Through cloudy Night a paffage to my Aid,
And here beneath amidst the horrid Shade,
By her faint Light, fomething methinks I fee
Refembling my Soul's Joy. Woe's me! 'tis he!
Drown'd by th' impetuous Flood. O dismal Hour!
Curft be thefe Seas, these Shoars, this Light, this
In fpite of Fates, dear Love, to thee I come, [Tow'r!
Leander's Bofom fhall be Hero's Tomb.

A SON G.

I.

W Hat art thou Love? whence are those Charms,

That thus thou bear'st an univerfal Rule?

For thee the Soldier quits his Arms,

The King turns Slave, the Wifeman Fool.

II

In vain we chafe thee from the Field,
And with cool Thoughts refift thy Yoke;
Next Tide of Blood, alas! we yield,

And all thofe high Resolves are broke.

III.

Can we e'er hope thou should't be true,
Whom we have found fo often bafe?:
Gozen'd and cheated, ftill we view
And fawn upon the treacherous Face.

IV.

In vain our Nature we accufe,

And doat because the fays we muft. This for a Brute were an Excufe, Whofe very Soul and Life is Luft.

V.

.

To get our Likeness, what is that?
Our Likeness is but Mifery:
Why should I toil to propagate
Apother thing as vile as I

VI.

From Hands divine our Spirits came,
And Gods that made us did inspire
Something more noble in our Frame,
Above the Dregs of earthly Fire.

W

A New CATCH.

Ould you know how we meet o'er our jolly
full Bowls?

As we mingle our Liquors, we mingle our Souls;
The Sweet melts the Sharp,the Kind fooths the Strong,
And nothing but Friendship grows all the Night long:
We drink, laugh, and celebrate ev'ry Defire,
Love only remains, our unquenchable Fire.

On Mr. MILTON's Paradife Loft.

WH

By Andrew Marvell, Efq;

Hen I beheld the Poet blind, yet bold,
In flender Book his vaft Defign unfold,
Meffiah Crown'd, God's reconcil'd Decree,
Rebelling Angels, the forbidden Tree,

Heav'n, Hell, Earth, Chaos, All; the Argument
Held me a while mif-doubting his Intent,
That he would ruin (for I faw him strong)
The facred Truths to Fable and old Song,
(So Sampion groap'd the Temple's Pofts in fpight)
The World o'erwhelming to revenge his Sight.
Yet as I read, foon growing less fevere,

I lik'd his Project, the Succefs did fear;
Through that wide Field how he his way fhould find
O'er which lame Faith leads Understanding blind;
Left he perplext the things he would explain,
And what was easie he should render vain.

Or if a Work fo infinite he spann'd,
Jealous I was, that fome lefs skilful Hand
(Such as difquiet always what is well,
And by ill imitating would excel)

Might hence prefume the whole Creation's day
To change in Scenes, and show it in a Play.
Pardon me, mighty Poet, nor despise
My causeless, yet not impious, Surmife.
But I am now convinc'd, and none will dare
Within thy Labours to pretend a Share.
Thou haft not mifs'd one Thought that could be fit
And all that was improper doft omit :

So that no room is here for Writers left,
But to detect their Ignorance or Theft.

That Majefty which through thy Work doth reign
Draws the Devout, deterring the Profane.
And things divine thou treat'ft of in such state
As them preferves, and thee, inviolate.
At once Delight and Horror on us feize,
Thou fing'ft with so much Gravity and Eafe;
And above humane flight doft foar aloft,
With Plume fo ftrong, fo equal, and fo foft.
The Bird nam'd from that Paradise you fing
So never flags, but always keeps on Wing.

Where couldst thou Words of fuch a compass find Whence furnish such a vaft expence of Mind? Juft Heav'n thee, like Tirefias, to requite, Rewards with Prophefie thy lofs of Sight.

Well mightft thou fcorn thy Readers to allure With tinkling Rhime, of thy own Senfe fecure; While the Town-Bays writes all the while and spells, And like a Pack-horfe tires without his Bells. Their Fancies like our bushy Points appear, The Poets tag them; we for fashion wear. I too tranfported by the Mode offend,

And while I meant to Praife thee, muft commend. Thy Verfe created like thy Theme fublime,

In Number, Weight, and Measure, needs not Rhime,

Senec. Tragoed. ex Thyefte Chor. 2.

Stet quicunque volet potens

Aula culmine lubrico, &c.

Tranflated by Andrew Marvell, Efq;

Limb at Court for me that will

Crottering Favour's Pinnacle

All I feek is to lye ftill.

Settled in fome fecret Neft
In calm Leifure let me reft;
And far off the publick Stage
Pafs away my filent Age.

Thus when without noise, unknown,
I have liv'd out all my Span,
I fhall die without a Groan,
An old honeft Country-man.
Who expos'd to others Eyes,
Into his own Heart never pries,
Death to him's a strange Surprise.

M

}

'Alk, Strephon, no more of what's honest and just,

To the Purfe and no farther the one does extend,
And after Enjoyment your Love's at an end.
Then no longer maintain what your Actions deny,
Your oft-broken Vows your Affertions belye:
When I once fee your Words with your Actions agree,
I'll believe you the Man that you now feem to be.
That you once have deceiv'd me I do not complain,
But 'tis my own Fault if you cheat me again;
For none will the Fate of that Pilot deplore,
Who wrecks on that Shelf where he stranded before,

A PROLOGUE defign'd for TAMERLANE, but never spoke.

T

Writtten by Dr. G―th.

O Day a mighty Hero comes to warm
Your curdling Blood, and bid you, Britains, arm.
To Valour much he owes, to Virtue more ;

He fights to fave, and conquers to restore.
He trains no Texts, nor makes Dragoons perfwade;
He likes Religion, but he hates the Trade.
Born for Mankind, they by his Labours live;
Their Property is his Prerogative.

His Sword deftroys less than his Mercy faves,
And none, except his Paffions, are his Slaves.
Such, Britains, is the Prince that you poffefs,
In Council greateft, and in Camps no lefs:
Brave, but not Cruel; Wife without Deceit ;
Born for an Age curs'd with a Bajazet.
But you, difdaining to be too fecure,
Ask his Protection, and yet grudge his Power.
With you a Monarch's Right is in difpute;
Who gives Supplies, are only Abfolute.
Britain, for fhame your factious Feuds decline,
Too long you've labour'd for the Bourbon Line:
Affert loft Rights, an Auftrian Prince alone
is born to nod upon a Spanish Throne.
A Caufe no lefs could on Great Eugene call,
Steep Alpine Rocks require an Hannibal:
He shows you your loft Honour to retrieve;
Our Troops will fight, when once the Senate give.
Quit your Cabals and Factions, and in spite
Of Whig and Tory in this Caufe unite.
One Vote will then fend Anjou back to France,
There let the Meteor end his airy Dance:
Elfe to the Mantuan Soil he may repair,
(E'en abdicated Gods were Latium's Care)
At worst, he'll find fome Cornish Borough here,