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ROS A M O N D.
AN OPER A.
TO HER GRACE
DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH.
Hic quos durus amor crudeli tabe peredit
IN THE SIXTH MISCELLANY,
AUTHOR OF ROSAMOND.
-Ne forte pudori
By Mr. TICKELL.
The opera first Italian masters taught,
No charms are wanting to thy artful song,
Landscapes how gay the bow'ry grotto yields,
Nature and art in all their charms combin'd,
Ten thousand pangs my anxious bosom tear,
erlook her crimes, and think she ought to live.
Let joy transport fair Rosamonda's shade, And wreaths of myrtle crown the lovely maid. While now perhaps with Dido's ghost she roves, And hears and tells the story of their loves, Alike they mourn, alike they bless their fate, Since love, which made them wretched, makes them
great, Nor longer that relentless doom bemoan, Which gain'd a Virgil and an Addison.
Accept, great monarch of the British lays, The tribute song a humble subject pays. So tries the artless lark her early flight, And soars to hail the god of verse and light. Unrival'd as thy merit be thy fame, And thy own laurels shade thy envy'd name: Thy name, the boast of all the tuneful choir, Shall tremble on the strings of ev'ry lyre; While the charm'd reader with thy thought complies, Feels corresponding joys or sorrows rise, And views thy Rosamond with Henry's eyes.