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 raife,
And, like Himfelf, communicate your joy.
When to your native heaven you shall repair,
And with your prefence crown the bleffings 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 strange surprize,
Confefs'd them lefs than thofe 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 fo faft, as thou could'st build.
On a Picture of SENECA dying in a Bath. By Jordain. At the Right Hon. the Earl of EXETER'S, at Burleigh-house.
HILE cruel Nero only drains
The moral Spaniard's ebbing veins,
By study worn, and flack with age,
< How dull, how thoughtless, is his rage!
Heighten'd revenge would he have took,
He fhould have burnt his tutor's book;
And long have reign'd fupreme in vice:
One nobler wretch can only rife;
'Tis he whofe fury fhall deface
The ftoic's image in this piece,
For while unhurt, divine Jordain,
Thy work and Seneca's remain,
He still has body, still has foul,
And lives and fpeaks, restor❜d and whole.
WHILE blooming youth and gay delight
Sit on thy rofy cheeks confeft,
Thou haft, my dear, undoubted right
To triumph o'er this destin'd breast.
My reafon bends to what thy eyes ordain ;
For I was born to love, and thou to reign.
But would you meanly thus rely
On power, you know, I muft obey?
Exert a legal tyranny ;
And do an ill, because you may?
Still muft I thee, as atheists heaven, adore;
Not fee thy mercy, and yet dread thy power?
III.
Take heed, my dear: youth flies apace;
As well as Cupid, Time is blind :
Soon must thofe glories of thy face
The fate of vulgar beauty find :
The thousand Loves, that arm thy potent eye,
Muft drop their quivers, flag their wings, and die.
IV.
Then wilt thou figh, when in each frown
A hateful wrinkle more appears;
And putting peevish humours on,
Seems but the fad effect of
Kindness itself too weak a charm will prove,
To raise the feeble fires of aged love.
Forc'd compliments, and formal bows,
Will fhew thee just above neglect:
The heat with which thy lover glows,
Will fettle into cold respect :
A talking dull platonic I fhall turn :
Learn to be civil, when I cease to burn.
Then fhun the ill, and know, my dear,
Kindness and constancy will prove
The only pillars, fit to bear
So vaft a weight as that of love.
If thou canft wish to make my flames endure,
Thine must be very fierce, and very pure.
Hafte, Celia, hafte, while youth invites,
Obey kind Cupid's prefent voice;
Fill every fense with soft delights,
And give thy foul a loose to joys:
Let millions of repeated bliffes prove,
That thou all kindness art, and I all love.
Be mine, and only mine; take care
Thy looks, thy thoughts, thy dreams, to guide To me alone; nor come fo far,
As liking any youth befide :
What men e'er court thee, fly them, and believe
They're ferpents all, and thou the tempted Eve.
IX.
So fhall I court thy dearest truth,
When beauty ceases to engage ;
So, thinking on thy charming youth,
I'll love it o'er again in age:
So Time itself our raptures fhall improve,
While still we wake to joy, and live to love.
An EPISTLE to FLEETWOOD SHEPHARD, Efq.
HEN crowding folks, with ftrange ill faces,
Were making legs, and begging places,
And some with patents, some with merit,
Tir'd out my good lord Dorfet's spirit:
Sneaking I ftood amongst the crew,
Defiring much to speak with you.
I waited while the clock ftruck thrice,
And footman brought out fifty lies;
Till, patience vext, and legs grown weary,
I thought it was in vain to tarry:
But did opine it might be better,
By penny-poft to send a letter;
Now, if you mifs of this epiftle,
I'm baulk'd again, and may go whistle.
My bufinefs, Si, you'll quickly guess,
Is to defire fome little place;
And fair pretenfions I have for 't,
Much need, and very small desert.
Whene'er I writ to you, I wanted;
I always begg'd, you always granted.
Now, as you took me up when little,
Gave me my learning and my vittle;
Afk'd for me, from my lord, things fitting,
Kind as I 'ad been your own begetting;
Confirm what formerly you've given,
Nor leave me now at fix and feven,
As Sunderland has left Mun Stephen.
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