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Each Verse so swells, expressive of the Woes,
And ev'ry Tear in Lines so mournful flows;
We, spite of Fame, her Fall revers'd believe,
O'er-look her Crimes, and think she ought to live.

Let Joy transport fair ROSA MONDA's Shade.
And Wreaths of Myrtle crown the lovely MAID.
While now, perhaps, with Dido's Ghost she royes,
And hears and tells the Story of their Loves;
Alike they Mourn, alike they Bless their Fate,
Since LOVE, which made 'em Wretched, makes 'em

Great.
Nor longer that relentless Doom bemoan,
Which gain'd a VIRGIL and an ADDISO N.
Accept, great MONARCH, of the British Lays,
The Tribute-Song an humble Subject pays.
So tries the artless Lark her early Flight,
And soars to hail the GOD of Verfe and Light;
Unrivalid as unmatch'd be still thy Fame,
And thy own Lawrels fhade thy envy'd Name:
Thy Name, the Boast of all the tuneful Quire,
Shall tremble on the Strings of ev'ry Lyre;
While with thy Sentiments each Soul complies,
Feels corresponding Joys or Sorrows rise,
And views thy RoSAMOND with HENRY's Eyes.

On

On a LADY's Orange.

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Hence this? Has VENUS then resign'd the Prize,

-Naked she won, expos'd to Mortal Eyes?
Just Goddess! who, to the first Beauty due,
(Her self less Fair) the Fruit resigns to you.
With Balls like this, the swift Atlanta Atay'd,
And on the panting YOUTH,- bestow'd the MAID.
Had you been there, and thrown this in the Chase,
Hippomenes had stop'd, Atlanta won the Race.

SON G.

L

UCIND A has the De'il and all

of that bright thing we BEAUTY call;
But if she won't come to my Arms,
Why, what care I for all her Charms.
Beauty's the Sawce to Love's high Meat,
But who minds Sawce that must not Eat?

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It is indeed a mighty Treasure,
But in the Using lies the Pleasure;

Bullies thus, that only see't,
Do-n all the Gold in Lumbard-street.

Epitaph on a Taylor's Wife.

НЕ

ERE lies a TAYLOR's Counter-part,

Who lov'd a YARD with all her Heart, Her Cross-leg'd Spouse knew what would ease her, And often stole a YARD to please her; Yet all his CABBAGE would not save The loving Baggage from the Grave: But here she Slumbers, foon forgotten;" Now dead, not valued of a BUTTON.

ON

ON THE

D D E A T H

OF

Mr. V 1 N E R.

By the late Mr. Arch-Deacon, PARNEL.

S Viner Dead? and Mall eachi Muse become
Silent as Death, and as his Musick Dumb?
Shall he depart without a POET's Praise,

Who oft to Harmony has tun'd their Lays?
Shall he, who knew the Elegance of Sound,
Find no one VOICE to sing him to the Ground
MUSIC X and POETRY are Sister-Arts,
Shew a like Genius, and consenting Hearts :

My Soul with his is secretly ally'd,
And I am forc'd to speak, since VINER dy d.
Oh that my Muse, as once his Notes, could swell!
That I might all his Praises tell;
That I might say with how much SKIL! he play'da
How nimbly four extended Strings survey'd ;
How Bow and Fingers, with a noble Strife,
Did raise the VOCAL FIDDLE into Life;
How various Sounds, in various Order rang'd,
By unobserv'd Degrees minutely chang'd;
Thro' a vast Space could in Divisions run,
Be all distinct, yet

agree

in One:
And how the fleeter Notes could swiftly pafs,
And skip alternately from Place to Place;
The Strings could with a sudden Impulse bound,
Speak every Touch, and tremble into Sound.

all

The liquid Harmony, a tuneful Tide, Now seem'd to rage, anon wou'd gently glide; By Turns would ebb and flow, would rise and fall, Be loudly daring, or be softly small: While all was blended in one common Name, Wave push'd on Wave, and all compos'd a Stream.

The diff'rent Tones melodiously combind, . Temper’d with Art, in sweet Confusion join'd; The Soft, the Strong, the Clear, the Shrill, the Deeps Would sometimes soar aloft, and sometimes creep;

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