THE AFFLICTIONS OF A FRIEND. 1702. Now let my cares all buried lie, Your sorrows swell my heart so high, Sickness and pains are quite forgot, Infinite grief puts sense to flight, So the broad gloom of spreading night Thus am I born to be unbless'd! This sympathy of woe Drives my own tyrants from my breast, Sorrows in long succession reign; Their iron rod I feel: Friendship has only chang'd the chain, But I'm the prisoner still. Why was this life for misery made? Or why drawn out so long? Is there no room amongst the dead? Move faster on, great Nature's wheel; Be dusky, all my rising suns, THE REVERSE. OR, THE COMFORTS OF A FRIEND. THUS Nature tun'd her mournful tongue, 'Were kindred spirits born for cares, Is there a sympathy in tears, 'Forbid it Heaven, and raise my love, So bliss and friendship join'd above 'Sorrows are lost in vast delight 'Pleasures in long succession reign, 'Life has a soft and silver thread, Yet when my vaster hopes persuade, 'Fast as ye please roll down the hill, 'Rise glorious, every future sun, Gild all my following days; But make the last dear moment known By well-distinguish'd rays.' TO THE RIGHT HON. JOHN LORD CUTTS, AT THE SIEGE OF NAMUR. THE HARDY SOLDIER. 'O WHY is man so thoughtless grown? 'Are lives but worth a soldier's pay? Why will ye join such wide extremes, And stake immortal souls, in play At desperate chance, and bloody games? • Valour's a nobler turn of thought, Whose pardon'd guilt forbids her fears: Calmly she meets the deadly shot, Secure of life above the stars. 'But Frenzy dares eternal fate, Thus hovering o'er Namuria's plains, And vow'd to pray before the storm. Anon the thundering trumpet calls; Vows are but wind, the hero cries: Then swears, by Heaven! and scales the walls, Drops in the ditch, despairs and dies. BURNING SEVERAL POEMS OF OVID, MARTIAL, OLDHAM, DRYDEN, &c. I JUDGE the Muse of lewd desire: Her sons to darkness, and her works to fire. In vain the flatteries of their wit Now with a melting strain, now with an heavenly Would tempt my virtue to approve Those gaudy panders of a lawless love. [flight, To charm a Cato's eye: but all whithin, Die, Flora, die in endless shame, Ovid, and all ye wilder pens Of modern lust, who gild our scenes, Poison the British stage, and paint damnation gay, Attend your mistress to the dead; [shade. When Flora dies, her imps should wait upon her Strephon,* of noble blood and mind, (Forever shine his name!) As death approach'd, his soul refin❜d, And gave his looser sonnets to the flame: * John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. |