A third dispels the darkness of the night;
And fills depending lamps with beams of light;
Here loaves in canisters are piled on high,
And there in flames the slaughter'd victims fly.
Sublime in regal state Adrastus shone,
Stretch'd on rich carpets on his ivory throne;
A lofty couch receives each princely guest;
Around at awful distance wait the rest.

And now the king, his royal feast to grace,
Acestis calls, the guardian of his race,
Who first their youth in arts of virtue train'd,
And their ripe years in modest grace maintain'd;
Then softly whisper'd in her faithful ear,
And bade his daughters at the rites appear.
When from the close apartments of the night,
The royal nymphs approach divinely bright;
Such was Diana's, such Minerva's face;
Nor shine their beauties with superior grace,
But that in these a milder charm endears,
And less of terror in their looks appears.
As on the heroes first they cast their eyes,
O'er their fair cheeks the glowing blushes rise,
Their downcast looks a decent shame confess'd,
Then on their father's reverend features rest.

The banquet done, the monarch gives the sign
To fill the goblet high with sparkling wine,
Which Danaus used in sacred rites of old,
With sculpture graced, and rough with rising gold.
Here to the clouds victorious Perseus flies,
Medusa seems to move her languid eyes,
And e'en in gold, turns paler as she dies.

There from the chase Jove's towering eagle bears,
On golden wings, the Phrygian to the stars,
Still as he rises in the ethereal height,
His native mountains lessen to his sight;
While all his sad companions upward gaze,
Fix'd on the glorious scene in wild amaze;
And the swift hounds, affrighted as he flies,
Run to the shade, and bark against the skies.

This golden bowl with generous juice was crown'd, The first libation sprinkled on the ground: By turns on each celestial power they call, With Phoebus' name resounds the vaulted hall. The courtly train, the strangers, and the rest, Crown'd with chaste laurel, and with garlands dress'd. While with rich gums the fuming altars blaze, Salute the god in numerous hymns of praise

Then thus the king: Perhaps, my noble guests,
These honour'd altars, and these annual feasts
To bright Apollo's awful name design'd,
Unknown, with wonder may perplex your mind.
Great was the cause; our old solemnities
From no blind zeal or fond tradition rise;
But, saved from death, our Argives yearly pay
These greatful honours to the god of day.

When by a thousand darts the Python slain
With orbs unroll'd lay covering all the plain
(Transfix'd as o'er Castalia's streams he hung,
And suck'd new poison with his triple tongue),
To Argo's realms the victor god resorts,
And enters old Crotopus' humble courts.
This rural prince one only daughter bless'd,
That all the charms of blooming youth possess'd;
Fair was her face, and spotless was her mind,
Where filial love with virgin sweetness join'd.
Happy! and happy still she might have proved,
Were she less beautiful, or less beloved!
But Phoebus loved, and on the flowery side
Of Nemea's stream the yielding fair enjoy'd;
Now, ere ten moons their orb with light adorn,
The illustrious offspring of the god was born;
The nymph, her father's anger to evade,
Retires from Argos to the sylvan shade;
To woods and wilds the pleasing burthen bears,
And trusts her infant to a shepherd's cares.

How mean a fate, unhappy child is thine!
Ah, how unworthy those of race divine!
On flowery herbs in some green covert laid,
His bed the ground, his canopy the shade,
He mixes with the bleating lambs his cries,
While the rude swain his rural music tries,
To call soft slumber on his infant eyes.
Yet e'en in those obscure abodes to live,
Was more, alas! than cruel fate would give;
For on the grassy verdure as he lay,
And breathed the freshness of the early day,
Devouring dogs the helpless infant tore,

Fed on his trembling limbs, and lapp'd the gore.
The astonish'd mother, when the rumour came,
Forgets her father, and neglects her fame,
With loud complaints she fills the yielding air,
And beats her breast, and rends her flowing hair;

Then wild with anguish to her sire she flies,
Demands the sentence, and contented dies.

'But, touch'd with sorrow for the dead too late,
The raging god prepares to avenge her fate.
He sends a monster, horrible and fell,
Begot by furies in the depths of hell.

The pest a virgin's face and bosom bears;
High on a crown a rising snake appears,
Guards her black front, and hisses in her hairs;
About the realm she walks her dreadful round,
When night with sable wings o'erspreads the ground,
Devours young babes before their parents' eyes,
And feeds and thrives on public miseries.

