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Where princes gladly rest their weary heads, Thank Heaven, my fate transports me now where I, And change uneasy thrones for downy beds, Your martyr, may with ease and safety die." Where seeming joys delude despairing minds, With that I kneelid, and seiz'd her trembling And where ev'n Jealousy some quiet finds ;

hand, There I and Sorrow for a while could part,

While she impos'd this cruel kind command: Sleep clos'd my eyes, and eas'd a sighing heart. Live, and love on; you will be true, I know;

But here, too soon, a wretched lover found, But live then, and come back to tell me so; In deepest griefs, that sleep can ne'er be found ; For, though I blush at this last guilty breath, With strange surprise my troubled fancy brings I can endure that better than your death.” Odd antic shapes of wild unheard-of things ;

Tormenting kindness ! barbarous reprieve! Dismal and terrible they all appear,

Condeinn'd to die, and yet compellid to live! My soul was shook with an unusual fear.

This tender scene my dream repeated o'er, But as when visions glad the eyes of saints, Just as it pass'd in real truth before. And kind relief attends devout complaints, Methought I then fell groveling to the ground, Some beauteous angel in bright charis will shine, ”Till on a sudden rais’d, I wondering found And spread a glory round, that's all divine; A strange appearance all in taintiess white; Just such a bright and Leauteous form appears, His form gave reverence, and his face delight: The monsters vanish, and with them my fears. Goodness and greatness in his eyes were seen, The fairest shape was then before me brought, Gentle his look, and affable his mien. That eyes e'er saw, or fancy ever thought; A kindly notice of me thus he took : How weak are words to show such excellence, “What mean these flowing eyes, this ghastly look! Which ev'n confounds the soul, as well as sense! These trembling joints, this loose dishevell'd hair, And, while our eyes transporting pleasure find, And this cold dew, the drops of deep despair ?” It stops not here, but strikes the very mind.

With grief and wonder first my spirits faint, Some angel speak her praise; no human tongue, But thus, at last, I vented my complaint: But, with its utmost art, must do her wrung. “ Behold a wretch, whom cruel Fate has found, The only woman that has power to kill,

And in the depth of all misfortune drown'd. And yet is good enough to want the will;

There shines a nymph, to whom an envy'd swain Who needs no soft alluring words repeat,

Is ty'd in Hymen's ceremonious chain; Nor study'd looks of languishing deceit.

But, cloy'd with charms of such a inarriage-bed, Fantastic Beauty, always in the wrong,

And fed with manna, yet he longs for bread; Stiil thinks some pride must to its power belong; And will, most husband-like, not only range, An air affected, and an haughty mien,

For love perhaps of nothing else but change, Something that seems to say, “I would be seen.” But to inferior beauty prostrate lies, But, of all wornankind, this only she,

And courts her love in scorn of Flavia's eyes. Full of its charms, and from its frailty free,

All this I knew," the form divine reply'd, Deserves some nobler Muse her fame to raise, “ And did but ask to have thy temper try'd, By making the whole sex beside her pyramid of Which prove sincere. Of both I know the mind; praise.

She is too scrupulous, and thou too kind : She, she appear'd the source of all my joys, But since thy fatal love's for ever fix'd, The dearest care that all my thought employs: Whatever time or absence come betwixt; Gently she look'd, as when I left her last,

Since thy fond heart ev'n her disdain prefers When first she seiz'd my heart, and held it fast: To others' love, I'll something soften hers : When, if my vows, alas! were made too late,

Llse in the scarch of virtue she may stray;
I saw my doom came not from her, but Fate. Well-meaning mortals should not lose their way.
With pity then she eas'd my raging pain,

She now indeed sins on the safer side,
And her kind eyes could scarce from tears refrain: For hearts too loose are never to be tyd;
"Why, gentle swain," said she, “why do you grieve But no extremes are either good or wise,
In words I should not hear, much less believe? And in the midst alone true virtue lies.
I gaze on that which is a fault to mind,

When marriage-vows unite an equal pair,
And ought to tly the danger which I find :

'Tis a mere contract made by human care, Of false mankind though you may be the best, By which they both are for convenience tyd, Ye all have robb'd poor women of their rest. The bridegroom yet more strictly than the bride; I see your pain, and see it too with grief,

For circumstances alter every ill, Because I would, yet must not, give relief. And woman meets with most temptation still; Thus, for a husband's sake, as well as yours, She a forsaken bed must often bear, My scrupulous soul divided paini endures;

While he can never fail to find her there, Guilty, alas ! to both: for thus I do

And therefore less excus'u to range elsewhere. Too much for him, yet not enough for you. Yet this she ought to suffer, and submit: Give over then, give over, hapless swain,

But when no longer for each other fit, A passion moving, but a passion vain:

If usage base shall just resentment move, Not chance nor tine shall ever change my thought : Or, what is worse, affronts of wandering love; 'Tis better much to die, than do a fault.”

