I N

I MIT TATION

L

O F

ANACREON.

ET 'em cenfure: what care I?

The Herd of Criticks I defie.

Let the Wretches know, I write
Regardless of their Grace, or Spight.
No, no: the Fair, the Gay, the Young
Govern the Numbers of my Song.
All that They approve is fweet:
And All is Senfe, that They repeat.

Bid the warbling Nine retire:
VENUS, String thy Servant's Lyre:
Love fhall be my endless Theme:
Pleasure fhall triumph over Fame :
And when these Maxims I decline,
APOLLO, may Thy Fate be Mine :
May I grafp at empty Praise;
And lofe the Nymph, to gain the Bays.

An

THE

HE Merchant, to fecure his Treasure,
Conveys it in a borrow'd Name:

EUPHELIA ferves to grace my Measure ;
But CLOE is my real Flame.

II.

My foftest Verse, my darling Lyre
Upon EUPHELIA's Toylet lay;
When CLOE noted her Defire,

That I fhould fing, that I fhould play.
III.

My Lyre I tune, my Voice I raise ;
But with my Numbers mix my Sighs;
And whilst I fing EUPHELIA's Praife,
I fix my Soul on CLOE's Eyes.

IV.

Fair CLOE blufh'd: EUPHELIA frown'd :
I fung and gaz'd: I play'd and trembl'd:
And VENUS to the LOVES around
Remark'd, how ill We all dissembl❜d.

OME Folks are drunk, yet do not know it:

SOME

So might not BACCHUS give You Law?

Was it a Mufe, O lofty Poet,

Or Virgin of St. CYR, You faw?

Why all this Fury? What's the Matter,

That Oaks must come from Thrace to dance?
Muft ftupid Stocks be taught to flatter?
And is there no fuch Wood in France?
Why must the Winds all hold their Tongue?
If they a little Breath fhould raise;

Would that have spoil'd the Poet's Song;
Or puff'd away the Monarch's Praife?

PINDAR, that Eagle, mounts the Skies :
While Virtue leads the noble Way:

Too like a Vultur BOILEAU flies,
Where fordid Int'rest shows the Prey.

Tu peux fuivre mes Transports;
Les chefnes de Monts de Three
N'ont rien oui, que n'efface

La douceur de tes accords.

III.

Eft-ce APOLLON & NEPTUNE,

Qui fur ces Rocs Sourcilleux

Ont, compagnons de Fortune,
Bafti ces Murs orgueilleux ?
De leur enceinte fameufe
La Sambre unie à la Meuse,
Defend le fatal abord;

Et par cent bouches horribles
L'airain fur ces Monts terribles

Vomit le Fer, & la Mort.

IV.

Dix, mille vaillans ALCIDES
Les bordant de toutes parts,
D'éclair au loin homicides
Font petiller leurs Remparts:
Et dans fon Sein infidele

Par tout la Terre y recele
Un feu preft à s'élancer,

Qui foudain perçant fon goufre,
Ouvre un Sepulchre de foufre,
A quiconque ofe avancer.

V.

Namur, devant tes murailles
Jadis la Grece euft vingt Ans
Sans fruit veu les funerailles
De fes plus fiers Combattans

Quelle