This fpeaks thy glory, noble friend!
And British language does commend :
For here, Lucretius whole we find,
His words, his mufic, and his mind.
Thy art has to our country brought
All that he writ, and all he thought.
Ovid tranflated, Virgil too,
Shew'd long fince what our tongue could do:
Nor Lucan we, nor Horace fpar'd;
Only Lucretius was too hard.
Lucretius, like a Fort, did stand
Untouch'd; till your victorious hand
Did from his head this garland bear,
Which now upon your own you wear.
A garland! made of fuch new bays,
And fought in fuch untrodden ways;
As no man's temples e'er did crown,
Save this great author's, and your own.
To his worthy Friend Sir THOMAS HIGGONS, Upon his Translation of the VENETIAN TRIUmph.
THE winged lion's not fo fierce in fight,
As Liberi's hand presents him to our fight:
Nor would his pencil make him half so fierce,
Or roar fo loud, as Bufinello's verfe :
But
your tranflation does all three excel,
The fight, the piece, and lofty Bufinel.
As their fmall gallies may not hold compare
With our tall fhips, whofe fail's employ more air:
So does th' Italian to your genius veil,
Mov'd with a fuller and a nobler gale.
Thus, while your Mufe fpreads the Venetian story,
You make all Europe emulate her glory:
You make them blush, weak Venice should defend
The cause of heaven, while they for words contend;
Shed Chriftian blood, and populous cities rafe,
Because they're taught to use some different phrase.
If, listening to your charms, we could our jars
Compofe, and on the Turk difcharge these wars;
Our British arms the facred tomb might wrest
From Pagan hands, and triumph o'er the east:
And then you might our own high deeds recite,
And with great Taffo celebrate the fight.
* VERSES TO DR. GEORGE ROGERS, On his taking the Degree of Doctor in Phyfic at Padua, in the Year 1664.
'HEN as of old the earth's bold children ftrove,
With hills on hills, to fcale the throne of Jove; Pallas and Mars stood by their fovereign's fide, And their bright arms in his defence employ'd:
*This little Poem (first inferted among Waller's Works in 1772) was printed, together with several others on the fame occafion, by Dr. Rogers, along
While the wife Phoebus, Hermes, and the rest,
Who joy in peace, and love the Mufes beft,
Defcending from their fo diftemper'd feat,
Our groves and meadows chofe for their retreat.
There first Apollo try'd the various use
Of herbs, and learn'd the virtues of their juice,
And fram'd that Art, to which who can pretend
A jufter title than our noble Freind;
Whom the like tempeft drives from his abode,
And like employment entertains abroad?
This crowns him here; and in the bays so earn'd,
His country's honour is no lefs concern'd;
Since it appears not all the English rave,
To ruin bent: fome study how to fave;
And as Hippocrates did once extend
His facred art, whole cities to amend;
So we, brave Freind, fuppofe that thy great skill,
Thy gentle mind, and fair example, will,
At thy return, reclaim our frantic ifle,
Their spirits calm, and peace again shall smile.
EDM. WALLER, Anglus.
with his inaugural exercise at Padua; and afterwards in the fame manner re-published by him at London, together with his Harveian Oration before the College of Physicians, in the year 1682, while Mr. Waller was yet living. Though the above verfes were first printed in 1664, they feem to have been written before the Reftoration, as appears from the lines towards the conclufion. STOCKDALE.
HYLAS, oh Hylas! why fit we mute,
Now that each bird faluteth the spring?
Wind up the flacken'd strings of thy lute,
Never canft thou want matter to fing:
For love thy breast does fill with such a fire,
That whatfoe'er is fair moves thy defire.
Sweeteft! you know, the sweetest of things
Of various flowers the bees do compose:
Yet no particular tafte it brings
Of violet, woodbine, pink, or rofe:
So, love the refult is of all the graces
Which flow from a thoufand feveral faces.
Hylas! the birds which chaunt in this grove,
Could we but know the language they use,
They would inftruct us better in love,
And reprehend thy inconftant Mufe:
For love their breafts does fill with fuch a fire,
That what they once do chuse, bounds their defire.
Chloris! this change the birds do approve,
Which the warm season hither does bring:
Time from yourself does further remove
You, than the winter from the gay fpring:
She that like lightning fhin'd while her face lafted, The oak now resembles which lightning hath blasted.
In Anfwer of Sir JOHN SUCKLING'S Verfes.
TAY here, fond youth, and ask no more; be wife,
Knowing too much, long fince loft Paradife.
And, by your knowledge, we should be bereft
Of all that Paradife which yet is left.
The virtuous joys thou haft, thou wouldst should still
Laft in their pride and wouldft not take it ill
If rudely, from sweet dreams, and for a toy,
Thou wak'd? he wakes himself that does enjoy.
How can the joy, or hope, which you allow
Be ftyled virtuous, and the end not so ?
Talk in your fleep, and shadows still admire !
'Tis true, he wakes that feels this real fire;
But---to sleep better: for whoe'er drinks deep
Of this Nepenthe, rocks himfelf asleep.
Fruition adds no new wealth, but deftroys;
And while it pleaseth much, yet fill it cloys.
Who thinks he should be happier made for that,
As reafonably might hope he might grow fat
By eating to a furfeit: this once past,
What relifbes? ev'n kiffes lose their taste.
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