No obligation after that remains,
" Oh, worse than ever! Is it then my doom 'Tis mean, not just, to wear a rival's chains.
Just to see Heaven, where I must never come? Yct decency requires the wonted cares
Your sott compassion, if not something more; Of interest, children, and remote affairs;
Yet I remain as wretched as before;

But in her love, that dear concern of life,
The wind indeed is fair, but, ah! no sight of shore. She all the while may be another's wife :
Farcwell, too scrupulous fair one; oh, farewell! Heaven, that beholds her wrong'd and widor'd
What turments I endure, no tongue can tell! Peraits a lover in her husband's stead.” (bet,

FROM OVID,

MR. DRYDEN,

I Aung me at his feet, his robes would kiss, But all your sex is subject to deceive,
And cry'd“Evin our base world is just in this; And ours, alas ! too willing to believe.
Amidst our censures, love we gently blame, Yet others yield, and love o'ercomes the best
And love sometimes preserves a female fame. But why should I not shine above the rest?
What tie less strong can woman's will restrain ? Fair Leda's story seems at first to be
When honour checks, and conscience pleads in vain, A fit example ready found for me:
When parents' threats and friends' persuasions fail, But she was couzen'd by a borrow'd shape,
When interest and ambition scarce prevail,

And under harmless feathers felt a rape:
To bound that sex when nothing else can move, If I should yield, what reason could I use?
They'll live reserv'd, to please the man they love!" By what mistake the loving crime excuse ?
The spirit then reply'd to all I said,

Her fault was in her powerful lover lost;
She may be kind, but not till thou art dead; But of what Jupiter have I to boast ?
Bewail thy memory, bemoan thy fate:

Though you to heroes and to kings succeed,
Thed she will love, when 'tis, alas! too late: Our famous race does no addition need;
Of all thy pains she will no pity have,

And great alliances but useless prove
Till sad despair has sent thee to the grave." To one, that springs herself from mighty Jove.

Go then and boast in some less haughty place Amaz'd, I wak'd in haste,

Your Phrygian blood, and Priam's ancient race, All trembling at my doom :

Which I would show I valued, if I durst;
Dreams oft repeat adventures past,

You are the fifth from Jove, but I the first.
And tell our ills to come.

The crown of Troy is powerful, I confess,
But I have reason to think ours no less.
Your letter, fill'd with promises of all

That men can good, and women pleasant call,
HELEN TO PARIS.

Gives expectation such an ample field
As would move goddesses themselves to yield :

But, if I e'er offend great Juno's laws,
TRANSLATED BY THE EARL OF MULGRAVE, AND

Yourself shall be the dear, the only cause;
Either my honour I'll to death maintain,

Or follow you without mean thoughts of gain: When loose epistles violate chaste eyes,

Not that so fair a present I despise ; She half consents, who silently denies;

We like the gift, when we the giver prize; How dares a stranger, with designs so vain,

But 'tis your love moves me, which made you take Marriage and hospitable rights profane?

Such pains, and run such hazards for my sake. Was it for this your fate did shelter find

I have perceiv'd (though I dissembled too) From swelling seas and every faithless wind? A thousand things that love has made you do; (For though a distant country brought you forth, Your eager eyes would almost dazzle mine, (shine. Your usage here was equal to your worth.) In which (wild man!) your wanton thoughts would Does this deserve to be rewarded so!

Sometimes you'd sigh, sometimes disorder'd stand, Did you come here a stranger, or a foe?

And with unusual ardour press my hand; Your partial judgment may perhaps complain, Contrive just aster me to take the glass, And think me barbarous, for my just disdain; Nor would you let the least occasion pass; Ill-bred then let me be, but not uuchaste,

Which oft I fear'd I did not mind alone, Nor my clear fame with any spot defac'd.

