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W Hilst Melchor to his Harp with wondrous skill

(For such were Poets thenand should be itill") His noble Verse through Nature's Secrets lead; He sung what Spirit,through the whole Massispread Ev'ry where all; how Heaven's God's Law approve, And think it Rejt eternally to Move How the kind Sun usefully comes and goes, Wants it himself, yet gives to Man repole. How his round Journey does for ever laft, And how he baits at every Sea in halte. He sung how Earth biots the Moon's gilded Wanès

, Whilst foolish Men beat sounding Brass in vain. Why the Great Waters her sight Hörns obey, Her changing Horns, not constanter than they', He sung how grilly Comets hang in Air, Why Sword and Plague attend their fatal Hair. God's Beacons for the World, drawn up so far, To publish ill, and raise all Earth to War. Why Contraries feed Thunder in the Cloud, What Motions vex it; till it roar fo loud. How Lambent Fires become so wond'rous Tanie; And bear-fuch shining Winter in their Flame. What radiant Pencil draws the watry Bop: Whatties-up Heil, and picks the fleecy Snow. What Palsy of the Earth here Makes fixt Hills From off her Brows, and here whole Rivers spills. Thus did this Heathen Nature's Secrets tell, And fometimes mist the Cause, but fought it well.

Compley Davrdei


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WELL then; I now do plainly fee;

This busie World and I shall ne're agree, The very Honey of all Earthly Joy

Does of all Meats the soonest Clay :

And they, methinks, deserve my pity,
Who for it can endure the Stings
The Crood, and Buz, and Alurmurings

Of this great Hive the City.
Ah, yet, e're I descend to th'Grave
May I a small House, and large Garden have!
And a few Friends, and many Books, both true,

Both wife, and both delightful too!

And since Love ne'er will from me flee,
A Mistress moderately fair,
And good as Guardian- Angels are,
Only belov’d, and loving me!

Oh, Fountains, when in you shall I
My felf, eas'd of unpeaceful Thoughts espy?
Oh Felds! Oh Woods! When, when shall I be made

The happy Tenant of your Shade?

Here's the Spring-Head of Pleasure's Flood;
Where all the Riches lie, that she
Has coin'd and stamp'd for Good.

Pride and Ambition here,

Only in far-fetch'd Metaphors appear; Here nought but Winds can hurtful Murmurs scatter, And nought but Eccho Aatter.


The Gods, when they descended, hither
From Heav'n did always chuse their way ;
And therefore we may boldly fay,
That 'tis the way too thither.

How happy here should I,
And one dear me live, and embracing dye ?
She who is all the World, and can exclude

In Defarts Solitude.

I should have then this only fear,
Left Men when they my Pleasures fee,
Should hither throng to live like me,

And so make a City here. .

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The God of Sloth.
UPON a Couch of Down in these Abodes,

Supine with folded Arms he thoughtless Nods-
Indulging Dreams his Godhead lull to Ease,
With Murniurs of soft Rills, and whisp’ring Trees.
The Poppy and each numming Plant dispense
Their drowzy Virtue, and dull Indolence.
No Passions interrupt his easy Reign,
No Problems puzzle his Lethargick Brain.
But dark Oblivion guards his peaceful Bed,
And lazy Fogs hang ling'ring o're his Head.
As at full Length the pamper'd Monarch lay
Battning in Ease, and flumb'ring Life away :
The slumb'ring God amaz’d at some new din,
Thrice strove to rise, and thrice sunk down again.
Listless he stretch'd, and gaping rubb’d his Eyes,
Then falter'd thus betwixt half Words and Sighs.

Dr. Garth's Dispensary,

I 2.


CHRIST's Paffion.

Haken out of a Greek ODE. Written by Mr.

Masters of New-College in Oxford.

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Nough, my Muse of Earthly Things,

And Inspirations but of Wind, 1
Take up thy Lute, and to it bind
Loud and everlasting Strings ;
And on 'em play, and to 'en fing
The happy mournful Stories,
The lamentable Glories,

Of the great crucified King.
Mountainous heap of wonders ! which does rife

Till Earth thou joynest with the Skies!
Foo large at Botton, and at Top too high,

To be half feeniby Mortal Eye.
How falli grasp this boundless Thing!

What frall Iiplay? what shall lifing?
I'll fing the mighty Riddle of Mysterious Love,
Which neither wretched Men below, nor blessed

( Spirits abova, With all their Comments, can explaining How all the whole World's Lific to die did not disdain.

I'll fing the fearchlefs Depths of the Compaffion

(Divine, The Depths unfathom’d yet By Reason's Plummet, and the Life of Wit, Too light the Plummet, and too short the Line


How the Eternal Father did bestory
His own Eternal Son as Ransom for his Foe,

I'll sing aloud, that all the World may hear
The Triumph of the buried Conqueror.
How Hell was by its Pris'ner captive led,
And the great Slayer, Death, Nain by the Dead.

Methinks I hear of nurthered Men the Voice
Mixt with the Murtherers confused Noise,

Sound from the Top of Calvary; My greedy Eyes fly up the Hill, and fee Who 'tis Hangs there, the midmost of the Three,

Oh, how unlike the others, He ! Look how he bends his gentle Head with Blessings

( from the Tree! His gracious Hands, ne'r stretcht but to do good,

Are nail'd to the infamous wood;

And finful Man does fondly bind The Arms, which be extends t'embrace all humane


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Unhappy Man, canst thou stand by, and fee

All this as patient, as He? Since he thy Sins does bear, M.ike thou his Sufferings thine owng And weep, and ligh, and groan, And beat thy Breast, and tear Thy Garnients and thy Hair, And let thy Grief, and let thy Love Through all thy Bleeding Bowels move? Dost thou not see thy Prince in Purple clad all o’re,

Not Purple brought from the Sidonian Shore,

But made at Home with richer gore ?
Do'st thou not fee the Roses, which adorn
Thy Thorny Garland, by him worn ?


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