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The Youth had been by force of Wit,
Compellid-the Nymph to save; But Sappho met her Destiny 'Cause Sappho could not write like Thee.
Like thee had Eccho tun'd her Voice
Narcissus to invoke,
Nor doom'd her to a Rock;
Thy Fragrant Lines ascend the Sky
Like an Arabian Nest,
Embalm'd in Spices rest:
With a Fa, la, &c.
Upon seeing Lord Chancellor Parker's Picture,
Drawn by Sir GODFREY KNELLER.
O such a Face, and such an Air,
Who could suspect there wants a Voice? OKNELL ER! ableft Hand, declare
If this was thy. Mistake, or Choice?
*Twas Choice----Thy Modesty conceal'd
The Tongue which would thy Glory's raise;
Would never cease to speak thy Praise.
VIRTUE is its own REWARD.
By J. F.
HILST brave Æneas with a gen'rous Care,
Does from approaching Flames his Father bear, Tho' viewing Gods seem barely to approve, And Crowns are wanting to reward such Love; Within himself the true Heroick Boy Swells with such Pleasures, such a worthy Joy As recompence the Dangers of deserted Tror.
OOD unexpected, Evil unforeseen,
Appear by turns, as Fortune shifts the Scene;
A private Closet is to me,
On Her studying the Globe.
HILST oʻer the GLOBE, fair Nymph;
Sun, You seem'd that WORLD beneath you to Survey, With Eyes ordain’d to lend its People Day. With two fair Lamps, methoughts, your Nations (none, Whilft ours are poorly lighted up by One. How did those Rays your happy Empire gild? How cloath the flow'ry Mead and fruitful Field? Your EAR TH was in eternal Spring array'd, And laughing Joy amidst its Natives play'd: Bleft is their Day; but cheerless is their Night, No friendly Moon reflects your absent Light,
And, oh! when, yet many
Years are past,
To a PAINTER, attempting to imitate a
'E, who great Jo vE's Artill’ry ap'd so well,
By real Lightning and true Thunder fell.