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Then, flying from the noisy throng, Seeks the diverfion of a fong. Mufic defcending on a filent cloud, Tun'd all her ftrings with endless art; By flow degrees from soft to loud Changing the rofe: The harp and flute Harmonious join, the hero to falute, And make a captive of his heart. Fruits, and rich Wine, and fcenes of lawless Love Each with utmost luxury ftrove

To treat their favourite best;

But founding ftrings, and fruits, and wine,
And lawless love, in vain combine

To make his virtue fleep, or lull his foul to rest.

He faw the tedious round, and, with a figh,
Pronounc'd the world but vanity.

"In crowds of pleasure still I find

"A painful folitude of mind.

"A vacancy within which sense can ne'er fupply. "Hence, and be gone, ye flattering fnares, "Ye vulgar charms of eyes and ears,

"Ye unperforming promifers!

"Be all my bafer paffions dead,

"And bafe defires, by nature made

"For animals and boys :

"Man has a relifh more refin'd,

"Souls are for focial blifs defign'd,

"Give me a bleffing fit to match my mind,

"A kindred-foul to double and to fhare my joys."


Myrrha appear'd: "Serene her foul

"And active as the fun, yet steady as the pole :

"In fofter beauties fhone her face;

"Every Mufe, and every Grace,

"Made her heart and tongue their feat, "Her heart profufely good, her tongue divinely sweet "Myrrha the wonder of his eyes;" His heart recoil'd with sweet surprize, With joys unknown before: His foul diffolv'd in pleasing pain, Flow'd to his eyes, and look'd again, And could endure no more, "Enough! (th' impatient hero cries) "And feiz'd her to his breast, "I feek no more below the fkies, "I give my flaves the reft."


An Answer to an infamous Satyr, called, "Advice to a Painter;" written by a nameless Author, against King William III. of Glorious Memory, 1698.


WHEN you put this fatyr into my hand, you

gave me the occafion of employing my pen to anfwer fo deteftable a writing; which might be done


much more effectually by your known zeal for the intereft of his majefty, your counfels and your courage employed in the defence of your king and country. And fince you provoked me to write, you will accept of those efforts of my loyalty to the beft of kings, addreffed to one of the moft zealous of his fubjects, by


Your moft obedient fervant,

1. W.


ND muft the hero, that redeem'd our land,


Here in the front of vice and scandal stand?

The man of wondrous foul, that fcorn'd his cafe,
Tempting the winters, and the faithlefs feas,
And paid an annual tribute of his life

To guard his England from the Irish knife,

And crush the French dragoon? Muft William's name,
That brigheft ftar that gilds the wings of fame,
William the brave, the pious, and the juft,
Adorn thefe gloomy fcenes of tyranny and luft ?

Polhill, my blood boils high, my fpirits flame;
Can your zeal fleep! Or are your paffions tame?
Nor call revenge and darkness on the Poet's name?
Why smoke the fkies not? Why no thunders roll?
Nor kindling lightnings blaft his guilty foul?


Audacious wretch! to ftab a monarch's fame,
And fire his fubjects with a rebel-flame;
To call the painter to his black designs,
To draw our guardian's face in hellish lines:
Painter, beware! the monarch can be shown
Under no shape but angels, or his own,
Gabriel, or William, on the British throne.

O! could my thought but grafp the vast design,
And words with infinite ideas join,

I'd roufe Apelles, from his iron fleep,

And bid him trace the warrior o'er the deep:
Trace him, Apelles, o'er the Belgian plain
Fierce, how he climbs the mountains of the flain,
Scattering juft vengeance through the red campaign.
Then dash the canvas with a flying stroke,
Till it be loft in clouds of fire and fmoke,
And fay, 'Twas thus the conqueror through the
fquadrons broke.

Mark him again emerging from the cloud,
Far from his troops; there like a rock he stood
His country's fingle barrier in a fea of blood.
Calmly he leaves the pleasures of a throne,
And his Maria weeping; whilst alone

He wards the fate of nations, and provokes his own:
But heaven secures its champion; o'er the field
Paint hovering angels; though they fly conceal'd,
Each intercepts a death, and wears it on his shield.

Now, noble pencil, lead him to our isle, Mark how the skies with joyful luftre fmile,


Then imitate the glory; on the strand

Spread half the nation, longing till he land.
Wash off the blood, and take a peaceful teint,
All red the warrior, white the ruler paint;
Abroad a hero, and at home a faint.

Throne him on high upon a fhining feat,

Luft and prophaneness dying at his feet,

While round his head the laurel and the olive meet,
The crowns of war and peace; and may they blow
With flowery bleffings ever on his brow.

At his right hand pile up the English laws
In facred volumes; thence the monarch draws
His wife and just commands.

Rife, ye old fages of the British isle,

On the fair tablet caft a reverend smile,

And blefs the piece; thefe ftatutes are your own,
That fway the cottage, and direct the throne;
People and prince are one in William's name,
Their joys, their dangers, and their laws the fame.

Let liberty, and right, with plumes display'd,
Clap their glad wings around their guardian's head,
Religion o'er the reft her ftarry pinions fpread.
Religion guards him; round th' imperial queen
Place waiting virtues, each of heavenly mein;
Learn their bright air, and paint it from his eyes;
The juft, the bold, the temperate and the wife
'Dwell in his looks; majestic, but ferene;
Sweet, with no fondness; chearful, but not vain:
Bright, without terror; great, without disdain.



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