And blushing sat for things which you have done; Though in my face there's no affected frown, Then murmur'd to myself, “ He'll for my sake Nor in my carriage a feign'd niceness shown, Do any thing :" I hope 'twas no mistake. I keep my honour still without a stain,

Oft have I read within this pleasant grove, Nor has my love made any coxcomb vain. Under my name, these charming words, I love. Your boldness I with admiration see:

1, frowning, seem'd not to believe your flame, What hope had you to gain a queen like me? But now, alas! am come to write the same. Because a hero forc'd me.once away,

If I were capable to do amiss, Ara I thought fit to be a second prey ?

I could not but le sensible of this. Had I been won, I had deserv'd your blame, For, oh! your face has such peculiar charms, But sure my part was nothing but the sbame; That who can hold from flying to your arms ! Yet the base theft to him no fruit did bear,

But what I ne'er can have without offence, I 'scap'd unhurt by any thing but fear :

May some blest maid possess with innocence, Pode force might some unwilling kisses gain, Pleasure may tempt,but Virtue more should move; But that was all he ever could obtain.

Oh! learn of me to want the thing you love. You on such terms would ne'er have let me go; What you desire is sought by all mankind; Were he like you, we had not parted so.

As

eyes, so others are not blind: Untouch'd the youth restor'd me to my friends, Like you they see, like you my charms adore; And modest usage made me some amends.

They wish not less, but you dare venture more. 'Tis virtue to repent a vicious deed :

Oh! had you then upon our coasts been brought, Did he repent, that Paris might succeed ?

My virgin love when thousand rivals sought, Sure 'tis some fate that sets me above wrongs, You had I seen, you should bave had my voice, Yet still exposes me to busy tongues.

Nor could my husband justly blame my choice. I'll not complain, for who's displeas'd with love, For both our hopes, alas ! you came too late, If it sincere, discreet, and constant prove?

Another now is master of my fate :
But that I fear-not that I think you base, More to my wish I could have liv'd with you,
Or doubt the blooning beautics of my face; And yet iny present lot can undergo.

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Cease to solicit a weak woman's will,

Let me not live, but every thing conspires And urge not her you love to so much ill;

To join our loves, and yet my fear retires. But let me live contented as I may,

You court with words, when you should force emAnd make not my unspotted fame your prey:

ploy; Some right you claim, since naked to your eyes A rape is requisite to shame-fac'd joy: Three goddesses disputed beauty's prize :

Indulgent to the wrongs which we receive, One offer'd valour, t' other crowns; but she Our sex can suffer what we dare not give. Obtain'd her cause, who, smiling, promis'd me. What have I said! for both of us 'twere best, But, first, I am not of belief so light,

Our kindling fire if each of us supprest. To think such nymphs would show you such a The faith of strangers is too prone to change, sight:

And, like themselves, their wandering passions Yet, granting this, the other part is feign'd,

range. A bribe so mean your sentence had not gain'd. Hypsipyla, and the fond Minoian maid, With partial eyes I should myself regard,

Where both by trusting of their guest betray'd : To think that Venus made me her reward ;

How can I donbt that other men deceive, I hunbly am content with human praise,

When you yourself did fair Oenone leave? A goddess's applause would envy raise:

But, lest I should upbraid your treachery,
But be it as you say; for’tis confest,

You make a merit of that crime to me.
The men who flatter highest please us best : Yet grant you were to faithful love inclin'd,
That I suspect it ought not to displease;

Your weary Trojan's wait but for a wind.
For miracles are not believ'd with ease.

Should you prevail, while I assign the night,
One joy I have, that I had Venus' voice :

Your sails are hoisted, and you take your tlight;
A greater yet, that you confirm'd her choice; Somie bawling mariner our love destroys,
That proffer'd laurels, promis'd sovereignty, And breaks asunder our unfinish'd joys.
Juno and Pallas, you contemnd for me.

But I with you may leave the Spartan port,
Am I your empire then, and your renown? To view the Trojan wealth and Priam's court.
What heart of rock but must by this be won ? Shown while I see, I shall expose my fame,
And yet bear witness, O ye powers above,

And fill a foreign country with my shame, How rude I am in all the arts of love!

In Asia what reception shall I find ! My hand is yet untaught to write to men,

And what dishonour leave in Greece behind ! This is th' essay of my unpractis'd pen:

What will your brothers, Priam, Hecuba, Happy those nymphs whom use has perfect made, And what will all your modest matrons say? I think all crime, and tremble at a shade :

Ev'n you, when on this action you reflect, Ev'a while I write, my fearful conscious eyes My future conduct justly may suspect; Look often back, misdoubting a surprise :

And whate'er stranger lands upon your coast,
For now the rumour spreads among the crowd, Conclude me, by your own example, lost.
At court in whispers, but in town aloud.

