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The last fair instance thou must give,
Whence Nassau's virtue can be tried; And shew the world, that thou canst live,
Intrepid, as thy consort died.
Thy virtue, whose resistless force
No dire event could ever stay, Must carry on its destin'd course,
Though Death and Envy stop the way.
For Britain's sake, for Belgia’s, live :
Pierc'd by their grief forget thy own : New toils endure; new conquest give;
And bring them ease, though thou hast none.
Vanquish again; though she be gone,
Whose garland crown'd the victor's hair ; And reign, though she has left the throne,
Who made thy glory worth thy care.
Fair Britain never yet before
Breath'd to her king a useless pray'r : Fond Belgia never did implore,
While William turn'd averse his ear.
But should the weeping hero now
Relentless to their wishes prove; Should he recall, with pleasing woe,
The object of his grief and love;
Her face with thousand beauties blost,
Her mind with thousand virtues stor'd,
with boundless joy confest, Her person only not ador'd:
Yet ought his sorrow to be check’d;
Yet ought his passions to abate : If the great mourner would reflect,
Her glory in her death complete.
She was instructed to command,
Great king, by long obeying thee: Her sceptre, guided by thy hand,
Presery'd the isles, and ruld the sea.
But oh! 'twas little, that her life
O’er earth and water bears thy fame: In death, 'twas worthy William's wife,
Amidst the stars to fix his name.
Beyond where matter moves, or place
Receives its forms, thy virtues roll: From Mary’s glory, Angels trace
The beauty of her partner's soul.
Wise Fate, which does its Heav'n decree
To heroes, when they yield their breath, Hastens thy triumph. Half of thee
Is deified before thy death.
Alone to thy renown 'tis giv’n,
Unbounded through all worlds to go: While she, great saint, rejoices Heav'n;
And thou sustain'st the orb below.
IN IMITATION OF ANACREON.
ET 'em censure: what care I?
The herd of critics I defy.
Regardless of their grace, or spite.
Bid the warbling Nine retire:
HE merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrow'd name : Euphelia serves to grace my measure;
But Cloe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay; When Cloe noted her desire,
That I should sing, that I should play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise ;
But with my numbers mix my sighs : And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.
Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:
I sung and gaz'd: I play'd and trembled : And Venus to the Loves around
Remark’d, how ill we all dissembled.
SUR LA PRISE DE NAMUR, PAR LES ARMES DU ROY,
UELLE docte & sainte yvresse
Aujourd'huy me fait la loy?
N'est-ce pas vous que je voy?
Dans ses chansons immortelles,