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Flandria, by plenty made the home of war,

Shall weep her crime, and bow to Charles restored;
With double vows shall bless thy happy care,
In having drawn, and having sheathed the sword;
From these their sister provinces shall know,

How Anne supports a friend, and how forgives a foe!

33 Bright swords, and crested helms, and pointed spears,

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In artful piles around the work shall lie;
And shields indented deep in ancient wars,
Blazoned with signs of Gallic heraldry;

And standards with distinguished honours bright,
Marks of high power and national command,
Which Valois' sons, and Bourbon's bore in fight,
Or gave to Foix' or Montmorency's hand:
Great spoils, which Gallia must to Britain yield,
From Cressy's battle saved, to grace Ramilia's field.

And, as fine Art the spaces may dispose,
The knowing thought and curious eye shall see
Thy emblem, gracious queen, the British rose,
Type of sweet rule and gentle majesty;
The northern thistle, whom no hostile hand
Unhurt too rudely may provoke, I ween;
Hibernia's harp, device of her command,
And parent of her mirth, shall there be seen:
Thy vanquished lilies, France, decayed and torn,
Shall with disordered pomp the lasting work adorn.

Beneath, great queen, oh! very far beneath,
Near to the ground, and on the humble base,
To save herself from darkness and from death,
That Muse desires the last, the lowest place;

Who, though unmeet, yet touched the trembling string,

For the fair fame of Anne and Albion's land,
Who durst of war and martial fury sing;

And when thy will, and when thy subject's hand,
Had quelled those wars, and bid that fury cease,
Hangs up her grateful harp to conquest, and to peace.

CANTATA.

SET BY MONSIEUR GALLIARD.

RECIT.

BENEATH a verdant laurel's ample shade,
His lyre to mournful numbers strung,
Horace, immortal bard, supinely laid,
To Venus thus addressed the song:
Ten thousand little loves around,
Listening, dwelt on every sound.

ARIETTE.

Potent Venus, bid thy son

Sound no more his dire alarms.
Youth on silent wings is flown;
Graver years come rolling on.
Spare my age, unfit for arms;

Safe and humble let me rest,
From all amorous care released.

Potent Venus, bid thy son

Sound no more his dire alarms.

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RECIT.

Yet, Venus, why do I each morn prepare

The fragrant wreath for Cloe's hair;

Why do I all day lament and sigh,
Unless the beauteous maid be nigh;

And why all night pursue her in my dreams,
Through flowery meads and crystal streams!

RECIT.

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Thus sung the bard; and thus the goddess spoke: Submissive bow to Love's imperious yoke.

Every state, and every age

Shall own my rule, and fear my rage;
Compelled by me, thy Muse shall prove,
That all the world was born to love.

ARIET.

Bid thy destined lyre discover
Soft desire and gentle pain;

Often praise, and always love her:

Through her ear, her heart obtain.

Verse shall please, and sighs shall move her,
Cupid does with Phoebus reign.

HER RIGHT NAME.

As Nancy at her toilet sat,
Admiring this, and blaming that,

Tell me, she said, but tell me true;

The nymph who could your heart subdue.
What sort of charms does she possess?
Absolve me, fair one, I'll confess
With pleasure, I replied. Her hair,
In ringlets rather dark than fair,

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Does down her ivory bosom roll,
And, hiding half, adorns the whole.
In her high forehead's fair half round
Love sits in open triumph crowned:
He in the dimple of her chin,
In private state by friends is seen.
Her eyes are neither black nor gray,
Nor fierce nor feeble is their ray;
Their dubious lustre seems to show
Something that speaks nor yes, nor no.
Her lips no living bard, I weet,

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May say, how red, how round, how sweet; 20

Old Homer only could indite

Their vagrant grace and soft delight:

They stand recorded in his book,

When Helen smiled, and Hebe spoke

The gipsy, turning to her glass,
Too plainly showed she knew the face;
And which am I most like, she said,
Your Cloe, or your Nut-brown Maid?

LINES WRITTEN IN AN OVID.1

OVID is the surest guide

You can name to show the way
To any woman, maid, or bride,

Who resolves to go astray.

1 Translated from a Madrigal of Gilbert, sur l'Art d'Aimer d'Ovide.

A REASONABLE AFFLICTION.

1 ON his death-bed poor Lubin lies;
His spouse is in despair:

With frequent sobs, and mutual cries,
They both express their care.

2 A different cause, says parson Sly,
The same effect may give;
Poor Lubin fears that he shall die;
His wife, that he may live.

ANOTHER.

FROM her own native France as old Alison past,
She reproached English Nell with neglect or with malice,
That the slattern had left, in the hurry and haste,
Her lady's complexion and eye-brows at Calais.

ANOTHER.

HER eye-brow box one morning lost,
(The best of folks are oftenest crossed)
Sad Helen thus to Jenny said,
Her careless but afflicted maid,
Put me to bed then, wretched Jane;
Alas! when shall I rise again!

I can behold no mortal now;
For what's an eye without a brow.

ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

IN a dark corner of the house

Poor Helen sits, and sobs and cries;
She will not see her loving spouse,

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