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In vain the rich Brocade

you wear, In Paint, and Gold, and Velvet glare,

And set your self so fine out; Brilliants, in vain, adorn your Head, They are but (as th' old Proverb faid)

Like Jewels in a Swine's Snout.

VI.

Long, long ago I thought you Fair,
Engaging was your Wit and Air,
But no Man e'er could fix

ye;
And do you dream of Conquests now,
With hollow Cheeks, and wither'd Brow,

The sad Presage of Sixty ?

VII.

CHLORIS, with you, once shar'd my Heart,
But she triumphant did depart,
Whilst beauteous, young, and tender ;

survive, to your own Shame, And stand the second next in Fame,

And Form, to th' Witch of ENDOR.

But you

VIII. Buc

VIII.

But now we view that fick'ning Light,
That once was so divinely bright,

With faded Lustre blink;
And when it feels its last Decay,
Shall laugh to see it dye away,
And

go out in a Stink.

By another Hand.

T

Hanks to the GODS, they've heard my Pray'rs,

Lucy is old, and full of Airs;
And she! the silly foolish Ghost,
Thinks she deserves to be a Toast;
She'll sing and please you, tho' each Note
Shakes in her Paralytick Throat;
She drinks good Nantz to cheer her Heart,
Those Cheeks she borrows too of Art:
Look at your self, good Lucy, well,
Do you believe that any Spell
Can make your wrinkled Skin appear
Like charming CHLOE's, smooth and fair?

Was

Was Love yet ever known to stay
With rotten Teech, and Tresses grey?
That rich Brocade, that monft'rous Hoop
Instead of gracing, make you ftoop;
"Take off those Diamonds if you're wise,
They glisten so, they'll spoil your Eyes.
I've seen

you

walk with a good Grace,
And once I lik’d your Shape and Face:
Where's that easy Je ne fcay quoy,
In which I once plac'd all my Joy ?
I'm sure you cannot be the same,
That next to CELI A was my Flame:
Ah! the

poor Girl was snatch'd away,
But you, by Fate, was doom'd to stay,
That I might laugh, now you are Old,
And with no small Delight behold
What for a while so brightly burn'd
Now into dirty Ashes turn'd.

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TO

Mr. ADDISON,

ON HIS

OPERA of Rosamond.

By Mr. T YCKEL L.

XHE Opera first Italian Masters taught,

Enrich'd with SONGS, but Innocent of

Thought;

Britannia's learned THEATRE disdains
Melodious Triffes, and enervate Strains ;
And blushes on her injur'd Stage to see
Nonsense well tun'd, and sweet Stupidity.

No

No Charms are wanting to thy artful Song,
Soft as CORELLI, but, as VIRGIL, strong.
From Words so sweet new Grace the Notes receive,
And Musick borrows Helps, she us'd to give.
Thy Style hath match'd what ancient Romans knew,
Thy flowing Numbers far excel the New.
Their Cadence in such eafy Sound convey'd,
That Height of Thought may seem superfluous Aid;
Yet in such Charms the noble Thoughts abound,
That needless seem the Sweets of eafy Sound.
Landskips how gay the Bow'ry Grotto yields,
Which Thought creates, and lavish Fancy builds !
What Art can trace the visionary Scenes,
The Aow’ry Groves, and everlasting Greens?
The babbling Sounds that Mimick E cho plays,
The fairy Shade, and its eternal Maze?
Nature and Art in all their Charms combin'd,
And all ELYSIUM at one View confin'd!
No farther could Imagination roam,
'Till Vanbrugb fran'd, and Marlbro' rais'd the Dome,

Ten thousand Pangs my anxious Bosome tear,
When drown'd in Tears I see th' imploring Fair;
When BARD s less soft the moving Words supply,
A seeming Justice dooms the NYMPH to die;
But here she begs, nor can she beg in vain,
(In Dirges thus expiring Swans complain)

D 2

Each

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