PROLOGUE

ΤΟ

MUSICK.

try,

By Dr. GTH.

HERE MUSICK with more pow'rful
Beauty reigns,

Who can fupport the Pleafure or the Pain?
Here their foft Magick thefe two Syrens

And if we liften, or we look, we die.

Why fhould we then the wond'rous Tales admire, Of Orphen's Numbers, or Amphion's Lyre?

Of

Of Walls erected by Harmonious Skill,

How Mountains moy'd, or rapid Streams food still
Behold this Scene of Beauties, and confefs
The Wonder greater, and the Fiction less!

Like Humane Victims, here we are decreed
To Worship thofe bright Altars where we bleed.
Who braves his Fate in Fields, must tremble here,
Triumphant Love more Vaffals makes than Fear,

1

No Faction, Homage to the Fair denies,
The Right Divine's apparent in their Eyes.
That Empire's fix'd that's founded on Defire,
Those Flames, the Vestal's Guard, can ne'er expire.

SONG

SONG.

In Excufe to a LADY, for stealing a Kifs from

Her.

I.

ELINDA, fee from yonder Flow'rs

BE

The Bee flies loaded to the Cell;

Can you perceive what it devours?
Are they impair'd in Shew or Smell

ō tho' I robb'd you of a Kifs,
Sweeter than their Ambrofial Dew ¿

Why are you angry at my Bliss?
Has it at all impoverish'd you ?

III.

Tis by this Cunning I contrive,
In fpight of your unkind Reserve,

To keep my famish'd Love alive,
Which you inhumanly would ftarve

Upen

Upon a PATCH, on a LADY's Face.

HAT artful Speck upon her Face,

Had been a Foil in one lefs Fair;

In her it hides a wounding Grace,

And fhe in Mercy plac'd it there.

A CONFLICT on BUSINESS.

USINESS, thou Plague and Pleasure of my Life;

BUSINESS,

Thou charming Mistress, thou confounded Wife;

How fhall I praife or blame thee, as I ought,

Thou'rt very good, and yet thou'rt good for naught?
Thou haunt'ft me ftill, and yet I prithee do,

For tho' I hate thee for't, I love thee too.

Thou choak'st my feeble Muse. and damp'st her Wing,
Yet but for Thee, fhe'd neither Soar nor Sing:
Thou Enemy, thou Friend, to Joy, to Grief,
Thou bring'ft me all, thou bring'ft ne no Relief;

Thou

Thou bitter, fweet, thou pleafing, teazing Thing
Thou wear'ft a Spur, 'tis true, but not a Sting;
Some Refpite, prithee do, yet do not give,
I cannot with thee, nor without thee live.

To a PAINTER, after he had finish'à a Lady's

Picture.

AINTER, thou haft perform'd what Man can do,

PAINTER

Only DORINDA's felf more Charms can fhew,

Bold are thy Strokes, and delicate each Touch,

But ftill the Beauties of her Face are fuch,

As cannot justly be describ'd, tho' all
Confefs tis like the bright ORIGINAL.
In Her, and in thy Picture, we may view
The utmost Nature, or that Art can do,
Each is a Mafter-Piece, defign'd fo well,
That future Times may ftrive to parallel,
But neither Art nor Nature's able to excel.

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