook
               ,
            
             
               And
               thought
               the
               Nymphs
               were
               laughing
               in
               the
               Brook.
            
             
             
               With
               that
               Conceit
               she
               drop'd
               into
               the
               Well
               ,
            
             
               But
               utter'd
               these
               soft
               Accents
               as
               she
               fell
               :
            
          
           
             
               Not
               Tereus
               self
               e're
               offer'd
               such
               a
               wrong
               :
            
             
               Nymphs
               ,
               take
               my
               Life
               since
               you
               despise
               my
               Song
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Love's
             new
             Philosophy
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               VVHo'ere
               a
               Lover
               is
               of
               Art
               ,
            
             
               May
               come
               and
               learn
               of
               me
            
             
               A
               new
               Philosophy
               ,
            
             
               Such
               as
               no
               Schools
               did
               e're
               impart
               .
            
             
               Love
               all
               my
               other
               Notions
               does
               controul
               ,
            
             
               And
               reads
               these
               now
               strange
               Lectures
               to
               my
               Soul.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               II.
               
            
             
               This
               God
               who
               takes
               delight
               to
               lye
               ,
            
             
               The
               Truth
               of
               former
               days
               defames
               ,
            
             
               And
               Aristotle
               blames
               ,
            
             
               Concluding
               all
               by
               Subtilty
               ;
            
             
               Whilst
               with
               such
               Art
               his
               Syllogisms
               are
               made
               ,
            
             
               As
               Solomon
               himself
               could
               ne're
               evade
               .
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               So
               wond'rous
               is
               his
               Craft
               and
               Skill
               ,
            
             
               His
               painted
               Reasons
               serve
               as
               Darts
               ,
            
             
               To
               pierce
               Mens
               Intellects
               and
               Hearts
               ,
            
             
               All
               Maxims
               he
               destroys
               at
               Will
               :
            
             
               Plato
               he
               blinded
               so
               ,
               he
               made
               him
               think
            
             
               'T
               was
               Water
               ,
               when
               he
               gave
               him
               Fire
               to
               drink
               :
            
          
           
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               That
               Water
               can
               extinguish
               Fire
            
             
               Past
               Ages
               did
               allow
               ,
            
             
               Love
               contradicts
               the
               notion
               now
               ,
            
             
               And
               says
               ,
               it
               makes
               his
               Flames
               rage
               higher
               :
            
             
             
               Which
               truth
               my self
               have
               prov'd
               for
               many
               years
               ,
            
             
               Wherein
               I
               've
               wept
               whole
               Deluges
               of
               Tears
               .
            
          
           
             
               V.
               
            
             
               When
               Soul
               and
               Body
               separate
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               said
               ,
               the
               Man
               forthwith
               must
               dye
               ;
            
             
               This
               Maxim
               too
               I
               must
               deny
               ,
            
             
               My
               Soul
               's
               with
               her
               who
               rules
               my
               Fate
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               still
               my
               Organs
               move
               ,
               a
               Proof
               to
               give
               ,
            
             
               That
               Soul
               and
               Body
               can
               divided
               live
               .
            
          
           
             
               VI.
               
            
             
               Remove
               the
               Cause
               ,
               Effects
               will
               cease
               ;
            
             
               This
               was
               an
               Axiom
               too
               ,
            
             
               Which
               to
               my
               Grief
               I
               find
               untrue
               .
            
             
               Cynthia
               robs
               my
               Soul
               of
               Ease
               :
            
             
               Yet
               when
               this
               fair
               Disturber
               of
               my
               Peace
            
             
               Is
               farthest
               from
               me
               ,
               then
               my
               Pains
               encrease
               .
            
          
           
             
               VII
               .
            
             
               In
               Love
               ,
               Extreams
               themselves
               are
               joyn'd
               ,
            
             
               Joy
               and
               Sorrow
               of
               my
               Breast
            
             
               Together
               stand
               possest
               ,
            
             
               And
               vex
               with
               Civil
               VVar
               my
               Mind
               .
            
             
             
               Thus
               when
               I
               view
               the
               Source
               of
               all
               my
               Wrong
               ,
            
             
               I
               sigh
               my
               Musick
               ,
               mix
               with
               Tears
               my
               Song
               .
            
          
           
             
               VIII
               .
            
             
               VVhilst
               in
               this
               Torment
               I
               remain
               ,
            
             
               To
               be
               and
               not
               to
               be
            
             
               No
               longer
               is
               a
               Mystery
               ;
            
             
               I
               dye
               to
               Joy
               and
               live
               to
               Pain
               .
            
             
               Thus
               ,
               without
               Paradox
               ,
               I
               may
               be
               said
            
             
               To
               be
               and
               not
               to
               be
               ,
               alive
               and
               dead
               .
            
          
           
             
               IX
               .
            
             
               Now
               ,
               go
               my
               Song
               ,
               —
               yet
               shun
               the
               Eyes
            
             
               Of
               such
               as
               never
               felt
               Love's
               Flame
               :
            
             
               And
               if
               my
               Cynthia
               blame
            
             
               Thy
               Arguments
               as
               Sophistries
               ,
            
             
               Tell
               her
               ,
               this
               is
               Love's
               new
               Philosophy
               ,
            
             
               VVhich
               none
               can
               understand
               but
               such
               as
               try
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             CYNISCA
             :
             OR
             ,
             The
             fourteenth
             Idyllium
             of
             Theocritus
             imitated
             .
          
           
             By
             
               W.
               Bowles
            
             ,
             Fellow
             of
             Kings-Coll
             .
             Cambr.
             
          
           
             
               Thyonicus
               and
               Aeschines
               .
            
             
               OH
               ,
               how
               does
               my
               dear
               Eschines
               !
               Oh
               how
               !
            
             
               Some
               Care
               ,
               my
               Friend
               ,
               sits
               heavy
               on
               thy
               Brow.
               
            
          
           
             
               Aeschines
               .
            
             
               Cynisca
               ,
               Friend
               ,
               has
               shown
               the
               Fiend
               confest
               ,
            
             
               And
               Peace
               and
               Joy
               are
               banish'd
               from
               my
               Breast
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thyonicus
               .
            
             
               Hence
               this
               wild
               look
               ,
               and
               this
               distracted
               Air
               ,
            
             
               Staring
               your
               Eyes
               ,
               your
               Face
               o're-grown
               with
               Hair
               ;
            
             
             
               Just
               such
               a
               rosie
               Crucian
               here
               arriv'd
               ,
            
             
               Some
               new
               Enthusiast
               sure
               ,
               or
               Flood
               reviv'd
               ;
            
             
               With
               such
               a
               Meen
               he
               came
               ,
               with
               such
               a
               Grace
               ,
            
             
               So
               long
               his
               Beard
               ,
               so
               dry
               ,
               so
               pale
               his
               Face
               .
            
          
           
             
               Aeschines
               .
            
             
               You
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               are
               merry
               ;
               but
               alas
               !
               I
               find
               ,
            
             
               No
               Cure
               ,
               no
               Ease
               ,
               to
               my
               distemper'd
               Mind
               .
            
             
               I
               rave
               ,
               am
               by
               a
               thousand
               Furies
               tost
               ,
            
             
               And
               call
               in
               vain
               my
               Reason
               in
               my
               Passion
               lost
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thyonicus
               .
            
             
               I
               always
               knew
               you
               jealous
               and
               severe
               ;
            
             
               But
               does
               
               Cynisca's
               Falshood
               plain
               appear
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Aeschines
               .
            
             
               'T
               was
               my
               ill
               fate
               ,
               or
               chance
               ,
               some
               Friends
               to
               treat
            
             
               With
               richest
               Wines
               ,
               the
               Board
               was
               crown'd
               with
               choicest
               Meat
               ;
            
             
               But
               fair
               Cynisca
               most
               adorn'd
               the
               Feast
               ,
            
             
               In
               all
               the
               Charms
               of
               Art
               and
               Nature
               drest
               .
            
             
             
               Cynisca
               all
               our
               ravish'd
               Senses
               fed
               ,
            
             
               We
               gaz'd
               ,
               and
               we
               ador'd
               the
               lovely
               Maid
               :
            
             
               With
               Wine
               and
               Beauty
               all
               our
               Hearts
               were
               fir'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               fair
               Cynisca
               still
               new
               Joys
               inspir'd
               .
            
             
               Now
               Healths
               we
               drank
               and
               as
               the
               Glasses
               came
               ,
            
             
               (
               Such
               was
               the
               Law
               )
               each
               did
               his
               Mistress
               name
               :
            
             
               Charming
               Cynisca
               too
               at
               last
               was
               prest
            
             
               To
               name
               the
               Lover
               in
               her
               favour
               blest
               .
            
             
               A
               VVoman
               ,
               sure
               ,
               she
               hop'd
               ,
               might
               be
               excus'd
               !
            
             
               The
               more
               they
               urg'd
               her
               ,
               she
               the
               more
               refus'd
               .
            
             
               Refus'd
               ,
               Oh
               Friend
               ,
               and
               I
               her
               Lover
               by
               !
            
             
               Guess
               if
               my
               Rage
               ,
               with
               VVine
               enflam'd
               ,
               grew
               high
               .
            
             
               Silent
               she
               sat
               ,
               and
               with
               her
               Eyes
               deny'd
               ;
            
             
               Lycus
               is
               Handsome
               ,
               Tall
               ,
               and
               Young
               ,
               they
               cry'd
               !
            
             
               When
               Lycus
               Name
               but
               touch'd
               her
               guilty
               Soul
               ,
            
             
               How
               down
               her
               Cheeks
               the
               liquid
               Globes
               did
               roul
               !
            
             
               Confus'd
               her
               Look
               ,
               while
               Shame
               and
               Guilt
               apace
            
             
               Shifted
               the
               whole
               Complexion
               of
               her
               Face
               .
            
             
               Gods
               !
               with
               what
               rage
               was
               my
               rack'd
               Soul
               surpriz'd
               .
            
             
               My
               Curse
               ,
               my
               Ruine
               ,
               am
               I
               then
               despis'd
               ?
            
             
             
               Ingrateful
               and
               inhumane
               Thou
               !
               begone
               ,
            
             
               Go
               hug
               the
               Man
               whose
               Absence
               you
               bemoan
               :
            
             
               No
               more
               will
               I
               ,
               deluded
               by
               your
               Charms
               ,
            
             
               Cherish
               an
               absent
               Mistress
               in
               my
               Arms.
            
             
               Swiftly
               ,
               as
               Swallows
               to
               their
               Nest
               ,
               she
               fled
               ,
            
             
               When
               unfletch'd
               Young
               lye
               gaping
               ,
               and
               unfed
               !
            
             
               Swiftly
               she
               fled
               ,
               with
               my
               Embraces
               cloy'd
               ,
            
             
               Lycus
               she
               long
               had
               lov'd
               ,
               and
               long
               enjoy'd
               .
            
             
               A
               publick
               Jest
               ,
               and
               known
               to
               all
               alass
               !
            
             
               (
               The
               Cuckold
               last
               perceives
               his
               own
               disgrace
               )
            
             
               Yet
               once
               a
               Friend
               accus'd
               the
               guilty
               Maid
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               my
               Ears
               unheard
               the
               fatal
               News
               convey'd
               :
            
             
               For
               I
               ,
               a
               much
               abus'd
               ,
               deluded
               Sot
               ,
            
             
               The
               matter
               ne're
               examin'd
               ,
               or
               forgot
               .
            
             
               Now
               ,
               undisturb'd
               ,
               unrival'd
               Lycus
               reigns
               ,
            
             
               Enjoys
               his
               Conquest
               ,
               and
               derides
               my
               Pains
               .
            
             
               Two
               Months
               are
               past
               ,
               since
               unregarded
               I
            
             
               In
               a
               deserted
               Bed
               ,
               and
               hopeless
               ,
               lye
               .
            
             
               Long
               with
               the
               mighty
               Pain
               opprest
               ,
               I
               strove
               ,
            
             
               But
               ah
               !
               what
               Remedy
               for
               injur'd-Love
               !
            
             
             
               In
               vain
               I
               struggle
               with
               the
               fierce
               Disease
               ,
            
             
               The
               fatal
               Poison
               does
               my
               Vitals
               seize
               .
            
             
               Yet
               Damon
               did
               from
               Travel
               find
               Relief
               ,
            
             
               And
               Absence
               soon
               remov'd
               the
               raging
               Grief
               .
            
             
               In
               Fires
               like
               mine
               successless
               Damon
               burn'd
               ,
            
             
               Diseas'd
               he
               parted
               ,
               and
               he
               sound
               return'd
               .
            
             
               I
               too
               th'
               incertain
               Remedy
               will
               try
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               less
               cruel
               Seas
               and
               Rocks
               will
               fly
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thyonicus
               .
            
             
               For
               Flanders
               then
               ,
               since
               you
               'r
               resolv'd
               ,
               prepare
               ,
            
             
               Flanders
               ,
               the
               Scene
               of
               Glory
               and
               of
               War
               !
            
             
               Or
               ,
               if
               a
               better
               choice
               and
               nobler
               Fire
            
             
               Does
               greater
               Arms
               ,
               and
               greater
               thoughts
               inspire
               ,
            
             
               Hungarian
               Rebels
               ,
               and
               Unchristian
               Foes
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               a
               vast
               Field
               of
               Honour
               Friend
               ,
               oppose
               .
            
             
               By
               God-like
               Poland
               born
               ,
               and
               Lorrain
               soon
            
             
               The
               Cross
               shall
               triumph
               o're
               the
               waning
               Moon
               .
            
             
               There
               you
               the
               cruel
               ravage
               may
               admire
               ,
            
             
               And
               Austria
               desolate
               by
               Barb'rous
               fire
               ,
            
             
             
               May
               curse
               the
               dire
               Effects
               of
               civil
               Rage
               ;
            
             
               Oh
               in
               what
               Ills
               Religion
               can
               engage
               !
            
             
               There
               sure
               with
               Horror
               your
               diverted
               Mind
            
             
               Some
               Truce
               may
               with
               this
               smaller
               Passion
               find
               .
            
          
           
             
               Aeschines
               .
            
             
               
                 Cynisca
                 ,
                 oh
                 unkind
                 !
                 farewel
                 ,
                 I
                 go
                 ,
              
               
                 By
                 thee
                 condemn'd
                 to
                 distant
                 Countries
                 know
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 go
                 ,
                 where
                 Honour
                 ,
                 and
                 where
                 Dangers
                 call
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 a
                 less
                 barb'rous
                 Foe
                 to
                 tempt
                 a
                 nobler
                 Fall.
                 
              
               
                 
                   Written
                   
                     May
                     23.
                     1684.
                     
                  
                
              
            
          
        
         
           
             
             Sapho's
             Ode
             out
             of
             Longinus
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               THE
               Gods
               are
               not
               more
               blest
               than
               he
               ,
            
             
               Who
               fixing
               his
               glad
               Eyes
               on
               thee
               ,
            
             
               With
               thy
               bright
               Rays
               his
               Senses
               chears
               ,
            
             
               And
               drinks
               with
               ever
               thirsty
               ears
               .
            
             
             
               The
               charming
               Musick
               of
               thy
               Tongue
               ,
            
             
               Does
               ever
               hear
               ,
               and
               ever
               long
               ;
            
             
               That
               sees
               with
               more
               than
               humane
               Grace
               ,
            
             
               Sweet
               smiles
               adorn
               thy
               Angel
               Face
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               But
               when
               with
               kinder
               beams
               you
               shine
               ,
            
             
               And
               so
               appear
               much
               more
               divine
               ,
            
             
               My
               feeble
               sense
               and
               dazl'd
               sight
               ,
            
             
               No
               more
               support
               the
               glorious
               light
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               fierce
               Torrent
               of
               Delight
               .
            
             
               Oh!
               then
               I
               feel
               my
               Life
               decay
               ,
            
             
               My
               ravish'd
               Soul
               then
               flies
               away
               ,
            
             
               Then
               Faintness
               does
               my
               Limbs
               surprize
               ,
            
             
               And
               Darkness
               swims
               before
               my
               Eyes
               .
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Then
               my
               Tongue
               fails
               ,
               and
               from
               my
               Brow
            
             
               The
               liquid
               drops
               in
               silence
               flow
               ,
            
             
               Then
               wand'ring
               Fires
               run
               through
               my
               Blood
               ,
            
             
               And
               Cold
               binds
               up
               the
               stupid
               Flood
               ,
            
             
               All
               pale
               ,
               and
               breathless
               then
               I
               lye
               ,
            
             
               I
               sigh
               ,
               I
               tremble
               ,
               and
               I
               dye
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Ode
             13.
             of
             the
             Fourth
             Book
             of
             Horace
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               LYce
               ,
               the
               Gods
               have
               heard
               my
               Pray'r
               ,
            
             
               Lyce
               the
               proud
               ,
               the
               charming
               ,
               and
               the
               fair
               ,
            
             
               Lyce
               is
               old
               !
               tho
               wanton
               ,
               still
               ,
               and
               gay
               ,
            
             
               You
               laugh
               ,
               and
               sing
               ,
               and
               play
               .
            
             
               Now
               Beauty
               fails
               ,
               with
               Wine
               would
               raise
               desire
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               your
               trembling
               Voice
               would
               fan
               our
               dying
               fire
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               In
               vain
               !
               for
               Love
               long
               since
               forsook
            
             
               Thy
               snowy
               Hair
               ,
               thy
               falling
               Teeth
               ,
               and
               withering
               Look
               ;
            
             
               He
               
               Chia's
               blooming
               Face
            
             
               Adorns
               with
               ev'ry
               Grace
               ,
            
             
               Her
               Wit
               ,
               her
               Eyes
               ,
               her
               every
               Glance
               are
               darts
               ,
            
             
               That
               with
               resistless
               force
               invade
               our
               Hearts
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Not
               all
               your
               Art
               ,
               nor
               all
               your
               dress
               ,
            
             
               (
               Tho
               grown
               to
               a
               ridiculous
               excess
               ,
            
             
               Tho
               you
               by
               Lovers
               spoils
               made
               fine
               ,
            
             
               In
               richest
               Silks
               ,
               and
               Jewels
               shine
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               their
               borrow'd
               light
            
             
               Surprize
               the
               dazl'd
               sight
               )
            
             
               Can
               your
               fled
               Youth
               recall
               ,
               recall
               one
               day
            
             
               Which
               flying
               Time
               on
               his
               swift
               wings
               has
               born
               away
               .
            
          
           
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               Ah!
               where
               are
               all
               thy
               Beauties
               fled
               ,
            
             
               Where
               all
               the
               charms
               that
               so
               adorn'd
               the
               tender
               Maid
            
             
               Ah!
               where
               the
               nameless
               Graces
               that
               were
               seen
            
             
               In
               all
               thy
               motions
               ,
               and
               thy
               meen
               !
            
             
               What
               now
               ,
               oh
               !
               what
               is
               of
               that
               Lyce
               left
               ,
            
             
               By
               which
               I
               once
               was
               of
               my
               Sense
               and
               of
               my
               Soul
               bereft
            
          
           
             
             
               V.
               
            
             
               Of
               her
               ,
               who
               with
               my
               Cynara
               strove
            
             
               And
               shar'd
               my
               doubtful
               Love
               !
            
             
               Yet
               Fate
               ,
               and
               the
               last
               unrelenting
               hour
            
             
               Seiz'd
               her
               gay
               Youth
               ,
               and
               pluck'd
               the
               springing
               flow'r
               .
            
             
               But
               angry
               Heaven
               has
               reserv'd
               thee
            
             
               That
               you
               with
               rage
               might
               see
               ,
            
             
               With
               rage
               might
               see
               your
               Beauties
               fading
            
             
               Glory
               fly
               ,
            
             
               And
               your
               short
               youth
               ,
               and
               tyrannous
               Pow'r
               before
               you
               dye
               .
            
          
           
             
               VI.
               
            
             
               That
               your
               insulting
               Lovers
               might
               return
            
             
               Pride
               for
               your
               Pride
               ,
               and
               with
               retorted
               scorn
            
             
               Glut
               their
               Revenge
               ,
               and
               satiate
               all
               their
               Pain
               ;
            
             
               With
               cruel
               pleasure
               ,
               and
               with
               sharp
               disdain
            
             
               Might
               laugh
               ,
               to
               see
               that
               fire
               which
               once
               so
               burn'd
               ,
            
             
               Shot
               such
               resistless
               Flames
               ,
               to
               Ashes
               turn'd
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Immortality
             of
             Poesie
             .
             
               By
               Mr.
            
             Evelyn
             .
             TO
             ENVY
             .
             
               Ovid.
               Amor.
               Lib.
            
             1.
             
             Eleg.
             15.
             
          
           
             
               ENvy
               ,
               how
               dar'st
               thou
               say
               that
               I
               in
               vain
            
             
               Have
               spent
               my
               years
               ,
               or
               with
               false
               Names
               profane
            
             
               The
               sacred
               Product
               of
               my
               fertile
               Brain
               ?
            
          
           
             
               'T
               is
               true
               ,
               in
               th'
               Art
               of
               War
               I
               am
               not
               skill'd
               ,
            
             
               No
               Trophies
               did
               I
               e're
               attempt
               to
               build
            
             
               By
               gaining
               grinning
               Honour
               in
               the
               Field
               .
            
          
           
             
               I
               never
               try'd
               to
               learn
               the
               tedious
               Laws
               ,
            
             
               Or
               sought
               in
               pleading
               of
               a
               desp'rate
               Cause
               ,
            
             
               To
               sell
               my
               Breath
               for
               Int'rest
               or
               Applause
               .
            
          
           
             
               Such
               little
               things
               I
               scorn
               ,
               I
               nobly
               aim
            
             
               At
               that
               which
               may
               secure
               a
               lasting
               Fame
               ,
            
             
               And
               through
               the
               World
               immortalize
               my
               Name
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Old
               Chaucer
               shall
               ,
               for
               his
               f●…tious
               Style
               ,
            
             
               Be
               read
               ,
               and
               prais'd
               by
               warlike
               Britains
               ,
               while
            
             
               The
               Sea
               enriches
               ,
               and
               defends
               their
               Isle
               .
            
          
           
             
               While
               the
               whole
               Earth
               resounds
               
               Elisa's
               Fame
               ,
            
             
               Who
               aw'd
               the
               French
               ,
               and
               did
               the
               Spaniard
               tame
               ,
            
             
               The
               English
               will
               remember
               
               Spencer's
               Name
               .
            
          
           
             
               While
               Flatt'rers
               thrive
               and
               Parasites
               shall
               dine
               ,
            
             
               While
               Commonwealths
               afford
               a
               Catiline
               ,
            
             
               Laborious
               Iohnson
               shall
               be
               thought
               divine
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thee
               Shakespear
               Poets
               ever
               shall
               adore
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               wealthy
               Fancy
               left
               so
               vast
               a
               store
               ,
            
             
               They
               still
               refine
               thy
               rough
               but
               precious
               Ore.
               
            
          
           
             
               So
               long
               shall
               Cowley
               be
               admir'd
               above
            
             
               The
               Croud
               ,
               as
               
               David's
               troubles
               pity
               move
               ,
            
             
               Till
               Women
               cease
               to
               charm
               ,
               and
               Youth
               to
               love
               .
            
          
           
             
               VVhile
               we
               the
               Fall
               of
               our
               first
               Parents
               grieve
               ,
            
             
               And
               worship
               him
               who
               did
               that
               Fall
               retreive
               ,
            
             
               Milton
               shall
               in
               majestick
               Numbers
               live
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Dryden
               will
               last
               as
               long
               as
               Wit
               and
               Sense
               ,
            
             
               While
               Judgment
               is
               requir'd
               to
               Excellence
               ,
            
             
               While
               perfect
               Language
               charms
               an
               Audience
               .
            
          
           
             
               As
               long
               as
               Men
               are
               false
               ,
               and
               Women
               vain
               ,
            
             
               While
               Gold
               continues
               to
               be
               Vertues
               bane
               ,
            
             
               In
               pointed
               Satyr
               Wicherly
               shall
               reign
               .
            
          
           
             
               When
               the
               aspiring
               Grecian
               in
               the
               East
               ,
            
             
               And
               haughty
               Philip
               is
               forgot
               i'
               th'
               West
               ,
            
             
               Then
               Lee
               and
               Otways
               Works
               shall
               be
               supprest
               .
            
          
           
             
               While
               Fathers
               are
               severe
               ,
               and
               Servants
               cheat
               ,
            
             
               Till
               Bawds
               and
               Whores
               can
               live
               without
               deceit
               ,
            
             
               Sydley
               ,
               and
               easie
               Etheridge
               shall
               be
               great
               .
            
          
           
             
               Stones
               will
               consume
               ,
               Age
               will
               on
               Metals
               prey
               ,
            
             
               But
               deathless
               Verse
               no
               time
               can
               wear
               away
               ;
            
             
               That
               stands
               the
               shock
               of
               years
               without
               decay
               .
            
          
           
             
               When
               Kingdoms
               shall
               be
               lost
               in
               Sloth
               &
               Lust
               ,
            
             
               When
               Treasures
               fail
               ,
               and
               glorious
               Arms
               shall
               rust
               ,
            
             
               V●…rse
               only
               lifts
               it self
               above
               the
               dust
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Come
               bright
               Apollo
               then
               ,
               let
               me
               drink
               deep
            
             
               Of
               that
               blest
               Spring
               thou
               dost
               for
               Poets
               keep
               ,
            
             
               VVhile
               in
               ignoble
               ease
               the
               VVorld's
               asleep
               .
            
          
           
             
               Let
               wreaths
               of
               tender
               Myrtle
               crown
               my
               head
               ,
            
             
               Let
               me
               be
               still
               by
               anxious
               Lovers
               read
               ,
            
             
               Envy'd
               alive
               ,
               but
               honour'd
               when
               I
               'm
               dead
               .
            
          
           
             
               Till
               after
               Death
               ,
               Desert
               was
               never
               crown'd
               ,
            
             
               VVhen
               my
               Ashes
               are
               forgotten
               under
               ground
               ,
            
             
               Then
               my
               best
               part
               will
               be
               immortal
               found
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             
               Out
               of
            
             Martial
             .
             Lib.
             8.
             
             Epigr.
             56.
             
             Temporibus
             nostris
             Aetas
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             ALl
             other
             Ages
             since
             our
             Age
             excels
          
           
             And
             conqu'ring
             Rome
             to
             so
             much
             greatness
             swells
             ,
          
           
             You
             wonder
             what
             's
             become
             of
             
             Maro's
             Vein
             ,
          
           
             That
             none
             write
             Battels
             in
             so
             high
             a
             strain
             .
          
           
           
             Had
             VVit
             its
             Patrons
             Flacus
             now
             a
             days
          
           
             As
             once
             it
             had
             ,
             more
             would
             contend
             for
             Praise
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             Villa
             would
             a
             mighty
             Genius
             raise
             .
          
           
             VVhen
             Virgil
             was
             oppress'd
             by
             civil
             hate
             ,
          
           
             Robb'd
             of
             his
             Flocks
             ,
             and
             strip'd
             of
             his
             Estate
             .
          
           
             In
             Tyt'rus
             dress
             beneath
             a
             Beech
             he
             sate
             .
          
           
             VVeeping
             in
             shades
             thus
             was
             the
             Poet
             found
             ,
          
           
             Till
             brave
             M●…cenas
             rais'd
             him
             from
             the
             Ground
             :
          
           
             Knowing
             that
             want
             would
             greatest
             Minds
             betray
             ,
          
           
             He
             fear'd
             a
             Muse
             so
             God-like
             should
             decay
             ,
          
           
             And
             drave
             malicious
             Poverty
             away
             .
          
           
             Freed
             from
             the
             want
             that
             now
             oppresses
             thee
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             shalt
             for
             ever
             Prince
             of
             Poets
             be
             .
          
           
             In
             all
             my
             Pleasures
             thou
             a
             part
             shalt
             bear
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             shalt
             with
             me
             my
             dear
             Alexis
             share
             .
          
           
             The
             charming
             Youth
             stood
             by
             his
             Master's
             board
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             his
             Iv'ry
             hands
             black
             Falern
             pour'd
             ;
          
           
             VVith
             rosie
             Lips
             each
             Cup
             he
             first
             assay'd
             ,
          
           
             Of
             such
             a
             Draught
             Iove
             would
             himself
             be
             glad
             ,
          
           
             And
             for
             Alexis
             change
             his
             Ganymed
             .
          
           
           
             Down
             go
             the
             rude
             Bucolicks
             on
             the
             Floor
             ,
          
           
             Of
             Bees
             ,
             and
             Harvest
             ,
             now
             he
             writes
             no
             more
             ,
          
           
             VVhose
             humble
             Muse
             had
             fung
             the
             Great
             when
             poor
             .
          
           
             Strait
             he
             exalts
             his
             Voice
             to
             Arms
             ,
             &
             Kings
             ,
          
           
             The
             Roman
             story
             ,
             and
             his
             Hero
             sings
             .
          
           
             Mean
             thoughts
             upon
             a
             narrow
             Fortune
             wait
             ,
          
           
             The
             Fancy
             is
             improv'd
             by
             an
             Estate
             ,
          
           
             Favour
             and
             Pension
             make
             a
             Laureate
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             Mr.
             &c.
             
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             DEar
             Friend
             ,
             till
             now
             I
             never
             knew
             .
          
           
             A
             Man
             enjoy
             Disease
             like
             you
             ,
          
           
             Your
             P
             —
             breaks
             out
             in
             Verse
             and
             Prose
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             your
             Rheums
             your
             Fancy
             slows
             ;
          
           
             Your
             Diet-drink
             for
             Helicon
             passes
             ,
          
           
             And
             Hot-house
             is
             to
             you
             Parnassus
             .
          
           
             There
             ,
             as
             on
             Muses
             sacred
             Hill
             ,
          
           
             While
             Cytherean
             drops
             distill
             ,
          
           
           
             To
             pitch
             divine
             you
             raise
             your
             VVit
             ,
          
           
             Upon
             the
             Stool
             triumphant
             sit
             ,
          
           
             And
             grow
             immortal
             while
             you
             —
          
           
             If
             Mulberry
             adorn
             your
             Fore-head
             ,
          
           
             It
             makes
             not
             you
             one
             Grain
             less
             florid
             ;
          
           
             If
             one
             Shin-bone
             you
             find
             a
             Node
             ,
          
           
             You
             strait
             break
             forth
             in
             smooth
             Epode
             ,
          
           
             And
             ev'ry
             twitch
             of
             limber
             Hams
          
           
             Produces
             sharper
             Epigrams
             .
          
           
             Now
             
               Ovid
               ,
               Virgil
            
             ,
             now
             you
             grace
          
           
             With
             well-match'd
             Rhimes
             ,
             and
             pliant
             Phrase
             .
          
           
             Sometimes
             with
             Iuvenal
             you
             bite
             ,
          
           
             Oftner
             with
             Horace
             you
             delight
             :
          
           
             No
             torment
             can
             disturb
             your
             Mind
             ,
          
           
             So
             steady
             't
             is
             ,
             and
             so
             refin'd
             ,
          
           
             That
             Greece
             nor
             Rome
             could
             never
             shew
          
           
             Such
             Learning
             ,
             and
             such
             Temper
             too
             .
          
           
             All
             their
             Lycaeums
             ,
             and
             their
             Schools
             ,
          
           
             Their
             fighting
             ,
             and
             their
             writing
             Fools
             ,
          
           
             Have
             left
             us
             no
             such
             gen'rous
             Rules
             ,
          
           
             As
             from
             you
             only
             we
             may
             learn
             ,
          
           
             VVho
             calmly
             sweat
             without
             Concern
             .
          
           
           
             You
             in
             Love's
             Bower
             do
             possess
          
           
             Unenvy'd
             ,
             perfect
             Happiness
             .
          
           
             Where
             you
             your self
             ,
             your self
             employ
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             a
             Tub
             the
             World
             enjoy
             .
          
           
             These
             Verses
             to
             you
             ,
             dearest
             Friend
             ,
          
           
             From
             silent
             shady
             Groves
             I
             send
             ,
          
           
             Lest
             you
             should
             think
             your self
             forgotten
             ,
          
           
             As
             the
             Dead
             are
             ,
             because
             you
             'r
             rotten
             .
          
           
             
               Morose
               .
            
             
               Why
               should
               men
               think
               me
               melancholly
               ,
            
             
               Because
               I
               sleep
               ,
               and
               eat
               ,
               and
               walk
               alone
               ?
            
             
               My
               design
               is
               to
               run
               from
               the
               Worlds
               Folly
               ,
            
             
               To
               trouble
               no
               man
               with
               my
               own
               ,
            
             
               To
               know
               Mankind
               ,
               and
               be
               my self
               unknown
               .
            
             
               A
               Fop
               now
               plagues
               me
               with
               his
               dress
               ,
            
             
               Bids
               me
               the
               price
               of
               Riband
               guess
               ,
            
             
               Tells
               me
               how
               much
               he
               paid
               for
               Point
               ,
            
             
               How
               oft
               he
               in
               the
               Glass
               did
               look
               ,
            
             
               And
               what
               excessive
               Pains
               he
               took
            
             
               To
               hang
               ridiculous
               things
               on
               every
               Joynt
               .
            
             
             
               One
               tells
               me
               where
               he
               sup'd
               last
               night
               ,
            
             
               What
               Wine
               he
               drank
               ,
               who
               was
               i'
               th'
               right
            
             
               About
               the
               cut
               of
               Dice
               ,
               and
               who
               i'
               th'
               wrong
               ,
            
             
               Whether
               the
               Deux
               or
               Quater
               ran
               more
               strong
               .
            
             
               I
               am
               not
               rid
               of
               this
               Fool
               long
               ,
            
             
               But
               another
               sings
               me
               a
               damn'd
               empty
               Song
               .
            
             
               E're
               I
               could
               well
               cross
               the
               Street
               ,
            
             
               Who
               the
               Devil
               should
               I
               meet
               ,
            
             
               But
               a
               young
               Lord
               out
               of
               a
               Chair
               ?
            
             
               With
               Arm
               in
               string
               ,
               and
               many
               a
               Scar.
            
             
               He
               talks
               of
               Duels
               ,
               tells
               me
               who
            
             
               Was
               only
               scratch'd
               ,
               and
               who
               run
               through
               .
            
             
               Who
               should
               I
               light
               on
               next
               ,
               but
               one
            
             
               That
               's
               the
               worst
               Poet
               in
               the
               Town
               ?
            
             
               His
               Pocket's
               stuff'd
               with
               Guins
               of
               Rhyme
               ,
            
             
               He
               tells
               you
               to
               a
               Hair
               what
               time
            
             
               'T
               will
               ask
               to
               make
               a
               Play
               ,
               or
               Prologue
               ,
            
             
               Song
               ,
               Satyr
               ,
               Mask
               ,
               Lampoon
               ,
               or
               Collogue
               .
            
             
               He
               'll
               inform
               you
               on
               his
               Word
               ,
            
             
               What
               he
               had
               of
               such
               a
               Lord
               ,
            
             
             
               Of
               such
               an
               Whore
               ,
               of
               such
               a
               Dutchess
               ,
            
             
               For
               Bombaste
               lines
               ,
               and
               flatt'ring
               touches
               .
            
             
               That
               a
               great
               Person
               had
               the
               Conscience
            
             
               To
               give
               him
               nothing
               for
               his
               Nonsense
               :
            
             
               What
               a
               new
               Play
               's
               worth
               ,
               what
               a
               vamp'd
               one
               ;
            
             
               As
               God
               would
               have
               it
               by
               comes
               —
            
          
        
         
           
             
               Out
               of
            
             Horace
             ,
             Ode
             8.
             
             L.
             1.
             
             Lidia
             dic
             per
             omnes
             ,
             &c.
             
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             LIdia
             ,
             I
             conjure
             you
             say
          
           
             Why
             haste
             you
             so
             to
             make
             away
          
           
             Poor
             Sybaris
             with
             Love
             ?
          
           
             Why
             hates
             he
             now
             the
             open
             Air
             ?
          
           
             Why
             Heat
             ,
             and
             Clouds
             of
             Dust
             to
             bear
             ,
          
           
             Does
             he
             no
             more
             approve
             ?
          
           
             Why
             leaves
             he
             off
             his
             martial
             Pride
             ?
          
           
             Why
             is
             he
             now
             afraid
             to
             ride
          
           
             Upon
             his
             Gallick
             Steed
             ?
          
           
           
             Why
             swims
             he
             not
             the
             Tyber
             o're
             ?
          
           
             Or
             wrestles
             as
             he
             did
             before
             ?
          
           
             Whence
             do
             his
             Fears
             proceed
             ?
          
           
             Why
             boasts
             he
             not
             his
             Limbs
             grown
             black
          
           
             With
             bearing
             Arms
             ,
             or
             his
             strong
             Back
          
           
             With
             which
             he
             threw
             the
             Bar
             ?
          
           
             Is
             he
             like
             Thetis
             Son
             conceal'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             from
             all
             manly
             Sports
             witheld
             ,
          
           
             To
             keep
             him
             safe
             from
             VVar
             ?
          
        
         
           
             The
             PUNISHMENT
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             ON
             Hebrus
             Bank
             as
             Orpheus
             sate
             ,
          
           
             Mourning
             
             Euridice's
             hard
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             The
             Birds
             and
             Beasts
             did
             on
             his
             Musick
             wait
             ,
          
           
             And
             Trees
             and
             Stones
             became
             compassionate
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             he
             who
             all
             things
             else
             could
             move
             ,
          
           
             VVas
             quite
             insensible
             to
             love
             .
          
           
           
             Therefore
             ,
             ye
             Gods
             ,
             ye
             justly
             did
             ordain
             ,
          
           
             That
             he
             who
             Love
             and
             Women
             did
             despise
             ,
          
           
             To
             the
             fair
             Sex
             should
             fall
             a
             Sacrifice
             ,
          
           
             And
             for
             contempt
             of
             Pleasure
             ,
             suffer
             Pain
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Part
               of
            
             Ajax
             
               's
               Speech
            
             ,
             Ovid
             Metam
             .
             l.
             13.
             
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             THE
             Princes
             sat
             ,
             whom
             martial
             throngs
             inclose
             ,
          
           
             When
             Ajax
             Lord
             o'
             th'
             sevenfold
             Shield
             arose
             .
          
           
             With
             just
             disdain
             ,
             and
             untam'd
             Passion
             swell'd
             ,
          
           
             Sigeum
             ,
             and
             the
             Navy
             ,
             he
             beheld
             .
          
           
             Then
             lifting
             up
             his
             hands
             ,
             Oh
             Iove
             !
             said
             he
             ,
          
           
             Before
             this
             Fleet
             ,
             can
             my
             Right
             question'd
             be
             ?
          
           
             And
             dares
             Ulysses
             too
             contend
             with
             me
             ?
          
           
             He
             ,
             who
             when
             Hector
             all
             our
             Ships
             had
             fir'd
             ,
          
           
             Far
             from
             the
             danger
             cowardly
             retir'd
             ,
          
           
             While
             I
             alone
             the
             hostile
             Flame
             sustain'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             sav'd
             the
             burning
             Navy
             with
             this
             hand
             .
          
           
           
             He
             'll
             therefore
             find
             it
             much
             his
             safest
             Course
             ,
          
           
             To
             trust
             to
             Tropes
             and
             Figures
             ,
             not
             to
             Force
             .
          
           
             His
             Talent
             lies
             in
             Prating
             ,
             mine
             in
             War
             ,
          
           
             And
             yet
             you
             so
             unequal
             Judges
             are
             ,
          
           
             That
             you
             prefer
             his
             Pedantry
             ,
             and
             Art
             ,
          
           
             Before
             my
             conqu'ring
             Arm
             ,
             and
             gen'rous
             Heart
             .
          
           
             Of
             my
             Exploits
             I
             nothing
             need
             to
             say
             ,
          
           
             For
             they
             were
             all
             perform'd
             in
             open
             day
             ,
          
           
             You
             saw
             them
             ;
             his
             ,
             if
             any
             ,
             were
             all
             done
          
           
             By
             night
             ,
             told
             of
             himself
             ,
             but
             seen
             by
             none
             .
          
        
         
           
             Out
             of
             Sannazar
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             NEptune
             saw
             Venice
             on
             the
             Adria
             stand
             ,
          
           
             Firm
             as
             a
             Rock
             ,
             and
             all
             the
             Sea
             command
             .
          
           
             Think'st
             thou
             ,
             O
             Iove
             !
             said
             he
             ,
             
             Rome's
             Walls
             excell
             ?
          
           
             Or
             that
             proud
             Cliff
             whence
             false
             Tarpia
             fell
             ?
          
           
           
             Grant
             Tyber
             best
             ,
             view
             both
             ,
             and
             you
             will
             say
             ,
          
           
             That
             Men
             did
             those
             ,
             Gods
             these
             Foundations
             lay
             .
          
        
         
           
             Remedy
             of
             LOVE
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             WOuld
             you
             be
             quite
             cur'd
             of
             Love
             ?
          
           
             From
             your
             Mistress's
             sight
             remove
             .
          
           
             To
             the
             open
             Fields
             repair
             ,
          
           
             Cool'd
             with
             Absence
             ,
             and
             with
             Air
             ,
          
           
             You
             will
             soon
             be
             eas'd
             of
             Care.
          
           
             Seek
             out
             in
             another
             place
             ,
          
           
             Something
             fit
             for
             your
             embrace
             ,
          
           
             Perhaps
             in
             a
             less
             charming
             face
          
           
             You
             may
             find
             a
             pleasing
             Grace
             ,
          
           
             Wit
             ,
             or
             Motion
             ,
             Dress
             ,
             or
             Art
             ,
          
           
             Thousand
             things
             that
             may
             divert
          
           
             The
             torments
             of
             your
             throbbing
             Heart
             .
          
           
             If
             in
             this
             no
             Ease
             you
             find
             ,
          
           
             But
             constant
             Love
             still
             plagues
             your
             Mind
             ,
          
           
           
             To
             your
             former
             flame
             return
             ,
          
           
             See
             if
             still
             her
             eyes
             do
             burn
          
           
             With
             equal
             force
             ,
             you
             'll
             find
             perchance
             ,
          
           
             Less
             warmth
             in
             ev'ry
             amorous
             Glance
             ;
          
           
             Seeing
             oft
             what
             we
             desire
          
           
             Makes
             us
             less
             ,
             and
             less
             admire
             ,
          
           
             And
             will
             in
             time
             put
             out
             the
             fire
             .
          
           
             Visit
             her
             betimes
             each
             Morn
             ,
          
           
             Stand
             by
             her
             when
             she
             does
             adorn
          
           
             Her
             head
             ,
             perhaps
             some
             borrow'd
             Hair
             ,
          
           
             Some
             ill-contriv'd
             ,
             affected
             snare
             ,
          
           
             Lewd
             Song
             on
             Table
             found
             ,
             or
             Pray'r
          
           
             Nonsensical
             ,
             may
             let
             you
             see
             ,
          
           
             That
             what
             you
             thought
             Divinity
          
           
             Is
             but
             a
             piece
             of
             Puppetry
             .
          
           
             If
             still
             thy
             Passion
             does
             remain
             ,
          
           
             And
             unseen
             charms
             thy
             Heart
             inchain
             ,
          
           
             If
             she
             break
             thy
             Sleep
             by
             night
             ,
          
           
             Fly
             again
             the
             Witches
             sight
             ,
          
           
             Opium
             take
             ,
             that
             may
             invite
          
           
           
             The
             gentle
             God
             to
             calm
             thy
             Soul
             ,
          
           
             Peaceful
             slumbers
             Love
             controul
             .
          
           
             Have
             a
             care
             of
             purling
             Brooks
             ,
          
           
             Of
             silent
             Groves
             ,
             and
             awful
             Shade
             ,
          
           
             They
             but
             to
             thy
             Torment
             add
             ,
          
           
             Love
             does
             there
             with
             ease
             invade
             ;
          
           
             No
             Musick
             hear
             ,
             no
             dying
             Looks
          
           
             Behold
             ,
             read
             no
             romantick
             Books
             ;
          
           
             Books
             and
             Musick
             turn
             the
             Head
             ,
          
           
             Fools
             only
             sing
             ,
             and
             Mad-men
             read
             :
          
           
             They
             with
             false
             Notions
             fill
             the
             Brain
             ,
          
           
             Are
             only
             fit
             to
             entertain
          
           
             Women
             ,
             and
             Fops
             that
             are
             more
             vain
             .
          
           
             Love
             and
             Folly
             still
             are
             found
          
           
             In
             those
             to
             make
             the
             deepest
             Wound
             ,
          
           
             Who
             think
             their
             Passions
             to
             allay
          
           
             By
             giving
             of
             them
             leave
             to
             sway
          
           
             A
             while
             ;
             but
             they
             like
             Winter
             Torrents
             grow
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             our
             Limits
             overflow
             .
          
           
           
             Never
             trust
             thy self
             alone
             ,
          
           
             Frequent
             good
             Company
             ,
             and
             Wine
             ,
          
           
             In
             gen'rous
             Wines
             thy
             Passion
             drown
             ,
          
           
             That
             will
             make
             thee
             all
             divine
             .
          
           
             Better
             't
             is
             to
             drink
             to
             Death
             ,
          
           
             Than
             sigh
             ,
             and
             whine
             away
             our
             Breath
             .
          
           
             In
             Friends
             and
             Bottles
             we
             may
             find
          
           
             More
             Joys
             than
             in
             all
             Womankind
             .
          
           
             A
             far
             enjoyment
             Women
             pall
             ,
          
           
             Intolerable
             Plagues
             they
             'r
             all
             ,
          
           
             Vain
             ,
             foolish
             ,
             fond
             ,
             proud
             ,
             whimsical
             ,
          
           
             Dissembling
             ,
             hypocritical
             .
          
           
             Wines
             by
             keeping
             them
             improve
             ,
          
           
             And
             real
             Friends
             more
             firmly
             love
             .
          
           
             If
             one
             Vintage
             proves
             severe
             ,
          
           
             We
             're
             doubly
             recompenc'd
             next
             year
             .
          
           
             If
             our
             dearest
             Friends
             we
             lose
             ,
          
           
             Others
             may
             succeed
             to
             those
             .
          
           
             Women
             only
             ,
             of
             all
             things
             ,
          
           
             Have
             nothing
             to
             asswage
             their
             Stings
             .
          
           
           
             Curs'd
             is
             the
             man
             that
             does
             pursue
          
           
             The
             short-liv'd
             Pleasures
             of
             their
             Charms
             ;
          
           
             There
             is
             no
             Hell
             but
             in
             their
             Arms
             :
          
           
             For
             ever
             damned
             ,
             damning
             Sex
             adieu
             .
          
        
         
           
             Written
             on
             her
             MASK
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             WEll
             may'st
             thou
             ,
             envious
             Mask
             ,
             be
             proud
             ,
          
           
             That
             dost
             such
             killing
             Beauties
             shroud
             !
          
           
             Not
             Phoebus
             ,
             when
             behind
             a
             Cloud
             ,
          
           
             Of
             half
             those
             Glories
             robs
             our
             Eye
             ,
          
           
             As
             behind
             thee
             concealed
             lye
             .
          
           
             I
             would
             have
             kept
             thee
             ,
             but
             I
             find
          
           
             My
             fair
             Elisa
             so
             unkind
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             wilt
             better
             Service
             do
          
           
             To
             keep
             her
             Charms
             from
             humane
             view
             :
          
           
           
             For
             she
             is
             so
             strangely
             bright
             ,
          
           
             So
             surprizing
             ,
             so
             divine
             ,
          
           
             That
             I
             know
             her
             very
             sight
          
           
             Soon
             will
             make
             all
             Hearts
             like
             mine
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             Mr.
             
               S.
               G.
            
             
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             
               FAir
               Vertue
               ,
               should
               I
               follow
               thee
            
             
               I
               should
               be
               naked
               ,
               and
               alone
               ,
            
             
               For
               thou
               art
               not
               in
               Company
               ,
            
             
               And
               scarce
               are
               to
               be
               found
               in
               one
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thy
               Rules
               are
               too
               severe
               ,
               and
               cold
               ,
            
             
               To
               be
               embrac'd
               by
               vig'rous
               Youth
               ,
            
             
               And
               Fraud
               and
               Avarice
               arm
               the
               old
            
             
               Against
               thy
               Justice
               and
               thy
               Truth
               .
            
          
           
             
               He
               who
               by
               light
               of
               Reason
               led
               ,
            
             
               Instructs
               himself
               in
               thy
               rough
               School
               ,
            
             
             
               Shall
               all
               his
               life-time
               beg
               his
               Bread
               ,
            
             
               And
               when
               he
               dies
               be
               thought
               a
               Fool.
               
            
          
           
             
               Though
               in
               himself
               he
               's
               satisfied
            
             
               With
               a
               calm
               Mind
               ,
               and
               cheerful
               Heart
               ,
            
             
               The
               World
               will
               call
               his
               Virtue
               Pride
               ,
            
             
               His
               holy
               Life
               ,
               Design
               and
               Art.
               
            
          
           
             
               The
               Reign
               of
               Vice
               is
               absolute
               ,
            
             
               While
               good
               men
               vainly
               strive
               to
               rise
               ;
            
             
               They
               may
               declaim
               ,
               they
               may
               dispute
               ,
            
             
               But
               shall
               continue
               poor
               ,
               and
               wise
               .
            
          
           
             
               Honours
               and
               Wealth
               were
               made
               by
               Fate
            
             
               To
               wait
               on
               fawning
               Impudence
               ,
            
             
               To
               give
               insipid
               Coxcombs
               Weight
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               supply
               the
               want
               of
               Sense
               .
            
          
           
             
               Mighty
               Pompey
               ,
               whose
               great
               Soulx
            
             
               Aim'd
               at
               the
               Liberty
               of
               Rome
               ,
            
             
               In
               vain
               did
               
               Caesar's
               Arms
               controul
               ,
            
             
               And
               at
               Pharselia
               was
               o'recome
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               His
               Vertue
               constant
               in
               distress
            
             
               In
               Ptolomy
               no
               pity
               bred
               ,
            
             
               Who
               barely
               guided
               by
               Success
               ,
            
             
               Secur'd
               his
               Peace
               with
               his
               Friends
               head
               :
            
          
           
             
               Brutus
               ,
               whom
               the
               Gods
               ordain'd
            
             
               To
               do
               what
               Pompey
               would
               have
               done
               ,
            
             
               The
               gen'rous
               motion
               entertain'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               stab'd
               the
               Tyrant
               on
               his
               Throne
               .
            
          
           
             
               This
               god-like
               Brutus
               whose
               Delight
            
             
               Was
               Vertue
               which
               he
               had
               ador'd
               ,
            
             
               Haunted
               by
               Spectres
               over
               night
               ,
            
             
               Fell
               the
               next
               day
               on
               his
               own
               Sword.
               
            
          
           
             
               If
               when
               his
               hope
               of
               Vict'ry
               lost
               ,
            
             
               This
               Noble
               Roman
               could
               exclaim
               ,
            
             
               Oh
               Vertue
               !
               whom
               I
               courted
               most
               ,
            
             
               I
               find
               she
               's
               but
               an
               empty
               Name
               :
            
          
           
             
               In
               a
               degen'rate
               Age
               like
               this
               ,
            
             
               We
               wish
               more
               reason
               may
               conclude
               ,
            
             
               That
               Fortune
               will
               attend
               on
               Vice
               ,
            
             
               And
               Misery
               on
               those
               who
               dare
               be
               good
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             Gentleman
             going
             to
             his
             Country
             Farm
             ,
             which
             he
             had
             not
             seen
             for
             some
             time
             before
             ,
             at
             the
             Request
             of
             a
             Fair
             Lady
             writes
             these
             Verses
             .
          
           
             
               Amyntas
               .
            
             
               TEll
               me
               Damon
               ,
               lovely
               Swain
               ,
            
             
               Prince
               of
               all
               our
               youthful
               Train
               ,
            
             
               Why
               such
               a
               mighty
               Stranger
               grown
            
             
               To
               all
               our
               Pleasures
               ,
               and
               your
               own
               ?
            
             
               What
               Passion
               draws
               your
               Thoughts
               away
            
             
               From
               all
               that
               's
               lively
               ,
               brisk
               ,
               and
               gay
               ?
            
             
               Why
               now
               no
               more
               upon
               the
               Plain
            
             
               Where
               you
               so
               well
               ,
               so
               long
               did
               reign
               ;
            
             
               Where
               all
               our
               Youths
               and
               Nymphs
               appear
               ,
            
             
               So
               kind
               ,
               so
               innocent
               ,
               and
               fair
               .
            
          
           
             
               Damon
               .
            
             
               My
               Phillis
               is
               not
               there
               .
            
          
           
             
               Amyntas
               .
            
             
               There
               's
               
                 Daphne
                 ,
                 Cloe
                 ,
                 Lidia
              
               ,
            
             
               Is
               she
               more
               fair
               ,
               more
               sweet
               than
               they
               ?
            
          
           
             
               
               Damon
               .
            
             
               Yes
               ,
               she
               than
               Daphne
               lovelier
               seems
               ,
            
             
               Softer
               than
               
               Cloe's
               gentle'st
               Dreams
               ;
            
             
               And
               with
               more
               artless
               Modesty
            
             
               Than
               Lydia
               ,
               all
               these
               Charms
               does
               try
               :
            
             
               Such
               Charms
               could
               only
               Venus
               show
               ;
            
             
               To
               Paris
               ,
               one
               Mount
               
               Ida's
               Brow
               ;
            
             
               When
               she
               with
               all
               her
               Graces
               strove
            
             
               To
               prove
               her self
               the
               Queen
               of
               Love
               ;
            
             
               And
               did
               with
               Beauties
               more
               divine
               ,
            
             
               Two
               Rival
               Goddesses
               out-shine
               .
            
             
               Such
               Venus
               ,
               such
               does
               Phillis
               prove
               ,
            
             
               Phyllis
               ,
               the
               Queen
               of
               Me
               ,
               and
               Love.
               
            
          
           
             
               Amyntas
               .
            
             
               Unhappy
               Damon
               !
               then
               I
               find
            
             
               You
               have
               your
               Liberty
               resign'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               only
               can
               the
               Honour
               have
            
             
               To
               be
               a
               tame
               and
               gentle
               Slave
               ,
            
             
               And
               a
               good-natur'd
               Prisoner
               ,
            
             
               To
               one
               as
               cruel
               as
               she
               's
               fair
               .
            
          
           
             
               Damon
               .
            
             
               Amyntas
               no
               ,
               I
               'm
               now
               set
               free
            
             
               From
               the
               uneasiest
               Flavery
               .
            
             
             
               For
               while
               my
               Heart
               at
               large
               did
               range
               ,
            
             
               It
               only
               did
               its
               Keeper
               change
               ;
            
             
               To
               ev'ry
               she
               an
               easie
               prey
               ,
            
             
               From
               whence
               it
               quickly
               fled
               away
               ;
            
             
               Or
               got
               its
               freedom
               on
               Parole
               ,
            
             
               To
               yield
               it self
               with
               less
               controul
               .
            
             
               But
               now
               't
               is
               safe
               with
               Phillis
               laid
               ,
            
             
               A
               Prisoner
               in
               a
               Palace
               made
               :
            
             
               (
               Strange
               Fate
               of
               Lovers
               ,
               who
               can
               be
            
             
               Freed
               only
               by
               Captivity
               )
            
             
               Phillis
               ,
               who
               does
               like
               Caesar
               fight
               ,
            
             
               Sees
               and
               subdues
               us
               with
               her
               sight
               ;
            
             
               And
               like
               that
               mighty
               Conquerour
               ,
            
             
               Is
               pleased
               her
               Captives
               to
               prefer
               .
            
             
               Nor
               is
               her
               Cruelty
               so
               great
               ,
            
             
               To
               wound
               and
               kill
               without
               Regret
               .
            
             
               Fair
               as
               the
               Virgin-spring
               ,
               and
               gay
               ,
            
             
               Cheerful
               as
               the
               dawning
               day
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               kind
               as
               fruitful
               Summer
               she
               ,
            
             
               Or
               
               Autumn's
               Liberality
               ;
            
             
             
               Only
               the
               modest
               damn'd
               Pretence
            
             
               Of
               Maiden-head
               and
               Innocence
               .
            
          
           
             
               Amyntas
               .
            
             
               Then
               happy
               Damon
               now
               I
               find
               ,
            
             
               Since
               you
               so
               constant
               ,
               she
               so
               kind
               ,
            
             
               Let
               Cupid
               doubly
               gild
               that
               Dart
            
             
               With
               which
               he
               wounds
               her
               tender
               heart
               .
            
          
           
             
               Damon
               .
            
             
               See
               my
               Amyntas
               ,
               't
               is
               for
               her
            
             
               That
               of
               these
               Flocks
               I
               take
               such
               care
               :
            
             
               For
               her
               alone
               't
               is
               that
               I
               bind
               ,
            
             
               About
               this
               Elm
               this
               amorous
               Vine
               ;
            
             
               May
               thus
               my
               Phillis
               round
               me
               twine
               .
            
             
               For
               her
               I
               dig
               ,
               and
               plough
               ,
               and
               sow
               ,
            
             
               Things
               she
               and
               I
               ,
               methinks
               ,
               should
               do
               .
            
             
               For
               her
               I
               graft
               this
               Plumb
               ,
               and
               Pear
               ,
            
             
               As
               these
               ,
               so
               may
               my
               Phillis
               bear
               .
            
             
               These
               Peaches
               I
               innoculate
               ,
            
             
               And
               wish
               but
               one
               thing
               more
               of
               Fate
               .
            
             
               Thus
               all
               my
               Thoughts
               does
               but
               improve
            
             
               The
               World's
               great
               Manufacture
               ,
               Love.
               
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Whether
             in
             Love
             ,
             Men
             or
             Women
             have
             the
             Advantage
             ;
             they
             in
             making
             ,
             or
             these
             in
             receiving
             ,
             their
             Court
             :
             
               Consider'd
               in
               a
               Dialogue
               betwixt
            
             Corinna
             and
             Lais.
             
          
           
             Written
             by
             Mr.
             
               C.
               M.
            
             
          
           
             
               Lais.
               
            
             
               NAy
               ,
               surely
               Men
               in
               Love
               have
               much
               the
               start
               ,
            
             
               Theirs
               is
               the
               pleasanter
               and
               braver
               part
               ;
            
             
               We
               (
               Passive
               Creatures
               )
               must
               a
               Siege
               maintain
               ,
            
             
               Which
               won
               ,
               the
               Victors
               as
               o're
               Vassals
               reign
               .
            
             
               Where
               e're
               their
               Appetite
               does
               lead
               they
               rove
               ,
            
             
               Stop
               where
               they
               like
               ,
               when
               Nature
               prompts
               make
               Love.
            
             
               With
               boundless
               Will
               ,
               and
               Fancy
               unconfin'd
               ,
            
             
               Sail
               through
               the
               Air
               ,
               and
               wanton
               in
               the
               Wind
               ,
            
             
               Until
               they
               spy
               some
               beauteous
               ,
               tempting
               Dame
               ,
            
             
               Then
               ,
               with
               full
               Sails
               ,
               pursue
               the
               noble
               Game
               ,
            
             
             
               Bristle
               each
               Feather
               ,
               all
               their
               Wings
               display
               ,
            
             
               And
               gripe
               in
               eager
               Arms
               the
               panting
               Prey
               .
            
             
               When
               they
               are
               cloy'd
               ,
               they
               mount
               ,
               they
               soar
               ,
               are
               gone
               ,
            
             
               And
               leave
               the
               injur'd
               slighted
               Maid
               to
               moan
               ,
            
             
               If
               any
               dazling
               Beauty
               fires
               the
               Town
               ,
            
             
               Each
               Spark
               can
               try
               to
               make
               the
               Prize
               his
               own
               .
            
             
               No
               musty
               Customs
               his
               Delight
               controuls
               ,
            
             
               To
               her
               ,
               with
               Lacques
               clog'd
               ,
               the
               Chariot
               rolls
               .
            
             
               We
               by
               dull
               Rules
               (
               contriv'd
               by
               men
               )
               confin'd
               ,
            
             
               Must
               not
               pursue
               our
               Fancy
               ,
               please
               our
               Mind
               ,
            
             
               But
               modest
               and
               demure
               ,
               receive
               at
               home
            
             
               The
               formal
               Visitants
               that
               dain
               to
               come
               :
            
             
               And
               all
               our
               Happiness
               dependeth
               still
               ,
            
             
               Not
               on
               our
               own
               but
               on
               anothers
               Will.
               
            
          
           
             
               Corinna
               .
            
             
               I
               grant
               Men
               under
               less
               constraint
               than
               We
               ,
            
             
               But
               't
               is
               constraint
               from
               Cares
               and
               Misery
               :
            
             
               For
               ,
               the
               exercise
               of
               this
               their
               boasted
               Power
            
             
               Plunges
               in
               Woes
               ,
               we
               never
               feel
               each
               hour
               .
            
             
               When
               before
               any
               stubborn
               Town
               they
               sit
               ,
            
             
               If
               them
               the
               haughty
               Dame
               will
               not
               admit
               ;
            
             
             
               What
               Tortures
               they
               endure
               ,
               what
               lively
               pain
            
             
               Afflicts
               their
               Soul
               ,
               and
               racks
               each
               trembling
               vein
               !
            
             
               The
               Pangs
               of
               Love
               are
               of
               so
               quick
               a
               sense
            
             
               As
               scarce
               the
               ensuing
               Joy
               can
               recompence
               .
            
             
               But
               we
               by
               happier
               Fate
               ne're
               suffer
               these
               ,
            
             
               Embracing
               the
               Proposals
               if
               they
               please
               .
            
             
               It
               is
               not
               always
               in
               their
               power
               to
               win
               ,
            
             
               But
               always
               is
               in
               ours
               to
               let
               them
               in
               ;
            
             
               We
               either
               love
               not
               ,
               or
               our
               Love
               obtains
               ,
            
             
               Enjoy
               the
               sweet
               of
               it
               ,
               without
               the
               Pains
               .
            
          
           
             
               Lais.
               
            
             
               Alas
               !
               they
               often
               mock
               with
               feign'd
               desire
               ,
            
             
               And
               warm
               the
               innocent
               Maid
               with
               painted
               sire
               .
            
             
               And
               when
               the
               blushing
               flag
               does
               shew
               she
               's
               won
               ,
            
             
               Their
               work
               that
               only
               came
               to
               abuse
               ,
               is
               done
               .
            
             
               The
               ill-natured
               Creatures
               leave
               the
               melting
               fair
               ,
            
             
               To
               pine
               ,
               and
               sigh
               her
               spotless
               Soul
               to
               Air.
            
             
               They
               ,
               pleas'd
               (
               like
               Nero
               )
               see
               the
               Beauteous
               Rome
            
             
               In
               Flames
               their
               cruel
               hands
               did
               light
               ,
               consume
               .
            
          
           
             
               Corinna
               .
            
             
               We
               practice
               this
               under
               a
               different
               Name
               ,
            
             
               In
               us
               't
               is
               Honour
               ,
               but
               in
               them
               a
               Shame
               .
            
             
             
               With
               false
               enticing
               Looks
               we
               gild
               the
               Bait
               ,
            
             
               And
               having
               caught
               them
               ,
               scorn
               ,
               triumph
               ,
               &
               hate
               ;
            
             
               Ensnare
               to
               shew
               what
               powerful
               Charms
               we
               bear
               ,
            
             
               Then
               slight
               ,
               and
               damn
               them
               to
               a
               wild
               despair
               .
            
             
               And
               who
               the
               grateful
               Pleasure
               can
               despise
               ,
            
             
               Of
               seeing
               humble
               Slaves
               in
               modest
               Guise
            
             
               And
               awful
               trembling
               to
               approach
               our
               Eyes
               ;
            
             
               And
               by
               adoring
               make
               us
               Deities
               .
            
             
               Catch
               at
               each
               Glance
               ,
               and
               hang
               on
               ev'ry
               Look
            
             
               As
               if
               from
               us
               their
               Destiny
               they
               took
               .
            
             
               Rate
               ev'ry
               Smile
               above
               a
               Monarch's
               Crown
               ,
            
             
               And
               dread
               ours
               more
               than
               angry
               Heavens
               frown
               .
            
          
           
             
               Lais.
               
            
             
               But
               add
               to
               these
               ,
               the
               anguish
               of
               our
               mind
               ,
            
             
               When
               forc'd
               to
               be
               to
               the
               dear
               Man
               unkind
               .
            
             
               When
               Parents
               envious
               Precepts
               do
               oblige
               ,
            
             
               Against
               our
               Will
               ,
               to
               hold
               out
               ten
               years
               Siege
               :
            
             
               Till
               all
               their
               dull
               Formalities
               are
               past
               ,
            
             
               To
               yield
               on
               tedious
               Articles
               at
               last
               .
            
             
               To
               force
               our
               Nature
               ,
               and
               belye
               our
               Heart
               ,
            
             
               Stifle
               the
               raging
               ●…lame
               ,
               and
               hide
               our
               smart
               ,
            
             
             
               Not
               daring
               what
               we
               most
               desire
               to
               own
               ,
            
             
               Constrain'd
               on
               him
               ,
               we
               languish
               for
               ,
               to
               srown
               .
            
             
               This
               ,
               this
               is
               the
               Extremity
               of
               Pain
               ,
            
             
               To
               suffer
               without
               power
               to
               complain
               .
            
             
               In
               Love
               (
               as
               in
               the
               State
               )
               they
               only
               feel
            
             
               The
               Rack
               ,
               who
               dare
               not
               their
               hid
               thoughts
               reveal
               .
            
          
           
             
               Corinna
               .
            
             
               Why
               should
               we
               thus
               against
               our
               Nature
               fight
               ,
            
             
               And
               vex
               our selves
               with
               this
               false
               Parthian
               flight
               ?
            
             
               Let
               us
               no
               more
               to
               Forms
               and
               Shadows
               strike
               ,
            
             
               If
               we
               the
               generous
               Assailant
               like
               ,
            
             
               Admit
               him
               ;
               ne're
               disturb
               our selves
               to
               feign
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               make
               him
               waste
               his
               Vigour
               ,
               to
               obtain
               .
            
          
           
             
               Lais.
               
            
             
               So
               things
               would
               run
               too
               fast
               ;
               the
               Game
               of
               Love
            
             
               Does
               grateful
               with
               this
               Disadvantage
               prove
               :
            
             
               'T
               is
               such
               bewitching
               sport
               ,
               so
               draws
               us
               in
               ,
            
             
               As
               't
               is
               ;
               what
               would
               it
               be
               if
               all
               should
               win
               ?
            
             
               Did
               we
               not
               stop
               it
               thus
               ,
               and
               make
               it
               keep
            
             
               Within
               due
               bounds
               ,
               the
               Play
               would
               be
               too
               deep
            
             
             
               And
               all
               our
               Stock
               and
               Fortune
               lost
               too
               soon
               ,
            
             
               Methinks
               ,
               as
               't
               is
               ,
               the
               stakes
               are
               quickly
               gone
               .
            
          
           
             
               Corinna
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               best
               then
               ,
               things
               continue
               as
               they
               are
               ;
            
             
               Reformers
               sometimes
               mend
               ,
               but
               oftner
               mar
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             On
             the
             Lords
             rejecting
             the
             
               Bill
               of
               Exclusion
            
             ,
             November
             the
             15th
             .
             1680.
             
          
           
             GOds
             !
             this
             is
             great
             !
             These
             ,
             these
             are
             they
          
           
             Who
             truly
             ,
             thus
             ,
             their
             noble
             Blood
             display
             ;
          
           
             And
             by
             the
             Soul
             which
             they
             this
             day
             have
             shewn
             ,
          
           
             Make
             all
             the
             Glories
             of
             their
             Line
             their
             own
             .
          
           
             These
             are
             Old
             Eng●…ana's
             Peers
             !
             Hearts
             that
             despise
          
           
             To
             be
             o
             re-aw'd
             by
             Number
             and
             by
             Noise
             ;
          
           
             No
             ,
             they
             're
             too
             Brave
             ,
             too
             Loyal
             ,
             and
             too
             Wise.
          
           
             Beauchamp
             and
             
             Howard's
             Courage
             ,
             
             Cecil's
             Brain
             ,
          
           
             The
             Faith
             of
             Vere
             ,
             still
             in
             the
             House
             remain
             :
          
           
             Nor
             on
             the
             Churches
             Seats
             do
             less
             appear
             ,
          
           
             Grave
             
             Morton's
             Piety
             ,
             and
             Prudence
             here
             .
          
           
           
             Such
             the
             lay-hands
             that
             dare
             support
             a
             Crown
             ,
          
           
             And
             such
             the
             Conscience
             of
             the
             sacred
             Gown
             .
          
           
             Thus
             did
             their
             mighty
             Ancestors
             combine
          
           
             When
             force
             misplac'd
             the
             Crown
             from
             the
             right
             line
             .
          
           
             Thus
             they
             stood
             fast
             to
             Truth
             ,
             and
             never
             fail'd
             ,
          
           
             Till
             the
             
               unblemish'd
               Rose
            
             of
             York
             prevail'd
             .
          
           
             And
             must
             again
             that
             sad
             Dispute
             appear
             ?
          
           
             No
             ,
             we
             are
             much
             too
             young
             for
             
             Plato's
             year
             .
          
           
             Our
             
               Renown'd
               Peerage
            
             will
             not
             have
             it
             so
             ;
          
           
             The
             Demi-Gods
             and
             Heroes
             thunder
             ,
             No.
          
           
             What
             remote
             noise
             is
             this
             ?
             Hark
             how
             it
             grows
             !
          
           
             Nearer
             and
             louder
             now
             the
             Torrent
             flows
             .
          
           
             All
             Europe
             shouts
             aloud
             :
             Spring-Tides
             of
             Joy
          
           
             Salute
             the
             
               Brittish
               Isle
            
             ,
             hark
             how
             they
             cry
             !
          
           
             "
             Fame
             now
             is
             yours
             ,
             more
             from
             one
             Law
             refus'd
          
           
             "
             Than
             half
             the
             numerous
             Laws
             you
             ever
             us'd
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             ELEGY
             ,
             On
             the
             Death
             of
             
               Christopher
               Sherard
            
             ,
             
               Esq
            
             Son
             and
             Heir
             Apparent
             to
             the
             Right
             Honourable
             Bennet
             Lord
             Sherrard
             ,
             who
             died
             in
             the
             Sixteenth
             Year
             of
             his
             Age
             ,
             Febr.
             19.
             1681.
             
          
           
             AND
             is
             he
             dead
             ?
             Is
             he
             already
             dead
             ?
          
           
             Ah
             ,
             too
             surprizing
             News
             ,
             sudden
             as
             sad
             !
          
           
             When
             hopeful
             Vertue
             does
             abortive
             fall
             ,
          
           
             We
             weep
             our
             own
             ,
             and
             not
             his
             Funeral
             :
          
           
             The
             loss
             is
             ours
             ,
             and
             all
             the
             Tears
             we
             shed
          
           
             Are
             more
             for
             them
             that
             live
             ,
             than
             for
             the
             dead
             .
          
