At last the fly shooter of men

Young Cupid, (I beg the God's pardon)
Mamma, your blue birds I have feen
In a certain terrestrial garden.

Where, where, my dear child, quickly fhew,
Quoth the dame, almost out of her wits:
Do but go to Chlorinda's, fays Cu,

And you'll find 'em in fhape of pewits.

Is it fhe that hath done me this wrong?
Full well I know her, and her arts;
She has follow'd the thieving trade long,
But I thought fhe dealt only in hearts.

I fhall foon make her know, fo I fhall
And with that to Jove's palace she run,
And began like a bedlam to bawl,

I am cheated, I'm robb'd, I'm undone.

Chlorinda, whom none can approach,

Without lofing his heart or his fenfes, Has ftol'n the two doves from my coach, And now flaunts it at Venus' expences.

She

She has chang❜d the poor things to pewits,
And keeps 'em like ord'nary fowls:
So when she robs men of their wits,
She turns 'em to affes or owls.

I could tell you of many a hundred
Of figure, high station, and means,
Whom the without mercy has plunder'd,
Ever fince the came into her teens.

But her thefts upon earth I'd have borne,
Or have let 'em all pafs for mere fable;
But nothing will now serve her turn,

But the doves out of Venus's ftable.

Is it fit, let your mightyfhip fay,
That I, like fome pitiful flirt,
Should tarry within doors all day,

Or elfe trudge it afoot in the dirt?

Is it fit that a mortal fhould trample
On me, who am ftyl'd queen of beauty?
O make her, great Jove, an example,
And teach Nimble-fingers her duty.

Sir Jove when he heard her thus rage,
For all his great gravity, fmil'd;
And then, like a judge wife and fage,
He began in terms fober and mild.

Learn, daughter, to bridle your tongue,
Forbear to traduce with your prattle
The fair, who has done you no wrong,
And fcorns to purloin goods and chattel.

She needs neither gewgaw, nor trinket,
To carry the world all before her
Her deferts, I would have you to think it,
Are enough to make all men adore her.

Your doves are elop'd, I confess,

And choose with Chlorinda to dwell;

But blame not the lady for this,

For fure 'tis no crime to excel.

As for them, I applaud their high aims;
Having ferv'd from the time of their birth

The fairest of heavenly dames,

They would now ferve the faireft on earth.

ODE

ODE on Lyric POETRY.

By Mr. MARRIOT.

I. I..!

NMATE of fmoaking cots, whose ruftic shed,

INN

Within its humble bed,

Her twittering progeny contains,

The swallow sweeps the plains,

Or lightly skims from level lakes the dew.

The ringdove ever true

In plaintive accents tells of unrelenting fate,

Far from the raven's croak, and bird of night,
That shrieking wings her flight-

When, at his mutter'd rite,

Hid in the dusky defart vale,

With ftarting eye, and vifage pale,

The grimly wizard fees the spectres rise unholy;

But haunts the woods that held her beauteous mate,

And wooes the Echo foft with murmurs, melancholy.

}

I. 2. Sublime

I. 2.

Sublime alone the feather'd monarch flies,

His neft dark mifts upon the mountains fhrowd;
In vain the howling ftorms arise,

When borne on outstretch'd plume aloft he fprings,
Dashing with many a stroke the parting cloud,
Or to the buoyant air commits his wings
Floating with even fail adown the liquid fkies;
Then darting upward, swift his wings afpire,
Where thunders keep their gloomy feat,
And light'nings arm'd with heaven's avenging ire.
None can the dread artillery meet,

Or through the airy region rove,

But he who guards the throne of Jove, And grafps the flaming bolt of facred fire. I. 3.

Know, with young Ambition bold,

In vain, my Muse, thy dazzled eyes explore
Diftant aims, where wont to foar,

Their burning way the kindling fpirits hold.
Heights too arduous wifely fhun;

Humbler flights thy wings attend;

For heaven-taught Genius can alone afcend

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