'But generous rage the bold Chorobus warms,
Chorobus, famed for virtue, as for arms;
Some few like him, inspired with martial flame,
Thought a short life well lost for endless fame..
These, where two ways in equal parts divide,
The direful monster from afar descried;
Two bleeding babes depending at her side,
Whose panting vitals, warm with life, she draws,
And in their hearts embrues her cruel claws.
The youths surround her with extended spears;
But brave Chorobus in the front appears,
Deep in her breast he plunged his shining sword,
And hell's dire monster back to hell restored.
The Inachians view the slain with vast surprise,
Her twisting volumes, and her rolling eyes,
Her spotted breast, and gaping womb embrued
With livid poison, and our children's blood.
The crowd in stupid wonder fix'd appear,
Pale e'en in joy, nor yet forget to fear.

Some with vast beams the squalid corpse engage,
And weary all the wild efforts of rage.
The birds obscene, that nightly flock'd to taste,
With hollow screeches fled the dire repast;
And ravenous dogs, allured by scented blood,
And starving wolves ran howling to the wood.

'But, fired with rage, from eleft Parnassus' brow
Avenging Phoebus bent his deadly bow,
And hissing flew the feather'd fates below:
A night of sultry clouds involved around
The towers, the fields, and the devoted ground:
And now a thousand lives together fled,
Death with his scythe eut off the fatal thread,
And a whole province in his triumph led.
But Phoebus, ask'd why noxious fires appear
And raging Sirius blasts the sickly year,
Demands their lives by whom his monster fell,
And dooms a dreadful sacrifice to hell.

'Bless'd be thy dust, and let eternal fame
Attend thy manes, and preserve thy name,
Undaunted hero! who, divinely brave,
In such a cause disdain'd thy life to save;
But view'd the shrine with a superior look,
And its upbraided godhead thus bespoke:

With piety, the soul's securest guard,
And conscious virtue, still its own reward,
Willing I come, unknowing how to fear;
Nor shalt thou, Phoebus, find a suppliant here.
Thy monster's death to me was owed alone,
And 'tis a deed too glorious to disown.
Behold him here, for whom, so many days,
Impervious clouds conceal'd thy sullen rays;
For whom, as man no longer claim'd thy care
Such numbers fell by pestilential air!
But if the abandon'd race of human kind
From gods above do more compassion find
If such inclemency in heaven can dwell,
Yet why must unoffending Argos feel
The vengeance due to this unlucky steel?
On me, on me, let all thy fury fall,
Nor err from me, since I deserve it all:
Unless our desert cities please thy sight,
Or funeral flames reflect a grateful light,
Discharge thy shafts, this ready bosom rend,
And to the shades a ghost triumphant send;
But for my country let my fate atone,
Be mine the vengeance, as the crime my own.
Merit distress'd, impartial Heaven relieves:
Unwelcome life relenting Phoebus gives;
For not the vengeful power, that glow'd with rage,
With such amazing virtue durst engage.

The clouds dispersed, Apollo's wrath expired,
And from the wondering god the unwilling youth retired
Thence we these altars in his temple raise,
And offer annual honours, feasts, and praise;
Those solemn feasts propitious Phoebus please;
These honours still renew'd, his ancient wrath appease.
'But say, illustrious guest! adjoin'd the king,

'What name you bear, from what high race you spring

The noble Tydeus stands confess'd, and known
Our neighbour prince, and heir of Calydon.
Relate your fortunes, while the friendly night
And silent hours to various talk invite.

The Theban bends on earth his gloomy eyes,
Confused, and sadly thus at length replies:
Before these altars how shall I proclaim
(Oh generous prince!) my nation or my name,
Or through what veins our ancient blood has roll'd?
Let the sad tale for ever rest untold!
Yet if, propitious to a wretch unknown,
You seek to share in sorrows not your own;
Know then, from Cadmus I derive my race,
Jocasta's son, and Thebes my native place.

