תמונות בעמוד

My deareft Lord, believe a careful Wife, You are too lavish of your precious Life; You foremost into every Danger run, Of me regardless, and your little Son. Shortly the Greeks, what none can singly do, Will compass, pointing all the War at you. But before that Day comes, Heavens! may I have The mournful Priviledge of an early Grave! For I of your dear Company bereft, Have no Reserve, no fecond Comfort left. My Father, who did in Cilicia reign, By fierce Achilles was in Battel Hain: His Arms that Savage Conqueror durft not spoil, But paid juft Honours to his funeral Pile; Wood-Nymphs about his Grave have planted since A rural Monument to a mighty Prince. Severr Brothers, who seven Legions did command, Had the fame Fate, froin the same murdering Hand. My Mother too, who their fad Heir did reign, With a vaft Treasure was redeem'd in vain, For she foon clos'd her Empire, and her Breath, By Wretches last good Fortune sudden Deatbe Thus Father, Mother, Brethren, all are gone, But they seem all alive in you alone. To gain you, those Endearmients I have sold, And like the Purchase if the Title hold. Have pity then, here in this Tower abide, And round the Walls and Works your Troops divide. But now the Greeks, by both their Generals led, Ajax, Idomeneus, Diomede, With all their most experienc'd Chiefs and brave, Three fierce Attacks upon the Out-Works gave; Some God their Courage to this pitch did raise, Or this is one of Troy's unlucky Days.

Hector reply'd, This you have faid, and more, I have revolvd in ferious Thoughts before.,


But I not half so much thöfe Grecians fear,
As Corpet-Nights, State-Dames, and Flatterers here.
For they, if ever I decline the Fight,
Miscall wife Conduct, Cowardice and Flight ;
Others may Methods chuse the most secure,
My Life no middle Courses can endure.
Urg'd by niy own, and my great Father's Name,
I must add something to our ancient Fame:
Embark'd in Ilium's Cause, I cannot Ay,
Will conqner with it, or nust for it die.
But still some Boding Genius does portend,
To all my Toils an unsuccessful end,
For how can Man with heavenly Powers contend?
The Day advances with the swiftest Pace,
Which Troy and all ker Glories, shall deface,
Which Alia's facred Empire shall confound,
And these proud Towers lay level with the Ground.
But all compar'd with you does scarce appear,
When I presage your Case, I learn to fear:
When you by some proud Conqueror shall beled;
A mournful Captive to a Mifter's Bed;
Perhaps fome haughty Dame your Hands shall doom,
To weave Troy's dornfal in a Grecian Loom:
Or lower yet, you may be forc'd to bring
Water to Argos from Hiperia's Spring;
And as you measure out the tedious Way,
Some one shall, pointing to his Neighbour, say,
See to what Fortune Hečtor's Wife is brought,
That famous General, that for Ilium fought.
This will renew your Sorrows without end,
Depriv'd in such a Day of such a Friend.
But this is Fancy, or before it I,
Low in the Duit will with my Country lie.

Then to his Infant he his Arms address’d, The Child clung, crying, to his Nurse's Breast, ir'd at the burnish'd Arms, and threatning Crest.

This made them Smile, whilst Hetor doth unbrace
His shining Helmet, and disclos'd his Face:
Then dancing the pleas'd Infant in the Air,
Kiss'd him, and to the God's conceiv'd this Prayer.

Jove, and you heavenly Powers, whoever hear
Hector's Request with a propitious Ear,
Grant this my Child in Honour and Renown
May equal me, wear, and deserve the Crown :
And when from some great Action he shall come
Laden with hoftite Spoils in Triumphs Home,
May Trojans say, Hector great Things hath done,
But is furpafs’d by his Illustrious Son.
This will rejoyce his tender Mother's Heart,
And Sense of Joy to my pale Ghost impart.

Then in the Mother's Arms he puts the Child, With troubled Joy, in Howing Tears she smild: Beauty and Grief shew'd all their Pompand Pride, Whilst those foft Passions did her Looks divide.

This Scene er'n Hector's Courage melted down, But soon recovering with a Lover's Frown.

Madam, says he, these Fancies put away, I cannot die before my fatal Day; Heaven, when we firit take in our Vital Breath Decrees the way, and moment of our Death. Women should fill their Heads with Womens Cares And leave to Men, unqueftion'd, Mens Affairs. A Truncheon fuites not with a Lady's Hand, War is my Province, that in chief comniand. The Beauteous Princess silently withdrew, Turns oft, and with fad wishing Eyes does her Lord's

(steps pursue. Pensive to her Apartment fhe returns, And with Prophetick Tears approaching Evils

( mourns : Then tells all to her Maids; officious they His Funeral Rites to Living Hector pay,

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Whilst forth he rushes through the Scean Gate,
Does his own Part, and leaves the rest to Fate.


To Sylvia.

By Sir George Etherege. THE 'HE Nymph that undoes me, is fair and unkind,

No less than a Wonder by Nature design'd; She's the grief of my Heart, the joy of my Eye, And the Cause of a Flame that never can die. Her Mouth, from whence Wit still obligingly flows, Has the beautiful Blush, and the Sniell of the Rose: Love and Destiny both attend on her Will, She Wounds with a Look with a Frown she can kill.

The desperate Lover can hope no redress,
Where Beauty and Rigour are both in excess 3
In Sylvia they neet, so unhappy am I,
Who sees her must Love, and who loves her must die.


To the Honourable Charles Montague, Esq.


How e’er, tis well, that while Mankind

Thro' Fates perverse Mxander errs, He can innagin'd Pleasures find,

To combat against real Cares.


Fancies and Notions he pursues,

Which ne'er had being but in Thought;
Each, like the Gracian Artist woo's
The Image he himself has wrought.

Against Experience he believes;

He Argues against Demonstration;
Pleas'd, when his Reason he deceives;
And sets his Judgment by his Pássion.

The hoary Fool, who many Days

Has struggld with continu'd sorrow,
Renews his Hope, and blindly lays
The desperate Bett upon to morrow.

Tomorrow comes ; 'tis Noon, 'tis Night;

This day like all the former Alies :
Yet on he runs, to seek Delight
To morrow, 'till to Night he dies.

Our Hoces, like tow'ring Falcons, aim

At Objects in an airy height:
The little Pleasure of the Game
Is from afar to View the Flight.

Our anxious Pains we all the Day,

In search of what we like employ :)
Scorning at Night the worthless Prey,
We find the Labour gave the Joy.

At distance thro’ 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.

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