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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.

With, &c.


Like thee had Eccho tun'd her Voice

Narcissus to invoke,
The self-lov'd Youth had fix'd his Choice;

Nor doom'd her to a Rock;
Thus both a better Fate had found,
She had not Pin'd, nor he been Drown'd.

With, &c.

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Thy Fragrant Lines ascend the Sky

Like an Arabian Nest,
And like an aged Phænix, I

Embalm'd in Spices rest:
Thus whilst amidst Perfumes I burn,
I rise Immortal from the Urn.

With a Fa, la, &c.

Upon seeing Lord Chancellor Parker's Picture,


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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;
For that, which Justice ne'er with-held,

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.

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OOD unexpected, Evil unforeseen,

Appear by turns, as Fortune shifts the Scene;
Some rais'd aloft, some tumbling down amain,
And fall so hard, they bound and rise again,
That which the World miscals a Goal,

A private Closet is to me,
When a good Conscience is my Bail,
And Innocence my Liberty.



Young LADY,

On Her studying the Globe.

HILST oʻer the GLOBE, fair Nymph;

And trace its rowling Circuit round the

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,
Those Beams on other Objects shall be cast,
When some young HER O with refifless Art,
Shall fix those Eyes, and warm that Virgin-Heart;
How shall your Creatures then their Loss deplore,
And want those Suns that rise for them no more?
The Bliss you give, will be confin’d to One,
And for his Sake, your WORLD must be undone.

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.
How then dar'ft Thou, with equal Danger try
To counterfeit the Lightning of her Eye?
PAINTER, defift; or soon th' Event will prove,
That LOVE's as jealous of his Arms as J.OVE.


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