To whom the king (who felt his generous breast Touch'd with concern for his unhappy guest) Replies: Ah, why forbears the son to name His wretched father, known too well by fame ? Fame, that delights around the world to stray, Scorns not to take our Argos in her way. E'en those who dwell where suns at distance roll, In northern wilds, and freeze beneath the pole; And those who tread the burning Libyan lands The faithless Syrtes, and the moving sands; Who view the western sea's extremest bounds, Or drink of Ganges in their eastern grounds; All these the woes of Edipus have known, Your fates, your furies, and your haunted town. If on the sons the parents' crimes descend, What prince from those his lineage can defend! Be this thy comfort, that 'tis thine to efface With virtuous acts thy ancestor's disgrace, And be thyself the honour of thy race. But see the stars begin to steal away, And shine more faintly at approaching day. Now pour the wine; and in your tuneful lays Once more resound the great Apollo's praise.'

Oh, father Phoebus! whether Lycia's coast
And snowy mountains thy bright presence boast;
Whether to sweet Castalia thou repair,
And bathe in silver dews thy yellow hair;
Or, pleased to find fair Delos float no more,
Delight in Cynthus, and the shady shore;
Or choose thy seat in Ilion's proud abodes,
The shining structures raised by labouring gods;
By thee the bow and mortal shafts are borne;
Eternal charms thy blooming youth adorn:
Skill'd in the laws of secret fate above,
And the dark counsels of almighty Jove,
"Tis thine the seeds of future war to know,
The change of sceptres, and impending woe;
When direful meteors spread through glowing air
Long trails of light, and shake their blazing hair.
Thy rage the Phrygian felt, who durst aspire
To excel the music of thy heavenly lyre;
Thy shafts avenged lewd Tityus' guilty flame,
The immortal vietim of thy mother's fame;
Thy hand slew Python, and the dame who lost
Her numerous offspring for a fatal boast.
In Phlegyas' doom thy just revenge appears,
Condemn'd to furies and eternal fears:

He views his food, but dreads, with lifted eye,
The mouldering rock, that trembles from on high.

Propitious hear our prayer, O power divine! And on thy hospitable Argos shine, Whether the style of Titan please thee more, Whose purple rays the Achæmenes adore ; Or great Osiris, who first taught the swain In Pharian fields to sow the golden grain; Or Mithra, to whose beams the Persian bows, And pays, in hollow rocks, his awful vows; Mithra, whose head the blaze of light adorns, Who grasps the struggling heifer's lunar horns.

THE FABLE OF DRYOPE.

FROM

OVID'S METAMORPHOSES, Book 9.

She said, and for her lost Galanthis sighs, When the fair consort of her son replies:

Since you a servant's ravish'd form bemoan,
And kindly sigh for sorrows not your own;
Let me (if tears and grief permit) relate
A nearer woe, a sister's stranger fate.
No nymph of all Echalia could compare
For beauteous form with Dryope the fair,
Her tender mother's only hope and pride
(Myself the offspring of a second bride).

This nymph, compress'd by him who rules the day,
Whom Delphi and the Delian isle obey,
Andræmon loved; and, bless'd in all those charms
That pleased a god; succeeded to her arms.

A lake there was, with shelving banks around,
Whose verdant summit fragrant myrtles crown'd.
These shades, unknowing of the fates, she sought,
And to the Naiads flowery garlands brought;
Her smiling babe (a pleasing charge) she press'd
Within her arms, and nourish'd at her breast.
Not distant far, a watery lotos grows;
The spring was new, and all the verdant boughs
Adorn'd with blossoms, promised fruits that vie
In glowing colours with the Tyrian dye:
Of these she cropp'd to please her infant son;
And I myself the same rash act had done:
But lo! I saw (as near her side I stood)
The violated blossoms drop with blood.
Upon the tree I cast a frightful look;
The trembling tree with sudden horror shook,
Lotis the nymph (if rural tales be true),
As from Priapus' lawless lust she flew,
Forsook her form; and, fixing here, became
A flowery plant, which still preserves her name.
This change unknown, astonish'd at the sight
My trembling sister strove to urge her flight:
And first the pardon of the nymphs implored,
And those offended sylvan powers adored:
But when she backward would have fled, she found
Her stiffening feet were rooted in the ground:
In vain to free her fasten'd feet she strove,
And, as she struggles, only moves above;
She feels the encroaching bark around her grow
By quick degrees, and cover all below:
Surprised at this, her trembling hand she heaves
To rend her hair: her hand is fill'd with leaves;
Where late was hair, the shooting leaves are seen
To rise, and shade her with a sudden green.
The child Amphissus, to her bosom press'd,
Perceived a colder and a harder breast,

And found the springs, that ne'er till then denied
Their milky moisture, on a sudden dried.

