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Why doft thou figh, why strike thy panting breast?

And steal from life the needful hours of reft?
Are thy kids starv'd by winter's early frost ?
Are any of thy bleating ftragglers loft?

Have ftrangers' cattle trod thy new-plough'd ground?
Has great Joanna, or her greater fhepherd, frown'd?
ALEXIS.

See my kids browze, my lambs fecurely play :
(Ah! were their mafter unconcern'd as they !)
No beafts (at noon I look'd) had trod my ground;
Nor has Joanna, or her fhepherd, frown'd.

DAMON.

Then ftop the lavish fountain of your eyes,
Nor let thofe fighs from your swoln bosom rise;
Chafe fadness, friend, and folitude away;

And once again rejoice, and once again look gay.
ALEXIS.

Say what can more our tortur'd fouls annoy,
Than to behold, admire, and lofe our joy;
Whose fate more hard than those who fadly run,
For the laft glimpfe of the departing fun?
Or what severer fentence can be given,
Than, having feen, to be excluded heaven?

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Those tears, my Damon, which I justly shed,

To think how great my joys; how foon they fled;

I told thee, friend, (now bless the shepherd'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 swain,
Whose holy crofier guides our willing plain;
Whofe pleafing power and ruling goodness keep
Our fouls with equal care as we our fheep;
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 blifs ;
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.

DAMON.

Was he fo humble then? those joys so vast?
Cease to admire that both fo quickly past.
Too happy should we be, would fmiling 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.
Suppress your figh, your down-caft eyelids raise,
Whom prefent you revere, him abfent praife.

To

To the COUNTESS of EXETER,
playing on the Lute.

WHAT charms you have, from what high race

you fprung,

Have been the pleasing subjects of my fong:
Unskill'd and young, yet something still I writ,
Of Ca'ndish' beauty join'd to Cecil's wit.

But when you please to shew the labouring Mufe,
What greater theme your Mufick can produce;
My babbling praises I repeat no more,
But hear, rejoice, ftand filent, and adore.

The Perfians thus, firft gazing on the fun,

Admir'd how high 'twas plac'd, how bright it fhone: But, as his power was known, their thoughts were

rais'd;

And foon they worship'd, what at first they prais'd.
Eliza's glory lives in Spenfer's fong;

And Cowley's verfe keeps fair Orinda young.
That as in birth, in beauty you excell,
The Muse might dictate, and the Poet tell :
Your art no other art can fpeak; and you,
To fhew how well you play, muft play anew:
Your mufick's power your musick must disclose;
For what light is, 'tis only light that shows.

Strange force of harmony, that thus controuls
Our thoughts, and turns and fanctifies our fouls:
While with its utmost art your fex could move
Our wonder only, or at best our love :

You

You far above both these your God did place,

That your high power might worldly thoughts de-
ftroy;

That with your numbers you our zeal might raise,
And, like Himfelf, communicate your joy.
When to your native heaven you shall repair,
And with your prefence crown the bleflings there,
Your lute may wind its strings but little higher,
To tune their notes to that immortal quire.
Your art is perfect here; your numbers do,
More than our books, make the rude Atheist know,
That there's a heaven by what he hears below.

As in fome piece, while Luke his fkill expreft,
A cunning angel came, and drew the reft:
So when you play, fome godhead does impart
Harmonious aid, divinity helps art;

Some cherub finishes what you begun,
And to a miracle improves a tune.

}

To burning Rome, when frantic Nero play'd,
Viewing that face, no more he had survey'd
The raging flames; but, ftruck with ftrange furprize,
Confefs'd them less than those of Anna's eyes:
But, had he heard thy lute, he foon had found
His rage eluded, and his crime aton'd:

Thine, like Amphion's hand, had wak'd the stone,
And from deftruction call'd the rifing town :
Malice to mufick had been forc'd to yield;

Nor could he burn so fast, as thou could'st build.

On

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