At laft in rush'd Eufden, and cry'd, "Who fhall have it
"But I, the true Laureat, to whom the King gave it?"
Apollo begg'd pardon, and granted his claim,
But vow'd tho' till then he ne'er heard of his name. 84
GRAVE fops my envy now beget,
Who did my pity move;
They, by the right of wanting wit,
Are free from cares of love.
Turks honour fools, because they are
By that defect fecure
From flavery and toils of war,
Which all the reft endure.
So I, who fuffer cold neglect
And wounds from Celia's eyes,
Begin extremely to respect
Thefe fools that feem fo wife.
'Tis true they fondly fet their hearts
On things of no delight;
To país all day for men of parts
They pafs alone the night.
But Celia never breaks their reft;
Such fervants fhe difdains;
And fo the feps are dully bleft,
While I endure her chains.
BEING KILLED IN PORTUGAL,
UPON ACCOUNT OF THE INFANTA,
IN THE YEAR 1683.
IN fuch a caufe no Muse should fail
To bear a mournful part;
'Tis juft and noble to bewail The fate of fall'n Defert,
If from the glorious height he falls,
He greatly daring dies;
Or mounting where bright Beauty calls,
An empire is the prize.
A nymph fo far above the reft,
That we outfhin'd the bless'd above,
In beauty fhe, and I in love;
And therefore they who could not bear
To be outdone by mortals here,
Among themselves have plac'd her now,
And left me wretched here below.
'Tis but to fhew how much I grieve.
COME all
ye doleful difmal cares
That ever haunted guilty mind,
The pangs of love when it despairs,
And all thofe ftings the jealous find:
Alas! heart-breaking tho' ye be,
Yet welcome, welcome all to me!
Who now have loft-but, oh! how much?
No language, nothing can express,
Except my grief! for she was such,
That praises would but make her lefs.
Yet who can ever dare to raise
His voice on her unless to praise?
Free from her sex's smallest faults,
And fair as womankind can be;
Tender and warm as lovers' thoughts,
Yet cold to all the world but me:
Of all this nothing now remains
But only fighs and endless pains.
MR. HOBBES AND HIS WRITINGS.
SUCH is the mode of thefe cenforious days,
The art is loft of knowing how to praise.
Poets are envious now, and fools alone
Admire at wit, because themselves have none.
Yet whatfoe'er is by vain critics thought,
Praifing is harder much than finding fault.
In homely pieces ev'n the Dutch excel;
Italians only can draw Beauty well.
As ftrings alike wound up fo equal prove,
That one refounding makes the other move;
From fuch a caufe our fatires please so much,
We fympathize with each ill-natur'd touch;
And as the sharp infection spreads about,
The reader's malice helps the writer out./
To blame is eafy; to commend is bold;
Yet if the Mufe infpires it who can hold?
To merit we are bound to give applause,
Content to fuffer in so just a cause.
While in dark ignorance we lay afraid Of fancies, ghofts, and ev'ry empty fhade, Great Hobbes appear'd, and by plain reason's light Put fuch fantastic forms to fhameful flight. Fond is their fear who think men needs must be
To vice enflav'd if from vain terrors free.
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