I saw, unhappy! what I now relate,

And stood the helpless witness of thy fate,
Embraced thy boughs, thy rising bark delay'd,
There wish'd to grow, and mingle shade with shade.
Behold Andræmon and the unhappy sire
Appear, and for their Dryope inquire;
A springing tree for Dryope they find,
And print warm kisses on the panting rind;
Prostrate, with tears their kindred plant bedew,
And close embrace as to the roots they grew.
The face was all that now remain'd of thee,
No more a woman, nor yet quite a tree;
Thy branches hung with humid pearls appear,
From every leaf distils a trickling tear,
And straight a voice, while yet a voice remains,
Thus through the trembling boughs in sighs complains
If to the wretched any faith be given,

I swear by all the unpitying powers of heaven,
No wilful crime this heavy vengeance bred;
In mutual innocence our lives we led:
If this be false, let these new greens decay,
Let sounding axes lop my limbs away,
And crackling flames on all my honours prey!
But from my branching arms this infant bear
Let some kind nurse supply a mother's care:
And to his mother let him oft be led,
Sport in her shades, and in her shades be fed;
Teach him, when first his infant voice shall frame
Imperfect words, and lisp his mother's name,
To hail this tree; and say with weeping eyes,
Within this plant my hapless parent lies:
And when in youth he seeks the shady woods
Oh, let him fly the crystal lakes and floods,
Nor touch the fatal flowers; but, warn'd by me,
Believe a goddess shrined in every tree.
My sire, my sister, and my spouse farewell!
If in your breasts or love or pity dwell,
Protect your plant, nor let my branches feel
The browsing cattle, or the piercing steel.
Farewell! and since I cannot bend to join
My lips to yours, advance at least to mine.

My son, thy mother's parting kiss receive,
While yet thy mother has a kiss to give.
I can no more; the creeping rind invades
My closing lips, and hides my head in shades:
Remove your hands; the bark shall soon suffice
Without their aid to seal those dying eyes.'

She ceased at once to speak, and ceased to be;
And all the nymph was lost within the tree;
Yet latent life through her new branches reign'd,
And long the plant a human heat retain'd.

FROM

OVID'S METAMORPHOSES,

Book 4.

THE fair Pomona flourish'd in his reign:

Of all the virgins of the sylvan train,

None taught the trees a nobler race to bear,
Or more improved the vegetable care.
To her the shady grove, the flowery field,

The streams and fountains, no delights could yield;
"Twas all her joy the ripening fruits to tend,
And see the boughs with happy burthens bend.
The hook she bore instead of Cynthia's spear,
To lop the growth of the luxuriant year,
To decent form the lawless shoots to bring,
And teach the obedient branches where to spring.
Now the cleft rind inserted graffs receives,
And yields an offspring more than nature gives;
Now sliding streams the thirsty plants renew,
And feed their fibres with reviving dew.

These cares alone her virgin breast employ,
Averse from Venus and the nuptial joy.
Her private orchards, wall'd on every side,
To lawless sylvans all access denied.
How oft the satyrs and the wanton fawns,
Who haunt the forests, or frequent the lawns,
The god whose ensigns scares the birds of prey,
And old Silenus, youthful in decay,
Employ'd their wiles and unavailing care,
To pass the fences, and surprise the fair!
Like these, Vertumnus own'd his faithful flame,
Like these, rejected by the scornful dame.
To gain her sight a thousand forms he wears;
And first a reaper from the field appears,
Sweating he walks, while loads of golden grain
O'ercharge the shoulders of the seeming swain.
Oft o'er his back a crooked scythe is laid,
And wreaths of hay his sun-burnt temples shade;
Oft in his harden'd hand a goad he bears,
Like one who late unyoked the sweating steers.
Sometimes his pruning-hook corrects the vines,
And the loose stragglers to their ranks confines.
Now gathering what the bounteous year allows,
He pulls ripe apples from the bending boughs.
A soldier now, he with his sword appears;
A fisher next, his trembling angle bears.
Each shape he varies, and each art he tries,
On her bright charms to feast his longing eyes.
A female form at last Vertumnus wears,
With all the marks of reverend age appears,
His temples thinly spread with silver hairs:
Propp'd on his staff, and stooping as he goes,
A painted mitre shades his furrow'd brows.
The god, in this decrepit form array'd,
The gardens entered, and the fruit survey'd;
And Happy you!' he thus address'd the maid,
"Whose charms as far all other nymphs out-shine,
As other gardens are excell'd by thine!'
Then kiss'd the fair (his kisses warmer grow
Than such as women on their sex bestow);
Then, placed beside her on the flowery ground,
Beheld the trees with autumn's bounty crown'd.
An elm was near, to whose embraces led,
The curling vine her swelling clusters spread:
He view'd her twining branches with delight,
And praised the beauty of the pleasing sight.
Yet this tall elm, but for his vine,' he said,
'Had stood neglected, and a barren shade;
And this fair vine, but that her arms surround
Her married elm, had crept along the ground.

