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, He fees himself improv'd, while every stone, So when great Rhea many births had given, 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, Ah! Wieffen, had thy art been fo refin'd, To men unborn and ages yet to live: K 2 } } A FABLE And peer'd, and felt, and turn'd it round Then threw it in contempt away, 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, I, my dear, was 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 For delays are unfafe, and his pious intention II. Then take Mat's word for it, the fculptor is paid, 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, 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, And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true. Fierce robbers there are that infeft the highway, 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. |