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O'er craggy Rocks, and rugged Hills the climbs,
And tears on pointed Flints her tender Limbs;
But caught at length, juft as my Arms I fold,
Turn'd to a Tree, the yet efcapes my hold.
In my next Love a diff'rent Fate I find,
Ah! which is worse, the Falfe, or the Unkind?
Forgetting Daphne, I Coronis chofe,

A kinder Nymph------too kind for my Repose:
The Joys I give, but more inflame her Breaft,
She keeps a private Drudge to quench the reft;
* How, and with whom, the very Birds proclaim
Her black Pollution, and reveal my Shame.
Hard lot of Beauty, fatally bestow'd,

Or given to the Falfe, or to the Proud!
By diff'ring Ways, they bring us equal Pain,
The Falfe betray us, and the Proud difdain.
Scorn'd and abus'd from Mortal Loves I fly,
To feek more Truth in my own Native Sky:
Venus, the fairest of Immortal Loves,

Bright as my Beams, and gentle as her Doves,
With glowing Eyes, confeffing warm Defires,
She fummons Heav'n and Earth to quench her Fires;
Me fhe excludes, and I in vain adore,
Who neither God nor Man refus'd before;
Vulcan, the very Monster of the Skies,
Vulcan fhe takes, the God of Wit denies.
"Then cease to murmur at thy Myra's Pride,
Whimfie, not Reason, is the Female Guide;
The Fate of which their Mafter does complain,
Is of bad Omen to th' infpired Train.

What Vows were loft! Hark how Catullus mourns,
How Ovid weeps, and flighted Gallus burns;
In melting Strains fee gentle Waller bleed,
Unmov'd the hears, what none unmov'd can read;
And thou who oft with fuch ambitious Choice,
Haft rais'd to Myra thy afpiring Voice;

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What Profit thy neglected Zeal repays,
Ah! what Return ungrateful to thy Praise?
Change, change thy Stile, with mortal Rage retur
Unjuft Disdain, and Pride oppofe to Scorn;
Search all the Secrets of the Fair and Young,
And then Proclaim; foon fhall they bribe thy Tongue:
The fharp Lampooner with Succefs affails,
Sure to be civil to the Man that Rails;
Women, like Cowards, tame to the fevere,
Are only fierce when they discover Fear.
Thus spoke the God, and upward mounts in Air,
In juft Refentment of his past Despair.
Provok'd to Vengeance, to my Aid I call
The Furies round, and dip my Pens in Gall;
Not one fhall 'fcape of all the Coz'ning Sex,
Vex'd' fhall they be, who fo delight to vex.

In vain I try, in vain to Vengeance move
My gentle Mufe, fo us'd to tender Love;
Such Magick rules my Heart, what-e'er I write
Turns all to foft Complaint, and am'rons Flight.
Begone fond Thoughts, begone; Be bold, faid I,
Satyr's thy Theam----in vain again I try:
So charming Myra to my Senfe appears,
My Soul adores, my Rage diffolves in Tears.

So the gaul'd Lion, fmarting with his Wound, Threatens his Foes, and makes the Forrest found; With his ftrong Teeth he bites the bloody Dart, And tears his Side with more provoking Smart, 'Till having spent his Voice in fruitless Cries, He lays him down, breaks his proud Heart, and dies.

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Written by Mr. Dayden.

FAIR, fweet and young, receive a Prize
Referv'd for your Victorious Eyes:

From Crowds, whom at your Feet you fee,
O pity, and diftinguish me;

As I from thoufand Beauties more
Distinguish you, and only you adore.

II.

Your Face for Conqueft was defign'd,
Your ev'ry Motion charms my Mind;
Angels, when you your Silence break,
Forget their Hymns to hear you speak;
But when at once they hear and view,

Are loath to mount, and long to stay with you.
III.

No Graces can your Form improve,
But all are loft unless you love;
While that fweet Paffion you disdain,
Your Veil and Beauty are in vain.
In pity then prevent my Fate,
For after dying all Reprieves too late.

ASON G.

By the fame Hand.

IGH State and Honours to others impart,

HIGH

That Treasure, that Treasure alone

I beg for my own. nul fas

So gentle a Love fo fervent a Fire
My Soul does infpire.

That Treafure, that Treasure alone
I beg for my own.

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Your Love let me crave,
Give me in Poffeffing
So matchless a Bleffing,

That Empire is all I wou'd have.

Love's my Petition,
All my Ambition ;
If e'er you discover
So faithful a Lover,
So real a Flame,
I'll die, I'll die,

So give up my Game.

The Prifoner in the TOWER to the

W

LADY M. C.

HILST Europe is allarm'd with Wars,
And Rome foments the Chriftian Jars

Whilft guilty Britain fears her Fate,
And wou'd repent her Crime too late.
Here fafe in my confin'd Retreat,
I fee the Waves about me beat,
And envy none that dare be great.

A quiet Confcience, and a Friend,
Help me my happy Hours to spend;
Let Celia to my Cell refort,
She turns my Prison to a Court;
Inftead of Guards by Day and Night,
Let Celia ftill be in my fight,'

And then they need not fear my Flight.

Cou'd Senfe of Servile Fear prevail,
Or cou'd my Native Honour fail,
Her fight wou'd all my Doubts control,
And give her back my peaceful Soul:

:

Such charming Truths her Words contain : I
Or if her Angel Voice refrain,

Her Eyes can never plead in vain.c

219

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To Sir THOMAS St. SERFE: On the Printing his PLAY, call'd TARUGO'S WILES.

By my Lord BUCKHURST.

Arugo gave us Wonder and Delight,

When he oblig'd the World by Candle-light.
But now he's ventur'd on the Face of Day,
T'oblige and ferve his Friends a nobler way;
Make all our old Men Wits, States-men the young,
And teach ev'n English Men the English Tongue.
James, on whofe Reign all peaceful Stars did fmile,
Did but attempt th' uniting of our Isle.

What Kings, and Nature, only cou'd defign,
Shall be accomplisht by this Work of thine.
For who is fuch a Cockney in his Heart,
Proud of the Plenty of the Southern Part,
To fcorn that Union by which he may
Boaft 'twas his Country-man that writ this Play?
Phœbus himself, indulgent to thy Mufe,
Has to thy Country fent this kind Excufe:
Fair Northern Lafs, it is not through Neglect
I Court thee at a distance, but Refpect.
I cannot act, my Paffion is fo great,

But I'll make up in Light what wants in Heat.
On thee I will beftow my longest Days,
And Crown thy Sons with everlafting Bays.

My Beams that reach thee fhall employ their Pow'rs
To ripen Souls of Men, not Fruits or Flow'rs.
Let warmer Climes my fading Favours boast,
Poets and Stars fhine brightest in thy Froft.

EPILOGUE to TARTUFF.
By the fame Hand.

M ANY have been the vain Attempts of Wit

Against the ftill-prevailing Hypocrite;

VOL. V.

G

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