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, 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, 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, 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 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, 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. 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, He's dead- and Silence feals the godlike Tongue, Each weeping Sifter hangs her drooping Head, Best, what he was, is pictur'd in his Verse. |