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VENUS! thy throne of beauty now resign!
Behold on Earth a conquering fair,
Who more deserves Love's crown to wear!
Not thy own star so bright in Heaven does shine.
Ask of thy son her name, who with his dart
Has deeply grav'd it in my heart;
Or ask the god of tuneful sound,

Who sings it to his lyre,

And does this maid inspire

With his own art, to give a surer wound.

AIR.

Hark! the groves her songs repeat;
Echo lurks in hollow springs,
And, transported while she sings,

Learns her voice, and grows more sweet;
Could Narcissus see or hear her,
From his fountain he would fly,
And, with awe approaching near her,
For a real beauty die.

Hark! the groves her songs repeat;
Echo lurks in hollow springs,
And, transported while she sings,
Learns her voice, and grows more sweet.

RECITATIVE.

Yet, Venus, once again my suit attend; And when from Heaven you shall descend,

CLAUDIANUS.

IN EPITHALAMIO HONORII ET MARIE.

CUNCTATUR Stupefacta Venus. Nunc ora puellæ,

Nunc flavam niveo miratur vertice matrem. Hæc modo crescenti, plenæ par altera lunæ: Assurgit ceu fortè minor sub matre virenti Laurus: & ingentes ramos, olimque futuras Promittit jam parva comas: vel ilore sub uno,' Ceu gemina Pastana rosæ per jugera regnant. Hæc largo matura die, saturataque vernis Roribus, indulget spatio: latet altera nodo, Nec teneris audet foliis admittere soles.

TRANSLATED.

Venus coming to a nuptial ceremony, and entering the room, sees the bride and her mother sitting together, &c. On which occasion Claudian makes the following description.

THE goddess paus'd; and, held in deep amaze,
Now views the mother's, now the daughter's facé;
Different in each, yet equal beauty glows,
That, the full moon, and this, the crescent shows:
Thus, rais'd beneath its parent tree, is seen
The laurel shoot, while, in its early green,
Thick-sprouting leaves and branches are essay'd,
And all the promise of a future shade.
Or, blooming thus, in happy Pæstan fields.
One common stock two lovely roses yields;
Mature by vernal dews, this dares display
Its leaves full blown, and boldly meets the day;
That, folded in its tender nouage, lies

A beauteous bud, nor yet admits the skies.

A CANTATA.

SET BY MR. PEPUSCH.

AIR.

FOOLISH Love! scor thy darts,
And all thy little wanton arts,
To captivate unmanly hearts.
Shall a woman, proud and coy,
Make me languish for a toy?
Foolish Love! I scorn thy darts,
And all thy little wanton arts,
To captivate upmanly hearts.

RECITATIVE.

Thus Strephon mock'd the power of Love, and swore His freedom he would still maintain,

Nor ever wear th' inglorious chain,

Or slavishly adore.

But when Lamira cross'd the plain,

The shepherd gaz'd, and thus revers'd his strain.

AIR.

Love, I feel thy power divine,
And blushing now my heart resign!
Ye swains, my folly don't despise;
But look on fair Lamira's eyes,
Then tell me if you can be wise.
Love, I feel thy power divine,
And blushing now my heart resign!

THE SOLDIER IN LOVE.
A CANTATA.

SET WITH SYMPHONIES BY MR. PEPUSCH.

AIR.

WHY, too amorous hero! why
Dost thou the war forego,
At Celia's feet to lie,

And sighing tell thy woe?
Can you think that sneaking air
Fit to move th' unpitying fair?
She laughs to see thee trifle so.
Why, too amorous hero! why
Dost thou the war forego,
At Celia's feet to lie,

And sighing tell thy woe?

RECITATIVE.

Cleander heard not this advice,

Nor would his languishing refrain.

But while to Celia once he pray'd in vain,
By chance his image in a glass he spies,

And, blushing at the sight, he grew a man again.

AIR. WITH A TRUMPET.

Hark! the trumpet sounds to arms!
I come, I come, the warrior cries,
And from scornful Celia flics,
To court Victoria's charms.
Celia beholds his alter'd brow,
And would regain her lover, now.
Hark! the trumpet sounds to arms!
I come, I come, the warrior cries,
And from scornful Celia flies,
To court Victoria's charins.

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Melting airs, soft joys inspire:
Airs for drooping Hope to hear,
Melting as a lover's prayer;
Joys to flatter dull Despair,
And softly sooth the amorous fire.
Now let the sprightly violin
A louder strain begin;
And now

Let the deep-mouth'd organ blow,
Swell it high, and sink it low.

