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Your goodness, Sir, will easily excuse
The bold requests of an aspiring muse;
Who, with your blessing would your aid implore,
And in her weakness justify your power.—
From your fair pattern she would strive to write,
And with unequal strength pursue your flight;
Yet hopes, she ne'er can err that follows you,
Led by your blest commands, and greatexample too.
Then smiling and aspiring influence give,
And make the muse and her endeavours live :
Claim all her future labours as your due,
Let every song begin and end with you:
So to the blest retreat she'll gladly go,
Where the saints' palm and muses' laurel grow;
Where kindly both in glad embrace shall join,
And round your brow their mingled honours twine;
Both to the virtue due, which could excel,
As much in writing, as in living well.—
So shall she proudly press the tuneful string,
And mighty things in mighty numbers sing;
Nor doubt to strike Prudentius’ daring lyre,
And humbly bring the verse which you inspire.
and one of those who were afterwards deprived of his see for refusing the oaths to the new government. Bishop Burnet says, “He was a sincere and good-natured man, of too quick an imagination, and too defective a judgment. He was but moderately learned, having conversed more with men than with books.” He died November 2, 1700.
To DR. TURNER, BIs Hop of ELY ; ON HIS
DEPARTURE FIROM CAMIBI: IDG E.
DAMON. TELL, dear Alexis, tell thy Damon, why Dost thou in mournful shades obscurely lie? Why dost thou sigh, why strike thy panting breast : And steal from life the needful hours of rest ? Are thy kids starv’d by winter's early frost? Are any of thy bleating stragglers lost? Have strangers' cattle trod thy new-plough'd ground 2 Has great Joanna, or her greater shepherd frown'd. ALEXIS. See my kids browse, my lambs securely play : (Ah were their master unconcern’d as they ) No beasts (at noon I look’d) had trod my ground; Nor has Joanna, or her shepherd, frown'd. DAMON. Then stop the lavish fountain of your eyes, Nor let those sighs from your swoln bosom rise ; Chase sadness, friend, and solitude away; And once again rejoice, and once again look gay, ALEXIS. Say what can more our tortur’d souls annoy, Than to behold, admire, and lose our joy;
Whose fate more hard than those who sadly run,
For the last glimpse of the departing sun ?
Or what severer sentence can be given,
Than, having seen, to be excluded Heaven?
None, shepherd, none—
Then cease to chide my cares |
And rather pity than restrain my tears;
Those tears, my Damon, which I justly shed,
To think how great my joys; how soon they fled :
I told thee, friend, (now bless the shepherd's name,
From whose dear care the kind occasion came,)
That I, even I, might happily receive [give;
The sacred wealth, which Heaven and Daphnis
That I might see the lovely awful swain,
Whose holy crosier guides our willing plain;
Whose pleasing power and ruling goodness keep
Our souls with equal care as we our sheep ;
Whose praise excites each lyre, employs each
Whilst only he who caus'd, dislikes the song.
To this great, humble, parting man I gain’d
Access, and happy for an hour I reign'd;
Happy as new-form'd man in paradise,
Ere sin debauch'd his inoffensive bliss ;
Happy as heroes after battles won,
Prophets entranc'd, or monarchs on the throne;
But (oh, my friend') those joys with Daphnis flew ;
To them these tributary tears are due.
I) AMON. Was he so humble then 2 those joys so vast? Cease to admire that both so quickly past. Too happy should we be, would smiling fate Render one blessing durable and great; But (oh, the sad vicissitude!) how soon Unwelcome night succeeds the cheerful noon; And rigid winter nips the flowery pomp of June Then grieve not, friend, like you, since all mankind A certain change of joy and sorrow find. Suppress your sigh, your downcast eyelids raise, Whom present you revere, him absent praise.
To FLEETWOOD SHEPHERD, Esq."
WHEN crowding folks with strange ill faces
Were making legs and begging places,
And some with patents, some with merit,
'Tir'd out my good Lord Dorset's spirit:
Sneaking I stood amongst the crew,
Desiring much to speak with you.
I waited while the clock struck thrice,
And footman brought out fifty lies;
Till, patience vex'd, and legs grown weary,
I thought it was in vain to tarry:
But did opine it might be better,
By penny-post to send a letter;
Now if you miss of this epistle,
I'm balk’d again, and may go whistle.
My business, Sir, you'll quickly guess,
Is to desire some little place:
And fair pretensions I have for’t,
Much need, and very small desert.
Whene'er I writ to you, I wanted;
I always begg’d, you always granted.
Now, as you took me up when little,
Gave me my learning and my vittle;
Ask’d for me, from my lord, things fitting,
Kind as I’ad been your own begetting;
Confirm what formerly you’ve given,
Nor leave me now at six and seven,
As Sunderland has left Mun Stephen."
No family that takes a whelp
When first he laps and scarce can yelp,
Neglects or turns him out of gate
When he's grown up to dog's estate:
1 Mr. Mun Stephen had been under secretary to Lord Sunderland when he held the post of secretary of state in the time of James II. A few years after the revolution, falling into a desponding state, he put an end to his life by cutting his throat.