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Grands deffenseurs de l'Espagne,
Montrez-vous : il en est tems :
Courage ; vers la Mahagne
Voilà vos drapeaux flottans.
Jamais ses ondes craintives
N'ont veû sur leurs foibles rives
Tant de guerriers s'amaffer.
Courez donc : Qui vous retarde ?
Tout l'univers vous regarde.
N'ofez vous la traverser ?

Loin de fermer le passage
A vos nombreux bataillons,
Luxembourg a du rivage
Reculé ses pavillons.
Quoi ? leur seul aspect vous glace ?
Où sont ces chefs pleins d'audace,
Jadis fi prompts à marcher,
Qui devoient de la Ti nise,
Et de la Drâve follmise,
Jusqu' à Paris pous chercher ?

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To animate the doubtful fight,

Namur in vain expects that ray:
In vain France hopes, the fickly light

Should shine near William's fuller day:
It knows Versailles, its


station ; Nor cares for any foreign sphere : Where


fee Boileau's constellation, Be sure no danger can be near.

XIV. "The French had gather'd all their force ; And William met them in their

way Yet off they brush’d, both foot and horse.

What has friend Boileau left to say ? When his high Muse is bent upon ’t,

To fing her king-that great commander; Or on the shores of Hellefpont,

Or in the valleys near Scamander; Would it not spoil his noble talk,

If any foolish Phrygian there is, Impertinent enough to ask,

How far Namur may be from Paris ?


Two stanzas more before we end,

Of death, pikes, rocks, arms, bricks, and fire :
Leave them behind you, honest friend;
And with your countrymen retire.


Déja jusques à ses portes
Je voi monter nos cohortes,
La flame & le fer en main ::
Et sur les, monceaux de piques,
De corps morts, de rocs, de briques,
S'ouvrir un large chemin.

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C'en est fait. Je viens d'entendre
Sur ces rochers éperdus
Battre un signal pour se rendre ;
Le feu ceffe. Ils sont rendus.
Dépoüillez vôtre

Fiers enemis de la France,
Et desormais gracieux,
Allez à Liege, à Bruxelles,
Porter les humbles novelles
De Namur pris à vos yeux.

Your ode is spoilt; Namur is freed;

For Dixmuyd something yet is due :
So good court Guiscard inay proceed ;
But Boufflers, Sir, one word with you.

'Tis done. In fight of these commanders,

Who neither fight, nor raise the fiege, The foes of France march safe through Flanders ;

Divide to Bruxelles, or to Liege. Send, Fame, this news to Trianon,

That Boufflers may new honours gain : He the same play by land has shewn,

As Tourville did upon the main. Yet is the Marshal made a peer :

o William, may thy arms advance ! That he may lose Dinant next year, And so be constable of France.


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I. TI "HE merchant, to secure his treasure,

Conveys it in a borrow'd name : Euphelia ferves to grace my measure ;

But Cloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre,

Upon Euphelia's toilet lay;
When Cloe noted her desire,

That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,

But with my numbers mix my fighs ;
And, whilft I fing Euphelia's praise,
I fix

soul on Cloe's eyes.


Fair Cloe blush'd : Euphelia frown'd:

I sung, and gaz’d: I play'd, and trembled : And Venus to the Loves around

Remark’d, how ill we all dissembled.


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