III.

Ev'n I-but I can laugh and fing,

Tho' fetter'd and confin'd;

My Mind I may to Fortune bring,
Not Fortune to my Mind.

IV.

How feldom is our Good enjoy'd,

Our Ill how hardly born,

When all our Fancies are employ'd

To kick against the Thorn!

V.

A lowly Heart and little Eye

Kind Heav'n on me bestow;

Let those I hate have Spririts high,

With Fortunes that are low.

VI.

These Maxims fage and dry, you'll fay,

These rigid moral Rules,

Take

Take our fuperior Sense away,

And fink us into Fools.

VII.

Whoe'er can Ease by Folly get,
With Justice may defpife

The thoughtful unenjoying Wit,

The miserable wise.

VIII.

But fure our felves aright to fee,
True Wisdom well may bear:

'Tis nobly great to dare to be
No greater than we are.

IX.

Think not I envy Courts and Kings,
Or peevish hate Mankind;

Think not this Declaration springs

From Meannefs of

my Mind,

X. Ev'n

દિયા જ “સૂર્યના

X.

Ev'n I perhaps, if Heav'n would deign
High Place on me to show'r,

As well as any Lord might reign,

As equal to my Pow'r.

XI.

My Mind with Weight of Business charg'd,
Of Course would bigger grow:

As Rivers length'ning when enlarg'd
Enlarge their Channels too.

XII.

"Till then, a lowly Heart and Eye
Kind Heav'n on me bestow.

Let those I hate have Spirits high,
With Fortunes that are low.

On the Death of ABEL ROPER and GEORGE RIDPATH, Authors of the Post-Boy and Flying-Poft: who dyed both on the fame Day.

OPER and Ridpath both at once, we read

Rin the fame are dead!

In the fame self-fame Paragraph, are

No longer each, his Party to amuse,
For Infant Whispers hunts, and early News:
No more, as Whig or Tory most prevails,
Repines, or triumphs; or commends, or rails;
With Politicks profound no longer vexes,
No longer curious Innocents perplexes.

But weary'd both and spent, with fruitless Jar,
To others leave th' Hereditary War.

Lye they, where-e'er they lye, at last in Peace; Where-e'er they lye, their Epitaph be this; Roper and Ridpath, long to Fame well known, Were Twain when living, but in Death are One.

MELISSA.

HAN

ANC, Marce, cùm ducetur uxor, elige
Menfæque confortem & tori;

Bene moribus morata, quæ formâ placet,

Nec dote dotatur nimis.

Non elaborat illa, de die in diem,

Se fingere & refingere;

Vultumve curiofa fumit artifex

Ab hac, ab illâ Pyxide.

Nec diflocandis & locandis crinibus,
Quos iterum & iterum diflocet,

Abfumit horas, unam ineptulam aciculam

Deciefque figens & movens.

Nec exuendis induendis veftibus,

Diverfa ter, ter difcolor,

Jubar evebit cùm Phabus, & cùm devehit,

Mutatur & mutabitur.

Nec