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Homage to pay, or humble peace to gain,
And own aufpicious omens from his reign.
Set at long distance his contracted foes
Shrinking from what they dare not now oppose; 550
Draw shame or mean despair in all their eyes,
And terror left th’avenging hand should rise.
But where his smiles extend, draw beauteous peace,

man's chearful toils, the rich man's calc; Here, fhepherds piping to their feeding sheep,

555 Or stretch'd at length in their warm huts asleep; There jolly hinds spread through the sultry fields, Reaping such larvests as their tillage yields ; Or shelter'd from the scorchings of the sun, Their labours ended, and repast begun;

5.60 Rang’d; on green banks, which they themselves did raite, Singing their own content, and ruler's praise. Draw beauteous meadows, gardens, groves, and bowers, Where Contemplation beft may pass her hours : Fill'd with chalte lovers plighting constant heurti, 595 Rejoicing Mafes, and encourag'd Arts. Draw every thing like this that thought can frame, Best suiting with thy theme, great James's fame. Known for the man who from his youthful

years, By mighty deeds has earn'd the crown he wears ; 570 Whose conquering arm far-envy'd wonders wrought, When an ungrateful people's cause he fought ; When for their rights he his brave fivord employ'd, Who in return would have his rights destroy’d: But heaven such injur'd merit did regard

575 (As licaven in time true virtue will reward);


So to a throne by Providence he rose,
And all who e'er were his, were Providence's foes.


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DID but look and love a-while,

:Twas but for one half-hour;
Then to resist I had no will
And now I have no power.

To figh, and wish, is all my ease;

Sighs, which do heat impart,
Enough to melt the coldest ice,
Yet cannot warm your heart.

O! would your pity give my

One corner of your breast,
'Twould learn of yours the winning art,

And quickly steal the rest.


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Si quid habent veri vatum præfagia, vivam.”

To the Right Honourable Thomas Earl of

OS SORY, Baron of Moor Park, Knight of the most Noble Order of the Garter, &c.



THOU "HOUGH never any man had more need of excuse

for a presumption of this nature than I have now; yet, when I have laid out every way to find one, your lordship's goodnefs must be my best refuge : and therefore I humbly cast this at your feet for protection, and myself for pardon.

My Lord, I have great need of protection ; for to the best of my heart I have here published in some measure the truth, and I would have it thought honestly too (a practice never more out of countenance than now): yet truth and honour are things which your

lordship must needs be kind to, because they are relations to your nature, and never left you.



'Twould be a second presumption in me to pretend in this a panegyric on your lordship; for it would require more art to do your virtue justice, than to flatter any other man,

If I have ventured at a hint of the present sufferings of that great prince mentioned in the latter end of this paper, with favour from your lordship I hope to add a second part, and do all those great and good men justice, that have in his calamities stuck fast to so gallant a friend and so good a master. To write and finish which great subject faithfully, and to be honoured with your lord ship’s patronage in what I may do, and your approbation, or at least pardon, in what I have done, will be the greatest pride of,

My Lord,
Your most humble admirer and servant,


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'O a high hill where never yet stood tree,
Where only heath, coarse fern, and furzes grow,

Where (nipt by piercing air)
The flocks in tatter'd fleeces hardly gaze,

Led by uncouth thoughts and care, Which did too much his pensive mind amaze,

A wandering bard, whose Muse was crazy grown, Cloy'd with the nauseous follies of the buzzing town, Came, look'd about him, figh’d, and laid him down;


'Twas far from any path, but where the earth Was bare, and naked all as at her birth, When by the word it first was made,

Ere God had said, Let grafs and herbs and every green thing grow, With fruitful trees after their kind, and it was so. The whistling winds blew fiercely round his head,

Cold was his lodging, hard his bed; Aloft his eyes on the wide heavens he caft, Where we are told Peace only 's found at last:

And as he did its hopeless distance fee, Sigh’d deep, and cry'd, How far is Peace from me!

Nor ended there his moan :

The distance of his future joy
Had been enough to give him pain alone;

But who can undergo
Despair of ease to come, with weight of present woe?

Down his afflicted face
The trickling tears had stream'd so fast a pace,
As left a path worn by their briny race.

Swoln was his breast with fighs, his well

proportion'd limbs as useless fell,
Whilst the poor trunk (unable to fustain
Itself) lay rackt, and shaking with its pain.
I heard his groans as I was walking by,
And (urg'd by pity) went aside, to fee

What the fad cause could be
Had press’d his ftate fo low, and rais’d his plaints so high



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