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His foul infpires us what his lips command,

And spreads his brave example through the land:
Not fo the former reigns ;-

Bend down his earth to each afflicted cry,

Let beams of grace dart gently from his eye;
But the bright treasures of his facred breast
Are too divine, too vaft to be exprest :

Colours must fail where words and numbers faint, And leave the hero's heart for thought alone to paint.

PART II.

NOW, Mufe, purfue the fatyrift again,
Wipe off the blots of his invenom'd pen;
Hark, how he bids the fervile painter draw,
In monftrous shapes, the patrons of our law;
At one flight dafh he cancels every name
From the white rolls of honesty and fame :

This fcribbling wretch marks all he meets for knave,
Shoots fudden bolts promifcuous at the base and brave,
And with unpardonable malice fheds

Poifon and spite on undistinguish'd heads.
Painter, forbear; or if thy bolder hand
Dares to attempt the villains of the land,
Draw first this poet, like fome baleful star,
With filent influence shedding civil war ;
Or factious trumpeter, whofe magic found
Calls off the fubjects to the hoftile ground,
And fcatters hellish feuds the nation round.

Thefe

Thefe are the imps of hell, that curfed tribe

That first create the plague, and then the pain defcribe.

Draw next above, the great ones of our isle,
Still from the good diftinguishing the vile;
Seat them in pomp, in grandeur, and command,
Peeling the fubjects with a greedy hand :

Paint forth the knaves that have the nation fold,
And tinge their greedy looks with fordid gold.
Mark what a felfifh faction undermines
The pious monarch's generous designs,
Spoil their own native land as vipers do,
Vipers that tear their mother's bowels through.
Let great Naffau, beneath a careful crown,
Mournful in majefty, look gently down,
Mingling foft pity with an awful frown :
He grieves to fee how long in vain he strove
To make us bleft, how vain his labours prove
To fave the ftubborn land he condefcends to love.

To the DISCONTENTED and UNQUIET.
Imitated partly from Cafimire, B. IV. Od. 15.

VARIA, there's nothing here that's free

From wearifome anxiety :

And the whole round of mortal joys With fhort poffeffion tires and cloys: 'Tis a dull circle that we tread,

Juft from the window to the bed,

We

We rife to fee and to be feen,

Gaze on the world awhile, and then
We yawn, and ftretch to fleep again.
But Fancy, that uneasy gueft,
Still holds a longing in our breast:
She finds or frames vexations ftill.
Herself the greateft plague we feel,
We take strange pleasure in our pain,
And make a mountain of a grain,
Affume the load, and pant and sweat
Beneath th' imaginary weight.
With our dear felves we live at ftrife,
While the most conftant fcenes of life
From peevish humours are not free;
Still we affect variety:
Rather than pafs an easy day,
We fret and chide the hours away,
Grow weary of this circling fun,
And vex that he should ever run
The fame old track; and ftill, and ftill
Rife red behind yon eastern hill,
And chide the moon that darts her light
Through the fame cafement every night.

We shift our chambers, and our homes,
To dwell where trouble never comes;
Sylvia has left the city crowd,
Against the court exclaims aloud,
Flies to the woods; a hermit faint!
She loaths her patches, pins, and paint,

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Dear diamonds from her neck are torn :
But Humour, that eternal thorn,
Sticks in her heart: She is hurry'd still,
'Twixt her wild paffions and her will:
Haunted and hagg'd where-e'er she roves,
By purling ftreams, and filent groves,
Or with her furies, or her loves.

Then our own native land we hate,
Too cold, too windy, or too wet;
Change the thick climate, and repair
To France or Italy for air;

In vain we change, in vain we fly;
Go, Sylvia, mount the whirling fky,
Or ride upon the feather'd wind
In vain; if this difeafed mind
Clings faft, and ftill fits close behind.
Faithful difeafe, that never fails
Attendance at her lady's fide,
Over the defart or the tide,
On rolling wheels, or flying fails.

Happy the foul that virtue shows
To fix the place of her repofe,
Needlefs to move; for fhe can dwell
In her old grandfire's hall as well.
Virtue that never loves to roam,
But fweetly hides herself at home.
And eafy on a native throne
Of humble turf fits gently down.

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Yet

Yet fhould tumultuous ftorms arife,
And mingle earth, and feas, and skies,
Should the waves fwell, and make her roll
Across the line, or near the pole,
Still the 's at peace; for well fhe knows
To launch the ftream that duty shows,
And makes her home where'er fhe goes,
Bear her, ye feas, upon your breast,
Or waft her, winds, from Eaft to West
On the foft air; fhe cannot find
A couch so easy as her mind,

Nor breathe a climate half fo kind.

}

}

To JOHN HARTOPP, Efq; afterwards Sir

JOHN HAR TOP P, Bart.

Cafimire, Book I. Ode 4. imitated.

"Vive jucunda metuens juventæ, &c."

July 1700.

LIVE, my dear Hartopp, live to-day,

Nor let the fun look down and fay,
Inglorious here he lies ;"

Shake off your eafe, and fend your name

To immortality and fame,

By every hour that flies.

Youth's a foft fcene, but truft her not:

fier airy minutes, fwift as thought,

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