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From the first Ages and Heroick Times,
Deduc'd in order his mysterious Rhimes.
Charm'd by his Song, the Billows ceas'd to roar,
And loud Applauses rung along the Shoar:
'Till the pale Moon advanc'd her beauteous Head,
And all the Gods sunk to their watry Bed.
A S O N G.
By Sir George Etheridge.
E happy Swains, whose Hearts are free
From Love's Imperial Chain,
Take warning and be taught by me,
T'avoid th'inchanting Pain.
Fatal the Wolves to trembling Flocks,
Fierce Winds to Blossoms prove,
To careless Seamen hidden Rocks,
To human Quiet Love.
Fly the fair Sex, if Blifs you prize,
The Snake's beneath the Flow'r;
Who ever gaz'd on beauteous Eyes,
That tasted Quiet more
How faithlefs is the Lover's Joy!
How constant is their Care !
The Kind with Falfhood do deftroy,
The Cruel with Despair.
By Mr. J. H.
N Chloris all soft Charms agrec,
Inchanting Humour, pow'rful Wit,
Beauty from Affectation free,
And for eternal Empire fit.
Where-e'er she goes, Love waits her Eyes,
The Women envy, Men adore;
But did she less the Triumph prize,
She would deserve the Conquest more,
The Pomp of Love so much prevails,
She begs, what none else wou'd deny her,
Makes such Advances with her Eyes,
The Hope she gives prevents Desire ;
Catches at ev'ry trifling Heart,
Seems warm with ev'ry glimm'ring Flame,
The common Prey so deads the Dart,
It scarce can pierce a noble Game.
I cou'd lye Ages at her Feet,
Adore her, careless of my Pain,
With tender Vows her Rigours meet,
Despair, Love on, and not complain.
My Passion, from all change secure,
No Favours raise, no Frown controuls,
I any Torment can endure,
But hoping with a Crowd of Fools.
SAPP HO'S ODE from Longinus.
By Mr. W. BOWLES.
HE Gods are not more bleft than he,
With thy bright Rays his Senses chears,
And drinks with ever thirsty Ears.
The charming Musick of thy Tongue,
Does ever hear, and ever long;
That sees with more than human Grace,
Sweet Smiles adorn thy Angel Face,
But when with kinder Beams you shine,
And so appear much more Divine,
My feeble Sense and dazld Sight
No more support the glorious Light,
And the fierce Torrent of Delight,
Oh! then I feel my Life decay,
My ravish'd Soul then flies away,
Then Faintness does my Limbs surprise,
And Darkness swims before my Eyes.
Then my Tongue fails, and from my Brow
The liquid Drops in silence frow,
Then wand'ring Fires run through my Blood,
And Cold binds up the stupid Flood;
All pale and breathless then I lye,
I figh, I tremble, and I die.
The Thirteenth Ode of the Fourth
Book of HORACE.
Lyce the Proud, the Charming, and the Fair, Lyrcis old! tho wanton ftill, and gay,
You laugh, and fing, and play. Now Beauty fails, with Wine you'd raise Desire, And with your trembling Voice wou'd fan our dying
(Fire. In vain! for Love long since forsook
[Look ; Thy snowy Hair, thy falling Teeth, and with’ring
He Chia's blooming Face
Adorns with ev'ry Grace, Her Wit, her Eyes, her ev'ry Glance are Darts, That with reliftless force invade our Hearts.
Not all your Art, nor all your Dress,
(Tho' grown to a ridiculous excess,
Tho' you by Lovers Spoils made fin,
In richest Silks and Jewels shine,
And with their borrow'd Light
Surprize the dazı'd Sight,)
Can your Aed Youth recall, recall one Day
Which fying Time on his swift Wings has born away.
Ah! where are all thy Beauties fled! (Maid!
Where all the Charms that so adorn’d the tender
Ah! where the nameiess Graces that were seen
In all thy Motions, and thy Mien!
What now, oh! what is of that Lyce left,
By which I once was of my Sense and of my Soul be-
(reft! Of her, who with my Cynara ftrove,
And shar'd my doubtful Love !
Yet Fate, and the last unrelenting Hour,
Seiz'd her gay Youth, and pluck'd the springing
But angry Heav'n has reserv'd thee, (Flow’i.
That you with Rage might see,
With Rage might see your Beauties fading Glory fly,
And your short Youth, and tyrannous Fo.v'r before
That your insulting Lovers might return:
Pride for your Pride, and with retorted Scorn
Glut their Revenge, and satiate all their Pai: ;
With cruel Pleasure, and with sharp disdain,
Might laugh, to see that Fire which once so burn'd,
Shot such refiftless Flames, to Ashes turn'd.
By the Earl of Roscommon.
H happy Grove! dark and secure Retreac
How well your cool and unfrequented Shade
Suits with the chafte Retirements of a Maid !
Oh! if kind Heav'n had been so much my Friend,
To make my Fate upon my Choice depend;
All my Ambition I would here confine,
And only this Elyzium should be mine.
Fond Men by Passion wilfully betray'd,
Adore those Idols which their Fancy made;
Purchasing Riches, with our Time and Care,
We lofe our Freedom in a gilded Snare;
And having all, all to our felves refuse,
Opprest with Blessings which we fear to use.
Fame is at best but an ioconftant good,
Vain are the boafted Titles of our Blood;
We foonest lofe what we moft highly prize,
And with our Youth our short-liv'd Beauty dies,
In vain our Fields and Flocks increase our store,
If our Abundance makes us wish for more ;
How happy is the harmless Country Maid,
Who rich by Nature scorns superfluous Aid !
Whose modest Cloaths no wanton Eyes invice,
But like her Soul preserve the native White ;
Whose little store her well-taught Mind does please,
Nor pinch'd with want, nor cloy'd with wanton ease,
Who free from Storms, which on the great ones fall,
Makes but few Wishes, and enjoys them all ;
No Care but Love can discompofe her Breaft,
Love, of all Cares the sweetest and the best;
Whilft on sweet Grass her bleating Charge does lye,
Our happy Lover feeds upon her Eye ;
Not one on whom or Gods or Men impose,
But one whom Love has for this Lover chore,