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I begg'd that she would give me leave to lose,
A thing she does not commonly refuse!
Two matadores are out against my game,
Yet still I play, and still my luck's the same:
Unconquer'd in three suits it does remain,
Whereas I only ask in one to gain;
Yet she, still contradicting, gifts imparts,
And gives success in every suit—but hearts.

CUPID'S PROMISE.

A FRENCEI SONG PARAPHRASED,

SoFT Cupid, wanton, amorous boy,
The other day, mov’d with my lyre,

In flattering accents spoke his joy,
And utter'd thus his fond desire.

Oh! raise thy voices one song I ask;
Touch then thy harmonious string;

To Thyrsis easy is the task,
Who can so sweetly play and sing.

Two kisses from my mother dear,
Thyrsis, thy due reward shall be;

None, none, like beauty's queen is fair,
Paris has vouch'd this truth for me.

I straight replied, Thou know'st alone
That brightest Chloe rules my breast,

I'll sing thee two instead of one,
If thou'lt be kind, and make me blest.

One kiss from Chloe's lips, no more
I crave: he promis'd me success;

I play'd with all my skill and power,
My glowing passion to express.

But oh! my Chloe, beauteous maid!
Wilt thou the wish’d reward bestow *

Wilt thou make good what love has said,
And, by thy grant, his power show :

TO THE EARL OF OXFORD. written ExtEM port E, IN LADY Oxford's STUDY, 1717.

PEN, ink, and wax, and paper send
To the kind wife, the lovely friend :
Smiling, bid her freely write
What her happy thoughts indite ;
Of virtue, goodness, peace, and love,
Thoughts which angels may approve,

WOL. II. 19

A LETTER TO THE HONOURABLE LADY MARGARET CAVENDISH HARLEY, WHEN A CHILD.

MY noble, lovely, little Peggy,
Let this my first epistle beg you,
At dawn of morn and close of even,
To lift your heart and hands to Heaven.
In double beauty say your prayer:
Our Father first-then Notre Pere:
And, dearest child, along the day,
In every thing you do and say,
Obey and please my lord and lady,
So God shall love, and angels aid ye.
If to these precepts you attend,
No second letter need I send,
And so I rest your constant friend.

LINES 1 wRITTEN UNDER THE PRINT OF ToM BRITTON, THE SMALL-COAL-MAN, PAINTED BY MR. WOOLASTON.

THOUGH doom'd to small-coal, yet to arts allied, Rich without wealth, and famous without pride;

1 These verses were written by Mr. Prior to serve Vertue, then a young man, and patronized by Edward Earl of

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Music's best patron, judge of books and men,
Belov’d and honour’d by Apollo's train :
In Greece or Rome sure never did appear
So bright a genius, in so dark a sphere:
More of the man had artfully” been sav’d,
Had Kneller painted, and had Vertue grav'd.

TRUTH TOLD AT LAST.

SAYs Pontius in rage, contradicting his wife,

“You never yet told me one truth in your life.”

Vex'd Pontia no way could this thesis allow,

“You’re a cuckold, says she do I tell you truth now 2°

WRITTEN

IN LADY How E's Ovid's EPISTLEs.

However high, however cold, the fair,
However great the dying lover's care,
Ovid, kind author, found him some relief,
Rang'd his unruly sighs, and set his grief

Oxford. Concerning the extraordinary man who is the subject of them, a very entertaining account is given by Sir John Hawkins, in his History of Music, vol. v. p. 70. 1 Sir John Hawkins observes, it is suspected that the in significant adverb artfully was inserted by mistake of the transcriber, and that it originally stood probably.

w Taught him what accents had the power to move, And always gain’d him pity, sometimes love. But, oh! what pangs torment the destin’d heart, That feels the wound, yet dares not show the dart | What ease could Ovid to his sorrows give, • Who must not speak, and therefore cannot live

AN EPISTLE. MDCCXVI.

I PRAY, good Lady Harley, let Jonathan know,
How long you intend to live incognito.
Your humble servant,
ELKANAH SETTLE.

ANOTHER EPISTLE.

I PRAY. Lady Harriot the time to assign
When she shall receive a turkey and chine;
That a body may come to St. James's to dine.

TRUE'S EPITAPH.

IF wit or honesty could save
Our mouldering ashes from the grave,
This stone had still remain’d unmark’d,
I still writ prose, True still have bark'd.

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