Fix on Vertumnus and reject the rest. For his firm faith I dare engage my own; Scarce to himself, himself is better known. To distant lands Vertumnus never roves ; Like you, contented with his native groves; Nor at first sight, like most, admires the fair; For you he lives: and you alone shall share His last affection, as his early care. Besides, he's lovely far above the rest, With youth immortal, and with beauty bless'd.. Add, that he varies every shape with ease, And tries all forms that may Pomona please. But what should most excite a mutual flame, Your rural cares and pleasures are the same To him your orchard's early fruit are due (A pleasing offering when 'tis made by you), He values these: but yet, alas! complains, That still the best and dearest gift remains. Not the fair fruit that on yon branches glows With that ripe red the autumnal sun bestows; Nor tasteful herbs that in these gardens rise, Which the kind soil with milky sap supplies; You, only you, can move the god's desire: Oh, crown so constant and so pure a fire! Let soft compassion touch your gentle mind; Think, 'tis Vertumnus begs you to be kind: So may no frost, when early buds appear, Destroy the promise of the youthful year; Nor, winds when first your florid orchard blows, Shake the light blossoms from their blasted boughs This when the various god had urged in vain, He straight assumed his native form again; Such, and so bright an aspect now he bears, As when through clouds the emerging sun appears, And, thence exerting his refulgent ray, Dispels the darkness, and reveals the day. Force he prepared, but check'd the rash design; For when, appearing in a form divine, The nymph surveys him, and beholds the grace Of charming features, and a youthful face; In her soft breast consenting passions move, And the warm maid confess'd a mutual love

THE ALLEY,

IN every town where Thamis rolls his tyde,
An narrow pass there is with houses low;
Where, ever and anon, the stream is eyed,
And many a boat, soft sliding to and fro.
There oft are heard the notes of infant woe,
The short thick sob, loud scream and shriller squal! :
How can ye, mothers, vex your children so ?
Some play, some eat, some cack against the wall,
And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter call.

And on the broken pavement, here and there,
Doth many a stinking sprat and herring lie;
4 brandy and tobacco shop is near,

And hens, and dogs, and hogs are feeding by;
And here a sailor's jacket hangs to dry.
At every door are sun-burnt matrons seen,
Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry,
Now singing shrill, and scolding eft between ;

Scolds answer foul-mouth'd scolds; bad neighbourhood
I ween.

The snappish cur (the passenger's annoy)
Close at my heel with yelping treble flies;
The whimpering girl, and hoarser screaming boy,
Join to the yelping treble, shrilling cries;
The scolding quean to louder notes doth rise,
And her full pipes those shrilling cries confound;

To her full pipes the grunting hog replies;

The grunting hogs alarm the neighbours round,

ON A FAN OF THE AUTHOR'S DESIGN,

In which was painted the Story of Cephalus and Procris, with the Motto, Aura veni.'

COME, gentle air !' the Æolian shepherd said,
While Procris panted in the secret shade;
Come gentle air,' the fairer Delia cries,
While at her feet her swain expiring lies. 20
Lo, the glad gales o'er all her beauties stray,
Breathe on her lips, and in her bosom play!
In Delia's hand this toy is fatal found,

Nor could that fabled dart more surely wound:
Both gifts destructive to the givers prove;
Alike both lovers fall by those they love.

Yet guiltless to the bright destroyer lives,

At random wounds, nor knows the wound she gives,
She views the story with attentive eyes,
And pities Procris, while her lover dies.

COWLEY.

THE GARDEN.