           
             Let
             it
             not
             then
             be
             said
             ,
             untimely
             Fate
          
           
             Robb'd
             him
             of
             Honour
             ,
             Title
             ,
             or
             Estate
             ,
          
           
             Or
             (
             what
             is
             more
             to
             Youth
             than
             all
             beside
             )
          
           
             Of
             an
             adored
             Beauty
             for
             his
             Bride
             .
          
           
           
             Such
             Blessings
             waited
             him
             ,
             not
             few
             nor
             small
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             our
             loss
             we
             may
             truly
             greater
             call
             ;
          
           
             For
             we
             are
             robb'd
             of
             him
             that
             's
             more
             than
             all
             .
          
           
             Insolvent
             Fortune
             !
             let
             us
             count
             our
             Woe
             ;
          
           
             Bankrupt
             of
             much
             which
             time
             will
             ever
             owe.
          
           
             A
             steady
             Friendship
             ,
             Modesty
             above
          
           
             The
             Age
             we
             live
             in
             ,
             A
             true
             English
             Love
             ,
          
           
             A
             generous
             Heart
             ,
             with
             an
             Address
             compleat
             ,
          
           
             Great
             in
             his
             Lineage
             ,
             yet
             more
             good
             than
             great
             :
          
           
             And
             above
             all
             (
             as
             the
             most
             sacred
             thing
             )
          
           
             A
             Soul
             devoted
             to
             his
             God
             and
             King.
          
           
             This
             Treasure
             had
             been
             ours
             had
             Fate
             delay'd
             ,
          
           
             'T
             was
             promis'd
             all
             ,
             and
             had
             been
             surely
             paid
             .
          
           
             But
             he
             is
             gone
             ,
             untimely
             ravish'd
             hence
          
           
             In
             the
             prime
             Bloom
             of
             Youth
             and
             Innocence
             !
          
           
             He
             dy'd
             a
             Virgin
             ,
             free
             from
             modern
             Crimes
             ,
          
           
             Clear
             and
             unfully'd
             in
             licentious
             Times
             .
          
           
             Bring
             Flow'rs
             ,
             ye
             spotless
             Maids
             ,
             and
             strew
             'em
             here
             ,
          
           
             Strew
             all
             the
             Beauties
             of
             the
             blooming
             Year
             :
          
           
             Hither
             your
             Roses
             ,
             mix'd
             with
             Lillies
             ,
             bring
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             his
             Grave
             six
             an
             eternal
             Spring
             ;
          
           
           
             Which
             water'd
             with
             your
             Tears
             ,
             may
             be
             encreast
          
           
             To
             a
             Perfume
             beyond
             the
             Phoenix
             Nest
             :
          
           
             Yet
             all
             those
             Odours
             far
             less
             sweet
             will
             be
          
           
             To
             us
             ,
             than
             his
             own
             Name
             and
             Memory
             .
          
           
             Farewel
             ,
             Dear
             Youth
             !
             had
             you
             this
             Age
             surviv'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             the
             years
             of
             our
             first
             Parents
             liv'd
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             when
             at
             last
             your
             thread
             of
             Life
             had
             fail'd
             ,
          
           
             You
             might
             have
             died
             more
             known
             ,
             not
             more
             bewail'd
             .
          
           
             Thus
             young
             Marcellus
             fell
             ,
             
             Rome's
             darling
             Name
             ,
          
           
             Ever
             lamented
             and
             belov'd
             by
             Fame
             :
          
           
             And
             thus
             (
             Ah
             ,
             Simile
             too
             like
             !
             )
             thus
             died
          
           
             Henry
             ,
             Britannia's
             equal
             Hope
             and
             Pride
             .
          
        
         
           
             On
             the
             Romantick
             
               Office
               of
               Credit
            
             ,
             proposed
             by
             
               Dr.
               C.
            
             and
             his
             Partners
             ,
             An.
             Dom.
             1682.
             
          
           
             TEll
             me
             ,
             some
             Antiquary
             ,
             who
             has
             heard
          
           
             How
             mankind
             liv'd
             e're
             Saturn
             wore
             a
             beard
             ;
          
           
             Tell
             me
             ,
             some
             grave
             Philosopher
             ,
             whose
             sense
          
           
             Knows
             more
             of
             things
             than
             their
             bare
             rate
             in
             Pence
             ;
          
           
           
             In
             the
             World
             's
             innocent
             Infancy
             what
             Trade
          
           
             Among
             its
             first
             Inhabitants
             was
             made
             ?
          
           
             Was
             it
             not
             then
             ,
             by
             the
             first
             trading
             Charter
             ,
          
           
             That
             all
             Commerce
             was
             but
             Exchange
             &
             Barter
             ?
          
           
             No
             Bankrupts
             then
             ,
             none
             then
             for
             Trust
             did
             pray
             ,
          
           
             When
             the
             same
             thing
             serv'd
             both
             for
             Sale
             and
             Pay.
          
           
             He
             who
             had
             something
             ,
             in
             effect
             had
             all
             ,
          
           
             The
             Credit-Office
             then
             was
             general
             .
          
           
             Honey
             for
             Wool
             ,
             and
             Sheep
             for
             Camels
             went
             ;
          
           
             All
             Payments
             true
             ,
             all
             taken
             on
             content
             .
          
           
             Love
             was
             the
             price
             of
             Beauty
             then
             ,
             not
             Gold
             ;
          
           
             And
             Friendship
             was
             for
             Friendship
             only
             sold.
          
           
             Nothing
             of
             Fraud
             or
             Counterfeit
             was
             shewn
             :
          
           
             This
             was
             the
             Golden
             Age
             ,
             e're
             Gold
             was
             known
             .
          
           
             But
             when
             from
             Earth
             the
             shining
             Metal
             came
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             Mankind
             throng'd
             to
             adore
             its
             Flame
             ;
          
           
             Integrity
             was
             lost
             among
             the
             Crowd
             ,
          
           
             And
             Fraud
             ,
             as
             mystery
             of
             Trade
             ,
             allow'd
             .
          
           
             With
             Money
             ,
             which
             has
             dazl'd
             humane
             Eyes
             ,
          
           
             Came
             the
             Defects
             and
             Cheats
             of
             Merchandize
             .
          
           
           
             Renown'd
             be
             then
             that
             Man
             ,
             that
             wise
             P●…ysician
             ,
          
           
             Who
             cures
             our
             Trade
             in
             this
             decay'd
             Condition
             .
          
           
             Ever
             Renown'd
             be
             he
             ,
             whose
             happy
             Brain
          
           
             Can
             ,
             without
             Money
             ,
             shew
             a
             way
             to
             gain
             .
          
           
             Alas
             !
             our
             Trade
             he
             may
             perhaps
             reduce
             ,
          
           
             And
             cure
             Commerce
             to
             its
             first
             genuine
             use
             ;
          
           
             But
             Love
             ,
             with
             Gold
             ,
             is
             so
             allay'd
             and
             base
             ,
          
           
             He
             ne're
             can
             purge
             from
             that
             this
             new
             Disgrace
             ,
          
           
             'Till
             
             Plato's
             year
             turns
             back
             the
             World's
             first
             face
             .
          
        
         
           
             Occasioned
             by
             a
             Sight
             of
             his
             Majesty
             ,
             walking
             near
             the
             River
             ,
             in
             the
             time
             of
             the
             Oxford-Parliament
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               WHen
               on
               his
               Banks
               
                 Majestick
                 Pan
              
               h'espy'd
               ,
            
             
               Old
               Isis
               stop'd
               the
               willing
               Tide
               ;
            
             
               See
               there
               ,
               blest
               Waters
               ,
               see
               (
               he
               cry'd
               )
            
             
               My
               happy
               Arms
               contain
            
             
               Their
               Great-Good-Master
               once
               again
               !
            
             
             
               Such
               was
               the
               youthful
               Vigour
               which
               he
               wore
            
             
               When
               once
               my
               Royal
               Charge
               before
               :
            
             
               Go
               on
               ,
               
                 blest
                 Prince
              
               !
               the
               power
               of
               years
               defie
               ;
               —
            
             
               And
               could
               no
               more
               ,
               but
               wept
               a
               while
               for
               Joy.
               
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Flow
               on
               ,
               at
               last
               he
               said
               ,
               lov'd
               Waters
               ,
               flow
               ,
            
             
               Tell
               it
               o're
               all
               the
               Plains
               below
            
             
               In
               joyful
               Murmurs
               as
               you
               go
               .
            
             
               Bid
               the
               sad
               Swains
               no
               more
            
             
               The
               Dangers
               of
               their
               Flocks
               deplore
               :
            
             
               They
               idly
               form
               
                 imaginary
                 Fears
              
               ,
            
             
               Indulging
               Dreams
               of
               Wolves
               and
               Bears
               .
            
             
               Tell
               'em
               ,
               while
               they
               
                 His
                 sacred
                 Rest
              
               annoy
               ,
            
             
               Th'
               abuse
               that
               Safety
               which
               they
               ought
               t'
               enjoy
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             To
             CAELIA
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               CAelia
               ,
               tho
               your
               
                 conqu'ring
                 Eyes
              
            
             
               (
               Were
               you
               inclin'd
               to
               tyrannize
               ,
               )
            
             
               Might
               more
               enlarge
               your
               Sway
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               we
               ,
               that
               Humour
               and
               
                 free
                 Wit
              
               ,
            
             
               Which
               you
               make
               use
               of
               ,
               and
               admit
               ,
            
             
               More
               
                 cheerfully
                 obey
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               So
               some
               with
               Fire
               and
               Sword
               consume
               ,
            
             
               And
               spoil
               the
               Countries
               where
               they
               come
               ,
            
             
               A
               
                 dreadful
                 Name
              
               t'
               obtain
               ;
            
             
               But
               they
               who
               
                 gentler
                 Methods
              
               use
               ,
            
             
               Who
               strive
               by
               Parle
               to
               reduce
               ,
            
             
               The
               
                 surer
                 Conquest
              
               gain
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             To
             a
             Gentleman
             ,
             his
             Friend
             ,
             who
             could
             decypher
             any
             Character
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               HEnceforth
               
                 (
                 Brave
                 Souls
                 !
              
               )
               you
               who
               would
               fain
               repair
            
             
               The
               loss
               we
               for
               proud
               Babel
               feel
               .
            
             
               Your
               boundless
               Wit
               and
               Iudgment
               henceforth
               spare
               ,
            
             
               Some
               other
               Mysteries
               to
               reveal
               :
            
             
               An
               
                 Universal
                 Character
              
               were
               needless
               now
               ,
            
             
               What
               this
               my
               Friend
               has
               found
               ,
               will
               all
               the
               Bus'ness
               do
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               With
               a
               malicious
               Subtlety
               confound
            
             
               The
               awkward
               Hebrew
               with
               the
               Greek
               ,
            
             
               Scarce
               wilder
               Characters
               than
               those
               abound
            
             
               In
               th'
               extravagant
               Arabick
               ;
            
             
               His
               wondrous
               Skill
               ,
               by
               Demonstration
               ,
               will
               decide
               ,
            
             
               Within
               ,
               what
               
                 lovely
                 Face
              
               those
               
                 Grotesque
                 Visards
                 hide
              
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Let
               
               Egypt's
               Priests
               their
               
                 Moral
                 Sense
              
               convey
            
             
               In
               some
               
                 Hieroglyphick
                 Dress
              
               ,
            
             
               Here
               write
               a
               Dove
               ,
               an
               Eagle
               there
               let
               fly
               ,
            
             
               
                 (
                 Dumb
                 Creatures
              
               !
               sure
               they
               'll
               not
               confess
               ;
               )
            
             
               He
               by
               the
               Posture
               ,
               and
               the
               Flight
               ,
               can
               quickly
               tell
            
             
               
                 (
                 Strange
                 Augury
                 !
              
               )
               what
               sage
               remarks
               within
               them
               dwell
               .
            
          
           
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               Highly
               those
               Persons
               were
               esteem'd
               of
               old
               ,
            
             
               Who
               an
               odd
               Oracle
               disclos'd
               ,
            
             
               Or
               the
               Equivocations
               could
               unfold
            
             
               The
               
                 Quibbling
                 God
                 of
                 Wit
              
               propos'd
               ;
            
             
               Their
               
                 God
                 of
                 Wit
                 ,
                 himself
              
               could
               not
               have
               made
               reply
               ,
            
             
               Had
               they
               propos'd
               to
               him
               this
               
                 mighty
                 Mystery
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               V.
               
            
             
               The
               Indians
               ,
               who
               confounded
               once
               stood
               by
               ,
            
             
               And
               cry'd
               it
               was
               by
               Magick
               done
               ,
            
             
               When
               from
               his
               Letter
               they
               saw
               one
               descry
            
             
               His
               distant
               Friends
               Intention
               ;
            
             
             
               Could
               they
               see
               this
               perform'd
               ,
               they
               might
               with
               reason
               call
               ,
            
             
               
                 My
                 Friend
              
               ,
               thy
               harmless
               
                 Magick
                 ,
                 supernatural
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               VI.
               
            
             
               Could
               (
               as
               they
               say
               )
               the
               
                 Sympathetick
                 Stile
              
               ,
            
             
               Swift
               as
               the
               Light
               that
               gilds
               the
               Day
               ,
            
             
               In
               the
               same
               Instant
               many
               a
               thousand
               Mile
            
             
               Our
               Will
               to
               absent
               Friends
               convey
               ;
            
             
               Trust
               me
               ,
               you
               'd
               know
               its
               Errand
               ,
               or
               not
               let
               it
               pass
               ,
            
             
               As
               Men
               the
               Light
               it self
               confine
               to
               th'
               Burning-glass
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             BUSINESS
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               
                 BUsiness
                 !
                 Awake
              
               it
               poisons
               all
               my
               Ioys
               ,
            
             
               Asleep
               all
               pleasant
               Dreams
               destroys
               ;
            
             
               Where're
               I
               go
               ,
               or
               whatsoe're
               I
               do
               ,
            
             
               
                 Curst
                 thing
              
               !
               it
               does
               in
               dreadful
               Shapes
               pursue
               .
            
             
             
               All
               
                 Med
                 cine
              
               here
               would
               useless
               be
               ,
            
             
               No
               Counter-charm
               can
               give
               me
               ease
               ,
            
             
               No
               Amulet
               can
               me
               release
            
             
               From
               this
               
                 Damn'd
                 Hag
              
               that
               rides
               and
               
                 tortures
                 me
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               I
               joyn'd
               with
               Wits
               ,
               proclaiming
               
                 Open
                 War
              
            
             
               'Gainst
               Bus'ness
               and
               distracting
               Care
               ;
            
             
               Their
               Wine
               (
               said
               I
               )
               their
               Wit
               and
               Iollity
               ,
            
             
               Will
               quite
               supplant
               my
               cruel
               Enemy
               :
            
             
               In
               vain
               I
               used
               those
               Allies
            
             
               Their
               Wine
               and
               Wit
               improv'd
               my
               Thought
               ,
            
             
               My
               cruel
               Fancy
               soon
               was
               taught
               ,
            
             
               Ah
               me
               !
               
                 exquisite
                 Torments
              
               to
               devise
               .
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Shall
               I
               in
               close
               Retirement
               drive
               away
            
             
               With
               Books
               the
               Troubles
               of
               the
               Day
               ?
            
             
               There
               I
               may
               hug
               my self
               ,
               and
               safely
               hear
            
             
               Those
               Storms
               abroad
               where
               others
               Shipwrackt
               are
               :
            
             
             
               Ambition
               will
               an
               Entrance
               find
               ;
            
             
               Tho
               from
               without
               no
               Storms
               surprise
               ,
            
             
               And
               shake
               the
               Learned
               and
               the
               Wise
               ,
            
             
               Within
               ,
               that
               Vapour
               often
               shakes
               their
               Mind
               :
            
          
           
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               Shall
               I
               then
               try
               the
               happy
               Shepherd's
               Life
               ?
            
             
               He
               knows
               not
               
                 Bus'ness
                 ,
                 Care
              
               ,
               or
               Strife
               ;
            
             
               Few
               Troubles
               ,
               and
               short-liv'd
               ,
               afflict
               his
               Mind
               ,
            
             
               So
               seldom
               't
               is
               his
               Cloris
               proves
               unkind
               !
            
             
               I
               heard
               one
               cry
               but
               yesterday
               ,
            
             
               Wringing
               his
               hands
               ,
               
                 Undone
                 ,
                 Undone
              
               !
            
             
               But
               ,
               oh
               ,
               the
               Cause
               of
               this
               great
               moan
               !
            
             
               The
               French
               had
               taken
               
                 What
                 shall
                 's
                 call
                 't
                 ,
                 they
                 say
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               V.
               
            
             
               Bus'ness
               !
               to
               fly
               thee
               I
               would
               wildly
               roam
            
             
               Where
               only
               the
               wild
               Herd
               does
               come
               ,
            
             
               
                 Unthinking
                 Beasts
              
               !
               —
               Yet
               't
               were
               in
               vain
               ,
               I
               fear
               ,
            
             
               (
               Who
               would
               have
               thought
               the
               Shepherd
               other
               were
               ?
               )
            
             
             
               For
               I
               should
               soon
               beneath
               me
               see
            
             
               The
               
                 Busie
                 Insects
              
               laden
               move
               ,
            
             
               And
               
                 Careful
                 Architects
              
               above
               ,
            
             
               Some
               building
               ,
               some
               surveying
               ev'ry
               Tree
               .
            
          
           
             
               VI.
               
            
             
               'T
               is
               true
               I
               might
               in
               this
               forlorn
               Retreat
            
             
               Like
               those
               of
               old
               ,
               the
               Acorns
               eat
               :
            
             
               But
               ,
               oh
               !
               I
               ne're
               should
               see
               those
               
                 Golden
                 days
              
               ,
            
             
               When
               free
               from
               Care
               ,
               like
               
                 Gods
                 ,
                 Men
              
               liv'd
               in
               ease
               !
            
             
               For
               while
               I
               laid
               me
               on
               the
               ground
               ,
            
             
               And
               only
               meant
               to
               rest
               ,
               my
               Ear
            
             
               Would
               
                 distant
                 noise
              
               of
               Bus'ness
               hear
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               Advantage
               catch
               the
               
                 killing
                 sound
              
               !
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Hor.
             Ode
             13.
             
             Lib.
             4.
             
             In
             Lycen
             Mereticem
             Vetulam
             .
             Audivêre
             ,
             Lyce
             ,
             Dii
             —
             Translated
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               THen
               Heaven
               has
               heard
               my
               Prayers
               ,
               at
               last
            
             
               My
               Prayers
               are
               heard
               ,
               and
               ,
               Lyce
               ,
               know
            
             
               Lyce
               ,
               your
               
                 barb'rous
                 Reign
              
               is
               past
               ,
            
             
               Time
               writes
               
                 Old
                 Lady
              
               on
               your
               Brow
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               still
               y'affect
               your
               wanton
               Play
               ,
            
             
               Still
               paint
               and
               patch
               ,
               and
               would
               seem
               gay
               ,
            
             
               Drink
               lewdly
               still
               ,
               and
               with
               an
               awkward
               Voice
            
             
               Court
               Love
               ,
               that
               hears
               unmov'd
               the
               tuneless
               noise
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Love
               better
               pleas'd
               on
               
               Chia's
               Face
               ,
            
             
               Where
               still
               fresh
               blooming
               Glories
               spring
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               charming
               Tongue
               hits
               ev'ry
               Grace
               ,
            
             
               
                 Revels
                 whole
                 Nights
              
               to
               hear
               her
               sing
               ;
            
             
             
               But
               from
               thy
               fading
               form
               he
               flies
               ,
            
             
               (
               Which
               ,
               like
               old
               Trees
               ,
               sharp
               Winter
               dries
               ,
               )
            
             
               Thy
               rotten
               Teeth
               ,
               thy
               frightful
               wither'd
               Brow
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               trusts
               his
               Fire
               too
               near
               thy
               
                 Hoary
                 Snow
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               In
               vain
               
                 rich
                 Silks
              
               are
               dawb'd
               with
               Gold
               ,
            
             
               Iewels
               assist
               thy
               Eyes
               in
               vain
               ,
            
             
               When
               New-years-day
               locks
               up
               the
               Old
            
             
               No
               helps
               of
               Art
               releas't
               again
               .
            
             
               Where
               are
               thy
               Charms
               ,
               thy
               White
               and
               Red
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               lovely
               Mien
               ?
               Ah!
               whither
               fled
               ?
            
             
               What
               poor
               Remains
               are
               left
               of
               that
               
                 bright
                 she
              
            
             
               That
               was
               all
               Love
               ,
               that
               of
               my self
               robb'd
               me
               !
            
          
           
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               Next
               
               Cinara's
               peerless
               Face
               and
               mine
            
             
               None
               could
               boast
               such
               winning
               ways
               ,
            
             
               But
               Fate
               ,
               to
               her
               
                 severely
                 kind
              
               ,
            
             
               To
               short-liv'd
               Beauty
               match'd
               her
               Days
               !
            
             
             
               And
               
                 endless
                 Lyce
              
               justly
               spares
            
             
               Beyond
               the
               Ravens
               hundred
               Years
               ;
            
             
               While
               all
               the
               Fops
               that
               once
               ador'd
               her
               Flame
               ,
            
             
               Laugh
               at
               her
               Snuff
               ,
               and
               triumph
               in
               her
               Shame
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             On
             a
             Fair
             Lady
             singing
             .
          
           
             WHen
             Isis
             Murmurs
             first
             did
             reach
             my
             ear
             ,
          
           
             I
             nothing
             but
             its
             hasty
             flight
             did
             fear
             ;
          
           
             Whilst
             list'ning
             to
             the
             Syrene
             Streams
             I
             lay
             ,
          
           
             My
             Life
             ,
             like
             them
             ,
             did
             gently
             glide
             away
             .
          
           
             But
             when
             th'
             inspiring
             Notes
             from
             Caelia
             came
             ,
          
           
             They
             kindled
             in
             me
             such
             a
             mighty
             Flame
             ,
          
           
             As
             did
             my
             vital
             heat
             put
             out
             ,
             so
             strong
             ,
          
           
             It
             s
             very
             name
             would
             almost
             burn
             the
             Tongue
             .
          
           
             I
             thought
             I
             could
             ,
             
             Camelion-like
             ,
             have
             liv'd
             ,
          
           
             On
             such
             sweet
             Air
             ,
             ah
             me
             !
             I
             dye
             deceiv'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             cheated
             of
             my
             Life
             ;
             who
             'd
             think
             t'
             have
             found
          
           
             Death
             in
             her
             Voice
             ,
             in
             such
             a
             balsam
             VVound
             ?
          
           
           
             Thus
             the
             vig'rous
             heat
             that
             Phoebus
             meant
             should
             warm
          
           
             His
             Votaries
             ,
             turns
             too
             often
             to
             their
             harm
             .
          
           
             What
             various
             methods
             Fate
             's
             decrees
             fullfil
             !
          
           
             Where
             is
             not
             Death
             if
             gentle
             Caelia
             kill
             ?
          
        
         
           
             The
             Recantation
             not
             accepted
             .
          
           
             WHen
             long
             I
             'd
             been
             with
             dreadful
             Ills
             opprest
             ,
          
           
             And
             still
             my
             Murdress
             would
             deny
             me
             rest
             ,
          
           
             VVhen
             Friends
             in
             vain
             had
             try'd
             their
             Remedies
             ,
          
           
             And
             neither
             Art
             nor
             Nature
             gave
             me
             ease
             ;
          
           
             I
             thought
             ,
             I
             'm
             sure
             I
             wish'd
             ,
             my
             end
             drew
             nigh
             ,
          
           
             And
             tho
             I
             could
             not
             live
             in
             Love
             ,
             yet
             I
          
           
             Firmly
             resolv'd
             in
             Charity
             to
             dye
             :
          
           
             And
             thus
             bespake
             the
             angry
             Deity
             .
          
           
             Love
             ,
             I
             forgive
             thee
             ,
             thou
             hast
             been
             but
             just
             ,
          
           
             Since
             thou
             wilt
             have
             me
             dye
             ,
             I
             will
             and
             must
             .
          
           
             I
             do
             confess
             I
             have
             deserv'd
             that
             smart
             ,
          
           
             And
             restless
             pain
             ,
             which
             preys
             upon
             my
             heart
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             now
             to
             thee
             for
             cruel
             Mercy
             come
             ,
          
           
             Dispatch
             ,
             and
             quickly
             execute
             my
             doom
             .
          
           
             For
             what
             I
             've
             said
             ,
             unfeignedly
             I
             grieve
             ,
          
           
             Have
             pity
             then
             ,
             condemn
             me
             not
             to
             live
             .
          
           
             The
             angry
             God
             heard
             this
             ,
             and
             strait
             reply'd
             ,
          
           
             Fond
             wretch
             !
             how
             oft
             did'st
             thou
             my
             power
             deride
             ,
          
           
             Tho
             both
             by
             Verse
             and
             Temper
             too
             enclin'd
          
           
             To
             pay
             an
             Homage
             to
             all
             Womankind
             ?
          
           
             My
             best-wrought
             Plots
             thou
             could'st
             with
             ease
             undo
             ,
          
           
             And
             thought'st
             thy self
             the
             greater
             God
             o'th'two
             ;
          
           
             Some
             easie
             Fools
             deluded
             then
             by
             thee
             ,
          
           
             Spurn'd
             at
             my
             Throne
             ,
             my
             Laws
             ,
             and
             Majesty
             .
          
           
             Thou
             shalt
             the
             guilt
             of
             their
             Offences
             bear
             ,
          
           
             And
             she
             (
             because
             I
             'll
             force
             thee
             to
             despair
             )
          
           
             Shall
             all
             her
             Sexes
             brightest
             Glories
             wear
             .
          
           
             Thou
             still
             shalt
             love
             ,
             but
             she
             make
             no
             return
             ,
          
           
             Such
             Hereticks
             as
             thou
             should
             always
             burn
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Catull.
             ad
             Lesbiam
             5.
             
          
           
             LEt
             's
             live
             ,
             my
             Lesbia
             ,
             whilst
             we
             may
             ,
          
           
             And
             without
             Love
             beguile
             the
             day
             ;
          
           
             Old
             Cynicks
             Censures
             let
             's
             despise
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             none
             ,
             besides
             themselves
             ,
             think
             wise
             ▪
          
           
             The
             same
             Sun
             sets
             and
             rises
             ,
             true
             ,
          
           
             But
             'twont
             be
             so
             with
             me
             and
             you
             ;
          
           
             For
             when
             our
             Light
             is
             once
             withdrawn
             ,
          
           
             Ne're
             hope
             to
             see
             another
             dawn
             .
          
           
             A
             thousand
             Kisses
             I
             would
             have
             ,
          
           
             And
             next
             ,
             my
             Dear
             ,
             a
             hundred
             crave
             ,
          
           
             And
             then
             another
             thousand
             ,
             thou
          
           
             Another
             hundred
             must
             allow
             ,
          
           
             A
             thousand
             add
             ,
             a
             hundred
             more
             ,
          
           
             (
             I
             would
             not
             be
             in
             Kisses
             poor
             .
             )
          
           
             When
             this
             w'have
             done
             ,
             we
             'll
             mix
             them
             so
             ,
          
           
             That
             we
             our selves
             shall
             never
             know
          
           
             What
             we
             to
             one
             another
             owe.
          
           
             There
             is
             no
             fear
             of
             any
             charm
             ,
          
           
             The
             number
             will
             defend
             from
             harm
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             On
             Caelia's
             Sickness
             .
          
           
             FOrgive
             me
             Heaven
             ,
             if
             I
             now
             accuse
          
           
             You
             of
             Injustice
             ,
             since
             you
             thus
             abuse
          
           
             That
             Goodness
             which
             deserves
             much
             more
          
           
             Than
             you
             can
             spare
             out
             of
             your
             wealthy
             Store
             .
          
           
             If
             (
             what
             I
             dread
             to
             ask
             )
             my
             Crimes
             alone
          
           
             Procur'd
             those
             Evils
             she
             hath
             undergone
             ,
          
           
             And
             you
             to
             make
             me
             feel
             the
             greater
             smart
             ,
          
           
             Would
             wound
             me
             in
             this
             best
             ,
             this
             tender'st
             part
             ,
          
           
             Chastise
             me
             rather
             in
             my self
             ,
             than
             her
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Life
             I
             much
             above
             my
             own
             prefer
             .
          
           
             The
             Pain
             may
             discompose
             her
             Mind
             ,
             but
             I
          
           
             Will
             gladly
             bear
             it
             ,
             so
             you
             'll
             pass
             her
             by
             .
          
           
             On
             me
             inflict
             whatever
             can
             be
             due
             ,
          
           
             For
             I
             indeed
             have
             injur'd
             her
             and
             you
             .
          
           
             I
             'm
             soon
             dispatch'd
             ,
             if
             you
             'll
             but
             carry
             on
          
           
             That
             Work
             ,
             which
             she
             already
             hath
             begun
             .
          
           
             But
             now
             I
             think
             on
             't
             ,
             both
             of
             us
             are
             free
          
           
             From
             future
             strokes
             ;
             she
             by
             Divinity
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             I
             by
             Fate
             secur'd
             ,
             for
             I
             am
             dead
             ,
          
           
             My
             Soul
             long
             since
             to
             her
             ,
             my
             Heaven
             ,
             fled
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             SONG
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               THE
               God-like
               she
               shall
               still
               possess
            
             
               My
               Soul
               ,
               tho
               I
               in
               vain
            
             
               Implore
               her
               help
               in
               my
               distress
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               I
               'll
               enjoy
               my
               Pain
               .
            
             
               In
               humble
               Accents
               I
               'll
               adore
            
             
               The
               Beauty
               I
               admire
               ,
            
             
               Tho
               I
               can
               never
               hope
               for
               more
               ,
            
             
               Who
               would
               not
               so
               expire
               ?
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Who
               strait
               gives
               o're
               when
               he
               is
               cross'd
               ,
            
             
               Deserves
               no
               Mercy
               sure
               ,
            
             
               But
               he
               ,
               whose
               Love
               does
               then
               shine
               most
               ,
            
             
               When
               he
               despairs
               of
               Cure
               :
            
             
             
               From
               Lust
               ,
               or
               baser
               Int'rest
               ,
               may
            
             
               Such
               hasty
               Flashes
               rise
               ,
            
             
               But
               he
               who
               truly
               doth
               obey
            
             
               Rejoyces
               when
               he
               dies
               .
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Whilst
               angry
               Death
               doth
               for
               him
               wait
               ,
            
             
               And
               sees
               his
               Bravery
               ,
            
             
               The
               Flames
               that
               threaten
               him
               with
               Fate
            
             
               Do
               tremble
               more
               than
               he
               .
            
             
               Spectators
               ,
               when
               they
               see
               him
               faint
               ,
            
             
               His
               loudest
               Praises
               sing
               ,
            
             
               So
               ,
               of
               the
               Martyr
               make
               a
               Saint
               ,
            
             
               And
               fall
               to
               worshipping
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             LIFE
             .
          
           
             'T
             IS
             but
             a
             little
             space
             we
             have
             ,
          
           
             Betwixt
             the
             Cradle
             and
             the
             Grave
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             are
             our
             Cares
             and
             Evils
             such
             ,
          
           
             That
             ev'n
             that
             little
             is
             too
             much
             .
          
           
           
             Here
             's
             nothing
             real
             ,
             we
             may
             seem
          
           
             To
             live
             ,
             but
             then
             that
             Life
             's
             a
             dream
             .
          
           
             We
             talk
             as
             if
             we
             something
             were
             ,
          
           
             And
             whilst
             we
             talk
             we
             disappear
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             an
             ill
             Omen
             thought
             by
             some
             ,
          
           
             If
             when
             into
             the
             World
             we
             come
             ,
          
           
             We
             fall
             not
             headlong
             from
             the
             Womb.
          
           
             And
             't
             is
             not
             likely
             what
             's
             begun
          
           
             With
             rashness
             ,
             should
             be
             carried
             on
          
           
             Without
             Precipitation
             .
          
           
             For
             one
             ,
             we
             say
             is
             dead
             ,
             we
             grieve
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             know
             not
             what
             it
             is
             to
             live
             :
          
           
             We
             think
             that
             by
             our
             Sighs
             we
             shew
          
           
             The
             Love
             which
             we
             to
             him
             did
             owe
             ,
          
           
             And
             kindly
             wish
             him
             to
             remove
          
           
             From
             his
             most
             bless'd
             Abode
             above
             .
          
           
             Then
             ,
             that
             we
             may
             preserve
             his
             Fame
             ,
          
           
             With
             Praises
             we
             embalm
             his
             Name
             .
          
           
             The
             Tomb
             stone
             carries
             on
             the
             Cheat
             ,
          
           
             And
             falsly
             says
             ,
             
               Here
               lies
               the
               Great
            
             ;
          
           
             When
             sordid
             Dust
             is
             there
             alone
             ,
          
           
             The
             Soul
             's
             to
             a
             strange
             somewhere
             gone
             .
          
           
           
             It
             sees
             ,
             and
             wonders
             why
             we
             thus
          
           
             Bemoan
             his
             Loss
             who
             pities
             us
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             a
             much-admired
             Lady
             .
          
           
             
               Madam
               ,
            
          
           
             I
             See
             my
             Error
             plainly
             now
             ,
             for
             I
             ,
          
           
             Fool
             that
             I
             was
             !
             thought
             you
             at
             last
             must
             dye
             .
          
           
             To
             leave
             this
             busie
             World
             behind
             is
             Death
             ,
          
           
             But
             that
             I
             've
             found
             will
             vanish
             with
             your
             breath
             ;
          
           
             Or
             should
             some
             few
             ,
             by
             mighty
             chance
             survive
             ,
          
           
             I
             think
             't
             would
             scarce
             be
             worth
             their
             while
             to
             live
             ,
          
           
             Vertue
             I
             'm
             sure
             would
             not
             be
             understood
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             could
             men
             know
             what
             't
             would
             be
             to
             be
             good
             .
          
           
             Tho
             now
             they
             may
             to
             some
             Perfection
             grow
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             when
             you
             're
             dead
             ,
             what
             can
             Example
             do
             ?
          
           
             Your
             present
             Influence
             I
             alone
             can
             prove
             ,
          
           
             Wit
             ,
             Beauty
             ,
             Goodness
             ,
             'cause
             they
             're
             yours
             ,
             I
             love
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             To
             a
             very
             accomplished
             Lady
             .
          
           
             
               Madam
               ,
            
          
           
             WHen
             your
             transcendent
             worth
             I
             would
             commend
             ,
          
           
             Methinks
             the
             feeble
             Praise
             I
             upwards
             send
             ,
          
           
             Like
             panting
             Mists
             ,
             beneath
             a
             Hill
             ,
             doth
             rise
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             wing'd
             with
             Zeal
             ,
             yet
             whilst
             aspiring
             ,
             dies
             ;
          
           
             It
             strives
             to
             reach
             your
             worth
             ,
             but
             your
             great
             height
          
           
             Doth
             baffle
             all
             its
             best
             endeavours
             strait
             .
          
           
             Yet
             my
             fond
             Muse
             resolves
             her
             Strength
             to
             try
             ,
          
           
             Altho
             she
             's
             sure
             in
             the
             Attempt
             to
             dye
             .
          
           
             And
             now
             she
             hath
             thus
             rashly
             ventur'd
             in
             ,
          
           
             She
             knows
             not
             how
             ,
             or
             where
             ,
             she
             should
             begin
             ,
          
           
             Is
             doubtful
             which
             should
             have
             the
             foremost
             place
             ,
          
           
             The
             native
             smoothness
             of
             your
             Speech
             ,
             or
             ●…ace
             ;
          
           
             The
             silent
             lines
             that
             on
             your
             Cheeks
             do
             grow
             ,
          
           
             Or
             those
             which
             in
             soft
             pleasing
             Accents
             flow
             ;
          
           
             These
             must
             to
             one
             another
             yield
             ,
             for
             we
          
           
             In
             both
             discern
             the
             self
             same
             Harmony
             .
          
           
           
             Your
             well-fram'd
             Body
             seems
             to
             her
             so
             fine
             ,
          
           
             She
             thinks
             your
             glorious
             Soul
             doth
             thro'
             it
             shine
             ,
          
           
             Doubts
             which
             o'
             th'
             two
             she
             highest
             ought
             to
             set
             ,
          
           
             The
             precious
             Jewel
             ,
             or
             the
             Cabinet
             .
          
           
             When
             she
             your
             unstain'd
             whiteness
             views
             ,
             from
             thence
          
           
             She
             firmly
             gathers
             inward
             Innocence
             .
          
           
             She
             doth
             through
             Smiles
             your
             Patience
             clearly
             spy
             ,
          
           
             And
             reads
             your
             Wisdom
             in
             your
             searching
             eye
             ;
          
           
             Knows
             how
             all
             Vertues
             by
             your
             Looks
             are
             dress'd
             ,
          
           
             Or
             in
             resembling
             Characters
             express'd
             .
          
           
             But
             stay
             a
             while
             ,
             yet
             hold
             unhappy
             Muse
             ,
          
           
             And
             see
             whom
             thou
             thus
             humbly
             do'st
             abuse
             :
          
           
             I
             'm
             sure
             thou
             dost
             unpard'nably
             offend
             ,
          
           
             And
             needs
             must
             come
             to
             an
             untimely
             end
             ,
          
           
             Unless
             her
             Mercy
             do
             all
             those
             transcend
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             To
             the
             same
             ,
             immoderately
             mourning
             the
             Death
             of
             a
             Relation
             .
          
           
             IN
             vain
             you
             keep
             your
             Sorrow
             fresh
             with
             Tears
             ,
          
           
             In
             vain
             renew
             your
             Trouble
             and
             our
             Fears
             .
          
           
             For
             Heaven's
             sake
             leave
             ,
             your
             Love
             no
             more
             commend
             ,
          
           
             By
             making
             Grief
             so
             long
             out-live
             your
             Friend
             .
          
           
             Whilst
             thus
             with
             hideous
             groans
             and
             doleful
             cries
          
           
             You
             wound
             the
             yielding
             Air
             ,
             with
             Tears
             your
             eyes
             ;
          
           
             You
             must
             what
             she
             to
             Nature
             ow'd
             ,
             forget
             ,
          
           
             Or
             else
             repine
             she
             dy'd
             no
             more
             in
             Debt
             .
          
           
             When
             she
             in
             Baptism
             her
             first
             Vow
             did
             make
             ,
          
           
             She
             promis'd
             by
             her
             Sureties
             to
             forsake
          
           
             The
             World
             ,
             and
             all
             its
             Pomp
             ;
             and
             can
             you
             now
          
           
             Grieve
             she
             is
             dead
             ,
             who
             only
             keeps
             her
             Vow
             ?
          
           
             When
             searching
             Fate
             shall
             its
             Advantage
             find
             ,
          
           
             And
             most
             compendiously
             destroy
             Mankind
             ,
          
           
             In
             you
             alone
             ,
             Mirth
             then
             will
             Scandal
             grow
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             men
             mourn
             ,
             or
             feign
             that
             they
             do
             so
             .
          
           
           
             Should
             each
             of
             those
             shed
             but
             one
             single
             Tear
             ,
          
           
             To
             whom
             you
             're
             known
             ,
             that
             is
             ,
             to
             whom
             you
             're
             dear
             ,
          
           
             The
             World
             would
             in
             an
             instant
             cover'd
             be
          
           
             With
             Waters
             ,
             once
             more
             perish
             in
             a
             Sea.
          
           
             Think
             then
             what
             fears
             already
             fill
             the
             Breast
          
           
             Of
             some
             ,
             what
             haste
             you
             make
             to
             kill
             the
             rest
             .
          
        
         
           
             Secret
             Grief
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               FArewel
               ,
               fond
               Pleasures
               ,
               I
               disdain
            
             
               Your
               Nets
               of
               Roses
               ,
               loose
               my
               Chain
               ,
            
             
               And
               set
               my
               fetter'd
               Powers
               free
            
             
               (
               For
               you
               and
               I
               shall
               ne're
               agree
               )
            
             
               Tempt
               me
               no
               more
               ,
               't
               is
               all
               in
               vain
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               The
               easie
               World
               with
               Charms
               assail
               ,
            
             
               Of
               Triumphs
               there
               you
               cannot
               fail
               ,
            
             
               On
               those
               to
               whom
               the
               Cheat's
               unknown
            
             
               You
               will
               infallibly
               prevail
               .
            
             
               But
               let
               my
               Solitude
               and
               me
               alone
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Let
               the
               sad
               Cypress
               crown
               my
               Head
               ,
            
             
               The
               deadly
               Poppy
               on
               my
               Temples
               shed
               ,
            
             
               Through
               all
               my
               Veins
               its
               Juyce
               bespread
               .
            
             
               Could
               I
               retrieve
               my
               former
               years
               ,
            
             
               I
               'd
               live
               them
               o're
               again
               in
               Tears
               .
            
          
           
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               In
               secret
               I
               'll
               enjoy
               my
               Grief
               ,
            
             
               Not
               tell
               the
               Cause
               ,
               nor
               ask
               relief
               .
            
             
               Though
               ne're
               so
               high
               the
               Streams
               should
               grow
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               't
               is
               not
               fit
               the
               World
               should
               know
            
             
               The
               Spring
               from
               whence
               my
               Sorrows
               flow
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Mart.
             L.
             1.
             
             Ep
             58.
             
          
           
             WOuld
             Flaccus
             know
             ,
             if
             I
             would
             change
             my
             Life
             ,
          
           
             What
             kind
             of
             Girl
             I
             'd
             chuse
             to
             make
             my
             Wife
             ,
          
           
             I
             wou'd
             not
             have
             her
             be
             so
             fond
             to
             say
          
           
             Yes
             ,
             at
             first
             dash
             ,
             nor
             dwell
             too
             long
             on
             Nay
             .
          
           
             These
             two
             Extreams
             I
             hate
             ,
             then
             let
             her
             be
          
           
             'Twixt
             both
             ,
             not
             too
             hard-hearted
             ,
             nor
             too
             free
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             GRACES
             ,
             or
             
               Hieron
               Theocriti
               Idyll
            
             .
             16.
             
          
           
             Translated
             by
             Sir
             
               Edward
               Sherborn
            
             ,
             above
             forty
             years
             ago
             .
          
           
             
               THE
               Muses
               ,
               and
               the
               Muse
               inspired
               Crew
               ,
            
             
               This
               always
               ,
               as
               their
               best-lov'd
               Theam
               ,
               pursue
            
             
               The
               Honour
               of
               immortal
               Gods
               to
               raise
               ,
            
             
               And
               crown
               the
               Actions
               of
               Good
               Men
               with
               Praise
               .
            
             
               For
               Deities
               the
               Muses
               are
               ,
               and
               use
            
             
               (
               As
               such
               )
               to
               give
               to
               Deities
               their
               Dues
               .
            
             
               We
               Poets
               are
               but
               Mortals
               ,
               sing
               we
               then
            
             
               The
               Deeds
               of
               god-like
               ,
               tho
               but
               mortal
               men
               .
            
          
           
             
               None
               kindly
               yet
               our
               Graces
               entertain
               ,
            
             
               But
               send
               them
               unrewarded
               back
               again
               .
            
             
               This
               made
               the
               Girls
               ,
               when
               bare-foot
               they
               came
               home
               .
            
             
               Chide
               me
               ,
               for
               idly
               sending
               them
               to
               roam
            
             
               On
               sleeveless
               Errands
               :
               wearied
               here
               to
               stay
               ,
            
             
               They
               sigh
               their
               melancholy
               Souls
               away
               .
            
             
             
               They
               loath
               their
               sordid
               Lodging
               ,
               fume
               and
               fret
            
             
               'Cause
               for
               their
               Labours
               they
               can
               nothing
               get
               .
            
             
               For
               where
               's
               the
               generous
               Mortal
               now
               a-days
            
             
               That
               loves
               to
               hear
               a
               Poet
               's
               well-tun'd
               Lays
               ?
            
             
               To
               find
               one
               such
               I
               know
               not
               ;
               some
               ,
               't
               is
               true
               ,
            
             
               Love
               te
               be
               prais'd
               ;
               none
               a
               good
               Deed
               will
               do
               .
            
             
               They
               value
               not
               their
               Honours
               ,
               as
               of
               old
               ,
            
             
               But
               are
               meer
               Slaves
               to
               Avarice
               and
               Gold.
            
             
               Just
               or
               unjust
               ,
               all
               Practices
               they
               try
            
             
               For
               heaps
               of
               Treasure
               ,
               but
               will
               rather
               dye
            
             
               Than
               part
               with
               the
               bare
               Scrapings
               of
               its
               Rust
               ,
            
             
               To
               satisfie
               a
               needy
               Poet's
               Gust
               .
            
             
               If
               any
               chance
               a
               Boon
               of
               them
               to
               beg
               ,
            
             
               They
               cry
               ,
               
                 My
                 Knee
                 is
                 nearer
                 than
                 my
                 Leg.
              
            
             
               Of
               what
               is
               mine
               ,
               my self
               alone
               shall
               share
               ,
            
             
               〈◊〉
               their
               own
               Poets
               let
               the
               Gods
               take
               care
               .
            
             
               Who
               to
               another's
               Pray'r
               now
               lends
               an
               Ear
               ?
            
             
               Not
               one
               .
               This
               Truth
               Homer
               to
               all
               makes
               clear
               ;
            
             
               The
               best
               of
               Poets
               !
               tho
               the
               best
               he
               be
               ,
            
             
               He
               gets
               not
               yet
               one
               single
               Cross
               from
               me
               .
            
          
           
             
               Mad
               men
               !
               what
               's
               Wealth
               ,
               if
               still
               the
               hoarded
               Gold
            
             
               From
               others
               under
               Lock
               and
               Key
               you
               hold
               ?
            
             
             
               None
               wise
               thinks
               this
               is
               the
               true
               use
               of
               it
               ,
            
             
               Some
               part
               for
               proper
               Interest
               we
               should
               fit
               ,
            
             
               And
               some
               apply
               to
               the
               Support
               of
               Wit
               :
            
             
               Some
               to
               our
               near
               Allies
               we
               should
               allow
               ,
            
             
               To
               Strangers
               some
               ,
               some
               to
               the
               Gods
               should
               vow
               ,
            
             
               Set
               some
               for
               Hospitality
               a-part
               ,
            
             
               To
               treat
               our
               Friends
               with
               open
               hand
               and
               heart
               :
            
             
               But
               chiefly
               to
               maintain
               the
               Muses
               Quire
               ;
            
             
               That
               when
               to
               the
               old
               Grave
               thou
               shalt
               retire
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               may'st
               among
               the
               living
               gain
               Renown
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               mourn
               inglorious
               near
               sad
               Acheron
               ,
            
             
               As
               some
               poor
               Ditcher
               with
               hard
               brawny
               hand
               ,
            
             
               That
               cannot
               heavy
               Poverty
               withstand
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               great
               Antiochus
               in
               plenteous
               measure
            
             
               Supply'd
               his
               Subjects
               Wants
               from
               his
               own
               Treasure
               ,
            
             
               So
               King
               Alevas
               ;
               many
               sat
               Droves
               went
            
             
               Into
               his
               Stalls
               ,
               and
               from
               his
               Stalls
               were
               sent
               .
            
             
               Insinite
               Flocks
               large
               Pastures
               did
               afford
            
             
               To
               furnish
               Crion's
               hospitable
               Board
               .
            
             
               No
               Pleasure
               yet
               from
               all
               this
               Princely
               store
            
             
               Could
               they
               receive
               ,
               were
               their
               Souls
               wasted
               o're
            
             
               In
               
               Charon's
               Boat
               to
               the
               dark
               Stygian
               Shore
               .
            
             
             
               But
               in
               obscure
               Oblivion
               they
               would
               lye
               ,
            
             
               Depriv'd
               of
               all
               their
               Superfluity
               ,
            
             
               'Mongst
               wretched
               Souls
               whom
               no
               Time
               can
               ,
               nor
               Age
            
             
               From
               their
               sad
               Miseries
               e're
               disengage
               ,
            
             
               If
               the
               great
               Ceian
               Poet
               had
               not
               been
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               his
               Praises
               made
               them
               live
               again
               .
            
             
               Ev●…
               the
               swift
               Coursers
               at
               th'
               Olympick
               Game
            
             
               Are
               registred
               in
               the
               Records
               of
               Fame
               .
            
             
               Who
               of
               the
               Lycian
               Princes
               e're
               had
               heard
               ?
            
             
               Of
               Cyrnus
               with
               his
               flaxen
               Hair
               and
               Beard
               ,
            
             
               Or
               
               Prim's
               Sons
               ?
               forgot
               they
               had
               been
               long
               ,
            
             
               Their
               Wars
               ,
               and
               Battels
               ,
               had
               not
               Poets
               sung
               .
            
             
               Ulisses
               ,
               who
               full
               six
               score
               Months
               was
               tost
               ,
            
             
               And
               Time
               and
               Wealth
               'mongst
               several
               Nations
               lost
               ;
            
             
               Who
               went
               to
               Hell
               alive
               ,
               and
               by
               a
               slight
            
             
               From
               the
               fierce
               Cyclops
               Cave
               ,
               made
               his
               safe
               flight
               ,
            
             
               Had
               never
               been
               remembred
               but
               for
               us
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               poor
               Eumaeus
               or
               Philaetius
            
             
               His
               Shepheard
               ,
               and
               his
               Herdsman
               .
               Who
               had
               known
            
             
               That
               to
               great
               Sould
               Laertes
               he
               was
               Son
               ?
            
             
               Had
               not
               the
               Ionian
               Bard
               his
               Acts
               and
               Name
            
             
               Inroll'd
               in
               the
               eternal
               Book
               of
               Fame
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Glory
               on
               men
               is
               by
               the
               Muses
               spread
               ,
            
             
               The
               living
               waste
               the
               Treasure
               of
               the
               dead
               :
            
             
               But
               easier
               't
               is
               for
               me
               to
               reckon
               o're
            
             
               The
               Waves
               which
               the
               Wind
               drives
               against
               the
               Shore
               ,
            
             
               Or
               wash
               a
               Blackmoor
               white
               ,
               than
               e're
               perswade
            
             
               To
               good
               ,
               a
               Slave
               to
               Avarice
               once
               made
               .
            
          
           
             
               Then
               farewel
               such
               vile
               Scoundrels
               !
               let
               them
               lye
            
             
               Obscur'd
               in
               base
               Illiberality
               :
            
             
               Doating
               upon
               their
               vast
               ,
               and
               ill-got
               store
               ,
            
             
               Still
               vex'd
               with
               restless
               care
               of
               getting
               more
               .
            
             
               A
               good
               man's
               Love
               to
               me
               's
               a
               greater
               Grace
            
             
               Than
               many
               Mules
               or
               Horses
               for
               the
               Race
               .
            
             
               Yet
               willingly
               a
               man
               I
               'd
               seek
               ,
               would
               make
            
             
               Me
               ,
               and
               the
               Muses
               welcome
               for
               my
               sake
               :
            
             
               But
               those
               sweet
               Singers
               ,
               without
               
               Iove's
               Advice
               ,
            
             
               Will
               find
               the
               way
               too
               difficult
               and
               nice
               .
            
             
               Yet
               has
               not
               Heaven
               left
               off
               to
               turn
               its
               Sphears
               ,
            
             
               Or
               ceas'd
               to
               measure
               time
               by
               Months
               and
               Years
               ;
            
             
               And
               happily
               there
               will
               a
               Man
               arise
            
             
               May
               need
               our
               Verse
               ,
               nor
               will
               our
               Songs
               despise
               ;
            
             
               One
               ,
               that
               in
               Actions
               greater
               may
               engage
            
             
               Than
               Ajax
               did
               ,
               or
               stout
               Achilles
               wage
            
             
             
               In
               Simois
               Fields
               ;
               within
               whose
               Plains
               extent
            
             
               Of
               
                 Phrygian
                 Ilus
              
               stands
               the
               Monument
               .
            
             
               And
               now
               a
               Punick
               Race
               ,
               near
               the
               Sun
               's
               set
            
             
               From
               
               Libia's
               Confines
               Wars
               dire
               horrors
               threat
               .
            
             
               Now
               Syracusians
               their
               short
               Iavelins
               try
               ,
            
             
               And
               Wicker
               Targets
               to
               their
               Arms
               apply
               .
            
             
               And
               'mongst
               them
               ,
               Hieron
               ,
               equal
               to
               the
               best
            
             
               Of
               ancient
               Hero's
               ,
               stands
               in
               Armour
               drest
               ,
            
             
               A
               Horseman
               shadowing
               o're
               his
               glittering
               Crest
               .
            
             
               Oh
               mighty
               Iove
               !
               Father
               of
               Gods
               !
               Heav'ns
               King
               !
            
             
               And
               thou
               who
               from
               his
               midwiv'd
               Brain
               did'st
               spring
            
             
               Honour●…d
               Minerva
               !
               and
               thou
               Proserpine
               !
            
             
               With
               Mother
               Ceres
               !
               under
               whose
               divine
            
             
               Protection
               still
               the
               mighty
               City
               stands
               ,
            
             
               First
               rais'd
               by
               wealthy
               Ephyrean
               hands
               ,
            
             
               Near
               
               Lysimelia's
               Lake
               ,
               dread
               Pow'rs
               !
               expell
            
             
               
               Sicilia's
               Foes
               :
               That
               they
               return'd
               may
               tell
            
             
               Their
               Wives
               and
               Children
               how
               their
               slain
               friends
               fell
               ;
            
             
               And
               let
               the
               Towns
               by
               hostile
               Arms
               destroy'd
               ,
            
             
               By
               former
               Dwellers
               now
               be
               re-enjoy'd
               ;
            
             
               That
               they
               may
               dress
               their
               fertile
               Fields
               and
               breed
            
             
               Numberless
               bleating
               Flocks
               therein
               to
               feed
               .
            
             
             
               Let
               their
               horn'd
               Heards
               ,
               call'd
               home
               at
               night
               from
               grass
               ,
            
             
               Urge
               lazy
               Travellers
               to
               mend
               their
               pace
               .
            
             
               Let
               now
               the
               fallowed
               Fields
               be
               sown
               again
               ,
            
             
               And
               freshly
               flourish
               with
               fair
               Crops
               of
               Grain
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               labouring
               Mowers
               the
               rich
               Meadows
               share
               ,
            
             
               Shrubs
               ecchoing
               with
               the
               shrill-voic'd
               Grashopper
               .
            
             
               Let
               ev'n
               the
               Name
               of
               War
               in
               all
               mouths
               cease
               ,
            
             
               Be
               no
               Arts
               cherish'd
               but
               the
               Arts
               of
               Peace
               :
            
             
               Let
               Spiders
               rusty
               Arms
               in
               Cobwebs
               dress
               ,
            
             
               Let
               Poets
               
               Hieron's
               glorious
               Acts
               rehearse
               ,
            
             
               And
               spread
               his
               Fame
               throughout
               the
               Universe
               ;
            
             
               'Mongst
               whom
               I
               'll
               sing
               for
               one
               ;
               tho
               I
               not
               reach
            
             
               So
               high
               as
               some
               whom
               
               Iove's
               fair
               Daughters
            
             
               Who
               love
               Sicilian
               Arethusa's
               Name
               teach
               ;
            
             
               To
               chant
               ,
               and
               
               Hieron's
               valiant
               Acts
               proclaim
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Anacreon's
             Odes
             paraphras'd
             .
             AGE
             .
             Od.
             47.
             
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
            
             ,
             &c.
             
          
           
             I
             Like
             the
             Youth
             that
             does
             improve
          
           
             His
             Blood
             with
             Wine
             ,
             his
             Heat
             with
             Love
             :
          
           
             I
             like
             the
             Man
             that
             Age
             beguiles
             ,
          
           
             And
             owes
             his
             Wrinkles
             to
             his
             Smiles
             ;
          
           
             That
             his
             dry'd
             Veins
             with
             Grapes
             repairs
             ,
          
           
             And
             gilds
             with
             Oyl
             his
             whit'ned
             Hairs
             .
          
           
             That
             keeps
             dark
             sullen
             Care
             his
             Slave
             ,
          
           
             And
             dances
             down
             into
             the
             Grave
             .
          
           
             He
             ,
             though
             his
             Head
             in
             Snow
             be
             drest
             ,
          
           
             Fresh
             ,
             flow'ry
             Youth
             keeps
             in
             his
             Breast
             .
          
           
             Fresh
             Youth
             he
             keeps
             ,
             and
             sweetest
             Fire
             ,
          
           
             Life's
             heat
             maintaining
             by
             desire
             .
          
           
             So
             
             Aetna's
             Head
             is
             silver'd
             o're
             with
             Snow
             ,
          
           
             But
             Flowers
             smile
             ,
             and
             Flames
             break
             forth
             below
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             AGE
             .
             Od.
             34.
             
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
            
             ,
             &c.
             
          
           
             THo
             in
             pale
             Whites
             my
             Face
             appear
             ,
          
           
             Tho
             thine
             the
             fairest
             Flowers
             wear
             ,
          
           
             Tho
             Winter
             here
             ,
             there
             Summer
             grow
             ,
          
           
             Fly
             not
             ,
             thy
             Fire
             will
             melt
             my
             Snow
             .
          
           
             From
             my
             warm
             Snow
             no
             more
             retreat
             ,
          
           
             The
             Sun
             ,
             when
             whitest
             ,
             darts
             most
             heat
             .
          
           
             My
             paler
             Locks
             commend
             with
             thine
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             thy
             Gold
             my
             Silver
             twine
             .
          
           
             See
             how
             the
             Lillies
             white
             as
             me
             ,
          
           
             See
             how
             the
             Roses
             red
             as
             thee
             ,
          
           
             Married
             in
             this
             Garland
             twine
             ,
          
           
             And
             growing
             Snow
             and
             Blood
             combine
             !
          
           
             Such
             should
             our
             mix'd
             Embraces
             be
             ,
          
           
             Chequ'ring
             Anacreon
             with
             thee
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             DRINKING
             .
             Od.
             25.
             
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
            
             ,
             &c.
             
          
           
             FIll
             up
             the
             Glass
             ,
             when
             I
             drink
             deep
          
           
             My
             drowned
             Cares
             ,
             before
             me
             ,
             sleep
             .
          
           
             I
             'll
             know
             no
             Cares
             ,
             nor
             Grief
             ,
             nor
             Tears
             ,
          
           
             Sweet
             Oyls
             shall
             swim
             above
             salt
             Tears
             .
          
           
             Since
             I
             must
             dye
             ,
             come
             ,
             let
             me
             live
             ,
          
           
             Garlands
             and
             Wine
             the
             Victim
             give
             .
          
           
             Garlands
             ,
             which
             ,
             like
             me
             ,
             must
             wither
             ,
          
           
             Then
             let
             's
             smile
             ,
             then
             fade
             together
             .
          
           
             Wine
             ,
             that
             's
             mortal
             as
             I
             ,
          
           
             But
             let
             it
             not
             before
             me
             dye
             .
          
           
             Fill
             up
             the
             Glass
             ;
             while
             Care
             's
             asleep
          
           
             I
             'll
             drink
             it
             ,
             as
             my
             cold
             Grave
             ,
             deep
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             THE
             FIRST
             ELEGY
             OF
             Ovid's
             Amorum
             .
             Translated
             into
             ENGLISH
          
           
             By
             Mr.
             Ballow
             ,
             Fellow
             of
             
               Kings
               Colledge
            
             in
             CAMBRIDGE
             .
          
           
             TO
             sing
             of
             Mars
             and
             his
             Heroic
             Trains
          
           
             My
             Muse
             began
             ,
             and
             in
             becoming
             strains
             ,
          
           
             With
             equal
             pace
             the
             numbers
             took
             their
             way
          
           
             Slow
             ,
             but
             Majestic
             ,
             grave
             without
             delay
             .
          
           
           
             While
             Cupid
             at
             the
             fond
             endeavour
             smil'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             of
             a
             Foot
             the
             later
             Verse
             beguil'd
             .
          
           
             Ambitious
             Boy
             (
             said
             I
             )
             t'
             usurp
             a
             power
             ,
          
           
             O'er
             Poetry
             the
             Muses
             only
             Dower
             .
          
           
             As
             well
             may
             Venus
             claim
             the
             right
             of
             Arms
             ,
          
           
             Pallace
             preside
             o'er
             Love
             and
             Beauty's
             Charms
             .
          
           
             Ceres
             for
             Woods
             forgo
             the
             fertile
             Field
             ,
          
           
             Woods
             with
             Diana
             to
             the
             Fields
             may
             yield
             .
          
           
             Mars
             with
             Apollo
             change
             his
             deadly
             Spear
             ,
          
           
             For
             the
             soft
             Musick
             of
             his
             warbling
             Lyre
             .
          
           
             Too
             great
             a
             Rule
             already
             you
             possess
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             does
             your
             wild
             Ambition
             Covet
             less
             .
          
           
             Or
             is
             your
             Lawful
             Empire
             unconfin'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             by
             a
             right
             to
             all
             ,
             our
             Temple
             joyn'd
             ?
          
           
             Scarce
             now
             Apollo
             is
             your
             Harp
             secure
             ,
          
           
             O'er
             mine
             already
             he
             has
             stoln
             a
             power
             .
          
           
             When
             great
             Heroic
             Notes
             my
             Strings
             would
             play
             ,
          
           
             He
             strikes
             ;
             the
             Strings
             to
             softer
             Notes
             give
             way
             .
          
           
             Tyrant
             !
             to
             force
             me
             thus
             to
             sing
             of
             Love
             ,
          
           
             Which
             my
             unskilfull
             Breast
             did
             never
             prove
             .
          
           
           
             No
             tender
             Maid
             affords
             to
             me
             blest
             joys
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             gentle
             Youth
             my
             softer
             hours
             employs
             .
          
           
             He
             heard
             ,
             and
             from
             his
             sounding
             Quiver
             drew
          
           
             An
             Arrow
             ,
             to
             the
             fatal
             purpose
             true
             :
          
           
             Fly
             thou
             t'
             his
             idle
             heart
             (
             said
             he
             ,
             )
             and
             find
          
           
             A
             subject
             fit
             ●…'imploy
             his
             wounded
             mind
             .
          
           
             Wretch
             that
             I
             was
             !
             to
             tempt
             that
             Archers
             skill
             ;
          
           
             Ah
             now
             what
             Tyranny
             of
             Love
             I
             feel
             !
          
           
             Farewell
             all
             Warlike
             numbers
             ,
             warlike
             things
             ,
          
           
             Love
             tunes
             my
             heart
             to
             my
             enervate
             strings
             .
          
           
             With
             Myrtle
             Crown'd
             ,
             my
             Muse
             ,
             on
             measures
             move
          
           
             Soft
             and
             uneven
             ,
             fit
             for
             gentle
             Love.
             
          
        
         
           
           
             ELEGY
             II.
             
          
           
             WHat
             's
             this
             that
             thus
             of
             Sleep
             bereaves
             my
             night
             ?
          
           
             The
             Cloaths
             upon
             my
             Bed
             uneasie
             sit
             ,
          
           
             Unwonted
             hardness
             does
             my
             pillow
             seize
          
           
             And
             to
             my
             tossing
             head
             affords
             no
             ease
             .
          
           
             Am
             I
             to
             Love
             insensibly
             betray'd
             ,
          
           
             Which
             has
             this
             sudden
             alteration
             made
             ?
          
           
             'T
             is
             Love
             I
             see
             by
             cunning
             treach'rous
             art
          
           
             Has
             shot
             his
             secret
             Arrows
             to
             my
             heart
             .
          
           
             And
             must
             I
             yield
             ,
             or
             striving
             feed
             the
             Flame
             ,
          
           
             Which
             by
             complyance
             gentle
             grows
             and
             tame
             ?
          
           
             So
             motion
             does
             incense
             the
             Torches
             fire
             ,
          
           
             Which
             of
             it self
             would
             quietly
             expire
             .
          
           
             The
             Ox
             at
             first
             impatient
             of
             the
             Yoke
             ,
          
           
             Groans
             with
             the
             oft
             regeminated
             stroke
             .
          
           
           
             The
             willing
             Horse
             with
             easie
             bridle
             plays
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             the
             sharp
             curb
             th'
             unruly
             mouth
             obeys
             .
          
           
             So
             whilst
             we
             struggle
             with
             the
             Yoke
             of
             Love
             ,
          
           
             It
             by
             reluctance
             does
             more
             grievous
             prove
             .
          
           
             I
             yield
             ,
             I
             yield
             ,
             your
             new
             got
             prey
             receive
             ,
          
           
             Into
             your
             Chains
             my
             willing
             hands
             I
             give
             .
          
           
             Cease
             the
             no
             Victory
             with
             Arms
             to
             gain
             ,
          
           
             Who
             naked
             sues
             your
             Mercy
             to
             obtain
             .
          
           
             Go
             too
             ,
             about
             your
             Temples
             Myrtle
             twine
             ;
          
           
             To
             the
             light
             airy
             Chariot
             fitly
             joyn
          
           
             Your
             Mothers
             Doves
             ;
             methinks
             with
             graceful
             pride
             ,
          
           
             I
             see
             you
             through
             the
             Streets
             in
             Triumph
             ride
             ,
          
           
             With
             dextrous
             art
             the
             yoaked
             couple
             guide
             .
          
           
             A
             goodly
             Train
             in
             long
             procession
             go
          
           
             Of
             vanquish'd
             Men
             and
             Maids
             ,
             a
             Pompous
             show
             :
          
           
             With
             these
             I
             'll
             mix
             my self
             ,
             my
             Bonds
             no
             less
          
           
             Than
             Body
             shall
             my
             Captive
             Mind
             confess
             .
          
           
             Wisdom
             and
             Honour
             ,
             Modesty
             and
             Scorn
          
           
             Your
             foes
             ,
             betim'd
             in
             Fetters
             shall
             be
             born
             .
          
           
           
             All
             things
             your
             awful
             presence
             then
             shall
             fear
             ,
          
           
             The
             Croud
             your
             Conquests
             with
             applause
             declare
             .
          
           
             Madness
             ,
             enticing
             Flattery
             ,
             Mistake
             ,
          
           
             
               (
               Switzers
            
             to
             Love
             )
             your
             Martial
             Train
             shall
             make
             .
          
           
             With
             these
             an
             easie
             Victory
             you
             gain
             ,
          
           
             (
             Weak
             without
             these
             )
             o'er
             Gods
             as
             well
             as
             Men.
          
           
             Your
             Mother
             then
             with
             joy
             from
             Heav'n
             shall
             pour
          
           
             Upon
             your
             head
             a
             rosie
             fragrant
             Shower
             .
          
           
             A
             Golden
             Mantle
             shall
             your
             shoulders
             wear
             ,
          
           
             And
             Gems
             bedeck
             your
             gaudy
             Plumes
             and
             Hair.
          
           
             Your
             presence
             then
             will
             no
             few
             fires
             create
             ,
          
           
             As
             flames
             to
             all
             that
             's
             nigh't
             disperse
             their
             heat
             .
          
           
             Your
             darts
             unbidden
             then
             their
             slights
             shall
             take
             ,
          
           
             And
             as
             you
             pass
             new
             bleeding
             Lovers
             make
             .
          
           
             So
             Bacchus
             Triumph'd
             from
             the
             Indian
             Shore
          
           
             You
             Birds
             ,
             Him
             fierce
             Armenian
             Tygers
             bore
             .
          
           
             In
             me
             to
             throw
             away
             your
             power
             ,
             spare
             ,
          
           
             Who
             might
             a
             part
             in
             this
             your
             Triumph
             bear
             ,
          
           
             See
             how
             the
             Godlike
             Caesar
             your
             own
             blood
             ,
          
           
             To
             those
             he
             Conquers
             gracious
             is
             and
             good
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             ELEGY
             III.
             
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             GReat
             Goddess
             Venus
             hearken
             to
             a
             prayer
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             justice
             may
             deserve
             a
             friendly
             ear
             ;
          
           
             Let
             her
             I
             Love
             (
             what
             juster
             thing
             can
             be
             )
          
           
             A
             gentle
             Passion
             entertain
             for
             me
             .
          
           
             Or
             by
             her
             kind
             compliance
             make
             me
             wear
          
           
             For
             ever
             her
             soft
             Chains
             ,
             which
             now
             I
             bear
             .
          
           
             So
             would
             I
             never
             wish
             to
             be
             set
             free
             :
          
           
             Ah
             pleasing
             bonds
             !
             ah
             sweet
             Captivity
             !
          
           
             Me
             for
             her
             constant
             Servant
             she
             'd
             approve
             ,
          
           
             Knew
             she
             with
             what
             sincerity
             I
             Love.
          
           
             What
             tho
             no
             ancient
             names
             my
             Lineage
             grace
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             can
             I
             boast
             the
             Author
             of
             my
             Race
             ,
          
           
             My
             Fortune
             small
             ,
             no
             Parents
             for
             me
             fear
          
           
             To
             spend
             ,
             what
             would
             inrich
             their
             growing
             Heir
             .
          
           
           
             I
             bring
             you
             Phaebus
             ,
             and
             the
             Sisters
             nine
             ,
          
           
             A
             Love
             unfeign'd
             ,
             which
             makes
             me
             only
             thine
             ,
          
           
             Unwav'ring
             Faith
             ,
             an
             unpolluted
             name
             ,
          
           
             Naked
             simplicity
             ,
             ingenuous
             Shame
             .
          
           
             You
             ,
             you
             alone
             shall
             please
             ,
             no
             Rival
             Love
          
           
             Yours
             from
             my
             constant
             brest
             shall
             ever
             move
             .
          
           
             With
             you
             the
             years
             which
             Fate
             allows
             I
             'd
             live
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             wish
             you
             dying
             ,
             longer
             to
             survive
             .
          
           
             Be
             thou
             the
             happy
             subject
             of
             my
             Muse
             ,
          
           
             Your
             name
             a
             worthy
             Genius
             will
             infuse
             .
          
           
             To
             frighted
             Io
             maugre
             
             Iuno's
             hate
             ,
          
           
             My
             Verse
             shall
             give
             an
             everlasting
             date
             ,
          
           
             Ages
             to
             come
             shall
             tell
             
             Callisto's
             Rape
          
           
             Secure
             of
             Hurt
             under
             a
             feather'd
             shape
             .
          
           
             How
             to
             
               Europa
               Iove
            
             in
             Horned
             Shrowd
             ,
          
           
             Soft
             ,
             gentle
             fires
             in
             hollow
             murmurs
             low'd
             .
          
           
             We
             two
             immortal
             shall
             remain
             ,
             when
             dead
             ,
          
           
             And
             future
             times
             our
             joyned
             names
             shall
             read
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             ELEGY
             IV.
             
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             Your
             Husband
             too
             with
             us
             is
             bid
             a
             guest
          
           
             To
             Supper
             ,
             may
             this
             Supper
             be
             his
             last
             ;
          
           
             And
             must
             I
             but
             an
             idle
             witness
             be
          
           
             Of
             his
             rude
             touches
             ,
             which
             I
             least
             would
             see
             ?
          
           
             Your
             gentle
             head
             within
             his
             bosom
             laid
             ,
          
           
             With
             his
             foul
             Arms
             about
             your
             Neck
             display'd
             .
          
           
             No
             wonder
             now
             that
             Savage
             Monstrous
             Guests
             ,
          
           
             Stain'd
             with
             their
             Gore
             the
             Thracian
             Nuptial
             Feasts
             .
          
