Strange Force of Harmony, that thus controuls
Our Thoughts, and turns and sanctifies our Souls:
While with its utmoft Art your Sex cou'd move
Our Wonder only, or at best our Love:

You far above Both these your GOD did place,
That your high Pow'r might worldly Thoughts destroy;
That with your Numbers You our Zeal might raise,
And, like Himself, communicate your Joy.

When to your Native Heav'n You shall repair,
And with your Prefence crown the Bleffings there;
Your Lute may wind its Strings but little higher,
To tune their Notes to that- immortal Quire.
Your Art is perfect here; your Numbers do,
More than our Books, make the rude Atheist know,
That there's a Heav'n, by what he hears below.

As in fome Piece, while LUKE his Skill expreft,
A cunning Angel came, and drew the reft:
So, when You play, fome Godhead does impart
Harmonious Aid, Divinity helps Art; ov
Some Cherub finishes what You begun,
And to a Miracle improves a Tune.

To burning ROME when frantick NERO play'd,
Viewing that Face, no more he had furvey'd
The raging Flames; but ftruck with ftrange Surprize,
Confeft them lefs than those of ANNA's Eyes:

}

But

But, had he heard thy Lute, He foon had found
His Rage eluded, and his Crime atton'd:

Thine, like AMPHION'S Hand, had wak'd the Stone,
And from Destruction call'd the rifing Town:
Malice to Mufick had been forc'd to yield;
Nor could he Burn fo faft, as Thou cou'dft Build.

PICTURE of SENECA dying in a Bath. By JORDA I N.

At the Right Honourable the EARL of EXETER's at Burleigh-Houfe.

WHILE cruel NERO only drains

The moral SPANIARD'S ebbing Veins,

By Study worn, and flack with Age,
How dull, how thoughtless is his Rage!
Heighten❜d Revenge He fhould have took;
He should have burnt his Tutor's Book;
And long have reign'd fupream in Vice:
One nobler Wretch can only rife;
'Tis he whofe Fury shall deface

The Stoic's Image in this Piece.

For while unhurt, divine JORDAIN, XPD oă

Thy Work and SENECA's remain,

He still has Body, ftill has Soul,

And lives and speaks, restor'd and whole.

An

An O D E.

I.

WHILE blooming Youth, and gay Delight

Sit on thy rofey Cheeks confeft,

Thou haft, my Dear, undoubted Right

To triumph o'er this deftin'd Breaft.

My Reafon bends to what thy Eyes ordain;
For I was born to Love, and Thou to Reign.

II.

But would You meanly thus rely ⠀⠀
On Power, You know I must Obey?
Exert a Legal Tyranny ;

And do an Ill, becaufe You may

Still must I Thee, as Atheifts Heav'n adore;

Not fee thy Mercy, and yet dread thy Power?
III. i

Take Heed, my Dear, Youth flies apace;
As well as CUPID, TIME is blind:
Soon must thofe Glories of thy Face

The Fate of vulgar Beauty find:)

The Thousand Loves, that arm thy potent Eye,
Must drop their Quivers, flag their Wings, and die.

IV...

Then wilt Thou figh, when in each Frown

A hateful Wrinkle more appears;

A

And putting peevish Humours on, 25 noM - 177

Seems but the fad Effect of Years:72 oigald

Kindness it self too weak a Charm will prove,

To raise the feeble Fires of aged Love.

V.

Forc'd Compliments, and formal Bows
Will show Thee just above Neglect:

The Heat, with which thy Lover glows,
Will fettle into cold Refpect:

A talking dull Platonic I fhall turn;

Learn to be civil, when I ceafe to burn.

VI.:

Then fhun the Ill, and know, my Dear,
Kindness and Conftancy will prove

The only Pillars fit to bear

So vaft a Weight, as that of Love.

If thou canst wish to make My Flames endure,
Thine must be very fierce, and very pure.

VII.

Haste, CELIA, hafte, while Youth invites,
Obey kind CUPID's present Voice;
Fill ev'ry Sense with foft Delights,
And give thy Soul a Loofe to Joys:

Let Millions of repeated Bliffes prove,
That Thou all Kindness art, and I all Love.
VIII...

Be Mine, and only Mine; take care

Thy Looks, thy Thoughts, thy Dreams to guide To Me alone; nor come fo far,

As liking any Youth befide:

What Men e'er court Thee, fly 'em, and believe,
They're Serpents all, and Thou the tempted E v E.

IX.

So fhall I court thy dearest Truth,
When Beauty ceases to engage ;
So thinking on thy charming Youth,
I'll love it o'er again in Age:

So TIME it felf our Raptures fhall improve,
While still we wake to Joy, and live to Love.

A N

EPISTLE

TO

FLEETWOOD SHEPHARD, Efq;

SIR,

AS

Burleigh, May 14, 1689.

S once a Twelvemonth to the Priest,

Holy at ROME, here Antichrift,
The SPANISH King presents a Jennet,

To fhow his Love; That's all that's in it:
For if his Holiness wou'd thump

His reverend Bum 'gainft Horse's Rump,'

He might b' equipt from his own Stable

With one more White, and eke more Able.

Or as with Gondola's and Men, His Good Excellence the Duke of VENICE