"Tis thus I rove, 'tis thus complain, Too much, Alexis, I have heard: 'Tis what I thought; 'tis what I fear'd: And yet I pardon you, she cried: But you shall promise ne'er again To breathe your vows, or speak your pain: TO THE HONOURABLE CHARLES MONTAGUE.1 HOWE'ER, 'tis well, that while mankind To combat against real cares. 1 Afterwards Earl of Halifax. "He raised himself," says Mr. Walpole, "by his abilities and eloquence in the House of Commons, where he had the honour of being attacked, in conjunction with Lord Somers, and the satisfaction of establishing his innocence as clearly. Addison has celebrated this lord in his account of the greatest English poets: Steele has drawn his character in the dedication of the Fancies and notions he pursues, Which ne'er had being but in thought; Against experience he believes; He argues against demonstration; The hoary fool, who many days Has struggled with continued sorrow, To-morrow comes: 'tis noon, 'tis night; Our hopes, like tow'ring falcons, aim Is from afar to view the flight. second volume of the Spectator, and the fourth of the Tatler, but Pope in the Portrait of Bufo, in the Epistle to Arbuthnot, has returned the ridicule, which his lordship, in conjunction with Prior, had heaped on Dryden's Hind and Panther." He died 19th May, 1715. 1 Apelles. Our anxious pains we, all the day, We find the labour gave the joy. At distance through an artful glass To the mind's eye things well appear : They lose their forms, and make a mass Confus'd and black if brought too near. If we see right, we see our woes: We wearied should lie down in death: VARIATIONS IN A COPY PRINTED 1692. OUR hopes, like towering falcons, aim The worthless prey but only shews Whate'er we take, as soon we lose So, whilst in feverish sleeps we think To the mind's eye things well appear, At distance through an artful glass; Bring but the flattering objects near, They're all a senseless gloomy mass. Seeing aright, we see our woes: We wearied should lie down in death, This cheat of life would take no more; If you thought fame but stinking breath, And Phyllis but a perjur'd whore. HYMN TO THE SUN. SET BY DR. PURCELL, AND INTENDED TO BE SUNG BEFORE THEIR MAJESTIES ON LIGHT of the world, and ruler of the year, That in fair Albion thou hast seen The greatest prince, the brightest queen, That ever sav'd a land, or blest a throne, Since first thy beams were spread, or genial power was known. So may thy godhead be confest, As his summer's youth shall shed From the blessings they bestow, Our times are dated, and our eras move: They govern and enlighten all below, As thou dost all above. Let our hero in the war Active and fierce, like thee, appear: |