           
             Ingenuously
             bred
             ,
             and
             form'd
             a
             Man
             ,
          
           
             I
             scarce
             my
             itching
             hands
             from
             force
             restrain
             .
          
           
             Yet
             now
             before
             a
             Lovers
             Lesson
             hear
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             let
             the
             Winds
             my
             vain
             Instructions
             bear
             ;
          
           
           
             Steal
             out
             before
             ,
             let
             him
             be
             sure
             come
             last
             ,
          
           
             May
             be
             you
             won't
             repent
             your
             early
             hast
             .
          
           
             When
             ,
             to
             the
             Bed
             you
             go
             ,
             where
             he
             is
             laid
             ,
          
           
             With
             looks
             demure
             give
             me
             the
             gentle
             tread
             .
          
           
             Observe
             my
             Nods
             ,
             the
             Language
             of
             my
             Face
             ,
          
           
             Which
             can
             so
             well
             my
             inward
             thoughts
             express
             .
          
           
             My
             eyes
             and
             hands
             shall
             act
             the
             vocal
             part
             ,
          
           
             By
             their
             dumb
             Rhet'rick
             you
             may
             learn
             my
             heart
             .
          
           
             If
             to
             your
             fancy
             some
             kind
             thought
             has
             brought
          
           
             Th'
             inhanced
             pleasures
             ,
             which
             my
             Love
             had
             wrought
             ,
          
           
             With
             gentle
             taps
             upon
             your
             cheeks
             ,
             declare
             ,
          
           
             When
             I
             shall
             say
             or
             do
             ,
             what
             you
             approve
             ,
          
           
             The
             Mystick
             Ring
             about
             your
             finger
             move
             .
          
           
             When
             to
             your
             Husband
             some
             ill
             hap
             you
             pray
             ,
          
           
             Fear
             not
             upon
             the
             board
             your
             hands
             to
             lay
             .
          
           
             What
             's
             fill'd
             by
             him
             ,
             sip
             ,
             and
             give
             him
             the
             rest
             ,
          
           
             When
             e're
             you
             lack
             the
             Boy
             will
             please
             you
             best
             ;
          
           
             Return'd
             by
             you
             I
             first
             bespeak
             the
             glass
             ,
          
           
             And
             where
             your
             lips
             has
             touch'd
             enjoy
             the
             place
             .
          
           
           
             There
             to
             be
             sure
             I
             'll
             meet
             you
             ,
             or
             be
             met
             ,
          
           
             What
             ever
             Hold
             you
             can
             ,
             be
             sure
             to
             get
             .
          
           
             Shou'd
             you
             to
             meltling
             kisses
             once
             give
             way
             ,
          
           
             I
             fear
             my
             injur'd
             Love
             I
             should
             betray
             .
          
           
             Fly
             out
             ,
             and
             frantick
             cry
             ,
             cease
             wanton
             ,
             know
          
           
             Those
             kisses
             to
             my self
             are
             only
             due
             .
          
           
             Yet
             this
             I
             'd
             see
             ;
             did
             he
             but
             so
             much
             dare
             ,
          
           
             But
             more
             my
             patience
             would
             ,
             or
             could
             not
             bear
             .
          
           
             And
             thus
             my
             fears
             so
             numberless
             are
             grown
             ,
          
           
             Who
             all
             the
             ways
             and
             arts
             of
             Love
             have
             known
             .
          
           
             No
             fear
             of
             this
             in
             you
             ,
             yet
             ev'n
             to
             shun
          
           
             Suspicion
             ,
             keep
             your
             Garments
             always
             down
             ;
          
           
             Still
             ask
             your
             Man
             to
             drink
             ,
             but
             let
             no
             kiss
          
           
             Purchase
             the
             favour
             with
             unequal
             price
             .
          
           
             Whilst
             yet
             he
             drinks
             ,
             into
             his
             Cup
             infuse
          
           
             More
             Wine
             ,
             inviting
             sleep
             and
             soft
             repose
             .
          
           
             Occasion
             then
             it self
             will
             teach
             us
             ,
             how
          
           
             We
             should
             improve
             it
             to
             the
             best
             employ
             .
          
           
             When
             you
             begin
             to
             rise
             ,
             we
             'll
             all
             rise
             too
          
           
             Midst
             of
             the
             Press
             you
             least
             observ'd
             may
             go
             ,
          
           
           
             And
             thus
             for
             Plots
             industrious
             I
             have
             been
             ,
          
           
             Which
             a
             few
             coming
             hours
             will
             render
             vain
             .
          
           
             The
             night
             now
             envious
             to
             my
             hopes
             ,
             comes
             on
             ,
          
           
             And
             I
             divorc'd
             from
             her
             must
             lye
             alone
             .
          
           
             Her
             Husbands
             Pris'ner
             she
             must
             be
             all
             night
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             to
             the
             door
             I
             'll
             follow
             her
             in
             sight
             .
          
           
             Then
             he
             shall
             clasp
             you
             in
             his
             rude
             embrace
             ,
          
           
             And
             rifle
             all
             the
             sweets
             upon
             your
             face
             ,
          
           
             Exact
             the
             pleasures
             which
             to
             Laws
             you
             owe
             ,
          
           
             But
             freely
             to
             my
             Love
             a
             gift
             bestow
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             do
             not
             easie
             ,
             but
             as
             fore't
             comply
          
           
             To
             the
             cold
             duty
             of
             a
             drudgery
             .
          
           
             If
             wishes
             can
             prevail
             ,
             a
             starv'd
             delight
          
           
             Shall
             be
             the
             Harvest
             of
             his
             toilsome
             night
             ,
          
           
             Whate'er
             his
             Fortune
             is
             ,
             to
             me
             deny
          
           
             That
             he
             enjoy'd
             you
             ,
             I
             'll
             believe
             the
             lye
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             ELEGYV
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             ONe
             day
             in
             Summer
             ,
             about
             twelve
             at
             Noon
             ,
          
           
             Upon
             my
             Bed
             for
             ease
             I
             laid
             me
             down
             ;
          
           
             The
             Window
             half
             shut
             ,
             gave
             a
             doubtful
             light
             ,
          
           
             Such
             as
             past
             Sun-set
             and
             before
             't
             is
             Night
             ;
          
           
             As
             when
             in
             Woods
             through
             the
             thick
             boughy
             shade
             ,
          
           
             Some
             glimmerings
             of
             broken
             light
             are
             made
             ,
          
           
             Such
             as
             emboldens
             modest
             Virgins
             shame
             ,
          
           
             When
             to
             my
             Chamber
             lo
             !
             Corinna
             came
             ,
          
           
             Like
             fair
             Semiramis
             to
             her
             Alcove
             ,
          
           
             To
             meet
             the
             sweet
             embraces
             of
             her
             Love.
          
           
             Scarce
             cover'd
             with
             a
             thin
             and
             loose
             array
             ,
          
           
             Her
             Hairs
             dishevel'd
             on
             her
             shoulders
             play
             ;
          
           
           
             Her
             covering
             (
             tho
             such
             as
             did
             not
             quite
          
           
             Conceal
             the
             blissful
             object
             of
             my
             sight
             )
          
           
             Striving
             to
             pull
             away
             ,
             she
             'd
             still
             retain
             ,
          
           
             And
             sought
             to
             cover
             what
             she
             would
             have
             seen
             .
          
           
             Till
             strugling
             she
             ,
             unwilling
             to
             o'ercome
             ,
          
           
             By
             her
             own
             Treachery
             at
             last
             she
             's
             won
             ,
          
           
             When
             (
             lo
             !
             )
             uncover'd
             as
             she
             stood
             and
             bare
             ,
          
           
             No
             fault
             in
             all
             her
             Body
             did
             appear
             .
          
           
             What
             Shoulders
             ,
             Arms
             ,
             salute
             my
             dazled
             eyes
             !
          
           
             How
             fit
             for
             touch
             ,
             her
             Breasts
             would
             proudly
             rise
             !
          
           
             Taper
             her
             Waste
             ,
             her
             Belly
             smooth
             and
             plain
             ,
          
           
             Which
             two
             plump
             Pillars
             proudly
             did
             sustain
             .
          
           
             What
             needs
             there
             more
             ?
             when
             nothing
             there
             I
             see
          
           
             But
             rais'd
             my
             fancy
             to
             an
             extasie
             .
          
           
             What
             follow'd
             after
             ,
             is
             not
             hard
             to
             guess
          
           
             Weari'd
             ,
             we
             panting
             lay
             ,
             and
             took
             our
             case
             ,
          
           
             Give
             me
             ye
             Gods
             ,
             many
             such
             noons
             as
             these
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Libri
             Primi
             Ovid.
             Amor.
             ELEGIA
             Prima
             .
          
           
             WHen
             first
             of
             Arms
             ,
             and
             bloody
             Wars
             I
             writ
             ,
          
           
             In
             losty
             numbers
             ,
             for
             the
             Subject
             fit
             ,
          
           
             And
             every
             Verse
             did
             run
             with
             equal
             feet
             .
          
           
             The
             God
             of
             Love
             laugh'd
             at
             my
             vain
             essay
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             a
             humour
             stole
             one
             foot
             away
             .
          
           
             Who
             gave
             you
             cruel
             Boy
             ,
             o'er
             Verse
             such
             Pow'rs
             ?
          
           
             We
             are
             
             Apollo's
             Subjects
             ,
             and
             not
             yours
             ?
          
           
             What
             if
             the
             Queen
             of
             Beauty
             should
             invade
          
           
             
             Minerva's
             Province
             ;
             She
             usurp
             her
             Trade
             ?
          
           
             How
             could
             rough
             Armour
             suit
             with
             soft
             desire
             ?
          
           
             Or
             bold
             
             Virago's
             gentle
             Love
             inspire
             ?
          
           
           
             Should
             Ceres
             Rule
             in
             Woods
             ,
             Diana
             in
             the
             Field
             ,
          
           
             Wild
             Beasts
             might
             range
             at
             large
             ;
             the
             Corn
             no
             Crop
             would
             yield
             .
          
           
             who
             'd
             Arm
             Apollo
             with
             a
             pointed
             Spear
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             Wars
             fierce
             God
             plays
             on
             the
             Muses
             Lyre
             .
          
           
             Great
             was
             you
             Child
             ,
             too
             great
             your
             Power
             before
             ,
          
           
             Why
             should
             your
             fond
             Ambition
             wish
             for
             more
             ?
          
           
             Is
             it
             'cause
             every
             thing
             must
             stoop
             to
             thee
             ?
          
           
             Nor
             even
             the
             Muses
             Songs
             and
             Groves
             be
             free
             ;
          
           
             No
             sooner
             was
             my
             Poem
             well
             begun
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             first
             Line
             did
             promise
             much
             to
             come
             ,
          
           
             But
             the
             blind
             God
             my
             well-tun'd
             Harp
             un
             strung
             .
          
           
             I
             have
             no
             Theme
             ,
             which
             softer
             Airs
             require
             ,
          
           
             Such
             as
             sweet
             Boys
             —
             —
          
           
             And
             lovely
             Virgins
             can
             alone
             inspire
             :
          
           
           
             Thus
             I
             complain'd
             :
             when
             Love
             from
             's
             Quiver
             drew
          
           
             A
             well-chose
             Arrow
             to
             my
             ruine
             meant
             ,
          
           
             With
             all
             his
             the
             strong-knit
             Bow
             he
             bent
             ,
          
           
             Which
             at
             my
             heart
             the
             fatal
             weapon
             threw
             .
          
           
             Then
             saying
             with
             a
             Smile
             Maliciously
             ;
          
           
             There
             is
             a
             Subject
             for
             your
             Poetry
             :
          
           
             Alas
             ,
             alas
             ,
             it
             was
             too
             sure
             a
             Dart
             ;
          
           
             I
             burn
             ,
             and
             Love
             Reigns
             in
             my
             Conquer'd
             heart
             :
          
           
             O
             for
             the
             tender
             Elegiack
             vein
          
           
             And
             long
             adieus
             to
             the
             Heroic
             strain
             ,
          
           
             Deck
             thee
             ,
             my
             Muse
             ,
             with
             Mirtle
             from
             the
             Shore
          
           
             Sacred
             to
             Venus
             ,
             and
             her
             young
             Amour
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Libri
             Primi
             ELEGIA
             Secunda
             .
          
           
             WHat
             can
             this
             mean
             ,
             what
             makes
             my
          
           
             Thus
             naked
             lie
             without
             a
             Coverlid
             ?
          
           
             What
             makes
             me
             pass
             the
             live-long
             nights
             away
          
           
             In
             tedious
             expectation
             of
             the
             day
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             my
             Rackt
             Limbs
             with
             never
             ceasing
             pain
          
           
             Turn
             to
             this
             side
             ,
             and
             then
             to
             that
             again
             ?
          
           
             Sure
             I
             should
             know
             ,
             if
             Love
             disturb'd
             my
             Rest
             ;
          
           
             Unless
             it
             slily
             stole
             into
             my
             Breast
             ;
          
           
             'T
             is
             so
             ,
             for
             now
             I
             feel
             the
             pointed
             Dart
             :
          
           
             Tyrannie
             Love
             raging
             in
             every
             part
             .
          
           
             What
             ,
             must
             I
             yield
             to
             the
             incroaching
             bane
             ?
          
           
             Or
             by
             Reluctance
             aggravate
             my
             flame
             ?
          
           
           
             Well
             ,
             I
             will
             yield
             ;
             my
             Chains
             with
             Patience
             wear
             ,
          
           
             The
             burden's
             light
             which
             we
             're
             resolv'd
             to
             bear
             .
          
           
             So
             I
             've
             observ'd
             resisted
             Fires
             to
             rage
             ,
          
           
             Which
             ,
             let
             alone
             ,
             would
             suddenly
             asswage
             .
          
           
             The
             stubborn
             Ox
             that
             's
             haughty
             Neck
             can't
             bow
             ,
          
           
             Does
             suffer
             more
             than
             he
             that
             draws
             the
             Plough
             .
          
           
             Th'
             unruly
             Horse
             that
             can't
             endure
             the
             Rein
          
           
             Is
             broke
             at
             last
             ,
             and
             that
             with
             greater
             pain
             :
          
           
             Love
             more
             severely
             does
             chastise
             the
             Proud
          
           
             Than
             those
             that
             humbly
             have
             his
             power
             allow'd
             .
          
           
             O
             Love
             ,
             I
             grant
             ,
             I
             am
             a
             Convert
             grown
             :
          
           
             Enslav'd
             and
             Fetter'd
             ,
             I
             approach
             your
             Throne
             .
          
           
             Forbear
             your
             Arms
             ;
             for
             Peace
             I
             humbly
             sue
             ,
          
           
             Oh
             don't
             so
             mean
             a
             Victory
             pursue
             ,
          
           
             From
             which
             no
             Honour
             ever
             can
             accrue
             .
          
           
             With
             Mirtle
             Chaplets
             then
             enwreath
             thy
             hair
             ,
          
           
             The
             God
             of
             War
             a
             Chariot
             shall
             prepare
             ,
          
           
             And
             Venus
             Doves
             shall
             wing
             you
             through
             the
             Air.
          
           
             The
             World
             with
             loud
             applause
             your
             Triumph
             see
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             you
             make
             Love
             and
             War
             so
             well
             agree
             .
          
           
           
             Young
             Men
             ,
             and
             Maids
             ,
             that
             did
             your
             Empire
             Scorn
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             your
             Triumphal
             Chariot-wheels
             adorn
             .
          
           
             I
             ,
             'mongst
             the
             rest
             ,
             your
             late
             made
             Captive
             ,
             bound
             ,
          
           
             Proclaim
             your
             grandeur
             with
             a
             bleeding
             wound
             .
          
           
             And
             every
             Passion
             be
             a
             Prisoner
             led
             ,
          
           
             All
             that
             have
             ever
             from
             Loves
             Ensigns
             fled
             .
          
           
             All
             things
             before
             your
             mighty
             Power
             shall
             fly
             :
          
           
             The
             vulgar
             with
             their
             throats
             shall
             rend
             the
             Sky
             ,
          
           
             Io
             Triumphe
             ,
             Io
             Cupid
             ,
             cry
             .
          
           
             Error
             ,
             and
             Fury
             ,
             and
             allurements
             too
          
           
             These
             shall
             Attendants
             of
             your
             Triumph
             be
          
           
             These
             are
             the
             Soldiers
             always
             follow'd
             you
             .
          
           
             By
             which
             you
             've
             even
             o'ercome
             the
             Deity
             :
          
           
             Should
             these
             advantages
             be
             took
             away
             ,
          
           
             The
             God
             of
             Love
             might
             sometimes
             lose
             the
             day
             .
          
           
             Your
             Beauteous
             Mother
             from
             above
             will
             spread
          
           
             Eternal
             blooming
             Roses
             on
             your
             head
             .
          
           
             Here
             all
             your
             dazling
             Glories
             you
             unfold
             ;
          
           
             Bedeck'd
             with
             Roses
             ,
             Jewels
             ,
             and
             with
             Gold
             ,
          
           
           
             The
             yet
             unconquer'd
             World
             you
             shall
             subdue
             ;
          
           
             Who
             ,
             in
             your
             March
             ,
             shall
             wounded
             follow
             you
             .
          
           
             The
             scorching
             fire
             does
             so
             infectious
             grow
             ,
          
           
             That
             you
             must
             wound
             ,
             whether
             you
             will
             ,
             or
             no.
          
           
             Such
             was
             the
             Triumph
             of
             Wines
             Conquering
             God
             ,
          
           
             When
             ,
             drawn
             by
             Tygers
             ,
             he
             o'er
             Ganges
             Rode.
          
           
             Since
             then
             I
             'm
             part
             of
             your
             Illustrious
             Train
             ,
          
           
             O
             spend
             no
             more
             Artillerys
             in
             vain
             .
          
           
             Behold
             Augustus
             Caesar's
             Glorious
             Charms
          
           
             Those
             who
             're
             reduc'd
             by
             his
             All-Conquering
             Arms
             ,
          
           
             With
             God-like
             Mercy
             he
             defends
             from
             harms
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Libri
             Primi
             ELEGIA
             Tertia
             .
          
           
             I
             Ask
             no
             more
             ;
             than
             that
             the
             Fair
             I
             love
             ,
          
           
             Would
             love
             again
             ;
             or
             so
             propitious
             prove
          
           
             As
             might
             be
             some
             encouragement
             to
             love
             .
          
           
             Ah
             ,
             't
             is
             too
             much
             ,
             and
             I
             presume
             too
             far
             !
          
           
             Let
             but
             my
             Mistris
             my
             Addresses
             bear
             ,
          
           
             And
             Cytherea
             hear
             my
             humble
             Prayer
             .
          
           
             Accept
             th'
             eternal
             Service
             that
             I
             bring
             :
          
           
             Accept
             my
             heart
             ,
             the
             Faithful
             Offering
             .
          
           
             What
             ,
             tho
             I
             don't
             an
             ancient
             Lineage
             boast
          
           
             Or
             any
             Titles
             that
             enlarge
             my
             name
             ?
          
           
             But
             am
             maintain'd
             at
             an
             inferiour
             cost
             .
          
           
             And
             have
             no
             wealth
             to
             usher
             in
             my
             claim
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             on
             Apollo
             ,
             and
             the
             Mighty
             Nine
             ,
          
           
             (
             Without
             forgetting
             the
             great
             God
             of
             Wine
             ,
             )
          
           
           
             On
             these
             ,
             (
             with
             Loves
             assistance
             ,
             )
             I
             'll
             rely
             ;
          
           
             Almighty
             Love
             will
             all
             defects
             supply
             :
          
           
             Unblemish'd
             Faith
             ,
             and
             Life
             without
             a
             stain
             ;
          
           
             Plain-dealing
             ,
             Modest
             ,
             and
             of
             Honest
             name
             .
          
           
             I
             ne'er
             can
             an
             inconstant
             Rover
             prove
             :
          
           
             Trust
             me
             ;
             you
             're
             all
             that
             I
             shall
             ever
             Love.
          
           
             Oh
             ,
             may
             I
             spend
             the
             remnant
             of
             my
             days
          
           
             Imploy'd
             by
             you
             ,
             in
             singing
             of
             your
             Praise
             !
          
           
             How
             would
             the
             Glorious
             Theme
             my
             Senses
             fire
             ,
          
           
             And
             each
             perfection
             would
             my
             Muse
             inspire
             ?
          
           
             Io
             ,
             affrighted
             at
             her
             horrid
             form
             ,
          
           
             And
             
             Leda's
             Swan
             ,
             the
             Poets
             Verse
             adorn
             ;
          
           
             With
             fair
             Europa
             ,
             who
             by
             Iove
             betray'd
             ,
          
           
             Was
             o'er
             the
             Sea
             by
             toe
             feign'd
             Bull
             convey'd
             .
          
           
             Nay
             ,
             we
             two
             shall
             ,
             by
             our
             Immortal
             Name
             ,
          
           
             For
             after
             Ages
             ,
             fill
             the
             mouth
             of
             Fame
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Libri
             Primi
             ,
             ELEGIA
             Quinta
             .
          
           
             'T
             Was
             in
             the
             midst
             of
             an
             hot
             Summers
             day
             ,
          
           
             As
             on
             my
             Bed
             ,
             for
             soft
             repose
             ,
             I
             lay
             .
          
           
             The
             half-shut
             Casements
             cast
             a
             glimmering
             light
             ,
          
           
             As
             the
             declining
             Sun
             ,
             on
             Verge
             of
             night
             ;
          
           
             Or
             when
             he
             forces
             out
             a
             narrow
             way
          
           
             Through
             thickest
             Groves
             ;
             or
             ,
             as
             at
             dawn
             of
             day
             :
          
           
             Such
             a
             retreat
             the
             timorous
             Maid
             desires
             ,
          
           
             And
             such
             false
             lights
             ,
             to
             hide
             her
             glowing
             fires
             :
          
           
             When
             ,
             lo
             ,
             Corinna
             came
             ,
             in
             loose
             Attire
             ,
          
           
             Down
             her
             fair
             neck
             hung
             her
             long
             dangling
             hair
             :
          
           
             In
             such
             a
             charming
             dress
             was
             Lais
             seen
             ,
          
           
             With
             such
             a
             graceful
             ,
             and
             Majestic
             mien
             ,
          
           
             March'd
             to
             her
             Throne
             ,
             the
             fam'd
             Assyrian
             Queen
             .
          
           
           
             I
             seiz'd
             her
             Gown
             ,
             which
             was
             so
             wondrous
             fine
             ,
          
           
             It
             scarce
             did
             seem
             t'
             obruct
             a
             Love
             Design
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             she
             close
             kept
             ,
             and
             hug'd
             the
             slender
             Aid
             ,
          
           
             But
             fought
             ,
             as
             if
             of
             Conquest
             much
             affraid
             ;
          
           
             So
             by
             faint
             strugling
             was
             the
             Fort
             betray'd
             .
          
           
             When
             she
             had
             laid
             that
             useless
             Garment
             by
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             fair
             Prospect
             bless'd
             my
             longing
             eye
             ;
          
           
             My
             gazing
             Opticks
             met
             with
             nothing
             there
          
           
             But
             what
             intire
             perfection
             did
             appear
             .
          
           
             What
             Neck
             ,
             what
             Arms
             I
             clasp'd
             ;
             and
             what
             a
             Breast
          
           
             Form'd
             and
             design'd
             by
             Nature
             to
             be
             prest
             !
          
           
             In
             what
             fine
             order
             her
             whole
             Frame
             did
             lye
             !
          
           
             How
             strait
             her
             Wast
             !
             how
             vigorous
             a
             Thigh
             !
          
           
             What
             needs
             there
             more
             ?
          
           
             I
             took
             a
             full
             survey
             of
             all
             her
             Charms
             ,
          
           
             And
             grasp'd
             her
             naked
             Body
             in
             my
             Arms.
          
           
             What
             then
             ensu'd
             is
             easie
             to
             be
             guest
             ,
          
           
             By
             joint
             consent
             we
             laid
             our selves
             to
             rest
             ,
          
           
             With
             such
             refreshing
             Noons
             ,
             may
             I
             be
             ever
             blest
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             To
             Mr.
             
               R.
               D.
            
             AT
             CAMBRIDGE
             .
          
           
             WHen
             ,
             dearest
             Friend
             ,
             oh
             when
             shall
             I
             be
             blest
          
           
             With
             thee
             and
             Damon
             ,
             Silence
             ,
             Shade
             ,
             and
             Rest
             ?
          
           
             Free
             from
             the
             painful
             Pleasures
             of
             the
             Town
             ,
          
           
             Amidst
             chast
             Groves
             ,
             and
             harmless
             Wit
             lie
             down
             ;
          
           
             Wit
             which
             in
             Scandal
             never
             shows
             its
             head
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             blasts
             the
             Fame
             of
             some
             too
             Virtuous
             Maid
             .
          
           
             Eccho
             forgets
             that
             e'er
             she
             was
             undone
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             so
             long
             since
             she
             cou'd
             repeat
             a
             moan
             .
          
           
             C
             ham
             never
             swells
             with
             Tears
             ,
             nor
             the
             bleak
             Air
             ,
          
           
             Storms
             with
             the
             sighs
             of
             the
             forsaken
             Fair
             ,
          
           
           
             Like
             other
             Passions
             ,
             Love
             you
             can
             subdue
             ,
          
           
             And
             what
             enslaves
             the
             World
             submits
             to
             you
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             do
             you
             ever
             with
             false
             fires
             betray
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             poor
             heedless
             gazer
             lead
             astray
             ;
          
           
             Rich
             and
             Luxurious
             like
             our
             Isle
             within
             ,
          
           
             Your
             business
             is
             not
             Foreign
             Realms
             to
             win
             .
          
           
             But
             keep
             your
             own
             ,
             nor
             lavish
             out
             your
             Store
          
           
             To
             gain
             that
             ,
             which
             if
             gotten
             ,
             makes
             you
             poor
             .
          
           
             Pale
             as
             the
             Horned
             Moon
             is
             Hymens
             light
             .
          
           
             And
             wares
             as
             fast
             ,
             is
             scarce
             at
             full
             one
             night
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Star
             does
             at
             his
             Summer
             Solstice
             stay
             ,
          
           
             Shines
             out
             ,
             and
             makes
             but
             one
             continued
             day
             ;
          
           
             Pleasing
             and
             gay
             as
             the
             Sun
             guilded
             Skies
          
           
             As
             mild
             and
             sweet
             as
             Love-sick
             Virgins
             Eyes
             ,
          
           
             As
             undisturb'd
             as
             sleeping
             Hermits
             are
             ,
          
           
             As
             wholly
             free
             from
             the
             fatigue
             of
             care
             ,
          
           
             As
             fixt
             as
             the
             Decrees
             of
             Providence
          
           
             Are
             all
             your
             happy
             hours
             ,
             for
             they
             are
             granted
             thence
             .
          
           
             Without
             your
             Pens
             Hobbists
             confounded
             are
             ,
          
           
             So
             much
             of
             Nature
             ,
             and
             so
             little
             War.
          
           
           
             You
             are
             not
             fram'd
             of
             jarring
             Elements
             ,
          
           
             All
             Soul
             ,
             all
             Peace
             ,
             all
             Friendship
             ,
             Wit
             ,
             and
             Sence
             .
          
           
             You
             so
             agree
             ,
             so
             very
             much
             are
             one
             ,
          
           
             As
             the
             Triumphing
             Singers
             round
             the
             Heav'nly
             Throne
             .
          
           
             Ye
             clash
             like
             Mankinds
             disagreeing
             Prayers
             ,
          
           
             And
             feign
             as
             many
             Jealousies
             and
             Fears
             ,
          
           
             As
             Lovers
             Cloy'd
             ,
             or
             States-men
             in
             Disgrace
             ,
          
           
             Desire
             of
             change
             is
             writ
             in
             every
             face
             ;
          
           
             Dissatisfi'd
             or
             Whig
             as
             Israelite
             ,
          
           
             As
             unsuccessful
             as
             a
             Teckelite
             ;
          
           
             For
             spight
             of
             Cravat
             string
             we
             lose
             the
             day
             ,
          
           
             No
             Dress
             can
             win
             ,
             or
             Billet-deux
             betray
             .
          
           
             But
             after
             all
             the
             rage
             of
             sighs
             and
             tears
             ,
          
           
             Kind
             Sir
             —
             calms
             our
             grief
             ,
             and
             lulls
             our
             cares
             ,
          
           
             When
             well
             experienc'd
             Strumpet
             takes
             upon
             her
          
           
             To
             quench
             the
             flame
             kindled
             by
             Maid
             of
             Honour
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             like
             the
             Dutch
             ,
             after
             a
             loss
             we
             swell
             ,
          
           
             Unrigg'd
             or
             burnt
             ,
             we
             blow
             the
             Trumpet
             still
             ,
          
           
             And
             Triumph
             for
             a
             leaky
             Fish-boat
             ta'en
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             it
             were
             the
             Royal
             Sovereign
             .
          
           
           
             The
             pleasures
             of
             the
             Park
             ,
             Plays
             ,
             drawing
             Rome
          
           
             Be
             much
             as
             new
             as
             th'
             Instrument
             at
             home
             ,
          
           
             Which
             some
             for
             forty
             Winters
             scrape
             upon
             .
          
           
             Pretty
             amuzements
             and
             stand
             him
             in
             stead
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             modish
             Sir
             ne'er
             taught
             to
             write
             or
             read
             .
          
           
             If
             I
             could
             tell
             to
             twelve
             ,
             I
             'd
             rather
             stand
             ,
          
           
             With
             a
             lean
             Pike-staff
             in
             my
             leaner
             hand
             ,
          
           
             Counting
             the
             tedious
             hours
             before
             the
             Gate
             ,
          
           
             Then
             cringe
             above
             stairs
             to
             the
             saucy
             Grant
             ,
          
           
             Not
             she
             who
             knows
             her
             strength
             ,
             and
             finds
             you
             love
             ,
          
           
             Is
             more
             impertinently
             insolent
             ,
          
           
             Then
             is
             his
             Lorship
             ,
             when
             you
             come
             to
             move
          
           
             The
             smallest
             Suit
             which
             he
             has
             power
             to
          
           
             Tho
             e'er
             you
             ask
             ,
             both
             so
             well
             bred
             Appear
          
           
             You
             'd
             think
             that
             you
             affront
             'em
             if
             you
             fear
             .
          
           
             So
             Rook
             at
             Neals
             fawns
             on
             unborrowing
             Cull
          
           
             So
             a
             Brave
             Man
             is
             Cap'd
             and
             knee'd
             by
             Bull.
          
           
             So
             subtil
             sharer
             smil'd
             on
             drudging
             Poet
          
           
             Before
             the
             Houses
             joyning
             .
             Sir
             !
             you
             know
             it
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             
               THE
               SOLDIER
            
             .
             Writ
             in
             April
             ,
             1684.
             when
             our
             English
             Volunteers
             went
             into
             Flanders
             .
          
           
             
               THE
               melting
               Lute
               is
               on
               the
               Willows
               hung
               ,
            
             
               Forsaken
               weeping
               Virgins
               sigh
               in
               vain
               ,
            
             
               For
               all
               the
               Youth
               with
               point
               of
               Honour
               stung
            
             
               Dance
               to
               the
               Drum
               and
               Trumpet
               o'er
               the
               Main
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               phantasm
               Honour
               leads
               them
               all
               astray
               ,
            
             
               From
               Downy
               Beds
               in
               midst
               of
               dismal
               night
               ,
            
             
               To
               seek
               out
               Treasure
               hid
               in
               Fields
               which
               they
            
             
               Will
               scarcely
               find
               by
               such
               a
               Wild
               fire
               light
               .
            
          
           
             
               Like
               puling
               Girls
               ,
               they
               tremble
               at
               a
               Name
               ,
            
             
               (
               For
               Whore
               and
               Coward
               both
               of
               them
               does
               fright
               ,
               )
            
             
               And
               Sacrifice
               their
               Pleasure
               to
               their
               Fame
               ,
            
             
               As
               Self-denying
               as
               an
               Anchorite
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Eating
               they
               scorn
               ,
               despise
               their
               Wine
               and
               Wench
               ,
            
             
               And
               beg
               to
               Famish
               in
               a
               Foreign
               Land
               ,
            
             
               Digging
               their
               way
               to
               th'
               Devil
               in
               a
               Trench
               ,
            
             
               With
               Pains
               and
               Sweat
               they
               labour
               to
               be
               damn'd
               .
            
          
           
             
               Not
               the
               first
               Tiller
               ,
               when
               the
               teeming
               Earth
            
             
               Swell'd
               with
               the
               new
               infused
               Poisonous
               Curse
               ,
            
             
               Was
               ever
               blest
               with
               a
               more
               hopeful
               Birth
            
             
               Of
               Glorious
               Mischiefs
               ,
               then
               our
               Warriours
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hardly
               as
               he
               they
               earn
               their
               Bread
               ,
               as
               he
            
             
               Cast
               out
               and
               Vagrants
               ,
               and
               on
               some
               we
               see
            
             
               Heav'n
               sets
               a
               Mark
               that
               they
               should
               not
               be
               slain
               ,
            
             
               As
               the
               Damn'd
               live
               to
               Eternize
               their
               Pain
               .
            
          
           
             
               Revenge
               or
               Emulation
               might
               seduce
               ,
            
             
               And
               work
               to
               Parricide
               the
               wretched
               Cain
               ,
            
             
               But
               nothing
               can
               our
               Murtherers
               excuse
               ,
            
             
               Not
               even
               the
               Butchers
               mean
               pretence
               of
               Gain
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               For
               poor
               and
               ragg'd
               as
               wandring
               Rogues
               they
               are
               ,
            
             
               As
               their
               own
               Colours
               ,
               shatter'd
               ,
               lost
               ,
               and
               torn
               ,
            
             
               Furl'd
               up
               ,
               and
               laid
               aside
               after
               the
               War
               ,
            
             
               When
               they
               have
               leave
               to
               rot
               ,
               repent
               and
               mourn
               .
            
          
           
             
               A
               happy
               Nations
               greatest
               Blessing
               ,
               Peace
            
             
               Is
               their
               great
               Curse
               ;
               so
               a
               becalmed
               Boat
            
             
               Starves
               in
               the
               midst
               of
               Sun-shine
               ,
               whilst
               the
               Seas
            
             
               Laugh
               all
               around
               to
               see
               her
               idly
               float
               .
            
          
           
             
               Like
               little
               pilfring
               Thieves
               ,
               they
               meanly
               live
            
             
               On
               Fire
               and
               Shipwrecks
               ,
               for
               they
               basely
               steal
            
             
               What
               they
               pretend
               to
               save
               ,
               and
               so
               contrive
            
             
               To
               snatch
               to
               Morrow's
               miserable
               Meal
               .
            
          
           
             
               They
               flock
               in
               millions
               when
               a
               Storm
               is
               near
               ,
            
             
               Like
               Winter-fowl
               they
               love
               an
               angry
               Skie
               ,
            
             
               But
               vanish
               when
               the
               Halcions
               appear
               ,
            
             
               And
               when
               good
               days
               appear
               ,
               with
               Envie
               die
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             PHILANDER
             AND
             EIRENE
             .
          
           
             
               TUne
               ,
               tune
               my
               strings
               ,
               Divine
               Harmonious
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Who
               tun'st
               the
               Angels
               Harps
               and
               Hearts
               above
               ;
            
             
               Sing
               what
               a
               Youth
               thy
               Slave
               Philander
               was
               ;
            
             
               What
               Beauties
               blossom'd
               on
               Eirene's
               face
               .
            
             
               
               May's
               loveli'st
               Morn
               can
               no
               such
               Prospect
               yield
               ,
            
             
               When
               the
               young
               Flowers
               shine
               in
               the
               laughing
               Field
               ,
            
             
               When
               the
               Springs
               noblest
               Glorys
               are
               display'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               Nature
               takes
               a
               Pride
               to
               be
               Survey'd
               .
            
             
               The
               richest
               sweetness
               of
               the
               Earth
               and
               Skies
            
             
               Sprung
               from
               her
               Rosie
               Breath
               ,
               and
               Heavenly
               Eyes
               ;
            
             
             
               Incense
               she
               might
               have
               been
               to
               angry
               Jove
            
             
               For
               all
               Mankind
               ,
               and
               charm'd
               him
               into
               Love.
            
             
               Such
               natural
               goodness
               overflow'd
               her
               mind
               ,
            
             
               And
               a
               dear
               Innocence
               so
               sweetly
               kind
               ;
            
             
               That
               when
               she
               pray'd
               ,
               if
               Mercy
               would
               not
               hear
               ,
            
             
               Its
               fairest
               Image
               it
               disown'd
               in
               her
               .
            
             
               Untouch'd
               and
               white
               ,
               Chaste
               as
               the
               coldest
               Snow
               ,
            
             
               That
               sparkles
               upon
               lofty
               
               Aetna's
               Brow
               ,
            
             
               And
               its
               pure
               Maiden-Innocence
               maintains
            
             
               In
               midst
               of
               siery
               sighs
               ,
               and
               breath
               of
               flames
               ;
            
             
               But
               yet
               as
               humble
               as
               the
               Vale
               that
               lies
            
             
               Before
               the
               foot
               of
               that
               proud
               Precipice
               ;
            
             
               Which
               pleas'd
               ,
               and
               pleasing
               with
               its
               Meads
               and
               Springs
            
             
               Smiles
               in
               its
               Flowers
               ,
               and
               in
               its
               Fountains
               sings
               .
            
             
               Such
               gentle
               meekness
               beautifi'd
               her
               Soul
               ,
            
             
               That
               like
               her
               Lutes
               soft
               Harmony
               it
               stole
            
             
               The
               heedless
               hearts
               ,
               and
               in
               sure
               Fetters
               bound
            
             
               All
               that
               approach'd
               the
               dear
               Enchanted
               Ground
               .
            
             
               Descending
               Heav'n
               did
               round
               about
               her
               stand
               ,
            
             
               And
               listning
               Angels
               waited
               her
               Command
               .
            
             
             
               Who
               came
               to
               learn
               of
               her
               to
               moan
               and
               speak
               ,
            
             
               And
               when
               she
               sung
               they
               followed
               every
               shake
               ,
            
             
               Like
               her
               they
               try'd
               to
               soften
               every
               grace
               ,
            
             
               Melt
               ev'ry
               fall
               ,
               and
               ev'ry
               Beauty
               raise
               ;
            
             
               So
               Hallelujahs
               were
               improv'd
               by
               her
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               her
               voice
               they
               tun'd
               the
               sweetest
               Sphere
               .
            
             
               Tho
               Dreams
               ,
               or
               Humane
               Frailty
               never
               taught
            
             
               Her
               spotless
               Virgin-soul
               a
               guilty
               thought
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               she
               could
               blush
               ,
               which
               to
               Philosophize
            
             
               Was
               but
               the
               Angels
               beaming
               from
               her
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               Breeding
               ,
               which
               others
               toil
               in
               Courts
               to
               gain
               ,
            
             
               And
               oft
               with
               loss
               of
               Honour
               seek
               in
               vain
               ,
            
             
               Nature
               had
               hung
               about
               her
               with
               such
               ease
               ,
            
             
               That
               tho
               her
               thoughts
               were
               ne'er
               employ'd
               to
               please
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               like
               a
               Net
               by
               chance
               thrown
               on
               some
               Mead
               ,
            
             
               Where
               many
               joyful
               feather'd
               singers
               breed
               ,
            
             
               Our
               flut'ring
               Souls
               without
               design
               she
               took
               ,
            
             
               And
               surely
               kill'd
               with
               every
               random
               look
               .
            
             
               Breeding
               is
               untaught
               Nature
               well
               represt
               ,
            
             
               And
               charms
               the
               most
               ,
               when
               negligently
               drest
               .
            
             
             
               Since
               Natures
               self
               in
               all
               she
               did
               was
               seen
               ,
            
             
               What
               Court
               her
               Dress
               or
               Motion
               could
               refine
               ?
            
             
               Or
               if
               she
               had
               not
               been
               so
               rich
               in
               Charms
               ,
            
             
               Why
               should
               she
               travel
               for
               Offensive
               Arms
               ?
            
             
               When
               Pity
               sour'd
               the
               Joy
               of
               Victory
               ,
            
             
               Weeping
               o'er
               those
               ,
               who
               at
               her
               feet
               would
               dye
               ,
            
             
               Whom
               Pride
               and
               Vanity
               could
               never
               move
               ,
            
             
               And
               who
               was
               deaf
               to
               every
               sound
               of
               Love
               ;
            
             
               Before
               Philander
               trembled
               in
               her
               Heart
               ,
            
             
               And
               touch'd
               the
               String
               ,
               which
               charm'd
               so
               nice
               a
               part
               ;
            
             
               Philander
               in
               whose
               face
               was
               fairly
               writ
            
             
               Good
               Nature
               ,
               Honour
               ,
               Manliness
               ,
               and
               Wit
               ;
            
             
               And
               when
               a
               long
               acquaintance
               brought
               him
               near
               ,
            
             
               You
               saw
               them
               in
               a
               larger
               Character
               ;
            
             
               Within
               there
               Reign'd
               a
               Soul
               ,
               which
               ,
               like
               the
               Star
            
             
               That
               Rules
               some
               Heroes
               Birth
               ,
               rode
               high
               and
               clear
               :
            
             
               And
               in
               a
               Thousand
               generous
               Actions
               shown
               ,
            
             
               That
               (
               much
               against
               his
               Nature
               )
               made
               him
               known
               .
            
             
             
               His
               friend
               in
               a
               distress
               he
               would
               relieve
               ,
            
             
               His
               friend
               ne'er
               knew
               from
               whom
               he
               should
               receive
            
             
               The
               Favour
               ,
               till
               Philander
               did
               repeat
            
             
               The
               Fact
               so
               oft
               ,
               he
               could
               not
               hide
               the
               Cheat.
            
             
               So
               little
               us'd
               to
               boast
               ,
               or
               to
               proclaim
            
             
               His
               Deeds
               ,
               and
               Trumpet
               to
               the
               World
               his
               Fame
               ;
            
             
               That
               him
               you
               must
               like
               Fairy
               gifts
               conceal
               ,
            
             
               The
               way
               to
               forfeit
               all
               was
               to
               reveal
               .
            
             
               He
               had
               both
               seen
               the
               Camp
               ,
               and
               Court
               of
               France
               ,
            
             
               But
               came
               not
               back
               a
               Gay
               Sr.
               Fopling
               thence
               ,
            
             
               Or
               noisie
               Bully
               ,
               when
               he
               lov'd
               or
               fought
               ,
            
             
               'T
               was
               done
               with
               all
               the
               silence
               ,
               that
               he
               thought
            
             
               His
               instant
               secret
               business
               might
               conceal
               ,
            
             
               Like
               one
               who
               took
               in
               either
               case
               a
               disappointment
               ill
               .
            
             
               For
               he
               did
               neither
               Love
               nor
               Fight
               in
               jest
               ,
            
             
               But
               always
               found
               just
               Motives
               in
               his
               Breast
               ;
            
             
               And
               then
               advanc'd
               with
               the
               same
               vigorous
               heat
            
             
               His
               Mistris
               ,
               or
               his
               Enemy
               to
               meet
               ,
            
             
             
               And
               yet
               with
               all
               the
               ease
               ,
               that
               does
               attend
            
             
               His
               Graceful
               fair
               ,
               righted
               his
               fame
               or
               friend
               .
            
             
               The
               black
               and
               guilty
               only
               fear
               to
               die
               ,
            
             
               He
               ran
               the
               risk
               with
               that
               serenity
               ,
            
             
               Which
               well
               became
               a
               Man
               at
               peace
               within
               ,
            
             
               And
               frighted
               by
               no
               Monster
               of
               a
               Sin.
            
             
               For
               no
               believing
               Maid
               was
               e'er
               undone
            
             
               By
               Perjuries
               from
               his
               perswasive
               Tongue
               ,
            
             
               His
               Honesty
               ,
               his
               Business
               ,
               or
               his
               Ease
               ,
            
             
               To
               Vanity
               he
               would
               not
               Sacrifice
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               for
               the
               Glory
               of
               a
               fine
               intrigue
            
             
               Wear
               out
               his
               mind
               in
               a
               ten
               years
               fatigue
               ;
            
             
               Fawn
               and
               Dissemble
               like
               a
               Whigg
               at
               Court
               ,
            
             
               And
               Witness
               ,
               like
               fire
               murd'ring
               Oaths
               in
               sport
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               basely
               practise
               every
               little
               Cheat
            
             
               Us'd
               by
               the
               wife
               ,
               the
               Politick
               ,
               and
               Great
               ,
            
             
               To
               steal
               into
               a
               weak
               ,
               ill-guarded
               Town
               ,
            
             
               Tho
               rich
               in
               fairer
               Mansions
               of
               their
               own
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               still
               they
               will
               betray
               ,
               that
               by
               these
               Arts
            
             
               They
               may
               attain
               the
               name
               of
               Men
               of
               Parts
               .
            
             
             
               Philander
               set
               his
               heart
               upon
               the
               Place
               ,
            
             
               If
               in
               a
               Siege
               he
               ever
               shew'd
               his
               face
               ;
            
             
               He
               lay
               before
               the
               Fort
               ,
               because
               he
               there
            
             
               Had
               Treasur'd
               up
               his
               Soul
               ,
               and
               could
               not
               bear
            
             
               A
               separation
               ,
               every
               minute
               kill'd
               ,
            
             
               Which
               the
               pale
               Youth
               from
               his
               best
               part
               withheld
               .
            
             
               Then
               he
               would
               talk
               and
               kneel
               ,
               protest
               and
               swear
            
             
               Each
               Tree
               had
               sence
               ,
               and
               every
               Stone
               could
               hear
               ;
            
             
               And
               as
               of
               old
               good
               Moses
               Charm'd
               the
               Rock
               ,
            
             
               And
               rapid
               Rivers
               issued
               where
               he
               struck
               ,
            
             
               Philander
               touch'd
               it
               too
               with
               such
               an
               Art
               ,
            
             
               That
               Kindness
               sprung
               out
               of
               the
               hardest
               heart
               ;
            
             
               For
               he
               would
               weep
               a
               Torrent
               of
               wild
               Woes
               ,
            
             
               Which
               like
               the
               Stream
               that
               from
               Vesuvius
               flows
               ,
            
             
               Burnt
               all
               before
               it
               ,
               raging
               with
               his
               crys
               ,
            
             
               Fir'd
               by
               his
               Passion
               ,
               driven
               by
               his
               sighs
               .
            
             
               At
               other
               times
               like
               some
               soft
               murmuring
               Brook
               ,
            
             
               In
               whose
               fair
               face
               the
               Nymphs
               their
               faces
               look
               :
            
             
               He
               charm'd
               the
               listning
               Maid
               into
               a
               Dream
               ,
            
             
               In
               which
               she
               cou'd
               see
               nothing
               else
               but
               him
               ,
            
             
             
               To
               him
               committed
               every
               tender
               thought
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               conversion
               which
               his
               Tongue
               had
               wrought
               ;
            
             
               And
               us'd
               him
               like
               a
               secret
               Confessor
               ,
            
             
               Whisper'd
               her
               melting
               wishes
               in
               his
               Ear.
               
            
          
           
             
               One
               Am'rous
               Ev'ning
               of
               the
               joyful
               Spring
            
             
               Did
               many
               friendly
               Nymphs
               together
               bring
               ;
            
             
               Musick
               they
               had
               to
               Triumph
               or
               to
               Mourn
               ,
            
             
               To
               celebrate
               the
               ravage
               of
               their
               Scorn
               ,
            
             
               Or
               tell
               the
               Shades
               in
               a
               sad
               moving
               strain
            
             
               The
               falseness
               of
               a
               too
               much
               favour'd
               Swain
               ;
            
             
               Whilst
               our
               Eirene
               ,
               (
               for
               that
               fair
               was
               one
               )
            
             
               In
               undisturb'd
               and
               clear
               reflections
               shone
               ;
            
             
               No
               cloudy
               Passion
               hung
               upon
               her
               mind
               ,
            
             
               Which
               to
               that
               Eminency
               was
               refin'd
               ,
            
             
               That
               with
               full
               day
               it
               rose
               upon
               her
               face
               ,
            
             
               And
               gilded
               every
               Feature
               with
               its
               Rays
               ;
            
             
               And
               yet
               ,
               so
               mild
               and
               peaceful
               flow'd
               the
               beams
               ,
            
             
               In
               such
               soft
               gentle
               kind
               ,
               and
               quiet
               streams
               ,
            
             
             
               As
               the
               still
               Air
               ,
               on
               which
               that
               Ev'ning
               lay
            
             
               When
               these
               young
               Angels
               gave
               a
               loose
               to
               Play
               ;
            
             
               And
               that
               was
               calm
               as
               Infants
               rock'd
               asleep
               ,
            
             
               Beauty
               in
               aw
               the
               angry
               Winds
               did
               keep
               ,
            
             
               Who
               silently
               in
               admiration
               stood
               ,
            
             
               And
               fear'd
               to
               tell
               their
               mighty
               joy
               aloud
               ,
            
             
               Left
               crouding
               fellow-Winds
               should
               drive
               them
               thence
               ,
            
             
               And
               share
               the
               view
               of
               so
               much
               Excellence
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               came
               they
               empty-handed
               to
               adore
               ,
            
             
               But
               the
               perfumes
               of
               both
               the
               Indies
               bore
               ,
            
             
               And
               at
               the
               feet
               of
               these
               fair
               Charmers
               cast
               ,
            
             
               The
               sweets
               of
               all
               the
               Countrys
               they
               had
               past
               :
            
             
               Tho
               like
               great
               Monarchs
               ,
               who
               with
               vast
               expence
            
             
               Shew
               their
               respect
               ,
               and
               their
               Magnificence
               ,
            
             
               And
               make
               rich
               Presents
               to
               their
               Brother-Kings
               ,
            
             
               Who
               least
               of
               all
               Mankind
               can
               want
               such
               things
               .
            
             
               The
               officious
               Winds
               a
               needless
               Tribute
               paid
               ,
            
             
               Perfuming
               what
               cou'd
               never
               want
               their
               aid
               ;
            
             
             
               For
               all
               the
               Shades
               were
               made
               of
               Iessemin
               ,
            
             
               Roses
               ,
               and
               Oranges
               ,
               and
               Columbine
               ,
            
             
               Under
               whose
               roots
               lay
               the
               kind
               Camomile
               ,
            
             
               And
               thousand
               other
               humble
               Flowers
               did
               smile
               ,
            
             
               Caressing
               the
               gay
               fragrant
               youthful
               grass
               ,
            
             
               And
               shedding
               Honey-dew
               upon
               its
               face
               .
            
             
               This
               Paradice
               thus
               happy
               ev'ry
               way
            
             
               In
               the
               soft
               Arms
               of
               a
               smooth
               River
               lay
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               Murmurs
               gently
               chid
               the
               cruel
               heart
               ,
            
             
               That
               sympathiz'd
               not
               with
               a
               Shepherd's
               smart
               ;
            
             
               And
               to
               the
               Rocks
               ,
               and
               Grotto's
               would
               complain
            
             
               Of
               
               Sylvia's
               hate
               ,
               or
               
               Amoret's
               disdain
               ;
            
             
               And
               oft
               in
               lucky
               melting
               minutes
               move
            
             
               The
               listning
               Nymph
               to
               lend
               an
               ear
               to
               Love
               :
            
             
               Eirene
               sate
               by
               his
               green
               Flowry
               side
               ,
            
             
               Who
               swell'd
               so
               high
               with
               Pleasure
               ,
               or
               with
               Pride
               ,
            
             
               That
               't
               was
               respect
               alone
               the
               Lover
               staid
            
             
               From
               running
               o'er
               to
               Snatch
               the
               careless
               Maid
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               she
               unmindful
               of
               the
               danger
               near
               ,
            
             
               And
               safe
               in
               Innocence
               ,
               exempt
               from
               fear
               ,
            
             
             
               Sung
               to
               her
               Lute
               Harmonious
               tales
               of
               Love
               ,
            
             
               That
               with
               the
               natural
               sweetness
               of
               the
               Grove
               ,
            
             
               Crept
               on
               the
               downy
               bosom
               of
               the
               Air
               ,
            
             
               And
               a
               new
               Heavenly
               Clime
               created
               there
               ;
            
             
               Commission'd
               Angels
               ,
               when
               their
               task
               was
               done
               ,
            
             
               Wondring
               they
               should
               arrive
               at
               home
               so
               soon
            
             
               Staid
               here
               ,
               mistaken
               in
               their
               happy
               Seat
               ,
            
             
               Or
               else
               unwilling
               to
               find
               out
               the
               cheat
               ;
            
             
               Would
               gladly
               the
               abodes
               above
               forgoe
            
             
               To
               be
               for
               ever
               ravish'd
               thus
               below
               ,
            
             
               And
               then
               she
               smil'd
               ,
               and
               look'd
               the
               sweetest
               things
               ,
            
             
               Good
               nature
               trickled
               from
               the
               rising
               Springs
            
             
               Of
               her
               kind
               Eyes
               ,
               and
               gliding
               on
               her
               Face
            
             
               Diffus'd
               it self
               in
               softest
               tenderness
               .
            
             
               So
               have
               I
               seen
               a
               silver
               water
               run
            
             
               Through
               Natures
               blooming
               Beauties
               ,
               whilst
               the
               Sun
            
             
               Shining
               upon
               it
               with
               his
               youthful
               beams
            
             
               Plaid
               like
               her
               eyes
               among
               the
               gilded
               Streams
               ;
            
             
             
               Her
               rising
               Breasts
               on
               Cupids
               Wings
               were
               made
               ,
            
             
               Hiding
               the
               little
               Loves
               in
               Ambush
               laid
               ;
            
             
               Who
               heav'd
               and
               panted
               when
               their
               Bows
               they
               drew
               ,
            
             
               And
               as
               they
               mov'd
               ,
               Millions
               of
               Arrows
               flew
               :
            
             
               The
               points
               they
               had
               from
               her
               bewitching
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               the
               Feathers
               from
               her
               Lute
               and
               Voice
               .
            
             
               To
               such
               a
               sight
               ,
               in
               such
               a
               minute
               came
            
             
               The
               young
               Philander
               guided
               by
               the
               Fame
            
             
               Of
               these
               assembled
               Beauties
               ,
               and
               his
               Star
            
             
               Led
               him
               directly
               to
               the
               fatal
               Fair
               ,
            
             
               Led
               him
               where
               bright
               Eirene
               did
               appear
               .
            
             
               He
               found
               the
               danger
               ,
               and
               wou'd
               have
               retir'd
               ,
            
             
               But
               't
               was
               in
               vain
               ,
               for
               he
               had
               seen
               and
               heard
               ,
            
             
               It
               was
               in
               vain
               to
               fly
               ,
               he
               might
               as
               soon
            
             
               His
               Shadow
               ,
               or
               his
               secret
               thoughts
               out-run
               ;
            
             
               So
               being
               round
               beset
               with
               murth'ring
               Charms
               ,
            
             
               He
               sought
               the
               sacred
               refuge
               of
               her
               Arms
               ;
            
             
               With
               bended
               knees
               and
               soul
               the
               humble
               Swain
            
             
               Kneel'd
               to
               the
               lovely
               Author
               of
               his
               pain
               ;
            
             
             
               He
               fix'd
               his
               eyes
               upon
               her
               Heavenly
               face
               ,
            
             
               His
               heart
               leapt
               up
               ,
               and
               through
               those
               eyes
               wou'd
               gaze
               ,
            
             
               Till
               melted
               by
               the
               Starry
               Fire
               ,
               that
               sprung
            
             
               From
               the
               bright
               Maid
               ,
               it
               flow'd
               out
               of
               his
               Tongue
               .
            
          
           
             
               Phil.
               
            
             
               Oh
               thou
               art
               sure
               a
               blossom
               in
               the
               Spring
            
             
               Of
               Joyful
               Heaven
               ,
               by
               the
               eternal
               King
               ,
            
             
               To
               glad
               Mankind
               sent
               mercifully
               down
               ,
            
             
               And
               on
               the
               Banks
               of
               Life's
               fair
               Stream
               hast
               grown
               ;
            
             
               The
               dear
               refreshing
               moisture
               yet
               I
               see
            
             
               Hanging
               on
               either
               Lip
               ,
               from
               either
               Eye
            
             
               Fresh
               Life
               yet
               flows
               ,
               ten
               thousand
               Angels
               still
            
             
               Bath
               in
               their
               native
               Flood
               ,
               and
               drink
               their
               fill
               .
            
             
               Oh!
               thou
               all
               Heav'n
               ,
               tell
               ,
               tell
               thy
               ravisht
               slave
            
             
               What
               kind
               of
               Worship
               thou
               expect'st
               to
               have
               ;
            
             
               Speak
               ,
               and
               thy
               Cherubs
               dancing
               on
               thy
               Tongue
            
             
               Amongst
               thy
               words
               in
               charming
               notes
               shall
               throng
               ,
            
             
               Speak
               that
               my
               heart
               may
               spring
               into
               a
               Joy
               ,
            
             
               Which
               nothing
               but
               thy
               silence
               can
               destroy
               ;
            
             
             
               The
               happy
               Youth
               never
               made
               Love
               in
               vain
               ,
            
             
               The
               Graces
               taught
               him
               all
               the
               Arts
               to
               gain
               .
            
             
               A
               bounding
               pleasure
               leap'd
               through
               every
               part
               ,
            
             
               And
               raptures
               revell'd
               at
               Eirenes
               heart
               ,
            
             
               Which
               upwards
               flew
               ,
               and
               pereh'd
               upon
               her
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               For
               fair
               Eirene
               knew
               not
               to
               disguise
            
             
               Her
               thoughts
               ,
               nor
               would
               her self
               and
               Lover
               vex
            
             
               With
               the
               afflicted
               coldness
               of
               her
               Sex.
            
             
               Philander
               could
               perceive
               with
               extasie
            
             
               That
               his
               dear
               Mistris
               would
               not
               let
               him
               die
               ;
            
             
               But
               yet
               to
               try
               the
               ground
               on
               which
               he
               stood
               ,
            
             
               And
               that
               he
               might
               be
               sure
               he
               grasp'd
               no
               Cloud
               ,
            
             
               That
               he
               would
               prove
               his
               Fortune
               ,
               thus
               proceed
            
             
               To
               learn
               what
               Fate
               his
               fair
               one
               had
               decreed
               .
            
          
           
             
               Phil.
               
            
             
               If
               in
               your
               Breast
               you
               have
               resolv'd
               my
               death
               ,
            
             
               West
               to
               Elizium
               ,
               waft
               me
               with
               that
               Breath
            
             
               Which
               charms
               the
               World
               ,
               sing
               to
               your
               Lute
               my
               doom
               ,
            
             
               In
               that
               sweet
               dress
               let
               my
               Destruction
               come
               ,
            
             
             
               So
               op'ning
               Heav'n
               with
               all
               its
               Choirs
               and
               Spheres
            
             
               Shall
               wing
               me
               from
               the
               Earth
               above
               the
               Stars
               .
            
             
               Thus
               far
               the
               Lover
               ;
               thus
               the
               heedless
               Maid
            
             
               The
               budding
               kindness
               of
               her
               soul
               betrai'd
               .
            
          
           
             
               Eirene
               .
            
             
               Tell
               me
               ,
               ye
               softer
               Powers
               above
               ,
            
             
               Tell
               me
               what
               unfledg'd
               thing
            
             
               Begins
               within
               my
               Breast
               to
               move
               ,
            
             
               And
               try
               its
               tender
               wing
               ?
            
             
               Tell
               me
               why
               this
               unusual
               heat
            
             
               Thus
               creeps
               about
               my
               heart
               ,
            
             
               And
               why
               that
               heart
               indulges
               it
            
             
               And
               fondly
               takes
               its
               part
               ?
            
             
               What
               God-head
               could
               Philander
               melt
            
             
               To
               such
               a
               flood
               of
               sighs
               ,
            
             
               That
               gliding
               with
               the
               Tide
               unfelt
               ,
            
             
               He
               might
               my
               Soul
               surprize
               ?
            
             
               Perfidious
               Musick
               took
               my
               Ear
               ,
            
             
               And
               bent
               it
               to
               his
               Song
               ;
            
             
               Musick
               my
               friend
               ,
               my
               darling
               care
            
             
               Betray'd
               me
               on
               his
               Tongue
               .
            
             
             
               But
               now
               they
               look'd
               how
               late
               the
               Ev'ning
               grew
               ,
            
             
               Ill-natur'd
               Scandal
               ,
               and
               the
               falling
               dew
            
             
               Frighted
               the
               fearful
               Nymphs
               away
               in
               hast
               ,
            
             
               Lest
               this
               their
               Beauty
               ,
               that
               their
               Fame
               should
               blast
               .
            
             
               Eirene
               snatch'd
               a
               minute
               to
               bestow
            
             
               A
               tender
               smile
               ,
               and
               a
               good
               natur'd
               bow
            
             
               Upon
               the
               ravish'd
               Youth
               ,
               who
               drunk
               with
               Bliss
            
             
               Reel'd
               home
               ,
               and
               thought
               the
               Universe
               was
               his
               .
            
             
               Great
               Power
               who
               couldst
               transform
               the
               mighty
               Jove
            
             
               To
               Showers
               ,
               or
               softer
               feathers
               for
               his
               Love.
            
             
               Thou
               only
               in
               this
               figure
               couldst
               have
               stole
            
             
               Through
               Rocks
               of
               Ice
               ,
               the
               Chaste
               Eirenes
               Soul
               ,
            
             
               
               Philander's
               was
               the
               only
               shape
               could
               move
               ,
            
             
               Philander
               newly
               moulded
               o'er
               in
               Love
               ;
            
             
               The
               quickest
               Pulse
               of
               Love
               beat
               in
               his
               blood
               ,
            
             
               In
               rowling
               Waves
               Love
               from
               his
               Language
               flow'd
               ,
            
             
               From
               his
               black
               eyes
               fair
               Love
               and
               Rapture
               broke
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               his
               talking
               looks
               plain
               Passion
               spoke
               .
            
             
             
               How
               alter'd
               then
               must
               cold
               Eirene
               be
               ,
            
             
               Who
               catch'd
               the
               flaming
               Meteor
               from
               his
               Eye
               ,
            
             
               On
               whose
               hot
               Beams
               the
               Youth
               himself
               did
               dart
               ,
            
             
               And
               flew
               in
               circling
               fire
               into
               her
               heart
               ;
            
             
               Her
               burning
               heart
               boil'd
               over
               at
               her
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               its
               Sweets
               distill'd
               in
               Tears
               and
               Sighs
               ;
            
             
               In
               every
               Christal
               drop
               Philander
               shone
               ,
            
             
               Philanders
               Image
               could
               be
               seen
               alone
               ;
            
             
               Her
               flame
               and
               fancy
               glittering
               on
               the
               dew
               ,
            
             
               Painted
               the
               lovely
               Phantom
               finer
               too
            
             
               Than
               e'er
               the
               Sun
               a
               gaudy
               Rainbow
               drew
               .
            
             
               She
               saw
               him
               in
               that
               Glass
               with
               what
               a
               Mien
               ,
            
             
               With
               what
               an
               easie
               greatness
               he
               came
               in
            
             
               At
               the
               late
               meeting
               ,
               what
               a
               haughtiness
               ,
            
             
               And
               graceful
               Majesty
               sate
               on
               his
               face
               ,
            
             
               But
               at
               her
               sight
               how
               humble
               was
               his
               Love
               !
            
             
               Like
               Alexander
               supplicating
               Iove
               ,
            
             
               His
               trembling
               soul
               before
               her
               feet
               he
               hurl'd
               ,
            
             
               To
               gain
               a
               greater
               Conquest
               than
               the
               World
               ,
            
             
             
               And
               he
               continued
               this
               humility
               ,
            
             
               For
               to
               the
               Earth
               he
               fix'd
               his
               bended
               knee
               ,
            
             
               The
               two
               great
               Lights
               above
               saw
               him
               adore
               ,
            
             
               But
               never
               saw
               such
               Constancy
               before
               ,
            
             
               He
               Worship'd
               with
               a
               Beggars
               fervency
               ,
            
             
               And
               would
               take
               heaven
               by
               importunity
               ;
            
             
               The
               Heav'n
               of
               Love
               was
               open'd
               to
               his
               Prayers
               ,
            
             
               And
               kind
               Eirene
               laid
               aside
               her
               fears
            
             
               To
               ease
               the
               Youth
               of
               his
               ,
               thus
               doubly
               won
            
             
               By
               mighty
               Merit
               ,
               and
               by
               suff'ring
               long
               .
            
             
               At
               first
               her
               cautious
               friends
               a
               Lecture
               read
            
             
               Of
               Ruin'd
               Maids
               ,
               by
               perjur'd
               Men
               betray'd
               .
            
             
               And
               frighted
               back
               her
               passion
               to
               her
               heart
               ,
            
             
               But
               there
               Philanders
               Image
               took
               its
               part
               ,
            
             
               And
               aided
               by
               her self
               it
               grew
               so
               strong
               ,
            
             
               It
               drove
               her
               Love
               out
               of
               her
               yielding
               Tongue
               .
            
             
               Her
               soul
               and
               heart
               her
               kindest
               thoughts
               express
               ,
            
             
               Melted
               on
               ev'ry
               feature
               of
               her
               face
               ;
            
             
               But
               that
               he
               should
               not
               doubt
               his
               happiness
               ,
            
             
               Her
               eyes
               and
               Tongue
               his
               Conquest
               thus
               confess
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Eirene
               .
            
             
               Oh
               my
               Philander
               ope
               your
               Brest
               ,
            
             
               I
               can
               no
               longer
               keep
               my
               heart
               ,
            
             
               Why
               do
               you
               call
               it
               from
               its
               nest
            
             
               With
               such
               a
               soft
               resistless
               Art
               ?
            
             
               It
               sighs
               and
               looks
               it self
               away
               ,
            
             
               Dissolving
               with
               each
               word
               I
               speak
               ;
            
             
               Oh!
               take
               it
               ,
               take
               it
               ,
               if
               you
               stay
            
             
               You
               will
               have
               nothing
               left
               to
               take
               .
            
             
               There
               will
               be
               no
               injustice
               done
               ,
            
             
               Tho
               you
               have
               fir'd
               its
               native
               house
               ,
            
             
               If
               you
               will
               lodge
               it
               in
               your
               own
               ,
            
             
               Where
               it
               can
               only
               find
               repose
               .
            
             
               And
               there
               I
               'll
               rest
               secure
               from
               harm
               ,
            
             
               Let
               angry
               Winds
               roar
               as
               they
               will
               ,
            
             
               That
               Tongue
               can
               ev'ry
               Tempest
               charm
               ,
            
             
               Those
               Eyes
               the
               blackest
               Cloud
               dispell
               .
            
             
             
               Then
               the
               bright
               Nymph
               ,
               with
               all
               her
               blaze
               of
               Charms
            
             
               Shot
               like
               a
               falling
               Star
               into
               his
               Arms
               ;
            
             
               He
               crush'd
               her
               killing
               Beauties
               to
               his
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               her
               sweets
               into
               his
               Bosom
               prest
               ;
            
             
               Her
               willing
               Soul
               out
               of
               her
               Lips
               he
               drew
               ,
            
             
               Which
               wing'd
               with
               Joy
               to
               her
               Philander
               flew
               ;
            
             
               And
               then
               an
               innocent
               Revenge
               he
               tries
               ,
            
             
               Attempts
               to
               kiss
               the
               fire
               ,
               out
               of
               her
               Eyes
               ;
            
             
               And
               he
               devour'd
               a
               fierce
               unruly
               flame
               ,
            
             
               Which
               all
               her
               Charms
               let
               loose
               could
               scarcely
               tame
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               well
               he
               had
               the
               liberty
               at
               least
            
             
               The
               living
               Nectar
               of
               her
               Lips
               to
               tast
               ;
            
             
               To
               quaff
               her
               breath
               ,
               and
               drink
               her
               flowing
               heart
               ,
            
             
               Which
               broke
               the
               Banks
               ,
               and
               gush'd
               from
               ev'ry
               part
               ;
            
             
               And
               this
               was
               all
               he
               wish'd
               ,
               his
               Heav'nly
               fire
            
             
               Was
               purg'd
               from
               ev'ry
               loose
               unchast
               desire
               ,
            
             
               Eirenes
               eyes
               had
               purify'd
               the
               Air
               ;
            
             
               He
               breath'd
               in
               the
               clear
               Sun-shine
               of
               his
               Fair.
            
             
             
               Eirene
               could
               the
               dross
               and
               dregs
               remove
               ,
            
             
               Extracting
               the
               pure
               spirit
               of
               his
               Love
               ;
            
             
               And
               that
               was
               all
               divine
               ,
               and
               would
               not
               mix
            
             
               With
               the
               gross
               inclinations
               of
               his
               Sex.
            
             
               Thus
               Angel
               like
               the
               Youth
               and
               Virgin
               lov'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               pleasure
               to
               the
               highest
               pitch
               improv'd
               ;
            
             
               The
               circling
               Year
               roul'd
               in
               its
               usual
               round
               ,
            
             
               And
               still
               their
               Eyes
               fix'd
               on
               each
               other
               found
               ;
            
             
               The
               circling
               Year
               did
               various
               seasons
               bring
               ,
            
             
               But
               their
               young
               Love
               was
               always
               in
               the
               Spring
               ,
            
             
               It
               never
               alter'd
               but
               from
               bliss
               to
               bliss
               ,
            
             
               No
               angry
               Sky
               blasted
               their
               happiness
               ;
            
             
               For
               whilst
               Eirene
               smil'd
               his
               Heav'n
               was
               clear
               ,
            
             
               And
               she
               would
               always
               smile
               when
               he
               was
               near
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             OF
             Divine
             Poesie
             ,
             Two
             CANTO'S
          
           
             By
             Mr.
             WALLER
             .
          
           
             Occasioned
             upon
             sight
             of
             the
             Fifty
             third
             Chapter
             of
             Isaiah
             ,
             turn'd
             into
             Verse
             by
             a
             Lady
             .
          
           
             
               Canto
               1.
               
            
             
               POets
               we
               praise
               ,
               when
               in
               their
               Verse
               we
               find
            
             
               Some
               great
               imployment
               of
               a
               worthy
               mind
               ;
            
             
               Angels
               have
               been
               inquisitive
               to
               know
            
             
               The
               Secrets
               which
               this
               Oracle
               does
               show
               .
            
          
           
             
               What
               was
               to
               come
               the
               Prophet
               did
               declare
               ,
            
             
               Which
               she
               describes
               as
               if
               she
               had
               been
               there
               ,
            
             
             
               Had
               seen
               the
               wounds
               which
               to
               the
               Readers
               view
            
             
               She
               draws
               so
               lively
               that
               they
               bleed
               anew
               .
            
          
           
             
               As
               Ivie
               thrives
               which
               on
               the
               Oak
               takes
               hold
               ,
            
             
               So
               with
               the
               Prophets
               may
               her
               Lines
               grow
               old
               ,
            
             
               If
               they
               should
               die
               ,
               who
               can
               the
               World
               forgive
               ?
            
             
               Such
               Pious
               Lines
               when
               wanton
               
               Sapho's
               live
               .
            
