EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR. MILLS, AT THE QUEEN'S THEATRE, ON HIS BENEFIT-NIGHT, FEBRUARY 16, 1709, A LITTLE BEFORE THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUH'S GOING FOR HOLLAND,

WHETHER Our stage all others does excel

In strength of wit, we'll not presume to tell:
But this, with noble, conscious pride, we'll say,
No theatre such glories can display;
Such worth conspicuous, beauty so divine,
Who can, without amazement, turn his sight,
As in one British audience mingled shine.
And mark the awful circle here to-night?
Warriors, with ever-living laurels, brought
From empires sav'd, from battles bravely fought,
Here sit; whose matchless story shall adorn
Scenes yet unwrit, and charm e'en ages yet unborn.
Yet who would not expect such martial fire,
That sees what eyes those gallant deeds inspire?
Valour and Beauty still were Britain's claim,
Both are her great prerogatives of fame;

By both the Muses live, from both they catch their flame.

Then as by you, in solid glory bright,

Our envy'd Isle through Europe spreads her light, And rising honours every year sustain,

And mark the golden tract of Anne's distinguish'd

WRITTEN

IN A WINDOW AT GREENHITHE.

GREAT President of light, and Eye of day,
As through this glass you cast your visual ray,
And view with nuptial joys two brothers blest,
And see us celebrate the genial feast,

Confess, that in your progress round the sphere, You've found the happiest youths and brightest beauties here.

THE TOASTERS.

WHILE circling healths inspire your sprightly wit,
And on each glass some beauty's praise is writ,
You ask, my friends, how can my silent Muse
To Montague's soft name a verse refuse?
Bright though she be, of race victorious sprung,
By wits ador'd, and by court-poets sung;
Unmov'd I hear her person call'd divine,
I see her features uninspiring shine;
A softer fair my soul to transport warms,
And, she once nam'd, no other nymph has charms.

TOFTS AND MARGARETTA. Music has learn'd the discords of the state, And concerts jar with Whig and Tory hate. Here Somerset and Devonshire attend The British Tofts, and every note commend; To native Merit just, and pleas'd to sec We've Roman arts, from Roman bondage free: There fam'd L'Epine does equal skill employ, While listening peers crowd to th' ecstatic joy: Bedford, to hear her song, his dice forsakes, And Nottingham is raptur'd when she shakes: Lull'd statesmen melt away their drowsy cares Of England's safety, in Italian airs.

Who would not send each year blank passes o'er, Rather than keep such strangers from our shore?

THE WANDERING BEAUTY,
THE Graces and the wandering Loves
Are flod to distant plains,

To chase the fawns, or, deep in groves,
To wound admiring swains.

With their bright mistress there they stray,

Who turns her careless eyes

From daily triumphs; yet, each day,
Beholds new triumphs in her way,
And conquers while she flies.

But see! implor'd by moving prayers,
To change the lover's pain,

Venus her harness'd doves prepares,

And brings the fair again.

Proud mortals, who this maid pursue,
Think you she'll e'er resign?
Cease, fools, your wishes to renew,
Till she grows flesh and blood like you,
Or you, like her, divine!

DIALOGUE DE L'AMOUR ET DU POETE.
LE P. AMOUR, je ne veux plus aimer;
J abjure à jamais ton empire:
Mon cœur, lassé de son martire,
A résolu de se calmer.

L'AM. Contre moi, qui peut t' animer?
Iris dans ses bras te rapelle.

LE P. Non, Iris est une infidelle;

Amour, je ne veux plus aimer L'AM. Pour toi, j'ai pris soin d'enflamer Le cœur d'une beauté nouvelle; Daphné.

-LE P. Non, Daphné n'est que belle;
Amour, je ne veux plus aimer.
L'AM. D'un soupir, tu peux désarmer
Dircé, jusqu'ici si sauvage.
LE P. Elle n'est plus dans le bel age;
Amour, je ne veux plus aimen
L'AM. Mais si je t'aidois à charmer

La jeune, la brillante Flore.-
Tu rougis-vas-tu dire encore,
Amour, je ne veux plus aimer.
LE P. Non, dieu cħarmant, daigne former
Pour nous une chaine eternelle;
Mais pour tout ce qui n'est point clle,
Amour, je ne veux plus aimer.

DIALOGUE FROM THE FRENCH
OF MONSIEUR DE LA MOTTE.

POET. No, Love-I ne'er will love again;
Thy tyrant empire I abjure:
My weary heart resolves to cure

Its wounds, and ease the raging pain.
LOVE. Fool! can t thou fly my happy reign?
Iris recals thee to her arms.
POET. She's false-I hate her perjur'd charms
No, Love-I ne'er will love again.
LOVE. But know, for thee I've toil'd to gain

Daphné, the bright, the reigning toast.
POET. Daphné but common eyes can boast;
No, Love-I ne'er will love again.
LOVE. She who before scorn'd every swain,
Dircé, shall for one sigh be thine.
POET. Age makes her rays too faintly shine;
No, Love-I ne'er will love again.
LOVE. But should I give thee charms t'obtain
Flora, the young, the bright, the gay!
I see thee blush-now, rebel, say,
No, Love-I ne'er will love again.

POET. No, charming god, prepare a chain
Eternal for that fair and me!

Yet still know every fair but she,
I've vow'd I ne'er will love again,

VENUS AND ADONIS,

A CANTATA.

SET BY MR. HANDEL.

RECITATIVE.

