There, their great father, by a strong increase, Adds ftrength to beauty, and compleats the piece : Thus ftill your beauty, in your fons, we view, Wieffen seven times one great perfection drew; Whoever fat, the picture still is you.

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

He fees himself improv'd, while every stone,
With a refembling light, reflects a fun.

So when great Rhea many births had given,
Such as might govern earth, and people Heaven ;
Her glory grew diffus'd, and fuller known,
She faw the Deity in every fon :

And to what God foe'er men altars rais'd,

Honouring the offspring, they the mother prais'd.

In fhort-liv'd charms let others place their joys,
Which fickness blafts, and certain age deftroys:
Your ftronger beauty Time can ne'er deface,
'Tis ftill renew'd, and ftamp'd in all your race.

Ah! Wieffen, had thy art been fo refin'd,
As with their beauty to have drawn their mind:
Through circling years thy labours would furvive,
And living rules to fairest virtue give,

To men unborn and ages yet to live:
"Twould ftill be wonderful, and ftill be new,
Against what time, or fpite, or fate, could do;
Till thine confus'd with Nature's pieces lie,
And Cavendish's name and Cecil's honour die.

K 2

}

}

A FABLE

And peer'd, and felt, and turn'd it round

Then threw it in contempt away,
And thus old Phædrus heard him say:
"What noble part canft thou fustain,
"Thou fpecious head without a brain ?"

ON MY BIRTH-DAY, JULY 20.

I

I.

My dear, was born to-day,

So all my jolly comrades fay;

They bring me mufick, wreaths, and mirth,

And afk to celebrate my

birth:

A periodical paper by Oldmixon, Maynwaring, and

others, fet up in oppofition to the Examiner.

Little,

Little, alas! my comrades know,
That I was born to pain and woe;
To thy denial, to thy fcorn;
Better I had ne'er been born,
I wish to die ev'n whilst I fay,
I, my dear, was born to-day.
II.

I, my dear, was born to-day,
Shall I falute the rifing ray?
Well-fpring of all my joy and woe,
Clotilda *, thou alone doft know:
Shall the wreath furround my hair?
Or fhall the mufick please my ear?
Shall I my comrades mirth receive,
And bless my birth, and wish to live?
Then let me fee great Venus chace
Imperious anger from thy face;
Then let me hear thee fmiling fay,
Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.

EPITAP H.

EXTEMPORE.

NOBLES and Heralds, by your leave,

Here lies what once was Matthew Prior;

The fon of Adam and of Eve,

Can Bourbon or Naffau claim higher?

FOR MY OWN MONUMENT,

I.

As doctors give phyfick by way of prevention,

Mat, alive and in health, of his tomb-stone
took care;

For delays are unfafe, and his pious intention
May haply be never fulfill'd by his heir.

II.

Then take Mat's word for it, the fculptor is paid,
That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye;
Yet credit but lightly what more may be faid,
For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.
III.

Yet, counting as far as to fifty his years,

His virtues and vices were as other men's are; High hopes he conceiv'd, and he fmother'd great

fears,

In life party-colour'd, half pleasure, half care,

IV.

Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave,
He ftrove to make intereft and freedom agree;
In public employments induftrious and grave,
And alone with his friends, lord, how merry

was he!

Now

V.

Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,

Both fortunes he try'd, but to neither would truft; And whirl'd in the round, as the wheel turn'd about,

He found riches had wings, and knew man was

but duft.

VI.

This verfe little polish'd, though mighty fincere,
Sets neither his titles nor merit to view;
It fays that his relicks collected lie here,

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

Fierce robbers there are that infeft the highway,
So Mat may be kill'd, and his bones never found;
Falfe witnefs at court, and fierce tempefts at fea,
So Mat may yet chance to be hang'd, or be
drown'd.

VIII.

If his bones lie in earth, roll in fea, fly in air, To fate we muft yield, and the thing is the fame.

And if paffing thou giv'ft him a smile, or a tear, He cares not-yet pr'ythee be kind to his fame.