But as her beams reflected pafs Through our own Nature or Ill-custom's glass And 'tis no wonder, fo, If with dejected eye In standing pools we seek the sky, That stars, fo high above, should seem to us below. Can we stand by and fee Our mother robb'd, and bound, and ravish'd be, Pleas'd with the strength and beauty of the ravisher? The cancel'd name of friend he bore ? Ingrateful Cæfar, who could Rome enthrall! There's none but Brutus could deferve That all men else should wish to serve, And Cæfar's ufurp'd place to him should proffer; None can deserve 't but he who would refuse the offer.. Ill Fate affum'd a body thee t' affright, And wrap'd itself i' th' terrors of the night: Goes out when spirits appear in fight.. One One would have thought 't heard the morning crow, But unfeen attack'd thee there : Had it prefum'd in any fhape thee to oppose, A conqueror and a monarch mightier far than he. What joy can human things to us afford, Ill men, and wretched accidents, The best cause and beft man that ever drew a fword? When we fee The falle Octavius and wild Antony, God-like Brutus! conquer thee? What can we fay, but thine own tragic word- By this fatal proof became An idol only, and a name. Hold, noble Brutus ! and restrain Thefe mighty gulphs are yet Too deep for all thy judgment and thy wit. Which these great fecrets shall unseal, $ A few A few years more, fo foon hadft thou not dy'd, H TO DR. SCARBOROUGH. OW long, alas! has our mad nation been When Slaughter all the while Seem'd like its fea, embracing round the isle, Would now untill'd, defert, and naked stand, At the fame time let loofe Difeafes' rage But thou by Heaven wert sent This defolation to prevent, A medicine, and a counter-poison, to the age. By wondrous art, and by fuccessful care, The inundations of all liquid Pain, And deluge Dropfy, thou dost drain. Fevers, fo hot that one would say Thou might'st as foon hell-fires allay Like gold, the body but refin'd, The fubtle Ague, that for sureness' fake The cruel Stone, that reftlefs pain, That 's fometimes roll'd away in vain, But ftill, like Syfiphus's ftone, returns again, Thou break'st and melteft by learn'd juices' force (A greater work, though short the way appear, 'Than Hannibal's by vinegar!) Oppreffed Nature's neceffary course It stops in vain ; like Mofes, thou Strik'ft but the rock, and strait the waters freely flow. The Indian fon of Luft (that foul disease Which did on this his new-found world but lately Yet fince a tyranny has planted here, As wide and cruel as the Spaniard there) That thy patients feem to be Reftor'd not to health only, but virginity. The The Plague itself, that proud imperial ill, Calls all its poifons forth, and does depart, As if it fear'd no lefs thy art, Than Aaron's incenfe, or than Phineas' dart. Of man's infirmity ? At thy ftrong charms it must be gone From creeping mofs to foaring cedar thou Cansft all those magic virtues from them draw, Who, whilft thy wondrous skill in plants they fee, That active foul's metropolis. As the great artist in his sphere of glafs |