          
           
             
               Who
               with
               his
               breath
               his
               Image
               did
               inspire
               ,
            
             
               Expects
               it
               should
               foment
               a
               nobler
               fire
               ,
            
             
               Not
               Love
               which
               Brutes
               as
               well
               as
               Men
               may
               know
               ,
            
             
               But
               love
               like
               his
               to
               whom
               that
               breath
               we
               owe.
               
            
          
           
             
               Verse
               so
               design'd
               on
               that
               high
               Subject
               wrote
               ,
            
             
               Is
               the
               perfection
               of
               an
               ardent
               thought
               ;
            
             
               The
               Smoak
               which
               we
               from
               burning
               Incence
               raise
               ,
            
             
               When
               we
               compleat
               the
               Sacrifice
               of
               Praise
               .
            
          
           
             
               That
               he
               does
               Reign
               all
               Creatures
               should
               rejoyce
               ,
            
             
               And
               we
               with
               Songs
               supply
               their
               want
               of
               Voice
               ;
            
             
               In
               boundless
               verse
               the
               Fancy
               soars
               too
               high
            
             
               For
               any
               Object
               but
               the
               Deity
               .
            
             
             
               What
               Mortal
               can
               with
               Heav'n
               pretend
               to
               share
            
             
               In
               the
               Superlatives
               of
               Wise
               and
               Fair
               ?
            
             
               As
               meaner
               Subjects
               when
               with
               these
               we
               grace
               ,
            
             
               A
               Giants
               habit
               on
               a
               Dwarf
               we
               place
               .
            
          
           
             
               Sacred
               should
               be
               the
               product
               of
               our
               Muse
               ,
            
             
               Like
               that
               sweet
               Oil
               above
               all
               private
               use
               ,
            
             
               On
               pain
               of
               Death
               forbidden
               to
               be
               made
            
             
               But
               when
               it
               should
               be
               on
               the
               Altar
               laid
               ;
            
             
               Verse
               shews
               a
               rich
               inestimable
               Vein
               ,
            
             
               When
               dropt
               from
               Heav'n
               't
               is
               thither
               sent
               again
               .
            
          
           
             
               Of
               Bounty
               't
               is
               that
               he
               admits
               our
               praise
            
             
               Which
               does
               not
               him
               ,
               but
               us
               that
               yield
               it
               raise
               ,
            
             
               For
               as
               that
               Angel
               up
               to
               Heaven
               did
               rise
               ,
            
             
               Born
               on
               the
               flame
               of
               Mannoa's
               Sacrifice
               ,
            
             
               So
               wing'd
               with
               Praise
               we
               penetrate
               the
               Sky
               ,
            
             
               Teach
               Cloud
               and
               Stars
               to
               Praise
               him
               as
               we
               fly
               ;
            
             
               The
               whole
               Creation
               by
               our
               Fall
               made
               groan
               ,
            
             
               His
               Praise
               to
               Eccho
               and
               suspend
               their
               Moan
               ,
            
          
           
             
             
               The
               Church
               Triumphant
               and
               the
               Church
               below
            
             
               In
               Songs
               of
               Praise
               their
               present
               Union
               show
               ;
            
             
               Their
               Joys
               are
               full
               ,
               our
               Expectation
               long
               ,
            
             
               In
               Life
               we
               differ
               ,
               but
               we
               joyn
               in
               Song
               ;
            
             
               Angels
               and
               we
               assisted
               by
               this
               art
            
             
               May
               sing
               together
               tho
               we
               dwelt
               apart
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thus
               we
               reach
               Heav'n
               while
               Vainer
               Poems
               must
            
             
               No
               higher
               rise
               than
               winds
               may
               lift
               the
               dust
               ,
            
             
               From
               that
               they
               spring
               ,
               this
               from
               his
               Breath
               that
               gave
            
             
               To
               the
               first
               dust
               th'
               immortal
               ●…oul
               ,
               we
               have
               ;
            
             
               His
               Praise
               well
               sung
               our
               great
               endeavour
               here
            
             
               Shakes
               off
               the
               Dust
               ,
               and
               makes
               that
               Breath
               appear
               .
            
          
           
             
               Canto
               2.
               
            
             
               HE
               that
               did
               first
               this
               way
               of
               Writing
               grace
               ,
            
             
               Convers'd
               with
               the
               Almighty
               face
               to
               face
               ,
            
             
               Wonders
               he
               did
               in
               Sacred
               Verse
               unfold
               ,
            
             
               When
               he
               had
               more
               than
               Eighty
               Winters
               told
               ,
            
             
             
               The
               Writer
               feels
               no
               dire
               effects
               of
               Age
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               Verse
               that
               flows
               from
               so
               Divine
               a
               rage
               .
            
          
           
             
               Eldest
               of
               Poets
               he
               ,
               beheld
               the
               Light
               ,
            
             
               When
               first
               it
               Triumph'd
               o'er
               eternal
               night
               ,
            
             
               Chaos
               he
               saw
               and
               could
               distinctly
               tell
            
             
               How
               that
               Confusion
               into
               order
               fell
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               consulted
               which
               he
               has
               exprest
            
             
               The
               Work
               of
               the
               Creator
               ,
               and
               his
               Rest.
            
             
               How
               the
               Flood
               drown'd
               the
               first
               offending
               Race
               ,
            
             
               Which
               might
               the
               Figure
               of
               our
               Globe
               deface
               ;
            
             
               For
               new
               made
               Earth
               ,
               so
               even
               and
               so
               fair
               ,
            
             
               Less
               equal
               now
               uncertain
               makes
               the
               Air
               ;
            
             
               Surpris'd
               with
               Heat
               and
               unexpected
               Cold
               ,
            
             
               Early
               Distempers
               make
               our
               Youth
               look
               Old
               ,
            
             
               Our
               days
               so
               evil
               and
               so
               few
               ,
               may
               tell
            
             
               That
               on
               the
               Ruins
               of
               that
               World
               we
               dwell
               .
            
          
           
             
               Strong
               as
               the
               Oaks
               that
               nourish'd
               them
               ,
               and
               high
               ,
            
             
               That
               long-liv'd
               Race
               did
               on
               their
               force
               relie
               ,
            
             
             
               Neglecting
               Heav'n
               ,
               but
               we
               of
               shorter
               date
            
             
               Should
               be
               more
               mindful
               of
               impendent
               Fate
               ,
            
             
               To
               Worms
               that
               crawl
               upon
               this
               Rubbish
               here
               ,
            
             
               This
               span
               of
               Life
               may
               yet
               too
               long
               appear
               ;
            
             
               Enough
               to
               humble
               ,
               and
               to
               make
               us
               great
               ,
            
             
               If
               it
               prepare
               us
               for
               a
               Nobler
               Seat
               ;
            
             
               Which
               well
               observing
               ,
               he
               in
               numerous
               Lines
            
             
               Taught
               wretched
               Man
               how
               fast
               his
               Life
               declines
               ;
            
             
               In
               whom
               he
               dwelt
               before
               the
               World
               was
               made
               ,
            
             
               And
               may
               again
               retire
               when
               that
               shall
               fade
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               lasting
               Iliads
               have
               not
               liv'd
               so
               long
            
             
               As
               his
               and
               
               Deborah's
               triumphant
               Song
               :
            
             
               Delphos
               unknown
               ,
               no
               Muse
               could
               them
               inspire
               ,
            
             
               But
               that
               which
               Governs
               the
               Coelestial
               Choir
               ;
            
             
               Heaven
               to
               the
               Pious
               did
               this
               Art
               reveal
               ,
            
             
               And
               from
               their
               store
               succeeding
               Poets
               steal
               .
            
             
               
               Homer's
               Scamander
               from
               the
               Trojans
               fought
               ,
            
             
               And
               swell'd
               so
               high
               by
               her
               old
               Kishon
               taught
               ,
            
             
               His
               River
               scarce
               could
               fierce
               Achilles
               stay
               ,
            
             
               Hers
               more
               successful
               swept
               her
               foes
               away
               .
            
             
             
               The
               Host
               of
               Heav'n
               ,
               his
               Phoebus
               and
               his
               Mars
            
             
               He
               Arms
               ,
               instructed
               by
               her
               fighting
               Stars
               ,
            
             
               She
               led
               them
               all
               against
               the
               common
               foe
               ,
            
             
               But
               he
               misled
               by
               what
               he
               saw
               below
               ;
            
             
               The
               Powers
               above
               like
               wretched
               men
               divides
            
             
               And
               breaks
               their
               union
               into
               different
               sides
               ,
            
             
               The
               Noblest
               Parts
               which
               in
               his
               Heroes
               shine
            
             
               May
               be
               but
               Copies
               of
               that
               Heroine
               .
            
             
               Homer
               himself
               ,
               and
               Agamemnon
               she
            
             
               The
               Writer
               could
               ,
               and
               the
               Commander
               be
               .
            
          
           
             
               Death
               she
               relates
               in
               a
               sublimer
               strain
            
             
               Than
               all
               the
               Tales
               the
               boldest
               Greek
               could
               feign
               ,
            
             
               For
               what
               she
               sung
               that
               Spirit
               did
               endight
               ,
            
             
               Which
               gave
               her
               Courage
               and
               Success
               in
               Fight
               :
            
             
               A
               double
               Garland
               Crowns
               the
               matchless
               Dame
               ,
            
             
               From
               Heav'n
               her
               Poem
               and
               her
               Conquest
               came
               ,
            
             
               Tho
               of
               the
               Iews
               she
               merit
               most
               esteem
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               here
               the
               Christian
               has
               the
               greater
               Theme
               ;
            
             
             
               Her
               Martial
               Song
               describes
               how
               Sisera
               fell
               ,
            
             
               This
               sings
               our
               Triumph
               over
               Death
               and
               Hell.
               
            
          
           
             
               The
               Rising
               Light
               employ'd
               the
               Sacred
               Breath
            
             
               Of
               the
               blest
               Virgin
               and
               Elizabeth
               :
            
             
               In
               Songs
               of
               Joy
               the
               Angels
               sung
               his
               Birth
               ,
            
             
               Here
               how
               he
               treated
               was
               upon
               the
               Earth
            
             
               Trembling
               ,
               we
               read
               the
               Afflictions
               and
               the
               Scorn
            
             
               Which
               for
               our
               Guilt
               so
               patiently
               was
               born
               ,
            
             
               Conception
               ,
               Birth
               ,
               and
               Suffering
               all
               belong
               ,
            
             
               Tho
               various
               parts
               ,
               to
               one
               Celestial
               Song
               ;
            
             
               And
               she
               well
               using
               so
               Divine
               an
               Art
               ,
            
             
               Has
               in
               the
               Consort
               sung
               the
               Tragic
               part
               .
            
          
           
             
               As
               Hannahs
               Seed
               was
               vow'd
               to
               Sacred
               use
               ,
            
             
               So
               here
               this
               Lady
               Consecrates
               her
               Muse
               ,
            
             
               With
               like
               reward
               may
               Heaven
               her
               Bed
               adorn
            
             
               With
               fruit
               as
               fair
               as
               by
               her
               Muse
               is
               born
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             ANSWER
             TO
             Mr.
             Waller
             .
          
           
             
               NOw
               I
               shall
               live
               indeed
               ,
               not
               by
               my
               skill
            
             
               But
               wisely
               you
               your
               Prophesie
               fufill
               ,
            
             
               And
               kindly
               careful
               of
               my
               growing
               Fame
               ,
            
             
               Have
               twisted
               it
               with
               your
               immortal
               name
               .
            
             
               What
               brainless
               Critick
               dares
               his
               Envy
               raise
            
             
               To
               blast
               a
               Style
               which
               you
               encline
               to
               praise
               ?
            
             
               The
               Powers
               of
               Envy
               I
               will
               now
               defie
               ,
            
             
               Since
               rais'd
               by
               you
               to
               Immortality
               ,
            
             
               Once
               mention'd
               in
               your
               Verse
               I
               cannot
               die
               .
            
             
               You
               with
               the
               flame
               of
               your
               Poetic
               fire
            
             
               Purge
               off
               my
               dross
               ,
               and
               leave
               the
               Sence
               entire
               ,
            
             
             
               You
               praise
               what
               's
               worthy
               praise
               ,
               the
               rest
               omit
               ,
            
             
               And
               teach
               th'
               ill-natur'd
               World
               how
               to
               forget
               ;
            
             
               The
               World
               whose
               peevish
               memories
               still
               strike
            
             
               At
               what
               is
               worst
               ,
               omitting
               what
               they
               like
               .
            
          
           
             
               Parent
               of
               English
               Poesie
               alone
               ,
            
             
               To
               you
               we
               owe
               the
               Art
               we
               call
               our
               own
               ;
            
             
               All
               who
               before
               you
               came
               ,
               as
               hoarsly
               sung
            
             
               As
               if
               by
               Mars
               ,
               Apollo's
               Harp
               was
               strung
               ,
            
             
               And
               tun'd
               to
               Drums
               loud
               Ecchoes
               and
               Alarms
               ,
            
             
               But
               you
               have
               taught
               us
               soft
               and
               lasting
               Charm●…
               .
            
          
           
             
               Pride
               of
               the
               past
               ,
               life
               of
               the
               present
               age
               ,
            
             
               I
               'm
               both
               inclin'd
               by
               swift
               Poetick
               rage
               ,
            
             
               And
               gratitude
               ,
               to
               give
               due
               praise
               to
               you
               ,
            
             
               But
               I
               'm
               too
               weak
               to
               pay
               the
               debt
               I
               owe
               :
            
             
               Down
               haughty
               Muse
               !
               canst
               thou
               behold
               the
               Sun
               ?
            
             
               Ah
               no!
               withdraw
               ,
               thy
               threatning
               danger
               shun
               ,
            
             
               He
               like
               an
               Eagle
               us'd
               to
               face
               the
               light
               ,
            
             
               Ere
               he
               adopts
               thee
               ,
               tries
               thy
               tender
               sight
               ;
            
             
             
               Yet
               mounted
               on
               his
               wings
               thou
               now
               wilt
               dare
            
             
               To
               tempt
               thy
               fate
               ,
               tho
               sure
               to
               perish
               there
               ,
            
             
               How
               hard
               it
               is
               to
               teach
               a
               Muse
               despair
               ;
            
             
               So
               the
               vain
               Fly
               who
               gilded
               flame
               admires
               ,
            
             
               Approaches
               ,
               and
               a
               Sacrifice
               expires
               .
            
             
               Think
               ,
               haughty
               Muse
               ,
               think
               what
               is
               now
               thy
               theme
               ,
            
             
               What
               it
               is
               thou
               canst
               offer
               worthy
               him
               ;
            
             
               Worthy
               of
               Phoebus
               and
               his
               darling
               Son
               ,
            
             
               Or
               rather
               ,
               of
               his
               Master
               ,
               and
               thy
               own
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               Silver
               hairs
               more
               Glory
               to
               him
               give
            
             
               Than
               from
               his
               Golden
               Beams
               he
               can
               receive
               ,
            
             
               Who
               taught
               both
               Ages
               ,
               and
               with
               God-like
               force
            
             
               Has
               stopt
               the
               mighty
               Flood
               of
               Folly's
               Sourse
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               sprouting
               Laurels
               grew
               more
               fresh
               and
               gay
            
             
               The
               oftner
               they
               salute
               the
               Sun
               's
               bright
               ray
               ,
            
             
               Their
               thriving
               Leaves
               grow
               young
               with
               every
               day
               .
            
             
             
               His
               sprightly
               wit
               grows
               young
               with
               every
               dawn
               ,
            
             
               For
               ever
               active
               ,
               and
               for
               ever
               young
               ,
            
             
               His
               Numbers
               smooth
               ,
               his
               sence
               for
               ever
               strong
               .
            
             
               Cease
               haughty
               Muse
               ,
               in
               vain
               thou
               dost
               aspire
            
             
               To
               add
               thy
               smoak
               to
               his
               immortal
               sire
               ;
            
             
               Cease
               ,
               but
               if
               thou
               no
               worthier
               Offering
               make
               ,
            
             
               I
               need
               not
               silence
               who
               want
               power
               to
               speak
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Change.
             
          
           
             
               1.
               
            
             
               HEre
               !
               since
               it
               must
               be
               so
               ,
               take
               thy
               last
               look
               ,
            
             
               My
               heart
               such
               deep
               impressions
               took
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               never
               wilt
               behold
               me
               more
               ;
            
             
               No
               part
               will
               be
               the
               same
            
             
               As
               it
               appear'd
               when
               first
               I
               came
               ;
            
             
               So
               alter'd
               shall
               I
               be
               ,
               from
               what
               I
               was
               before
               .
            
          
           
             
               2.
               
            
             
               A
               few
               sad
               hours
               so
               great
               a
               change
               will
               make
               ,
            
             
               Me
               from
               my self
               thou
               wilt
               mistake
               ;
            
             
               And
               think
               some
               other
               Rival
               come
               ,
            
             
               Who
               must
               as
               wretched
               be
               ,
            
             
               Because
               he
               does
               resemble
               me
               :
            
             
               And
               thus
               I
               twice
               condem'nd
               ,
               must
               bear
               the
               fatal
               doom
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               3.
               
            
             
               Destructive
               Fair
               !
               thou
               wilt
               alone
               do
               more
               ,
            
             
               Than
               Grief
               or
               Sickness
               could
               before
               :
            
             
               That
               drooping
               form
               ,
               which
               now
               appears
            
             
               Young
               as
               an
               Infant
               Spring
            
             
               Will
               be
               ,
               (
               while
               you
               such
               ruine
               bring
               )
            
             
               As
               old
               in
               days
               ,
               as
               was
               Methusalem
               in
               years
               .
            
          
           
             
               4.
               
            
             
               Dear
               Cruel
               Maid
               farewel
               :
               I
               know
               my
               doom
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               ne'ertheless
               once
               more
               will
               come
               :
            
             
               Yes
               ,
               I
               'll
               return
               and
               let
               you
               see
               ,
            
             
               What
               I
               have
               said
               will
               prove
            
             
               Too
               true
               ,
               th'
               effects
               of
               injur'd
               Love
               :
            
             
               And
               possibly
               your
               softning
               heart
               may
               pity
               me
               .
            
          
           
             
               5.
               
            
             
               Tho
               fain
               I
               'd
               be
               more
               blest
               before
               I
               dye
               ;
            
             
               In
               Death
               I
               'll
               my
               last
               refuge
               try
               :
            
             
               And
               then
               ,
               like
               old
               Aegyptians
               ,
               Thou
               ,
            
             
               (
               When
               no
               way
               else
               can
               move
               )
            
             
               To
               my
               pale
               Corps
               will
               kinder
               prove
               ;
            
             
               And
               more
               perhaps
               upon
               my
               Tomb
               ,
               than
               my
            
             
               Frail
               house
               bestow
               —
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Excusing
             himself
             to
             his
             MISTRIS
             ,
             for
             being
             JEALOUS
             .
          
           
             BEauty
             ,
             My
             Dear
             ,
             has
             such
             subduing
             charms
             ,
          
           
             Its
             weakest
             Force
             the
             strongest
             Guard
             disarms
             .
          
           
             O'er
             Iove
             himself
             it
             bears
             Imperial
             Sway
             ,
          
           
             As
             the
             great
             Thunderer
             ,
             Gods
             and
             Men
             obey
             ;
          
           
             Through
             Adamantine
             Walls
             ,
             and
             Tow'rs
             of
             Brass
             ,
          
           
             His
             Sacred
             Fire
             dissolv'd
             the
             yielding
             Mass.
          
           
             A
             Show'r
             of
             Gold
             ,
             with
             pregnant
             Love
             reliev'd
          
           
             The
             Beauteous
             Virgin
             that
             in
             Fetters
             griev'd
             ,
          
           
             So
             much
             the
             tender
             Maid
             ,
             a
             God
             could
             move
          
           
             To
             so
             much
             Pity
             ,
             and
             to
             so
             much
             Love
             :
          
           
             And
             if
             she
             could
             a
             Deity
             perswade
             ,
          
           
             How
             vast
             a
             Conquest
             would
             thy
             Charms
             have
             made
             !
          
           
             Fair
             Danae
             then
             had
             stood
             neglected
             by
             ,
          
           
             And
             thou
             hadst
             charm'd
             thy
             sacred
             Lovers
             Eye
             ;
          
           
           
             Upon
             himself
             a
             brave
             Revenge
             hadst
             turn'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             thy
             flames
             th'
             Olympic
             Ruler
             burn'd
             .
          
           
             But
             thanks
             eternal
             ,
             to
             the
             Powers
             above
             ,
          
           
             That
             now
             their
             own
             immortal
             Beings
             Love
             :
          
           
             For
             should
             they
             as
             of
             old
             descend
             to
             chuse
             ,
          
           
             How
             dear
             a
             Treasure
             should
             I
             quickly
             lose
             ?
          
           
             Their
             Starry
             Thrones
             ,
             Heav'ns
             brightest
             Forms
             would
             leave
             ,
          
           
             And
             take
             all
             Shapes
             ,
             that
             could
             thy
             heart
             deceive
             .
          
           
             Blame
             not
             my
             Passion
             ,
             nor
             condemn
             my
             care
             ,
          
           
             All
             precious
             blessings
             are
             preserv'd
             with
             fear
             ;
          
           
             The
             rude
             unfruitful
             heaps
             of
             rolling
             Sand
          
           
             Unguarded
             lie
             ,
             upon
             the
             naked
             Strand
             :
          
           
             But
             how
             defended
             is
             the
             golden
             Ore
             ,
          
           
             That
             shines
             on
             wealthy
             Tagus
             glitt'ring
             Shore
             !
          
           
             So
             in
             a
             mean
             deform'd
             ignoble
             breast
             ,
          
           
             The
             quiet
             Lover
             may
             securely
             rest
             :
          
           
             But
             what
             distrust
             and
             fears
             may
             justly
             rise
             ,
          
           
             When
             Charms
             like
             thine
             tempt
             all
             beholders
             eyes
             !
          
           
             An
             Approbation
             only
             is
             Desire
             ;
          
           
             All
             wishing
             to
             enjoy
             ,
             what
             all
             admire
             :
          
           
           
             And
             if
             so
             far
             the
             boundless
             will
             extends
             ;
          
           
             What
             will
             not
             Man
             ,
             to
             gain
             his
             lawless
             ends
             ?
          
           
             Alluring
             Stratagems
             ,
             and
             treacherous
             Snares
          
           
             Are
             the
             chief
             bus'ness
             the
             vile
             Sex
             prepares
             :
          
           
             Their
             Words
             ,
             their
             Actions
             ,
             ev'ry
             looks
             design
             ;
          
           
             In
             all
             as
             false
             ,
             as
             are
             their
             Oaths
             in
             Wine
             .
          
           
             What
             Story
             is
             not
             full
             of
             Womens
             Woes
             ,
          
           
             By
             plighted
             Faith
             betray'd
             ,
             and
             broken
             Vows
             ?
          
           
             Religion
             ,
             that
             does
             always
             fruitful
             prove
             ,
          
           
             Has
             not
             so
             many
             Hypocrites
             ,
             as
             Love
             ;
          
           
             The
             pamper'd
             Priest
             that
             's
             Perjur'd
             at
             the
             Shrine
             ,
          
           
             Would
             break
             a
             thousand
             times
             more
             Vows
             at
             thine
             .
          
           
             I
             know
             thy
             Beauty
             ,
             and
             our
             own
             deceit
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             art
             all
             Truth
             ,
             and
             we
             all
             a
             Cheat.
          
           
             Tho
             fix'd
             as
             Rocks
             thy
             Sacred
             Vertues
             are
             ;
          
           
             Experience
             cannot
             but
             our
             Vices
             fear
             .
          
           
             What
             Flatteries
             ,
             nor
             subtil'st
             Arts
             can't
             gain
             ,
          
           
             Vile
             Man
             can
             with
             infernal
             Malice
             stain
             :
          
           
             Prudence
             should
             therefore
             nicest
             things
             remove
             ,
          
           
             And
             be
             more
             jealous
             than
             the
             tendrest
             Love.
          
           
           
             Observing
             Eyes
             ,
             false
             measures
             often
             take
             ;
          
           
             And
             base
             construction
             from
             good
             actions
             make
             :
          
           
             Erect
             and
             strait
             ,
             in
             vain
             the
             substance
             shews
             ;
          
           
             If
             thence
             the
             least
             oblique
             shadow
             flows
             ;
          
           
             For
             ,
             to
             compleat
             our
             Joys
             ,
             we
             are
             ,
             't
             is
             known
             ,
          
           
             More
             blest
             by
             others
             Judgments
             than
             our
             own
             ;
          
           
             Unconquered
             Adamants
             in
             vain
             we
             wear
             ,
          
           
             If
             like
             adult'rate
             Christals
             they
             appear
             :
          
           
             A
             rightful
             Homage
             to
             Loves
             beauteous
             Throne
          
           
             Should
             all
             the
             World
             with
             awful
             distance
             own
             ;
          
           
             While
             thou
             art
             pure
             ,
             and
             spotless
             in
             my
             Arms
             ,
          
           
             Not
             Health
             nor
             Riches
             have
             such
             pow'rful
             Charms
             :
          
           
             Goodness
             and
             Vertue
             ,
             not
             the
             Gods
             above
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             with
             more
             tenderness
             for
             ever
             love
             :
          
           
             But
             by
             their
             blest
             abode
             ,
             if
             ev'n
             in
             thought
          
           
             I
             could
             believe
             thou
             wouldst
             commit
             a
             fault
             ;
          
           
             Had'st
             thou
             abandon'd
             all
             the
             Joys
             of
             Heav'n
             ,
          
           
             And
             for
             my
             sake
             from
             Paradice
             been
             driv'n
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             should'st
             the
             blackest
             Feind
             in
             Hell
             embrace
          
           
             Sooner
             than
             I
             'd
             behold
             thy
             guilty
             Face
             ;
          
           
           
             Ev'n
             one
             Crime
             ,
             hadst
             thou
             an
             Angels
             Charms
             ,
          
           
             Would
             sep'rate
             me
             for
             ever
             from
             thy
             Arms.
          
           
             "
             For
             Fate
             and
             Love
             on
             such
             a
             point
             depend
             ,
          
           
             "
             If
             one
             Link
             break
             ,
             both
             the
             great
             Unions
             end
             .
          
           
             Down
             at
             one
             leap
             ,
             from
             highest
             Heav'n
             to
             Hell
             ,
          
           
             The
             brightest
             Hi'rarchy
             of
             Angels
             ●…ell
             :
          
           
             How
             soon
             by
             disobedience
             destroy'd
             ,
          
           
             Was
             the
             blest
             state
             the
             first
             great
             Pair
             enjoy'd
             !
          
           
             That
             one
             sad
             act
             ,
             which
             we
             so
             much
             deplore
             ,
          
           
             Brought
             a
             propension
             to
             a
             thousand
             more
             :
          
           
             But
             did
             not
             Souls
             ,
             that
             once
             receive
             a
             stain
             ,
          
           
             Tho
             cleans'd
             ;
             more
             easily
             defile
             again
             ;
          
           
             The
             lesser
             God
             requires
             th'
             Almighty
             doom
             ,
          
           
             Time
             past
             ,
             time
             present
             ,
             and
             the
             time
             to
             come
             .
          
           
             His
             Laws
             are
             stricter
             than
             the
             Court
             of
             Heav'n
             ;
          
           
             There
             sin
             Original
             is
             scarce
             forgiv'n
             :
          
           
             Tho
             thou
             (
             my
             Life
             's
             fair
             Guardian
             )
             dearer
             art
             ,
          
           
             Than
             the
             warm
             ruddy
             drops
             that
             feed
             my
             heart
             ;
          
           
             With
             all
             thy
             Charms
             ,
             how
             easie
             could
             I
             part
             ,
          
           
             If
             their
             first
             blooming
             sweets
             had
             been
             destroy'd
             ;
          
           
             Tho
             lawfully
             without
             a
             Crime
             enjoy'd
             !
          
           
           
             True
             Love
             its
             Beauteous
             Object
             mus●…
             invade
             ,
          
           
             As
             did
             the
             Sun
             the
             World
             ,
             when
             first
             't
             was
             made
             :
          
           
             All
             gay
             and
             innocent
             in
             Virgin
             state
             ,
          
           
             As
             fix'd
             and
             constant
             as
             eternal
             Fate
             .
          
           
             No
             Tyrant
             (
             my
             dear
             Sovereign
             !
             )
             e'er
             could
             have
             ,
          
           
             A
             more
             obedient
             ,
             faithful
             ,
             humble
             Slave
             :
          
           
             And
             yet
             that
             God-like
             Pow'r
             that
             joyns
             our
             souls
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             inferiour
             faculties
             controuls
             ;
          
           
             In
             ev'ry
             nice
             desire
             must
             be
             obey'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             as
             much
             Homage
             to
             thy
             Subject
             paid
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             he
             the
             Worlds
             Empire
             singly
             swai'd
             :
          
           
             As
             undisturb'd
             ,
             un
             rival'd
             in
             his
             Throne
             ,
          
           
             As
             the
             great
             Prince
             that
             rul'd
             the
             Globe
             alone
             .
          
           
             One
             smile
             tho
             forc'd
             from
             those
             subduing
             eyes
             ,
          
           
             Would
             forfeit
             all
             which
             they
             have
             taken
             prize
             ;
          
           
             Ev'ry
             kind
             look
             my
             soul
             esteems
             so
             dear
             ,
          
           
             It
             hardly
             can
             a
             Sisters
             kisses
             bear
             :
          
           
             Methinks
             there
             should
             be
             found
             some
             other
             way
             ,
          
           
             Our
             Loves
             to
             distant
             Kindred
             to
             convey
             ;
          
           
           
             Scarce
             canst
             thou
             lull
             a
             tender
             Infants
             cries
             ,
          
           
             But
             streight
             uneasie
             pains
             begin
             to
             rise
             :
          
           
             Nothing
             methinks
             should
             fill
             those
             snowy
             Arms
             ,
          
           
             But
             he
             that
             has
             command
             of
             all
             thy
             Charms
             :
          
           
             Ev'n
             thou
             (
             what
             's
             strange
             !
             )
             canst
             scarce
             permitted
             be
          
           
             To
             love
             thy self
             ;
             but
             leave
             it
             all
             to
             me
             :
          
           
             And
             oh
             !
             if
             Fate
             does
             to
             my
             Will
             give
             power
             ,
          
           
             While
             Joys
             of
             Crowns
             pass
             unregarded
             by
             :
          
           
             Round
             thy
             soft
             Limbs
             my
             greedy
             Arms
             shall
             twine
          
           
             And
             Martyrs
             Souls
             not
             be
             more
             blest
             than
             mine
             ;
          
           
             Through
             the
             vast
             Lab'rinth
             of
             thy
             sweets
             I
             'll
             rove
             ,
          
           
             And
             give
             ,
             and
             take
             all
             the
             delights
             of
             Love
             :
          
           
             Not
             the
             young
             Monarch
             when
             in
             Triumph
             led
             ,
          
           
             With
             glitt'ring
             Diadems
             round
             his
             shining
             head
             ;
          
           
             In
             all
             the
             Glories
             of
             his
             Regal
             State
             ,
             .
          
           
             Can
             think
             himself
             more
             happy
             ,
             or
             more
             great
             :
          
           
             Thy
             tender
             Breast
             is
             a
             far
             softer
             Throne
             ;
          
           
             And
             at
             each
             kiss
             ,
             methinks
             the
             World
             's
             my
             own
             .
          
           
           
             In
             that
             dear
             Centre
             all
             those
             pleasures
             move
             ,
          
           
             That
             fill
             the
             Earth
             and
             the
             wide
             Sphears
             above
             ;
          
           
             There
             does
             such
             soft
             and
             tender
             Goddess
             dwell
             ,
          
           
             'T
             would
             draw
             an
             Anch'rite
             from
             his
             lonely
             Cell
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             has
             thy
             Beauty
             less
             amasing
             Charms
             ;
          
           
             The
             Conqu'ror
             there
             wou'd
             stop
             his
             vengeful
             Arms
             ;
          
           
             Ravish'd
             in
             sweets
             ,
             to
             be
             a
             Slave
             would
             choose
             ,
          
           
             Rather
             than
             Triumph
             o'er
             his
             vanquish'd
             Foes
             .
          
           
             Had
             I
             more
             Kingdoms
             ,
             Crowns
             and
             Scepters
             won
             ,
          
           
             Than
             did
             of
             old
             great
             
             Philip's
             Conquering
             Son
             :
          
           
             With
             half
             my
             Empires
             I
             with
             ease
             could
             part
             ;
          
           
             But
             not
             with
             the
             least
             Province
             of
             thy
             heart
             :
          
           
             My
             Soul
             's
             diffus'd
             through
             all
             the
             crimson
             Sphere
             ,
          
           
             And
             fix'd
             in
             ev'ry
             lab'ring
             Fibre
             there
             .
          
           
             No
             Joys
             nor
             Comforts
             can
             admittance
             find
             ,
          
           
             Till
             they
             are
             first
             with
             that
             dear
             Image
             sign'd
             :
          
           
             Fates
             greatest
             blessings
             but
             a
             moment
             last
             ,
          
           
             And
             when
             they
             're
             once
             injoy'd
             ,
             the
             pleasure
             's
             past
             .
          
           
           
             The
             same
             dull
             Joy's
             repeated
             o'er
             and
             o'er
             ,
          
           
             And
             pleases
             little
             —
             when
             beheld
             before
             ;
          
           
             But
             thy
             dear
             Bosom
             like
             Elysian
             Springs
             ,
          
           
             An
             ever-flowing
             Tide
             of
             Pleasure
             brings
             :
          
           
             One
             would
             have
             thought
             that
             ere
             the
             lab'ring
             Sun
          
           
             Through
             his
             vast
             Regions
             could
             so
             oft
             have
             run
             ,
          
           
             The
             riches
             that
             one
             breast
             could
             keep
             in
             store
             ,
          
           
             With
             lesser
             pains
             might
             have
             been
             ransack'd
             o're
             ;
          
           
             But
             such
             an
             infinite
             Mass
             does
             there
             abound
             ,
          
           
             That
             't
             is
             but
             running
             an
             Eternal
             round
             ,
          
           
             Like
             vital
             spirit
             ,
             through
             the
             Form
             't
             is
             spread
             ,
          
           
             And
             ne'er
             can
             cease
             ●…ill
             life
             it self
             is
             fled
             .
          
           
             No
             Fate
             nor
             Accident
             o'er-comes
             thy
             Skill
             ,
          
           
             In
             Joys
             and
             Sorrows
             thou
             art
             charming
             still
             :
          
           
             And
             't
             is
             hard
             judging
             which
             has
             greatest
             pow'r
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             Tears
             to
             wound
             the
             heart
             ,
             or
             Smiles
             to
             cure
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             CONTENT
             .
          
           
             
               ENough
               ,
               enough
               ,
               ye
               Gods
               ,
               I
               need
               no
               more
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               has
               this
               World
               a
               greater
               store
               :
            
             
               Your
               Bounteous
               hands
               have
               largely
               given
            
             
               One
               sovereign
               Remedy
               ,
               that
               can
            
             
               Make
               bless'd
               the
               wretchedst
               state
               of
               Man
               ;
            
             
               And
               shew
               ,
               in
               this
               dark
               Globe
               ,
               the
               brightest
               glimpse
               of
               Heav'n
               .
            
          
           
             
               Forgive
               what
               's
               past
               ,
               and
               if
               I
               e'er
               again
            
             
               Be
               found
               in
               the
               least
               murmuring
               strain
               ;
            
             
               If
               ever
               I
               repine
               that
               Fate
            
             
               Me
               ne'r
               in
               pompous
               Triumph
               led
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               Crown'd
               a
               poor
               Plebeian
               head
               ,
            
             
               Avenging
               Powers
               !
               resume
               her
               back
               ,
               and
               make
               me
               great
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Which
               of
               you
               all
               ,
               ye
               dreaded
               Sons
               of
               Earth
            
             
               (
               Who
               from
               the
               Gods
               derive
               your
               Birth
               )
            
             
               From
               Coronations
               wou'd
               not
               fly
               ,
            
             
               Throw
               your
               unweildy
               Scepters
               down
               ,
            
             
               And
               scorn
               the
               most
               Imperial
               Crown
               ,
            
             
               For
               the
               vast
               Realms
               of
               bliss
               ,
               that
               in
               her
               bosom
               lie
               .
            
          
           
             
               Welcome
               thou
               brightest
               Diadem
               ,
               ●…thou
               wealth
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               truest
               honour
               ,
               fame
               ,
               and
               health
               ,
            
             
               Welcome
               thou
               only
               gift
               of
               Heaven
               ;
            
             
               Thou
               wondrous
               Ark
               that
               still
               contains
            
             
               The
               blessing
               of
               all
               natures
               pains
               ;
            
             
               Thou
               dear
               Celestial
               Food
               ,
               in
               whom
               all
               sweets
               were
               given
               .
            
          
           
             
               Welcome
               true
               happiness
               ,
               without
               allay
               ;
            
             
               Thou
               bright
               and
               everlasting
               day
               :
            
             
               Oh!
               may
               I
               thus
               be
               ever
               blest
               ;
            
             
               Thus
               volv'd
               in
               endless
               pleasures
               ,
               feel
            
             
               My
               wither'd
               Arms
               around
               thee
               still
               ;
            
             
               And
               see
               my
               aged
               head
               grown
               hoary
               on
               thy
               breast
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Inconstant
             .
          
           
             
               1.
               
            
             
               NO
               ,
               Flatter
               not
               ,
               nor
               me
               more
               Constant
               call
            
             
               Than
               the
               false
               Winds
               that
               smile
               on
               all
               ;
            
             
               Because
               but
               one
               dear
               She
               I
               Love
               ;
            
             
               One
               that
               might
               fix
               those
               winds
               ,
               and
               make
               a
               Statue
               move
               .
            
          
           
             
               2.
               
            
             
               The
               quickning
               Sun
               (
               who
               with
               his
               genial
               heat
            
             
               Nature's
               vast
               Of-spring
               does
               beget
               )
            
             
               Is
               to
               one
               Object
               more
               inclin'd
               ,
            
             
               Than
               all
               my
               Love
               does
               me
               to
               that
               dear
               Creature
               bind
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               3.
               
            
             
               The
               same
               kind
               visit
               that
               he
               makes
               to
               day
               ,
            
             
               Ten
               thousand
               times
               he
               does
               repay
               :
            
             
               In
               endless
               rounds
               ,
               his
               glorious
               Throne
            
             
               Adorns
               one
               rude
               uncomely
               Globe
               of
               Earth
               alone
               .
            
          
           
             
               4.
               
            
             
               But
               my
               less
               constant
               and
               ungovern'd
               Flame
               ,
            
             
               Ne'er
               meets
               her
               twice
               as
               she
               's
               the
               same
               :
            
             
               Still
               wandring
               like
               Columbus
               ,
               I
            
             
               Some
               rich
               and
               unknown
               Land
               in
               that
               bright
               World
               descry
               ,
            
          
           
             
               5.
               
            
             
               Ten
               thousand
               Offerings
               to
               her
               I
               've
               made
               ,
            
             
               Ten
               thousand
               more
               too
               shall
               be
               paid
               :
            
             
               Yet
               I
               ne'er
               did
               ,
               nor
               never
               will
            
             
               More
               than
               one
               Sacrifice
               to
               one
               dear
               Vertue
               kill
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               6.
               
            
             
               Ev'ry
               embrace
               ,
               and
               ev'ry
               melting
               kiss
               ,
            
             
               Tasts
               of
               some
               unexperienc'd
               bliss
               :
            
             
               Not
               the
               first
               pledge
               of
               Nuptial
               Love
            
             
               Can
               more
               transporting
               be
               ,
               than
               our
               last
               joys
               will
               prove
               .
            
          
           
             
               7.
               
            
             
               The
               num'rous
               graces
               of
               her
               outward
               part
            
             
               Can
               hardly
               be
               summ'd
               up
               by
               Art
               :
            
             
               But
               when
               I
               her
               Soul's
               vertues
               see
               ,
            
             
               My
               dazled
               sight
               is
               lost
               in
               vast
               Infinity
               .
            
          
           
             
               8.
               
            
             
               There
               every
               Grace
               ,
               and
               every
               Beauty
               dwells
               ;
            
             
               Ev'n
               Nature
               there
               her self
               excells
               ,
            
             
               In
               her
               delightful
               charming
               breast
               ,
            
             
               Banish'd
               from
               Paradice
               ,
               an
               Angel
               might
               be
               blest
               .
            
          
           
             
               9.
               
            
             
               A
               thousand
               sweets
               hung
               blooming
               on
               her
               Eye
               ;
            
             
               In
               ev'ry
               part
               ten
               thousand
               lie
               :
            
             
             
               The
               wise
               ,
               industrious
               ,
               laden
               Bee
            
             
               '
               Midst
               all
               the
               floury
               Spring
               sinds
               less
               variety
               .
            
          
           
             
               10.
               
            
             
               Numberless
               Unity
               !
               Beauty
               in
               her
            
             
               One
               or
               ten
               thousand
               names
               will
               bear
               ;
            
             
               One
               milky
               way
               runs
               through
               the
               Skie
               ,
            
             
               Or
               else
               Millions
               of
               Stars
               make
               up
               the
               Galaxy
               .
            
          
           
             
               11.
               
            
             
               There
               as
               i'
               th'
               Golden
               age
               of
               
               Saturn's
               Reign
               ,
            
             
               Does
               Natures
               first
               blest
               state
               remain
               :
            
             
               All
               things
               in
               Heavenly
               Order
               move
               ,
            
             
               And
               like
               that
               peaceful
               World
               ,
               compos'd
               of
               truth
               and
               Love.
               
            
          
           
             
               12.
               
            
             
               Ev'ry
               sad
               Morn
               beholds
               me
               richly
               drest
               ,
            
             
               With
               some
               new
               pleasure
               in
               her
               breast
               :
            
             
               Nor
               can
               I
               e'er
               its
               sweets
               devour
            
             
               From
               ev'ry
               look
               fresh
               blossoms
               spring
               ,
               from
               ev'ry
               breath
               a
               Flower
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               13.
               
            
             
               Like
               Spirits
               in
               the
               Air
               I
               boldly
               move
               ,
            
             
               Through
               all
               the
               Labyrinths
               of
               Love
               :
            
             
               Here
               of
               its
               Gold
               I
               rob
               the
               West
               ;
            
             
               And
               there
               steal
               the
               sweet
               Odours
               of
               the
               perfum'd
               East
               .
            
          
           
             
               14.
               
            
             
               All
               the
               dear
               business
               of
               my
               Life
               is
               done
               ;
            
             
               Through
               the
               whole
               Sex
               in
               one
               I
               've
               run
               :
            
             
               And
               't
               was
               indeed
               a
               happy
               doom
            
             
               To
               find
               such
               boundless
               Treasures
               in
               so
               little
               room
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             TO
             LUCINDA
             Fanning
             her self
             .
          
           
             SO
             the
             loud
             Tyrant
             of
             the
             Winds
             does
             sweep
          
           
             The
             face
             of
             Heav'n
             ,
             and
             toss
             the
             raging
             Deep
             :
          
           
             Swift
             with
             stern
             blasts
             ,
             tho
             undiscern'd
             they
             flie
             ,
          
           
             Shaking
             the
             trembling
             Regions
             of
             the
             Sky
             :
          
           
             With
             equal
             force
             tho
             with
             unequal
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             Danger
             and
             safety
             both
             at
             once
             create
             :
          
           
             Here
             Ship-wreck'd
             Vessels
             o'er
             the
             Rocks
             are
             spread
             ,
          
           
             And
             burden'd
             Shores
             all
             cover'd
             with
             the
             dead
             ;
          
           
             There
             singing
             Mariners
             with
             prosperous
             Tide
          
           
             And
             swelling
             Sails
             into
             safe
             Harbour
             ride
             .
          
           
           
             Here
             mighty
             Cedars
             and
             vast
             Oaks
             are
             found
          
           
             Rooted
             in
             Skys
             ,
             and
             Branch'd
             in
             wounded
             ground
             ,
          
           
             While
             tender
             twigs
             by
             their
             complyance
             find
          
           
             A
             better
             Fate
             from
             the
             destructive
             wind
             ;
          
           
             Strong
             blasts
             put
             out
             the
             smaller
             sparks
             of
             fire
             ,
          
           
             But
             make
             great
             flames
             with
             greater
             force
             aspire
             ;
          
           
             Thus
             the
             success
             of
             that
             fair
             hand
             's
             the
             same
             ,
          
           
             It
             cools
             thy
             heat
             ,
             but
             raises
             up
             my
             Fame
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Resolve
             .
          
           
             
               BE
               gone
               fond
               Love
               ;
               I
               'll
               dote
               no
               more
               ,
            
             
               On
               the
               proud
               Nymphs
               disdainful
               Eyes
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               that
               relentless
               heart
               adore
               ,
            
             
               That
               moves
               not
               ,
               even
               when
               mine
               dies
               .
            
             
               No
               longer
               I
               'll
               her
               cruel
               frowns
               sustain
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               roul
               the
               harden'd
               stone
               eternally
               in
               vain
               .
            
          
           
             
               Since
               she
               is
               deaf
               to
               ev'ry
               prayer
               ,
            
             
               And
               will
               not
               my
               just
               Passion
               hear
               :
            
             
               No
               longer
               at
               her
               feet
               I
               'll
               lie
               ,
            
             
               But
               to
               some
               shady
               Desart
               fly
               :
            
             
               Where
               I
               'll
               the
               listning
               Rocks
               and
               Mountains
               tell
            
             
               In
               sighs
               and
               groans
               ,
               the
               torments
               that
               I
               feel
               .
            
          
           
             
               There
               Heaven's
               melodious
               chearful
               Choire
            
             
               Will
               hear
               my
               sad
               complaining
               Lyre
               :
            
             
             
               And
               while
               my
               Obsequies
               they
               sing
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               each
               Grove
               my
               sorrows
               ring
               :
            
             
               I
               'll
               mourn
               my
               Woes
               in
               some
               forsaken
               Cave
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               the
               dismal
               shades
               prepare
               my
               gloomy
               Grave
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               Tears
               will
               wear
               the
               hardest
               Stone
               ,
            
             
               And
               every
               Vale
               attend
               my
               Moan
               ;
            
             
               No
               longer
               shall
               I
               beg
               in
               vain
               ,
            
             
               Condoling
               sounds
               deplore
               my
               pain
               :
            
             
               Fair
               
               Eccho's
               tender
               voice
               will
               kinder
               be
               ,
            
             
               I
               love
               my
               Nymph
               said
               I
               ,
               —
               I
               love
               again
               says
               she
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Parting
             with
             LUCINDA
             .
          
           
             HOld
             thy
             sweet
             Voice
             ,
             while
             that
             commands
             my
             stay
          
           
             I
             never
             shall
             have
             power
             to
             force
             my
             way
             .
          
           
             So
             well
             those
             eloquent
             soft
             tears
             perswade
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             Tongues
             dear
             Rhetorick
             is
             a
             needless
             aid
             ;
          
           
             Thy
             Beauty
             has
             alas
             !
             such
             powerful
             Charms
             ,
          
           
             I
             could
             for
             ever
             live
             within
             thy
             Arms
             ;
          
           
             Dwell
             on
             thy
             balmy
             Lips
             ,
             and
             in
             thy
             Breast
             ,
          
           
             Resign
             my
             Soul
             to
             everlasting
             Rest
             :
          
           
             Didst
             thou
             but
             know
             what
             unexpressive
             pains
          
           
             My
             tortur'd
             Soul
             in
             leaving
             thee
             sustains
             ;
          
           
             Thy
             tender
             mercy
             would
             relieve
             my
             heart
             ,
          
           
             And
             strive
             to
             make
             it
             easier
             to
             part
             .
          
           
             How
             many
             long
             farewels
             we
             both
             have
             spoke
             !
          
           
             How
             many
             kisses
             for
             the
             last
             have
             took
             !
          
           
           
             And
             Oh!
             unless
             thou
             wilt
             my
             pains
             increase
             ,
          
           
             Till
             I
             shall
             never
             more
             behold
             thy
             face
             ;
          
           
             That
             dear
             destroying
             flood
             of
             Sorrow
             ,
             cease
             .
          
           
             Take
             off
             thy
             trembling
             Limbs
             ;
             and
             let
             me
             try
          
           
             What
             torments
             they
             endure
             ,
             when
             Mortals
             die
             :
          
           
             Tho
             from
             thy
             Arms
             ev'ry
             embrace
             does
             prove
          
           
             The
             utmost
             force
             of
             cruelty
             ,
             and
             Love
             ;
          
           
             If
             then
             thou
             wilt
             any
             true
             kindness
             shew
             ,
          
           
             Pronounce
             the
             fatal
             word
             ,
             and
             bid
             me
             go
             .
          
           
             My
             charming
             Sovereign
             I
             must
             obey
             ;
          
           
             And
             such
             an
             absolute
             Obedience
             pay
             ,
          
           
             My
             heart
             ,
             Oh
             wondrous
             proof
             !
             shall
             cease
             to
             grieve
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             the
             Mass
             of
             Beauty
             leave
             :
          
           
             Why
             shouldst
             thou
             harbour
             such
             presaging
             fears
          
           
             When
             there
             's
             not
             one
             ill-boding
             sign
             appears
             ;
          
           
             No
             threatning
             Storms
             ,
             no
             gath'ring
             Tempests
             rise
             ;
          
           
             But
             in
             the
             heavenly
             regions
             of
             thy
             Eyes
             .
          
           
             The
             gentle
             Gales
             o'er
             the
             smooth
             Ocean
             move
             ,
          
           
             Soft
             as
             thy
             dear
             protesting
             vows
             of
             Love
             ;
          
           
           
             Nor
             needst
             thou
             dread
             lest
             the
             now
             courting
             wind
          
           
             In
             this
             fair
             season
             I
             less
             constant
             find
             .
          
           
             Ere
             thrice
             the
             Sun
             shall
             reach
             his
             Azure
             Bed
             ,
          
           
             Waving
             Powers
             recline
             his
             drooping
             head
             ,
          
           
             With
             out-stretch'd
             wings
             my
             Saint
             I
             will
             pursue
             ,
          
           
             Swifter
             than
             he
             ,
             to
             his
             Lov'd
             Daphne
             flew
             :
          
           
             More
             native
             wealth
             doth
             this
             fair
             Breast
             contain
          
           
             Than
             all
             the
             ravish'd
             Treasures
             of
             the
             Main
             .
          
           
             Not
             so
             delightful
             was
             the
             Sacred
             Tree
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             God-like
             Knowledge
             could
             more
             tempting
             be
             :
          
           
             Through
             this
             vast
             Eden
             ,
             could
             I
             freely
             move
             ,
          
           
             And
             stretch
             th'
             unbounded
             Empire
             of
             my
             Love
             ;
          
           
             With
             thee
             alone
             I
             had
             much
             rather
             fall
             ,
          
           
             Than
             live
             for
             ever
             ,
             and
             enjoy
             it
             all
             :
          
           
             With
             flaming
             Arms
             ,
             did
             threatning
             Angels
             stand
          
           
             Ready
             to
             execute
             their
             dire
             Command
             ,
          
           
             By
             Heav'ns
             a
             vengeance
             I
             with
             ease
             might
             die
             ,
          
           
             But
             from
             thy
             Paradice
             could
             never
             fly
             ,
          
           
             No
             my
             dear
             Charmer
             ;
             Love's
             mysterious
             Chain
          
           
             Ill
             fortune
             strives
             to
             separate
             in
             vain
             .
          
           
           
             Tho
             for
             a
             while
             we
             must
             in
             absence
             mourn
             ,
          
           
             Like
             a
             well
             freighted
             Vessel
             ,
             I
             'll
             return
             ;
          
           
             My
             weary
             Bark
             shall
             in
             this
             Haven
             rest
             ;
          
           
             And
             unlade
             all
             its
             Treasures
             in
             thy
             Breast
             .
          
           
             Triumphant
             Sorrow
             then
             no
             more
             shall
             Reign
             ;
          
           
             With
             richest
             balm
             of
             Love
             I
             'll
             ease
             thy
             pain
             ;
          
           
             Eternal
             Raptures
             shall
             thy
             heart
             surprize
             ,
          
           
             And
             dancing
             joys
             adorn
             thy
             smiling
             Eyes
             .
          
           
             Panting
             in
             bliss
             ,
             shall
             thy
             delightful
             arms
          
           
             Diffuse
             their
             sacred
             and
             long
             treasur'd
             charms
             ;
          
           
             Fates
             utmost
             Malice
             nobly
             we
             'll
             subdue
             ,
          
           
             And
             sweet
             revenge
             the
             sweetest
             ways
             pursue
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             VISIT
             .
          
           
             WElcome
             ,
             dear
             heart
             ,
             Oh
             welcome
             to
             my
             Arms
             ,
          
           
             Since
             thou
             wast
             Captiv'd
             by
             
             Lucinda's
             Charms
             ;
          
           
             How
             great
             a
             Stranger
             hast
             thou
             been
             !
          
           
             'T
             is
             now
             five
             tedious
             mournful
             years
             ,
          
           
             Since
             thou
             forsookst
             me
             ,
             drown'd
             in
             Tears
             :
          
           
             I
             thought
             ,
             I
             'll
             swear
             ,
             I
             never
             more
             should
             thee
             have
             seen
             .
          
           
             Ten
             thousand
             thanks
             to
             thee
             ,
             ten
             thousand
             more
          
           
             When
             next
             thou
             seest
             thy
             fair
             one
             ,
             give
             to
             her
             ,
          
           
             Who
             cou'd
             believe
             that
             thou
             wouldst
             come
             ,
          
           
             From
             the
             bright
             Palace
             of
             her
             Breast
             ,
          
           
             Where
             thou
             such
             sweet
             delights
             possest
             ;
          
           
             And
             visit
             the
             old
             Mansions
             of
             thy
             Native
             home
             .
          
           
             What
             entertainment
             can
             I
             give
             thee
             here
             ;
          
           
             Thee
             ,
             who
             hast
             feasted
             on
             such
             Joys
             with
             her
             ?
          
           
             Like
             a
             bright
             Monarch
             from
             his
             Court
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             leav'st
             the
             splendor
             of
             a
             Crown
             ,
          
           
             And
             bliss
             ,
             that
             waits
             upon
             a
             Throne
             ,
          
           
             For
             the
             cold
             Winter
             Fields
             ,
             for
             the
             dull
             Countries
             Sport.
          
           
           
             'T
             was
             kindly
             done
             of
             thee
             ,
             and
             kind
             of
             her
          
           
             To
             let
             thee
             give
             me
             one
             dear
             visit
             more
             ;
          
           
             So
             glad
             I
             am
             thou
             liv'st
             so
             well
             ,
          
           
             When
             e'er
             I
             die
             (
             as
             may
             it
             be
          
           
             Long
             before
             her
             my
             Destiny
             )
          
           
             My
             soul
             shall
             take
             thy
             place
             ,
             and
             there
             for
             ever
             dwell
             .
          
           
             Blest
             be
             the
             Fate
             ,
             blest
             the
             propitious
             hand
             ,
          
           
             That
             led
             thee
             to
             that
             fair
             delightful
             Land
             !
          
           
             The
             sweetest
             Spice
             on
             Rocks
             there
             grows
             ;
          
           
             And
             fruit
             delicious
             all
             the
             year
             ,
          
           
             Do
             loaded
             stems
             Luxuriant
             bear
             ;
          
           
             Around
             the
             Verdant
             Plains
             Ambrosia
             and
             Honey
             flows
             .
          
           
             I
             know
             ,
             kind
             Visiter
             ,
             thou
             cam'st
             to
             tell
          
           
             Me
             ,
             all
             the
             Joys
             that
             in
             that
             bosom
             dwell
             :
          
           
             But
             there
             's
             so
             infinite
             a
             store
             ,
          
           
             Should
             Heav'n
             assist
             the
             bold
             desire
             ,
          
           
             So
             long
             a
             time
             it
             would
             require
             ,
          
           
             Alas
             ,
             thou
             ne'er
             wouldst
             see
             thy
             dearest
             Mistris
             more
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             By
             Charles
             How
             ,
             
               Esq
            
          
           
             WE
             wish
             for
             Happiness
             in
             vain
             ,
          
           
             The
             greatest
             blessings
             we
             obtain
          
           
             Pass
             quick
             ,
             and
             leave
             the
             sharpest
             pain
             ;
          
           
             All
             our
             hopes
             are
             Fortune's
             prey
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             long
             ere
             Sorrow
             finds
             relief
             ;
          
           
             Time
             from
             bliss
             flies
             fast
             away
             ,
          
           
             But
             slowly
             moves
             with
             grief
             :
          
           
             Alas
             !
             now
             
             Gloriana's
             gone
             ,
          
           
             Life
             has
             no
             Charms
             for
             me
             ,
          
           
             The
             blessing
             of
             her
             Sex
             alone
             ,
          
           
             The
             curst
             from
             pains
             can
             free
             ;
          
           
             Her
             presence
             gives
             surprising
             Joy
             ,
          
           
             But
             grief
             does
             those
             she
             leaves
             destroy
             ,
          
           
             Blest
             with
             her
             Charms
             whilst
             others
             are
             ,
          
           
             Her
             absence
             will
             prevent
             Despair
             ,
          
           
             Ending
             my
             wretched
             Life
             and
             Care.
             
          
        
         
           
           
             By
             the
             Same
             .
          
           
             
               WHat
               Scorn
               appears
               in
               those
               fair
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               Where
               native
               sweetness
               us'd
               to
               flow
               ,
            
             
               If
               your
               adorer
               you
               despise
               ,
            
             
               On
               whom
               will
               you
               your
               Love
               bestow
               ?
            
             
               Ah!
               let
               not
               your
               severe
               disdain
            
             
               Kill
               him
               who
               lives
               alone
               for
               you
               ;
            
             
               Inglorious
               Conquests
               they
               obtain
               ,
            
             
               Who
               murder
               slaves
               they
               first
               subdue
               .
            
          
           
             
               Welcome
               to
               thirsty
               Fields
               kind
               showers
               ,
            
             
               To
               chearful
               Birds
               the
               morning
               light
               ,
            
             
               Returning
               Suns
               to
               withering
               flowers
               ,
            
             
               To
               me
               the
               charming
               
               Coelia's
               sight
               .
            
             
               The
               Floods
               against
               their
               Streams
               may
               turn
               ,
            
             
               The
               Gods
               may
               cease
               to
               be
               obey'd
               ,
            
             
               But
               think
               not
               cruel
               Nymph
               your
               scorn
            
             
               Can
               quench
               the
               flames
               your
               beauty
               made
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             SARANADE
             ,
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             
               SOft
               notes
               and
               gently
               rais'd
               ,
               lest
               some
               harsh
               sound
            
             
               The
               fair
               
               Corinna's
               rest
               do
               rudely
               wound
               ;
            
             
               Diffuse
               a
               peaceful
               calmness
               through
               each
               part
               ,
            
             
               Touch
               all
               the
               Springs
               of
               a
               soft
               Virgins
               heart
               ,
            
             
               Tune
               every
               Pulse
               and
               kindle
               all
               her
               blood
               ,
            
             
               And
               swell
               the
               torrents
               of
               the
               living
               Flood
               ;
            
             
               Glide
               through
               her
               Dreams
               ,
               and
               o'er
               her
               Fancies
               move
               ,
            
             
               And
               stir
               up
               all
               the
               Images
               of
               Love.
               
            
          
           
             
               Thus
               feeble
               Man
               does
               his
               advantage
               take
            
             
               To
               gain
               in
               sleep
               ,
               what
               he
               must
               lose
               awake
               ;
            
             
             
               When
               Night
               and
               Shades
               shut
               up
               
               Corinna's
               Charms
               ,
            
             
               Then
               is
               the
               proper'st
               time
               to
               take
               up
               Arms
               ;
            
             
               But
               Night
               and
               Shades
               her
               Beauties
               can't
               conceal
               ,
            
             
               Night
               has
               peculiar
               Graces
               to
               reveal
               ;
            
             
               Ten
               thousand
               Raptures
               do
               attend
               this
               time
               ,
            
             
               Too
               strong
               for
               Fancy
               ,
               and
               too
               full
               for
               Rhime
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             TO
             MY
             Lord
             LANSDOWNE
             At
             the
             Imperial
             Camp.
             
          
           
             WHilst
             you
             are
             listning
             to
             the
             shrill
             Alarms
          
           
             Of
             War
             ,
             pleasing
             your self
             in
             shining
             Arms
             ;
          
           
             Subduing
             Foes
             make
             half
             the
             World
             afraid
             ,
          
           
             A
             Cause
             supporting
             which
             does
             need
             your
             aid
             ;
          
           
             Your
             Praise
             brought
             hither
             on
             the
             wings
             of
             Fame
             ,
          
           
             In
             all
             the
             gentle
             Sex
             creates
             a
             Flame
             ;
          
           
             But
             such
             a
             flame
             as
             Virtue
             does
             controul
             ,
          
           
             For
             nought
             but
             Virtue
             can
             move
             such
             a
             Soul
          
           
             As
             yours
             ,
             where
             Glory
             has
             the
             Sovereign
             sway
             ,
          
           
             So
             I
             without
             a
             blush
             this
             Tribute
             pay
          
           
             To
             that
             undaunted
             Courage
             ,
             which
             so
             long
          
           
             Has
             in
             your
             race
             been
             vigorous
             and
             strong
             ;
          
           
           
             And
             as
             the
             Wool
             oft
             dipt
             in
             Tyrian
             dye
             ,
          
           
             A
             Colour
             gains
             so
             noble
             and
             so
             high
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             Time
             nor
             Art
             can
             make
             it
             lose
             the
             grain
             ,
          
           
             So
             fix'd
             in
             you
             their
             Virtues
             do
             remain
             ,
          
           
             To
             which
             so
             many
             of
             your
             own
             are
             joyn'd
             ,
          
           
             The
             World
             for
             you
             no
             parallel
             can
             find
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             On
             the
             sight
             and
             Sculpture
             of
             Mr.
             GIBBON'S
             own
             most
             excellent
             Head
             ,
             in
             MARBLE
             .
          
           
             By
             Mr.
             Iohnson
             .
          
           
             
               WHen
               Arts
               were
               but
               in
               Embryo
               ,
               yet
               unknown
               ,
            
             
               And
               Nature
               only
               kept
               her
               station
               :
            
             
               She
               envy'd
               not
               ,
               nor
               was
               there
               cause
               that
               she
               ,
            
             
               In
               full
               perfection
               ,
               yet
               should
               froward
               be
               ;
            
             
               But
               when
               more
               grown
               ,
               they
               boldly
               did
               invade
            
             
               Her
               Empire
               ,
               and
               her
               State
               their
               Subject
               made
               :
            
             
               Promoting
               new
               designs
               ,
               and
               pressing
               on
               ,
            
             
               With
               Triumph
               in
               her
               imitation
               ,
            
             
               Did
               then
               incens'd
               ,
               her
               Dignity
               insert
               ;
            
             
               The
               Vanity
               of
               Science
               to
               subvert
               ,
            
             
               But
               found
               success
               to
               both
               a
               servant
               prov'd
               ;
            
             
               She
               was
               their
               Mistris
               ,
               and
               the
               thing
               they
               lov'd
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               For
               when
               Old
               Time
               his
               Daughter
               Truth
               unveil'd
               ;
            
             
               Whose
               Sovereign
               warmth
               all
               grosser
               damps
               exhal'd
               :
            
             
               The
               World
               in
               fancy
               ,
               took
               such
               lofty
               flights
            
             
               As
               did
               presume
               to
               equal
               Nature's
               Rights
               ;
            
             
               Which
               now
               our
               happy
               subject
               will
               afford
               ,
            
             
               Creat
               ●…ibbons
               is
               our
               Theme
               ;
               and
               signal
               word
               ;
            
             
               Bless'd
               in
               his
               brave
               endeavours
               ,
               (
               not
               inclin'd
            
             
               To
               serve
               Ambition
               ,
               but
               a
               gen'rous
               mind
               )
            
             
               And
               by
               his
               Birth-right
               prompted
               ;
               which
               his
               So●…l
            
             
               To
               gain
               ,
               does
               all
               his
               fortive
               heat
               controul
               .
            
             
               The
               Ages
               Glory
               ,
               and
               our
               Nations
               Pride
               ,
            
             
               In
               Foreign
               Courts
               ,
               with
               wonder
               magnifi'd
               .
            
             
               The
               Sun
               which
               lends
               the
               inferiour
               Orbs
               their
               light
               ,
            
             
               Fame's
               Horizontal
               Line
               ,
               and
               point
               of
               sight
               ;
            
             
               View
               him
               but
               in
               one
               ,
               his
               Statue-head
               ,
            
             
               You
               'll
               find
               him
               there
               ,
               in
               all
               ,
               by
               Nature
               led
               ;
            
             
               Who
               seems
               ennobled
               by
               a
               secret
               Flame
               ,
            
             
               His
               zeal
               ,
               to
               Sacrifice
               to
               her
               great
               Name
               :
            
             
             
               For
               which
               ,
               if
               ever
               she
               has
               yet
               been
               known
            
             
               To
               love
               ,
               or
               doat
               on
               any
               ,
               he
               is
               one
               .
            
             
               That
               sure
               Minerva
               adds
               her
               Deity
               ,
            
             
               To
               Crown
               his
               Genius
               with
               that
               Mistery
               :
            
             
               Which
               is
               so
               well
               improv'd
               by
               his
               bold
               hand
               ,
            
             
               That
               all
               the
               Graces
               wait
               on
               his
               command
               .
            
          
           
             
               So
               strong
               ,
               yet
               soft
               ;
               so
               easie
               ,
               yet
               not
               tame
               ;
            
             
               Look
               but
               on
               Nature
               ,
               it
               appears
               the
               same
               ,
            
             
               If
               not
               to
               Art
               a
               debtor
               ,
               for
               each
               grace
               ,
            
             
               The
               Magnes
               of
               a
               well
               resembled
               face
               :
            
             
               Strictly
               correct
               ;
               but
               in
               a
               careless
               dress
               ,
            
             
               With
               Freedom
               great
               ,
               and
               not
               in
               Action
               less
               .
            
             
               Choice
               and
               select
               ;
               and
               in
               its
               order
               new
               ;
            
             
               As
               if
               it
               Govern'd
               Sense
               ,
               and
               Motion
               knew
               ;
            
             
               Would
               yield
               to
               touch
               ,
               or
               wou'd
               to
               speech
               go
               on
               ,
            
             
               Striving
               to
               imitate
               perfection
               :
            
             
               Repleat
               with
               wonder
               ,
               not
               to
               be
               conceal'd
               ;
            
             
               Time
               has
               not
               ceas'd
               ,
               but
               Miracles
               reveal'd
               :
            
             
               Hold
               then
               ,
               my
               Muse
               ,
               thy
               Accents
               sound
               but
               weak
               ,
            
             
               To
               teach
               thee
               skill
               ,
               thy
               wants
               theStone
               will
               speak
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Denial
             .
          
           
             
               GOOD
               Heavens
               !
               what
               shall
               I
               do
               ?
            
             
               My
               Service
               was
               before
               too
               hard
               ,
            
             
               And
               now
               I
               want
               a
               stronger
               guard
               ,
            
             
               E'en
               my
               own
               heart
               is
               turn'd
               a
               Rebel
               too
               .
            
          
           
             
               Like
               Travellers
               ,
               when
               long
            
             
               They
               have
               some
               distant
               Nation
               known
               ;
            
             
               The
               Treach'rous
               Foot
               forgets
               its
               own
               ,
            
             
               And
               learns
               a
               cruel
               ,
               barbarous
               foreign
               Tongue
               .
            
          
           
             
               Still
               when
               I
               call
               it
               home
               ,
            
             
               Her
               cold
               Dominion
               it
               prefers
               ,
            
             
               And
               answers
               in
               no
               speech
               but
               hers
               ;
            
             
               Cries
               ,
               No
               ,
               't
               is
               all
               in
               vain
               ,
               I
               will
               not
               come
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Kissing
             his
             Mistris
             .
          
           
             NAy
             ,
             my
             Lucinda
             ,
             give
             not
             o'er
             ,
          
           
             There
             yet
             remains
             a
             thousand
             more
             ,
          
           
             And
             endless
             is
             thy
             Heavenly
             store
             .
          
           
             The
             gentle
             Subsidy
             we
             laid
             ,
          
           
             Must
             Ev'ry
             day
             be
             justly
             pay'd
             :
          
           
             Till
             then
             ,
             if
             I
             cease
             kissing
             thee
             ,
          
           
             May
             I
             ,
             this
             moment
             ,
             cease
             to
             be
             .
          
           
             These
             loft
             endearments
             Nature
             chose
             ,
          
           
             Free
             from
             all
             succeeding
             woes
             .
          
           
             Thus
             ,
             harmless
             murm'ring
             Turtles
             Love
             ,
          
           
             And
             Bill
             ,
             and
             Cooe
             ,
             in
             every
             Grove
             .
          
           
             Thus
             the
             chaste
             industrious
             Bees
             ,
          
           
             Of
             pregnant
             Shrubs
             ,
             and
             spicy
             trees
             ;
          
           
             The
             Virgin
             sweetness
             still
             devour
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             fragrant
             stands
             ,
             the
             blushing
             flower
             ,
          
           
           
             This
             lovely
             odoriferous
             Cell
             ,
          
           
             (
             Round
             which
             the
             Ruby
             Portals
             swell
             )
          
           
             Does
             more
             delicious
             Nectar
             fill
             ,
          
           
             Than
             can
             Hyblean
             Hives
             distill
             .
          
           
             Thus
             press'd
             ,
             their
             d●…vine
             Liquors
             flow
             ;
          
           
             And
             thy
             chaste
             Lips
             more
             balmy
             grow
             :
          
           
             Thus
             may
             we
             ever
             ,
             ever
             wast
          
           
             Those
             precious
             sweets
             ,
             that
             ever
             last
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Despair
             .
          
           
             
               WHat
               shall
               I
               do
               to
               learn
               some
               powerful
               Art
               ,
            
             
               That
               can
               dissolve
               her
               Marble
               heart
               ?
            
             
               It
               does
               so
               hard
               appear
               ,
            
             
               The
               mighty
               General
               of
               War
               ,
            
             
               Cut
               out
               his
               long
               unbeaten
               way
               ,
            
             
               Where
               Mountains
               upon
               Mountains
               lay
               ;
            
             
               And
               melted
               frozen
               Rocks
               with
               lesser
               pain
            
             
               Than
               I
               for
               her
               have
               suffer'd
               ,
               and
               yet
               all
               in
               vain
               .
            
          
           
             
               The
               wretched'st
               Miser
               never
               kept
               his
               Gold
               ,
            
             
               (
               Tho
               he
               does
               that
               as
               precious
               hold
               )
            
             
               In
               Chains
               so
               strong
               as
               she
            
             
               Bars
               up
               that
               fatal
               Treasury
               .
            
             
             
               Obdurate
               Walls
               and
               Pillars
               are
            
             
               More
               soft
               and
               penetrable
               far
               ,
            
             
               Than
               her
               hard
               Breast
               ,
               cold
               as
               the
               freezing
               North
               ,
            
             
               Where
               Nature
               nought
               but
               Snow
               ,
               and
               Christal
               Ice
               brings
               forth
               .
            