I, from your rage, à strumpet's name shall hear,
Dissemble you, whate'er you hear them say: While yon forget what part in it you bear:
To leave off loving were your better way;

You, my crime's author, will my crime upbraid :
Yet, if you will dissemble it, you may.

Deep under ground, oh! let me first be laid ! Love secretly : the absence of my lord

You boast the pomp and plenty of your land, More freedom gives, but does not all afford : And promise ail shall be at my command : Long is his journey, long will be his stay,

Your Trojan wealth, believe me, I despise ; Call’d by affairs of consequence away.

My own poor native land has dearer ties. To go or not, when unresolv'd he stood,

Should I be injur'd on your Phrygian shore, I bid him make what swift return he could:

What help of kindred could I there implore? Then kissing me, he said, “ I recommend

Medea was by Jason's flattery won ;
All to thy care, but most my Trojan friend." I may, like her, believe and be undone.
1 smil'd at what he innocently said,

Plain honest hearts, like mine, suspect no cheat,
And only answer'd, “ You shall be obey'd." And love contributes to its own deceit.
Propitious winds have borne him far from hence, The ships, about whose sides loud tempests roar,
But let not this secure your confidence :

With gentle winds were wafted from the shore.
Absent he is, yet absent he commands:

Your teeming mother dreamt a flaming brand,
You know the proverb, “ Princes have long hands.” Sprung from her womb, consum'd the Trojan land;
My fame's my burden, for the more I'm prais'd, To second this, old prophecies conspire,
A juster ground of jealousy is rais'd :

That Ilium shall be burnt with Grecian fire :
Were I less fair, I might have been more blest, Both give me fear, nor is it much allay'd,
Great beauty through great danger is possest. That Venus is oblig'd our loves to aid.
To leave me here, his venture was not hard, For they, who lost their cause, revenge will take,
Because he thought my virtue was my guard : And for one friend two enemies you make.
He fear'd my face, but trusted to my life,

Nor can I doubt but, should I follow you,
The beauty doubted, but believ'd the wife.

The sword would soon our fatal crime pursue: You bid me use th' occasion while I can,

A wrong so great my husband's rage would rouze,
Put in your hands by the good easy man.

And my relations would his cause espouse.
I would, and yet I doubt 'twixt love and fear; You boast your strength and courage; but alas !
One draws me from you, and one brings me near. Your words receive sinall credit from your face.
Our fames are mutual, and my husband's gone: Let heroes in the dusty field delight,
The nights are long; I fear to lie alone ;

Those limbs were fashion'd for another fight.
One house contains us, and weak walls divide, Bid Hector sally from the walls of Troy ;
And you're too pressing to be long deny'd. A sweeter quarrel should your arms employ,

Yet fears like these should not my mind perplex, Much he would fain have spoke: but fate, alas! Were I as wise as many of my sex:

Would ne'er again consent to let him pass. But time and you may bolder thoughts inspire; Thus twice undone, what course remaind to take, And I, perhaps, may yield to your desire. To gain her back, already pass'd the lake? You last demand a private conference:

What tears, what patience, could procure him ease? These are your words; but I can guess your sense. Or, ah! what vows the angry powers appease? Your unripe hopes their harvest must attend : 'Tis said, he seven long moons bewail'd his loss Be rul'd by me, and Time may be your friend. To bleak and barren rocks, on whose cold moss, This is enough to let you understand,

While, languishing, he sung his fatal flame, For now my pen has tir'd my tender hand;

He mov'd ev'n trees, and made fierce tigers tame My woman knows the secret of my heart,

So the sad Nightingale, when childless made And may hereafter better news impart.

By some rough swain, who stole her young away,

Bewails her loss beneath a poplar shade,
Mourns all the night, in murmurs wastes the day;
Her melting songs a doleful pleasure yield,

And melancholy music fills the field.
PART OF THE STORY OF ORPHEUS.

Marriage nor love could ever move his mind; BEING A TRANSLATION OUT OF THE FOURTH BOOK OF

But, all alone, beat by the northern wind,
VIRGIL'S GEORGIC.

