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"Are lives but worth a foldier's pay ?.
"Why will ye join fuch wide extremes,
"And stake immortal souls, in play
"At defperate chance, and bloody games?
"Valour 's a nobler turn of thought,
"Whofe pardon'd guilt forbids her fears :
"Calmly fhe meets the deadly fhot!
"Secure of life above the stars.

"But frenzy dares eternal fate,

"And, fpurr'd with honour's airy dreams, "Flies to attack th' infernal gate,

"And force a paffage to the flames."

Thus hovering o'er Namuria's plains,
Sung heavenly love in Gabriel's form:
Young Thrafo left the moving ftrains,
And vow'd to pray before the storm.

Anon the thundering trumpet calls;
Vows are but wind, the hero cries;
Then fwears by heaven, and scales the walls,
Drops in the ditch, defpairs, and dies.

Burning feveral Poems of Ovid, Martial,
Oldham, Dryden, &c.

JUDGE the Mufe of lewd defire ;

Her fons to darkness, and her works to fire.

In vain the flatteries of their wit


Now with a melting strain, now with an heavenly flight,


Would tempt my virtue to approve

Those gaudy tinders of a lawless love.

So harlots dress: They can appear
Sweet, modeft, cool, divinely fair,
To charm a Cato's eye; but all within,
Stench, impudence, and fire, and ugly raging fin.

Die, Flora, die in endless fhame,

Thou proftitute of blackest fame,
Stript of thy false array.

Ovid, and all ye wilder pens

Of modern luft, who gild our scenes,

Poison the British stage, and paint damnation gay,

Attend your mistress to the dead;

When Flora dies, her imps fhould wait upon her shade.

Strephon, * of noble blood and mind,


(For ever fhine his name!)

As death approach'd, his soul refin'd,
his loofer fonnets to the flame.
"Burn, burn, he cry'd with sacred rage,
"Hell is the due of every page,

"Hell be the fate. (But O indulgent heaven!
"So vile the Muse, and yet the man forgiven !)
"Burn on my fongs: For not the filver Thames
"Nor Tyber with his yellow ftreams

"In endless currents rolling to the main,

"Can e'er dilute the poifon, or wash out the ftain."

*Earl of Rochester.

So Mofes by divine command

Forbid the leprous houfe to ftand

When deep the fatal spot was grown. "Break down the timber, and dig up the ftone.”

To Mrs. B. BENDIS H.


M ADAM, perfuade me tears are good

To wash our mortal cares away;

Thefe eyes fhall weep a fudden flood,
And ftream into a briny fea.

Or if these orbs are hard and dry,
(Thefe orbs that never ufe to rain)
Some ftar direct me where to buy
One fovereign drop for all my pain.

Were both the golden Indies mine,
I'd give both Indies for a tear:
I'd barter all but what's divine:
Nor fhall I think the bargain dear,

But tears, alas! are trifling things,
They rather feed than heal our woe ;
From trickling eyes new forrow fprings,
As weeds in rainy feasons grow,


Thus weeping urges weeping on;
In vain our miferies hope relief,
For one drop calls another down,
Till we are drown'd in feas of grief.

Then let thefe ufelefs ftreams be ftaid,
Wear native courage on your face:
Thefe vulgar things were never made
For fouls of a fuperior race.

If 'tis a rugged path you go,

And thousand foes your fteps furround,

Tread the thorns down, charge through the foe:
The hardest fight is highest crown'd.



AY, mighty Love, and teach my fong,
To whom thy fweeteft joys belong,
And who the happy pairs

Whofe yielding hearts, and joining hands,
Find bleffings twisted with their bands,
To foften all their cares.

Not the wild herd of nymphs and fwains
That thoughtlefs fly into thy chains,
As cuftom leads the way:

If there be blifs without defign,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,
And be as bleft as they.

Aug. 1701.


Not fordid fouls of earthy mould

Who drawn by kindred charms of gold

To dull embraces move:

So two rich mountains of Peru

May rush to wealthy marriage too,
And make a world of love.

Not the mad tribe that hell inspires
With wanton flames; those raging fires
The purer blifs destroy :

On Ætna's top let Furies wed,
And sheets of lightning dress the bed
T'improve the burning joy.

Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms
None of the melting paffions warms,
Can mingle hearts and hands:
Logs of green wood that quench the coals
Are marry'd juft like Stoic fouls,

With ofiers for their bands.

Not minds of melancholy strain,
Still filent, or that still complain,
Can the dear bondage bless :

As well may heavenly concerts spring
From two old lutes with ne'er a ftring,
Or none befides the bafs.

Nor can the foft enchantments hold
Two jarring fouls of angry mould,


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