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To guilty hearts afford nó kind relief;
But add inflaming räge, and more afflicting grief.
Monstrous Typhoeus, thus, new terrors fill,
And now, beneath the burning hill
Tremble the feas, and far Campania's shore;
From heaven alone all good proceeds;
To heavenly minds belong
All power and love, Godolphin, of good deeds,
And thus most pleasing are the Mufe's lays
Whether affairs of moft important weight
And Anna's caufe and Europa's fate
Or whether leisure hours invite To manly fports, or to refin'd delight; In courts refiding, or to plains retir'd,
Where generous fteeds conteft, with emulation fir'd!
Thee ftill fhe feeks, and tuneful fings thy name,
While with the deathlefs worthy's fame
Olympian Pifà rung:
Nor lefs fublime is now her choice,
Nor lefs infpir'd by thee her voice.
And now the loves aloft to found
The man for more than mortal deeds renown'd; Varying anon her theme, she takes delight The fwift-heel'd horfe to praife, and fing his rapid flight.
And fee! the air-born racers ftart,
Impatient of the rein;
Fafter they run than flies the Scithian dart,
Nor, paffing, print the plain!
The winds themselves, who with their swiftnefs vie,
In vain their airy pinions ply;
So far in matchlefs speed thy courfers pass
Th' ætherial authors of their race.
And now a while the well-ftrain'd courfers breathe; And now, my Mufe, prepare
Of olive leaves a twifted wreath
To bind the victor's hair.
Pallas, in care of human-kind,
The fruitful olive first design'd;
Deep in the glebe her spear fhe lanc'd, When all at once the laden boughs advanc'd : The Gods with wonder view'd the teeming earth, And all, with one confent, approv'd the beauteous birth.
This done, earth-fhaking Neptune next effay'd,
The central earth, whence, swift as light,
Thus gods contended (noble ftrife,
Worthy the heavenly mind!)
Who most should do to foften anxious life,
Thus, thou, Godolphin, doft with Marlborough strive,
Triumph in wars abroad his arm affures,
AN IMPOSSIBLE THING.
AT A LE.
To thee, dear Dick, this tale I send,
Both as a critick and a friend.
I tell it with fome variation
(Not altogether a translation)
From La Fontaine; an author, Dick,
Whose Muse would touch thee to the quick.
The fubject is of that fame kind,
To which thy heart seems most inclin'd:
A goblin of the merry kind,
More black of hue, than curft of mind,
Contriv'd a charm with fuch fuccefs,
The latter promis'd on his part
(To ferve his friend, and fhew his art),
And kifs and coo like any dove.
"You thought, 'tis like, with reason too,