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If bury one you cannot Love,
Or marry him you best approve;
If Children to your Share shall fall,
Or Boys, or Girls, or none at all;
If you'll be fortunate at Play,
Which is a bad or lucky Day;
All which resolves you in a Trice;
And in most cases gives Advice:
Interprets Dreams so nicely well,
Antemidorus does excel.
These, and more wond'rous Things can do,
Than Old Aftrologers e'er knew;
But Woman's Faith alone must think 'em true,

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Lo, unveil'd Glory's blaze, to Sense con


OW lovely Sacred Portraiture appears
What Heav'nly Charms the bright Delusion

Their dazling Forms in Shape and Colours drest!
Seraphs around in Saphire Shades are spred,
And Sky-dipt Pencils the rich Purple laed.




Scene after Scene my ravish'd Eyes pursue ; One scarce enjoy'd, another tempts my View. Here Clouds in Streams of Gold are taught to flow: See Paul entranc'd, in Beamy Raptures glow. There, on fresh Flowers repos’d pale Martyrs lain; Yet new to Bliss, and languishing with Pain: Soft Cherubs healing Air, and Harps apply; And circling Triumphs crowd the pitying Sky.

Beneath, on Earth, behold an humble Scene, The meek MESSIAH, with his Pilgrim Train : Disease, retiring, owns his dread Command, And Health, and Light flow from the potent Hand.

There Mystick Nuptials serious Mirth allow; Ambitious Chaplets wreath his awful Brow. Angels in silent Streams strange Nectar pour, And unseen Clusters yield a purple Show'r : The wond’ring Guests perceive th’ inspiring Juice'; And sparkling Cups Cæleftial Joys infuse.

The Funerals paft, here they despair of Aid; While Mourning Loves his tardy Steps upbraid: But see, he comes! See from the yawning Tomb, The rising Youth, like new-born Lillies, bloom! The frighted Sisters shake with pleasing Dread; And tender Shrieks salute the wak’ning Dead.

What smiling Graces my bleft Eyes invade! Hail, bright MARIA! Hail Cæleftial Shade! Here Virgin-Innocence, and Love Divine, Mixt in one Face, in sweet Confusion fhine: And softly varying blend, in doubtful Red, The tender Mother with the blushing Maid; Such glorious Forms the guilty Temples stain, And Crowds, adoring, lift their Hånds in vain.

Thus Ancient Greece prefum'd, with flatt'ring Skill
Minerva's awful Beauty's to reveal;
Into the Mansions of the Gods to pry,i!
And paint the Pow'rs conceald within the Sky.
Bold Plato thus his shadowy Science taught;
And Athens prais'd the New, Harmonious Thought.

Vain Thefts of Human Art! No Paint can shew,
No Words can figure what no Mortals know.
Poorly our faint Idea's all combine
To form an Image of the Pow'r Divine:
He only his own Likeness can express
And Radiant Image in full Glory Dress;
New-mold the Clay, and with his Finger tráce
His bright Resemblance on the stubborn Mass;
Those Heav'nly Colours on the Mind revive,
luform the Heart, and teach the Soul to live.


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S. Damon late, with Chloe sat,

They talk'd of Am’rous Bliffes,
Kind Things he said, which she repaid

In pleasing Smiles and Kisses;
With tuneful Tongue, of Love he sung,

She thank'd him for his Ditty,
But said, one Day she heard him say,

The Flute was wond'rous pretty.


Young Damon, who her. Meaning knew,

Took out his PIPE to Charm her,
And whilst he strove with wanton Love,

And sprightly Airs to warm her,
She beg'd the Swain to play one Strain

In all the softest Measure,
Whose killing Sound, would surely wound,

And make her dye with Pleasure.

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