          
           
             
               Sure
               the
               Infernal
               Adamantine
               gate
            
             
               Where
               guilty
               Souls
               are
               kept
               by
               Fate
               ,
            
             
               Can't
               be
               more
               fortifi'd
            
             
               With
               massie
               Bars
               than
               she
               's
               with
               Pride
               ;
            
             
               So
               firm
               and
               wondrous
               strong
               in
               her
               ,
            
             
               The
               weakest
               part
               does
               still
               appear
               ;
            
             
               It
               almost
               seems
               a
               work
               of
               lesser
               pain
               .
            
             
               To
               leap
               the
               mighty
               Gulph
               ,
               and
               Heav'n
               by
               force
               obtain
               .
            
          
           
             
               Cruel
               injustice
               !
               her
               destructive
               Cave
            
             
               Lets
               none
               return
               but
               to
               the
               Grave
               :
            
             
             
               And
               as
               that
               dreadful
               door
               ,
            
             
               When
               once
               't
               is
               shut
               ne'er
               opens
               more
               ;
            
             
               So
               she
               has
               acted
               Deaths
               hard
               part
               ,
            
             
               And
               let
               her
               Breast
               take
               in
               my
               Heart
               ,
            
             
               Which
               now
               in
               vain
               alas
               !
               must
               ever
               burn
            
             
               In
               fiercest
               flames
               of
               Love
               ;
               and
               ne'er
               return
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             To
             Lucinda
             .
          
           
             
               AH
               cruel
               Nymph
               !
               how
               canst
               thou
               punish
               me
            
             
               To
               such
               a
               barbarous
               degree
               ,
            
             
               For
               the
               same
               crime
               that
               you
            
             
               Your self
               as
               often
               do
               ;
            
             
               And
               yet
               unjustly
               go
               unpunish'd
               to
               !
            
             
               I
               tortur'd
               am
               ,
               because
               I
               can't
               remove
            
             
               My
               fatal
               irresistless
               Love
               :
            
             
               Yet
               you
               confess
               you
               wou'd
            
             
               Love
               me
               too
               ,
               if
               you
               cou'd
               ;
            
             
               But
               cannot
               make
               your
               heart
               do
               what
               it
               shou'd
               .
            
          
           
             
               'T
               is
               hard
               indeed
               ,
               our
               Passions
               to
               command
               ,
            
             
               And
               Fate
               's
               Almighty
               Power
               withstand
               ;
            
             
             
               But
               yet
               't
               is
               just
               and
               fit
               ,
            
             
               Seeing
               you
               merit
               it
               ,
            
             
               To
               the
               same
               punishment
               you
               should
               submit
               .
            
             
               Such
               Conqu'ring
               charms
               adorn
               that
               beauteous
               face
            
             
               In
               ev'ry
               Feature
               's
               such
               a
               grace
               ,
            
             
               To
               me
               't
               would
               harder
               prove
               ,
            
             
               My
               Passion
               to
               remove
               ,
            
             
               Than
               't
               would
               for
               you
               to
               be
               more
               kind
               ,
               and
               Love.
               
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Embracing
             his
             Mistris
             .
          
           
             
               NOw
               ,
               I
               can
               scorn
               the
               splendor
               of
               a
               Crown
               ,
            
             
               And
               laugh
               at
               the
               dull
               pomp
               of
               vain
               Renown
               ;
            
             
               The
               toil
               of
               Arms
               and
               the
               litigious
               Gown
               .
            
          
           
             
               How
               hateful
               the
               rude
               acclamations
               are
               !
            
             
               The
               vile
               ,
               unjust
               ,
               unlearn'd
               unpeaceful
               Bar
               ;
            
             
               The
               noise
               of
               Triumph
               ,
               and
               stern
               din
               of
               War.
               
            
          
           
             
               How
               worthless
               are
               the
               sands
               of
               Tagus
               Shore
               ,
            
             
               The
               richest
               orient
               Pearls
               ,
               and
               all
               the
               store
            
             
               Of
               glittering
               Pebbles
               ,
               or
               Barbaric
               Ore.
               
            
          
           
             
               This
               costly
               Jewel
               higher
               value
               yield●…
               :
            
             
               A
               surer
               basis
               of
               bright
               glory
               builds
               ,
            
             
               Than
               proudest
               gaudy
               Courts
               ,
               or
               Martial
               Fields
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               No
               greater
               blessing
               could
               to
               Mortal
               fall
               :
            
             
               I
               now
               methinks
               am
               
                 Caesar
                 ,
                 Croesus
              
               ;
               all
            
             
               That
               we
               can
               happy
               ,
               or
               delightful
               call
               .
            
          
           
             
               Had
               the
               great
               Conqu'ror
               reach'd
               the
               British
               Shore
               ,
            
             
               And
               his
               Victorious
               Arms
               had
               triumph'd
               o'er
            
             
               This
               World
               of
               Bliss
               ;
               —
               he
               ne'er
               had
               wept
               for
               more
               .
            
          
           
             
               Bless'd
               far
               beyond
               the
               state
               of
               busie
               crowds
               ,
            
             
               My
               lofty
               head
               ,
               like
               towring
               Atlas
               shrouds
            
             
               Its
               airy
               top
               ,
               amidst
               aspiring
               Clouds
               .
            
          
           
             
               Oh
               maist
               thou
               ever
               thus
               supported
               be
               ,
            
             
               While
               thus
               my
               humble
               ,
               suppliant
               ,
               bending
               knee
            
             
               Bears
               up
               the
               Universal
               Globe
               ,
               in
               thee
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Unalterable
             .
          
           
             
               NO
               ,
               Dearest
               !
               never
               fear
               ;
               I
               'll
               always
               be
            
             
               Faithful
               ,
               as
               Heav'n
               to
               dying
               Saints
               ,
               to
               thee
               :
            
             
               No
               Fate
               shall
               e'er
               divide
            
             
               The
               Sacred
               knot
               our
               Souls
               have
               ty'd
               :
            
             
               My
               heart
               shall
               prove
               as
               constant
               to
               my
               Fair
               ,
            
             
               As
               others
               to
               their
               Mistrisses
               unconstant
               are
               .
            
          
           
             
               Not
               all
               thy
               Sexes
               Charms
               shall
               tempt
               me
               more
               ,
            
             
               I
               'll
               ever
               thee
               ,
               and
               Heav'n
               for
               thee
               ,
               adore
               ;
            
             
               Content
               with
               my
               bless'd
               Fate
               ,
            
             
               Despise
               the
               Worlds
               vain
               Pageant
               state
               :
            
             
               And
               since
               the
               Gods
               no
               greater
               bliss
               can
               send
               ,
            
             
               Like
               Twins
               we
               'll
               both
               our
               lives
               together
               end
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thy
               Sex
               ,
               alas
               !
               is
               a
               false
               Lottery
               ,
            
             
               Where
               thousand
               Blancks
               for
               one
               small
               Prize
               we
               see
               :
            
             
             
               Scarce
               can
               th'
               unerring
               Gods
            
             
               Direct
               our
               choice
               'gainst
               such
               odds
               ;
            
             
               And
               since
               kind
               Fate
               gave
               me
               so
               vast
               a
               Lot
               ,
            
             
               who
               'd
               hazard
               the
               rich
               Gem
               ,
               so
               hardly
               got
               ?
            
          
           
             
               If
               e'er
               I
               should
               from
               thy
               bright
               charms
               remove
               ,
            
             
               From
               thy
               dear
               Constancy
               ,
               thy
               fervent
               Love
               ;
            
             
               And
               feel
               the
               proud
               disdain
               ,
            
             
               With
               which
               your
               Sex
               rewards
               our
               pain
               ;
            
             
               Good
               Heavens
               !
               what
               might
               avenging
               fury
               do
               !
            
             
               Curse
               thee
               ,
               as
               well
               as
               them
               ,
               for
               being
               Woman
               ,
               too
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             TO
             CORINNA
             Excusing
             himself
             for
             not
             Loving
             her
             .
          
           
             
               1.
               
            
             
               PArdon
               ,
               thou
               brightest
               Star
               throughout
               our
               Skies
               !
            
             
               Thou
               charming
               Idol
               of
               adoring
               Eyes
               ;
            
             
               Pardon
               the
               barren
               soil
               ,
               if
               Beams
               Divine
            
             
               From
               such
               a
               Heav'n
               of
               Beauty
               dein
            
             
               To
               cast
               their
               sacred
               influence
               ;
               yet
               shine
            
             
               Upon
               the
               bare
               unfruitful
               Land
               in
               vain
            
             
               Long
               with
               unwearied
               toyls
               ,
               my
               heart
               has
               strove
               ,
            
             
               To
               bear
               the
               fertile
               gleab
               of
               grateful
               Love
               :
            
             
               Long
               have
               I
               laboured
               to
               obey
            
             
               The
               Righteous
               Laws
               of
               his
               imperial
               sway
               :
            
             
             
               But
               still
               we
               strive
               in
               vain
               ;
               for
               lo
            
             
               The
               bright
               Lucinda
               long
               ago
            
             
               In
               mystic
               charms
               has
               trod
               the
               sacred
               round
               ;
            
             
               And
               now
               behold
               !
               the
               Fairy
               ground
               ,
            
             
               To
               ev'ry
               Tillers
               hand
               is
               barren
               found
               .
            
          
           
             
               2.
               
            
             
               Condemn
               not
               me
               ,
               but
               our
               too
               cruel
               Fate
            
             
               That
               let
               such
               Beauty
               charm
               my
               eyes
               too
               late
               :
            
             
               I
               was
               alas
               !
               a
               wretched
               Bankrupt
               made
               ,
            
             
               Before
               my
               first
               great
               debt
               of
               Love
               was
               paid
               :
            
             
               She
               charg'd
               me
               with
               so
               vast
               a
               score
               ,
            
             
               That
               still
               I
               'm
               bound
               to
               her
               for
               more
               :
            
             
               And
               if
               I
               must
               compound
               with
               you
               ,
            
             
               For
               less
               than
               is
               your
               due
               ;
            
             
               The
               starving
               indigent
               for
               pity
               save
               ,
            
             
               Who
               such
               a
               fatal
               Judgment
               gave
            
             
               To
               one
               ,
               who
               never
               will
               release
               her
               slave
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               3.
               
            
             
               Did
               not
               that
               Monarch
               ,
               Love
               ,
               still
               rule
               alone
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               shouldst
               have
               half
               dominion
               in
               her
               Throne
               ;
            
             
               By
               all
               the
               World
               she
               can't
               be
               dispossest
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               will
               admit
               a
               Rival
               in
               my
               Breast
               :
            
             
               So
               absolute
               my
               lovely
               Sovereign's
               grown
               ;
            
             
               Not
               only
               all
               my
               power
               ,
               but
               will
               is
               gone
               .
            
             
               For
               notwithstanding
               the
               sad
               pain
               ,
            
             
               That
               I
               for
               her
               dear
               sake
               sustain
               ;
            
             
               Would
               she
               her self
               unkindly
               part
            
             
               With
               the
               least
               Atome
               of
               my
               conquer'd
               heart
               ,
            
             
               I
               sooner
               could
               a
               separation
               make
            
             
               'Twixt
               Soul
               and
               Body
               ,
               than
               that
               License
               take
               .
            
          
           
             
               4.
               
            
             
               Goe
               ,
               fair
               Corinna
               ,
               with
               thy
               Beauty
               goe
               ,
            
             
               And
               shew
               thy
               pow'r
               o're
               some
               unvanquish'd
               Foe
               :
            
             
             
               Such
               bright
               inflaming
               charms
               can't
               choose
            
             
               But
               win
               a
               heart
               where
               there
               's
               a
               heart
               to
               lose
               .
            
             
               Mine
               had
               thy
               willing
               Victim
               been
               ,
            
             
               Had
               it
               not
               first
               that
               Heavenly
               Creature
               seen
               ,
            
             
               There
               I
               beheld
               a
               fatal
               Conqueror
            
             
               Whose
               Beauty
               had
               not
               only
               power
            
             
               To
               gain
               the
               Battel
               ,
               and
               my
               heart
               sudue
               ,
            
             
               But
               keep
               the
               Victory
               for
               ever
               too
               .
            
          
           
             
               5.
               
            
             
               Urge
               not
               the
               greater
               Happiness
               that
               I
            
             
               Might
               in
               your
               Passion
               more
               than
               hers
               enjoy
               ;
            
             
               The
               calmest
               seasons
               ,
               and
               the
               sweetest
               rest
               ,
            
             
               In
               any
               other
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               Would
               be
               far
               worse
               to
               me
               than
               the
               dread
               forms
            
             
               Of
               Ruin
               ,
               Death
               ,
               and
               wild
               devouring
               Storms
               ,
            
             
               Within
               the
               Radiant
               Zone
               of
               her
               delightful
               arms
               .
            
             
             
               But
               oh
               !
               The
               blustring
               Winds
               can
               only
               fly
               ,
            
             
               Round
               the
               low
               Regions
               of
               that
               starry
               Sky
               ;
            
             
               The
               mild
               favorian
               gentle
               Air
            
             
               Is
               always
               bright
               ,
               serene
               and
               clear
               ,
            
             
               Within
               the
               Glorious
               Orb
               of
               that
               Celestial
               Sphere
               .
            
             
               Alas
               !
               the
               very
               Miseries
               and
               Pain
               ,
            
             
               Which
               my
               afflicted
               heart
               did
               long
               sustain
               ;
            
             
               So
               much
               the
               mighty
               power
               of
               Love
               can
               do
               ,
            
             
               Were
               then
               my
               sweetest
               pleasures
               too
               :
            
             
               Not
               all
               the
               blessings
               wich
               kind
               Heav'n
               can
               give
               ,
            
             
               Or
               Man
               from
               thence
               receive
               ,
            
             
               Can
               more
               delight
               ,
               more
               happiness
               create
            
             
               Than
               I
               ,
               for
               her
               dear
               sake
               ,
            
             
               Could
               in
               my
               utter
               Ruin
               take
               ;
            
             
               If
               Love
               were
               the
               kind
               cause
               of
               our
               destructive
               Fate
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               6.
               
            
             
               Blame
               not
               my
               Passion
               ,
               nor
               condemn
               my
               Zeal
               ,
            
             
               Could
               my
               heart
               speak
               ,
               't
               would
               greater
               thoughts
               reveal
               ;
            
             
               Those
               secret
               Transports
               I
               should
               then
               relate
               ,
            
             
               That
               raise
               my
               Soul
               above
               a
               Mortal
               state
               .
            
             
               Hadst
               thou
               as
               happy
               as
               I
               been
               ,
            
             
               And
               that
               fair
               Creature
               in
               her
               blooming
               Beauty
               seen
               :
            
             
               In
               all
               her
               Grace
               and
               Majesty
               ,
            
             
               Before
               she
               ruin'd
               it
               for
               me
               ;
            
             
               Ev'n
               thou
               too
               would'st
               confess
            
             
               Th'
               effects
               of
               such
               a
               cause
               could
               not
               be
               less
               .
            
             
               Nature
               erected
               her
               delightful
               Arms
               ,
            
             
               So
               wondrously
               adorn'd
               with
               heav'nli'st
               charms
               ,
            
             
               That
               like
               Herculian
               Pillars
               ,
               they
               might
               shew
            
             
               Th'
               admiring
               World
               she
               can
               no
               farther
               go
               :
            
             
             
               But
               with
               Pigmalion
               ,
               stand
               her self
               amaz'd
               〈◊〉
            
             
               At
               the
               stupendious
               Form
               her
               joyful
               hand
               has
               rais'd
               .
            
          
           
             
               7.
               
            
             
               What
               service
               would
               I
               pay
               !
               what
               wondrous
               Love
               !
            
             
               Should
               I
               not
               so
               ungrateful
               prove
            
             
               To
               that
               Terrestrial
               Angel
               ,
               who
               below
               ,
            
             
               Does
               such
               a
               Glorious
               Image
               shew
               ,
            
             
               Of
               Saints
               eternal
               Faith
               ,
               and
               Innocence
               above
               ;
            
             
               Or
               could
               there
               an
               Exchange
               in
               Passions
               be
               ;
            
             
               What
               recompence
               would
               I
               return
               to
               thee
               !
            
             
               With
               fervent
               Zeal
               from
               an
               unbounded
               heart
               ,
            
             
               Sould
               noble
               Friendship
               act
               a
               Lovers
               part
               .
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               now
               methinks
               I
               have
               so
               great
               a
               sense
            
             
               Of
               all
               thy
               Love
               and
               Excellence
               ,
            
             
               That
               even
               that
               dear
               she
               ,
            
             
               Who
               's
               more
               than
               all
               the
               World
               to
               me
               ,
            
             
               Alas
               !
               hardly
               two
               grains
               more
               than
               thee
               .
            
             
               For
               tho
               I
               love
               you
               less
               ,
            
             
               That
               Passion
               does
               as
               much
               express
               :
            
             
             
               For
               if
               in
               Love
               ,
               as
               in
               Religion
               ,
            
             
               The
               Gods
               accept
               the
               Will
               alone
               ;
            
             
               No
               Martyr
               ever
               dy'd
            
             
               With
               greater
               zeal
               than
               I
               have
               liv'd
               .
            
             
               Thee
               ,
               kind
               Corinna
               ,
               I
               adore
            
             
               As
               much
               as
               e'er
               I
               can
               ,
               and
               I
               Love
               her
               no
               more
               :
            
          
        
         
           
           
             TO
             LUCINDA
             .
          
           
             GO
             on
             ,
             Fair
             Maid
             ,
             persist
             in
             your
             disdain
             ,
          
           
             At
             the
             first
             stroke
             my
             heart
             was
             slain
             :
          
           
             And
             all
             your
             Pride
             and
             Scorn
             can
             do
             no
             more
             ,
          
           
             Than
             what
             your
             frowns
             have
             done
             before
             .
          
           
             Tho
             like
             first
             Atoms
             which
             compounded
             thee
             ,
          
           
             This
             wretched
             Body
             mangled
             be
             ;
          
           
             When
             Life
             's
             departed
             ,
             with
             all
             sense
             of
             pain
             ;
          
           
             You
             ,
             the
             dead
             Carcass
             wound
             in
             vain
             .
          
           
             When
             threatning
             Comets
             burn
             ;
             no
             small
             disease
          
           
             On
             the
             Contagious
             World
             does
             seize
             .
          
           
             Devouring
             Plagues
             with
             livid
             ruin
             wast
          
           
             The
             spotted
             Race
             of
             Man
             and
             Beast
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             do
             thy
             eyes
             portend
             a
             milder
             doom
             ,
          
           
             Where'er
             their
             fatal
             beams
             o'ercome
             .
          
           
             When
             from
             those
             raging
             Stars
             one
             frown
             you
             dart
          
           
             It
             's
             able
             to
             destroy
             the
             stoutest
             heart
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Captive
             .
          
           
             
               WHat
               shall
               I
               do
               to
               give
               my
               soul
               some
               rest
               ?
            
             
               This
               cruel
               barbarous
               Tyrant
               ,
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Now
               it
               has
               got
               possession
               of
               my
               breast
               ,
            
             
               Will
               never
               from
               its
               Throne
               remove
               .
            
             
               I
               must
               ,
               alas
               !
               the
               sad
               disease
               indure
               ,
            
             
               Whose
               raging
               pain
               ,
               no
               sov'reign
               Balm
               can
               cure
               .
            
          
           
             
               At
               first
               it
               lodg'd
               in
               my
               unwary
               eyes
               ;
            
             
               And
               like
               a
               slave
               obey'd
               my
               Will
               :
            
             
               But
               streight
               did
               the
               proud
               Basilisk
               surprize
            
             
               That
               seat
               of
               Life
               ,
               it
               soon
               will
               kill
               .
            
             
               O'er
               my
               whole
               Form
               th'
               Imperial
               Viper
               reigns
               ,
            
             
               And
               spreads
               its
               poison
               through
               my
               burning
               veins
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               When
               it
               invaded
               first
               my
               lab'ring
               heart
               ,
            
             
               To
               stop
               the
               fatal
               Course
               I
               strove
               ;
            
             
               And
               gave
               away
               the
               dear
               infected
               part
               ,
            
             
               To
               her
               ,
               whom
               more
               than
               that
               ,
               I
               love
               .
            
             
               Now
               sure
               ,
               thought
               I
               ,
               for
               ever
               from
               my
               Breast
            
             
               Is
               banish'd
               that
               unkind
               disquiet
               Guest
               .
            
             
               But
               all
               my
               pleasing
               hopes
               ,
               alas
               ,
               were
               crost
               :
            
             
               As
               disarm'd
               Patients
               feel
               the
               pain
            
             
               Of
               the
               same
               Limb
               they
               many
               years
               have
               lost
               ,
            
             
               My
               Torment
               still
               returns
               again
               :
            
             
               And
               now
               I
               find
               it
               is
               increas'd
               so
               high
               ,
            
             
               'T
               will
               ne'er
               leave
               me
               ,
               till
               I
               leave
               that
               ,
               and
               die
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Command
             .
          
           
             
               NO
               ,
               no
               ;
               bold
               heart
               ,
               forbear
               ;
               rather
               than
               speak
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               shalt
               with
               pain
               and
               silence
               break
               ;
            
             
               My
               Passion
               's
               rais'd
               so
               dangerously
               high
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               must
               for
               ever
               speechless
               lie
               :
            
             
               On
               Penalty
               of
               a
               worse
               death
               ,
            
             
               Use
               not
               the
               least
               complaining
               breath
               ;
            
             
               But
               silent
               as
               the
               Grave
               ,
               with
               all
               thy
               Sorrows
               dye
               .
            
          
           
             
               Alas
               !
               shouldst
               thou
               begin
               ,
               what
               tongue
               could
               tell
            
             
               The
               raging
               pangs
               of
               Love
               I
               feel
               ?
            
             
               More
               Torment
               ev'ry
               dismal
               hour
               does
               bear
               ,
            
             
               Than
               thou
               couldst
               in
               an
               Age
               declare
               .
            
             
               Great
               sorrows
               overwhelm
               the
               tongue
               ;
            
             
               And
               wouldst
               thou
               do
               me
               so
               much
               wrong
               ,
            
             
               To
               let
               her
               know
               by
               halves
               ,
               what
               I
               endure
               for
               her
               ?
            
          
        
         
           
           
             ON
             LUCINDAS
             Singing
             at
             CHURCH
             .
          
           
             TEll
             me
             no
             more
             of
             soft
             harmonious
             spheres
             ;
          
           
             Or
             Syrens
             voices
             that
             enchant
             our
             ears
             :
          
           
             From
             her
             sweet
             tongue
             such
             tuneful
             '
             Musick
             springs
             ,
          
           
             Angels
             might
             cease
             while
             the
             bright
             Charmer
             sings
             .
          
           
             Hark
             how
             the
             Temples
             sacred
             Roof
             rebounds
             ,
          
           
             With
             warbling
             Ecchoes
             ,
             and
             seraphic
             sounds
             ;
          
           
             Methinks
             the
             well-pleas'd
             Gods
             themselves
             attend
          
           
             To
             hear
             a
             Heav'nly
             voice
             from
             Earth
             ascend
             .
          
           
             Delighted
             Saints
             ,
             move
             from
             their
             Mansions
             there
          
           
             To
             be
             partakers
             of
             our
             Pleasures
             here
             .
          
           
             Pleasures
             so
             charming
             that
             they
             plainly
             prove
          
           
             What
             entertainment
             we
             shall
             find
             above
             .
          
           
           
             Such
             Beauteous
             Forms
             ,
             Elysian
             Fields
             adorn
             ;
          
           
             And
             such
             sweet
             notes
             awake
             the
             Morn
             .
          
           
             Cease
             ,
             dull
             Devotion
             ,
             cease
             ;
             we
             need
             no
             more
             ,
          
           
             The
             sacred
             Deities
             ,
             for
             Heav'n
             implore
             .
          
           
             While
             thus
             her
             voice
             wounds
             the
             Melodious
             Air
             ,
          
           
             Our
             Souls
             must
             think
             themselves
             already
             there
             .
          
           
             No
             humane
             tongue
             could
             ever
             entertain
          
           
             The
             Divine
             Powers
             in
             so
             divine
             a
             strain
             :
          
           
             Nor
             does
             she
             glorifie
             the
             Gods
             alone
             ;
          
           
             For
             while
             she
             sings
             Heav'ns
             Praises
             ;
             she
             sings
             her
             own
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Convert
             .
          
           
             
               VVHen
               first
               I
               saw
               
               Lucinda's
               face
               ,
            
             
               And
               view'd
               the
               dasling
               glories
               there
               ;
            
             
               She
               seem'd
               of
               a
               Diviner
               Race
               ,
            
             
               Than
               that
               which
               Nature
               planted
               here
               .
            
          
           
             
               With
               Sacred
               Homage
               down
               I
               fell
               ,
            
             
               Wondring
               whence
               such
               a
               Form
               could
               spring
               :
            
             
               Tell
               me
               ,
               I
               cry'd
               ,
               fair
               Vision
               ,
               tell
            
             
               The
               dread
               Commands
               from
               Heav'n
               you
               bring
               .
            
          
           
             
               For
               if
               past
               sins
               may
               be
               forgiven
               ;
            
             
               By
               this
               bright
               Evidence
               I
               know
               ,
            
             
               The
               careful
               Gods
               have
               made
               a
               Heav'n
               ,
            
             
               That
               made
               such
               Angels
               for
               it'too
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Vicissitude
             .
          
           
             
               VVHo
               that
               ere
               Fortune's
               Trait'rous
               smiles
               has
               try'd
            
             
               Can
               hope
               for
               any
               constant
               Bliss
            
             
               In
               such
               a
               faithless
               World
               as
               this
               ;
            
             
               Or
               in
               the
               surest
               promises
               of
               treach'rous
               Fate
               conside
               ?
            
          
           
             
               The
               tott'ring
               Globe
               turns
               with
               the
               rolling
               Spheres
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               same
               Motion
               may
               be
               seen
            
             
               Concentric
               too
               ,
               from
               us
               within
               ;
            
             
               Exalted
               now
               with
               Hopes
               ,
               and
               then
               depress'd
               with
               Fears
               .
            
          
           
             
               Eternal
               Change
               revolves
               with
               ev'ry
               day
               :
            
             
               The
               most
               Triumphant
               Glorious
               Crown
               ,
            
             
               Is
               in
               a
               moment
               tumbl'd
               down
               ;
            
             
               And
               shrines
               of
               burnish'd
               Gold
               to
               mouldring
               Earth
               decay
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Ev'n
               I
               ,
               my self
               ,
               who
               would
               not
               change
               the
               Fate
            
             
               Auspicious
               Stars
               ordain'd
               my
               Birth
               ,
            
             
               With
               any
               Mortal
               Man
               on
               Earth
               ;
            
             
               Midst
               all
               my
               joys
               can't
               boast
               of
               a
               much
               happier
               state
               .
            
          
           
             
               When
               my
               Lucinda
               smiles
               ,
               no
               Prince
               can
               be
               ,
            
             
               So
               blest
               on
               his
               Imperial
               Throne
               :
            
             
               But
               if
               she
               chance
               to
               dart
               a
               Frown
               ,
            
             
               The
               wretched'st
               Slave
               alive's
               an
               Emperour
               to
               me
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             CURE
             worse
             than
             the
             DISEASE
             .
          
           
             
               AS
               they
               ,
               whom
               raging
               Feavers
               burn
               ,
            
             
               Drink
               cooling
               things
               for
               ease
               ,
            
             
               Which
               make
               a
               fiercer
               heat
               return
               ,
            
             
               And
               heighten
               their
               disease
               :
            
          
           
             
               In
               hopes
               to
               cure
               my
               tort'ring
               pain
               ,
            
             
               A
               worse
               Experiment
               I
               found
               :
            
             
               Running
               upon
               the
               Sword
               again
               ,
            
             
               That
               gave
               me
               first
               my
               wound
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Denial
             :
          
           
             
               HOld
               ,
               hold
               ;
               my
               dear
               Destroyer
               ,
               hold
               ;
            
             
               I
               do
               confess
               I
               was
               too
               bold
               :
            
             
               My
               violent
               Passion
               rais'd
               so
               high
               ,
            
             
               That
               ,
               in
               the
               mighty
               Transport
               ,
               I
               ,
            
             
               Feeling
               my
               troubled
               Breast
               so
               full
               ,
            
             
               Let
               my
               tongue
               speak
               the
               language
               of
               my
               Soul.
               
            
          
           
             
               Stop
               ,
               dearest
               ,
               stop
               that
               fatal
               breath
               ;
            
             
               Presaging
               Omens
               bode
               my
               Death
               :
            
             
               Tho
               I
               would
               give
               my
               Life
               to
               hear
            
             
               That
               charming
               voice
               which
               now
               I
               fear
               ;
            
             
               As
               Criminals
               expect
               their
               doom
               .
            
             
               I
               wish
               to
               know
               ,
               but
               dread
               the
               Fate
               to
               come
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             THE
             Royal
             Canticle
             ,
             OR
             ,
             THE
             SONG
             OF
             SOLOMON
             ,
          
           
             
               CANTO
               I.
               
            
             
               
                 Sponsa
                 .
              
               
                 JOyn
                 thy
                 life-breathing
                 Lips
                 to
                 mine
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Love
                 excells
                 the
                 Joys
                 of
                 Wine
                 ;
              
               
                 Thy
                 Odours
                 ,
                 oh
                 how
                 redolent
                 !
              
               
                 Attract
                 me
                 with
                 their
                 pleasing
                 Scent
                 .
              
               
               
                 These
                 sweetly
                 flowing
                 from
                 thy
                 Name
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 Virgins
                 with
                 desire
                 enflame
                 :
              
               
                 Oh!
                 draw
                 me
                 ,
                 my
                 Belov'd
                 ,
                 and
                 we
              
               
                 With
                 winged
                 feet
                 will
                 follow
                 thee
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Loving
                 Spouse
                 at
                 length
                 great
                 King
              
               
                 Into
                 thy
                 Royal
                 Chamber
                 bring
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 shall
                 our
                 Souls
                 intranc'd
                 with
                 joy
              
               
                 In
                 thy
                 due
                 Praise
                 their
                 Zeal
                 employ
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 celebrated
                 Love
                 recite
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 more
                 than
                 rosie
                 Cups
                 delight
                 .
              
               
                 Who
                 Truth
                 and
                 Sacred
                 Justice
                 prize
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 thee
                 their
                 hearts
                 shall
                 Sacrifice
                 ;
              
               
                 You
                 Daughters
                 of
                 Ierusalem
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 Branches
                 of
                 that
                 Holy
                 Stem
                 ;
              
               
                 Though
                 Black
                 in
                 Favour
                 ,
                 I
                 excel
                 !
                 ,
              
               
                 Black
                 as
                 the
                 Tents
                 of
                 Ismael
                 ;
              
               
                 Yet
                 Graceful
                 as
                 the
                 burnish'd
                 Throne
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Ornaments
                 of
                 Solomon
                 ;
              
               
                 Despise
                 not
                 my
                 discolour'd
                 look
              
               
                 From
                 the
                 Enamour'd
                 Sun
                 I
                 took
                 .
              
               
               
                 My
                 Mothers
                 Sons
                 envy'd
                 my
                 worth
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 swoln
                 with
                 Malice
                 ,
                 thrust
                 me
                 forth
                 ;
              
               
                 To
                 keep
                 their
                 Vines
                 in
                 heat
                 of
                 day
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 ah
                 !
                 mine
                 own
                 neglected
                 lay
                 .
              
               
                 More
                 Lov'd
                 than
                 all
                 of
                 Humane
                 Breed
                 ,
              
               
                 Oh
                 tell
                 me
                 where
                 thy
                 Flocks
                 do
                 feed
                 !
              
               
                 Where
                 rest
                 they
                 ?
                 in
                 what
                 graceful
                 shade
              
               
                 When
                 scorching
                 Beams
                 the
                 Fields
                 invade
                 ?
              
               
                 Why
                 should
                 I
                 stray
                 and
                 turn
                 to
                 those
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 seeming
                 Friends
                 ,
                 and
                 real
                 Foes
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Sponsus
                 .
              
               
                 Oh!
                 thou
                 the
                 fairest
                 of
                 thy
                 Kind
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 will
                 inform
                 thy
                 troubled
                 mind
                 .
              
               
                 Follow
                 the
                 way
                 my
                 Flocks
                 have
                 led
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 their
                 steps
                 securely
                 tread
                 :
              
               
                 Thy
                 Kids
                 feed
                 on
                 the
                 faithful
                 Plains
              
               
                 Beside
                 the
                 Sheep-cots
                 of
                 our
                 Swains
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 Love
                 ,
                 art
                 like
                 the
                 Gen'rous
                 Steeds
              
               
                 Which
                 Pharaoh
                 for
                 his
                 Chariot
                 breeds
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Harness'd
                 in
                 rich
                 Caparisons
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 shine
                 thy
                 Cheeks
                 with
                 sparkling
                 Stones
                 !
              
               
                 That
                 vie
                 in
                 Beauty
                 with
                 thy
                 Tears
                 :
              
               
                 Thy
                 Neck
                 the
                 Oceans
                 Treasure
                 wears
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 will
                 a
                 Golden
                 Zone
                 impart
                 ,
              
               
                 Enamell'd
                 with
                 a
                 bleeding
                 heart
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sponsa
                 .
              
               
                 While
                 he
                 the
                 Prince
                 of
                 Bounty
                 Feasts
              
               
                 And
                 entertains
                 his
                 happy
                 Guests
                 :
              
               
                 My
                 Spikenard
                 shall
                 perfume
                 his
                 hair
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Odours
                 fill
                 the
                 ambient
                 Air
                 :
              
               
                 All
                 night
                 his
                 Sacred
                 head
                 shall
                 rest
              
               
                 Betwixt
                 the
                 Pillows
                 of
                 my
                 Breast
                 .
              
               
                 Not
                 Myrrh
                 new
                 bleeding
                 from
                 the
                 Tree
              
               
                 So
                 accetpable
                 is
                 to
                 me
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 Camphire
                 Clusters
                 when
                 they
                 blow
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 in
                 
                 Engeddi's
                 Vineyard
                 grow
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Sponsus
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 Love
                 ,
                 allures
                 my
                 sight
              
               
                 And
                 sheds
                 a
                 Firmament
                 of
                 Light
                 ;
              
               
                 In
                 either
                 sits
                 a
                 Silver
                 Dove
              
               
                 So
                 mild
                 ,
                 so
                 full
                 of
                 artless
                 Love.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Sponsa
                 .
              
               
                 Thou
                 ,
                 oh
                 my
                 Love
                 !
                 art
                 fairer
                 far
                 ,
              
               
                 Thou
                 ,
                 as
                 the
                 Sun
                 ,
                 I
                 ,
                 but
                 a
                 Star
                 ;
              
               
                 Come
                 my
                 delight
                 ,
                 our
                 pregnant
                 Bed
              
               
                 Is
                 with
                 green
                 buds
                 and
                 Violets
                 spread
                 ;
              
               
                 Our
                 Cedar
                 Roofs
                 are
                 richly
                 gilt
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 Galleries
                 of
                 Cypress
                 built
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               CANTO
               II.
               
            
             
               
                 Sponsus
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 Am
                 the
                 Lily
                 of
                 the
                 Vale
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Rose
                 of
                 Sharons
                 fragrant
                 Dale
                 .
              
               
                 Love
                 as
                 th'
                 unsully'd
                 Lily
                 shews
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 in
                 a
                 Brake
                 of
                 Brambles
                 grows
                 :
              
               
                 My
                 Love
                 so
                 darkens
                 all
                 that
                 are
              
               
                 By
                 erring
                 Men
                 admir'd
                 for
                 fair
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sponsa
                 .
              
               
                 Love
                 ,
                 as
                 the
                 Tree
                 which
                 Citrons
                 bears
              
               
                 Amidst
                 the
                 barren
                 Shrubs
                 appears
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 my
                 Belov'd
                 excells
                 the
                 Race
              
               
                 Of
                 Man
                 in
                 ev'ry
                 wining
                 Grace
                 :
              
               
                 In
                 his
                 desired
                 Shade
                 I
                 rest
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 his
                 fruit
                 my
                 Palate
                 feast
                 :
              
               
               
                 He
                 brought
                 me
                 to
                 his
                 Magazines
                 ,
              
               
                 Replenish'd
                 with
                 refreshing
                 Wines
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 over
                 me
                 a
                 tender
                 Maid
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Ensign
                 of
                 his
                 Love
                 displaid
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 Flagons
                 ,
                 oh
                 !
                 revive
                 my
                 Powers
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 strow
                 my
                 Bed
                 with
                 Fruits
                 and
                 Flowers
                 ;
              
               
                 Whose
                 taste
                 and
                 smell
                 may
                 cordial
                 prove
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 ,
                 oh
                 !
                 my
                 Soul
                 is
                 sick
                 of
                 Love
                 :
              
               
                 Beneath
                 my
                 .
                 Head
                 thy
                 left
                 Arm
                 place
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 gently
                 with
                 thy
                 right
                 embrace
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sponsus
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 Daughters
                 of
                 Ierusalem
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 Branches
                 of
                 that
                 Holy
                 Stem
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 by
                 the
                 Mountain
                 Roes
                 ,
                 and
                 by
              
               
                 The
                 Hinds
                 that
                 through
                 the
                 Forrest
                 fly
                 ,
              
               
                 Adjure
                 you
                 that
                 you
                 silence
                 keep
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 ,
                 till
                 he
                 call
                 ,
                 disturb
                 his
                 sleep
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Sponsa
                 .
              
               
                 Is
                 it
                 a
                 Dream
                 ,
                 or
                 do
                 I
                 hear
              
               
                 The
                 voice
                 that
                 so
                 delights
                 mine
                 ear
                 ?
              
               
                 Lo
                 he
                 his
                 steps
                 o'er
                 Hills
                 extends
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 bounding
                 from
                 the
                 Cliffs
                 descends
                 :
              
               
                 Now
                 like
                 a
                 Roe
                 outstrips
                 the
                 Wind
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 leaves
                 the
                 well-breath'd
                 Hart
                 behind
                 ;
              
               
                 Behold
                 ,
                 without
                 my
                 dearest
                 stays
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 through
                 the
                 Casement
                 darts
                 his
                 Rays
                 .
              
               
                 Thus
                 as
                 his
                 words
                 his
                 Looks
                 invite
                 ,
              
               
                 Oh!
                 thou
                 the
                 Crown
                 of
                 my
                 Delight
                 .
              
               
                 Arise
                 my
                 Love
                 ,
                 My
                 fair
                 one
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 bliss
                 with
                 every
                 Minute
                 flies
                 ,
              
               
                 Lo
                 the
                 sharp
                 Winter
                 now
                 is
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 Those
                 threatning
                 Tempests
                 over-blown
                 ;
              
               
                 Hark
                 how
                 the
                 Airs
                 Musicians
                 sing
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Advent
                 of
                 the
                 flowry
                 Spring
                 :
              
               
                 Chast
                 Turtles
                 lodg'd
                 in
                 shady
                 Groves
                 ,
              
               
                 Now
                 murmur
                 to
                 their
                 Faithful
                 Loves
                 .
              
               
               
                 Green
                 Figs
                 on
                 sprouting
                 Trees
                 appear
              
               
                 And
                 Vines
                 sweet
                 smelling
                 Blossoms
                 bear
                 :
              
               
                 Arise
                 my
                 Love
                 ,
                 my
                 fair
                 one
                 rise
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 bliss
                 with
                 ev'ry
                 minute
                 flies
                 :
              
               
                 Oh
                 thou
                 my
                 Love
                 ,
                 whom
                 Terror
                 locks
              
               
                 Within
                 the
                 Crannies
                 of
                 the
                 Rocks
                 :
              
               
                 Come
                 forth
                 ,
                 now
                 like
                 thy self
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 thy
                 voice
                 delight
                 mine
                 Ear
                 ;
              
               
                 Thy
                 Voice
                 is
                 Musick
                 ,
                 and
                 thy
                 face
              
               
                 All
                 conquers
                 with
                 transcending
                 Grace
                 :
              
               
                 Approach
                 and
                 timely
                 rescue
                 make
                 ,
              
               
                 These
                 Foxes
                 ,
                 these
                 young
                 Foxes
                 take
                 ,
              
               
                 Who
                 thus
                 our
                 tender
                 Grapes
                 destroy
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 present
                 hope
                 and
                 future
                 Joy.
              
               
                 I
                 am
                 my
                 Loves
                 ,
                 and
                 he
                 is
                 mine
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 mutually
                 our
                 Souls
                 combine
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 whose
                 affection
                 words
                 exceeds
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Dear
                 among
                 the
                 Lilleis
                 feeds
                 .
              
               
                 Until
                 the
                 Morning
                 paint
                 the
                 Skie
              
               
                 And
                 Nights
                 repulsed
                 shadows
                 flie
                 .
              
               
               
                 Return
                 to
                 me
                 my
                 only
                 Dear
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 the
                 Morning-Star
                 appear
                 ,
              
               
                 Run
                 like
                 a
                 youthful
                 Hart
                 upon
              
               
                 The
                 tops
                 of
                 lofty
                 Lebanon
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               CANTO
               III.
               
            
             
               
                 Sponsa
                 .
              
               
                 STretch'd
                 on
                 my
                 restless
                 Bed
                 all
                 Night
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 vainly
                 sought
                 my
                 Souls
                 delight
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 rose
                 ,
                 the
                 City
                 search'd
                 ,
                 no
                 Street
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Corner
                 my
                 unwearied
                 feet
              
               
                 Untrodden
                 left
                 ,
                 yet
                 could
                 not
                 find
              
               
                 The
                 only
                 comfort
                 of
                 my
                 mind
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Watch
                 ,
                 and
                 those
                 that
                 walk't
                 the
                 Round
              
               
                 Me
                 in
                 my
                 Soul's
                 Distraction
                 found
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 whom
                 ,
                 with
                 Passion
                 I
                 enquir'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Saw
                 you
                 the
                 Man
                 so
                 much
                 desir'd
                 ?
              
               
                 Nor
                 many
                 steps
                 had
                 farther
                 past
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 found
                 my
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 held
                 him
                 fast
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Fast
                 held
                 ,
                 till
                 I
                 ,
                 the
                 so
                 long
                 sought
              
               
                 Had
                 to
                 my
                 Mothers
                 Mansion
                 brought
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 that
                 adorned
                 Chamber
                 laid
              
               
                 Of
                 her
                 who
                 gave
                 me
                 Life
                 I
                 said
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 Daughters
                 of
                 Ierusalem
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 branches
                 of
                 that
                 Holy
                 Stem
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 ,
                 by
                 the
                 Mountain
                 Roes
                 ,
                 and
                 by
              
               
                 The
                 Hinds
                 which
                 through
                 the
                 Forrest
                 flie
                 ,
              
               
                 Adjure
                 you
                 that
                 you
                 silence
                 keep
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 ,
                 till
                 he
                 call
                 ,
                 disturb
                 his
                 sleep
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Chorus
                 .
              
               
                 Who
                 's
                 this
                 whose
                 feet
                 the
                 Hills
                 ascend
              
               
                 From
                 Desarts
                 ,
                 leaning
                 on
                 her
                 Friend
                 ?
              
               
                 Who
                 's
                 this
                 that
                 like
                 the
                 Morning
                 shews
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 she
                 her
                 Paths
                 with
                 Roses
                 strews
                 ?
              
               
                 More
                 fair
                 than
                 the
                 replenish'd
                 Moon
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 radiant
                 than
                 the
                 Sun
                 at
                 Noon
                 ;
              
               
                 Not
                 Armies
                 with
                 their
                 Ensigns
                 spread
              
               
                 Display
                 such
                 Beauty
                 mix'd
                 with
                 dread
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Sponsa
              
               
                 Behold
                 the
                 Bed
                 he
                 rests
                 upon
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Royal
                 Bed
                 of
                 Solomon
                 ,
              
               
                 Twice
                 fifty
                 Soldiers
                 that
                 excell
              
               
                 In
                 Valour
                 ,
                 Sons
                 of
                 Israel
                 ;
              
               
                 So
                 dreadful
                 to
                 his
                 Enemies
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Swords
                 well
                 mounted
                 on
                 their
                 Thighs
                 ;
              
               
                 His
                 Person
                 guard
                 from
                 the
                 affright
              
               
                 And
                 Treasons
                 of
                 concealing
                 Night
                 :
              
               
                 King
                 Solomon
                 a
                 Chariot
                 made
              
               
                 With
                 Trees
                 from
                 Lebanon
                 convey'd
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Pillars
                 Silver
                 ,
                 and
                 the
                 Throne
              
               
                 With
                 Gold
                 of
                 
                   Indian
                   Ophir
                
                 shone
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Tyrian
                 Purple
                 ceil'd
                 above
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Sions
                 Daughters
                 pav'd
                 with
                 Love
                 ;
              
               
                 Come
                 Holy
                 Virgins
                 ,
                 oh
                 come
                 forth
                 ,
              
               
                 Behold
                 a
                 Spectacle
                 of
                 worth
                 :
              
               
                 Behold
                 the
                 Royal
                 Solomon
              
               
                 High
                 mounted
                 on
                 his
                 Glorious
                 Throne
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Crown'd
                 with
                 the
                 Crown
                 his
                 Mother
                 plac'd
              
               
                 On
                 his
                 smooth
                 Brows
                 with
                 Gems
                 inchac'd
                 ;
              
               
                 At
                 that
                 solemnized
                 Nuptial
                 Feast
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 Joy
                 his
                 ravish'd
                 Soul
                 possest
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               CANTO
               IV.
               
            
             
               
                 Sponsus
                 .
              
               
                 HOw
                 fair
                 art
                 thou
                 ,
                 how
                 wondrous
                 fair
              
               
                 Thy
                 Dove-like
                 Eyes
                 in
                 Shades
                 of
                 Hair
                 !
              
               
                 Thy
                 dangling
                 Curles
                 appears
                 like
                 Flocks
              
               
                 Of
                 climbing
                 Goats
                 from
                 Gileads
                 Rocks
                 :
              
               
                 Thy
                 Teeth
                 like
                 Sheep
                 in
                 their
                 return
              
               
                 From
                 Chison
                 ,
                 wash'd
                 and
                 smoothly
                 shorn
                 ;
              
               
                 None
                 mark'd
                 her
                 Barren
                 ,
                 none
                 of
                 all
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 equal
                 Twins
                 at
                 once
                 let
                 fall
                 ;
              
               
                 Thy
                 Cheeks
                 like
                 Punick
                 Apples
                 are
              
               
                 Which
                 blush
                 beneath
                 thy
                 flowing
                 hair
                 :
              
               
                 Thy
                 Lips
                 like
                 threads
                 of
                 Scarlet
                 show
              
               
                 Whence
                 Graceful
                 Accents
                 sweetly
                 flow
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Thy
                 Neck
                 like
                 Davids
                 Armory
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 polish'd
                 Marble
                 rais'd
                 on
                 high
                 ;
              
               
                 Whose
                 Wall
                 a
                 Thousand
                 Shields
                 adorn
              
               
                 By
                 Worthies
                 oft
                 in
                 Battel
                 born
                 ;
              
               
                 Thy
                 Breasts
                 two
                 twins
                 new
                 wearied
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 There
                 grazing
                 where
                 the
                 Lillies
                 grow
                 ;
              
               
                 Untill
                 the
                 Morning
                 paint
                 the
                 Sky
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Nights
                 repining
                 Shadows
                 flie
                 :
              
               
                 I
                 to
                 the
                 Mountains
                 will
                 retire
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 bleeding
                 Trees
                 Perfumes
                 expire
                 .
              
               
                 My
                 Spouse
                 ,
                 let
                 us
                 at
                 length
                 be
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 Leave
                 we
                 the
                 fragrant
                 Lebanon
                 :
              
               
                 Look
                 down
                 from
                 Amana
                 ,
                 look
                 down
              
               
                 From
                 Shemis
                 top
                 ,
                 from
                 Hermons
                 Crown
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 Hills
                 where
                 dreadful
                 Lions
                 raye
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 the
                 Mountain-Leopards
                 Cave
                 ;
              
               
                 Thou
                 ,
                 who
                 my
                 Spouse
                 and
                 Sister
                 art
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 hast
                 thou
                 ravish'd
                 my
                 sick
                 heart
                 !
              
               
                 Struck
                 with
                 one
                 glance
                 of
                 thy
                 bright
                 Eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 One
                 hair
                 of
                 thine
                 like
                 Fetters
                 ties
                 :
              
               
               
                 Thy
                 Beauty
                 Sister
                 is
                 Divine
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Love
                 my
                 Spouse
                 more
                 strong
                 than
                 Wine
                 :
              
               
                 Thy
                 Odour's
                 far
                 more
                 redolent
              
               
                 Than
                 Spices
                 from
                 Panehea
                 sent
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Lips
                 winh
                 Honey-dew
                 o'er-flow
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Breasts
                 celestial
                 Milk
                 bestow
                 ;
              
               
                 Thy
                 Robes
                 a
                 sweeter
                 Odour
                 cast
              
               
                 Than
                 Lebanon
                 with
                 Cedars
                 grace
                 't
                 ;
              
               
                 My
                 Love
                 my
                 mutual
                 Vows
                 assur'd
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Garden
                 is
                 with
                 strength
                 immur'd
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Christal
                 Fountain
                 ,
                 a
                 clear
                 Spring
                 ,
              
               
                 Shut
                 up
                 ,
                 and
                 Seal'd
                 with
                 my
                 own
                 Ring
                 ,
              
               
                 An
                 Orchard
                 stor'd
                 with
                 pleasant
                 fruit
                 ,
              
               
                 Pomegranate
                 Trees
                 extend
                 their
                 Roots
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 sweetly
                 smelling
                 Camphire
                 blows
              
               
                 And
                 never-dying
                 Spikenard
                 grows
                 ,
              
               
                 Sweet
                 
                   Spikenard
                   ,
                   Crocus
                
                 newly
                 blown
                 ,
              
               
                 Sweet
                 Calamus
                 and
                 Cinnamon
                 .
              
               
                 Those
                 Trees
                 which
                 Sacred
                 Incence
                 shed
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Tears
                 of
                 Myrrh
                 perfume
                 our
                 Bed.
                 
              
            
             
               
               
                 Sponsa
                 .
              
               
                 Those
                 livings
                 Springs
                 from
                 thee
                 proceed
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Rills
                 ,
                 our
                 Plants
                 with
                 moisture
                 feed
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 those
                 clear
                 streams
                 which
                 issue
                 from
              
               
                 The
                 Fountain
                 ,
                 fruitful
                 Lebanon
                 :
              
               
                 You
                 cooler
                 Winds
                 blow
                 from
                 the
                 North
                 ,
              
               
                 You
                 dropping
                 Southern
                 Gales
                 break
                 forth
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 this
                 our
                 Garden
                 gently
                 blow
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 through
                 the
                 Land
                 rich
                 Odours
                 throw
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
               CANTO
               V.
               
            
             
               
                 Sponsus
                 .
              
               
                 MY
                 Spouse
                 ,
                 my
                 Sister
                 thou
                 who
                 art
              
               
                 The
                 Joy
                 and
                 Treasure
                 of
                 my
                 heart
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 to
                 my
                 Garden
                 have
                 retir'd
                 ,
              
               
                 Reap'd
                 Spices
                 which
                 perfumes
                 expir'd
                 :
              
               
                 Sweet
                 Gums
                 from
                 Trees
                 profusely
                 shed
              
               
                 On
                 dropping
                 Combs
                 of
                 Honey
                 fed
                 ;
              
               
                 Drinks
                 Mornings-Milk
                 and
                 new-press'd
                 Wine
                 ,
              
               
                 Oh
                 friends
                 who
                 like
                 desires
                 combine
                 .
              
               
               
                 Eat
                 ,
                 drink
                 ,
                 drink
                 freely
                 ,
                 nor
                 remove
              
               
                 Till
                 you
                 be
                 all
                 inflam'd
                 with
                 Love.
                 
              
            
             
               
                 Sponsa
                 .
              
               
                 Altho
                 I
                 sleep
                 ,
                 my
                 Passions
                 wake
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 he
                 who
                 call'd
                 thus
                 sadly
                 spake
                 ;
              
               
                 My
                 Spouse
                 ,
                 my
                 Sister
                 ,
                 thou
                 more
                 mild
              
               
                 Than
                 Gall-less
                 Doves
                 ,
                 my
                 undefil'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Oh
                 let
                 me
                 enter
                 ,
                 Night
                 hath
                 shed
              
               
                 Her
                 dew
                 on
                 my
                 uncover'd
                 head
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 from
                 my
                 drenched
                 Locks
                 distills
              
               
                 While
                 freezing
                 Snow
                 my
                 Bosom
                 fills
                 ;
              
               
                 Can
                 I
                 assent
                 to
                 thy
                 request
                 ,
              
               
                 Disrob'd
                 and
                 newly
                 laid
                 to
                 rest
                 ?
              
               
                 Shall
                 I
                 now
                 cloath
                 my
                 feet
                 again
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 feet
                 so
                 lovely
                 wash'd
                 distain
                 ?
              
               
                 But
                 when
                 I
                 had
                 his
                 hand
                 discern'd
              
               
                 Benumn'd
                 with
                 Cold
                 ,
                 my
                 Bowels
                 yearn'd
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 rose
                 ,
                 nor
                 longer
                 could
                 defer
              
               
                 T'
                 unlock
                 the
                 door
                 ,
                 persum'd
                 with
                 Myrrh
                 ;
              
               
               
                 But
                 ah
                 !
                 when
                 open'd
                 ,
                 he
                 was
                 gone
              
               
                 But
                 whither
                 ,
                 by
                 no
                 foot-step
                 shewn
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Watch
                 ,
                 and
                 those
                 that
                 walk't
                 the
                 Round
              
               
                 In
                 this
                 pursuit
                 th'
                 afflicted
                 found
                 ,
              
               
                 Smote
                 ,
                 wounded
                 ,
                 and
                 prophanely
                 tore
              
               
                 The
                 Sable
                 Veil
                 my
                 Sorrow
                 wore
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 Virgins
                 of
                 fair
                 Solyma
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 charge
                 you
                 ,
                 if
                 you
                 see
                 him
                 ,
                 say
              
               
                 That
                 I
                 his
                 Spouse
                 am
                 sick
                 of
                 Love
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 with
                 your
                 Tears
                 his
                 Pity
                 move
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Chorus
                 .
              
               
                 Oh
                 thou
                 of
                 all
                 thy
                 Sex
                 most
                 fair
                 !
              
               
                 Can
                 none
                 with
                 thy
                 belov'd
                 compare
                 ?
              
               
                 Doth
                 he
                 so
                 much
                 our
                 Love
                 transcend
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 we
                 should
                 him
                 alone
                 intend
                 ?
              
            
             
               
                 Sponsa
                 .
              
               
                 Loe
                 in
                 his
                 face
                 the
                 blushing
                 Rose
              
               
                 Joyn'd
                 with
                 the
                 Virgin
                 Lilly
                 grows
                 :
              
               
                 Among
                 a
                 Myriad
                 he
                 appears
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 chief
                 that
                 Beauty's
                 Ensign
                 bears
                 ;
              
               
               
                 His
                 head
                 adorn'd
                 with
                 burnish'd
                 Gold
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 curles
                 of
                 shining
                 hair
                 infold
                 ;
              
               
                 Black
                 as
                 Ravens
                 shining
                 Wings
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 eyes
                 like
                 Doves
                 by
                 Christal
                 Springs
                 ;
              
               
                 His
                 Cheeks
                 with
                 Spice
                 and
                 Flowers
                 compare
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Lips
                 like
                 Roses
                 dropping
                 Myrrh
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 hands
                 the
                 wandring
                 Eye
                 invites
                 ,
              
               
                 Like
                 Rings
                 which
                 flame
                 with
                 Chrisolites
                 ;
              
               
                 His
                 Belly
                 polish'd
                 Ivory
              
               
                 Where
                 Saphires
                 mixt
                 with
                 Coral
                 lye
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Legs
                 like
                 Marble
                 Pillars
                 plac'd
              
               
                 On
                 Bases
                 with
                 pure
                 Gold
                 inchas'd
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 looks
                 like
                 Cedars
                 planted
                 on
              
               
                 The
                 top
                 of
                 lofty
                 Lebanon
                 .
              
               
                 His
                 Tongue
                 the
                 Ear
                 with
                 Musick
                 feeds
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 he
                 in
                 ev'ry
                 part
                 exceeds
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 Daughters
                 of
                 Ierusalem
              
               
                 You
                 Branches
                 of
                 that
                 Holy
                 Stem
                 ,
              
               
                 Such
                 is
                 my
                 Love
                 and
                 Praises
                 Theme
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               CANTO
               VI.
               
            
             
               
                 Chorus
                 .
              
               
                 FAir
                 Virgin
                 parallell'd
                 by
                 none
                 ,
              
               
                 Oh!
                 whither
                 's
                 thy
                 Beloved
                 gone
                 ,
              
               
                 Direct
                 our
                 forward
                 Zeal
                 ,
                 that
                 we
              
               
                 May
                 joyn
                 in
                 his
                 pursuit
                 with
                 thee
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sponsa
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 to
                 my
                 pleasant
                 Garden
                 went
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Spices
                 breath
                 a
                 fragrant
                 scent
                 ;
              
               
                 There
                 gather'd
                 Flowers
                 feasts
                 in
                 the
                 shade
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 beds
                 of
                 bruised
                 Spices
                 laid
                 ;
              
               
                 I
                 am
                 my
                 Loves
                 and
                 he
                 is
                 mine
                 ,
              
               
                 So
                 mutually
                 our
                 Souls
                 combine
                 .
              
               
                 He
                 whose
                 Affection
                 Speech
                 exceeds
              
               
                 His
                 Dear
                 ,
                 among
                 the
                 Lillies
                 feeds
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Sponsus
                 .
              
               
                 Not
                 Regal
                 
                   Tirza
                   Israels
                
              
               
                 Delight
                 ,
                 thy
                 Beauty
                 Love
                 excells
                 :
              
               
                 Not
                 thou
                 Divine
                 Ierusalem
              
               
                 That
                 art
                 of
                 all
                 the
                 World
                 the
                 Gem
              
               
                 Nor
                 Armies
                 with
                 their
                 Ensignes
                 spread
              
               
                 Display
                 such
                 Beauty
                 mix'd
                 with
                 red
                 .
              
               
                 Oh
                 turn
                 from
                 me
                 thy
                 wounding
                 eyes
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 every
                 glance
                 an
                 Arrow
                 flies
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 shining
                 hair
                 appears
                 like
                 Flocks
              
               
                 Of
                 climbing
                 Goats
                 from
                 Giliads
                 Rock
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Teeth
                 like
                 Sheep
                 in
                 their
                 return
              
               
                 From
                 Chison
                 ,
                 wash'd
                 and
                 smoothly
                 shorn
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 mark'd
                 for
                 Barren
                 ,
                 none
                 of
                 all
              
               
                 But
                 equal
                 Twins
                 at
                 once
                 let
                 fall
                 ;
              
               
                 Thy
                 Cheeks
                 like
                 Punic
                 Apples
                 are
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 blush
                 beneath
                 thy
                 flowing
                 hair
                 .
              
               
                 They
                 boast
                 of
                 many
                 ,
                 Queens
                 great
                 store
                 ,
              
               
                 Of
                 Concubines
                 ,
                 and
                 Virgins
                 more
                 ,
              
               
               
                 Than
                 can
                 be
                 told
                 ,
                 my
                 undefil'd
              
               
                 Is
                 all
                 in
                 one
                 the
                 only
                 Child
              
               
                 Of
                 her
                 fair
                 Mother
                 ,
                 and
                 brought
                 forth
              
               
                 To
                 shew
                 the
                 world
                 an
                 unknown
                 worth
                 .
              
               
                 Queens
                 ,
                 Virgins
                 ,
                 Concubines
                 beheld
                 ,
              
               
                 Admir'd
                 ,
                 and
                 Bless'd
                 th'
                 unparallell'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Chorus
                 .
              
               
                 Who
                 's
                 this
                 who
                 like
                 the
                 Morning
                 shews
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 she
                 her
                 path
                 with
                 Roses
                 strews
                 ;
              
               
                 More
                 fair
                 than
                 the
                 replenish'd
                 Moon
                 ;
              
               
                 More
                 radiant
                 than
                 the
                 Sun
                 at
                 Noon
                 ;
              
               
                 No
                 Armies
                 with
                 their
                 Ensignes
                 spread
              
               
                 At
                 once
                 such
                 Beauty
                 ,
                 Fear
                 ,
                 and
                 Dread
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sponsa
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 to
                 my
                 pleasant
                 Garden
                 went
              
               
                 Where
                 Nutmegs
                 breath
                 a
                 fragrant
                 scent
                 ,
              
               
               
                 To
                 see
                 the
                 Gen'rous
                 Fruits
                 which
                 grac'd
              
               
                 The
                 pregnant
                 Vale
                 with
                 Gems
                 inchac'd
                 .
              
               
                 To
                 see
                 the
                 Vines
                 disclose
                 their
                 Gems
              
               
                 And
                 Granates
                 blossom
                 on
                 their
                 Stems
                 :
              
               
                 When
                 unawares
                 and
                 half
                 amaz'd
              
               
                 Methought
                 my
                 ravish'd
                 Soul
                 was
                 rais'd
              
               
                 Up
                 to
                 a
                 Chariot
                 swift
                 as
                 winds
                 ,
              
               
                 Drawn
                 by
                 my
                 Peoples
                 willing
                 minds
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 Chorus
                 .
              
               
                 Return
                 fair
                 Shulamite
                 ,
                 return
              
               
                 To
                 us
                 who
                 for
                 thy
                 absence
                 mourn
                 !
              
               
                 What
                 see
                 you
                 in
                 the
                 Shulamite
                 ?
              
               
                 Two
                 Armies
                 prevalent
                 in
                 Fight
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               CANTO
               VII
               .
            
             
               
                 Sponsus
                 .
              
               
                 OH
                 Princess
                 !
                 thou
                 than
                 Life
                 more
                 dear
                 ,
              
               
                 How
                 beautiful
                 thy
                 feet
                 appear
                 ;
              
               
                 When
                 they
                 with
                 purple
                 Ribbands
                 bound
                 ,
              
               
                 In
                 Golden
                 Sandals
                 print
                 the
                 Ground
                 ;
              
               
                 Thy
                 Joynts
                 like
                 Jewels
                 which
                 impart
              
               
                 To
                 wondring
                 Eyes
                 the
                 Workmans
                 Art.
              
               
                 Thy
                 Navell's
                 like
                 a
                 Mazer
                 fill'd
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 Juice
                 from
                 rarest
                 Fruits
                 distill'd
                 ;
              
               
                 Thy
                 Belly
                 's
                 like
                 an
                 heap
                 of
                 Wheat
              
               
                 With
                 never
                 fading
                 Lillies
                 set
                 :
              
               
                 Thy
                 Breasts
                 two
                 Twins
                 new
                 wearied
                 show
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 fell
                 at
                 once
                 from
                 one
                 fair
                 Doe
                 ;
              
               
                 Thy
                 Neck
                 an
                 Ivory
                 Tower
                 displays
                 ,
              
               
                 Thine
                 Eyes
                 do
                 shine
                 with
                 equal
                 Rays
                 .
              
               
                 Like
                 Heshbons
                 Pools
                 by
                 Bathrabim
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Silver-Scaled
                 Fishes
                 swim
                 .
              
               
               
                 Thy
                 Nose
                 presents
                 that
                 Tower
                 upon
              
               
                 The
                 top
                 of
                 Flow'ry
                 Lebanon
                 ,
              
               
                 Which
                 all
                 the
                 pleasant
                 Plain
                 Surveys
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Abana
                 her
                 Streams
                 displays
                 :
              
               
                 Thy
                 Head
                 like
                 Carmel
                 cloath'd
                 with
                 shade
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Tresses
                 Tyrian
                 Fillets
                 bray'd
                 .
              
               
                 The
                 King
                 from
                 Cypress
                 Galleries
              
               
                 This
                 Chain
                 of
                 strong
                 Affection
                 tyes
                 :
              
               
                 How
                 Pleasant
                 ,
                 oh
                 !
                 how
                 exquisite
              
               
                 Thy
                 Beauty
                 's
                 fram'd
                 for
                 sweet
                 delight
                 :
              
               
                 Thy
                 Stature's
                 like
                 an
                 upright
                 Palm
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Breasts
                 like
                 Clusters
                 dropping
                 Balm
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 will
                 ascend
                 the
                 Palms
                 high
                 Crown
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Boughs
                 victorious
                 Hands
                 renown
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 from
                 the
                 spreading
                 Branches
                 Root
              
               
                 Will
                 gather
                 her
                 delicious
                 Fruit.
              
               
                 Thy
                 Breasts
                 shall
                 like
                 ripe
                 Clusters
                 swell
                 ,
              
               
                 Thy
                 Breath
                 like
                 new-pull'd
                 Citrons
                 smell
                 ;
              
               
                 Choice
                 Wines
                 shall
                 from
                 thy
                 Palate
                 spring
                 ,
              
               
                 Most
                 acceptable
                 to
                 the
                 King
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Which
                 sweetly
                 shall
                 descend
                 ,
                 and
                 make
              
               
                 The
                 Dumb
                 to
                 speak
                 ,
                 the
                 Dead
                 to
                 wake
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sponsa
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 ,
                 my
                 belov'd
                 ,
                 am
                 only
                 thine
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 thou
                 ,
                 by
                 just
                 Exchange
                 ,
                 art
                 mine
                 .
              
               
                 Come
                 let
                 us
                 tread
                 the
                 pleasant
                 Fields
                 ,
              
               
                 Taste
                 we
                 what
                 Fruits
                 the
                 Country
                 yields
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 in
                 the
                 Villages
                 repose
              
               
                 When
                 shades
                 of
                 Nights
                 all
                 forms
                 inclose
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 with
                 the
                 early
                 Morn
                 repair
              
               
                 To
                 our
                 new
                 Vineyard
                 ,
                 see
                 if
                 there
              
               
                 The
                 tender
                 Vines
                 disclose
                 their
                 Gems
                 ;
              
               
                 And
                 Granates
                 blossom
                 on
                 their
                 Stems
                 :
              
               
                 Then
                 where
                 no
                 Frosts
                 our
                 Springs
                 destroy
              
               
                 Shalt
                 thou
                 alone
                 my
                 Love
                 enjoy
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 sweet
                 a
                 smell
                 our
                 Mandrakes
                 yield
                 ,
              
               
                 Our
                 Gates
                 with
                 various
                 Fruits
                 are
                 fill'd
                 .
              
               
                 Fruits
                 that
                 are
                 old
                 ,
                 Fruits
                 from
                 the
                 Tree
              
               
                 New
                 gather'd
                 ,
                 all
                 preserved
                 for
                 thee
                 .
              
            
          
           
             
             
               CANTO
               VIII
               .
            
             
               
                 Sponsa
                 .
              
               
                 OH
                 !
                 had
                 we
                 from
                 one
                 Mother
                 sprung
                 ,
              
               
                 Both
                 at
                 her
                 Breasts
                 together
                 hung
                 ,
              
               
                 Then
                 should
                 we
                 ,
                 meeting
                 in
                 the
                 street
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 unreproved
                 Kisses
                 greet
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 to
                 my
                 Mothers
                 House
                 conduct
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 thou
                 thy
                 Sister
                 should
                 instruct
                 .
              
               
                 Then
                 would
                 I
                 spiced
                 Wines
                 produce
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 my
                 Pomegranates
                 purple
                 use
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 left
                 Arm
                 for
                 my
                 Pillow
                 plac'd
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 gently
                 with
                 thy
                 right
                 embrac'd
                 .
              
               
                 You
                 Virgins
                 born
                 in
                 
                 Sion's
                 Towers
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 charge
                 you
                 by
                 the
                 chief
                 of
                 Powers
                 ,
              
               
                 That
                 you
                 a
                 constant
                 Silence
                 keep
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 till
                 he
                 call
                 disturb
                 his
                 Sleep
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Chorus
                 .
              
               
                 Who
                 's
                 this
                 whose
                 Feet
                 the
                 Hills
                 ascend
              
               
                 From
                 Desarts
                 leaning
                 on
                 her
                 Friend
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sponsa
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 ,
                 my
                 belov'd
                 ,
                 first
                 raised
                 thee
              
               
                 From
                 under
                 the
                 Pome-Citron
                 Tree
                 .
              
               
                 Thy
                 careful
                 Mother
                 in
                 that
                 Shade
              
               
                 With
                 Anguish
                 her
                 fair
                 Burden
                 laid
                 .
              
               
                 Be
                 I
                 ,
                 oh
                 thou
                 my
                 better
                 part
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Seal
                 imprest
                 upon
                 thy
                 heart
                 :
              
               
                 May
                 I
                 thy
                 Fingers
                 Signet
                 prove
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Death
                 is
                 not
                 more
                 strong
                 than
                 Love
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Grave
                 not
                 so
                 insatiate
              
               
                 As
                 Jealousies
                 inflam'd
                 Debate
                 .
              
               
                 Should
                 falling
                 Clouds
                 with
                 Floods
                 conspire
                 ,
              
               
                 Their
                 Waters
                 could
                 not
                 quench
                 Love's
                 Fire
                 ;
              
               
                 Nor
                 all
                 in
                 Natures
                 Treasury
              
               
                 The
                 Freedom
                 of
                 Affection
                 buy
                 .
              
               
                 We
                 have
                 a
                 Sister
                 immature
              
               
                 That
                 hath
                 no
                 Breasts
                 ,
                 as
                 yet
                 obscure
                 .
              
               
               
                 What
                 Ornaments
                 shall
                 we
                 bestow
              
               
                 When
                 Mortals
                 her
                 Endowments
                 know
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sponsus
                 .
              
               
                 On
                 her
                 ,
                 if
                 strongly
                 built
                 to
                 bear
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 will
                 a
                 Silver
                 Palace
                 rear
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 if
                 a
                 Door
                 to
                 deck
                 her
                 Fume
                 ,
              
               
                 We
                 'll
                 Leaves
                 of
                 carved
                 Cedar
                 frame
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sponsa
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 am
                 a
                 firm
                 Foundation
              
               
                 For
                 my
                 belov'd
                 to
                 build
                 upon
                 .
              
               
                 My
                 Breasts
                 are
                 Towers
                 ,
                 I
                 his
                 Delight
                 ,
              
               
                 His
                 Object
                 and
                 sole
                 Favourite
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sponsus
                 .
              
               
                 Late
                 in
                 
                   Baal-hamon
                   Solomon
                
              
               
                 Let
                 forth
                 his
                 Vineyards
                 ev'ry
                 one
              
               
                 For
                 Fruits
                 and
                 Wines
                 ,
                 there
                 yearly
                 made
              
               
                 A
                 thousand
                 silver
                 Sheckles
                 paid
                 .
              
            
             
               
               
                 Sponsa
                 .
              
               
                 This
                 Vineyard
                 ,
                 this
                 which
                 I
                 possess
                 ;
              
               
                 With
                 diligence
                 I
                 daily
                 dress
                 ;
              
               
                 Thou
                 Solomon
                 shalt
                 have
                 thy
                 due
                 ,
              
               
                 Two
                 hundred
                 more
                 remain
                 for
                 you
              
               
                 Out
                 of
                 the
                 Surplus
                 of
                 our
                 Gains
              
               
                 Who
                 in
                 our
                 Vineyard
                 took
                 such
                 pains
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sponsus
                 .
              
               
                 Oh!
                 thou
                 that
                 in
                 the
                 Garden
                 liv'st
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 life-infusing
                 Counsel
                 giv'st
              
               
                 To
                 those
                 that
                 in
                 thy
                 Songs
                 rejoyce
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 me
                 address
                 thy
                 cheerful
                 Voice
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Sponsa
                 .
              
               
                 Come
                 ,
                 my
                 belov'd
                 !
                 Oh
                 ,
                 come
                 away
                 !
              
               
                 Love
                 is
                 impatient
                 of
                 Delay
                 ,
              
               
                 Rume
                 like
                 a
                 youthful
                 Hart
                 or
                 Roe
              
               
                 On
                 Hills
                 where
                 precious
                 Spices
                 grow
                 :
              
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             last
             Parting
             of
             Hector
             with
             Andromache
             and
             his
             Son
             Astyanax
             ,
             when
             he
             went
             to
             assault
             the
             Grecians
             in
             their
             Camp
             ;
             in
             the
             end
             of
             which
             Expedition
             ,
             he
             was
             slain
             by
             Achilles
             .
          
           
             
               HEctor
               ,
               tho
               warn'd
               by
               an
               approaching
               Cry
            
             
               That
               to
               Troy
               Walls
               the
               conqu'ring
               Greeks
               drew
               nigh
               ,
            
             
               One
               Visit
               to
               his
               Princess
               makes
               in
               haste
               ,
            
             
               Some
               Daemon
               told
               him
               this
               would
               be
               his
               last
               :
            
             
               But
               her
               he
               (
               pressing
               thro'
               the
               crowded
               streets
               )
            
             
               Neither
               at
               home
               ,
               or
               in
               the
               Circle
               meets
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               at
               the
               Altars
               ,
               where
               the
               Royal
               Train
            
             
               Made
               Prayers
               and
               Vows
               to
               angry
               Powers
               in
               vain
            
             
               She
               ,
               half
               distracted
               with
               the
               loud
               alarms
            
             
               
                 (
                 Aslyanax
              
               came
               in
               his
               Nurses
               Arms
               )
            
             
               Runs
               to
               a
               Turret
               whose
               commanding
               height
            
             
               Presented
               all
               the
               Battel
               to
               her
               sight
               ,
            
             
               Advancing
               Grecians
               ,
               and
               the
               Trojans
               flight
               .
            
             
             
               Here
               Hector
               finds
               her
               with
               a
               Lovers
               Pace
               ,
            
             
               She
               flies
               ,
               and
               breathless
               ,
               sinks
               in
               his
               Embrace
               :
            
             
               The
               Nurse
               came
               after
               ,
               with
               her
               Princely
               care
               ,
            
             
               As
               Hesperus
               fresh
               :
               promising
               ,
               and
               fair
               ,
            
             
               Hector
               in
               little
               ,
               with
               paternal
               Joy
            
             
               He
               blest
               in
               silent
               Smiles
               the
               lovely
               Boy
               .
            
             
               Andromache
               come
               to
               her self
               again
               ,
            
             
               Pressing
               his
               hand
               ,
               did
               gently
               thus
               complain
               :
            
          
           
             
               My
               dearest
               Lord
               ,
               believe
               a
               careful
               Wife
               ,
            
             
               You
               are
               too
               lavish
               of
               your
               precious
               Life
               :
            
             
               You
               formost
               into
               every
               danger
               run
               ,
            
             
               Of
               me
               regardless
               ,
               and
               your
               little
               Son.
            
             
               Shortly
               the
               Greeks
               ,
               what
               none
               can
               singly
               do
               ,
            
             
               Will
               compass
               ,
               pointing
               all
               the
               War
               at
               you
               .
            
             
               But
               before
               that
               day
               comes
               (
               Heavens
               )
               may
               I
               have
            
             
               The
               mournful
               Priviledge
               of
               an
               early
               Grave
               :
            
             
               For
               I
               ,
               of
               your
               dear
               Company
               bereft
               ,
            
             
               Have
               no
               Reserve
               ,
               no
               second
               Comfort
               left
               .
            
             
               My
               Father
               ,
               who
               did
               in
               Cilicia
               reign
               ,
            
             
               By
               fierce
               Achilles
               was
               in
               Battel
               slain
               :
            
             
             
               But
               yet
               his
               Arms
               that
               Conqu'rour
               not
               spoil
               ,
            
             
               But
               paid
               just
               Honour
               to
               his
               Funeral
               Pile
               :
            
             
               Wood-Nymphs
               in
               rows
               of
               Elms
               have
               planted
               since
            
             
               A
               poor
               memorial
               of
               a
               powerful
               Prince
               :
            
             
               Seven
               Brothers
               who
               seven
               Legions
               did
               command
               ,
            
             
               Follow'd
               their
               Father's
               Fortune
               by
               his
               hand
               .
            
             
               My
               Mother
               too
               ,
               who
               after
               them
               did
               reign
               ,
            
             
               With
               a
               vast
               Treasure
               was
               redeem'd
               in
               vain
               ;
            
             
               For
               she
               soon
               clos'd
               her
               Empire
               ,
               and
               her
               Breath
               ,
            
             
               By
               Wretches
               last
               good
               Fortune
               —
               sudden
               death
               .
            
             
               Thus
               Father
               ,
               Mother
               ,
               Brothers
               ,
               all
               are
               gone
               ,
            
             
               But
               they
               seem
               all
               reviv'd
               in
               you
               alone
               .
            
             
               To
               gain
               you
               ,
               those
               Endearments
               I
               have
               sold
               ,
            
             
               And
               like
               the
               Purchase
               if
               the
               Title
               hold
               .
            
             
               Have
               pity
               then
               ,
               here
               in
               this
               Tower
               abide
               ,
            
             
               And
               round
               the
               Walls
               and
               Works
               your
               Troops
               divide
               .
            
             
               Just
               now
               the
               Greeks
               ,
               by
               both
               their
               Generals
               led
               ,
            
             
               
                 Ajax
                 ,
                 Idomeneus
                 ,
                 Diomede
              
               ,
            
             
               With
               all
               their
               most
               experienc'd
               Troops
               &
               brave
               ,
            
             
               Three
               fierce
               Assaults
               upon
               the
               out-works
               gave
               ;
            
             
             
               Some
               God
               their
               Courage
               to
               this
               pitch
               did
               raise
               ,
            
             
               Or
               this
               is
               one
               of
               Troys
               unhappy
               days
               .
            
          
           
             
               Hector
               reply'd
               ,
               all
               this
               you
               've
               said
               ,
               and
               more
            
             
               I
               have
               revolv'd
               in
               serious
               Thoughts
               before
               .
            
             
               But
               not
               my
               Foes
               upon
               that
               Plain
               I
               fear
            
             
               So
               much
               as
               Female
               Men
               and
               Women
               here
               ;
            
             
               For
               they
               ,
               if
               I
               should
               once
               decline
               the
               Fight
               ,
            
             
               Will
               call
               wise
               Conduct
               Cowardise
               and
               Flight
               ;
            
             
               Others
               may
               methods
               chuse
               the
               most
               secure
               ,
            
             
               My
               Life
               no
               middle
               Courses
               can
               endure
               .
            
             
               Urg'd
               by
               my
               own
               and
               my
               great
               Father's
               Name
               ,
            
             
               I
               must
               add
               something
               to
               our
               ancient
               Fame
               ;
            
             
               And
               in
               Troys
               Cause
               engag'd
               ,
               I
               cannot
               fly
               ,
            
             
               With
               it
               will
               conquer
               ,
               or
               must
               for
               it
               dye
               :
            
             
               But
               yet
               some
               boding
               Genius
               does
               portend
            
             
               To
               all
               my
               Pains
               an
               unsuccessful
               end
               ,
               tend
               ?
            
             
               For
               how
               can
               man
               with
               heavenly
               Powers
               con
               -
            
             
               The
               day
               advances
               with
               the
               swiftest
               pace
               ,
            
             
               Which
               Troy
               and
               all
               her
               Glories
               shall
               deface
               ,
            
             
               Which
               
               Asia's
               sacred
               Empire
               shall
               confound
               ,
            
             
               And
               these
               proud
               Towers
               lay
               level
               with
               the
               ground
               :
            
             
             
               But
               all
               compar'd
               with
               you
               does
               scarce
               appear
            
             
               When
               I
               presage
               your
               case
               I
               learn
               to
               fear
               ,
            
             
               When
               you
               by
               some
               proud
               Conqu'rour
               shall
               be
               led
            
             
               A
               mournful
               Captive
               to
               a
               Master's
               Bed.
            
             
               Perhaps
               some
               haughty
               Dame
               your
               hands
               shall
               doom
            
             
               To
               weave
               
               Troy's
               downfal
               in
               a
               Grecian
               Loom
               .
            
             
               Or
               lower
               yet
               ,
               you
               may
               be
               forc'd
               to
               bring
            
             
               Water
               to
               Argos
               from
               Hiperius
               spring
               ;
            
             
               And
               as
               you
               measure
               out
               the
               tedious
               way
               ,
            
             
               Some
               one
               shall
               ,
               pointing
               to
               his
               Neighbour
               ,
               say
               ,
            
             
               See
               to
               what
               Fortune
               
               Hector's
               WiFe
               is
               brought
               ,
            
             
               The
               famous
               General
               that
               for
               Ilium
               fought
               :
            
             
               This
               will
               renew
               your
               sorrows
               without
               end
               ,
            
             
               Depriv'd
               in
               such
               a
               day
               of
               such
               a
               Friend
               .
            
             
               But
               this
               is
               Fancy
               ,
               or
               before
               it
               I
            
             
               Low
               in
               the
               Dust
               will
               with
               my
               Country
               lye
               .
            
             
               Then
               to
               his
               Infant
               he
               his
               Arms
               addrest
               ,
            
             
               The
               Child
               clung
               crying
               to
               his
               Nurses
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               Scar'd
               at
               the
               burnish'd
               Arms
               and
               threatning
               Crest
               .
            
             
               This
               made
               them
               smile
               ,
               whilst
               Hector
               doth
               unbrace
            
             
               His
               shining
               Helmet
               ,
               and
               disclose
               his
               Face
               ;
            
             
             
               Then
               dancing
               the
               pleas'd
               Infant
               in
               the
               Air
               ,
            
             
               Kiss'd
               him
               ,
               and
               to
               the
               Gods
               conceiv'd
               this
               pray'r
               :
            
          
           
             
               Iove
               ,
               and
               you
               heavenly
               Powers
               ,
               whoever
               hear
            
             
               
               Hector's
               Request
               with
               a
               propitious
               ear
               ,
            
             
               Grant
               ,
               this
               my
               Child
               in
               Honour
               and
               Renown
            
             
               May
               equal
               me
               ,
               wear
               and
               deserve
               the
               Crown
               :
            
             
               And
               when
               from
               some
               great
               Action
               he
               shall
               come
            
             
               Laden
               with
               hostile
               Spoils
               in
               Triumph
               home
               ,
            
             
               May
               Trojans
               say
               ,
               Hector
               great
               things
               hath
               done
               ,
            
             
               But
               he
               's
               obscur'd
               by
               his
               illustrious
               Son.
            
             
               This
               will
               rejoyce
               his
               tender
               Mothers
               heart
               ,
            
             
               And
               sense
               of
               Joy
               to
               my
               pale
               Ghost
               impart
               .
            
             
               Then
               in
               the
               Mothers
               Arms
               he
               puts
               the
               Child
               ,
            
             
               With
               troubl'd
               Joy
               in
               flowing
               Tears
               she
               smil'd
               .
            
             
               Beauty
               and
               Grief
               shew'd
               all
               their
               pomp
               &
               pride
            
             
               Whilst
               the
               soft
               Passions
               did
               her
               Face
               divide
               .
            
             
               This
               melted
               Hecto●…'s
               stubborn
               Courage
               down
               ,
            
             
               But
               soon
               recovering
               ,
               with
               a
               Lover's
               Frown
               ,
            
             
               Madam
               ,
               says
               he
               ,
               these
               Fancies
               put
               away
               ,
            
             
               I
               cannot
               dye
               before
               my
               fatal
               day
               .
            
             
             
               Heaven
               ,
               when
               we
               first
               in
               our
               vital
               Breath
               ,
            
             
               Decrees
               the
               way
               ,
               and
               moment
               of
               our
               Death
               .
            
             
               Women
               should
               fill
               their
               Heads
               with
               Womens
               Cares
               ,
            
             
               And
               leave
               to
               men
               (
               unquestion'd
               )
               Mens
               Affairs
               .
            
             
               A
               Truncheon
               sutes
               not
               with
               a
               Ladies
               hand
               ,
            
             
               War
               is
               my
               Province
               that
               in
               chief
               Command
               .
            
             
               With
               humble
               Majesty
               the
               Queen
               withdrew
               ,
            
             
               Does
               with
               long
               wishing
               Eyes
               his
               steps
               pursue
               :
            
             
               All
               sad
               she
               to
               her
               Cabinet
               returns
               ▪
            
             
               And
               with
               prophetick
               Tears
               approaching
               Evils
               mourns
               .
            
             
               Then
               tells
               all
               to
               her
               Maids
               ,
               officious
               they
            
             
               His
               Funeral
               Rights
               to
               living
               Hector
               pay
               ;
            
             
               Whilst
               forth
               he
               rushes
               through
               the
               Gate
               ,
            
             
               Does
               his
               own
               part
               ,
               and
               leaves
               the
               rest
               to
               Fate
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             To
             the
             late
             KING
             ,
             at
             King's
             Colledge
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               VVHen
               Greatness
               from
               its
               Throne
               and
               State
            
             
               To
               inferiour
               Mortal
               condescends
               ,
            
             
               Its
               Zeal
               does
               heighten
               ,
               not
               abate
               ,
            
             
               Of
               Subjects
               it
               makes
               humble
               Friends
               .
            
             
               What
               can't
               rise
               higher
               ,
               whilst
               it
               like
               Heaven
               complies
               !
            
             
               By
               condescending
               thus
               does
               seem
               to
               rise
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Soin
               first
               Monarchs
               heavenly
               strain
            
             
               Did
               Father
               through
               the
               King
               appear
               ,
            
             
               They
               did
               by
               double
               Title
               reign
               ,
            
             
               And
               Duty
               did
               the
               work
               of
               Fear
               .
            
             
               The
               Loyal-Subject-Brethren
               only
               strove
            
             
               Who
               should
               run
               swiftest
               in
               the
               Race
               of
               Love.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Would
               giddy
               Faction
               then
               redress
            
             
               With
               equal
               Guilt
               and
               Impudence
               ,
            
             
               Sad
               Grievance
               !
               their
               own
               happiness
            
             
               Traytors
               to
               gratitude
               and
               sense
               .
            
             
               Giants
               indeed
               rebellious
               Standards
               bore
               ,
            
             
               But
               Pigmeys
               ne're
               did
               Heaven
               invade
               before
               .
            
          
           
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               Thanks
               to
               their
               rage
               ,
               it
               makes
               us
               know
            
             
               How
               well
               our
               Prince
               is
               lov'd
               and
               loves
               ;
            
             
               Thus
               shades
               bright
               Colours
               better
               show
               ,
            
             
               And
               Fear
               fruition
               oft
               improves
               .
            
             
               Fresh
               Joys
               we
               feel
               ,
               still
               fresh
               Devotions
               pay
               ,
            
             
               Your
               Life
               is
               one
               long
               Coronation-day
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Cupid
             arm'd
             ,
             A-la-modern
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               TIr'd
               that
               the
               Insolence
               of
               Love
            
             
               Made
               me
               a
               Butt
               for
               every
               dart
               ,
            
             
               And
               my
               tame
               Patience
               more
               to
               prove
               ,
            
             
               Would
               make
               his
               Quiver
               of
               my
               Heart
               :
            
             
               At
               last
               by
               War
               my
               Fortune
               I
               would
               try
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               the
               Bed
               of
               Honour
               nobly
               dye
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               By
               a
               new
               regular
               design
            
             
               My
               heart
               all
               Wound
               I
               fortify'd
               ,
            
             
               A●…●…fe
               retrench'd
               within
               my
               Line
               ,
            
             
               H●…●…d
               Artillery
               defy'd
               .
            
             
               〈◊〉
               angry
               God
               would
               his
               lost
               Slave
               regain
               ,
            
             
               〈◊〉
               summon'd
               Shaft
               ,
               and
               sterm'd
               my
               heart
               in
               vain
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Till
               taught
               by
               a
               fair
               cruel
               Dame
            
             
               His
               useless
               Bow
               away
               he
               throws
               ,
            
             
               Takes
               the
               new
               Engines
               sraught
               with
               Flame
               ,
            
             
               Which
               Mars
               discharges
               on
               his
               Foes
               ,
            
             
               Against
               my
               Heart
               does
               a
               strong
               Batt'ry
               raise
               ,
            
             
               And
               furiously
               from
               
               Celia's
               he
               plays
               .
            
          
           
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               So
               soon
               so
               large
               a
               Breach
               they
               make
               ,
            
             
               So
               far
               they
               certain
               Ruine
               send
               ,
            
             
               That
               Celia
               Heaven
               it self
               might
               take
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               could
               Iove
               his
               own
               Breast
               defend
               .
            
             
               How
               then
               ,
               alas
               !
               can
               a
               weak
               heart
               ,
               like
               mine
               ,
            
             
               Storm'd
               by
               such
               Charms
               ,
               but
               without
               terms
               resign
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             An
             Ode
             ,
             in
             Imitation
             of
             Pindar
             ,
             on
             the
             Death
             of
             the
             Right
             Honourable
             Thomas
             Earl
             of
             Ossory
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               WHat
               strains
               at
               sacred
               
               Pisa's
               spring
               ,
            
             
               The
               Swan
               that
               often
               sung
               with
               tuneful
               breath
            
             
               To
               his
               inchanting
               Lyre
               ,
               did
               sing
            
             
               Of
               God
               ,
               of
               Hero
               ,
               or
               of
               Heaven-born
               King
               ,
            
             
               With
               Verses
               cheaply
               purchas'd
               ,
               tho
               by
               death
               :
            
             
               Or
               rather
               (
               since
               to
               a
               pious
               Hero
               we
               ,
            
             
               Iust
               ,
               tho
               late
               Oblations
               bring
               )
            
             
               What
               Tears
               the
               
                 Muses
                 Prophet
                 Royal
              
               shed
            
             
               On
               
               Saul's
               anointed
               Head
               ,
            
             
               And
               thought
               a
               Crown
               poor
               recompence
               for
               a
               friend
               :
            
             
               When
               by
               a
               power
               miraculous
               he
            
             
               (
               The
               power
               of
               Faith
               and
               Poetry
               )
            
             
               Upon
               the
               Clouds
               an
               Interdict
               did
               lay
               ,
            
             
               And
               bid
               M●…
               Gilboa
            
             
               To
               rear
               his
               ●…aked
               Back●…●…ch'd
               to
               the
               angry
               sky
               :
            
             
               Such
            
             
             
               Such
               Numbers
               Priestesses
               of
               fame
               inspire
               ,
            
             
               Such
               Ossory
               does
               deserve
               ,
               &
               Ormond
               such
               desire
               ;
            
             
               Such
               Flanders
               bloody
               Plains
               ,
               and
               Mons
               ,
               and
               
                 British
                 Seas
              
               require
               .
            
             
               And
               ye
               Poetick
               Candidates
               of
               Fame
               ,
            
             
               If
               you
               would
               build
               a
               lasting
               Name
               ,
            
             
               This
               Subject
               choose
               ;
               as
               the
               
                 dark
                 Womb
              
            
             
               Of
               the
               old
               Prophets
               
                 Vital
                 Tomb
              
            
             
               Could
               Life
               restore
               ,
               so
               
               Ossory's
               .
               Life
               can
               give
               ,
            
             
               And
               by
               his
               Genius
               many
               an
               Age
               even
               this
               dead
               Verse
               shall
               live
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Then
               tell
               ,
               ye
               Heavenly
               Sisters
               ,
               ye
               can
               tell
               ,
            
             
               (
               For
               we
               below
            
             
               In
               the
               dark
               Vale
               of
               Hearsay
               dwell
               ,
            
             
               And
               nothing
               know
               )
            
             
               Tell
               when
               great
               
               Ossory's
               enlarged
               Shade
            
             
               Through
               Heavens
               Arch
               his
               
                 Triumphant
                 Entry
              
               made
               ,
            
             
               How
               noble
               Brutus
               ancient
               Race
            
             
               (
               To
               shew
               peculiar
               Worth
               peculiar
               Grace
               )
            
             
               
                 Rose
                 up
              
               and
               offer'd
               the
               first
               place
               .
            
             
             
               Tell
               how
               the
               sainted
               Hero
               (
               whom
            
             
               The
               pious
               Tales
               of
               
                 Fabulous
                 Rome
              
            
             
               Greater
               to
               make
               have
               almost
               nothing
               made
               )
            
             
               Embrac'd
               his
               Successor
               ;
               and
               swear
            
             
               None
               worthier
               did
               his
               
                 Mystick
                 Ensigns
              
               wear
               .
            
             
               Tell
               how
               the
               Nymphs
               that
               with
               
                 soft
                 silver
              
               oars
            
             
               Ply
               round
               th'
               
               Ebude's
               ,
               &
               cold
               
               Mona's
               shores
               ,
            
             
               Or
               the
               Seas
               Oracle
               ,
               the
               Mouth
               of
               Thames
               ,
            
             
               The
               noble
               Shanons
               ,
               or
               short
               Liffy's
               streams
               ,
            
             
               Their
               Guardian
               did
               lament
               ,
               and
               tear
            
             
               Their
               sea-green
               Hair
               ,
            
             
               This
               second
               grief
               to
               great
               Pans
               death
               th'
               afflicted
               Nymphs
               did
               hear
               .
            
             
               Bid
               sad
               Iuverne
               raise
               a
               Monument
            
             
               As
               Teneriff
               high
               ,
               wide
               as
               her
               Isles
               extent
               .
            
             
               Bid
               her
               be
               sure
               her
               Title
               prove
               ,
            
             
               Left
               her
               pretence
               as
               fabulous
               seem
               as
               lying
               
               Crete's
               to
               Iove
               .
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Nature
               with
               her
               Commission
               brisk
               and
               gay
               ,
            
             
               When
               the
               blest
               Earth
               saluted
               new-born
               Day
               ,
            
             
             
               And
               the
               
                 Worlds
                 Eye
              
               ,
               the
               youthful
               Sun
               ,
            
             
               Unspotted
               with
               
                 ill
                 Sights
              
               the
               race
               did
               run
               ,
            
             
               Profuse
               ,
               in
               Birds
               and
               Flowers
               her
               art
               did
               show
               ,
            
             
               She
               painted
               then
               the
               gawdy
               Bow
               :
            
             
               But
               most
               in
               Man
               ,
               (
               whom
               we
               her
               Abstract
               call
               )
            
             
               She
               of
               the
               
                 precious
                 stuff
              
               was
               prodigal
               :
            
             
               Her
               Kings
               but
               few
               removes
               from
               Iove
               ,
               her
               Princes
               Heroes
               all
               .
            
             
               But
               now
               (
               so
               sparingly
               that
               seed
               is
               sown
               ,
            
             
               The
               soyl
               spent
               ,
               or
               she
               covetous
               grown
               ,
            
             
               Or
               Vice
               hath
               spoil'd
               the
               Strain
               ,
               or
               Fate
            
             
               Hath
               given
               the
               World
               for
               desperate
               )
            
             
               Sh'
               hath
               shrunk
               the
               short
               dimensions
               of
               a
               Man
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               an
               Inch
               reduc'd
               our
               Span
               ,
            
             
               A
               Number
               ,
               an
               inglorious
               Rout
               ,
            
             
               Faint
               Shadows
               of
               our
               Ancestors
               ,
               alas
               !
               we
               stalk
               about
               !
            
             
               If
               by
               some
               mighty
               effort
               she
            
             
               Produce
               at
               last
               one
               Ossory
               .
            
             
               (
               Like
               Stars
               which
               in
               our
               Hemisphear
            
             
               Gaz'd
               at
               ,
               half
               known
               ,
               strait
               disappear
               )
            
             
               So
               
                 late
                 he
              
               enters
               ,
               so
               soon
               quits
               the
               Stage
               ,
            
             
               He
               leaves
               a
               Nation
               desolate
               ,
               and
               quite
               undoes
               the
               Age.
               
            
          
           
             
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               Early
               young
               Ossory
               enter'd
               Vertues
               race
               ,
            
             
               Swiftly
               began
               ,
               yet
               still
               encreas'd
               his
               pace
               ;
            
             
               And
               when
               no
               other
               Rival
               he
               could
               find
               ,
            
             
               Strove
               with
               himself
               ,
               and
               left
               himself
               behind
               .
            
             
               With
               confirmed
               Steps
               t'
               his
               Prince
               he
               went
            
             
               Into
               a
               noble
               Banishment
               ,
            
             
               The
               Country
               then
               of
               all
               was
               excellent
               .
            
             
               But
               sure
               the
               Stars
               and
               Fortune
               have
            
             
               Small
               influence
               on
               the
               vertuous
               and
               the
               brave
               ;
            
             
               Ev'n
               Poison
               turns
               to
               wholsome
               meat
               ,
            
             
               By
               Vertues
               strong
               digestive
               heat
               .
            
             
               The
               more
               with
               Hercules
               Stepdame
               Iuno
               strove
               ,
            
             
               The
               more
               she
               prov'd
               the
               
                 mighty
                 Seed
              
               of
               Iove
               .
            
             
               The
               Policy
               of
               *
               ●…iber
               and
               the
               ‖
               Arne
               ,
            
             
               The
               Courtship
               of
               the
               Seine
               &
               Marne
               .
            
             
               What
               
                 solid
                 serious
              
               the
               sage
               *
               Hebre
               hath
               ,
            
             
               And
               Germany
               of
               ancient
               Faith
               ,
            
             
               With
               British
               Gallantry
               〈◊〉
            
             
               Did
               in
               the
               Chymic
               Furnace
               of
               his
               Mind
            
             
               A
               high
               Elixir
               make
               ,
               than
               each
               more
               precious
               and
               refin'd
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               V.
               
            
             
               As
               when
               that
               
                 Annual
                 Chaos
              
               ,
               Winter
               ,
               flies
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               the
               soft
               Pleiades
               do
               mount
               the
               Skies
               ,
            
             
               And
               Philomel
               to
               Western
               Gales
               does
               sing
            
             
               The
               Advent
               of
               the
               Heaven-born
               Spring
               ,
            
             
               Such
               Joy
               
                 blest
                 Charles
              
               did
               to
               his
               Subjects
               bring
               .
            
             
               Then
               many
               a
               Hero
               whom
               no
               storms
               could
               shake
               ,
            
             
               Who
               from
               his
               sufferings
               did
               new
               Courage
               take
               ,
            
             
               Dissolv'd
               in
               the
               soft
               Lap
               of
               Pleasure
               lay
               ,
            
             
               As
               Ice
               ,
               the
               Winters
               Child
               ,
               in
               Summers
               day
            
             
               Is
               by
               the
               amorous
               Sunbeams
               kiss'd
               away
               .
            
             
               But
               not
               so
               
                 Ossory
                 ,
                 christalliz'd
              
               his
               Mind
            
             
               Fortune
               adverse
               did
               
                 brave
                 ,
                 disdain'd
              
               her
               kind
               .
            
             
               Not
               Amoret
               to
               the
               Alcove
               ,
            
             
               Or
               Park
               the
               
                 conscious
                 Mart
              
               of
               Love
               ,
            
             
               
                 Not
                 so
                 t'
                 a
                 Princes
              
               Levee
               with
               first
               light
               ,
            
             
               Hasts
               an
               aspiring
               Favourite
               ,
            
             
               As
               you
               where
               honourable
               danger
               lay
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               the
               Temple
               of
               high
               fame
               did
               mark
               the
               craggy
               way
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               VI.
               
            
             
               Go
               ,
               thy
               winged
               Chariot
               ,
               quickly
               Muse
               ,
               prepare
               ,
            
             
               Lo
               ,
               a
               vast
               Fleet
               consumes
               the
               Eastern
               Air
               ;
            
             
               Base
               Hollanders
               Great
               Britains
               Rights
               invade
               ;
            
             
               See
               what
               Returns
               for
               Liberty
               they
               made
               !
            
             
               Viperous
               Brood
               !
               but
               Vipers
               we
               do
               find
            
             
               Bely'd
               ;
               Ingratitude
               is
               proper
               to
               Mankind
               .
            
             
               Embarque
               i'
               th'
               Ship
               where
               Ossory
               goes
               ,
            
             
               To
               check
               the
               Parricidal
               Foes
               :
            
             
               Not
               as
               the
               Grave
               Venetian
               takes
               his
               way
               ,
            
             
               With
               many
               a
               Barge
               ,
               and
               many
               a
               Gondola
               ;
            
             
               Whilst
               painted
               Bucentore
               in
               state
               does
               move
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               the
               Adriatick
               Maid
               makes
               Love.
            
             
               As
               Iove
               he
               comes
               to
               th'
               Theban
               Dame
               ,
            
             
               Dreadfully
               gay
               with
               light'nings
               pointed
               flame
               :
            
             
               Unhappy
               they
               who
               to
               his
               Embraces
               came
               ,
            
             
               One
               would
               have
               thought
               t'
               have
               heard
               his
               Canon
               roar
               ,
            
             
               Aetna
               were
               torn
               from
               the
               Trinacrian
               Shore
               ;
            
             
               And
               freed
               Typhaeus
               a
               new
               War
               did
               move
            
             
               Against
               the
               upper
               and
               the
               nether
               Iove
               .
            
             
             
               The
               Nereids
               trembled
               in
               their
               watry
               Bed
               ,
            
             
               In
               the
               Isles
               roots
               they
               hid
               their
               Head
               ,
            
             
               And
               (
               like
               the
               Hollanders
               )
               agast
               from
               their
               own
               Guardian
               fled
               .
            
          
           
             
               VII
               .
            
             
               But
               narrow
               is
               one
               Element
               ,
            
             
               Compared
               to
               a
               well
               form'd
               Souls
               extent
               ;
            
             
               Narrow
               the
               starry
               Firmament
               .
            
             
               Fate
               brings
               (
               to
               keep
               the
               balance
               of
               the
               Age
               )
            
             
               With
               
                 Monsters
                 equal
                 Heroes
              
               on
               the
               Stage
               :
            
             
               The
               
                 Western
                 Sultan
              
               powerful
               grows
               ,
            
             
               A
               Torrent
               ,
               all
               things
               overflows
               ;
            
             
               But
               Mons
               in
               bloody
               Characters
               his
               fatal
               limits
               shows
               .
            
             
               You
               check'd
               the
               Monarch
               in
               his
               full
               Career
               ,
            
             
               Fierce
               Luxemburg
               wondred
               ,
               and
               learn'd
               to
               fear
               ;
            
             
               Alas
               !
               he
               knew
               not
               Ossory
               was
               there
               .
            
             
               Sad
               the
               ripe
               Harvest
               of
               his
               Fame
               he
               yields
               ,
            
             
               The
               Harvest
               of
               so
               many
               bloody
               Fields
               .
            
             
               To
               merit
               such
               a
               Conquerour
               long
               he
               grew
            
             
               And
               gather'd
               Laurels
               to
               be
               worn
               by
               you
               ;
            
             
             
               Cursing
               just
               Heaven
               ,
               dropping
               with
               bloody
               Sweat
            
             
               The
               sad
               remains
               withdraws
               of
               his
               Defeat
               ,
            
             
               And
               more
               than
               all
               his
               Victories
               he
               values
               this
               Retreat
               .
            
          
           
             
               VIII
               .
            
             
               Great
               Excellence
               oft
               proves
               dangerous
               to
               the
               State
               ,
            
             
               A
               
                 Comet
                 Vertue
              
               when
               hung
               out
               by
               Fate
            
             
               To
               it
               self
               and
               others
               ruine
               does
               create
               .
            
             
               But
               silent
               he
               ,
               yet
               active
               as
               the
               Day
               ,
            
             
               Born
               to
               command
               ,
               and
               willing
               to
               obey
               .
            
             
               Nature
               to
               him
               the
               happy
               temper
               gave
               ,
            
             
               All-kind
               he
               was
               as
               
                 prosp'rous
                 Love
              
               ,
            
             
               Gentle
               as
               Venus
               gentlest
               Dove
               ,
            
             
               In
               fight
               beyond
               a
               fancied
               Hero
               brave
               .
            
             
               Thou
               
                 Virgin
                 Mother-Church
              
               ,
               which
               now
               dost
               ride
            
             
               The
               swelling
               Surges
               of
               a
               double
               Tide
               ,
            
             
               Safe
               only
               because
               dash'd
               on
               either
               side
               ,
            
             
               O
               what
               a
               Friend
               now
               in
               
                 thy
                 day
              
            
             
               Hath
               Fate
               in
               Ossory
               snatch'd
               away
               !
            
             
             
               And
               ye
               who
               holy
               Friendship
               do
               adore
               ,
            
             
               His
               equal
               you
               will
               never
               see
               ,
               before
            
             
               You
               Ossory
               shall
               in
               Heaven
               rejoyn
               ,
               ne're
               to
               be
               parted
               more
               .
            
          
           
             
               IX
               .
            
             
               Accursed
               Fever
               ,
               Deaths
               *
               sharp-poisoned
               Dart
               ,
            
             
               Accursed
               Fruit
               ,
               accursed
               Earth
               ,
            
             
               Which
               to
               the
               fatal
               Tree
               gave
               birth
               ;
            
             
               What
               Mine
               of
               strange
               confusion
               have
               you
               laid
            
             
               In
               the
               most
               regular
               Breast
               that
               '
               ere
               was
               made
               !
            
             
               Those
               Eyes
               ,
               from
               which
               swift
               Lightning
               once
               did
               part
               ,
            
             
               To
               melt
               the
               temper'd
               Steel
               ,
               or
               harder
               Heart
               ,
            
             
               Like
               wasting
               Mecors
               now
               portend
            
             
               With
               blood-shot
               Beams
               his
               own
               approaching
               end
               .
            
             
               The
               Seat
               where
               
                 Honours
                 Records
              
               lay
               ,
            
             
               Where
               was
               design'd
               the
               Fall
               of
               Africa
               ,
            
             
               (
               Scarce
               Heavens
               Decrees
               more
               firmly
               set
               than
               they
            
             
               Like
               Parchments
               in
               the
               Fire
               now
               shrunk
               away
            
             
               Those
               *
               Purple
               Waves
               ,
               which
               like
               the
               Nile
            
             
               From
               his
               undiscover'd
               Head
            
             
               Health
               and
               
                 fresh
                 Honours
              
               on
               its
               Soil
               did
               shed
               ,
            
             
               And
               bid
               all
               Egypt
               smile
               ;
            
             
             
               Now
               with
               V●…suvian
               waves
               scorch
               all
               their
               way
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               the
               *
               King
               o'
               th'
               little
               World
               a
               Mortal
               Tribute
               pay
               .
            
          
           
             
               X.
               
            
             
               Injustly
               we
               accuse
               the
               Sovereign
               Law
               ,
            
             
               Which
               all
               things
               to
               their
               proper
               place
               does
               draw
               .
            
             
               
                 Full
                 ripe
              
               for
               Heaven
               he
               spurn'd
               the
               Earth
               ,
            
             
               The
               monumental
               seat
               of
               
                 miscall'd
                 Birth
              
               .
            
             
               No
               Art
               ,
               no
               Violence
               ,
               can
               controul
            
             
               (
               Though
               on
               it
               Ossa
               you
               ,
               and
               Pelion
               roul
               )
            
             
               Th'
               ascending
               motion
               of
               a
               Heaven-born
               Soul.
            
             
               His
               Fever
               like
               Elias
               fiery
               Carre
               ,
            
             
               (
               Whilst
               the
               
                 sad
                 Prophets
              
               mourn
               him
               from
               afar
               )
            
             
               Kindled
               his
               Funeral
               Pile
               into
               a
               Star.
            
             
               Others
               may
               praise
               the
               Feats
               of
               mortal
               breath
               ,
            
             
               But
               I
               the
               opportunity
               of
               Death
               .
            
             
               He
               saw
               not
               popular
               Fury
               threat
               the
               Stage
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               
                 Epidemick
                 Madness
              
               seize
               the
               Age.
            
             
               He
               liv'd
               not
               till
               his
               Wreaths
               did
               grow
            
             
               Wither'd
               and
               pale
               upon
               his
               Brow
               ,
            
             
               As
               Pompey
               and
               great
               Scipio
               .
            
             
             
               Few
               ,
               Heavens
               choice
               Favourites
               ,
               the
               priviledge
               have
               ,
            
             
               To
               bring
               their
               Fame
               untainted
               to
               their
               Grave
               .
            
             
               Who
               the
               wild
               Passions
               knows
               of
               humane
               kind
               ,
            
             
               Fortune
               and
               false
               Mortality
            
             
               This
               truth
               will
               find
               ,
            
             
               When
               
                 wanted
                 most
              
               and
               best
               belov'd
               ,
               't
               is
               happiest
               then
               to
               dye
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Piscatory
             Eclogues
             of
             Sanazarius
             .
             The
             first
             Eclogue
             entituled
             Phillis
             .
          
           
             By
             Mr.
             Tate
             .
          
           
             
               Inscrib'd
               to
            
             Dr.
             Conquest
             .
          
           
             O
             Cou'd
             my
             lab'ring
             Muse
             a
             Verse
             impart
          
           
             Bright
             as
             thy
             Wit
             and
             gen'rous
             as
             thy
             Heart
             ,
          
           
             Such
             Numbers
             Conquest
             (
             if
             such
             Streins
             can
             be
             )
          
           
             May
             with
             Success
             describe
             thy
             Art
             and
             Thee
             .
          
           
           
             Artist
             and
             Friend
             ,
             in
             Thee
             compleat
             appear
             ,
          
           
             Of
             Soul
             and
             Converse
             both
             so
             frank
             and
             clear
             ,
          
           
             That
             we
             scarce
             prize
             the
             Health
             you
             give
             ,
             so
             dear
             .
          
           
             Unbend
             thy
             Care
             a
             while
             ,
             and
             with
             Delight
          
           
             Hear
             what
             thy
             own
             Apollo
             did
             indite
          
           
             To
             Sanazarius
             on
             Sebethe's
             Shore
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             seems
             t'
             have
             blest
             the
             Mantuan
             Shepherd
             more
             .
          
           
             Indulge
             the
             Youth
             ,
             who
             from
             the
             Hills
             first
             brought
          
           
             The
             Muses
             down
             ,
             and
             Arts
             of
             Fishing
             taught
             ;
          
           
             Who
             made
             the
             briney
             spreading
             Coast
             his
             own
             ,
          
           
             And
             without
             Rival
             wears
             his
             Samphire
             Crown
             .
          
        
         
           
             Lycidas
             and
             Mycon
             .
          
           
             
               Lyc.
               
            
             
               AS
               late
               without
               the
               help
               of
               Sail
               or
               Oar
            
             
               I
               tided
               in
               my
               Fish-boat
               to
               the
               Shore
               ,
            
             
               Where
               shoals
               of
               Mullet
               with
               each
               Flood
               repair
               ,
            
             
               With
               doleful
               Cries
               the
               Ravens
               fill'd
               the
               Air
               ,
            
             
               The
               Seamews
               percht
               upon
               the
               Rocks
               complain'd
               ,
            
             
               The
               Dolphins
               from
               their
               wonted
               sport
               refrain'd
               ,
            
             
             
               The
               day
               drew
               on
               that
               for
               such
               Rites
               did
               crave
               ,
            
             
               In
               which
               we
               left
               dear
               Phillis
               in
               the
               Grave
               .
            
             
               The
               day
               that
               to
               cold
               Earth
               did
               Phillis
               give
               ,
            
             
               And
               (
               Wretches
               !
               )
               yet
               we
               yet
               endure
               to
               live
               .
            
             
               The
               Drudgery
               of
               Life
               we
               yet
               sustain
               ,
            
             
               
               Pylemon's
               self
               hopes
               yet
               to
               taste
               of
               Joy
               again
               .
            
          
           
             
               My.
               
            
             
               The
               same
               befell
               me
               coasting
               here
               along
               ,
            
             
               The
               Choughs
               joyn'd
               Notes
               as
               in
               a
               Funeral
               Song
               ;
            
             
               Even
               they
               her
               Obsequies
               would
               celebrate
               ,
            
             
               They
               sung
               her
               Praises
               and
               bewail'd
               her
               Fate
               .
            
          
           
             
               Lyc.
               
            
             
               Ah
               ,
               dearest
               Mycon
               !
               when
               that
               precious
               Breath
            
             
               Expir'd
               ,
               how
               lovely
               was
               the
               Pomp
               of
               Death
               !
            
             
               I
               saw
               ,
               and
               in
               my
               Fancy
               see
               her
               now
               ,
            
             
               Stretch'd
               on
               the
               Bier
               ,
               with
               Garlands
               on
               her
               brow
               ,
            
             
               What
               Hands
               !
               what
               faded
               Cheeks
               did
               I
               survey
               !
            
             
               Eyes
               clos'd
               in
               Night
               that
               were
               the
               life
               of
               Day
               :
            
             
               Yet
               Grief
               not
               dash'd
               these
               wretched
               Limbs
               the
               while
               ,
            
             
               Against
               the
               Rocks
               ,
               nor
               hurl'd
               me
               on
               her
               Pile
            
             
               To
               burn
               with
               her
               dear
               Reliques
               ,
               happy
               pain
               !
            
             
               Nor
               pitying
               Tritons
               plunge
               me
               in
               the
               Main
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Myc.
               
            
             
               Yet
               Lycidas
               ,
               this
               Lot
               we
               must
               prefer
            
             
               To
               that
               ignoble
               Fate
               that
               threatned
               her
               .
            
             
               The
               Grave
               to
               
               Zycot's
               smoaky
               Cell
               has
               charms
               ,
            
             
               And
               Deathless
               rugged
               than
               Amyntas
               Arms.
            
             
               Think
               ,
               Lycidas
               !
               how
               wou'd
               your
               Passion
               brook
               ,
            
             
               On
               some
               bleak
               Rock
               to
               see
               her
               cast
               the
               Hook
               :
            
             
               Or
               in
               some
               Tempest-beaten
               Cavern
               set
               ,
            
             
               Fitting
               new
               Corks
               .
               and
               darning
               the
               torn
               Net.
            
             
               No
               ,
               rather
               let
               your
               Muse
               adorn
               her
               Hearse
               :
            
             
               And
               now
               the
               Season
               claims
               your
               sacred
               Verse
               ,
            
             
               Repeat
               some
               charming
               strain
               ,
               (
               much
               heretofore
            
             
               Your
               Love
               inspir'd
               )
               and
               since
               ,
               your
               sorrow
               more
               .
            
             
               Here
               let
               us
               sit
               ,
               th●…se
               Sands
               are
               soft
               and
               dry
               ,
            
             
               And
               lo●…
               the
               Winds
               and
               Waves
               attentive
               lye
               .
            
          
           
             
               Lyc.
               
            
             
               What
               numbers
               I
               conceiv'd
               upon
               the
               view
            
             
               Of
               this
               fair
               Tomb
               (
               as
               last
               to
               shore
               I
               drew
               )
            
             
               I
               shall
               repeat
               ,
               while
               you
               with
               pious
               Care
            
             
               Bestow
               these
               Myrtles
               ,
               mix'd
               with
               Cypress
               there
               .
            
          
           
             
               My.
               
            
             
               Take
               dear
               Remains
               ,
               these
               Treasures
               of
               the
               deep
               ,
            
             
               Remov'd
               from
               Thetis
               Bed
               with
               thee
               to
               sleep
               ,
            
             
             
               Amber
               and
               Coral
               ,
               Pearls
               and
               Shells
               that
               vye
            
             
               In
               Colours
               with
               the
               Pageant
               of
               the
               Sky
               .
            
             
               Now
               for
               your
               Song
               :
               the
               Mornings
               work
               is
               o're
               ▪
            
             
               And
               
               Mylcon's
               come
               to
               dry
               his
               Nets
               on
               Shore
               .
            
          
           
             
               Lyc.
               
            
             
               Ye
               Goddesses
               that
               in
               these
               ●…loods
               reside
               ,
            
             
               What
               secret
               Cell
               will
               you
               for
               me
               provide
               ,
            
             
               Where
               I
               may
               grieve
               ,
               yet
               none
               behold
               my
               Grief
               ,
            
             
               What
               wilt
               thou
               ,
               Glaucus
               ,
               do
               for
               my
               Relief
               ,
            
             
               What
               Herbs
               wilt
               thou
               prescribe
               whose
               potent
               juice
            
             
               An
               equal
               Wonder
               may
               in
               me
               produce
               ?
            
             
               Amongst
               your
               s●…nny
               People
               I
               would
               rove
               ,
            
             
               And
               change
               my
               shape
               to
               loose
               my
               hopeless
               Love.
            
             
               What
               have
               I
               here
               to
               do
               by
               Phillis
               left
               ,
            
             
               Of
               past
               Delights
               ,
               and
               future
               Hopes
               〈◊〉
               ?
            
             
               What
               Charms
               can
               Earth
               produce
               ,
               what
               Reason
               give
               ,
            
             
               That
               this
               forlorn
               abandon'd
               Wretch
               should
               live
               ?
            
             
               Or
               can
               it
               e're
               account
               for
               half
               my
               Pain
               ,
            
             
               To
               stretch
               on
               Sedge
               ,
               and
               view
               the
               rowling
               Main
               ,
            
             
               Or
               breath
               my
               Griefs
               to
               this
               cold
               Tomb
               in
               vain
               ?
            
             
               Are
               these
               ,
               O
               Venus
               !
               these
               my
               waited
               Joys
               ,
            
             
               My
               Bride
               ,
               and
               promis'd
               Race
               of
               cheerful
               Boys
               ?
            
             
             
               What
               cruel
               Pow'r
               with
               Phillis
               did
               convey
               ,
            
             
               My
               Rest
               ,
               my
               Life
               ,
               and
               Hope
               ,
               Life's
               Life
               ,
               away
               ▪
            
             
               Now
               for
               expected
               Bliss
               ,
               without
               Relief
            
             
               Eternal
               Night
               succeeds
               ,
               eternal
               Grief
               .
            
             
               These
               Arms
               prepar'd
               her
               blooming
               youth
               to
               fold
               ,
            
             
               Till
               both
               by
               unperceiv'd
               Degrees
               grew
               old
               .
            
             
               For
               these
               Delights
               ,
               behold
               a
               marble
               frame
               ,
            
             
               For
               Phillis
               now
               is
               nothing
               but
               a
               Name
               !
            
             
               Ne're
               seen
               but
               when
               with
               overweening
               Brain
            
             
               I
               catch
               at
               her
               in
               Dreams
               ,
               and
               Wake
               to
               Pain
               .
            
             
               What
               Region
               dost
               thou
               bless
               ,
               what
               Land
               or
               Sea
               ,
            
             
               Where
               shall
               I
               take
               my
               Course
               in
               search
               of
               thee
               ?
            
             
               For
               thy
               dear
               sake
               the
               populous
               Town
               did
               please
               ,
            
             
               Now
               thou
               art
               gone
               Mankind
               is
               my
               Disease
               .
            
             
               The
               solitary
               Rocks
               and
               Desart
               Shore
            
             
               Are
               now
               my
               Joy
               ;
               and
               when
               the
               Billows
               roar
            
             
               When
               in
               their
               Sheds
               my
               Brother-Fishers
               sleep
               ,
            
             
               That
               time
               I
               chuse
               to
               launch
               into
               the
               deep
               .
            
             
               Farewel
               all
               Lands
               ,
               the
               tempting
               Syrges
               swell
               ,
            
             
               Ev'n
               thou
               that
               hold'st
               my
               Phillis
               Urn
               ,
               farewel
               :
            
             
               But
               first
               to
               raging
               Waves
               with
               pious
               Care
            
             
               I
               sacrifice
               my
               Phillis
               Tomb
               to
               spare
               .
            
             
             
               With
               Presents
               then
               the
               Monument
               I
               grace
            
             
               While
               dancing
               Sea-Nymphs
               consecrate
               the
               Place
               ,
            
             
               Gently
               ,
               ye
               Floods
               ,
               the
               sacred
               Shrine
               embrace
               .
            
             
               But
               thou
               ,
               whatever
               Seat
               thou
               dost
               possess
               ,
            
             
               Whether
               the
               starry
               Regions
               thou
               dost
               bless
               ,
            
             
               Or
               angle
               where
               Elisian
               Currents
               glide
               ,
            
             
               Or
               rob
               th'
               enamell'd
               Borders
               of
               their
               Pride
               ,
            
             
               For
               wreaths
               that
               thy
               more
               lovely
               Locks
               divide
               ,
            
             
               O!
               speed
               our
               Toils
               ,
               and
               condescend
               to
               be
            
             
               The
               Fisherman's
               propitious
               Deity
               .
            
             
               Calm
               Tides
               and
               ever
               plenteous
               Shoals
               allow
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               Venus
               shall
               be
               more
               ador'd
               than
               thou
               .
            
             
               Seven
               days
               with
               grateful
               Wine
               the
               Seas
               we
               'll
               dye
               ,
            
             
               Our
               Boats
               and
               Nets
               in
               sacred
               Ease
               laid
               by
               .
            
             
               Mean
               time
               ,
               this
               Verse
               I
               'll
               to
               thy
               Tomb
               impart
            
             
               Which
               from
               next
               Rocks
               some
               Brother
               of
               the
               Art
            
             
               (
               While
               there
               he
               shrouds
               his
               Tackle
               from
               the
               rain
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               sighing
               read
               ,
               yet
               read
               and
               sigh
               again
               .
            
          
           
             
               My.
               
            
             
               O
               Lycidas
               !
               how
               charming
               is
               thy
               strain
               !
            
             
               So
               Halcyons
               mourn
               ,
               and
               dying
               Swans
               complain
               ;
            
             
             
               So
               may
               thy
               flood-nets
               speed
               to
               thy
               desire
               ,
            
             
               And
               Sands
               yield
               Shell-fish
               when
               the
               Floods
               retire
               :
            
             
               But
               see
               the
               Sun
               shines
               yet
               with
               vig'rous
               Ray
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               your
               Song
               had
               stopt
               him
               on
               his
               way
               :
            
             
               I
               therefore
               beg
               you
               would
               repeat
               the
               strain
               ,
            
             
               Such
               Notes
               fresh
               Charms
               by
               Repetition
               gain
               :
            
          
           
             
               Lyc.
               
            
             
               No
               Mycon
               ,
               let
               my
               Grief
               have
               respite
               here
               ;
            
             
               Force
               not
               the
               wretched
               to
               repeat
               their
               Care.
            
             
               What
               now
               I
               sung
               was
               my
               own
               Tragedy
               ,
            
             
               And
               breathless
               Lungs
               no
               further
               Voice
               supply
               ;
            
             
               My
               Cheeks
               with
               Tears
               are
               wet
               ,
               my
               Tongue
               with
               Sighs
               is
               dry
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               Mycon
               ,
               these
               ,
               at
               some
               less
               solemn
               time
               ,
            
             
               I
               'll
               sing
               again
               ,
               and
               Numbers
               more
               sublime
               ,
            
             
               If
               Phillis
               for
               a
               Muse
               inspire
               my
               Rhyme
               .
            
             
               Till
               then
               her
               Monument
               these
               Lines
               shall
               wear
               ,
            
             
               Which
               as
               he
               coasts
               along
               ,
               the
               Mariner
            
             
               Shall
               read
               and
               say
               ,
               'T
               was
               Lycidas
               did
               frame
            
             
               These
               Distichs
               ,
               worthy
               of
               his
               Nymph
               and
               Flame
            
             
               For
               as
               his
               Phillis
               did
               all
               Nymphs
               excell
               ,
            
             
               None
               ever
               lov'd
               like
               him
               ,
               nor
               ever
               sung
               so
               well
               .
            
             
             
               But
               hark
               ,
               the
               Mates
               for
               your
               Assistance
               call
               ,
            
             
               Their
               loaded
               Net
               endangers
               Boat
               and
               all
               .
            
             
               Haste
               Mycon
               ,
               haste
               to
               their
               Relief
               ,
               while
               I
            
             
               By
               this
               dear
               Tomb
               as
               cold
               and
               silent
               lye
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               Flood
               ,
               yet
               all
               your
               Hooks
               are
               still
               to
               bait
               ,
            
             
               Your
               Weels
               all
               floating
               still
               for
               want
               of
               weight
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             second
             Eclogue
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             
               LYCON
               
            
             
               
                 ON
                 the
                 remotest
                 Angle
                 of
                 a
                 Rock
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 jetting
                 sides
                 the
                 foaming
                 Syrges
                 mock
                 ,
              
               
                 A
                 Precipice
                 with
                 Samphire
                 ever
                 green
                 ,
              
               
                 Whose
                 Root
                 at
                 lowest
                 Ebb
                 is
                 never
                 seen
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 Boat
                 ne're
                 pitch'd
                 ,
                 and
                 Net
                 was
                 never
                 thrown
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 poor
                 despairing
                 Lycon
                 sat
                 alone
                 :
              
               
                 And
                 while
                 his
                 Mates
                 with
                 treacherous
                 Lights
                 betray
              
               
                 The
                 wand'ring
                 Shoal
                 ,
                 and
                 drag
                 to
                 shore
                 their
                 prey
                 ,
              
               
               
                 He
                 meditates
                 all-night
                 upon
                 his
                 Grief
                 ,
              
               
                 While
                 neither
                 Shades
                 nor
                 Verse
                 afford
                 Relief
                 .
              
               
                 How
                 long
                 ,
                 O
                 Galatea
                 !
                 shall
                 I
                 lye
              
               
                 In
                 Pangs
                 of
                 Death
                 ,
                 without
                 the
                 pow'r
                 to
                 dye
                 ?
              
               
                 Presents
                 ,
                 with
                 thee
                 no
                 favour
                 will
                 obtain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Pray'rs
                 that
                 move
                 the
                 angry
                 Gods
                 ,
                 are
                 vain
                 .
              
               
                 Must
                 I
                 ,
                 unpitty'd
                 ,
                 on
                 bleak
                 Rocks
                 reside
                 ,
              
               
                 Out-sigh
                 the
                 Winds
                 ,
                 out-swell
                 with
                 Tears
                 the
                 Tide
                 ?
              
               
                 Behold
                 how
                 all-things
                 now
                 in
                 silence
                 sleep
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Whale
                 ,
                 with
                 all
                 his
                 Subjects
                 of
                 the
                 Deep
                 ;
              
               
                 The
                 Winds
                 ,
                 the
                 very
                 watch-lights
                 of
                 the
                 Sky
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 nothing
                 wakes
                 ,
                 but
                 my
                 Despair
                 and
                 I.
              
               
                 Despair
                 !
                 and
                 ,
                 alas
                 !
                 must
                 ever
                 wake
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 Galatea
                 will
                 no
                 pity
                 take
                 :
              
               
                 Yet
                 once
                 my
                 form
                 Praxinoc
                 did
                 move
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 
                 Polybeta's
                 Daughter
                 sought
                 my
                 Love
                 :
              
               
                 Ev'n
                 fair
                 
                 Aminta's
                 Wife
                 did
                 sigh
                 in
                 vain
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 fairest
                 Bride
                 that
                 ever
                 grac'd
                 a
                 Plain
                 .
              
               
                 Why
                 name
                 I
                 these
                 ?
                 the
                 very
                 Nymphs
                 o'
                 th'
                 Sea
              
               
                 Disdain
                 not
                 from
                 the
                 Deep
                 to
                 call
                 on
                 me
                 :
              
               
               
                 Fair
                 Hyale
                 her self
                 to
                 shore
                 repairs
              
               
                 To
                 bear
                 a
                 part
                 in
                 my
                 melodious
                 Airs
                 ;
              
               
                 Whose
                 Charms
                 in
                 shiv'ring
                 Tritons
                 breed
                 desire
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 midst
                 the
                 Waves
                 sets
                 
                 Neptune's
                 Breast
                 on
                 fire
                 .
              
               
                 But
                 what
                 avails
                 all
                 this
                 to
                 ease
                 my
                 Pain
                 ,
              
               
                 If
                 Galatea
                 still
                 unmov'd
                 remain
                 ?
              
               
                 If
                 she
                 alone
                 of
                 all
                 the
                 beauteous
                 Throng
                 ,
              
               
                 Refuse
                 my
                 Love
                 ,
                 and
                 only
                 scorns
                 my
                 Song
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 thousand
                 Oysters
                 of
                 the
                 pearly
                 sort
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 very
                 same
                 that
                 garnish
                 Thetis
                 Court
                 ,
              
               
                 I
                 sent
                 my
                 Nymph
                 ,
                 cull'd
                 out
                 from
                 all
                 my
                 store
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 for
                 to
                 morrow
                 have
                 a
                 thousand
                 more
                 .
              
               
                 Lobsters
                 and
                 Scollops
                 in
                 salt
                 Nooks
                 I
                 hide
                 ,
              
               
                 Where
                 they
                 are
                 wash'd
                 by
                 each
                 returning
                 Tide
                 :
              
               
                 These
                 by
                 no
                 mastick
                 Tree
                 are
                 drop'd
                 upon
                 ,
              
               
                 Nor
                 feel
                 the
                 Influence
                 of
                 the
                 waining
                 Moon
                 .
              
               
                 Nay
                 ,
                 I
                 can
                 dive
                 for
                 Tyrian
                 Fish
                 ,
                 —
                 And
                 so
              
               
                 You
                 'll
                 say
                 my
                 Brother
                 Fishermen
                 can
                 do
                 :
              
               
                 But
                 I
                 have
                 learn'd
                 the
                 subtle
                 Mystery
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Shells
                 to
                 supple
                 ,
                 and
                 extract
                 the
                 Dye
                 .
              
               
                 A
                 Tod
                 of
                 finest
                 Wool
                 I
                 have
                 at
                 home
                 ,
              
               
                 More
                 soft
                 and
                 white
                 than
                 any
                 Billows
                 Foam
                 :
              
               
               
                 Which
                 once
                 a
                 Shepherd
                 tending
                 of
                 his
                 Flock
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 ravish'd
                 with
                 my
                 Musick
                 from
                 the
                 Rock
                 ,
              
               
                 With
                 noble
                 Commendation
                 did
                 impart
                 ;
              
               
                 On
                 this
                 I
                 mean
                 to
                 exercise
                 my
                 Art.
              
               
                 Yet
                 nothing
                 is
                 by
                 Galatea
                 priz'd
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Gifts
                 ,
                 my
                 Love
                 ,
                 my
                 Muse
                 ,
                 are
                 all
                 despis'd
                 .
              
               
                 Fond
                 Passion
                 go
                 ,
                 some
                 other
                 Youth
                 inspire
                 ,
              
               
                 For
                 
                 Lycon's
                 Fate
                 prevails
                 above
                 your
                 Fire
                 .
              
               
                 Perhaps
                 my
                 Love
                 presumptuous
                 did
                 appear
              
               
                 Because
                 the
                 Boat
                 is
                 little
                 which
                 I
                 steer
                 ,
              
               
                 'Cause
                 to
                 the
                 Drag
                 and
                 Spear
                 I
                 put
                 my
                 hand
                 ,
              
               
                 Bring
                 weight
                 to
                 th'
                 Weels
                 ,
                 and
                 help
                 the
                 Net
                 to
                 Land.
              
               
                 What
                 else
                 at
                 first
                 was
                 Father
                 Glaucus
                 Trade
                 ?
              
               
                 Who
                 now
                 a
                 watry
                 Deity
                 is
                 made
                 .
              
               
                 What
                 shall
                 I
                 do
                 ?
                 my
                 thoughts
                 have
                 long
                 enclin'd
              
               
                 To
                 cross
                 the
                 Ocean
                 ,
                 and
                 out-sail
                 the
                 Wind
                 :
              
               
                 To
                 ransack
                 Seas
                 unknown
                 to
                 Sailers
                 yet
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 where
                 no
                 Fisher
                 ever
                 drop'd
                 a
                 Net.
              
               
                 Beneath
                 the
                 Bear
                 ,
                 where
                 Seas
                 to
                 Rock
                 combine
                 ,
              
               
                 Or
                 where
                 the
                 Ocean
                 burns
                 beneath
                 the
                 Line
                 ;
              
               
               
                 Where
                 Spring
                 it self
                 is
                 Russet
                 ,
                 Beauty
                 Black
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 Skins
                 of
                 Beasts
                 made
                 Parchment
                 on
                 their
                 Back
                 :
              
               
                 The
                 Sun
                 (
                 would
                 you
                 believe
                 ?
                 )
                 just
                 o're
                 your
                 head
                 ,
              
               
                 Is
                 more
                 in
                 compass
                 than
                 a
                 Net
                 can
                 spread
                 .
              
               
                 I
                 rave
                 ,
                 I
                 rave
                 ,
                 and
                 slatter
                 my
                 Despair
                 ,
              
               
                 No
                 Region
                 can
                 relieve
                 a
                 Lovers
                 Care
                 :
              
               
                 Mix'd
                 with
                 the
                 Blood
                 th'
                 incurable
                 desire
                 ,
              
               
                 ●…ursties
                 th'
                 infected
                 Wretch
                 ,
                 through
                 Floods
                 and
                 Fire
                 .
              
               
                 From
                 drenching
                 Rain
                 to
                 season'd
                 Sheds
                 we
                 run
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 dewy
                 Grotto's
                 from
                 the
                 scorching
                 Sun
                 ,
              
               
                 Safe
                 under
                 Creeks
                 we
                 lye
                 when
                 Tempests
                 rave
                 ,
              
               
                 From
                 Love
                 there
                 is
                 no
                 shelter
                 but
                 the
                 Grave
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Then
                 Lycon
                 take
                 Advantage
                 of
                 this
                 Steep
                 ,
              
               
                 To
                 plunge
                 thy self
                 and
                 Griess
                 into
                 the
                 Deep
                 .
              
               
                 ●…is
                 now
                 resolv'd
                 :
                 you
                 Nymphs
                 that
                 know
                 my
                 Grief
                 ,
              
               
                 Ye
                 Sea-born
                 Nymphs
                 afford
                 your
                 last
                 relief
                 ;
              
               
                 O
                 savour
                 what
                 you
                 can
                 my
                 desperate
                 Fall
                 ,
              
               
                 Your
                 gentlest
                 Waves
                 to
                 my
                 Assistance
                 call
                 ,
              
               
                 On
                 your
                 soft
                 Bosoms
                 let
                 me
                 yield
                 this
                 Breath
                 ,
              
               
                 My
                 Life
                 was
                 painful
                 ,
                 give
                 me
                 gentle
                 Death
                 .
              
               
               
                 In
                 times
                 to
                 come
                 ,
                 my
                 dying
                 Thought
                 forebode
                 :
              
               
                 Whatever
                 Ship
                 shall
                 chance
                 to
                 pass
                 this
                 Road
                 ,
              
               
                 The
                 Master
                 ,
                 when
                 this
                 Point
                 he
                 shall
                 discern
                 ,
              
               
                 Shall
                 hoarsly
                 cry
                 ,
                 
                   Luff
                   ,
                   Lu●…
                
                 ,
                 Mate
                 turn
                 the
                 Stern
                 .
              
               
                 Steer
                 any
                 Course
                 ,
                 make
                 any
                 Port
                 beside
                 ,
              
               
                 But
                 shun
                 the
                 Coast
                 where
                 wretched
                 Lycon
                 dy'd
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Thus
                 did
                 the
                 Fisherman
                 all
                 night
                 complain
                 ,
              
               
                 And
                 scarce
                 had
                 told
                 the
                 Floods
                 &
                 Rocks
                 his
                 pain
                 ,
              
               
                 When
                 rosie
                 Morning
                 ,
                 like
                 a
                 rising
                 Bride
              
               
                 Beheld
                 her
                 Blushes
                 in
                 the
                 glass-green
                 Tide
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             third
             Eclogue
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             
               Celadon
               and
               Mopsus
               .
            
             
               FOr
               seven
               continu'd
               days
               the
               Winds
               were
               high
               ,
            
             
               So
               Aegon
               tells
               ,
               nor
               is
               he
               us'd
               to
               lye
               ,
            
             
               While
               you
               with
               Chromis
               and
               Iolas
               lay
            
             
               Confin'd
               to
               th'
               Rocks
               :
               then
               gentle
               Mopsus
               ,
               say
               ,
            
             
               How
               there
               you
               past
               the
               vacant
               hours
               .
            
             
             
               I
               know
               you
               were
               not
               unemploy'd
               so
               long
               ;
            
             
               Then
               tell
               me
               ,
               Mopsus
               ,
               what
               was
               play'd
               and
               sung
               .
            
          
           
             
               Mopsus
               .
            
             
               O
               Celadon
               !
               the
               Muses
               watch'd
               their
               Time
               ,
            
             
               And
               forc'd
               us
               ,
               in
               our
               own
               defence
               ,
               to
               Rhyme
               .
            
             
               In
               vain
               we
               saw
               the
               Cray-fish
               creep
               below
               ,
            
             
               And
               Samphire
               o're
               our
               Heads
               securely
               grow
               ;
            
             
               For
               who
               could
               then
               the
               boist'rous
               Tide
               sustain
               ,
            
             
               Or
               on
               the
               Rocks
               in
               such
               rough
               Winds
               remain
               .
            
             
               Our
               very
               Boats
               lay
               hous'd
               as
               well
               as
               we
               ,
            
             
               And
               on
               our
               Sculls
               and
               Ripp-hooks
               you
               might
               see
            
             
               Our
               Drag-nets
               hang
               ,
               Weels
               ,
               Lines
               ,
               confus'dly
               laid
            
             
               Corks
               ,
               Plummets
               ,
               Grapples
               ,
               all
               the
               Fishers
               trade
               .
            
             
               Chromis
               at
               last
               that
               jetting
               Point
               survey'd
               ,
            
             
               Where
               broken
               Tides
               a
               foaming
               Eddy
               made
               :
            
             
               From
               thence
               (
               O
               cruel
               Banishment
               !
               )
               said
               he
               ,
            
             
               Our
               noblest
               Youth
               ,
               and
               Flow'r
               of
               Italy
               ,
            
             
               Sail'd
               with
               their
               royal
               Chief
               through
               Seas
               unknown
               .
            
             
               And
               landed
               on
               the
               Borders
               of
               the
               Rhone
               .
            
             
             
               Amylcon
               ,
               I
               remember
               ,
               term'd
               it
               so
               ,
            
             
               And
               saw
               the
               boundless
               Ocean
               ebb
               and
               flow
               .
            
             
               From
               whence
               the
               British
               Mountains
               you
               might
               spy
               ,
            
             
               Though
               scarce
               to
               be
               distinguish'd
               from
               the
               Sky
               .
            
             
               Upon
               this
               wondrous
               Beach
               (
               if
               Fame
               speaks
               true
               )
            
             
               The
               Fishers
               use
               no
               Netting
               ,
               as
               we
               do
               ;
            
             
               But
               at
               low
               Water
               ,
               ready
               to
               their
               hand
               ,
            
             
               Find
               Fish
               left
               flouncing
               on
               the
               naked
               Sand
               :
            
             
               Enough
               ,
               enough
               ,
               Iolas
               then
               replies
               ,
            
             
               Call
               not
               the
               Tears
               a-fresh
               into
               our
               Eyes
               .
            
             
               Poor
               Lycidas
               all
               this
               sad
               Tale
               ,
               and
               more
               ,
            
             
               At
               large
               repeated
               on
               the
               Lucrine
               shore
               .
            
             
               The
               Sun
               ,
               whom
               we
               upon
               the
               longest
               Day
            
             
               Suppose
               to
               set
               behind
               
               Cajeta's
               Bay
               ,
            
             
               He
               there
               saw
               trav'ling
               on
               beyond
               the
               Main
               ,
            
             
               And
               swears
               he
               thought
               he
               ne're
               could
               be
               o'retane
               .
            
             
               Then
               barb'rous
               names
               of
               yet
               more
               barb'rous
               men
               ,
            
             
               He
               sung
               ,
               too
               hard
               for
               me
               to
               speak
               again
               .
            
             
               Nor
               are
               my
               present
               Thoughts
               enclin'd
               to
               roam
               ,
            
             
               Possest
               with
               other
               Cares
               ,
               and
               nearer
               home
               .
            
             
             
               If
               therefore
               ,
               Chromis
               ,
               you
               have
               ought
               that
               's
               new
               ,
            
             
               Since
               Nisa
               tortures
               me
               ,
               and
               Chloris
               you
               ,
            
             
               Let
               's
               sing
               ,
               and
               while
               we
               mutually
               complain
            
             
               Mopsus
               ,
               your
               Pipe
               shall
               heighten
               either
               strain
               .
            
             
               Upon
               my
               Neck
               the
               reedy
               Pipe
               was
               hung
               ,
            
             
               Then
               Chromis
               thus
               ,
               and
               thus
               Iolas
               sung
               .
            
          
           
             
               Chromis
               .
            
             
               Bring
               me
               the
               richest
               Presents
               of
               the
               Seas
               ,
            
             
               Ye
               gentle
               Nymphs
               ,
               my
               Chloris
               to
               appease
               :
            
             
               If
               still
               she
               's
               coy
               ,
               search
               ,
               search
               through
               all
               the
               Main
               ,
            
             
               For
               Earth
               has
               none
               ,
               a
               Medicine
               for
               my
               Pain
               .
            
          
           
             
               Iolas
               .
            
             
               You
               cannot
               ,
               sure
               ,
               my
               last
               Request
               deny
               ,
            
             
               Let
               Nisa
               now
               relent
               ,
               or
               see
               me
               dye
               .
            
             
               These
               Rocks
               I
               for
               a
               Monument
               shall
               have
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               the
               Ooze
               of
               their
               deep
               Roots
               a
               Grave
               .
            
          
           
             
               Chromis
               .
            
             
               As
               you
               have
               seen
               a
               Summer
               Pinnace
               glide
            
             
               In
               all
               her
               trim
               ,
               and
               smoothly
               cut
               the
               Tide
               ,
            
             
             
               Whose
               jocund
               Youth
               above
               the
               Decks
               appear
               ,
            
             
               So
               past
               my
               Life
               while
               Chloris
               held
               me
               dear
               .
            
          
           
             
               Iolas
               .
            
             
               Hark
               ,
               hark
               ,
               what
               dreadful
               Thunder
               rends
               the
               skies
               !
            
             
               See
               how
               the
               foaming
               Billows
               fall
               and
               rise
               :
            
             
               The
               Earth
               is
               shook
               ,
               the
               rocky
               Coast
               divides
               ,
            
             
               You
               'd
               swear
               't
               were
               now
               a
               storm
               .
               'T
               is
               Nisa
               chides
               .
            
          
           
             
               Chromis
               .
            
             
               O
               
                 Proteus
                 ,
                 Proteus
              
               !
               Shepherd
               of
               the
               Tide
               ,
            
             
               Now
               prove
               thy self
               a
               God
               ,
               and
               scourge
               this
               Pride
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               Monsters
               lead
               to
               Chloris
               pearly
               Bed
               ,
            
             
               And
               say
               ,
               All
               these
               with
               scornful
               Nymphs
               are
               fed
               .
            
          
           
             
               Iolas
               .
            
             
               Beneath
               you
               sea-mark
               is
               my
               Nymphs
               Retreat
               ,
            
             
               Dive
               Glaucus
               ,
               bring
               her
               from
               her
               Coral-seat
               ;
            
             
               And
               least
               she
               should
               refuse
               ,
               good
               Glaucus
               say
               ,
            
             
               Your
               Nets
               have
               brought
               to
               shore
               a
               noble
               Prey
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Chromis
               .
            
             
               Cypress
               is
               Venus
               Joy
               ,
               Iove's
               Island
               Crete
               ,
            
             
               Fair
               Samos
               Iuno
               's
               ,
               Lemnos
               Vulcan
               
                 's
                 seat
              
               .
            
             
               Here
               Hyale
               
                 resides
                 ,
                 let
                 her
                 appear
              
               ,
            
             
               Crete
               ,
               Cyprus
               ,
               Samos
               ,
               Lemnos
               ,
               
                 all
                 are
                 here
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               Iolas
               .
            
             
               Hymetton
               with
               
               Minerva's
               Choice
               is
               crown'd
               ,
            
             
               Phaebe
               no
               place
               like
               fair
               Ortygia
               found
               :
            
             
               Of
               
               Nisa's
               Cell
               did
               they
               the
               Pleasures
               see
               ,
            
             
               Phaebe
               and
               Pallas
               wou'd
               her
               Rivals
               be
               .
            
          
           
             
               Chromis
               .
            
             
               These
               very
               Rocks
               yield
               Harvest
               ,
               Osiers
               grow
            
             
               For
               Weels
               above
               ,
               for
               Panniers
               ,
               Reeds
               below
               .
            
             
               O
               were
               but
               Hyale
               or
               Chloris
               by
               ,
            
             
               How
               cou'd
               I
               there
               these
               wrangling
               Winds
               defie
               !
            
          
           
             
               Iolas
               .
            
             
               Nor
               Sea
               nor
               Shore
               without
               my
               Nymph
               I
               prize
               ,
            
             
               I
               hate
               my
               Nets
               ,
               and
               all
               my
               Art
               despise
               :
            
             
             
               Yet
               let
               my
               Nisa
               smile
               ,
               I
               bless
               my
               Fate
               ,
            
             
               And
               would
               not
               quit
               my
               Boat
               to
               rule
               a
               State.
               
            
          
           
             
               Chromis
               .
            
             
               Let
               Sinuessa
               larger
               Turbat
               boast
               ,
            
             
               And
               Shoals
               of
               Mullet
               the
               Herculean
               Coast
               ,
            
             
               Parthenope
               of
               beauteous
               Nymphs
               has
               store
               ,
            
             
               Fix
               there
               my
               Boat
               ,
               I
               'll
               seek
               no
               other
               shore
               .
            
          
           
             
               Iolas
               .
            
             
               The
               Sarge
               seeks
               streams
               ,
               to
               Rocks
               the
               Gramples
               creep
               .
            
             
               Rhans
               lye
               in
               Shallows
               ,
               Sturgeons
               in
               the
               Deep
               .
            
             
               All
               day
               and
               night
               I
               sigh
               by
               
               Nisa's
               Court
               ;
            
             
               Fix
               here
               my
               Boat
               ,
               I
               'll
               seek
               no
               other
               Port.
               
            
          
           
             
               Mopsus
               .
            
             
               These
               Notes
               beneath
               the
               Rock
               they
               did
               perform
               ,
            
             
               With
               Musick
               sweet
               enough
               to
               cease
               a
               Storm
               ;
            
             
               And
               as
               they
               reach'd
               each
               other
               in
               their
               Lays
               ,
            
             
               I
               gave
               them
               equal
               Gifts
               ,
               and
               equal
               Praise
               .
            
             
               To
               one
               the
               shell
               where
               
               Tyre's
               rich
               Tincture
               lies
               ;
            
             
               A
               Branch
               of
               Coral
               was
               the
               other's
               Prize
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             PROTEUS
             .
             ●…logiue
             the
             fourth
             .
          
           
             Inscribed
             to
             ●…erdinand
             of
             Arragon
             ,
             Duke
             of
             Calabria
             ,
             Son
             of
             Frederick
             King
             of
             Naples
             .
          
           
             By
             
               W.
               Bowls
            
             ,
             Fellow
             of
             Kings-Coll
             .
             Cambridge
             .
          
           
             
               NOw
               first
               with
               bolder
               sails
               I
               tempt
               the
               Main
               ,
            
             
               Parthenope
               deserves
               a
               loftier
               strain
               ;
            
             
               To
               fair
               Parthenope
               ,
               O
               Nymphs
               ,
               we
               must
               ,
            
             
               And
               our
               dear
               Country's
               Honour
               ,
               now
               be
               just
               .
            
             
               O
               then
               ye
               Nymphs
               ,
               who
               in
               these
               Floods
               delight
               ,
            
             
               Indulge
               one
               Labour
               ,
               and
               direct
               my
               slight
               .
            
          
           
             
               But
               Thou
               ,
               great
               hope
               of
               thy
               illustrious
               Line
               .
            
             
               Thy
               Country's
               Pride
               sprung
               from
               a
               Race
               divine
            
             
               '
               Whether
               o're
               Pyrenaean
               Frosts
               thou
               go
               ,
            
             
               And
               Mountains
               cover'd
               with
               eternal
               snow
               ,
            
             
             
               And
               the
               wild
               Tempests
               of
               the
               warring
               sky
            
             
               Prefer
               to
               the
               best
               Plains
               of
               Italy
               ;
            
             
               Or
               envious
               Iber
               does
               our
               hopes
               oppose
               ,
            
             
               Return
               ,
               and
               happy
               make
               thy
               Peoples
               Vows
               :
            
             
               Tho
               Arragon
               thy
               Arragon
               with-hold
               ,
            
             
               And
               Tagus
               rowling
               o're
               a
               Bed
               of
               Gold
            
             
               With
               all
               his
               liquid
               Wealth
               would
               buy
               thy
               stay
               ,
            
             
               Return
               ,
               and
               our
               wish'd
               Happiness
               no
               more
               delay
               !
            
             
               For
               ,
               if
               the
               God
               that
               fills
               my
               Breast
               foreknow
               ,
            
             
               Parthenope
               shall
               to
               thy
               Scepter
               bow
               ,
            
             
               Parthenope
               ,
               usurp'd
               by
               foreign
               sway
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               with
               new
               joy
               her
               rightful
               Prince
               obey
               .
            
             
               Oh!
               may
               swift
               time
               the
               happy
               Period
               bring
               ,
            
             
               And
               I
               loud
               Paeans
               to
               thy
               Triumph
               sing
               !
            
             
               Mean
               while
               a
               lower
               Muse
               indulgent
               view
               ,
            
             
               Which
               I
               the
               first
               with
               bold
               design
               ,
               and
               new
               ,
            
             
               Leaving
               th'
               Arcadian
               Fields
               ,
               and
               vocal
               Plain
               ,
            
             
               In
               triumph
               bring
               down
               to
               thy
               subject
               Main
               ;
            
             
               And
               on
               the
               neighb'ring
               Rocks
               and
               sounding
               shore
               ,
            
             
               A
               newer
               Scene
               present
               ,
               and
               untry'd
               Seas
               explore
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               What
               Port
               ,
               what
               Sea
               ,
               so
               distant
               can
               be
               found
            
             
               Which
               Proteus
               has
               not
               blest
               with
               heavenly
               sound
               ?
            
             
               Him
               Prasid●…mus
               ,
               and
               Melanthius
               knew
               ,
            
             
               For
               all
               the
               God
               appear'd
               to
               mortal
               view
               ;
            
             
               On
               great
               
               Minerva's
               Rock
               the
               God
               appear'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               charm'd
               with
               Verse
               divine
               his
               monstrous
               Herd
               .
            
             
               While
               Phoebus
               sunk
               with
               the
               declining
               day
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               around
               delighted
               Dolphins
               play
               .
            
             
               For
               lo
               !
               he
               sung
               —
               —
            
             
               How
               Earth's
               bold
               Sons
               ,
               by
               wild
               Ambition
               fir'd
               ,
            
             
               Defy'd
               the
               Gods
               ,
               and
               to
               Celestial
               Thrones
               aspir'd
               .
            
             
               Typhaeus
               first
               with
               lifted
               Mountains
               arm'd
               ,
            
             
               Led
               on
               the
               furious
               Van
               ,
               &
               Heaven
               it self
               alarm'd
               .
            
             
               How
               Prochyte
               among
               the
               Stars
               he
               threw
               ,
            
             
               And
               from
               their
               Bases
               torn
               huge
               Islands
               flew
               ,
            
             
               And
               shook
               th'
               Aetherial
               Orbs
               :
               the
               Pow'rs
               above
            
             
               Then
               first
               knew
               fear
               ;
               not
               so
               Almighty
               Iove
               :
            
             
               He
               with
               red
               Light'ning
               arm'd
               ,
               and
               winged
               Fire
               ,
            
             
               Replung'd
               the
               Rebels
               in
               their
               native
               Mire
               .
            
             
               All
               Nature
               with
               the
               dreadful
               Rout
               resounds
               ,
            
             
               They
               fled
               ,
               and
               bath'd
               in
               Baian
               springs
               their
               burning
               Wounds
               .
            
             
             
               On
               the
               scorch'd
               Earth
               the
               Foot-steps
               still
               remain
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               sulphurous
               Springs
               a
               fiery
               taste
               retain
               .
            
          
           
             
               He
               sung
               Alcides
               ,
               and
               his
               noble
               Toil
               ,
            
             
               His
               glorious
               Triumph
               ,
               and
               his
               wondrous
               a
               Pile
               ,
            
             
               Which
               does
               the
               Fury
               of
               the
               Waves
               sustain
               ,
            
             
               Confine
               the
               Lucrine
               ,
               and
               repell
               the
               Main
               .
            
             
               Next
               the
               Cumaean
               Cave
               ,
               and
               Grove
               relates
               ,
            
             
               Where
               anxious
               Mortals
               throng'd
               to
               learn
               their
               Fates
               :
            
             
               The
               raving
               b
               Virgin
               ,
               and
               her
               fatal
               Page
               ,
            
             
               Her
               more
               than
               mortal
               Sounds
               ,
               and
               sacred
               rage
               ,
            
             
               And
               that
               sad
               Vale
               ,
               unvisited
               by
               day
               ,
            
             
               Where
               bury'd
               in
               eternal
               night
               c
               Cimmerians
               lay
               .
            
             
               But
               thee
               ,
               d
               Pausilypus
               ,
               he
               gently
               blames
               ,
            
             
               And
               sweetly
               mourns
               thy
               inauspicious
               flames
               ,
            
             
               Concern'd
               for
               lovely
               Nesis
               ,
               Ah
               too
               late
               !
            
             
               Oh
               stay
               rash
               man
               !
               Why
               do'st
               thou
               urge
               her
               fate
               ?
            
             
               She
               ,
               wretched
               Maid
               ,
               thy
               loath'd
               embrace
               to
               shun
               ,
            
             
               Does
               to
               steep
               Rocks
               and
               Waves
               less
               cruel
               run
               ;
            
             
               Not
               the
               dire
               Prospect
               can
               retard
               her
               flight
               ,
            
             
               Or
               gaping
               Monsters
               from
               beneath
               affright
               .
            
             
             
               Oh
               stay
               !
               and
               reach
               no
               more
               with
               greedy
               hands
               ,
            
             
               See!
               to
               a
               Rock
               transform'd
               thy
               Nesis
               stands
               .
            
             
               She
               who
               so
               swift
               with
               the
               first
               dawn
               of
               day
               ,
            
             
               ●…ng'd
               o're
               the
               Woods
               ,
               &
               chas'd
               the
               flying
               Prey
               ,
            
             
               See!
               her
               wing'd
               〈◊〉
               th●…
               wonted
               speed
               refuse
               ,
            
             
               And
               her
               sti●…
               Joynts
               their
               nimble
               motion
               loose
               .
            
             
               O
               〈◊〉
               ,
               and
               all
               the
               Nymphs
               below
               ,
            
             
               To
               so
               much
               Beauty
               just
               Compassion
               show
               !
            
             
               If
               pity
               can
               a●…ect
               your
               happy
               state
               ,
            
             
               O
               visit
               Nesis
               ,
               and
               lament
               her
               Fate
               !
            
          
           
             
               He
               sung
               how
               once
               the
               beauteous
               *
               Syren
               sway'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               mighty
               Kingdoms
               the
               fair
               Nymph
               obey'd
               ;
            
             
               Describes
               the
               lofty
               Tomb
               ,
               which
               all
               adore
               :
            
             
               Then
               tells
               how
               loosing
               from
               their
               native
               Shore
               ,
            
             
               By
               all
               the
               Gods
               conducted
               ,
               and
               their
               Fate
               ,
            
             
               ‖
               Eub●…ans
               sounded
               that
               auspicious
               State.
               
            
             
               Then
               sung
               th●…
               rising
               Walls
               and
               Tow'rs
               ,
               whose
               height
            
             
               Is
               lost
               in
               Clouds
               ,
               and
               tir●…s
               the
               fainting
               sight
               .
            
             
               What
               mighty
               Piles
               from
               the
               capacious
               Bay
               ,
            
             
               And
               hidden
               Pipes
               th'
               obedient
               Springs
               convey
               :
            
             
             
               And
               that
               proud
               Pharos
               ,
               whose
               auspicious
               light
            
             
               Informs
               glad
               Sailers
               ,
               and
               directs
               their
               sight
               .
            
             
               And
               how
               beneath
               the
               gentle
               
               Sarno
               ●…lows
               ,
            
             
               In
               Verse
               as
               smooth
               as
               that
               ,
               and
               high
               as
               those
               .
            
             
               He
               ●…old
               ,
               and
               swee●…ly
               rais'd
               his
               Voice
               divine
               ,
            
             
               How
               a
               Me●…saeus
               ,
               lov'd
               by
               all
               the
               Nine
               ,
            
             
               Immortal
               Virgil
               saw
               ;
               the
               God-like
               Shade
            
             
               Bequeath'd
               that
               Pipe
               ,
               which
               so
               divinely
               play'd
               .
            
             
               〈◊〉
               flying
               from
               her
               Lovers
               Arms
               ,
            
             
               And
               〈◊〉
               Fate
               ,
               and
               young
               Alexis
               Charms
               .
            
             
               ●…ed
               by
               the
               Muse
               b
               ,
               he
               mounts
               the
               starry
               Skies
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               the
               shining
               Orbs
               above
               deseries
               .
            
             
               Why
               should
               I
               speak
               of
               Syrens
               ,
               or
               relate
            
             
               Their
               〈◊〉
               Songs
               ,
               and
               the
               pleas'd
               Sailer's
               Fate
               ?
            
             
               Or
               ,
               how
               in
               mournful
               Strains
               he
               did
               r●…count
               ,
            
             
               The
               dir●…
               Eruptions
               of
               the
               burning
               c
               Mount
               ,
            
             
               When
               with
               swift
               ruine
               ,
               and
               a
               dreadful
               Sound
               ,
            
             
               Vast
               Floods
               of
               liquid
               Fire
               o'rewhelm'd
               the
               Country
               round
               .
            
             
               ●…ast
               Battels
               and
               their
               various
               chance
               ,
               he
               sings
            
             
               The
               great
               Events
               of
               War
               ,
               and
               Fate
               of
               Kings
               ;
            
             
             
               And
               thee
               ,
               a
               whom
               Italy
               bewails
               ,
               the
               best
               ,
            
             
               By
               Fortunes
               Rage
               ,
               and
               angry
               Gods
               opprest
               ,
            
             
               Strip'd
               of
               thy
               Kingdoms
               ,
               and
               compell'd
               to
               fly
               ,
            
             
               And
               on
               uncertain
               hopes
               and
               Gallick
               Faith
               relye
               .
            
             
               Oh
               Treachery
               of
               humane
               Power
               !
               forlorn
               ,
            
             
               And
               last
               by
               Death
               condemn'd
               to
               a
               precariousUrn
               .
            
          
           
             
               How
               vain
               is
               Man
               !
               and
               in
               what
               depth
               of
               night
            
             
               The
               dark
               Decrees
               of
               Fate
               are
               hid
               from
               mortal
               sight
               !
            
             
               Could'st
               thou
               ,
               who
               potent
               Kingdoms
               did'st
               command
               ,
            
             
               Not
               find
               a
               Tomb
               but
               in
               a
               foreign
               Land
               !
            
             
               Yet
               mourn
               not
               ,
               happy
               Shade
               ,
               thy
               cruel
               Fate
               ;
            
             
               The
               loss
               is
               light
               of
               that
               superfluous
               State.
            
             
               Nature
               provides
               for
               all
               a
               common
               Grave
               ,
            
             
               The
               last
               Retreat
               of
               the
               distress'd
               and
               brave
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thus
               he
            
             
               From
               the
               first
               Ages
               and
               Heroick
               Times
            
             
               Deduc'd
               in
               order
               his
               mysterious
               Rhymes
               .
            
             
               Charm'd
               by
               his
               Song
               ,
               the
               Billows
               ceas'd
               to
               roar
               ,
            
             
               And
               loud
               applause
               rung
               through
               the
               silent
               shore
               :
            
             
               Till
               the
               pale
               Moon
               advanc'd
               her
               beauteous
               Head
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               the
               Gods
               sunk
               to
               their
               watry
               Bed.
               
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Ode
             for
             an
             Anniversary
             of
             Musick
             on
             St.
             Cecilia's
             Day
             .
          
           
             By
             Mr.
             Oldham
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               BEgin
               the
               Song
               ,
               your
               Instruments
               advance
               ,
            
             
               Tune
               the
               Voice
               and
               tune
               the
               Flute
               ,
            
             
               Touch
               the
               silent
               sleeping
               Lute
               ,
            
             
               And
               make
               the
               Strings
               to
               their
               own
               Measures
               dance
               ;
            
             
               Bring
               gentlest
               Thoughts
               that
               into
               Language
               glide
               ,
            
             
               Bring
               softest
               Words
               that
               into
               numbers
               slide
               ,
            
             
               Let
               ev'ry
               hand
               and
               ev'ry
               Tongue
            
             
               To
               make
               the
               noble
               Consort
               throng
               ,
            
             
               Let
               all
               in
               one
               harmonious
               Note
               agree
            
             
               To
               frame
               the
               mighty
               Song
               ;
            
             
               For
               this
               is
               Musick
               's
               sacred
               Iubilee
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Hark
               how
               the
               waken'd
               strings
               resound
               ,
            
             
               And
               break
               the
               yielding
               Air
               !
            
             
               The
               ravish'd
               sense
               how
               pleasingly
               they
               wound
               ,
            
             
               And
               call
               the
               list'ning
               Soul
               into
               the
               Ear.
            
             
               Each
               Pulse
               beats
               Time
               ,
               and
               ev'ry
               Heart
            
             
               With
               Tongue
               and
               Fingers
               bears
               a
               part
               .
            
             
               By
               Harmony
               's
               entrancing
               Pow'r
            
             
               When
               we
               are
               thus
               wound
               up
               to
               Extasie
               ,
            
             
               Methinks
               we
               mount
               ,
               methinks
               we
               tow'r
               ,
            
             
               And
               seem
               to
               antidate
               our
               future
               Bliss
               on
               high
               .
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               How
               dull
               were
               Life
               ,
               how
               hardly
               worth
               our
               care
               ,
            
             
               But
               for
               the
               Charms
               that
               Musick
               lends
               !
            
             
               How
               faint
               its
               Pleasures
               would
               appear
            
             
               But
               for
               the
               Pleasure
               which
               our
               Art
               attends
               !
            
             
               Without
               the
               sweets
               of
               Melody
            
             
               To
               tune
               our
               vital
               Breath
               ,
            
             
               Who
               would
               not
               give
               it
               up
               to
               Death
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               the
               silent
               Grave
               contented
               lye
               ?
            
          
           
             
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               Musick
               's
               the
               Cordial
               of
               a
               troubled
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               The
               softest
               Remedy
               that
               Grief
               can
               find
               ,
            
             
               The
               gentle
               Spell
               that
               charms
               our
               Care
               to
               Rest
               ,
            
             
               And
               calms
               the
               ru●…led
               Passions
               of
               our
               Mind
               .
            
             
               Musick
               does
               all
               our
               Joys
               refine
               ,
            
             
               It
               gives
               the
               relish
               to
               our
               Wine
               ;
            
             
               'T
               is
               that
               gives
               Rapture
               to
               our
               Love
               ,
            
             
               And
               wings
               Devotion
               to
               a
               pitch
               divine
               ;
            
             
               'T
               is
               our
               chief
               Bliss
               on
               Earth
               ,
               and
               half
               our
               Heav'n
               above
               .
            
          
           
             
               Chorus
               .
            
             
               Come
               then
               with
               tuneful
               Throat
               and
               String
            
             
               The
               Praises
               of
               our
               Art
               let
               's
               sing
               ;
            
             
               Let
               's
               sing
               to
               blest
               
               Cecilia's
               Fame
               ,
            
             
               That
               grac'd
               this
               Art
               ,
               and
               gave
               this
               Day
               its
               name
               ;
            
             
               While
               Musick
               ,
               Wine
               ,
               and
               Mirth
               ,
               conspire
            
             
               To
               bear
               a
               Consort
               ,
               and
               make
               up
               the
               Quire.
               
            
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             twentieth
             Ode
             of
             the
             second
             Book
             of
             Horace
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               HOw
               an
               unusual
               ,
               but
               strong
               Wing
               does
               bear
            
             
               Th'
               amphibuous
               Poet
               thro'
               the
               liquid
               Air.
            
             
               I
               no
               more
               time
               on
               Earth
               will
               waste
               ,
            
             
               But
               soaring
               above
               Envy
               ,
               haste
            
             
               To
               leave
               the
               proudest
               Cities
               ,
               that
               shall
               lye
            
             
               The
               humble
               Objects
               of
               my
               mounting
               Eye
               .
            
             
               I
               that
               am
               just
               taking
               Wing
            
             
               From
               no
               common
               Parents
               spring
               ;
            
             
               Mecoenas
               ,
               no
               ,
            
             
               My
               Blood
               to
               nobler
               Veins
               I
               owe.
            
             
               That
               purple
               Stream
               of
               everlasting
               Life
               that
               ne're
               shall
               flow
            
             
               Into
               the
               Stygean
               Lake
               below
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Now
               ,
               at
               this
               Instant
               ,
               now
               I
               find
            
             
               About
               my
               Legs
               a
               black
               rough
               Skin
               is
               twin'd
               ,
            
             
             
               Whilst
               all
               above
               I
               grow
            
             
               A
               Bird
               as
               white
               as
               Snow
               ;
            
             
               With
               new-born
               Plumes
               on
               hands
               ,
               and
               Shoulders
               I
            
             
               Do
               mount
               on
               high
               ,
            
             
               Clad
               with
               a
               bright
               Galaxie
               .
            
             
               Swifter
               than
               Icarus
               I
               cut
               the
               yielding
               Air
               ,
            
             
               But
               make
               no
               settl'd
               Journey
               there
               ;
            
             
               The
               way
               my
               various
               Fancy
               likes
               I
               keep
               ,
            
             
               And
               fly
               o're
               all
               the
               Wonders
               of
               the
               Deep
               .
            
             
               The
               groaning
               Bospharus
               I
               hear
            
             
               With
               an
               astonish'd
               ear
               .
            
             
               The
               Lybian
               quick-sands
               I
               espy
               ,
            
             
               That
               make
               me
               tremble
               as
               I
               fly
               ,
            
             
               More
               than
               the
               northern
               Magazenes
               that
               hold
            
             
               Winters
               eternal
               stores
               of
               hoarded
               cold
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Sanaz.
             
               Ep.
               on
            
             Venice
             .
          
           
             
               By
               Mr.
            
             Charles
             Hastings
             .
          
           
             WHile
             Neptune
             in
             the
             Adriatick
             saw
          
           
             Proud
             Venice
             stand
             ,
             and
             to
             the
             Floods
             give
             Law
             ,
          
           
           
             If
             thou
             Tarpeian
             Tow'rs
             ,
             great
             Iove
             ,
             said
             he
             ,
          
           
             Prefer
             to
             these
             ,
             and
             Tyber
             to
             the
             Sea
             ,
          
           
             Both
             Cities
             view
             ,
             and
             you
             will
             grant
             this
             odds
             ,
          
           
             That
             Rome
             was
             built
             by
             Men
             ,
             but
             Venice
             by
             the
             Gods.
             
          
        
         
           
             
               The
               Rape
               of
            
             Philomel
             .
             A
             Paraphrase
             of
             
             Ovid's
             sixth
             Book
             .
          
           
             By
             Mr.
             Andrews
             .
          
           
             
               WHen
               Tereus
               was
               with
               conquering
               Lawrels
               crown'd
               ,
            
             
               For
               Men
               ,
               and
               Wealth
               ,
               and
               Parentage
               renown'd
               ;
            
             
               Pandion
               thought
               that
               none
               could
               fitter
               prove
            
             
               To
               be
               the
               Partner
               in
               his
               Daughters
               Love
               :
            
             
               But
               Iuno
               frown'd
               ,
               and
               Hymen
               turn'd
               awry
               ,
            
             
               The
               Graces
               smil'd
               not
               on
               their
               nuptial
               tye
               ,
            
             
               For
               the
               dire
               Sisters
               with
               a
               Funeral
               Brand
            
             
               Did
               light
               their
               Joys
               ,
               and
               round
               their
               Curtains
               stand
               .
            
             
             
               The
               fatal
               Bird
               of
               Night
               did
               cross
               their
               way
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               around
               unhappy
               Omens
               lay
               .
            
             
               Thus
               did
               they
               meet
               ,
               and
               thus
               (
               alas
               !
               )
               enjoy
            
             
               The
               wish'd
               for
               Blessing
               of
               a
               smiling
               Boy
               :
            
             
               Whilst
               the
               fond
               Thracians
               ,
               in
               a
               general
               Cry
               ,
            
             
               Give
               Thanks
               to
               Heav'n
               for
               this
               new
               Progeny
               ;
            
             
               And
               as
               the
               Wedding
               day
               ,
               the
               Princes
               Birth
            
             
               They
               consecrate
               to
               universal
               Mirth
               .
            
             
               Five
               years
               expir'd
               ,
               the
               flatt'ring
               Progne
               prest
            
             
               Her
               inauspicious
               Lord
               in
               this
               Request
               :
            
             
               If
               thou
               hast
               any
               Love
               for
               
               Progne's
               Name
               ,
            
             
               For
               her
               chaste
               Joys
               ,
               or
               for
               her
               spotless
               Fame
               ,
            
             
               I
               do
               coniure
               thee
               ,
               grant
               that
               I
               may
               be
            
             
               So
               happy
               my
               lov'd
               ●…ister
               once
               to
               see
               ,
            
             
               I
               'll
               fly
               to
               her
               ,
               or
               she
               shall
               come
               to
               me
               .
            
             
               As
               for
               her
               stay
               my
               Father
               may
               complain
               ,
            
             
               But
               tell
               him
               she
               shall
               soon
               return
               again
               .
            
             
               Grant
               this
               succeeds
               but
               well
               ,
               and
               I
               implore
            
             
               At
               your
               just
               hands
               ,
               ye
               sacred
               Pow'rs
               ,
               no
               more
               ?
            
             
               The
               King
               fulfils
               her
               Wish
               ,
               and
               strait
               commands
            
             
               His
               Ships
               to
               Sea
               ,
               for
               Athens
               bound
               :
               he
               lands
            
             
               At
               length
               upon
               the
               wish'd
               Pyrean
               Sands
               .
            
             
             
               From
               whence
               conducted
               ,
               he
               Pandion
               meets
               ,
            
             
               Who
               with
               kind
               welcome
               his
               Arrival
               greets
               .
            
             
               The
               Thracian
               King
               does
               
               Progne's
               suit
               relate
               ,
            
             
               And
               oh
               presage
               which
               still
               attends
               his
               Fate
               !
            
             
               For
               he
               no
               sooner
               could
               his
               story
               tell
               ,
            
             
               But
               see
               the
               bright
               ,
               the
               dazling
               Philomel
               ,
            
             
               Rich
               as
               the
               Sun
               in
               all
               his
               radiant
               Fire
               ,
            
             
               But
               richer
               far
               in
               Beauty
               than
               Attire
               ,
            
             
               A
               Beauty
               that
               might
               all
               the
               Gods
               inspire
               .
            
             
               So
               have
               I
               heard
               the
               Sylvan
               Nymphs
               of
               old
               ,
            
             
               The
               Woods
               enamell'd
               with
               their
               shining
               Gold
               ;
            
             
               As
               oft
               you
               've
               seen
               a
               stubble
               straw
               or
               Fern
            
             
               Catch
               from
               a
               Fire
               which
               none
               of
               us
               discern
               ,
            
             
               So
               at
               this
               sight
               his
               vigorous
               Breast
               became
            
             
               The
               burning
               Center
               of
               an
               amorous
               Flame
               .
            
             
               Hot
               in
               his
               Nature
               ,
               all
               his
               Blood
               boyl'd
               high
               ,
            
             
               Red
               were
               his
               Cheeks
               ,
               &
               sparkling
               was
               his
               Eye
               ,
            
             
               At
               this
               new
               World
               of
               a
               Divinity
               .
            
             
               Resolv'd
               t'
               enjoy
               her
               ,
               't
               is
               his
               first
               Intent
            
             
               To
               bribe
               her
               Woman
               and
               her
               Confident
               ;
            
             
               And
               the
               chaste
               fair
               one
               too
               ,
               if
               Gifts
               would
               down
               ,
            
             
               Tho
               at
               the
               costly
               purchase
               of
               his
               Crown
               .
            
             
             
               But
               if
               those
               means
               were
               vain
               ,
               't
               was
               then
               decreed
               ,
            
             
               By
               Rape
               and
               Force
               the
               Tyrant
               would
               succeed
               ,
            
             
               Rather
               than
               lose
               her
               all
               the
               World
               should
               bleed
               .
            
             
               Oh!
               what
               are
               men
               when
               thus
               by
               Passion
               driven
               ?
            
             
               What
               do
               they
               fear
               on
               Earth
               ,
               in
               Hell
               ,
               or
               Heav'n
               ?
            
             
               Impatient
               of
               delay
               ,
               and
               rack'd
               with
               pain
               ,
            
             
               He
               now
               recites
               his
               Wives
               Request
               again
               ;
            
             
               And
               tho
               at
               first
               in
               her
               behalf
               he
               sues
               ,
            
             
               Now
               for
               himself
               the
               Suppliant
               only
               woos
               ;
            
             
               And
               by
               his
               Zeal
               most
               eloquent
               does
               prove
               ,
            
             
               (
               For
               Eloquence
               does
               still
               attend
               on
               Love.
               )
            
             
               And
               often
               as
               he
               spoke
               what
               Love
               inspir'd
               ,
            
             
               He
               said
               it
               was
               the
               thing
               his
               Wife
               desir'd
               ;
            
             
               Whilst
               hudling
               Tears
               did
               seem
               to
               run
               a
               race
            
             
               O're
               the
               smooth
               Carpet
               of
               his
               treacherous
               Face
               .
            
             
               Oh
               ye
               Eternals
               !
               what
               a
               gloomy
               Cloud
            
             
               Does
               humane
               sense
               and
               apprehension
               shroud
               ?
            
             
               For
               still
               the
               more
               his
               Passion
               he
               does
               raise
               ,
            
             
               The
               more
               they
               '
               dmire
               his
               Vertue
               and
               his
               Praise
               .
            
             
               Nay
               Philomela
               does
               in
               that
               agree
               ,
            
             
               And
               thinks
               his
               greatest
               Vice
               his
               Piety
               .
            
             
             
               For
               now
               she
               hangs
               upon
               her
               Father's
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               And
               her
               destruction
               as
               her
               safety
               prest
               ;
            
             
               With
               Virgin-sighs
               and
               Kisses
               she
               does
               sue
               ,
            
             
               (
               And
               what
               ,
               ye
               Gods
               !
               can't
               
               Virgin-kisses
               do
               !
               )
            
             
               Which
               rais'd
               the
               lustful
               Monster
               's
               Passion
               higher
               ,
            
             
               And
               what
               before
               was
               Ashes
               ,
               now
               is
               Fire
               .
            
             
               For
               every
               melting
               Kiss
               ,
               and
               soft
               Embrance
               ,
            
             
               He
               wish'd
               himself
               her
               ●…ather
               in
               his
               place
               ,
            
             
               There
               to
               repay
               'em
               with
               a
               better
               Grace
               .
            
             
               Whilst
               the
               old
               Man
               (
               by
               their
               Perswasions
               mov'd
               )
            
             
               Could
               not
               deny
               where
               he
               so
               dearly
               lov'd
               ,
            
             
               But
               gives
               Consent
               ,
               and
               she
               ,
               poor
               harmless
               she
               ,
            
             
               Wrap'd
               on
               the
               Wings
               of
               dauntless
               Extasie
               ,
            
             
               Ten
               thousand
               Thanks
               to
               her
               kind
               Father
               gives
               ,
            
             
               And
               thanks
               the
               Gods
               that
               happily
               she
               lives
            
             
               To
               see
               that
               day
               ,
               a
               day
               for
               ever
               fam'd
               ,
            
             
               A
               day
               with
               Joy
               for
               ever
               to
               be
               nam'd
               .
            
             
               Mistaken
               Mortals
               !
               for
               how
               soon
               they
               know
            
             
               It
               was
               the
               day
               of
               everlasting
               Woe
               .
            
          
           
             
               Now
               Phoebus
               ,
               after
               his
               fatigue
               and
               heat
            
             
               Tow'rds
               cool
               Recesses
               hastens
               his
               Retreat
               ,
            
             
             
               And
               night
               comes
               on
               ,
               when
               every
               plenteous
               board
            
             
               The
               richest
               noblest
               Banquets
               do
               afford
               ;
            
             
               And
               Wine
               around
               in
               golden
               Goblets
               flows
               ,
            
             
               Till
               their
               steep'd
               Senses
               call
               for
               sweet
               Repose
               .
            
             
               And
               now
               the
               drowsie
               God
               fills
               every
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               In
               flow'ry
               Lands
               their
               roving
               Fancy's
               blest
            
             
               With
               Joys
               unknown
               ,
               and
               pleasant
               Dreams
               possest
               .
            
             
               Tho
               ▪
               all
               do
               sleep
               ,
               yet
               the
               Odrysian
               King
            
             
               Feels
               from
               the
               fair
               one
               such
               a
               pungent
               sting
               ,
            
             
               That
               though
               she
               's
               gone
               ,
               h'
               '
               as
               still
               her
               Face
               in
               view
               ,
            
             
               And
               parts
               (
               oh
               chaster
               Pow'rs
               !
               )
               unseen
               ,
               he
               drew
               ,
            
             
               For
               what
               can't
               lewd
               Imagination
               do
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Soon
               as
               the
               day
               arose
               in
               many
               Tears
               ,
            
             
               Pandion
               vents
               his
               Passion
               and
               his
               Fears
               :
            
             
               Wringing
               the
               hand
               of
               his
               departing
               Son
               ,
            
             
               With
               sad
               and
               boding
               Heart
               he
               thus
               begun
               ;
            
             
               Since
               ,
               dearest
               Son
               ,
               a
               Sister's
               Love
               requires
            
             
               To
               crown
               your
               Wishes
               ,
               and
               your
               Wives
               Desires
               ,
            
             
             
               I
               trust
               thee
               here
               with
               something
               more
               than
               life
               ,
            
             
               My
               all
               in
               one
               ,
               my
               Daughter
               ,
               Sister
               ,
               Wife
               ,
            
             
               For
               how
               t'
               excel
               in
               Love
               is
               all
               her
               strife
               .
            
             
               Oh
               then
               by
               th'
               strictest
               Faith
               and
               Truth
               of
               Kings
               ,
            
             
               Which
               still
               in
               Royal
               Breasts
               are
               sacred
               things
               ;
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               by
               the
               heavenly
               Pow'rs
               ,
               whose
               chiefest
               care
            
             
               Is
               to
               protect
               the
               innocent
               and
               fair
               ,
            
             
               I
               do
               conjure
               thee
               ,
               as
               a
               Father
               prove
            
             
               In
               all
               th'
               endearments
               of
               paternal
               Love.
            
             
               But
               as
               thou
               tender'st
               my
               declining
               Years
               ,
            
             
               My
               Ages
               Frailties
               ,
               and
               my
               Ages
               Fears
               ,
            
             
               Oh
               quickly
               send
               (
               for
               I
               her
               Absence
               dread
               )
            
             
               The
               only
               comfort
               of
               my
               aged
               Head
               ;
            
             
               The
               sport
               and
               pleasure
               of
               my
               sadder
               hours
               ,
            
             
               Kind
               as
               the
               spring
               ,
               yet
               chaste
               as
               infant
               flowers
               :
            
             
               Send
               her
               with
               speed
               ,
               for
               every
               mournful
               day
            
             
               Will
               seem
               as
               tedious
               as
               an
               Ages
               stay
               ;
            
             
               Where
               we
               expect
               ,
               how
               heavy
               is
               delay
               ?
            
          
           
             
               And
               thou
               my
               Child
               (
               for
               pity
               does
               require
               )
            
             
               Leave
               not
               too
               long
               thy
               poor
               ,
               thy
               helpless
               Sire
               ,
            
             
             
               For
               what
               can
               he
               when
               Philomel
               is
               gone
               ?
            
             
               Like
               some
               forsaken
               Turtle
               all
               alone
               ,
            
             
               Where
               shall
               he
               sigh
               ,
               or
               where
               his
               sorrows
               groan
               ?
            
             
               Thus
               as
               he
               spoke
               ,
               and
               Kisses
               mix'd
               withal
               ,
            
             
               At
               every
               word
               a
               chrystal
               stream
               did
               fall
               ;
            
             
               Then
               taking
               both
               their
               hands
               ,
               thereby
               to
               prove
            
             
               A
               certain
               sign
               of
               everlasting
               Love
               :
            
             
               And
               kissing
               both
               ,
               I
               wish
               my
               Daughter
               Joy
               ,
            
             
               To
               Progne
               this
               ,
               and
               this
               her
               little
               Boy
               .
            
             
               I
               here
               (
               said
               he
               )
               with
               kindest
               Love
               commend
               ,
            
             
               With
               heartiest
               Wishes
               ,
               best
               of
               Blessings
               send
               ;
            
             
               May
               they
               be
               blest
               from
               the
               eternal
               store
               ,
            
             
               For
               I
               perhaps
               may
               never
               send
               them
               more
               .
            
             
               His
               Sobs
               ,
               his
               Sighs
               ,
               his
               Passion
               who
               can
               tell
               ?
            
             
               Tears
               drown
               his
               words
               ,
               that
               at
               the
               last
               farewel
            
             
               In
               fatal
               Groans
               his
               mournful
               Accents
               fell
               .
            
          
           
             
               When
               they
               were
               ship'd
               ,
               assoon
               as
               pressing
               Oars
            
             
               Had
               cut
               the
               Ocean
               ,
               and
               put
               off
               from
               shores
               ,
            
             
               I
               have
               my
               Wish
               he
               cries
               ,
               Oh
               kinder
               Powers
               !
            
             
               The
               beauteous
               prize
               ,
               the
               noble
               prize
               is
               ours
               .
            
             
             
               The
               Tyrant
               now
               does
               most
               triumphant
               grow
               ,
            
             
               And
               scarce
               forbears
               his
               Joys
               in
               open
               show
               .
            
             
               As
               when
               the
               King
               of
               Birds
               from
               earth
               does
               bear
            
             
               In
               his
               fierce
               Talons
               the
               poor
               trembling
               Hare
               ,
            
             
               Into
               his
               princely
               Mansions
               of
               the
               Air
               ,
            
             
               He
               foams
               ,
               exults
               ,
               'gainst
               slight
               shuts
               every
               way
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               a
               rav'nous
               eye
               beholds
               his
               Prey
               :
            
             
               So
               Tereus
               does
               with
               no
               less
               furious
               Eyes
            
             
               (
               Oh
               partial
               Gods
               !
               )
               survey
               his
               trembling
               prize
               .
            
          
           
             
               When
               they
               arriv'd
               upon
               the
               Thracian
               shore
               ,
            
             
               He
               to
               a
               Lodge
               th'
               unhappy
               fair
               one
               bore
               :
            
             
               A
               Seat
               where
               Lust
               and
               Horror
               did
               abound
               ,
            
             
               Dark
               were
               the
               Rooms
               ,
               and
               craggy
               was
               the
               ground
               ,
            
             
               Cloyster'd
               with
               baleful
               Thickets
               all
               around
               .
            
             
               She
               with
               Amazement
               seis'd
               in
               every
               part
               ,
            
             
               Pale
               in
               her
               Looks
               ,
               and
               trembling
               at
               her
               heart
               ;
            
             
               Asks
               for
               her
               Sister
               Progne
               ,
               but
               confin'd
               ,
            
             
               The
               Ravisher
               by
               Actions
               speaks
               his
               Mind
               ,
            
             
               And
               by
               mere
               force
               commits
               the
               Rape
               design'd
               .
            
             
             
               Whilst
               to
               the
               height
               he
               does
               his
               Joys
               pursue
               ,
            
             
               For
               what
               ,
               alas
               !
               could
               one
               weak
               Virgin
               do
               ?
            
             
               A
               Virgin
               who
               man's
               falshood
               never
               knew
               .
            
             
               Help
               ,
               oh
               my
               Father
               !
               Sister
               !
               now
               she
               cries
               ,
            
             
               And
               though
               unkind
               ,
               yet
               sacred
               Deities
               ,
            
             
               If
               to
               defend
               the
               just
               be
               your
               intent
               ,
            
             
               Oh!
               help
               a
               poor
               wrong'd
               Virgin
               ,
               innocent
               ,
            
             
               Who
               neither
               evil
               thought
               ,
               nor
               evil
               meant
               .
            
             
               Then
               of
               her
               Stars
               and
               Birth
               she
               did
               complain
               ,
            
             
               She
               sigh'd
               ,
               she
               wept
               ,
               she
               tore
               ,
               but
               all
               in
               vain
               .
            
             
               As
               the
               poor
               Lamb
               when
               from
               the
               Wolf
               just
               free
            
             
               Does
               heave
               ,
               and
               pant
               ,
               and
               most
               dejected
               lye
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               in
               dread
               of
               former
               Agony
               ;
            
             
               Or
               as
               a
               Dove
               whose
               Blood
               his
               Feathers
               stain
               ,
            
             
               Does
               coe
               ,
               and
               moan
               ,
               &
               fears
               those
               Claws
               again
            
             
               Which
               were
               the
               fatal
               means
               of
               all
               his
               pain
               :
            
             
               So
               does
               the
               injur'd
               Philom●…la
               groan
               ,
            
             
               So
               does
               she
               tremble
               ,
               pant
               ,
               and
               so
               bemoan
               :
            
             
               But
               when
               reviv'd
               ,
               her
               loose
               and
               flying
               Hair
               ,
            
             
               As
               at
               a
               Father's
               Funeral
               ,
               she
               tare
               .
            
             
             
               Then
               wrings
               her
               hands
               ,
               which
               up
               tow'rds
               Heaven
               are
               thrown
               ,
            
             
               Wild
               with
               her
               Woes
               ,
               and
               now
               distracted
               grown
               ,
            
             
               Thus
               she
               bursts
               out
               ;
               oh
               hellish
               barbarous
               Lust
               !
            
             
               Monster
               of
               Monsters
               ,
               whom
               my
               Fathers
               trust
            
             
               Impos'd
               with
               such
               devout
               and
               moving
               Tears
               ;
            
             
               Whom
               neither
               Wives
               Affections
               ,
               Sisters
               Fears
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               yet
               the
               softness
               of
               my
               Virgin
               state
               ,
            
             
               With
               all
               the
               tender
               Joys
               which
               on
               it
               wait
               ,
            
             
               Could
               make
               relent
               ;
               oh
               most
               unfortunate
               !
            
             
               Oh
               vast
               Confusion
               !
               on
               this
               fatal
               score
               ,
            
             
               I
               an
               Adultress
               ,
               an
               incestuous
               Whore
               ,
            
             
               Must
               to
               my
               Sister
               prove
               ,
               and
               all
               our
               Race
            
             
               Whilst
               thou
               to
               both
               supply'st
               the
               Husbands
               place
               .
            
             
               Yet
               what
               ,
               ye
               Gods
               ,
               have
               I
               e're
               done
               or
               meant
               ,
            
             
               To
               merit
               such
               an
               heavy
               Punishment
               ?
            
             
               Is
               there
               a
               Crime
               in
               being
               innocent
               ?
            
             
               Then
               ah
               dispatch
               me
               !
               and
               when
               that
               is
               done
            
             
               Through
               the
               whole
               course
               of
               Wickedness
               thou
               'st
               run
               .
            
             
               But
               if
               from
               Heav'n
               the
               favour
               I
               had
               gain'd
            
             
               T'
               ave
               dy'd
               before
               my
               Honour
               thou
               had'st
               stain'd
               ,
            
             
             
               My
               dauntless
               Ghost
               might
               then
               untainted
               fly
            
             
               Through
               those
               chaste
               Regions
               of
               Eternity
               :
            
             
               But
               now
               such
               vile
               Pollution
               I
               must
               fear
               ,
            
             
               Never
               !
               oh
               never
               !
               with
               the
               blest
               appear
               .
            
             
               Yet
               if
               the
               Gods
               these
               dire
               Events
               do
               see
               ,
            
             
               If
               they
               're
               not
               Fables
               ,
               and
               decay
               with
               me
               ;
            
             
               Due
               Vengeance
               then
               thou
               can'st
               not
               long
               escape
               ,
            
             
               For
               Vengeance
               must
               such
               Horrors
               overtake
               .
            
             
               Yet
               should'st
               thou
               that
               forego
               ,
               all
               sense
               of
               Shame
            
             
               I
               will
               renounce
               ;
               and
               thro'
               the
               World
               proclaim
               ,
            
             
               If
               free
               ,
               thy
               monstrous
               Crimes
               ;
               but
               if
               confin'd
               .
            
             
               'T
               will
               be
               some
               pleasure
               to
               an
               anxious
               Mind
            
             
               To
               find
               the
               Woods
               more
               pitiful
               and
               kind
               .
            
             
               The
               very
               Rocks
               ,
               at
               my
               unheard
               of
               Woe
               ,
            
             
               Shall
               be
               dissolv'd
               ,
               and
               sense
               of
               Sorrow
               show
               :
            
             
               Rocks
               may
               relent
               ,
               but
               Men
               more
               salvage
               grow
               .
            
             
               This
               witness
               Heav'n
               ,
               Immortals
               note
               it
               well
               ;
            
             
               If
               Heav'n
               there
               is
               ,
               and
               Gods
               therein
               do
               dwell
               .
            
          
           
             
               Her
               Words
               did
               move
               the
               bloody
               Ravisher
            
             
               Alike
               with
               Rage
               ,
               Distraction
               ,
               and
               with
               Fear
               :
            
             
             
               Dreading
               th'
               effects
               ,
               he
               binds
               the
               wretched
               fair
               ,
            
             
               And
               draws
               his
               Sword
               ,
               then
               drags
               her
               by
               the
               Hair
               :
            
             
               Whilst
               she
               rejoyc'd
               ,
               and
               open
               laid
               her
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               To
               entertain
               his
               Sword
               ,
               the
               kindest
               Guest
               ;
            
             
               Her
               only
               Comfort
               ,
               Happiness
               and
               Rest.
            
             
               But
               e're
               she
               dy'd
               ,
               she
               thought
               to
               vent
               her
               mind
               ,
            
             
               And
               leave
               the
               Burden
               of
               her
               Soul
               behind
               ;
            
             
               Therefore
               proclaims
               her
               wrongs
               ,
               and
               ,
               tho
               in
               vain
               ,
            
             
               Did
               of
               her
               Hardship
               ,
               and
               his
               Guilt
               complain
               .
            
             
               Then
               calling
               on
               her
               Fathers
               name
               ,
               her
               Tongue
            
             
               (
               In
               Pincers
               caught
               )
               the
               salvage
               Monster
               wrung
            
             
               From
               its
               lov'd
               Mansion
               ,
               by
               the
               panting
               Root
               ,
            
             
               Which
               trembled
               ,
               moan'd
               ,
               and
               murmur'd
               at
               his
               foot
               ,
            
             
               And
               often
               strove
               in
               Curses
               to
               repay
               ,
            
             
               But
               what
               it
               would
               (
               alas
               !
               )
               it
               could
               not
               say
               ;
            
             
               So
               soon
               the
               Spirits
               and
               the
               Voice
               decay
               .
            
             
               Yet
               as
               a
               Serpents
               quivering
               Tail
               l
               've
               seen
            
             
               Stain'd
               in
               its
               Blood
               ,
               leaps
               up
               and
               down
               the
               Green
               ,
            
             
               So
               does
               her
               Tongue
               ;
               it
               quivers
               ,
               pants
               ,
               and
               leaps
               ,
            
             
               But
               follows
               still
               its
               Owners
               wretched
               Steps
               :
            
             
             
               Yet
               after
               all
               ,
               if
               we
               may
               credit
               Fame
               ,
            
             
               (
               Oh
               sleeping
               Vengeance
               !
               oh
               thou
               empty
               name
               !
               )
            
             
               Her
               Body
               maim'd
               ,
               and
               reeking
               in
               its
               Gore
               ,
            
             
               He
               often
               us'd
               as
               lewdly
               as
               before
               ;
            
             
               Gods
               !
               had
               ye
               then
               no
               Thunder-bolts
               in
               store
               ?
            
             
               Yet
               to
               his
               Wife
               the
               very
               moment
               hastes
               ,
            
             
               Who
               with
               Impatience
               for
               her
               Sister
               asks
               :
            
             
               He
               drown'd
               in
               Tears
               ;
               (
               for
               who
               so
               lewd
               will
               be
            
             
               Can
               never
               fail
               in
               smooth
               Hypocrisie
               :
               )
            
             
               In
               Tears
               he
               mourns
               her
               sad
               untimely
               Fate
               ,
            
             
               In
               feigned
               Tears
               he
               does
               her
               Death
               relate
               ,
            
             
               Laments
               ,
               and
               wails
               his
               miserable
               State.
            
             
               Progne
               believes
               ,
               and
               strait
               her
               rich
               Array
               ,
            
             
               With
               all
               its
               gawdy
               Trifles
               ,
               casts
               away
               ,
            
             
               And
               does
               the
               utmost
               Debt
               of
               Sorrow
               pay
               ;
            
             
               Whilst
               clad
               in
               sable
               she
               her
               Sister
               mourns
               ,
            
             
               And
               due
               Oblations
               to
               her
               Spirit
               burns
               .
            
             
               But
               oh
               false
               Rites
               !
               how
               vainly
               are
               they
               sent
               ,
            
             
               To
               a
               most
               wretched
               living
               Monument
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Elegy
             on
             the
             Earl
             of
             Rochester
             .
          
           
             By
             Mrs.
             
               Wh
               —
            
             .
          
           
             
               DEep
               Waters
               silent
               roul
               ,
               so
               Grief
               like
               mine
            
             
               Tears
               never
               can
               relieve
               ,
               nor
               Words
               define
               .
            
             
               Stop
               then
               ,
               stop
               your
               vain
               Source
               ,
               weak
               springs
               of
               Grief
               ,
            
             
               Let
               Tears
               flow
               from
               their
               Eyes
               whom
               Tears
               relieve
               .
            
             
               They
               from
               their
               Heads
               shew
               the
               light
               Trouble
               there
               ,
            
             
               Could
               my
               Heart
               weep
               ,
               its
               Sorrows
               't
               would
               declare
               :
            
             
               Weep
               drops
               of
               Blood
               ,
               my
               Heart
               ,
               thou
               'st
               lost
               thy
               Pride
               ,
            
             
               The
               Cause
               of
               all
               thy
               Hopes
               and
               Fears
               ,
               thy
               Guide
               .
            
             
               He
               would
               have
               led
               thee
               right
               in
               Wisdom's
               way
               ,
            
             
               And
               't
               was
               thy
               Fault
               whene're
               thou
               went'st
               astray
               :
            
             
               And
               since
               thou
               stray'dst
               when
               guided
               and
               led
               on
               ,
            
             
               Thou
               wilt
               be
               surely
               lost
               now
               left
               alone
               .
            
             
             
               It
               is
               thy
               Elegy
               I
               write
               ,
               not
               his
               ,
            
             
               He
               lives
               immortal
               and
               in
               highest
               Bliss
               .
            
             
               But
               thou
               art
               dead
               ,
               alas
               !
               my
               Heart
               thou'
               rt
               dead
               ,
            
             
               He
               lives
               ,
               that
               lovely
               Soul
               for
               ever
               fled
               ,
            
             
               But
               thou
               'mongst
               Crowds
               on
               earth
               art
               buried
               .
            
             
               Great
               was
               thy
               Loss
               ,
               which
               thou
               can'st
               ne're
               express
            
             
               Nor
               was
               th'
               insensible
               dull
               Nation
               's
               less
               ;
            
             
               He
               civiliz'd
               the
               rude
               and
               taught
               the
               young
               ,
            
             
               Made
               Fools
               grow
               wise
               ;
               such
               artful
               magick
               hung
            
             
               Upon
               his
               useful
               kind
               instructing
               Tongue
               .
            
             
               His
               lively
               Wit
               was
               of
               himself
               a
               part
               ,
            
             
               Not
               as
               in
               other
               men
               ,
               the
               Work
               of
               Art
               ;
            
             
               For
               tho
               his
               Learning
               like
               his
               Wit
               was
               great
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               sure
               all
               Learning
               came
               below
               his
               Wit
               ;
            
             
               As
               God's
               immediate
               Gifts
               are
               better
               far
            
             
               Than
               those
               we
               borrow
               from
               our
               Likeness
               here
               ,
            
             
               He
               was
               ,
               —
               but
               I
               want
               words
               ,
               and
               ne're
               can
               tell
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               this
               I
               know
               ,
               he
               did
               Mankind
               excell
               .
            
          
           
             
               He
               was
               what
               no
               Man
               ever
               was
               before
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               can
               indulgent
               Nature
               give
               us
               more
               ,
            
             
               For
               to
               make
               him
               she
               exhausted
               all
               her
               store
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             On
             the
             Coronation
             of
             the
             High
             and
             Mighty
             Monarch
             
               JAMES
               II.
            
             
          
           
             By
             Mr.
             Smith
             .
          
           
             
               Hic
               dies
               verè
               mitis
               festus
               ,
               atras
            
             
               Eximet
               curas
               :
               Ego
               nec
               tumultum
               ,
            
             
               Nec
               mori
               per
               vim
               metuam
               ,
               tenente
               .
            
             
               Caesare
               Terras
               .
               Horat.
               
            
          
           
             
               Pindarique
               .
            
             
               FLy
               swift
               ,
               ye
               sluggish
               hours
               ,
               and
               bring
               the
               day
               !
            
             
               O
               wakeful
               Morning
               !
               now
               display
            
             
               Thy
               purple
               Dores
               ,
               and
               odorif'rous
               Bed
            
             
               With
               plenty
               of
               new
               blushing
               Roses
               spread
               .
            
             
               Let
               day's
               bright
               Lord
               now
               haste
               to
               rise
               ,
            
             
               With
               his
               clear
               Rays
               to
               bless
               our
               longing
               eyes
               .
            
             
               May
               now
               our
               British
               Heaven
               be
               all
               serene
               ,
            
             
               No
               threat'ning
               Clouds
               draw
               nigh
            
             
               With
               the
               least
               Wrinkle
               to
               deform
               the
               Sky
               ;
            
             
               As
               once
               before
               was
               seen
            
             
             
               On
               that
               stupendious
               day
               ,
            
             
               When
               Charles
               through
               silver
               Thames
               did
               cut
               his
               way
               ;
            
             
               Th'
               admiring
               Throngs
               did
               crowd
               to
               see
               him
               land
               ,
            
             
               
                 Cov'ring
                 the
                 Beech
                 ,
                 and
                 blackning
                 all
                 the
              
               Strand
               .
            
             
               Who
               ,
               lest
               our
               Bliss
               with
               him
               should
               cease
               ,
            
             
               Has
               left
               us
               Iames
               ,
               the
               pledge
               of
               future
               Peace
               ;
            
             
               A
               Prince
               so
               great
               ,
               so
               good
               ,
            
             
               Ally'd
               to
               Charles
               in
               Vertue
               as
               in
               Blood
               !
            
             
               For
               this
               vast
               Trust
               he
               this
               great
               Hero
               chose
               ,
            
             
               Bequeath'd
               the
               whole
               supream
               Command
            
             
               To
               his
               most
               Loyal
               hand
            
             
               Who
               did
               in
               Peace
               secure
               his
               Reign
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               most
               dang'rous
               Wars
               his
               Pow'r
               maintain
               .
            
             
               How
               soon
               he
               put
               the
               Northern
               Clouds
               to
               flight
               !
            
             
               And
               drove
               red
               Waves
               to
               
               Belgia's
               wondring
               shore
            
             
               When
               gainst
               fair
               Albion
               they
               did
               fight
               !
            
             
               He
               struck
               Confusion
               into
               Form
               and
               Light.
            
             
               How
               oft
               has
               Neptune
               him
               triumphing
               bore
            
             
               Asserting
               his
               dear
               Brother's
               Right
               ,
            
             
               On
               whom
               the
               World
               does
               safely
               now
               repose
               ▪
            
          
           
             
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Sure
               Heav'n
               of
               this
               blest
               time
               made
               choice
               ,
            
             
               When
               all
               things
               smile
               and
               all
               rejoyce
               ;
            
             
               Tellus
               all
               o're
               is
               clad
               with
               verdent
               green
               ,
            
             
               And
               Paradise
               in
               ev'ry
               place
               is
               seen
               :
            
             
               The
               drowsie
               Flow'rs
               ,
            
             
               Awak'd
               by
               fruitful
               Show'rs
               ,
            
             
               Now
               haste
               ,
               and
               all
               their
               sweetness
               bring
            
             
               And
               off'ring
               to
               their
               most
               auspicious
               King.
            
             
               Hark!
               how
               the
               Nations
               Acclamations
               make
               ,
            
             
               And
               happy
               Omens
               of
               his
               Empire
               take
               :
            
             
               With
               one
               united
               Voice
               they
               now
               rejoyce
               ,
            
             
               Long
               live
               !
               long
               live
               !
               their
               new-born
               King.
            
             
               And
               
                 Io
                 Paeans
              
               sing
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             
               Martial
               .
               Lib.
            
             10.
             
             Epigr.
             47.
             
             Vitam
             quae
             faciant
             beatorem
             .
          
           
             By
             Mr.
             Wilson
             .
          
           
             WHat
             makes
             a
             happy
             Life
             ?
             O
             what
             ?
          
           
             A
             Fortune
             by
             Descent
             ,
             not
             got
             ;
          
           
             An
             answ'ring
             Farm
             ,
             still
             smoaking
             home
             ;
          
           
             Dependence
             seldom
             ,
             Law-suits
             none
             :
          
           
             A
             Mind
             compos'd
             ,
             a
             lively
             Soul
             ,
          
           
             An
             active
             Body
             ,
             round
             and
             whole
             ;
          
           
             An
             open
             Plainness
             ,
             but
             discreet
             ,
          
           
             Friendship
             's
             agreeable
             and
             fit
             ;
          
           
             No
             over-curious
             Bill
             of
             Fare
             ,
          
           
             No
             drunken
             Nights
             ,
             yet
             void
             of
             care
             ;
          
           
             A
             merry
             Wife
             ,
             and
             only
             yours
             ,
          
           
             A
             Sleep
             that
             never
             tells
             the
             Hours
             ;
          
           
             Contented
             with
             thy
             Destiny
             ,
          
           
             And
             neither
             wish
             nor
             fear
             to
             dye
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             Pindarique
             Essay
             upon
             Musick
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
             —
             Nec
             vox
             hominem
             sonat
             .
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               SOul
               of
               the
               World
               ,
               Time's
               Rival
               (
               Music
               )
               who
               ,
            
             
               First
               matter
               yet
               in
               Ovo
               wert
               ,
            
             
               Who
               shall
               declare
               thy
               Off-spring
               ,
               or
               pursue
               ,
            
             
               To
               keep
               Infinity
               in
               view
               ?
            
             
               Fan●…y's
               short-wing'd
               ,
               and
               earthy
               ;
               my
               seel'd
               Soul
            
             
               Bolts
               ,
               but
               turns
               giddy
               in
               the
               start
               ,
            
             
               And
               mounts
               she
               knows
               not
               whither
               :
            
             
               When
               the
               Almighty
               Fiat
               spread
               this
               whole
               ,
            
             
               And
               poiz'd
               the
               Base
               of
               the
               unerring
               frame
               ,
            
             
               Fond
               of
               the
               first
               publick
               employ
               ,
            
             
               The
               Morning
               Stars
               ,
               they
               sung
               together
               ;
            
             
               And
               all
               the
               Sons
               of
               God
               shouted
               for
               joy
               ;
               same
               .
            
             
               Then
               Musick
               was
               with
               God
               ,
               and
               only
               not
               the
            
          
           
             
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Now
               ,
               as
               Infinity
               is
               unconfin'd
               ,
            
             
               It
               fill'd
               each
               Angle
               of
               the
               whole
               ,
            
             
               And
               as
               in
               broken
               glass
               ,
               we
               find
            
             
               A
               thousand
               lesser
               Shapes
               ,
            
             
               All
               that
               came
               in
               shar'd
               of
               the
               liberal
               dole
               ,
            
             
               The
               stintless
               Bounty
               gave
               not
               out
               by
               Scraps
               ;
            
             
               Nothing
               went
               empty
               back
               ,
               or
               sad
               ,
            
             
               Whate're
               the
               Pitcher
               held
               ,
               it
               had
               :
            
             
               All
               things
               look'd
               great
               ,
               not
               swoll'n
               ,
               but
               bold
               and
               free
               ,
            
             
               And
               (
               as
               't
               were
               )
               big
               with
               a
               Divinity
               ;
            
             
               And
               what
               was
               that
               but
               Harmony
               ;
            
             
               What
               all
               that
               beauteous
               Fabrick
               of
               the
               Sphears
               ?
            
             
               The
               night
               and
               days
               continu'd
               course
               ?
            
             
               The
               gliding
               stream
               ?
               the
               Oceans
               sourse
               ?
            
             
               The
               Birds
               wild
               Note
               ?
               nay
               ,
               all
               delight
            
             
               That
               ever
               fed
               the
               Eye
               ,
               or
               charm'd
               the
               Ear
               ,
            
             
               But
               Sparks
               of
               the
               same
               Harmony
               ,
               tho
               less
               unite
               ?
            
          
           
             
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Man
               was
               abash'd
               ,
               and
               well
               he
               might
               ,
               that
               he
               ,
            
             
               And
               he
               alone
               should
               be
               a
               Looker
               on
               ,
            
             
               And
               yet
               not
               bear
               a
               part
               ;
            
             
               Resolv'd
               he
               was
               ,
               but
               't
               would
               not
               do
               ,
            
             
               He
               slag'd
               for
               want
               of
               Art
               :
            
             
               Until
               at
               length
               ,
               sharp
               Iubal
               ,
               he
               began
               ,
            
             
               He
               had
               observ'd
               his
               Brother
               
                 Tubal
                 Cain
              
            
             
               Hammer
               a
               Nail
               ,
               and
               then
               a
               Shoe
               ,
            
             
               The
               discord
               sounds
               provok'd
               his
               thinking
               Soul
            
             
               To
               search
               ,
               why
               loud
               ,
               or
               deep
               ;
               how
               flat
               or
               sharp
               :
            
             
               Long
               had
               he
               paus'd
               ,
               but
               could
               not
               tell
               ,
            
             
               Till
               having
               Scal'd
               and
               Gammuted
               the
               whole
               ,
            
             
               He
               try'd
               it
               on
               a
               Concave
               Shell
               ,
            
             
               And
               piece-meal
               found
               the
               Organ
               and
               the
               Harp
               :
            
             
               Strook
               was
               the
               Shepherds
               God
               ,
               and
               stole
               a
               Pipe
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               single
               as
               it
               was
               ,
               it
               laid
               an
               hundred
               eyes
               asleep
               .
            
          
           
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               To
               pass
               the
               Theban
               Artist
               ,
               at
               whose
               call
            
             
               Stones
               mov'd
               ,
               and
               danc'd
               themselves
               into
               a
               wall
               ,
            
             
             
               And
               under
               which
               Mythology
               ,
            
             
               Was
               civiliz'd
               even
               Barbarity
               :
            
             
               Arm'd
               with
               his
               Harp
               alone
               ,
               the
               Thracian
               Bard
            
             
               Attempts
               the
               Shades
               below
               :
            
             
               None
               ask'd
               him
               whence
               he
               came
               ,
               or
               how
               ,
            
             
               Or
               mutter'd
               what
               he
               was
               ;
            
             
               All
               stood
               at
               gaze
               ,
               and
               the
               bold
               stroke
               once
               heard
               ,
            
             
               Ev'n
               Hell
               had
               silence
               too
               ,
            
             
               And
               yet
               made
               Holiday
               ;
            
             
               The
               Wheel
               stood
               still
               ;
               none
               ply'd
               the
               Sieve
               ;
            
             
               The
               rolling
               stone
               was
               gathering
               Moss
               ,
            
             
               The
               Vultur
               heeded
               not
               its
               Prey
               ;
            
             
               His
               powerful
               hand
               did
               not
               perswade
               ,
               but
               drive
               ;
            
             
               He
               left
               no
               room
               for
               Thought
               :
               the
               sooty
               God
            
             
               Smooth'd
               his
               rough
               Brow
               ,
               and
               made
               the
               granting
               nod
               .
            
             
               And
               had
               th'
               enamour'd
               done
               the
               same
               ,
            
             
               His
               shy
               ,
               fond
               Fool
               ,
               had
               ne're
               been
               scar'd
               ;
            
             
               Sh
               'ad
               stood
               ,
               nay
               met
               him
               ,
               shot
               him
               flame
               for
               flame
               ,
            
             
               Nor
               fled
               the
               unknown-know-not-what
               she
               fear'd
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               V.
               
            
             
               Immur'd
               in
               Temples
               next
               it
               lay
               ,
               and
               then
            
             
               The
               Praises
               of
               their
               Gods
               and
               mighty
               Men
               ,
            
             
               Were
               only
               in
               request
               ;
            
             
               What
               but
               the
               best
               cou'd
               fit
               the
               best
               ?
            
             
               Dilated
               thence
               to
               Kings
               and
               Prophets
               ,
               he
            
             
               That
               took
               it
               up
               began
               to
               prophesie
               .
            
             
               Thus
               David
               danc'd
               before
               the
               Ark
               ;
            
             
               And
               when
               the
               evil
               Spirit
               infested
               Saul
            
             
               He
               play'd
               ,
               and
               the
               same
               Heaven-born
               Spark
            
             
               Enform'd
               his
               hand
               ,
               and
               tun'd
               the
               others
               Soul.
            
             
               Thus
               when
               before
               the
               Kings
               Elisha
               stood
               ,
            
             
               
               Iehoram's
               Gods
               had
               fret
               his
               Blood
               ,
            
             
               But
               when
               the
               Minstrel
               play'd
            
             
               God's
               hand
               came
               on
               him
               ,
               and
               he
               prophesi'd
               .
            
             
               What
               may'st
               thou
               not
               ,
               that
               driv'st
               ill
               Spirits
               and
               call'st
               down
               good
               !
            
             
               And
               mak'st
               that
               All
               we
               see
               ,
               or
               ever
               saw
               ,
            
             
               One
               full-mouth'd
               
                 Diapason
                 .
                 Alleluja
              
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             Anacreon
             .
             To
             himself
             .
             
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
            
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             I
             Care
             for
             neither
             Prince
             nor
             State
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             this
             nor
             that
             great
             Potentate
             :
          
           
             Gold
             's
             not
             the
             thing
             that
             I
             adore
             ,
          
           
             And
             envy
             not
             a
             Tyrant's
             Power
             :
          
           
             But
             this
             I
             care
             ,
             to
             have
             my
             Beard
          
           
             With
             the
             most
             precious
             Unguents
             smear'd
             ;
          
           
             My
             careless
             Locks
             with
             Roses
             bound
             ;
          
           
             My
             old
             Companion-Goblet
             crown'd
             :
          
           
             Let
             me
             live
             free
             ,
             and
             unperplex'd
          
           
             This
             day
             ,
             and
             take
             who
             will
             ,
             the
             next
             .
          
           
             Then
             go
             to
             ,
             while
             't
             is
             to
             day
             ,
          
           
             Drown
             all
             your
             Cares
             in
             Wine
             and
             Play
             ;
          
           
             Lest
             crazy
             grown
             ,
             nor
             sickness
             proof
             ,
          
           
             Doctors
             cry
             ,
             Hold
             ,
             you
             've
             drunk
             enough
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Another
             .
             
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
            
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             LEt
             others
             sing
             the
             Theban
             Wars
             ,
          
           
             Or
             
             Troy's
             Destruction
             ,
          
           
             But
             I
             will
             chant
             my
             own
             ;
          
           
             And
             unconcern'd
             at
             others
             Jars
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             Horse
             ,
             nor
             Foot
             ,
             nor
             Ships
             ,
             nor
             all
          
           
             That
             Arsenal
             ,
             shall
             see
             me
             fall
             :
          
           
             No
             ,
             No
             ,
             when
             e're
             Anacreon
             dies
             ,
          
           
             His
             sullen
             Heart
          
           
             Will
             bear
             no
             dart
          
           
             But
             from
             his
             Mistress
             Eyes
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             
             Strada's
             Nightingale
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
             Iam
             sol
             è
             medio
             pronus
             d●…flexerat
             Orbe
             ,
             &c.
             
          
           
             
               PAst
               his
               Meridian
               was
               the
               Sun
               ,
               each
               Beam
            
             
               Had
               spent
               its
               Vigor
               ;
               when
               by
               
               Tyber's
               stream
            
             
               At
               at
               Oaks
               Foot
               a
               Lutenist
               did
               play
               ,
            
             
               To
               ease
               his
               Thoughts
               ,
               and
               pass
               the
               time
               away
               .
            
          
           
             
               Nor
               was
               he
               long
               unheard
               ;
               above
               there
               stood
            
             
               A
               Nightingale
               ,
               the
               Syren
               of
               the
               Wood
               ;
            
             
               Muse
               of
               the
               place
               ,
               poor
               harmless
               Syren
               ,
               she
            
             
               Took
               the
               rebound
               ,
               and
               jugging
               o're
               ,
               what
               he
            
             
               Had
               with
               his
               Fingers
               struck
               ,
               her
               nimble
               Throat
            
             
               Eccho's
               it
               back
               ,
               and
               gives
               him
               Note
               for
               Note
               .
            
