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VI.

The courteous PHOBUS leaves the Skies,

The Charms of THETIS to invade,

While Damon in as dark Disguise

With Cloe rolls to Masquerade.

VII.

See, fee there in Monaftick Weeds,

Celia conceal'd from Strephon, run; Whilft he in like Disguise proceeds

A Monk, to catch the flying Nun.

VIII.

Her Laughs make fome Discovery,
Each Step premeditated Hap!

Left Feet fhou'd prove too fwift, and She

(Which is not her Design) escape.

IX.

Willing (but not to feem) to yield,

O'erpower'd Hands forfake their Pofts;

While the proud Conqu'rer takes the Field,
And by him gain'd the Via'ry boafts,

X.

While yet 'tis Love that from within

The Fortress treach'rously betray'd,

Or he had never enter'd in,

And bravely forc'd the willing Maid.

XI.

Now Nuns forfake their Monks Embrace,

Each mimick Shepherdefs her Swain ;

And Whispers eccho thro' the Place,

When, Where, and How to meet again,

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On Mr. POPE's Tranflation of Homer.

A

Soft, in vain, as he effay'd to tell

In Foreign Tongues how Troy and Priam fell, Old Homer has at laft attain'd to speak

In fmoother Accents than his Native Greek; T
Blind heretofore the Bard receives new Sight,
And ev'n in Age becomes the Fair's Delight; A
How much to POPE is due from Us, and HIM?
Since HOME R Nods no more, nor do his Readers
[Dream.

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L

To CELIA.

OVE, Celia, love, for Time will fly,

And with each Year fome Beauty die:

Ceafe to be Cold because I Burn,

Or I fhall Triumph in my Turn.

Whilft One to Mira fills the Glafs,

Another praises Cloe's Face,

A

A Third Corinna's, paft compare,
I cry- There's Celia has been Fair.
Whilft all the Glory you can boast,
Is,

you're an antiquated Toait.

Occafioned by the Death of Dr. GARTH.

S

*

O Death's Ceremony's now o'erpast,

Think'ft thou the Tyrant made not too much [Halte?

E'er this, I fancy thou believ'ft a God,

And fear thou trembleft at his threat'ning Nod.
No more you his Eternity difown;

Nor fool with promis'd Life the cheated Town; How fhoud'ft thou give it them, who coud'ft not [lave thy own?

*The Doctor being ask'd in his 'Sickness how he did? Anfwer'd, I long till this Ceremony of Death is over.

But

But hold for Satire feems my Pen to've led,
Nought wou'd I fing, but Praises of the Dead.
Disease and Death where-e'er they will may ftray,
And unrefifted fweep whole Towns away;

He's dead- and Silence feals the godlike Tongue,
Where once all Health-reftoring-Power hung:
He's dead, beyond what we believ'd he'd die,
And scarcely lives ev'n in his Memory;
For yet no Bard has ftrove in mournful Lays
To eternize his Name, or fing his Praise.
Thus here the Caufe, the only Cause is read,
Why ev'ry Bard is filent! He is dead;
He's dead who fhou'd their lab'ring Breasts inspire,
The Muses are no more a tuneful Choir ';

Each weeping Sifter hangs her drooping Head,
How fhou'd they fing, when their Apollo's dead?
This Silence he forefaw, and for't prepar'd,
And to himself, himself a Trophy rear'd.
In vain detracting Praises we rehearse

Best, what he was, is pictur'd in his Verse.

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