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SIR RICHARD FANSHAW. THOU blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves
The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives
For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes. Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon ;
What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? Thou’rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon,
And passing proud a little colour makes thee. If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives,
Know then, the thing that swells thee is thy bane; For the same beauty, doth in bloody leaves
The sentence of thy early death contain. Someclown's coarse lungs will poison thysweetflow'r,
If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn, And many Herods lie in wait each hour,
To murder thee as soon as thou art born, Nay, force thy bud to blow, their tyrant breath Anticipating life to hasten death.
Or, the Power of Music :
By Philip's warlike son:
On his imperial throne :
The lovely Thaïs by his side
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave deserves the fair!
Amid the tuneful choir,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
And heavenly joys inspire.
When he to fair Olympia press'd,
A present deity! they shout around;
With ravish'd ears,
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.
He shews his honest face.
Drinking joys did first ordain:
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure;
slew the slain.
He chose a mournful muse,
Soft pity to infuse :
By too severe a fate
Fall’n from his high estate,
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
The various turns of chance below;
And tears began to flow.
The mighty master smild to see
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
War, he sung, is toil and trouble,
Never ending, still beginning,
If the world be worth thy winning,
Lovely Thaïs sits beside thee;
Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud applause : So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz'd on the fair
Who caus'd his care,
Sigh'd and look’d, and sigh'd again.
Hark, hark, the horrid sound
Revenge, revenge! Timotheus cries :
See the snakes how they rear,
How they hiss in the air !
Behold a ghastly band,
Each a torch in his hand,
And unburied remain,
To the valiant crew.
How they point to the Persian abodes,
And glitt'ring temples of their hostile gode ! The princes applaud with a furious joy, And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy:
Thaïs led the way,
To light him to his prey,
Thus, long ago,
While organs yet were mute;
And sounding lyre,
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown; He rais'd a mortal to the skies,
She drew an angel down.