BEHOLD where weeping Venus stands!
What more than inortal grief can move
The bright, th' immortal queen of love?
She beats her breast, she wrings her hands;

And hark, she mourns, but mourns in vain,
Her beauteous, lov'd Adonis, slain.
The hills and woods her loss deplore;
The Naiads hear, and flock around;
And Echo sighs, with mimic sound,

Adonis is no more!

Again the goddess raves, and tears her hair: Then vents her grief, her love, and her despair,

AIR.

Dear Adonis, Beauty's treasure,
Now my sorrow, once my pleasure;
O return to Venus' arins!
Venus never will forsake thee;
Let the voice of Love o'ertake thee,
And revive thy drooping charms."

RECITATIVE.

Thus, queen of beauty, as the poets feign, While thou didst call the lovely swain; Transform'd by heavenly power,

The lovely swain arose a flower,

And, smiling, grac'd the plain.

And now he blooms, and now he fades;

Venus and gloomy Proserpine

Alternate claim his charins divine;

FAIR rival to the god of day,

shades.

A thousand sprightly fruits we owe;
Gay wit, and moving eloquence,
And every art t' improve the sense,
And every grace that shines below.
Not Phœbus docs our songs inspire,
Nor did Cyllenius form the lyre,
'Tis thou art music's living spring; \
To thee the poct tunes his lays,
And, sweetly warbling Beauty's praise,
Describes the power that makes him sing
Painters from thee their skill derive,
By thee their works to ages live,
For cv'n thy shadows give surprise,
As when we view in crystal streams
The morning Sun, and rising beams,
That seem to shoot from other skies.
Enchanting vision! who can be
Unmov'd that turns his eyes on thee?
Yet brighter still thy glories shine,
And double charms thy power improve,
When Beauty, dress'd in smiles of Love,
Grows, like its parent Heaven, divine!

42

Timotheus plac'd on high,
Amid the tuneful quire,

With flying fingers touch'd the lyre;
Trembling the notes ascend the sky,

And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above;
(Such is the power of mighty Love!)
A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god;
Sublime on radiant spires he rode,
When he to fair Olympia press'd,
And while he sought her snowy breast;
Then round her slender waist he curl'd,

And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.

The listening crowd adore the lofty sound,
A present deity, they shout around:

A present deity, the echoing roofs rebound;

AIR.

RECITATIVE.

With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his alter'd soul

The various turns of chance below;
And, now and then, a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.
The mighty master smil'd to see
That Love was in the next degree,
'Twas but a kindred sound to move:
For Pity melts the mind to Love.
Softly sweet in Lydian measures,
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures,

AIR. WITH FLUTES.
War is toil and trouble,
Honour is an airy bubble,
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying,
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think it, worth enjoying;
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee.

RECITATIVE.

The prince unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz'd on the fair,

Who caus'd his care,

And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:

At length, with Love and Wine at once oppress'd,
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

DUETTO.

1. Phoebus, patron of the lyre,

2. Cupid, god of soft desire, 1. Cupid, god of soft desire,

2. Phoebus, patron of the lyre,

1. and 2. How victorious are your charms! 1. Crown'd with conquest,

2. Full of glory,

1. and 2. See a monarch fall'n before yo, Chain'd in Beauty's clasping arms!

RECITATIVE.

Now strike the golden lyre again;
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain:
Break his bands of sleep asunder,
Rouze him, like a rattling peal of thunder,
Hark, hark, the horrid sound

Has rais'd up his head,
As awak'd from the dead,
And amaz'd he stares around!

AIR. WITH SYMPHONIES.

Revenge, revenge, Alecto cries,
See, the Furies arise!

See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their hair,

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!

And thy bright eye is brighter far
Than any planet, any star.
Thy sordid way of life despise,
Above thy slavery, Silvia, rise;
Display thy beauteous form and mien,
And grow a goddess, or a queen.

CONSTANTIA, see, thy faithful slave
Dies of the wound thy beauty gave!
Ah! gentle nymph, no longer try
From fond pursuing Love to fly.
Thy pity to my love impart,
Pity my bleeding aching heart,
Regard my sighs and flowing tears,
And with a smile remove my fears.

A wedded wife if thou would'st be,
By sacred Hymen join'd to me,
Ere yet the western Sun decline,
My hand and heart shall both be thine,

THRICE lov'd Constantia, heavenly fair,
For thee a servant's form I wear;
Though blest with wealth, and nobly born,
For thee, both wealth and birth I scorn:
Trust me, fair maid, my constant flame
For ever will remain the same;

My love, that ne'er will cease, my love
Shall equal to thy beauty prove.

TRANSLATED

FROM PERSIAN VERSES.

ALLUDING TO THE CUSTOM OF WOMEN BEING BURIED WITH THEIR HUSBANDS, AND MEN. WITH THEIR WIVES.

ETERNAL are the chains which here

The generous souls of lovers bind, When Hymen joins our hands, we swear

To be for ever true and kind;

And when, by Death, the fair are snatch'd away,
Lest we our solemn vows should break,

In the same grave our living corpse we lay,
And willing the same fate partake,

ANOTHER.

My dearest spouse, that thou and I

May shun the fear which first shall die, Clasp'd in each other's arms we'll live, Alike consum'd in Love's soft fire, That neither may at last survive, But gentle both at once expire.

SONGS.

Tuy origin's divine, I see,

Of mortal race thou canst not be;".
Thy lip a ruby lustre shows;
Thy purple check outshines the rose,

ON ARQUEÄNASSA OF COLOPHOS. ARQUEANASSA'S charms inspire Within my breast a lover's, fire; Age, its feeble spite displaying, Vainly wrinkles all her face, Cupids, in each wrinkle playing,

Charm my eyes with lasting grace: