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Thee, dress'd in fancy's airy beam,

Absent I follow through the extended dream;

Now, now I seize, I clasp thy charms,

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And now you burst, ah, cruel! from my arms; And swiftly shoot along the Mall,

Or softly glide by the canal;

Now shown by Cynthia's silver ray,

And now on rolling waters snatch'd away.

LEST

BOOK IV. PART OF ODE IX.

A FRAGMENT.

you should think that verse shall die,
Which sounds the silver Thames along,
Taught on the wings of truth to fly
Above the reach of vulgar song;

Though daring Milton sits sublime,
In Spenser native Muses play;
Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,
Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay.

Sages and chiefs long since had birth,
Ere Cæsar was, or Newton named;

Those raised new empires o'er the earth,

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And these new heavens and systeins framed.

Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride:
They had no poet, and they died.

In vain they schemed, in vain they bled:
They had no poet, and are dead.

TWO CHORUSES

TO THE TRAGEDY OF BRUTUS.

I.

CHORUS OF ATHENIANS.

STROPHE I.

YE shades, where sacred truth is sought ;
Groves, where immortal sages taught;
Where heavenly visions Plato fired,
And Epicurus lay inspired!

In vain your guiltless laurels stood
Unspotted long with human blood.

War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades,
And steel now glitters in the Muses' shades.

ANTISTROPHE I.

O, heaven-born sisters! source of art!
Who charm the sense, or mend the heart; 10
Who lead fair Virtue's train along,

Moral Truth, and mystic Song !

To what new clime, what distant sky,
Forsaken, friendless, shall ye fly?

Say, will ye bless the bleak Atlantic shore?
Or bid the furious Gaul be rude no more?

STROPHE II.

When Athens sinks by fates unjust,
When wild barbarians spurn her dust;
Perhaps e'en Britain's utmost shore

Shall cease to blush with strangers' gore, 20
See arts her savage sons control,

And Athens rising near the pole;

Till some new tyrant lifts his purple hand,
And civil madness tears them from the land.

ANTISTROPHE II.

Ye gods! what justice rules the ball!
Freedom and arts together fall;
Fools grant whate'er ambition craves,
And men, once ignorant, are slaves.
O cursed effects of civil hate,

In every age, in every state!

Still, when the lust of tyrant power succeeds,
Some Athens perishes, some Tully bleeds.

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II.

CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.

SEMI-CHORUS.

O tyrant Love! hast thou possess'd
The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast?
Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,

And arts but soften us to feel thy flame.
Love, soft intruder, enters here,
But entering learns to be sincere:
Marcus with blushes owns he loves,
And Brutus tenderly reproves.

Why, Virtue, dost thou blame desire,
Which Nature has impress'd;
Why, Nature, dost thou soonest fire
The mild and generous breast?

CHORUS.

Love's purer flames the gods approve;
The gods and Brutus bend to love:
Brutus for absent Portia sighs,

And sterner Cassius melts at Junia's eyes.
What is loose love? a transient gust,
Spent in a sudden storm of lust;
A vapour fed from wild desire ;

A wandering, self-consuming fire.

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But Hymen's kinder flames unite,
And burn for ever one;
Chaste as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
Productive as the sun.

SEMI-CHORUS.

O, source of every social tie,
United wish, and mutual joy!
What various joys on one attend,
As son, as father, brother, husband, friend!
Whether his hoary sire he spies,
While thousand grateful thoughts arise;
Or meets his spouse's fonder eye;
Or views his smiling progeny ;-

What tender passions take their turns,
What home-felt raptures move!

His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
With reverence, hope, and love.

CHORUS.

Hence guilty joys, distastes, surmises;
Hence false tears, deceits, disguises,
Dangers, doubts, delays, surprises,

Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine!

Purest love's unwasting treasure;
Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure,
Days of ease, and nights of pleasure;
Sacred Hymen! these are thine.

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PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.

PROLOGUE,

DESIGNED FOR MR. D'URFEY'S LAST PLAY.*

*

GROWN old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard
Your persevering, unexhausted bard:
Damnation follows death in other men,

But your damn'd poet lives and writes again.
The adventurous lover is successful still,

Who strives to please the fair against her will :
Be kind, and make him in his wishes easy,
Who in your own despite has strove to please ye.
He scorn'd to borrow from the wits of yore;
But ever writ, as none e'er writ before.

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You modern wits, should each man bring his claim,
Have desperate debentures on your fame;
And little would be left you, I'm afraid,

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If all your debts to Greece and Rome were paid.
From this deep fund our author largely draws,
Nor sinks his credit lower than it was.
Though plays for honour in old time he made;
"Tis now, for better reasons,-to be paid.
Believe him, he has known the world too long,
And seen the death of much immortal song:
He says, poor poets lost, while players won,
As pimps grow rich while gallants are undone.
Though Tom the poet writ with ease and pleasure,
The comic Tom abounds in other treasure.
Fame is at best an unperforming cheat :
But 'tis substantial happiness to eat.
Let ease, his last request, be of your giving,
Nor force him to be damn'd to get his living.

* