When they have rack'd the politician's breast,
Within thy bosom most securely rest,
And, when reduc'd to thee, are least unsafe and best.
But Nothing, why does Something still permit,
That sacred monarchs should at council fit,
With perfons highly thought at best for nothing fit?
Whilft weighty Something modestly abstains
From princes' coffers, and from statefmens' brains,
And nothing there like stately Nothing reigns.
Nothing, who dwell'st with fools in grave disguise, For whom they reverend shapes and forms devise, Lawn fleeves, and furs, and gowns, when they like
French truth, Dutch prowess, British policy,
Hibernian learning, Scotch civility,
Spaniards' dispatch, Danes' wit, are mainly seen in thee.
The great man's gratitude to his best friend,
Kings' promises, whores' vows, towards thee they bend,
Flow fwiftly into thee, and in thee ever end.
HE Gods, by right of nature, must possess
An everlasting age of perfect peace ;
Far off remov'd from us and our affairs,
Neither approach'd by dangers or by cares;
Rich in themselves, to whom we cannot add;
Not pleas'd by good deeds, nor provok'd by bad.
The latter End of the CHORUS of the Second
Act of SENECA'S TROAS, Tranflated.
FTER Death nothing is, and nothing Death, The utmost limits of a gasp of breath. Let the ambitious zealot lay aside His hope of heaven (whose faith is but his pride); Let slavish souls lay by their fear, Nor be concern'd which way, or where, After this life they shall be hurl'd : Dead, we become the lumber of the world, And to that mass of matter shall be swept Where things destroy'd with things unborn are kept; Devouring Time swallows us whole, Impartial Death confounds body and foul.
For hell, and the foul fiend that rules
The everlasting fiery gaols,
Devis'd by rogues, dreaded by fools,
With his grim grifly dog that keeps the door,
Are fenfeless stories, idle tales,
Dreams, whimfies, and no more.
RESTORATION in the YEAR 1660.
VIRTUE's triumphant shrine! who dost engage
three kingdoms in a pilgrimage;
Which in extatic duty strive to come
Out of themselves, as well as from their home;
Whilst England grows one camp, and London is
Itself the nation, not metropolis;
And loyal Kent renews her arts again,
Fencing her ways with moving groves of men;
Forgive this distant homage, which does meet
Your blest approach on fedentary feet;
And though my youth, not patient yet to bear
The weight of arms, denies me to appear
In steel before you; yet, great Sir, approve
My manly wishes, and more vigorous love;
In whom a cold respect were treason to
A father's ashes, greater than to you;
Whose one ambition 't is for to be known,
By daring loyalty, your Wilmot's fon.
SACRED MAJESTY THE QUEEN-MOTHER,
DEATH of MARY, Princess of Orange.
RESPITE, great queen, your just and
There's no infection lodges in our tears.
Though our unhappy air be arm'd with death,
Yet fighs have an untainted guiltless breath.
Oh! stay a while, and teach your equal skill
To understand, and to support our ill.
You that in mighty wrongs an age have spent,
And feem to have out-liv'd ev'n banishment:
Whom traiterous mischief fought its earliest prey,
When to most facred blood it made its way;
And did thereby its black design impart,
To take his head, that wounded first his heart :
You that unmov'd great Charles's ruin stood,
When three great nations funk beneath the load;
Then a young daughter loft, yet balfam found
To ftanch that new and freshly-bleeding wound;
And, after this, with fixt and steady eyes
Beheld your noble Gloucester's obfequies :
And then sustain'd the royal Princess' fall;
You only can lament her funeral.
But you will hence remove, and leave behind
Our fad complaints lost in the empty wind;
Those winds that bid you stay, and loudly roar
Destruction, and drive back to the firm shore;
Shipwreck to safety, and the envy fly
Of sharing in this scene of tragedy :
While fickness, from whose rage you poft away,
Relents, and only now contrives your stay;
The lately fatal and infectious ill
Courts the fair princess, and forgets to kill :
In vain on fevers curses we dispense,
And vent our paffion's angry eloquence :
In vain we blaft the ministers of Fate,
And the forlorn physicians imprecate;
Say they to death new poisons add and fire,
Murder securely for reward and hire;
Arts bafilisks, that kill whome'er they fee,
And truly write bills of mortality,
Who, left the bleeding corpse should them betray,
First drain those vital speaking streams away.
And will you, by your flight, take part with these ?
Become yourfelf a third and new disease ?
If they have caus'd our lofs, then so have you,
Who take yourself and the fair princess too :
For we, depriv'd, an equal damage have
When France doth ravish hence, as when the grave: But that your choice th' unkindness doth improve,
And dereliction adds to your remove.
ROCHESTER, of Wadham College.
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