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The monster 's foreign. Mark the pointed spears
That from thy hand on his pierc'd back he 'wears !
Who nobler could, or plainer things presage ?
Yet one thing scap'd him, the prophetic rage
Sheiv'd not the turbot's country, nor its age.
At length by Cæsar the grand question 's put :

My lords, your judgement; shall the fith be cut?
Far be it, far from us, Montanus cries ;
Let's not dishonour thus the noble prize!

pot of finest earth, thin, deep, and wide,
Some skilful quick Prometheus must provide.
Clay and the forming wheel prepare with speed.
But, Cæsar, be it from henceforth decreed,
That potters on the royal progress wait,
T'assist in these emergencies of state.

This counsel pleas’d; nor could it fail to take,
So fit, so worthy of the man that spake.
The old court riots he remember'd well;
Could tales of Nero's midnight suppers tell,
When Falern wines the labouring lungs did fire,
And to new dainties kindled false desire,
In arts of eating, none more early train'd,
None in my time had equal skill attain d.
He whether Circe's rock his oysters bore,
Or Lucrine lake, or the Rutupian shore,
Knew at first taste, nay at first sight could tell
A crab or lobster's country by its shell.

They rise; and straight all, with respectful awe, At the word given, obfequiously withdraw,


Whom, full of eager hafte, surprize, and fear,
Our mighty prince had summon’d to appear ;
As if fome news he'd of the Catti tell,
Or that the fierce Sicambrians did rebel :
As if expresses from all parts had come
With fresh alarms threatening the fate of Rome.

What folly this ! But, oh! that all the reit
Of his dire reign had thus been fpent in jeft;
And all that time such trifles had employ'd
In which so many nobles he destroy'd ;
He safe, they unreveng'd, to the disgrace
Of the surviving, tame, Patrician race !
But, when he dreadful to the rabble grew,
Him, whom fo many lords had flain they fleiv,






"ELL me, Alexis, whence these forrows grow?
Why hangs the head of my afflicted fwain ;
Like bending lilies over-charg'd with rain ?

Ah, Damon, if what you already see,
Can move thy gentle breast to pity me;
How would thy sighs with mine in concert join,
How would thy tears swell up the tide of mine ?
Couldst thou but see (but, oh, no light is there,
But blackest clouds of darkness and despair!)


Couldst thou but see the torments that within
Lie deeply lodg'd, and view the horrid scene !
View all the wounds, and every fatal dart
That sticks and rankles in my bleeding heart !
No more, ye fwains, Love's harmless anger fear,
For he has empty'd all his quiver here.
Nor thou, kind Damon, ask me why I grieve,
But rather wonder, wonder that I live.

Unhappy youth! too well, alas ! I know
The panys despairing lovers undergo !

[ Imperfe87.]


WHEN first the young Alexis faw

Cælia to all the plain give law,
The haughty Cælia, in whose face
Love dwelt with Fear, and Pride with Grace ;
When every swain he saw submit
To her commanding eyes and wit,
How could th’ ambitious youth aspire
To perish by a nobler fire ?
With all the power of verse he strove
The lovely shepherdess to move :
Verse, in which the Gods delight,
That makes nymphs love, and heroes fight;
Verse, that once rul'd all the plain,
Verse, the wishes of a swain.


How oft has Thyrsis' pipe prevailid,
Where Egon's flocks and herds have fail'd ?
Fair Amaryllis, was thy mind
Ever to Damon's wealth inclin'd;
Whilst Lycidas 's gentle breast,
With Love, and with

Muse poffeft,
Breath'd forth in verse his soft desire,
Kindling in thee his gentle fire ?

[ Imperfet.]

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can , Free as the air, and unconfin'd as light; Queen of a thousand Naves that fawn and bow, And, with submissive fear, my power allow, Shoul I exchange this noble ftate of life To gain the vile detested name of Wife; Should I my native liberty betray, Call him my lord, who at my footstoot lay? No: thanks, kind heaven, that haft my soul employd, With my great fex's useful virtue, Pride. That generous pride, that noble just disdain, That scorns the slave that would presume to reign. Let the raw amorous scribbler of the times Call me his Cælia in infipid rhymes ; I hate and scorn you all, proud that I am To revenge my fex's injuries on man. Compar'd to all the plagues in marriage dwell, It were preferment to lead apes in hell.



Upon the late Vote of the House of Commons.

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HAVE we for this serv'd full nine hard campaigns ?

Is this the recompence for all our pains ? Have we to the remotest parts been sent, Bravely expos’d our lives, and fortunes spent, To be undone at last by Parliament ? Must colonels and corporals now, be equal made, And Aaming sword turn’d pruning knife and spade ?. T---b, S---, F.--, and thousands more, Must now return to what they were before. No more in glittering coaches shall they ride, No more the feathers shew the coxcombs' pride.

! my Muse does kindly weep, To see disbanded colonels grown so cheap. So younger

brothers with fat jointures fed, Go despicable, once their widows dead. No ship, by tempest from her anchor torn, Is half so lost a thing, and so forlorn. On every fall, in


broker's shop,
Hang up the plumes of the dismantled fop;
Trophies like these we read not of in story,
By other ways the Romans got their glory.
But in this, as in all things, there 's a doom,
Some die i' th' field, and others starve at home.

For thee, poor

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