Thus he

From the first Ages and Heroick Times,
Deduc'd in order his myfterious Rhimes.
Charm'd by his Song, the Billows ceas'd to roar,
And loud Applaufes rung along the Shoar:
'Till the pale Moon advanc'd her beauteous Head,
And all the Gods funk to their watry Bed.

Y

A SON G.

By Sir George Etheridge.

E happy Swains, whofe 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 Bloffoms prove,
To careless Seamen hidden Rocks,
To human Quiet Love.

II.

Fly the fair Sex, if Blifs you prize,
The Snake's beneath the Flow'r;
Who ever gaz'd on beauteous Eyes,
That tafted Quiet more?

How faithlefs is the Lover's Joy!
How conftant is their Care!
The Kind with Falfhood do destroy,
The Cruel with Despair.

A SON G.

By Mr. J. H.

N Chloris all foft Charms agree,

IN

Inchanting Humour, pow'rful Wit,

Beauty from Affectation free,

And for eternal Empire fit.

Where-e'er fhe goes, Love waits her Eyes,
The Women envy, Men adore;
But did the lefs the Triumph prize,

She would deferve the Conqueft more.
II.

The Pomp of Love so much prevails,

She begs, what none else wou'd deny her, Makes fuch Advances with her Eyes,

The Hope the gives prevents Defire;
Catches at ev'ry trifling Heart,

Seems warm with ev'ry glimm'ring Flame,
The common Prey fo deads the Dart,
It fcarce can pierce a noble Game.
III.

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 Paffion, from all change fecure,

No Favours raife, no Frown controuls, I any Torment can endure,

But hoping with a Crowd of Fools.

SAPPHO's ODE from Longinus.

T

By Mr. W. BOWLES.

HE Gods are not more bleft than he,
Who fixing his glad Eyes on thee,

With thy bright Rays his Senfes chears,
And drinks with ever thirsty Ears.
The charming Musick of thy Tongue,
Does ever hear, and ever long;

That fees with more than human Grace,
Sweet Smiles adorn thy Angel Face.

II.

But when with kinder Beams you shine,
And fo appear much more Divine,
My feeble Senfe and dazl'd Sight
No more fupport the glorious Light,
And the fierce Torrent of Delight,
Oh! then I feel my Life decay,
My ravish'd Soul then flies away,
Then Faintnefs does my Limbs furprife,
And Darkness fwims before my Eyes.

III.

Then my Tongue fails, and from my Brow
The liquid Drops in filence flow,

Then wand'ring Fires run through my Blood,
And Cold binds up the ftupid Flood;

All pale and breathless then I lye,

1 figh, I tremble, and I die.

The Thirteenth ODE of the Fourth

L

Book of HORACE,

TCE, the Gods have heard my Pray'r,
Lyce the Proud, the Charming, and the Fair,

Lyce is 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

II.

In vain! for Love long fince forfook

[Fire.

[Look ;

Thy fnowy 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 refiftless force invade our Hearts.

III.

Not all your Art, nor all your Drefs,
(Tho' grown to a ridiculous excess,
Tho' you by Lovers Spoils made fine,
In richest Silks and Jewels fhine,
And with their borrow'd Light
Surprize the dazl'd Sight,)

Can your fled Youth recall, recall one Day Which flying Time on his fwift Wings has born away.

IV.

Ah! where are all thy Beauties filed! [Maid! Where all the Charms that fo adorn'd the tender Ah! where the nameless Graces that were feen

In all thy Motions, and thy Mien!

What now, oh! what is of that Lyce left,

By which I once was of my Senfe and of my Soul be

V.

Of her, who with my Cynara ftrove,
And fhar'd my doubtful Love!

Yet Fate, and the laft unrelenting Hour,

[reft!

Seiz'd her gay Youth, and pluck'd the springing But angry Heav'n has referv'd thee,

That you with Rage might fee,

[Flow'r.

With Rage might fee your Beauties fading Glory fly, And your fhort Youth, and tyrannous Fow'r before you die.

VI.

That your infulting Lovers might return:

Pride for your Pride, and with retorted Scorn Glut their Revenge, and fatiate all their Pain; With cruel Pleasure, and with sharp difdain, Might laugh, to fee that Fire which once fo burn'd, Shot fuch refiftlefs Flames, to Ashes turn'd.

ទ

The

GROVE.

By the Earl of Roscommon.

H happy Grove! dark and secure Retreat

Aof thered Silence, Reft's Eternal Seat,

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 Paffion wilfully betray'd, Adore thofe Idols which their Fancy made; Purchafing Riches, with our Time and Care, We lofe our Freedom in a gilded Snare; And having all, all to our felves refuse, Oppreft with Bleffings which we fear to use. Fame is at best but an inconftant good, Vain are the boafted Titles of our Blood; We fooneft lofe what we moft highly prize, And with our Youth our fhort-liv'd Beauty dies. In vain our Fields and Flocks increase our store, If our Abundance makes us with for more; How happy is the harmless Country Maid, Who rich by Nature fcorns fuperfluous Aid! Whofe modeft Cloaths no wanton Eyes invite, 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 difcompofe her Breaft, Love, of all Cares the sweeteft and the best; Whilft on fweet Grafs her bleating Charge does lye, Our happy Lover feeds upon her Eye; Not one on whom or Gods or Men impofe, But one whom Love has for this Lover chofe,