How then, dear Harley, could I guess That you fhould meet, in love, fuccefs? For, if those antient Tales be true, Phoebus was beautiful as you: Yet Daphne never flack'd her pace, For wit and learning spoil'd his face. And, fince the fame refemblance held In gifts, wherein you both excell❜d, I fancy'd ev'ry nymph would run From you, as from Latona's fon.

Then where, faid I, fhall Harley find A virgin of superior mind,

With wit and virtue to discover,

And pay the merit of her Lover?

This character fhall Ca'ndifh claim,
Born to retrieve her fex's fame.
The chief among that glitt'ring crowd,
Of titles, birth, and fortune proud,
(As fools are infolent and vain)
Madly afpir'd to wear her chain :
But Pallas, guardian of the Maid,
Descending to her Charge's aid,
Held out Medufa's fnaky locks,
Which stupify'd them all to flocks.
The Nymph, with indignation, view'd
The dull, the noify, and the lewd:
For Pallas, with celeftial light,
Had purify'd her mortal fight ;

Shew'd her the Virtues all combin'd,
Fresh blooming, in young Harley's mind.
Terreftrial nymphs, by formal arts,
Display their various nets for hearts:
Their looks are all by method fet,
When to be prude, and when coquette;
Yet, wanting skill and pow'r to chufe,
Their only pride is to refuse.
But, when a Goddefs would beftow
Her love on fome bright youth below,
Round all the earth fhe cafts her eyes;
And then, defcending from the fkies,
Makes choice of him fhe fancies beft,
And bids the ravish'd youth be blefs'd.

Thus the bright Emprefs of the Morn
Chofe, for her fpoufe, a mortal born:
The Goddefs made advances firft,
Elfe what afpiring hero durst ?
Tho', like a virgin of fifteen,
She blushes when by mortals feen;
Still blushes, and with fpeed retires,
When Sol purfues her with his fires.

Diana thus, Heav'n's chafteft queen, Struck with Endymion's graceful mien, Down from her filver chariot came, And to the Shepherd own'd her flame. Thus Ca'ndith, as Aurora bright, And chafter than the Queen of Night, Defcended from her fphere to find A Mortal of fuperior kind,

EPIGRAM on Mr. HARLEY being stabbed by GUISCARD.

Written by Bishop ATTERBURY.

DEVOTUM ut cordi sensit sub pectore fer

rum

Immoto Harlæus faucius ore ftetit, Dum tamen huic lætâ gratatur voce Senatus,

Confufus fubitò pallor in ore fedit:

O pudor! O virtus! partes quam dignus utrafque

Suftinuit, vultu difpare, laude pari.

On

On Bishop BURNET's being fet on

FRO

Fire in his Closet.

By DOCTOR PARNEL.

pride,

ROM that dire æra, bane to Sarum's [friends afide, Which broke his fchemes, and laid his He talks and writes that Pop'ry will return, And we, and he, and all his works will burn. [prov'd, What touch'd himself was almost fairly (Oh, far from Britain be the reft remov'd!) For, as of late he meant to bless the age With flagrant Prefaces of party-rage, O'er-wrought with paffion and the subject's weight,

Lolling, he nodded in his elbow-feat, Down fell the candle; Greafe and Zeal

confpire,

[their Sire. Heat meets with heat, and Pamphlets burn Here crawls a Preface on its half-burn'd [gots; And there an Introduction brings it's fagThen roars the Prophet of the Northern

maggots,

Nation,

[tion.

Scorch'd by a flaming fpeech on ModeraUnwarn'd by this, go on the realm to

fright,

Thou Briton, vaunting in thy fecond-fight; In fuch a Miniftry you fafely tell,

w much you'd fuffer, if Religion fell,

DIRECTIONS

FOR MAKING

A BIRTH-DAY SONG.

T

Written in the Year м DCC XXIX.

O form a juft and finish'd piece,

Take twenty Gods of Rome or Greece, Whose godfhips are in chief request, And fit your prefent fubject beft: And, fhould it be your Hero's cafe, To have both male and female race, Your business must be to provide A fcore of Goddeffes befide.

Some call their monarchs fons of Saturn, For which they bring a modern pattern; Because they might have heard of one, Who often long'd to eat his fon : But this, I think, will not go down, For here the father kept his crown. Why, then, appoint him fon of Jove, Who met his mother in a grove: To this we freely fhall confent, Well knowing what the poets meant ; And in their fenfe, 'twixt me and you, It may be literally true.

VOL. XVI.

S

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