תמונות בעמוד

Thy self without the least remaining Signs,

Of ancient Virtue so deprav'd,
As ev'n they wish'd to be enslav'd :

What more than humane aid
Could raise thee from a state fo low,
Protect thee from thy self, thy greatest Foe?
Something Celestial fure, a Heroine,
Of matchless Form, and a majestick Mien;
By all respected, fear'd, but more belov’d,
More than her Laws, her great Example mov’d;

The Bounds that in her Godlike mind
Were to her Paflions fet, feverely fbin'd,
But that of doing good was unconfin'd.

So just, that absolute Command,

Destructive in another Hand,
In hers had chang’d its Nature, had been useful made.

Oh! had the longer staid,
Less fwiftly to her Native Heaven retir'd,
For her the Harps of Albion had been strung,
Th' Harmonious Nine could never have aspir'd
To a more lofty and immortal Song.


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Epitaphium Vivi Auctoris. HIC, O Viator, fub Lare parvulo,

, Ó

Couleius hic est Conditus, hic jacet Defunctus bumani laboris

Sorte, supervacuaque vita, Non indecora pauperie Nitens, Et non inerti nobilis otio,

Vanoque dileétis popello

Divitiis animofus hoftis.

Polis ut illum dicere mortuum,
En Terre jamn nunc Qitantul.a. fufficit ?

Exemta fit curis, viator,

Terra fit illa Levis, precare. Hic Sparge Flores, sparge breves Rofisa Nam Vita gaudet mortua Floribus,

Herbisque Odoratis Corona

Vatis adhuc Cinerem Caleatem.

Thus Translated into English. Mr. Cowley's Epitaph on himself, yet Alive.


HERE, Traveller, under this Cott.

Is Comley buried; here he lies Discharg'd of Man's painful Lot,

And Life's supervacuities.

Shining in comely Poverty,

Renowned for his active Ease,
Riches deadly Enemy,
Which the vain People fo niuch please,

That you may say I'm dead alive,

Lo! what a spot of Ground I have,
Wish it nay quiet be and thrive,
For 'tis no larger than a Grave.

Strow Flow'rs here, strow.short liv'd Roses

For thus dead Life is pleas'd beset, And Crown with fragrant Poses

The Poets Alhes vigorous yet.

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A Pastoral Dialogue.
By Sir Charles Sedley.

S Treplen! O Strephon!

once the Jollieft Lad, That with shrill Pipe did ever Mountain glad, Whilone the foremoft at our rural Plays, The Pride and Glory of our Holidays : Why dost thou now sit musing all alone, Teaching the Turtles yet a fadder Groan Welld with thy Tears, why does the Neighb'ring

(Brook, Rear to the Ocean what she never took? Why do our Woods, fo us'd to hear thee Sing, With nothing now but with thy Sorrows Ring ? Thy Flocks are well and fruitful, and no Swain Than thee more welcome, to the Hill or Plain.

Strephon. No Loss of these, or Care of those are left, Hath wretched Strephon of his Peace bereft; I could invite the Wolf, my cruel Guest, And play unmov'd, while he on all did feast : I could endure that every Swain out-run, Out-threw, out-wrestled, and each Nynıph should

( hun The hapless Strephon : But the Gods, I find To no luch Trifles have this Heart design'd. A feller Grief, and fadder Lofs, I plain, # Than ever Shepherd, or did Prince fustain: Bright Galatea, in whose natchless Face Sat rural Innocence with heavenly Grace]



In whose no less to be adored Mind,
With equal Light, even distant Virtues shin'd;
Chafte, without Pride; tho’gentle, yet not soft,
Not always cruel, nor yet kind too oft :
Fair Goddess of these Fields, who for our Sports,
'Tho' she might well become despised Courts,
Belov'd of all, and loving one alone,
Is from my sight, I fear, for ever gone.
Now I am sure thou wonder'st not Igrieve,
But rather art amazed that I live.

Thy Cafe indeed is pitiful, but yet
Thou on thy Lofs too great á Prize dost fet;
Women, like Days are, Strephon, fome be far
More bright and glorious than others are :
Yet none so wonderful were ever seen,
But by as fair they have succeeded been.

Others as fair, and may as worthy proveg.
But sure I never shall another love :
Her bright Idea wanders in my Thought,
At once my Poison, and my Antidote.
The Stag shall sooner with the Eagle foar,
Séas leave their Fishes naked on the Shore;
The Wolf shall sooner by the Lambkin die,
And from the Kid the hungry Lyon fly;
Than I forget her Face: What once I love,
May from my Eyes, but not my Heart remove.


The parting of Hector with his Princess Androo

mache, and only Son Altyanax, when he went upon his laft Expedition, in which he was plain by Achilles.

Done out of the Greek of Homer, Iliad. 6.

By Mr. Knightly Chetwood.

HECTOR, tho? warnd by an approaching

Cry; That to Troy'sWalls the conqu’ringGreeks drew nigh T'his Princess one fhort Visit pays in haste, Some Demon told him this would be his last : Her, swiftly pasting thro' the spacious Streets, He nor at Home, nor in the Circle nieets, Nor at * Minerva's, where the beauteous Train Made Prayers and Vows to angry Powers in Vain. She, half distracted with the loud Alarms, (The Prince was carry'd in his Nurse's Arms) Runs to a Turret, whofe comnianding Height Presented all the Battle to her Sight, Advancing Grecians, and the Trojans Flight. Here Hečtor finds her, with a Lover's Pace, She speeds, and brea:hless Sinks, in his Embrace ; The Nurse came after with her Princely Care, As Hesperus fresh, promising, and fair j He&tor in little, with Paternal Joy, He bleft in filent Smiles, the lovely Boy. The Princess, at his Sight compos'd again, Prefsing his Hand, does gently thus complain. * At Minerva's Temple.



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