FAIN would my muse the flowery treasure sing,
And humble glories of the youthful spring:
Where opening roses breathing sweets diffuse,
And soft carnations shower their balmy dews,
Where lilies smile in virgin robes of white,
The thin undress of superficial light,
And varied tulips shew so dazzling gay,
Blushing in bright diversities of day.
Each painted floweret in the lake below

drown'd.

Hard by a sty, beneath a rook of thatch,

Dwelt Obloquy, who in her early days
Baskets of fish at Billingsgate did watch,
Cod, whiting, oyster, mackrel, sprat, or plaice:

There learn'd she speech from tongues that never cease.
Slander beside her, like a magpie, chatters,
With Envy (spitting cat), dread foe to peace;
Like a cursed cur, Malice before her clatters,

And pale Narcissus on the bank, in vain
Transformed, gazes on himself again.
Here aged trees cathedral walks compose,
And mount the hill in venerable rows;
There the green infants in their beds are laid,
The garden's hope, and its expected shade.
Here orange trees with blooms and pendants shine,
And vernal honours to their autumn join;
Exceed their promise in their ripen'd store,
Yet in the rising blossom promise more.

Her dugs were mark'd by every collier's hand,
Her mouth was black as bull-dog's at the stall;
She scratch'd, bit, and spared ne lace ne band,
And bitch and rogue her answer was to all;
Nay, e'en the parts of shame by name would call;
Yea, when she passed by or lane or nook,
Would greet the man who turn'd him to the wall,
And by his hand obscene the porter took,
Nor ever did askance like modest virgin look.

Such place hath Deptford, navy-building town,
Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch:
Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown;
And Twickenham such, which fairer scenes enrich,
Grots, statues, urns, and Jo-n's dog and bitch.
Ne village is without, on either side,

All up the silver Thames, or all adown;

Ne Richmond's self, from whose tall front are eyed Vales, spires, meandering streams, and Windsor's towery pride.

WALLER.

OF A LADY SINGING TO HER LUTE.

FAIR charmer, cease, nor make your voice's prize
A heart resign'd the conquest of your eyes:
Well might, alas! that threaten'd vessel fail,
Which winds and lightning both at once assail.
We were too bless'd with these enchanting lays,
Which must be heavenly when an angel plays :
But killing charms your lover's death contrive,
Lest heavenly music should be heard alive.

By laurels shielded from the piercing day;
Where Daphne, now a tree, as once a maid,
Still from Apollo vindicates her shade,
Still turns her beauties from the invading beam,
Nor seeks in vain for succour to the stream;
The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves,
At once a shelter from her boughs receives,
Where summer's beauty midst of winter stays,
And winter's coolness spite of summer's rays.

WEEPING

WHILE Celia's tears make sorrow bright, Proud grief sits swelling in her eyes: The sun, next those the fairest light,

Thus from the ocean first did rise: And thus through mists we see the sun, Which else we durst not gaze upon.

These silver drops, like morning dew,
Fortell the fervour of the day:
So from one cloud soft showers wegi
And blasting lightnings burst away.
The stars that fall from Celia's eye,
Declare our doom is drawing nigh.

The baby in that sunny sphere
So like a Phaëton appears,
That heaven, the threaten'd world to spare,
Thought fit to drown him in her tears:
Else might the ambitious nymph aspire
To set, like him, heaven too on fire.

EARL OF ROCHESTER.

ON SILENCE.

SILENCE! coeval with eternity,

Thou wert, ere nature's self began to be;

'Twas one vast nothing, all, and all slept fast in thee.

Thine was the sway, ere heaven was form'd, or earth, Ere fruitful thought conceived creation's birth, Or midwife word gave aid, and spoke the infant forth. The various elements against thee join'd In one more various animal combined, And framed the clamorous race of busy human-kind.

The tongue moved gently first, and speech was low, Till wrangling science taught it noise and show, And wicked wit arose, thy most abusive foe.

But rebel wit deserts thee oft in vain;
Lost in the maze of words he turns again,

And seeks a surer state, and courts thy gentle reign.

Afflicted sense thou kindly dost set free,
Oppress'd with argumental tyranny,

And routed reason finds a safe retreat in thee.

With thee in private modest dulness lies, And in thy bosom lurks in thought's disguise; Thou varnisher of fools, and cheat of all the wise!

Yet thy indulgence is by both confess'd; Folly by thee lies sleeping in the breast, And 'tis in thee at last that wisdom seeks for rest.

