SON G. In Excuse to a LADY, for stealing a Kiss from

Her.

I.

BE

ELINDA, fee from yonder Flow'rs

The Bee flies loaded to the Cell; Can you perceive what it devours?

Are they impair’d in Shew or Smell:

II

0, tho' I robb'd you of a Kifs,

Sweeter than their Ambrosial Dewa Why are you angry at my Bliss

Has it at all impoverish'd you?

III.

Tis by this Cunning I contrive,

In spight of your unkind Reserve, To keep my famish'd Love alive,

Which you inhumanly would starte

Upon

1 Had been a Foil in one less Fair;

Upon a PATCH, on a LADY's Face.
HAT artful Speck upon her face,

In her it hides a wounding Grace,

And she in Mercy plac'd it there.

USINESS, thou Plague and Pleasure of my Life;

Thou charming Mistress, thou confounded Wife; How shall I praise or blame thee, as I ought, Thou’rt very good, and yet thou'rt good for naught! Thou haunt'st me still, and yet I prithee do, For tho' I hate thee for't, I love thee too. Thou choak'st my feeble Muse, and damp'ft her Wing, Yet but for Thee, she'd neither Soar nor Sing: Thou Enemy, thou Friend, to Joy, to Grief, Thou bring'ft me all, thou bring 'st oxe no Relief;

Thou

Thou bitter, sweet, thou pleasing, teazing Thing
Thou wear'st a Spur, 'tis true, but not a Sting;
Spme Respite, prithee do, yet do not give,
I cannot with thee, nor without thee live.

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

Picture.

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

Only DORIN DA's self more Charms can shew, Bold are thy Strokes, and delicate each Touch, But still the Beauties of her face are fuch, As cannot justly be describ'd, tho' all Confess 'tis like the bright ORIGINAL. In Her, and in thy Picture, we may view

The utmolt Nature, or that Art can do, Each is a Mafter-Piece, design'd fo well, That future Times may ftrive to parallel, But neither Art nor Nature's able to excel

Τ Η Ε

Τ Η Ε

Force of Musick:

A

F R A G M E N T.

After the Manner of SPENCER,

There, story'd on the Walls were to behold,
The Miracles by Musicx done of old,
The Founders too of ev'ry diff'rent Part,
That gives Perfection to the sacred Art:
Who shap'd the bending Bow, or stretch'd the String,
Or taught in Notes the Concave-Wood to ring,
Who form’d the Pipe direct, or try'd to turn
The Spiral-Trumpet, or the Snake-like Horn.

There

There stood that * Engine, fam'd in ancient Lays,
On which, as the judicious Artist plays,
The bubbling Waters in melodious Chime,
Run juft Divisions thro' the Scale of Time,
The tuneful Element in Measure floats,
And falls, and rises in harmonious Notes.

Nor wanted there the Firft; whose Skill renownd,
To high, and low, and mean, distinguish'd Sound,
With half-clos'd Eyes, and Neck reclin'd he ftood,
As lift'ning to himself in museful Mood;
Before lay Rolls of Notes unfinish'd wrote,
Ripe for the Hand to catch the rising Thought.

A distant Quarter of the Fabrick held
Old fablid Artists that in Song excel'd.
There on cold Hemu's Top young Orpheus ftood,
And from the Mountain call'd the list’ning Wood;
The barren Heath with sudden Groves array'd,
Smiles beautiful, and wonders at its Shade.
Again the Lyre his flying Fingers sweep,
And curling Winds upon the Ocean seep,
O'er the rough Stream he casts a pleasing Look,
And holds in sweet Suspence the huddling Brook.