Shivering on Tanais' banks the bard remain'd,

And of the god's unfruitful gift complain'd. 'Tis not for nothing when just Heaven does frown; Circonian dames, enrag'd to be despis’d, The injur'd Orpheus calls these judgments down ; As they the feast of Bacchus solemniz'd, W'hose spouse, avoiding to become thy prey, Slew the poor youth, and strew'd about his limbs; And all his joys at once were snatch'd

away;

His head, torn oil from the fair body, swims
The nymph, fore-doom'd that fatal way to pass, Down that swift current where the Heber flows,
Spy'd not the serpent lurking in the grass : And still its tongue in coleful accents goes.
A mournful cry the spacious valley fills,

“ Ah, poor Eurydice!” he dying cry'd;
With echoing groans from all the neighbouring hills; Eurydice resounds from every side.
The Dryades roar out in deep despair,
And with united voice bewail the fair.

For such a loss he sought no vain relief,
But with his lute indulg'd the tender grief;

AN ESSAY ON POETRY'.
Along the shore he oft' would wildly stray,
With doleful notes begin and end the day.

Of all those arts in which the wise excel,
At length to Hell a frightful journey made, Nature's chief master-piece is writing well:
Pass'd the wide-gaping gulph and dismal shade; No writing lifts exalted man so high,
Visits the ghosts, and to that king repairs

As sacred and soul-moving Poesy:
Whose heart's inflexible to human prayers.

No kind of work requires so nice a touch, All Hell is ravish'd with so sweet a song;

And, if well finish'd, nothing shines so much. Light souls and airy spirits glide along

But Heaven forbid we should be so profane, In troups, like millions of the feather'd kind, To grace the vulgar with that noble name. Driven home by night, or some tempestuous wind: /'Tis not a flash of fancy, which sometimes, Matrons and men, raw youths and unripe maids; Dazzling our minds, sets off the slightest rhymes s And mighty heroes' more majestic shades;

Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done. And sons entomb'd before their parents face: True wit is everlasting, like the Sun, Those the black waves of bounding Styx embrace Which, though sometimes behind a cloud retir'd, Nine times circuriluent; clogg'd with noisome Breaks out again, and is by ali admir'd. weeds,

Number and rhyme, and that harmonious sound,
And all that filth which standing water breeds. Which not the nicest ear with harshness wound,
Amazement reach'd ev’n the deep caves of Death ; Are necessary, yet but vulgar arts;
The sisters, with blue snaky curls, took breath; And all in vain these superficial parts
Ixion's wheel awhile unmovid remain’d, (strain'd. Contribute to the structure of the whole,
And the fierce doz his three-mouth'd voice re- Without a genius too; for that's the soul:

When safe return'd, and all these dangers past, A spirit which inspires the work throughout,
His wife, restor'd to breathe fresh air at last, As that of Nature moves the world about;
Following (for so Proserpina was pleas'd), A fame that glows amnist conceptions fit;
A sudden race th' unwary lover seiz'd;

Ev'n something of divine, and more than wit; He, as the first bright glimpse of day-light shin'd, Itself unseen, yet all things hy it shown, Could not refrain to cast one look behind;

Describing all men, but de scrib'd by none. A fault of love! could Hell compassion find. Where dost thou dwell? what caverns of the brain A dreadful sound thrice shook the Stygian coast, Can such a vast and mighty thing contain ? His hopes quite fled, and all his labour lost ! When I, at vacant bours, in vain thy absence mourn, ** Why hast thou thus un done thys If and me? Oh! where dost thou retire? and why dost thou What rage is this? oh, I am snatch'd from thee!”

return, She faintly cry'd. “Night and the powers of Hell Sometimes with powerful charms to hurry me away, Surround my sight; oh, Orpheus! oh, farewell ! From pleasures of the night, and business of the day? Hivi hands stretch forth to reach the as before; But all in vain, for I am thine no more;

· The Essay on Satire, which was written by No ror allow'd to view thy face, or day !” this noble author and Mr. Dryden, is printed Then from his eyes, like smoke, she fieets away. among the poems of the latter,

Ev'n now, too far transported, I am fain

This to the praise of those who better knew ;
To check thy course, and use the needful rein. The many raise the value of the few.
As all is dulness, when the fancy's bad;

But here (as all our sex too oft have try'd)
So, without judgment, fancy is but mad:

Women have drawn my wandlering thoughts aside. And judgment has a boundless influence

Their greatest fault, who in this kind have writ, Not only in the choice of words, or sense,

Is not defect in words, or want of wit; But on the world, on manners, and on men ; But should this Muse harmonious numbers yield, Fancy is but the feather of the pen;

And every couplet be with fancy filld; Reason is that substantial useful part,

If yet a just coherence be not made Which gains the head, while t'other wins the heart. Between each thought, and the whole model laid

Here I shall all the various sorts of verse, So right, that every line may higher rise, And the whole art of poetry rehearse;

Like goodly mountains, till they reach the skies : But who that task would after Horace do?