          
           
             
               Our
               Lutenist
               ,
               that
               to
               her
               Ayres
               had
               lent
            
             
               His
               Ear
               ,
               perceiving
               what
               ,
               and
               whom
               she
               meant
               ,
            
             
               Resolves
               to
               make
               her
               sport
               ;
               when
               strait
               he
               trys
            
             
               Each
               Peg
               ,
               each
               string
               ,
               and
               o're
               'em
               all
               he
               flys
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               Nor
               was
               she
               long
               behind
               ,
               but
               running
               o're
            
             
               Each
               Note
               of
               his
               ,
               yes
               ,
               and
               a
               thousand
               more
               ,
            
             
               Gave
               him
               a
               taste
               of
               what
               she
               could
               ,
               to
               shew
            
             
               That
               even
               she
               could
               chirp
               a
               Prelude
               too
               .
            
             
               With
               that
               he
               took
               his
               Lute
               ,
               and
               with
               a
               dash
               ,
            
             
               'Twixt
               sport
               and
               scorn
               ,
               he
               makes
               a
               careless
               Rash
               ,
            
             
               Stops
               every
               Fret
               ,
               and
               to
               each
               trembling
               string
            
             
               Gives
               a
               soft
               Beat
               ;
               when
               presently
               again
               ,
            
             
               With
               a
               sweet
               touch
               he
               strikes
               an
               even
               strain
               ,
            
             
               And
               takes
               up
               all
               with
               his
               first
               Rash
               again
               .
            
          
           
             
               And
               here
               he
               paws'd
               ,
               and
               now
               expects
               her
               part
               ,
            
             
               Which
               she
               strait
               gives
               ,
               and
               answers
               Art
               with
               Art.
            
             
               One
               while
               ,
               as
               if
               she
               could
               not
               find
               her
               Throat
               ,
            
             
               She
               plays
               it
               here
               and
               there
               with
               her
               field-note
               ,
            
             
               And
               draws
               it
               out
               in
               length
               ,
               to
               let
               him
               see
            
             
               Her
               discords
               too
               carry'd
               their
               Harmony
               .
            
             
               Then
               quavering
               out
               Division
               ,
               with
               shrill
            
             
               And
               open
               Throat
               ,
               gives
               every
               Note
               its
               Trill
               .
            
          
           
             
               He
               stood
               amaz'd
               (
               and
               well
               he
               might
               )
               to
               meet
            
             
               So
               small
               a
               Pipe
               ,
               and
               yet
               a
               Note
               so
               sweet
               ,
            
             
               So
               soft
               ,
               so
               various
               ,
               that
               he
               concludes
               ,
               to
               get
            
             
               The
               Victory
               ,
               he
               must
               run
               higher
               yet
               :
            
             
             
               And
               with
               it
               ,
               chang'd
               his
               Cliffs
               ;
               now
               sharp
               ,
               then
               flat
               ,
            
             
               Now
               Bass
               ,
               then
               Treble
               ;
               nor
               content
               with
               that
               ,
            
             
               Jumbles
               his
               strings
               in
               such
               disorder'd
               Rattle
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               his
               Lute
               were
               to
               enform
               a
               Battel
               .
            
          
           
             
               Yet
               here
               she
               had
               him
               too
               ;
               &
               while
               she
               stretcht
            
             
               So
               shrill
               ,
               yet
               clear
               ,
               as
               if
               she
               meant
               t'
               ave
               raeacht
            
             
               A
               flight
               'bove
               Ela
               ;
               in
               a
               trice
               ,
               with
               note
            
             
               As
               if
               't
               were
               lost
               ,
               and
               bury'd
               in
               her
               throat
               ,
            
             
               Double
               De-sol-re
               low
               she
               sinks
               a
               Hum
               ,
            
             
               'Twixt
               lowd
               and
               deep
               ,
               as
               humouring
               a
               Drum.
               
            
          
           
             
               Anger
               &
               Shame
               by
               this
               time
               stirr'd
               his
               blood
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               shall
               my
               little
               Quirister
               o'
               th'
               Wood
            
             
               Carry
               it
               thus
               :
               Not
               conquer
               her
               ?
               I
               'll
               do
               't
               ,
            
             
               I
               'll
               do
               't
               he
               cry'd
               ,
               or
               I
               will
               break
               my
               Lute
               :
            
             
               Nor
               said
               he
               more
               ,
               when
               thundering
               amain
            
             
               A
               sprightly
               ,
               bold
               ,
               unimitable
               strain
               ,
            
             
               His
               careless
               hand
               from
               this
               to
               that
               he
               flings
               ,
            
             
               And
               runs
               it
               up
               ,
               as
               he
               would
               crack
               the
               strings
               :
            
             
               From
               Bass
               to
               Tenor
               ,
               Counter-tenor
               ,
               Alt
               ,
            
             
               His
               nimble
               Joynts
               in
               quick
               Division
               vault
               ;
            
             
             
               And
               not
               to
               leave
               one
               Note
               untouch'd
               upon
               ,
            
             
               He
               closes
               all
               with
               a
               full
               Unison
               :
            
             
               And
               with
               it
               made
               as
               full
               a
               stop
               ,
               and
               stood
            
             
               Expecting
               what
               his
               little
               Rival
               cou'd
               :
            
             
               But
               she
               (
               poor
               Fool
               )
               tho
               she
               was
               now
               become
            
             
               Quite
               hoarse
               ,
               impatient
               yet
               to
               be
               o'recome
               ,
            
             
               Rallies
               her
               little
               strength
               ,
               but
               all
               in
               vain
               ;
            
             
               For
               while
               she
               offers
               at
               so
               high
               a
               strain
               ,
            
             
               And
               strives
               to
               render
               with
               her
               single
               Throat
            
             
               The
               various
               Accents
               of
               such
               different
               Notes
               ,
            
             
               Too
               weak
               (
               alas
               !
               )
               to
               bear
               her
               Grief
               ,
               or
               do
               't
               ,
            
             
               Dead
               ,
               dead
               ,
               she
               dropt
               upon
               the
               Conquerors
               Lute
               .
            
          
           
             
               A
               sitting
               Sepulchre
               ;
               such
               power
               upon
            
             
               Ev'n
               little
               Souls
               ,
               has
               Emulation
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             A
             Translation
             of
             the
             fourth
             Chorus
             in
             
               Seneca's
               Troas
            
             .
          
           
             
               Beginning
               at
            
             Dulce
             moerenti
             populus
             dolentum
             ,
             &c.
             
          
           
             By
             I.
             T.
             
          
           
             LEss
             are
             the
             Griefs
             we
             undergo
             ,
          
           
             When
             they
             are
             felt
             by
             others
             too
             .
          
           
             Less
             are
             our
             Sorrows
             ,
             less
             our
             Fears
             ,
          
           
             The
             more
             our
             Company
             appears
             .
          
           
             Great
             Griefs
             ,
             like
             Burdens
             ,
             are
             more
             light
             ,
          
           
             The
             more
             they
             are
             to
             share
             the
             weight
             :
          
           
             And
             none
             with
             Justice
             can
             refuse
          
           
             To
             bear
             the
             Fortune
             others
             use
             .
          
           
             When
             we
             see
             happier
             men
             ,
             we
             grieve
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             our
             Sorrows
             are
             comparative
             .
          
           
             He
             only
             does
             his
             Fate
             bemoan
             ,
          
           
             Who
             in
             a
             single
             Ship
             alone
          
           
           
             Has
             plough'd
             the
             Sea
             ,
             and
             after
             some
             great
             wrack
             ,
          
           
             With
             a
             light
             Ship
             and
             heavy
             Heart
             comes
             back
             .
          
           
             Who
             sees
             the
             Dangers
             of
             a
             sinking
             Fleet
             ,
          
           
             Thinks
             not
             his
             Sufferings
             are
             so
             great
             :
          
           
             H'
             has
             this
             
               sad
               Comfort
            
             of
             his
             Misery
             ,
          
           
             That
             all
             ,
             as
             well
             as
             he
             ,
             must
             dye
             .
          
           
             When
             the
             proud
             Master
             of
             the
             
               Golden
               Fleece
            
          
           
             With
             his
             dear
             Burden
             cross'd
             the
             Seas
             ,
          
           
             Phryxus
             with
             Tears
             saw
             Helle
             drown
             ;
          
           
             Well
             might
             he
             weep
             ,
             when
             he
             was
             left
             alone
             .
          
           
             Thus
             ,
             when
             the
             only
             honest
             Pair
             ,
          
           
             That
             could
             our
             sinful
             Race
             repair
             ,
          
           
             Of
             all
             Mankind
             alone
             remain'd
             ,
          
           
             Each
             happy
             in
             the
             other
             ,
             ne're
             complain'd
             .
          
           
             So
             ,
             by
             our
             Conqu'rors
             when
             we
             're
             snatch'd
             away
             ,
          
           
             A
             helpless
             ,
             but
             a
             numerous
             Prey
             ,
          
           
             The
             Wind
             shall
             scatter
             all
             our
             Tears
             ,
          
           
             Our
             Numbers
             shall
             secure
             our
             Fears
             .
          
           
             What
             shall
             we
             say
             ,
             when
             on
             the
             Deck
             we
             stand
             ,
          
           
             And
             from
             afar
             behold
             the
             
               lessening
               Lund
            
             ?
          
           
           
             What
             shall
             we
             think
             ,
             when
             
             Ida's
             Tops
             grow
             less
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             the
             Seas
             our
             Fears
             encrease
             ?
          
           
             And
             when
             our
             Sons
             shall
             seek
             their
             
               Native
               Land
            
             ,
          
           
             Each
             wretched
             Mother
             ,
             pointing
             with
             her
             hand
             ,
          
           
             (
             The
             Tears
             still
             trickling
             from
             her
             Eyes
             )
          
           
             Shall
             cry
             ,
             
               See
               ,
               yonder
            
             Ilium
             lies
             .
          
           
             
               Where
               those
               black
               Clouds
               of
               curling
               Smoak
               do
               rise
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             LYRICKS
             .
          
           
             By
             Ph.
             Ayres
             ,
             Esq.
             
          
           
             To
             LOVE
             .
          
           
             LEt
             others
             sing
             of
             Mars
             and
             of
             his
             Train
             ,
          
           
             Of
             great
             Exploits
             and
             honourable
             Scars
             ,
          
           
             The
             dreadful
             dire
             Effects
             of
             civil
             Wars
             ,
          
           
             Death's
             Triumphs
             and
             Encomiums
             of
             the
             slain
             :
          
           
             I
             sing
             the
             Conflicts
             I
             my self
             sustain
             ,
          
           
             From
             her
             who
             is
             the
             cause
             of
             all
             my
             Care
             ,
          
           
             Who
             wounds
             with
             Looks
             and
             fetters
             with
             her
             hair
             ,
          
           
           
             This
             mournful
             Tale
             requires
             a
             tragick
             strein
             .
          
           
             Eyes
             were
             the
             Arms
             did
             first
             my
             Peace
             controul
             ,
          
           
             Wounded
             by
             them
             a
             source
             of
             Tears
             there
             sprung
          
           
             Instead
             of
             Blood
             ,
             from
             my
             afflicted
             Soul.
          
           
             Thou
             Love
             ,
             to
             whom
             this
             Conquest
             does
             belong
             ,
          
           
             Leave
             me
             at
             last
             the
             comfort
             to
             condole
             ;
          
           
             And
             as
             thou
             woud'st
             my
             Heart
             ,
             inspire
             my
             Song
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             REQUEST
             .
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             O
             Love
             !
             who
             in
             my
             Breast's
             most
             noble
             part
          
           
             Did'st
             that
             fair
             Image
             lodge
             ,
             that
             form
             divine
             ,
          
           
             In
             whom
             the
             sum
             of
             heavenly
             Graces
             shine
             ,
          
           
             And
             there
             engrav'st
             it
             with
             thy
             golden
             Dart
             ;
          
           
             Now
             mighty
             Workman
             !
             help
             me
             by
             thy
             Art
             ,
          
           
             (
             Since
             my
             dull
             Pen
             trembles
             to
             strike
             a
             Line
             )
          
           
           
             That
             I
             on
             Paper
             copy
             the
             design
             ,
          
           
             By
             thee
             express
             so
             lively
             in
             my
             heart
             .
          
           
             Lend
             me
             ,
             when
             I
             this
             great
             Attempt
             shall
             try
             ,
          
           
             A
             Feather
             from
             thy
             Wing
             ,
             that
             whilst
             to
             write
          
           
             My
             hand
             's
             employ'd
             ,
             my
             Thoughts
             may
             soar
             on
             high
             :
          
           
             Thy
             Torch
             which
             fires
             our
             Hearts
             and
             burns
             so
             bright
          
           
             My
             darker
             Fancy
             ,
             let
             its
             Flame
             supply
             ,
          
           
             And
             thro'
             my
             numbers
             dart
             coelestial
             Light.
             
          
        
         
           
             Part
             of
             the
             last
             Scene
             of
             
               Seneca's
               Troas
            
             done
             into
             English
             ,
             Beginning
             at
             ,
             
               Est
               una
               magna
               Turris
               è
               Trojá
               super
               ,
            
             &c.
             
          
           
             By
             I.
             T.
             
          
           
             
               THere
               is
               a
               Tower
               from
               the
               Flame
               's
               Fury
               free
               ,
            
             
               Spar'd
               only
               for
               a
               greater
               Cruelty
               ;
            
             
               On
               whose
               high
               top
               old
               Priam
               us'd
               to
               stand
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               his
               Eye
               and
               Voice
               our
               Troops
               command
               .
            
             
             
               Here
               with
               his
               Princely
               Grand-child
               oft
               he
               stood
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               the
               Boy
               his
               Fathers
               Battels
               show'd
               .
            
             
               This
               Tow'r
               has
               once
               our
               chiefest
               Bulwark
               been
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               now
               of
               Blood
               and
               Death
               the
               dismal
               Scene
               .
            
             
               Hither
               the
               giddy
               Rabble
               flock'd
               to
               see
            
             
               With
               greedy
               eyes
               the
               helpless
               Infant
               dye
               .
            
             
               From
               this
               high
               Tow'r
               a
               pretty
               distant
               space
               ,
            
             
               A
               steep
               and
               lofty
               Hill
               commands
               the
               place
               ;
            
             
               On
               that
               a
               Rock
               ,
               on
               which
               the
               gazing
               Croud
               ,
            
             
               Big
               with
               the
               cruel
               Expectation
               ,
               stood
               .
            
             
               On
               all
               the
               neighb'ring
               Trees
               whole
               Armies
               sat
               ,
            
             
               The
               loaded
               Branches
               crack'd
               beneath
               their
               Weight
               .
            
             
               And
               one
               with
               haste
               some
               ragged
               Mount
               does
               climb
               ,
            
             
               Another
               (
               O
               the
               sacrilegious
               Crime
               !
               )
            
             
               Hangs
               on
               great
               
               Hector's
               Tomb
               ;
               One
               climbs
               a
               Wall
               ,
            
             
               Which
               ,
               with
               its
               wretched
               weight
               ,
               does
               quickly
               fall
               ,
            
             
               Lo
               !
               the
               Press
               breaks
               ,
               and
               big
               with
               cruel
               Joy
               ,
            
             
               The
               curs'd
               Ulysses
               leads
               the
               Princely
               Boy
               .
            
             
               Th'
               undaunted
               Youth
               mounts
               fearless
               to
               the
               place
               ,
            
             
               With
               Innocence
               triumphant
               in
               his
               face
               .
            
             
             
               When
               from
               the
               Tower
               he
               saw
               the
               gazing
               Rout
               ,
            
             
               Round
               him
               he
               flung
               a
               scornful
               Look
               about
               .
            
             
               So
               some
               fierce
               Lyon's
               Whelp
               ,
               whose
               tender
               Age
            
             
               Has
               not
               as
               yet
               well
               arm'd
               his
               toothless
               Rage
               ,
            
             
               With
               eager
               Fury
               whets
               his
               tender
               Claws
               ,
            
             
               And
               trys
               the
               utmost
               anger
               of
               his
               Jaws
               .
            
             
               Thus
               fearless
               the
               young
               Captive
               thither
               came
               ,
            
             
               And
               fill'd
               his
               cruel
               Murderers
               with
               shame
               .
            
             
               This
               when
               they
               saw
               ,
               strait
               the
               relenting
               Crowd
            
             
               In
               sighs
               and
               tears
               proclaim'd
               their
               Grief
               aloud
               :
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               ev'n
               Ulysses
               wept
               ,
               and
               '
               spight
               of
               all
            
             
               His
               Cruelty
               ,
               resistless
               Tears
               did
               fall
               .
            
             
               Then
               ,
               when
               the
               cruel
               Sacrifice
               was
               done
               ,
            
             
               (
               Pitty'd
               by
               all
               ,
               himself
               unmov'd
               alone
               ,
               )
            
             
               Down
               the
               deep
               Precipice
               himself
               he
               cast
               ,
            
             
               And
               '
               midst
               his
               
               Country's
               Ruines
               breath'd
               his
               last
               .
            
          
           
             
               When
               this
               was
               done
               ,
               at
               first
               the
               
                 Rabble
                 mourn'd
              
               ,
            
             
               But
               to
               a
               greater
               Cruelty
               return'd
               .
            
             
               With
               eager
               haste
               the
               barb'rous
               Grecians
               come
               ,
            
             
               And
               flock
               about
               the
               curs'd
               Achilles
               Tomb.
            
             
             
               This
               place
               was
               destin'd
               for
               the
               Scene
               of
               Blood
               ,
            
             
               On
               two
               near
               Hills
               the
               gazing
               Army
               stood
               ,
            
             
               Between
               a
               fatal
               Valley
               stretch'd
               out
               wide
               ,
            
             
               And
               Groves
               of
               Spears
               appear
               on
               ev'ry
               side
               .
            
             
               Here
               for
               the
               beauteous
               Maid
               they
               all
               attend
               ;
            
             
               Some
               glad
               that
               with
               her
               Life
               their
               Fears
               must
               end
               ;
            
             
               Most
               ,
               that
               she
               was
               the
               last
               of
               
                 Priam's
                 Stock
              
               ;
            
             
               Some
               seem
               to
               hate
               the
               Crimes
               on
               which
               they
               gladly
               look
               .
            
             
               And
               here
               and
               there
               a
               Trojan
               did
               appear
               ,
            
             
               Who
               came
               to
               see
               her
               dye
               ,
               and
               shed
               a
               tear
               .
            
          
           
             
               Then
               through
               a
               Lane
               of
               Grecians
               ,
               in
               a
               Row
               ,
            
             
               Before
               the
               Bride
               five
               nuptial
               Torches
               go
               :
            
             
               Next
               Helen
               follow'd
               ,
               hanging
               down
               her
               Head.
            
             
               (
               O
               may
               Hermione
               such
               a
               Husband
               wed
               !
               )
            
          
           
             
               Strait
               she
               appear'd
               alone
               ,
               with
               Looks
               might
               move
            
             
               Grief
               in
               each
               Trojan
               ,
               in
               each
               Grecian
               Love.
            
             
               Her
               Eyes
               she
               turn'd
               with
               Virgin-blushes
               down
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               her
               face
               unusual
               Beauties
               shone
               ;
            
             
               So
               Evening
               Blushes
               best
               adorn
               the
               Sun.
            
             
             
               Her
               Courage
               some
               ,
               and
               some
               her
               Beauty
               prais'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               all
               with
               various
               Passions
               strangely
               gaz'd
               ,
            
             
               Some
               sad
               ,
               some
               sham'd
               ,
               some
               weeping
               ,
               all
               amaz'd
               .
            
          
           
             
               Thus
               in
               
                 slow
                 state
              
               the
               mournful
               Train
               was
               come
               ,
            
             
               Where
               Pyrrhus
               standing
               on
               his
               
               Father's
               Tomb
               ,
            
             
               With
               cruel
               Anger
               held
               the
               fatal
               Knife
            
             
               Prepar'd
               to
               cut
               the
               tender
               thread
               of
               Life
               .
            
             
               Fearless
               she
               look'd
               her
               Murderer
               in
               the
               face
               ,
            
             
               Whilst
               Fear
               and
               Horror
               fill'd
               around
               the
               Place
               .
            
             
               Mov'd
               at
               her
               god-like
               Constancy
               ,
               he
               shook
               ,
            
             
               And
               scarce
               had
               Courage
               left
               to
               give
               the
               Stroak
               .
            
             
               Strait
               ,
               as
               the
               cruel
               Weapon
               reach'd
               her
               heart
               ,
            
             
               A
               Spring
               of
               vital
               Blood
               did
               quickly
               start
            
             
               Through
               the
               wide
               Wound
               .
               She
               still
               out-brav'd
               her
               Fate
               ,
            
             
               And
               made
               Achilles
               Ashes
               groan
               beneath
               her
               weight
               .
            
          
           
             
               What
               Tongue
               the
               Grief
               and
               Horror
               can
               express
            
             
               Which
               did
               both
               Parties
               equally
               possess
               ?
            
             
               In
               silent
               tears
               their
               Grief
               the
               Trojans
               show'd
               ;
            
             
               The
               howling
               Grecians
               spoke
               their
               sorrow
               loud
               .
            
             
             
               About
               the
               Tomb
               at
               first
               the
               Deluge
               flow'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               strait
               the
               thirsty
               Ashes
               drunk
               the
               sinking
               Blood.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             
               A
               POEM
            
             On
             the
             Death
             of
             our
             late
             Dread
             Sovereign
             ,
             
               Charles
               the
               Second
            
             ,
             of
             Blessed
             and
             Immortal
             Memory
             .
          
           
             
               Quo
               nil
               majus
               ,
               meliusve
               terris
            
             
               Fata
               donavere
               ,
               bonique
               Divi
            
             
               Nec
               dabunt
               ,
               quamvis
               redeunt
               in
               aurum
            
             
               Tempora
               Priscum
               .
            
             
               
                 Horat.
                 de
                 Aug.
                 Caesare
              
               .
            
          
           
             
               I.
               
            
             
               'T
               Is
               fall'n
               !
               the
               sacred
               Pile
               is
               fall'n
               ,
               and
               oh
               !
            
             
               How
               the
               Earth
               shook
               at
               the
               stupendious
               Blow
               !
            
             
               The
               trembling
               Rocks
               their
               strong
               Foundations
               shook
               ,
            
             
               Their
               dismal
               caves
               were
               fill'd
               with
               horrid
               groans
               ;
            
             
               And
               lo
               !
               the
               sad
               condoling
               moans
            
             
             
               Fright'ned
               the
               neighbouring
               hills
               around
            
             
               With
               the
               dismaying
               sound
               .
            
             
               The
               lofty'st
               Mount
               hung
               down
               its
               vast
               astonish'd
               head
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               impending
               terror
               cast
               a
               look
            
             
               That
               seem'd
               to
               dread
            
             
               The
               dire
               event
               of
               such
               a
               fatal
               stroak
               .
            
             
               The
               wretched
               
               Albion's
               renown'd
               shore
               ,
            
             
               That
               not
               the
               terrifying
               sight
            
             
               Of
               
               Caesar's
               conqu'ring
               Arms
               cou'd
               fright
               ,
            
             
               That
               had
               so
               many
               thousand
               Ages
               o're
               ,
            
             
               The
               wild
               impetuous
               rage
               of
               wreaking
               Tempests
               bore
               ;
            
             
               Rending
               with
               Fear
               ,
               methought
               look'd
               paler
               than
               before
               .
            
          
           
             
               II.
               
            
             
               Oh!
               't
               was
               a
               dismal
               day
               !
            
             
               The
               Heav'ns
               ,
               't
               is
               true
               ,
               were
               all
               serene
               &
               bright
               ;
            
             
               The
               radiant
               Monarch
               of
               the
               starry
               hoast
            
             
               Shon
               with
               re-doubled
               Light
               ;
            
             
               As
               well
               indeed
               the
               splendid
               Sov'reign
               might
               :
            
             
             
               For
               if
               ,
               as
               learn'd
               Traditions
               say
               ,
            
             
               Myriads
               of
               Hero's
               Souls
               adorn
               the
               milky
               way
               ;
            
             
               Not
               since
               the
               fiery
               Atomes
               were
            
             
               Center'd
               in
               one
               eternal
               burning
               sphear
               ;
            
             
               Can
               the
               bright
               Ruler
               of
               Aetherial
               Air
               ,
            
             
               So
               glorious
               ,
               so
               divine
               a
               Constellation
               boast
               .
            
             
               But
               oh
               !
               when
               we
               our
               Guardian
               Angel
               lost
               ,
            
             
               What
               Deluges
               of
               Tears
               the
               mournful
               World
               it
               cost
               !
            
             
               Distracted
               terror
               seiz'd
               on
               ev'ry
               place
               ,
            
             
               And
               wild
               amazement
               sat
               on
               ev'ry
               face
               :
            
             
               Swift
               as
               the
               Winds
               ,
               and
               fatal
               too
            
             
               As
               the
               contagious
               drops
               of
               baleful
               Dew
               ,
            
             
               Through
               distant
               Realms
               the
               dreadful
               Tidings
               flew
               .
            
             
               As
               o're
               the
               blasted
               Fields
               ,
               the
               killing
               Accents
               spread
               ,
            
             
               That
               Charles
               ,
               their
               Gracious
               Lord
               ,
               the
               King
               was
               dead
               ,
            
             
               The
               Tiller's
               Hands
               drop'd
               from
               his
               lab'ring
               Plough
               ;
            
             
               No
               more
               ,
               he
               cry'd
               ,
               the
               fertile
               Gleab
               I
               'll
               sow
               ;
            
             
               For
               what
               ,
               alas
               !
               avails
               the
               richest
               Harvest
               now
               !
            
             
             
               On
               the
               bleak
               Mountains
               Shepherds
               raving
               lay
               ,
            
             
               And
               flung
               their
               well-fill'd
               Scrips
               and
               tuneful
               Pipes
               away
               .
            
             
               On
               the
               steep
               Cliffs
               of
               dang'rous
               Rocks
               ,
            
             
               Their
               once-lov'd
               Kids
               ,
               and
               tender
               Flocks
               ,
            
             
               To
               ev'ry
               Wolf
               expos'd
               an
               easie
               Prey
               ,
            
             
               Bleating
               their
               Sorrows
               ,
               wander'd
               far
               astray
               .
            
             
               Round
               his
               young
               Darlings's
               Neck
               the
               rev'rend
               Sire
               ,
            
             
               (
               With
               horror
               struck
               ,
               and
               ready
               to
               expire
               )
            
             
               His
               trembling
               Limbs
               ,
               for
               a
               support
               ,
               he
               spread
               ,
            
             
               But
               from
               his
               lovely
               Face
               turn'd
               off
               his
               aged
               head
               ,
            
             
               Unable
               and
               unfit
               to
               undergo
            
             
               The
               bitter
               weight
               of
               their
               united
               Woe
               .
            
             
               With
               Hair
               dishevell'd
               ,
               &
               their
               Garments
               torn
               ,
            
             
               Afflicted
               Matrons
               wish'd
               their
               Babes
               unborn
               :
            
             
               Unkindly
               snatch'd
               from
               the
               soft
               Breast
               ,
            
             
               Where
               they
               were
               fondly
               lull'd
               all
               night
               to
               rest
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               full
               Lux'ry
               wanton'd
               all
               the
               day
               ,
            
             
               The
               poor
               neglected
               Infants
               weeping
               lay
               ;
            
             
               They
               both
               involv'd
               in
               one
               sad
               Fate
               appear'd
               ,
            
             
               The
               tears
               of
               both
               unpitty'd
               ,
               their
               loud
               Cries
               unheard
               .
            
             
             
               Ne're
               sure
               was
               Man
               lamented
               so
               before
               ;
            
             
               In
               the
               small
               Plains
               of
               ●…oab
               was
               alone
            
             
               The
               hideous
               Pomp
               of
               Sorrow
               shewn
               ,
            
             
               When
               Israel
               did
               the
               Death
               of
               their
               best
               Kings
               deplore
               .
            
             
               But
               now
               ,
               behold
               !
               ev'ry
               wild
               barb'rous
               shore
            
             
               Does
               the
               insufferable
               loss
               of
               our
               dear
               Prince
               bemoan
               ;
            
             
               So
               well
               were
               ,
               thro'
               all
               Realms
               ,
               his
               God-like
               Vertues
               known
               .
            
             
               Blended
               together
               in
               the
               dismal
               Lot
               ,
            
             
               Our
               very
               Griefs
               were
               with
               our
               Joys
               forgot
               :
            
             
               The
               vilest
               Poverty
               ,
               and
               worst
               of
               pain
               ,
            
             
               Oppress'd
               the
               starving
               indigent
               in
               vain
               ;
            
             
               The
               raging
               Stone
               ,
               and
               ev'ry
               sad
               Disease
               ,
            
             
               Like
               spreading
               Plagues
               ,
               did
               greater
               torments
               seize
               .
            
             
               He
               fell
               ,
               alas
               !
               as
               the
               devouring
               Serpent
               rose
               ;
            
             
               That
               dire
               Calamity
               did
               all
               the
               rest
               depose
               .
            
             
               As
               when
               in
               Darkness
               deep
               as
               ancient
               night
               ,
            
             
               The
               sudden
               blaze
               of
               a
               consuming
               Light
               ,
            
             
               With
               Ruin
               ,
               Spoil
               ,
               and
               livid
               Flames
               ,
               burns
               down
               ,
            
             
               The
               tow'ring
               Fabricks
               of
               a
               stately
               Town
               :
            
             
             
               When
               melting
               Shrines
               &
               solemn
               Temples
               rise
               ,
            
             
               Like
               blazing
               Meteors
               in
               the
               threaten'd
               Skies
               ,
            
             
               Such
               were
               the
               shrieks
               of
               Woe
               ,
               such
               the
               bewailing
               Cries
               .
            
             
               And
               oh
               !
               when
               Fate
               seal'd
               the
               lov'd
               Monarch's
               doom
               ,
            
             
               Both
               Fire
               and
               Sword
               ,
               &
               Pestilence
               were
               come
               ,
            
             
               Till
               our
               new
               Prophet
               rais'd
               his
               mighty
               hand
               ,
            
             
               Subdued
               the
               Host
               of
               Plagues
               ,
               and
               heal'd
               the
               groaning
               Land.
               
            
          
           
             
               III.
               
            
             
               Deep
               were
               the
               marks
               of
               Grief
               in
               ev'ry
               face
               ,
            
             
               That
               bore
               the
               stamp
               of
               humane
               Race
               :
            
             
               With
               Adoration
               to
               the
               sacred
               shade
               ,
            
             
               A
               Subject's
               Tribute
               ev'ry
               Subject
               paid
               .
            
             
               But
               oh
               !
               what
               Heart
               cou'd
               bear
               ,
               what
               Tongue
               express
               ,
            
             
               The
               racking
               torture
               ,
               and
               forlorn
               distress
               ,
            
             
               The
               Royal
               Mourners
               felt
               that
               woeful
               day
               ,
            
             
               When
               the
               dear
               Peace
               of
               all
               Mankind
               departing
               lay
               !
            
             
             
               The
               gorgeous
               Palace
               all
               around
            
             
               With
               shining
               Architraves
               was
               richly
               crown'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               〈◊〉
               of
               burnish'd
               Gold
               the
               wealthy
               Pil●…●…own'd
               ;
            
             
               With
               Ada●…t
               ,
               and
               ev'ry
               precious
               Stone
               ,
            
             
               The
               high
               ●…lted
               awful
               Throne
               ,
            
             
               Magnificent
               ,
               with
               ●…eaming
               Glory
               shon
            
             
               Bright
               ,
               as
               the
               Imperial
               seat
               of
               deathless
               Gods
               :
            
             
               Yet
               in
               a
               moment
               〈◊〉
               the
               blest
               Abodes
               ,
            
             
               Without
               the
               Pomp
               〈◊〉
               ●…onious
               Woe
               ,
            
             
               Black
               ,
               dismal
               ,
               loath'd
               as
               the
               d●…d
               shades
               below
               .
            
             
               Senseless
               as
               Statues
               ,
               in
               deep
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               ●…nd
               ,
            
             
               Stood
               all
               the
               sad
               Attendants
               〈◊〉
            
             
               In
               Floods
               of
               their
               own
               tears
               ,
               like
               stre●…
               tains
               drown'd
               .
            
             
               Not
               when
               inexorable
               Death
            
             
               Seiz'd
               her
               imperial
               Lord's
               last
               gasp
               of
               ●…eath
               ,
            
             
               The
               precious
               Corps
               so
               pale
               and
               ghastly
               lay
               ,
            
             
               As
               when
               the
               fair
               unspotted
               face
            
             
               Of
               the
               dear
               Partner
               of
               his
               Royal
               Bed
               ;
            
             
               Drops
               ,
               such
               as
               Angels
               weep
               ,
               the
               holy
               Consort
               shed
               .
            
             
             
               And
               knowing
               well
               the
               way
            
             
               To
               the
               bright
               Throne
               of
               everlasting
               Grace
               ,
            
             
               With
               never-ceasing
               Supplications
               pray'd
            
             
               To
               the
               good
               Gods
               ,
               for
               their
               propitious
               Aid
               .
            
             
               Zealous
               and
               fervent
               at
               Heavens
               Gate
               she
               stood
               ,
            
             
               With
               ardent
               Raptures
               ,
               interceding
               more
            
             
               For
               that
               one
               precious
               Life
               ,
               than
               when
               the
               flood
            
             
               Had
               swept
               the
               face
               of
               Earth
               ,
               and
               at
               the
               sacred
               Shrine
            
             
               Of
               honour'd
               
                 Themis
                 ,
                 Pyrrha
              
               did
               implore
            
             
               The
               Powers
               divine
               ,
            
             
               They
               would
               again
               the
               perish'd
               Race
               of
               Man
               restore
               .
            
             
               Tho
               often
               she
               before
               ,
            
             
               But
               for
               short
               Absence
               had
               endur'd
               the
               smart
            
             
               Which
               Bodies
               feel
               when
               from
               their
               Souls
               they
               part
               ;
            
             
               In
               that
               deplorable
               emergent
               horror
               ,
            
             
               Grief
               ,
               like
               her
               gracious
               Lord's
               Disease
               ,
            
             
               Did
               her
               rent
               Heart
               so
               violently
               seize
               ;
            
             
               Which
               nearest
               was
               the
               Grave
               cou'd
               scarce
               be
               seen
               ,
            
             
               The
               dying
               Monarch
               ,
               or
               the
               living
               Queen
               .
            
          
           
             
             
               IV.
               
            
             
               But
               now
               at
               length
               ,
               altho
               omitted
               long
               ,
            
             
               And
               willingly
               indeed
               delay'd
               ,
            
             
               Must
               by
               my
               bold
               ,
               advent'rous
               Song
               ,
            
             
               Its
               homage
               ,
               where
               ●…t
               is
               most
               due
               ,
               be
               paid
               .
            
             
               But
               how
               the
               Scene
               of
               horror
               can
               be
               wrought
            
             
               Enough
               tormenting
               to
               the
               sight
               or
               thought
               ,
            
             
               Tell
               me
               ,
               ye
               sacred
               Pow'rs
               that
               know
               ;
            
             
               If
               you
               your selves
               the
               misery
               can
               shew
               ,
            
             
               And
               humane
               Soul
               the
               sad
               Infusion
               bear
               .
            
             
               To
               tears
               abandon'd
               ,
               and
               hard
               Grief
               forlorn
               ,
            
             
               How
               did
               the
               Royal
               Pair
               their
               parting
               mourn
               !
            
             
               What
               Desolation
               ,
               vehement
               Despair
               ,
            
             
               And
               sighing
               Tempests
               fill'd
               the
               groaning
               Air
               !
            
             
               Tho
               noblest
               Courage
               his
               great
               Soul
               does
               arm
               ,
            
             
               Against
               the
               fear
               of
               any
               mortal
               harm
               ;
            
             
               And
               even
               then
               ,
               the
               Loyal
               Iames
               did
               shew
            
             
               Brave
               and
               mignificent
               in
               mighty
               ●…oe
               :
            
             
               What
               furious
               Torrents
               burst
               his
               gushing
               Eyes
               ,
            
             
               When
               he
               cry'd
               out
               —
               the
               King
               !
               —
               Oh
               my
               lov'd
               Brother
               dies
               !
            
             
             
               The
               last
               dear
               gasp
               of
               Breath
               ,
               and
               dying
               Groan
               ,
            
             
               He
               took
               ,
               when
               he
               had
               scarce
               another
               of
               his
               own
               ;
            
             
               Tho
               from
               the
               Minute
               that
               Great
               Charles
               was
               dead
               ,
            
             
               A
               glorious
               Crown
               descended
               on
               his
               Head
               ,
            
             
               And
               three
               vast
               Realms
               his
               awful
               Scepter
               sway'd
               .
            
             
               Who
               that
               beheld
               him
               (
               scarce
               of
               Mortal
               Birth
               )
            
             
               Groveling
               in
               dust
               and
               tears
               ,
               upon
               the
               Earth
               ,
            
             
               Wou'd
               ●…ot
               believe
               ,
               so
               much
               the
               change
               had
               cost
               ,
            
             
               He
               at
               that
               Moment
               the
               World's
               Empire
               lost
               ?
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               even
               when
               it
               was
               too
               late
            
             
               To
               grieve
               against
               irrevocable
               Fate
               ;
            
             
               When
               the
               blest
               King
               was
               rais'd
               ,
               from
               dark
               abodes
            
             
               To
               the
               bright
               Synod
               of
               immortal
               Gods
               ;
            
             
               His
               tender
               Passion
               ,
               and
               fraternal
               Love
               ,
            
             
               Like
               a
               declining
               Tempest
               strove
               ;
            
             
               Still
               in
               his
               Breast
               the
               rowling
               Surges
               move
               ,
            
             
               As
               if
               his
               Regal
               Ornaments
               were
               more
            
             
               Envenom'd
               than
               the
               poyson'd
               Robe
               Alcydes
               wore
               .
            
          
           
             
               V.
               
            
             
               Who
               cou'd
               have
               thought
               ,
               the
               Mighty
               Charles
               so
               well
            
             
               Supported
               ,
               cou'd
               so
               soon
               have
               fell
               ?
            
             
             
               While
               the
               brave
               Prince
               in
               rugged
               War
               ,
               did
               weild
            
             
               With
               dauntless
               Courage
               his
               magestick
               shield
               ;
            
             
               And
               as
               of
               old
               ,
               Anchises
               pious
               Son
            
             
               Thro'
               flaming
               Arms
               ,
               to
               save
               a
               Father
               run
               ;
            
             
               Tho
               Death
               he
               often
               met
               i'
               th
               dreaded
               forms
            
             
               Of
               fiercest
               Battels
               and
               the
               loudest
               Storms
               ;
            
             
               Such
               rev'rent
               Homage
               did
               his
               Valour
               draw
               ,
            
             
               The
               deform'd
               Tyrant
               still
               he
               kept
               in
               awe
               .
            
             
               But
               oh
               !
               what
               treacherous
               Fate
            
             
               Does
               on
               the
               best
               of
               humane
               Glories
               wait
               !
            
             
               Whilst
               smiling
               Cupids
               round
               his
               Head
               did
               play
               ;
            
             
               As
               in
               the
               midst
               of
               flowing
               Joys
               he
               lay
               ,
            
             
               The
               grisly
               Monster
               seiz'd
               the
               noble
               Prey
               .
            
             
               So
               when
               in
               dead
               of
               night
               ,
            
             
               All
               things
               ,
               but
               Lust
               and
               Envy
               ,
               are
               on
               earth
            
             
               Silent
               ,
               as
               e're
               from
               Chaos
               ,
               light
            
             
               Or
               motion
               took
               its
               sacred
               Birth
               ;
            
             
               And
               suddenly
               a
               strong
               invading
               Foe
            
             
               With
               swift
               approach
               of
               dismal
               Woe
            
             
               From
               secret
               Ambush
               rusheth
               on
            
             
               A
               fearless
               and
               unguarded
               Town
               .
            
             
             
               In
               Death
               the
               murder'd
               sleepers
               rowl
               their
               eyes
               ,
            
             
               To
               everlasting
               Death
               awake
               with
               hideous
               Cries
               ;
            
             
               And
               by
               unmanly
               force
               the
               brave
               ignobly
               dies
               .
            
             
               In
               vain
               to
               Heav'n
               assembling
               Prophets
               call
               ,
            
             
               In
               vain
               ,
               alas
               !
               with
               barb'rous
               Arts
               did
               all
            
             
               
               Apollo's
               learned'st
               Sons
               obstruct
               his
               Fall.
            
             
               Tho
               long
               the
               rev'rend
               lofty
               tree
               has
               stood
            
             
               On
               
               Aeta's
               top
               ,
               the
               glory
               of
               the
               Wood
               ,
            
             
               And
               oft
               the
               wildest
               Tempests
               foyl'd
               ;
               one
               stroke
            
             
               From
               
               Iove's
               vast
               Trident
               ,
               rives
               the
               sacred
               Oak
               .
            
             
               But
               surely
               Fate
               of
               common
               Vengeance
               weary
               grows
               ,
            
             
               And
               seeks
               new
               Magazines
               of
               blacker
               Woes
               ;
            
             
               A
               tyrannous
               strength
               she
               cruelly
               imparts
               ,
            
             
               That
               we
               ,
               with
               fiercer
               pangs
               ,
               may
               break
               our
               Hearts
               :
            
             
               For
               ,
               as
               from
               the
               supream
               sov'reign
               head
            
             
               The
               baleful
               Juice
               thro'
               all
               the
               Body
               's
               spread
               ;
            
             
               Strait
               ,
               when
               the
               sad
               disease
               Great
               Charles
               had
               struck
            
             
               With
               dire
               Convulsions
               ,
               the
               whole
               Nation
               shook
               .
            
             
               But
               ,
               when
               the
               blooming
               hopes
               of
               Life
               return'd
               ,
            
             
               No
               longer
               the
               disast'rous
               Fate
               we
               mourn'd
               ;
            
             
             
               Dilated
               Spirits
               fill'd
               our
               enlarg'd
               souls
               ,
            
             
               And
               joy
               flow'd
               in
               ,
               with
               wild
               impetuous
               rowls
               .
            
             
               But
               oh
               !
               to
               the
               unfathom'd
               dark
               Abyss
               of
               Hell
               ,
            
             
               Down
               from
               the
               highest
               Pinacle
               of
               Heav'n
               we
               fell
               !
            
             
               While
               ,
               like
               the
               wretched
               Thracian
               Bard
               ,
            
             
               (
               Our
               toyl's
               as
               great
               ,
               and
               destiny
               as
               hard
               )
            
             
               We
               thought
               we
               had
               redeem'd
               the
               Royal
               Prize
               ;
            
             
               The
               glorious
               Vision
               ravish'd
               from
               our
               eyes
               .
            
          
           
             
               VI.
               
            
             
               Howl
               on
               ,
               ye
               vile
               detested
               murm'ring
               Race
               ,
            
             
               Your
               God's
               dishonour
               ,
               &
               your
               King's
               disgrace
               ;
            
             
               Shave
               your
               rebellious
               Heads
               ,
               in
               Ashes
               rowl
               ,
            
             
               And
               gnash
               your
               wide
               devouring
               Jaws
               ,
               ye
               foul
            
             
               Degen'rate
               Race
               ,
               and
               ever
               howl
               .
            
             
               Dead
               is
               the
               wond'rous
               Prince
               ,
               whose
               sacred
               hand
            
             
               By
               Miracles
               was
               rais'd
               to
               bless
               the
               Land
               :
            
             
               God's
               own
               eternal
               Arm
               must
               sure
               have
               rose
            
             
               For
               deeds
               so
               glorious
               ,
               had
               not
               his
               been
               chose
               .
            
             
               Contagious
               Plagues
               as
               e're
               Philistines
               felt
               ,
            
             
               Long
               in
               our
               impious
               loathsome
               Aegypt
               dwelt
               :
            
             
             
               The
               Royal
               Prophet
               came
               ,
               and
               all
               were
               cur'd
               :
            
             
               But
               still
               their
               harden'd
               hearts
               indur'd
               ;
            
             
               And
               his
               triumphant
               Patience
               those
               inur'd
               .
            
             
               To
               
               Moloch's
               bloody
               Idol
               ,
               the
               sad
               Cries
            
             
               Of
               barb'rous
               humane
               Sacrifice
               ,
            
             
               In
               spight
               of
               their
               grim
               sounds
               ,
               ascend
               the
               skies
               .
            
             
               Here
               ,
               as
               in
               Tophet
               or
               Gehinnon
               ,
               stood
            
             
               The
               savage
               Blutton
               gorg'd
               in
               Blood
               :
            
             
               But
               lo
               !
               from
               his
               bright
               Scepter
               ,
               as
               a
               charming
               rod
               ,
            
             
               Did
               a
               new
               Miracle
               arise
               :
            
             
               A
               purple
               Lake
               't
               is
               now
               no
               more
               ,
            
             
               To
               chrystal
               Streams
               is
               turn'd
               the
               putrid
               gore
               .
            
             
               Our
               well-●…ig'd
               Isle
               in
               gath'ring
               Storms
               was
               tost
               ,
            
             
               It
               s
               sacred
               Pilot
               in
               the
               Tempest
               lost
               ;
            
             
               And
               in
               a
               mad
               devouring
               Sea
               ,
            
             
               Like
               a
               vast
               shipwrack'd
               Hull
               ,
               this
               floating
               Delos
               lay
               .
            
             
               But
               Charles
               ,
               the
               mighty
               Ruler
               of
               the
               Flood
               ,
            
             
               Triumphant
               o're
               the
               swelling
               Billows
               rod
               ;
            
             
               Three
               Realms
               his
               Trident
               ,
               he
               our
               mortal
               God.
            
             
               Safely
               we
               now
               ,
               as
               in
               close
               Harbour
               ride
               ;
            
             
               Great
               Britains
               Glory
               ,
               and
               the
               Ocean's
               Pride
            
             
             
               Braving
               the
               rage
               of
               Land
               and
               Sea
               ,
               it
               stands
            
             
               Firm
               ,
               as
               the
               Continents
               his
               Sword
               commands
               .
            
             
               Then
               what
               can
               mildest
               Justice
               all
            
             
               Those
               Rebel
               earth-born
               Monsters
               call
               ;
            
             
               Who
               in
               return
               of
               such
               stupendious
               Love
               ,
            
             
               With
               vile
               Ingratitude
               not
               only
               strove
            
             
               Against
               the
               pow'r
               of
               their
               Imperial
               Iove
               ;
            
             
               But
               impiously
               sought
               the
               divine
               Monarch's
               fall
               .
            
             
               So
               the
               bright
               Regent
               of
               eternal
               day
            
             
               Does
               round
               the
               Earth
               his
               Orient
               Beams
               display
               ;
            
             
               The
               vital
               Lamp
               warms
               the
               prolifick
               Juice
               ,
            
             
               And
               animates
               all
               things
               of
               noblest
               use
               .
            
             
               Thence
               springs
               the
               tow'ring
               Cedar
               ,
               lofty
               Pine
               ,
            
             
               The
               branching
               Palm
               ,
               and
               purple
               Vine
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               from
               the
               blest
               Influence
               of
               the
               skies
               ,
            
             
               Does
               the
               vile
               putrid
               race
               of
               Toads
               &
               Vipers
               rise
               .
            
          
           
             
               VII
               .
            
             
               Pardon
               ,
               thou
               royal
               ,
               meek
               ,
               propitious
               Shade
               ,
            
             
               The
               humble
               Offering
               my
               Tears
               have
               made
               ;
            
             
             
               Forgive
               my
               Zeal
               ,
               if
               on
               thy
               peaceful
               Urn
            
             
               Sad
               Incense
               with
               unhallow'd
               hands
               I
               burn
               ,
            
             
               Unpractio'd
               ,
               and
               unskill'd
               in
               tuneful
               Numbers
               ,
               mourn
               .
            
             
               Such
               loose
               unsinew'd
               disproportion'd
               Verse
               ,
            
             
               The
               mournful
               tale
               of
               Sorrow
               may
               rehearse
               .
            
             
               But
               oh
               !
               if
               I
               must
               sing
            
             
               Th'
               amazing
               Glories
               of
               my
               gracious
               King
               ;
            
             
               Whither
               ,
               my
               Muse
               !
               O
               whither
               wilt
               thou
               fly
               ?
            
             
               Cou'dst
               thou
               ,
               on
               mounting
               Wing
               ,
               Olympus
               high
               ,
            
             
               To
               
               Sinai's
               mystick
               Head
               ,
               or
               Oreb
               soar
               ?
            
             
               Alas
               !
               those
               sacred
               Oracles
               are
               now
               no
               more
               !
            
             
               Nor
               shalt
               thou
               dain
               to
               hear
               the
               frantick
               dreams
            
             
               Of
               Delphic
               Furies
               ,
               or
               Castalian
               Streams
               .
            
             
               Yet
               sure
               ,
               without
               the
               sacred
               Fire
            
             
               Which
               bright
               
               Idea's
               did
               of
               old
               inspire
               ,
            
             
               No
               mortal
               hand
               a
               Monument
               can
               raise
            
             
               Commensurate
               to
               Charles
               his
               god-like
               Praise
               .
            
             
               On
               a
               small
               Stone
               may
               be
               inscrib'd
               his
               Name
               ,
            
             
               But
               the
               long
               story
               of
               his
               endless
               Fame
            
             
             
               Will
               want
               a
               Pyramide
               ,
            
             
               
                 As
                 high
                 as
                 Heaven
                 the
                 top
                 ,
                 as
                 Earth
                 the
                 Basis
                 wide
                 .
              
            
             
               'T
               is
               a
               vast
               trackless
               Ocean
               ;
               all
               around
            
             
               No
               shore
               ,
               no
               land
               ,
               no
               end
               is
               found
               .
            
             
               The
               glorious
               scale
               appears
               before
               my
               Eyes
            
             
               With
               bright
               Angelick
               forms
               ,
               I
               see
               it
               rise
               ,
            
             
               And
               mounted
               the
               top
               rounds
               ,
               above
               the
               starry
               skies
               .
            
             
               Behold
               ,
               the
               fair
               Heroick
               train
            
             
               Does
               in
               Eternal
               Circles
               move
               ;
            
             
               And
               like
               Fate
               's
               everlasting
               well
               —
               wrought
               Chain
               ,
            
             
               Is
               fix'd
               to
               the
               immortal
               Throne
               of
               deathless
               Iove
               .
            
          
           
             
               VIII
               .
            
             
               Ye
               radiant
               Sons
               of
               uncreated
               Light
               ,
            
             
               Who
               ,
               with
               melodious
               Hymns
               ,
               day
               without
               night
               ;
            
             
               Time
               without
               end
               ,
               to
               the
               most
               High
               ,
            
             
               Your
               loud
               
               Hosanna's
               cry
               :
            
             
               Ye
               beauteous
               Spirits
               ,
               who
               so
               oft
               above
               ,
            
             
               Have
               met
               in
               Festivals
               of
               Joy
               and
               Love
               ;
            
             
             
               Say
               ,
               for
               the
               stunning
               sounds
               you
               bore
               ,
            
             
               When
               the
               bright
               Saint
               arriv'd
               your
               blessed
               shore
               ,
            
             
               If
               such
               a
               Voice
               of
               Triumph
               e're
               was
               heard
               before
               .
            
             
               Fill'd
               with
               surpassing
               wonder
               and
               delight
            
             
               At
               the
               amazing
               sight
               ;
            
             
               Their
               golden
               Harps
               the
               wing'd
               Musicians
               strung
               ;
            
             
               Through
               the
               Coelestial
               Quire
               ,
               each
               warbling
               Tongue
               ,
            
             
               With
               holy
               Rapture
               Hallelujahs
               sung
               :
            
             
               The
               Heav'ns
               ,
               and
               all
               the
               Constellations
               round
               ,
            
             
               Did
               to
               th'
               ascending
               Pomp
               resound
               ;
            
             
               The
               universal
               Orb
               with
               joyful
               Paeans
               rung
               .
            
             
               Scarce
               had
               his
               flaming
               Guard
               pass'd
               by
            
             
               The
               gloomy
               Regions
               of
               the
               darker
               sky
               ,
            
             
               But
               strait
               thro'
               all
               the
               Hoast
               of
               Heaven
            
             
               Was
               the
               loud
               Signal
               giv'n
               :
            
             
               Far
               as
               the
               atmost
               hallow'd
               Limits
               ;
               round
            
             
               Th'
               Angelick
               Camp
               ,
               was
               heard
               the
               potent
               sound
               :
            
             
               The
               shining
               Warriours
               hasten'd
               all
            
             
               To
               their
               bright
               Hierarch's
               Imperial
               Call.
            
             
             
               Flags
               ,
               Pennons
               ,
               Banners
               ,
               Van
               and
               Rear
               ,
            
             
               Embellish'd
               thick
               with
               Gems
               ,
               stream'd
               in
               Ambrosian
               Air.
            
             
               Oh
               cou'd
               our
               mortal
               eyes
               have
               seen
            
             
               The
               watchful
               Cherubin
            
             
               Open
               the
               everlasting
               Gate
               ;
            
             
               And
               have
               beheld
               in
               what
               a
               blissful
               state
               ,
            
             
               How
               glorify'd
               ,
               th'
               applauded
               Sov'reign
               rode
            
             
               Thro'
               the
               wide
               ample
               Road
            
             
               Of
               wond'ring
               Angels
               ,
               to
               the
               Seat
               of
               God!
            
             
               On
               Adamantine
               Columns
               hung
               ,
            
             
               Thick
               as
               Hyblean
               swarms
               ,
               the
               bright
               seraphick
               Throng
               ;
            
             
               And
               as
               he
               pass'd
               along
               ,
            
             
               With
               ardent
               looks
               on
               their
               new
               Saint
               they
               gaz'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               his
               transcendent
               Glories
               loudly
               prais'd
               .
            
             
               When
               round
               his
               blest
               anointed
               Head
               ,
            
             
               In
               mystic
               forms
               ,
               the
               royal
               drops
               were
               shed
               ;
            
             
               The
               high
               Eternal
               Priest
               his
               Temples
               grac'd
            
             
               With
               Crowns
               of
               Crysolite
               that
               never
               waste
               .
            
             
               And
               scarce
               the
               starry
               Zone
            
             
               Was
               by
               the
               holy
               ministring
               hand
               put
               on
               ,
            
             
             
               But
               strait
               ,
               through
               the
               wide
               Continent
               of
               spacious
               Heav'n
            
             
               Were
               shouts
               of
               highest
               Acclamation
               giv'n
               :
            
             
               With
               sweetest
               breath
               of
               charming
               Symphonies
               ,
            
             
               Carols
               of
               Joy
               ,
               and
               loud
               Thanksgiving
               Cries
               ,
            
             
               The
               glorious
               Host
               proclaim'd
               him
               ever
               blest
            
             
               In
               that
               eternal
               Paradise
               of
               Rest.
               
            
          
           
             
               IX
               .
            
             
               Guard
               us
               ,
               ye
               sacred
               Powers
               !
               and
               guard
               your
               own
            
             
               Immortal
               ,
               Empyreal
               Throne
               ;
            
             
               Lest
               ,
               as
               Idolaters
               of
               old
               ,
            
             
               Great
               Charles
               his
               dazling
               Brightness
               we
               behold
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               Coelestial
               Globe
               so
               long
               admire
               ,
            
             
               Till
               we
               fall
               down
               in
               Adoration
               to
               the
               glorious
               fire
               .
            
             
               Sure
               the
               Almighty
               God
            
             
               Consulted
               with
               himself
               ,
               and
               said
               ,
            
             
               He
               not
               in
               Nature's
               common
               road
               ,
            
             
               But
               as
               their
               first
               great
               Parent
               ,
               shall
               be
               made
               ;
            
             
               So
               the
               
                 Divine
                 Particle
              
               from
               his
               own
               Essence
               flow'd
               .
            
             
             
               To
               make
               his
               Image
               eminently
               great
               ,
            
             
               He
               trusted
               not
               to
               the
               slight
               hand
               of
               Fate
               ,
            
             
               But
               to
               his
               own
               ineffable
               Idea
               ,
               sat
               .
            
             
               Oh
               might
               we
               worship
               now
               the
               Pow'rs
               divine
            
             
               In
               any
               outward
               form
               !
               then
               surely
               thine
               ,
            
             
               As
               Gods
               best
               Mirror
               ,
               shou'd
               ,
               Great
               Charles
               ,
               be
               mine
               .
            
             
               Of
               intellectual
               first
               causes
               we
               ,
            
             
               Nothing
               but
               by
               effects
               can
               see
               ;
            
             
               And
               Heav'ns
               most
               lovely
               Attributes
               were
               all
               in
               thee
               .
            
             
               When
               most
               severe
               ,
               around
               his
               awful
               Throne
               ,
            
             
               With
               dawning
               beams
               th'
               exalted
               Cherub
               shon
               ,
            
             
               Easie
               and
               placable
               his
               bending
               ear
            
             
               The
               softest
               Voice
               of
               Misery
               did
               hear
               .
            
             
               When
               his
               vile
               Subjects
               any
               Crimes
               had
               done
               ,
            
             
               They
               safely
               to
               their
               injur'd
               Sov'reign
               run
               ;
            
             
               As
               if
               the
               upright
               Judge
               had
               heard
               a
               Cause
            
             
               That
               violated
               God's
               and
               Nature's
               Laws
               :
            
             
               Divine
               Compassion
               in
               his
               Looks
               appear'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               long
               his
               just
               Decree
               the
               gracious
               King
               deferr'd
               .
            
             
             
               Favour
               unsought
               ,
               and
               such
               prevenient
               Grace
               ,
            
             
               With
               cheerful
               Majesty
               adorn'd
               his
               Face
               ,
            
             
               That
               scarcely
               was
               the
               Mercy-seat
               of
               God
            
             
               More
               mild
               ,
               than
               the
               indulgent
               Throne
               on
               which
               he
               trod
               .
            
          
           
             
               X.
               
            
             
               Tell
               me
               !
               oh
               tell
               me
               ,
               all
               ye
               wither'd
               Scrowls
               ,
            
             
               Aegyptian
               Records
               of
               Dynastian
               Race
               ;
            
             
               Imperial
               Rome
               ,
               that
               loudly
               from
               of
               old
            
             
               The
               deeds
               of
               your
               illustrious
               Hero's
               told
               ;
            
             
               And
               thou
               ,
               O
               Time
               !
               whose
               envious
               brazen
               rowls
            
             
               Do
               all
               Memorials
               but
               thy
               own
               deface
               ;
            
             
               Tell
               me
               ,
               if
               e're
               Humanity
               so
               well
               ,
            
             
               So
               gloriously
               suffer'd
               !
               reign'd
               !
               and
               fell
               !
            
             
               Oh!
               had
               he
               flourish'd
               in
               the
               Ages
               past
               ,
            
             
               Eternal
               Triumphs
               wou'd
               their
               King
               have
               grac'd
            
             
               In
               ev'ry
               shining
               ,
               Capitol
               had
               stood
            
             
               Honours
               divine
               ador'd
               him
               as
               he
               rode
               ;
            
             
               His
               House
               a
               Temple
               ,
               and
               himself
               a
               God.
            
             
             
               And
               sure
               if
               Mortal
               e're
               deserv'd
               the
               Name
               ,
            
             
               His
               Virtues
               might
               demand
               the
               glorious
               claim
               ;
            
             
               In
               Dignity
               born
               next
               to
               heavenly
               Race
               ,
            
             
               Humble
               and
               open
               as
               the
               Throne
               of
               Grace
               !
            
             
               His
               Rods
               and
               Axes
               were
               beheld
               by
               few
               ;
            
             
               He
               sav'd
               more
               Subjects
               Lives
               than
               Sylla
               slew
               !
            
             
               Nor
               were
               his
               moral
               Gifts
               alone
               confin'd
               ;
            
             
               Rich
               was
               the
               soil
               of
               his
               capacious
               Mind
               :
            
             
               How
               ,
               when
               unbent
               from
               Cares
               ,
               at
               hours
               of
               ease
               ,
            
             
               The
               great
               Dictator
               wou'd
               inform
               or
               please
               !
            
             
               Tho
               sharp
               and
               pointed
               as
               his
               Sword
               ,
               how
               sweet
            
             
               And
               mild
               he
               rul'd
               his
               Monarchy
               of
               Wit
               !
            
             
               So
               tenderly
               the
               sov'reign
               sway
               he
               bore
               ,
            
             
               None
               wish'd
               him
               less
               ,
               tho
               no
               man
               could
               have
               more
               .
            
             
               Never
               my
               humble
               and
               obedient
               Ear
            
             
               The
               sacred
               Oracle
               but
               once
               did
               hear
               ;
            
             
               And
               oh
               !
               methought
               a
               light
               divine
            
             
               Did
               round
               his
               beaming
               Temples
               shine
               !
            
             
               Sense
               of
               new
               Joy
               to
               my
               charm'd
               Soul
               was
               giv'n
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               blest
               sound
               as
               of
               a
               Voice
               from
               Heav'n
               !
            
             
             
               Nor
               did
               the
               clear
               sagacious
               King
               excell
            
             
               In
               speaking
               only
               ,
               but
               in
               judging
               well
               :
            
             
               Conspicuous
               ,
               venerable
               ,
               and
               great
               ,
            
             
               As
               high
               in
               Knowledge
               as
               in
               Pow'r
               he
               sat
               .
            
             
               Learning
               and
               Arts
               still
               flourish'd
               round
               his
               Throne
               ,
            
             
               As
               well
               they
               might
               ;
               for
               they
               were
               all
               his
               own
               :
            
             
               In
               noblest
               Sciences
               so
               much
               renown'd
               ,
            
             
               As
               he
               for
               Wisdom
               only
               had
               been
               crown'd
               .
            
             
               Great
               Iove
               himself
               his
               darling
               Prince
               endow'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               him
               his
               own
               Prerogative
               allow'd
               :
            
             
               That
               divine
               Blessing
               granted
               but
               to
               few
               ;
            
             
               From
               his
               own
               Head
               ,
               his
               wi●…e
               and
               warlike
               Pallas
               grew
               .
            
          
           
             
               XI
               .
            
             
               But
               these
               ,
               tho
               graceful
               ,
               raise
               but
               common
               fame
            
             
               Compar'd
               to
               Glories
               which
               attend
               his
               Name
               :
            
             
               That
               Heav'ns
               peculiar
               Mercy
               might
               be
               shewn
               ;
            
             
               To
               all
               the
               World
               its
               Lord
               anointed
               known
               ;
            
             
               His
               Maker
               trebly
               mark'd
               him
               for
               his
               own
               .
            
             
             
               To
               Empire
               born
               ;
               he
               long
               in
               Exile
               mourn'd
               ;
            
             
               But
               like
               triumphant
               royal
               Oar
               he
               burn'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               more
               lustre
               to
               his
               Realms
               return'd
               .
            
             
               He
               came
               ,
               and
               lo
               !
               with
               his
               Imperial
               Crown
               ,
            
             
               Such
               Honour
               ,
               Peace
               ,
               and
               Plenty
               shower'd
               down
               ,
            
             
               That
               he
               on
               his
               ingrateful
               Land
               bestow'd
            
             
               Blessings
               as
               great
               as
               upon
               him
               the
               God.
            
             
               So
               much
               these
               Nations
               did
               his
               Bounty
               share
               ,
            
             
               A
               Realm
               of
               People
               all
               his
               Fav'rites
               were
               .
            
             
               When
               his
               mild
               hand
               had
               stop'd
               the
               sulph'rous
               Breath
            
             
               Of
               savage
               War
               ,
               that
               gorg'd
               the
               Jaws
               of
               Death
               ,
            
             
               And
               had
               destroy'd
               that
               vile
               Cadmean
               Brood
            
             
               Who
               bath'd
               their
               Swords
               in
               their
               own
               reaking
               Blood
               ,
            
             
               And
               doubly
               dy'd
               'em
               in
               a
               Royal
               Flood
               ;
            
             
               His
               Temples
               never
               open'd
               but
               when
               Heav'n
            
             
               Was
               prais'd
               ,
               and
               their
               rebellious
               Sins
               forgiv'n
               :
            
             
               With
               what
               endearing
               Arts
               he
               always
               strove
            
             
               To
               gain
               a
               wicked
               murm'ring
               Peoples
               Love
               !
            
             
               Succour'd
               their
               dangers
               all
               ,
               and
               led
               'em
               thro'
            
             
               A
               wild
               Abyss
               and
               Wilderness
               of
               Woe
               !
            
             
             
               Tho
               they
               so
               oft
               provok'd
               his
               sacred
               Ire
               ,
            
             
               His
               heav'nly
               Covenant
               did
               ne're
               expire
               ;
            
             
               Their
               leading
               Cloud
               by
               day
               ,
               by
               night
               their
               lambent
               Fire
               .
            
             
               No
               sort
               of
               Misery
               but
               he
               repeal'd
               ;
            
             
               The
               diseas'd
               look'd
               up
               to
               him
               ,
               and
               were
               heal'd
               .
            
             
               When
               their
               flagitious
               Crimes
               so
               num'rous
               were
               ,
            
             
               That
               he
               ,
               like
               Eastern
               Kings
               ,
               might
               have
               been
               Heir
            
             
               To
               forfeit
               Realms
               ,
               forgave
               the
               share
               .
            
             
               And
               yet
               when
               by
               his
               Charge
               our
               fruitful
               Nile
               ,
            
             
               With
               pregnant
               Surge
               enriches
               all
               the
               Isle
               ,
            
             
               And
               the
               World's
               Wealth
               flows
               in
               with
               ev'ry
               tide
               ,
            
             
               How
               barbarously
               were
               his
               Wants
               deny'd
               !
            
             
               Through
               his
               own
               precious
               Wounds
               ,
               the
               gen'rous
               Palm
               ,
            
             
               To
               cure
               his
               People
               gave
               'em
               sov'reign
               Balm
               !
            
             
               When
               he
               in
               danger
               sat
               upon
               his
               Throne
               ,
            
             
               Mourn'd
               the
               dear
               Partner
               of
               his
               Woes
               alone
               ,
            
             
               Their
               Kindred
               and
               Estates
               were
               all
               their
               own
               !
            
             
               Oh
               may
               the
               Laws
               of
               God
               and
               Man
               depart
            
             
               From
               my
               immortal
               Soul
               ,
               and
               in
               my
               Heart
            
             
             
               No
               glad
               Remembrance
               of
               blest
               Joy
               remain
               ;
            
             
               But
               run
               a
               savage
               with
               the
               bestial
               Race
               ,
            
             
               If
               ever
               I
               forget
               the
               dying
               Scene
               !
            
             
               How
               tenderly
               he
               with
               his
               parting
               Breath
               ,
            
             
               (
               Inherent
               Love
               !
               unutterable
               Grace
               !
               )
            
             
               Midst
               all
               the
               Agonies
               and
               racking
               Pain
            
             
               Of
               a
               tormenting
               hard
               convulsive
               death
               ;
            
             
               Did
               his
               dear
               Pledge
               to
               his
               lov'd
               Heir
               bequeath
               !
            
             
               Calm
               as
               Favonian
               Winds
               ,
               when
               
               Halcyon's
               breed
               ,
            
             
               To
               his
               twin-star
               these
               potent
               Realms
               decreed
               !
            
             
               Govern
               'em
               well
               ,
               the
               yielding
               Monarch
               cry'd
               ;
            
             
               Then
               on
               his
               balmy
               Nest
               the
               lovely
               Phoenix
               dy'd
               !
            
             
               With
               Peace
               and
               Goodness
               dy'd
               so
               very
               full
               ,
            
             
               His
               Body
               took
               Impressions
               from
               his
               Soul
               :
            
             
               The
               Royal
               Entrails
               fair
               unspotted
               shin'd
               ,
            
             
               With
               purple
               orient
               Spirits
               ,
               and
               divin'd
            
             
               The
               wondrous
               Blessing
               in
               Great
               Iames
               we
               find
               .
            
             
               And
               well
               were
               their
               auspicious
               Omens
               made
            
             
               Of
               Joys
               ,
               whose
               vast
               Foundations
               Charles
               has
               laid
               .
            
             
               With
               untaught
               Hymns
               and
               loud
               immortal
               Lays
               ,
            
             
               Ages
               unborn
               shall
               bless
               his
               peaceful
               days
               ,
            
             
               And
               make
               three
               Kingdoms
               one
               large
               House
               of
               Praise
               .
            
             
             
               Learn
               hence
               ,
               ye
               mortal
               Potentates
               ,
               who
               boast
            
             
               Of
               Mansolean
               Tombs
               and
               Memphian
               Cost
               ;
            
             
               Learn
               how
               t'
               embalm
               an
               everlasting
               Name
            
             
               That
               may
               out-live
               those
               mould'ring
               works
               of
               Fame
               .
            
             
               Tho
               dead
               ,
               Great
               Charles
               !
               his
               God-like
               Vertues
               shall
            
             
               Bravely
               revenge
               their
               renown'd
               Masters
               Fall
               !
            
             
               His
               deathless
               Praise
               ,
               with
               the
               unwearied
               Sun
               ,
            
             
               Bright
               as
               his
               Beams
               ,
               round
               the
               wide
               Earth
               will
               run
               ,
            
             
               Till
               drawing
               near
               to
               this
               dissolving
               frame
               ,
            
             
               The
               sulph'rous
               Bowels
               of
               the
               Deep
               enflame
               ;
            
             
               Till
               in
               vast
               Flakes
               the
               fervid
               Surges
               rowl
            
             
               Thro'
               Heav'ns
               wide
               Battlements
               ,
               from
               Pole
               to
               Pole
               ;
            
             
               And
               in
               a
               Deluge
               of
               tempestuous
               Fire
               ,
            
             
               With
               his
               Illustrious
               Name
               the
               World
               expire
               .
            
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
      
    
     
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A63107-e3980
           
             *
             Italian
             Rivers
             .
          
           
             ‖
             French
             Rivers
             .
          
           
             *
             Spanish
             .
          
           
             *
             Febris
             acuta
             ,
             virulenta
             .
          
           
             *
             His
             Blood.
             
          
           
             *
             His
             Heart
             .
          
           
             a
             The
             Herculean
             Way
             rais'd
             by
             Hercules
             in
             his
             Return
             from
             Spain
             .
          
           
             b
             Sybil.
             
          
           
             c
             Plac'd
             by
             some
             near
             Naples
             .
          
           
             d
             Paus●…lipus
             and
             Nesis
             are
             the
             Names
             of
             two
             Promo●…tories
             near
             Naples
             .
          
           
             *
             Parthen●…pe
             .
          
           
             ‖
             A
             Colony
             of
             〈◊〉
             from
             〈◊〉
             ●…ulle
             Cu●…
             and
             Napl●…
             .
          
           
             a
             〈◊〉
             a
             〈◊〉
             Poe●…
             .
          
           
             b
             〈◊〉
             ●…oem
             ●…'d
             ●…la
             .
          
           
             c
             V●…
             〈◊〉
             
          
           
             a
             Frederick
             King
             of
             Naples
             .
             See
             Guicciardine
             .