Hark! how the treble and base
In wanton fugues each other chase,
And swift divisions run their airy race!
Through all the travers'd scale they fly,
In winding labyrinths of harmony:

By turns they rise and fall, by turns we live and die,

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Then other arts shall pass away:

Proud Architecture shall in ruins lie,

And Painting fade and die,

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A THOUGHT IN A GARDEN. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1704. DELIGHTFUL niansion! blest retreat! Where all is silent, all is sweet! Here Contemplation prunes her wings,

Nay Earth, and Heaven itself, in wasteful fire decay. The raptur'd Muse more tuneful sings,

Music alone, and Poesy,

Triumphant o'er the flame, shall see

The world's last blaze.
The tuneful sisters shall embrace,

And praise and sing, and sing and praise, In never-ceasing choirs, to all eternity.

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While May leads on the cheerful hours,
And opens a new world of flowers.
Gay Pleasure here all dresses wears,
And in a thousand shapes appears.
Pursu'd by Fancy, how she roves
Through airy walks, and museful groves;
Springs in each plant and blossom'd tree,
And charms in all I hear and see!
In this elysium while I stray,

And Nature's fairest face survey,

[shine,

Earth seems new-born, and life more bright;
Time steals away, and smooths his flight;
And Thought's bewilder'd in delight.

Where are the crowds I saw of late?
What are those tales of Europe's fate?
Of Anjou, and the Spanish crown;
And leagues to pull usurpers down?
Of inarching armies, distant wars;
Of factions, and domestic jars ?
Sure these are last night's dreams, no more;
Or some romance, read lately o'er;
Like Homer's antique tale of Troy,
And powers confederate to destroy

Priam's proud house, the Dardan name,
With him that stole the ravish'd dame,
And, to possess another's right,
Durst the whole world to arms excite.
Come, gentle Sleep, my eye lids close
These dull impressions help me lose:

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JANUS! great leader of the rolling year,
Since all that's past no vows can e'er restore,
But joys and griefs alike, once hurry'd o'er,
No longer now deserve a smile or tear;

Close the fantastic scenes--but grace
With brightest aspects thy foreface,
While Time's new offspring hastens to appear,
With lucky omens guide the coming Hours,
Command the circling Seasons to advance,
And form their renovated dance,

With flowing pleasures fraught, and bless'd by friendly powers,

Thy month, O Janus! gave me first to know A mortal's trifling cares below;

My race of life began with thee.

Thus far, froin great misfortunes free,
Contented, I my lot endure,

Nor Nature's rigid laws arraign,
Nor spurn at common ills in vain,

Which Folly cannot shun, nor wise Reflection cure.

But oh!--more anxious for the year to come,

I would foreknow my future doom,
Then tell me, Janus, canst thou spy
Events that yet in embryo lie

For me, in Time's mysterious womb?
Tell me-nor shall I dread to hear,
A thousand accidents severe;

I'll fortify my soul the load to bear,

If Love rejected add not to its weight,

To finish me in woes, and crush me down with Fate.

But if the goddess, in whose charming eyes,

More clearly written than in Fate's dark book, My joy, my grief, my all of future fortune lies; If she must with a less propitious look

Forbid my humble sacrifice,
Or blast me with a killing frown;
If, Janus, this thou seest in store,
Cut short my mortal thread, and now
Take back the gift thou didst bestow!
Here let me lay my burthen down,

And cease to love in vain, and be a wretch no more.

A CANTATA.

SET BY MR. GALLIARD,

WHILE on your blooming charms I gaze, Your tender lips, your soft enchanting eyes, And all the Venus in your face,

I'm fill'd with pleasure and surprise:

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BRIT. And wakeful Fame defend, AUG. And grateful Truth commend BOTH. The generous and the brave!

AUGUSTA.

RECITATIVE.

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EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR. MILLS, AT THE QUEEN'S THEATRE, ON HIS BENEFIT-NIGHT, FEBRUARY 16, 1709, A LITTLE BEFORE THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUH'S GOING FOR HOLLAND.

WHETHER Our stage all others does excel

In strength of wit, we'll not presume to tell:
But this, with noble, conscious pride, we'll say,
No theatre such glories can display;
Such worth conspicuous, beauty so divine,
As in one British audience mingled shine.
Who can, without amazement, turn his sight,
And mark the awful circle here to-night?
Warriors, with ever-living laurels, brought
From empires sav'd, from battles bravely fought,
Here sit; whose matchless story shall adorn
Scenes yet unwrit, and charm e'en ages yet unborn.
Yet who would not expect such martial fire,
That sees what eyes those gallant deeds inspire?
Valour and Beauty still were Britain's claim,
Both are her great prerogatives of fame;

By both the Muses live, from both they catch their flame.

Then as by you, in solid glory bright,

Our envy'd Isle through Europe spreads her light, And rising honours every year sustain,

And mark the golden tract of Anne's distinguish'd

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