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TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF

DEVONSHIRE,

ON A PIECE OF WIESSEN'S, WHEREON WERE
PAINTED ALL HER GRANDSONS.

WIESSEN1 and Nature held a long contest,
If she created, or he painted best;

With pleasing thought the wondrous combat grew,
She, still formed fairer; he, still liker drew.

In these seven brethren, they contended last,

With art increased, their utmost skill they tried, And, both well pleased they had themselves surpassed, The goddess triumphed, and the painter died, That both, their skill to this vast height did raise, Be ours the wonder, and be yours the praise; For here, as in some glass, is well descried

Only yourself thus often multiplied.

When Heaven had you and gracious Anna 2 made,
What more exalted beauty could it add.
Having no nobler images in store,

It but kept up to these, nor could do more
Than copy well what it had framed before.
If in dear Burghley's generous face we see
Obliging truth and handsome honesty:

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With all that world of charms, which soon will move
Reverence in men, and in the fair ones love;
His every grace, his fair descent assures,
He has his mother's beauty, she has yours:

If every Cecil's face had every charm,

That thought can fancy, or that Heaven can form;
Their beauties all become your beauty's due,

1 William Wiessen, an eminent portrait painter, born at the Hague in 1656.-2 Eldest daughter of the countess.

They are all fair, because they 're all like you.
If every Cavendish great and charming look;
From you that air, from you the charms they took.
In their each limb your image is expressed;
But on their brow firm courage stands confessed;
There, their great father, by a strong increase,
Adds strength to beauty, and completes the piece.
Thus still your beauty, in your sons, we view,
Wiessen seven times one great perfection drew;
Whoever sat, the picture still is you.

So when the parent sun, with genial beams,
Has animated many goodly gems,

He sees himself improved, while every stone,
With a resembling light, reflects a sun.

So when great Rhea many births had given,
Such as might govern earth, and people Heaven;
Her glory grew diffused, and fuller known,
She saw the deity in every son;

And to what God soe'er men altars raised,
Honouring the offspring, they the mother praised.

In short-lived charms let others place their joys,
Which sickness blasts, and certain age destroys;
Your stronger beauty time can ne'er deface,
'Tis still renewed, and stamped in all your race.
Ah! Wiessen, had thy art been so refined,
As with their beauty to have drawn their mind;
Through circling years thy labours would survive,
And living rules to fairest virtue give;

To men unborn and ages yet to live:

"Twould still be wonderful, and still be new,
Against what time, or spite, or fate, could do;
Till thine confused with Nature's pieces lie,
And Cavendish's name and Cecil's honour die.

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A FABLE FROM PHEDRUS.

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE MEDLEY, 1710.

THE fox an actor's vizard found,

And peered, and felt, and turned it round;
Then threw it in contempt away,
And thus old Phædrus heard him say:
'What noble part canst thou sustain,
Thou specious head without a brain?'

ON MY BIRTHDAY, JULY 21.

1 I, My dear, was born to-day,
So all my jolly comrades say;

They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth,
And ask to celebrate my birth.
Little, alas! my comrades know,
That I was born to pain and woe;
To thy denial, to thy scorn;
Better I had ne'er been born;
I wish to die even whilst I say,
my dear, was born to-day.

2 I, my dear, was born to-day,
Shall I salute the rising ray,
Well-spring of all my joy and woe,
Clotilda,2 thou alone dost know!
Shall the wreath surround my hair?
Or shall the music please my car;
Shall I my comrades' mirth receive,

And bless my birth, and wish to live?

1 A periodical paper by Oldmixon, Maynwaring, and others, set up in opposition to the Examiner.-2 Mrs Anne Durham.

Then let me see great Venus chase
Imperious anger from thy face;
Then let me hear thee smiling say,

Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.

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NOBLES and heralds, by your leave,

Here lies what once was Matthew Prior;

The son of Adam and of Eve,

Can Bourbon or Nassau go higher?

FOR MY OWN MONUMENT.

1 As doctors give physic by way of prevention, Mat, alive, and in health, of his tombstone took

care;

For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention

May haply be never fulfilled by his heir.

2 Then take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid, That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye; Yet credit but lightly what more may be said,

For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.

1 Under the title Borrowed Thoughts,' Mr J. W. Singer gives the following lines written by Jno. Carnegie, as the prototype of Prior's Epitaph:

Johnnie Carnegie lais heere
Descendit of Adam and Eve
Gif ony con gang hieher
I'se willing gie him leve.

Mr Bluecowe, Vol. x., p. 216, N and O, gives the following quotation from a correspondent of the Antiquarian Repertory, 1784:

'I lately met with the following very ancient epitaph upon a tombstone in Scotland, and it is undoubtedly that from which Mr Prior borrowed those well known lines intended for his own monument:

John Carnagie lies here

Descended from Adam and Eve
If any can boast of a pedigree higher
He will willingly give them leave.'

3 Yet, counting as far as to fifty his years,

His virtues and vices were as other men's are; High hopes he conceived, and he smothered great fears,

In life party-coloured, half pleasure, half care.

4 Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave,
He strove to make interest and freedom agree;
In public employments industrious and grave,
And alone with his friends, lord, how merry was he!

5 Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,

Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust; And whirled in the round, as the wheel turned about, He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.

6 This verse little polished, though mighty sincere, Sets neither his titles nor merit to view; It says that his relics collected lie here,

And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.

7 Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway, So Mat may be killed, and his bones never found; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, So Mat may yet chance to be hanged, or be drowned.

8 If his bones lie on earth, roll in sea, fly in air, To fate we must yield, and the thing is the same; And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear,

He cares not-yet pr'ythee be kind to his fame.

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