Then ftop the lavish fountain of your eyes,
Nor let thofe fighs from your fwoln bofom rife;
Chafe fadnefs, friend, and folitude away;
And once again rejoice, and once again look gay,
Say what can more our tortur'd fouls annoy,
Than to behold, admire, and lose our joy;
Whofe fate more hard than thofe who fadly run,
For the last glimpse of the departing fun?
Or what feverer fentence can be given,
Than, having feen, to be excluded Heaven?
AL. Then ceafe to chide my cares!
And rather pity than reftrain my tears;
Thofe tears, my Damon, which I juftly fhed,
To think how great my joys; how foon they fled;
I told thee, friend, (now blefs the fhepherd's name,
From whose dear care the kind occafion came,)
That I, even I, might happily receive.
The facred wealth, which Heaven and Daphnis give;
That I might fee the lovely awful fwain,
Whofe holy crofier guides our willing plain;
Whofe pleafing power and ruling goodness keep
Our fouls with equal care as we our sheep;
Whose praise excites each lyre, employs each tongue:
Whilft only he who caus'd, diflikes the fong.
To this great, humble, parting man I gain'd
Accefs, and happy for an hour I reign'd;
Happy as new-form'd man in paradise,
Ere fin debauch'd his inoffenfive bliss;
Happy as heroes after battles won,
Prophets entranc'd, or monarchs on the throne; But (oh, my friend!) those joys with Daphnis flew: To them these tributary tears are due.
Was he fo humble then? those joys so vast?
Ceafe to admire that both fo quickly past.
Too happy should we be, would smiling fate
Render one bleffing durable and great;
But (oh the fad viciffitude!) how foon
Unwelcome night fucceeds the chearful noon;
And rigid winter nips the flowery pomp of June!
Then grieve not, friend, like you, fince all mankind
A certain change of joy and forrow find.
Supprefs your figh, your down-caft eyelids raife,
Whom prefent you revere, him abfent praise.
Leave them, when grown up lufty fellows,
To the wide world, that is, the gallows :
No, thank them for their love, that's worse,
Than if they'd throttled them at nurse.
My uncle, reft his foul! when living,
Might have contriv'd me ways of thriving;
Taught me with cyder to replenish
My vats, or ebbing tide of rhenish.
So when for hock I drew prickt white-wine,
Swear't had the flavour, and was right wine.
Or fent me with ten pounds to Furni-
val's inn, to fome good rogue-attorney;
Where now, by forging deeds, and cheating,
I 'ad found fome handfome ways of getting.
All this you made me quit, to follow
The fneaking whey-fac'd god Apollo;
Sent me among a fiddling crew
Of folks, I'ad never feen nor knew,
Calliope, and God knows who.
To add no more invectives to it,
You spoil'd the youth to make a poet,
In common juftice, Sir, there's no man
That makes the whore, but keeps the woman.
Among all honeft christian people,
Whoe'er breaks limbs maintains the cripple.
The fum of all I have to fay,
Is, that you'd put me in fome way;
And your petitioner fhall pray--
There's one thing more 1 had almost flipt,
But that may do as well in poftfcript:
My friend Charles Montague's preferr'd;
Nor would I have it long obferv'd,
That one mouse eats, while t'other's ftarv'd.
CUM THESES DE ICTERO PRO GRADU DOCTORIS
DEFENDERET, 4 JUNII, 1692.
PHOEBE
HOEBE potens fævis morbis vel lædere gentes,
Læfas folerti vel relevare manu,
Afpice tu decus hoc noftrum, placidusque fatere
Indomitus quantum profit in arte labor:
Non icterum pofthac peftemve minaberis orbi,
Fortius hic juvenis dum medicamen habet;
Mitre dehinc iras, & nato carmina dona ;
Neglectum telum dejice, fume lyram.
TRANSLATION. By Mr. COOKE.
O! PHOEBUS, deity, whofe powerful hand
Can fpread diseases through the joyful land,
́Alike all-powerful to relieve the pain,
And bid the groaning nations smile again;
When this our pride you fee, confefs you find
In him what art can do with labour join'd:
No more the world thy direful threats fhall fear,
While he, the youth, our remedy is near:
Supprefs thy rage; with verfe thy fon infpire,
The dart neglected, to affume the lyre.
On the Taking of N A MUR.
THE town which Louis bought, Naffau re-claims,
And brings inftead of bribes avenging flames.
Now, Louis, take thy titles from above,
Boileau fhall fing, and we'll believe thee Jove:
Jove gain'd his mistress with alluring gold,
But Jove, like thee, was impotent and old!
Active and young did he like William ftand,
He 'ad ftuan'd the dame, his thunder in his hand.
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