Such tritles may, perhaps of late, have past, The best of masters, and examples too!

And may be lik’d awhile, but never last ; Echoes at best, all we can say is vain;

"Tis epigram, 'tis point, 'tis what you will, Dull the design, and fruitless were the pain. But not an elegy, nor writ with skill, "Tis true, the ancients we may rob with ease; No Panegyric', nor a Cooper's Hill * But who, with that mean shift, himself can please, A higher flight, and of a happier force, Without an actor's pride? A player's art

Are Odes: the Muse's most unruly horse, Is above his, who writes a borrow'd part.

That bounds so fierce, the rider has no rest, Yet modern laws are made for later faults,

Here foams at mouth, and moves like one possessid. And new absurdities inspire new thoughts:

The poet here must be indeed inspir'd, What need has Satire then to live on theft, With fury tou, as well as faney fir'd. When so much fresh occasion still is left ?

Cowley might boast to have perform'd this part, Fertile our soil, and full of rankest weeds,

Had he aith Nature join'd the rules of Art; And monsters worse than ever Nilus breeds. But sometimes diction mean, or verse ill-w sought, But hold, the fools shall have no cause to fear; Deadens, or clouds, his noble frame of thought. "Tis wit and sense that is the subject here: Though all appear in heat and fury done, Defects of witty men deserve a cure,

The language still must soft and easy run. And those who are so, will ev'n this endure. These laws may sound a little too severe; First, then, of Songs; which now so much a- But judgment yields, and fancy governs here, bound,

Which, though extravagant, this Muse allows, Without his song no fop is to be found ;

And makes the work much easier than it shows A most offensive weapon, which he draws

Of all the ways that wisest men could find On all he meets, against Apollo's law's.

To mend the age, and mortify inankind, Though nothing seems more easy, yet no part Satire, well-writ, has most successful prov'd, Of poetry requires a nicer art;

And cures, because the remedy is lov'd. For as in rows of richest pearl there lies

"Tis hard to write on such a subject more, Many a blemish that escapes our eyes,

Without repeating things said oft before : The least of which defects is plainly shown Some vulgar errours only we'll remove, In one small ring, and brings the value down: That stain a beauty which we so much love. So songs should be to just perfection wrought; Of chosen words some take not care enough, Yet where can one be seen without a fault? And think they should be, as the subject, rough; Exact propriety of words and thought;

This poem must be more exactly made, Expression easy, and the fancy high;

And sharpest thoughts in smoothest words convey'd. Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly ; Some think, if sharp enough, they cannot fail, No words transpos'd, but in such order all,

As if their only business was to rail: As wrought with care, yet seem by chance to fall. But human frailty nicely to unfold, Here, as in all things else, is most unfit,

Distinguishes a satyr from a scold. Bare ribaldry, that poor pretence to wit;

Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down; Such nauseous songs, by a late author made?, A satyr's smile is sharper than his frown; Call an unwilling censure on his shade.

So while you seem to slight some rival youth, No that warm thoughts of the transporting joy Malice itself may pass sometimes for truth. Can shock the chastest, or the nicest cloy; The Laureats here may justly claim our praise, But words obscene, too gross to move desire, Crown'd by Mack Fleckno with immortal bays; Like heaps of fuel, only choke the fire.

Yet once his Pegasus' has borne dead weight, On other themes he well deserves our praise; Rid by some lumpish minister of state. But palls that appetite he meant to raise.

Here rest, my Muse, suspend thy cares awhile, Next, Elegy, of sweet, but solemn voice, A more important task attends thy toil. And of a subject grave, exacts the choice;

As some young eagle, that designs to fly The praise of beauty, valour, wit contains ;

A long unwonted journey through the sky, And there, too oft, despairing Love complains : Weighs all the dangerous enterprize before, In vain, alas! for who by wit is mov'd ?

O'cr what wide lands and seas she is to soar, That phenix-she deserves to be belov'd;

Doubts her own strength so far, and justly fears But noisy nonsense, and such fops as vex

The lofty road of airy travellers; Mankind, take most with that fantastic sex.

3 Waller's. * Denham's.

» Mr. Dryden, The earl of Rochester. It may be observed,

o A famous satirical poem of his. howeyer, that many of the worst songs ascribed to this nobleman were spurious. N.

? A poem called the Hind and Panther,

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