Silence, the knave's repute, the whore's good name, The only honour of the wishing dame;

Thy very want of tongue makes thee a kind of fame.

But couldst thou seize some tongues that now art free, How church and state should be obliged to thee; At senate, and at bar, how welcome wouldst thou be!

Yet speech e'en there submissively withdraws, From rights of subjects, and the poor man's cause: Then pompous Silence reigns, and stills the noisy laws.

Past services of friends, good deeds of foes,
What favourites gain, and what the nation owes,
Fly the forgetful world, and in thy arms repose.

The country wit, religion of the town,
The courtier's learning, policy of the gown,

Are best by thee express'd; and shine in thee alone.

The parson's cant, the lawyer's sophistry, Lord's quibble, critic's jest, all end in thee, All rest in peace at last, and sleep eternally.

EARL OF DORSET

ARTEMISIA.

THOUGH Artemisia talks, by fits,
Of councils, classics, fathers, wits;

Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Locke:
Yet in some things methinks she fails;
"Twere well if she would pare her nails,
And wear a cleaner smock.

Haughty and huge as High-Dutch bride, Such nastiness, and so much pride,

Are oddly join'd by fate :

On her large squab you find her spread, Like a fat corpse upon a bed,

That lies and stinks in state.

She swears no colours (sign of grace) On any part except her face;

All white and black beside: Dauntless her look, her gesture proud Her voice theatrically loud,

And masculine her stride.

So have I seen, in black and white,
A prating thing, a magpye hight,
Majestically stalk;

A stately, worthless animal,

That plies the tongue, and wags the tail, All flutter, pride, and talk.

PHRYNE.

PHRYNE had talents for mankind,
Open she was, and unconfined,

Like some free port of trade;
Merchants unloaded here their freight,
And agents from each foreign state
Here first their entry made.

Her learning and good-breeding such,
Whether the Italian or the Dutch,

Spaniards or French came to her;
To all obliging she'd appear:
"Twas 'Si Signor,' 'twas 'Yaw Mynheer,
"Twas' S'il vous plait, Monsieur.'

Obscure by birth, renown'd by crimes,
Still changing names, religion, climes,
At length she turns a bride:

In diamonds, pearls, and rich brocades,
She shines the first of batter'd jades,
And flutters in her pride.

So have I known those insects fair
(Which curious Germans hold so rare)

Still vary shapes and dyes;

Still gain new titles with new forms;
First grubs obscene, then wriggling worms,
Then painted butterflies.

DR. SWIFT.

THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY PARSON.

PARSON, these things in thy possessing,
Are better than the bishop's blessing:
A wife that makes conserves; a steed
October store, and best Virginia,
That carries double when there's need;
Tithe pig, and mortuary guinea:
Gazettes sent gratis down, and frank'd,
For which thy patron's weekly thank'd ;
A large Concordance, bound long since;
Sermons to Charles the First, when prince:
A Chronicle of ancient standing;
A Chrysostom to smooth-thy band in:
The Polyglott-three parts-my text,
Howbeit, likewise-now to my next:
Lo here the Septuagint, and Paul,
To sum the whole, the close of all.

He that has these, may pass his life,
Drink with the 'squire, and kiss his wife;
On Sundays preach, and eat his fill;
And fast on Fridays-if he will;

Toast church and queen, explain the news, Talk with church-wardens about pews;

Pray heartily for some new gift,

And shake his head at Doctor Sw**1.

AN ESSAY ON MAN,

IN FOUR EPISTLES

TO HENRY ST. JOHN, LORD BOLINGBROKE.

THE DESIGN.

HAVING proposed to write some pieces on human life and manners, such as (to use my lord Bacon's expression) 'come home to men's business and bosoms,' I thought it more satisfactory to begin with considering man in the abstract, his nature, and his state: since, to prove any moral duty, to enforce any moral precept, or to examine the perfection or imperfection of any creature whatsoever, it is necessary first to know what condition and relation it is placed in, and what is the proper end and purpose of its being.

The science of human nature is, like all other sciences, reduced to a few clear points: there are not many certain truths in this world. It is therefore in the anatomy of the mind as in that of the body; more good will accrue to mankind by attending to the large, open, and per ceptible parts, than by studying too much such finer nerves and vessels, the conformations and uses of which will for ever escape our observation. The disputes are