Come fee, false Man, how low fhe lies,

That dy'd for Love of you.

XV.

Now Birds did fing, and Morning fmile,
And fhew her glistering Head;

Pale William fhook in ev'ry Limb,

Then raving left his Bed.

XVI.

He hy'd him to the fatal Place

Where Margret's Body lay,

And stretch'd him on the green Grass Turf,

That wrapt her Breathless Clay,

XVII.

And thrice he call'd on Margret's Name,

And thrice he wept full fore;

Then laid his Cheek to the cold Earth,

And Word spake never more.

3

Vife tamen, tumulo quàm fit defoffa fepulchro,
Quæ miferum urgebat funus amore Tuí.

XV.

Jam Volucres cecinere, & feftinavit ab Ortu,
Purpureo rifu, Sol aperire diem;

Pallidus obftupuit Thyrfis, tremulufque cubili
(Ah tremor! ah pallor confcius!) exiliit.

XVI.

Fatalem ad tumulum curfu contendit anhelus,
Quo jacuit gelida morte foiuta Chloe;
Cefpiteque in viridi, qui fubtùs flebile texit
Corpus, fe mæftum projiciebat onus.

XVII.

Terque Chloen gemitu gemuit, ter voce vocavit, Et bibulam lachrymis ter madefecit humum ; Nudaque telluri nude dans ofcula, nunquam Aut vocem lachrymis addidit, aut gemitum.

On the Death of PENKETHMAN.

HE Crowded Theater's Delight,

THE

Poor Pinky! has play'd out his Play

His Exit, his last Exit, made!

Say, Comick Mirth, and Langhter, say,

Alas! poor Pinky!

Whene'er his Face, that matchlefs Face,
Poor Pinky's Face, which now is Clay,

In merry Likeness shall be seen,

With pleafing kind Remembrance say,

Alas! poor Pinky !

The heaving Sigh, and falling Tear,

If near poor Pinky's Grave you stray, Would Sorrow too expensive be

Grieve only with a Smile, and fay,

Alas! poor Pinky!

HORACE

HORACE, ODE IX. BOOK III.

W

HORACE and LYDIA:

HORAC E.

HILE I was fond, and you were kind,
Nor any dearer Youth, reclin'd

On your foft Bofom, fought to rest;

Phraates was not half fo bleft.

LYDIA.

While you ador'd no other Face,]

Nor lov'd me in the second Place
My happy celebrated Fame

Outfhone ev'n Ilia's envy'd Name.

HORAGE.

Me Cloe now poffeffes whole;
Her Voice and Lyre poffefs my Soul:
Nor would I Death it felf decline,

Could hers be respited by mine:

LYDIA.

For me young lovely Calais burns,

And Warmth for Warmth my Heart returns;
Twice would I Life with ease refign,

Could his be ransom'd once with mine.

HORAC E.

What if fweet Love, whofe Bands we broke,

Again fhould take us to his Yoke :

Difcarded Cloe cease to reign,

And Lydia her loft Pow'r regain?

LYDIA.

Than Hesperus tho' brighter He, Thou wilder than the raging Sea,

Than Air more light; yet gladly I

With Thee would live, with Thee would die.

HORACE