"But write thy best and top; and in each line "Sir Formal's oratory will be thine. "Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill "And does thy northern dedications fill. "Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame 160 "Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise "And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise. 165 "Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part; 170 175 66 'By which one way to dulness 'tis inclined, "Which makes thy writings lean on one side still 66 And, in all changes, that way bends thy will. "Nor let thy mountain belly make pretence "Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense. “A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ, "But sure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit. "Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep; Thy tragic Muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep. "With whate'er gall thou sett'st thy self to write, "Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command 66 'Or, if thou would'st thy diff'rent talents suit, "Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute." He said, but his last words were scarcely heard, 180 185 190 195 200 For Bruce and Longville had a trap prepared, 205 22 202. A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY. I. FROM harmony, from heav'nly harmony This universal frame began. When Nature underneath a heap And cou'd not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high: Arise, ye more than dead. Then cold and hot and moist and dry And Musick's pow'r obey. From harmony, from heav'nly harmony This universal frame began; From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in Man. IO 15 5 2. What passion cannot Musick raise and quell? When Jubal struck the corded shell, His list'ning brethren stood around, And, wond'ring, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound; Less than a god they thought there cou'd not dwell Within the hollow of that shell, 20 3. The trumpets loud clangor With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Of the thundering drum Cries, heark the foes come! Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat! 4. The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. 5. Sharp violins proclaim 25 30 35 33 Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne; His valiant peers were plac'd around, Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound; (So shou'd desert in arms be crown'd.) The lovely Thais, by his side, Sate like a blooming Eastern bride, In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair. 2. Timotheus, plac'd on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touch'd the lyre; The song began from Jove, A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god; 25 And while he sought her snowy breast; Then round her slender waste he curl'd, And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'raign of the world. The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young. The jolly god in triumph comes; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums; Flush'd with a purple grace He shews his honest face; Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes. Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain ; Bacchus blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure; Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain. 4. Sooth'd with the sound the king grew vain; Fought all his battails o'er again; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. The master saw the madness rise, His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; 35 40 45 50 55 |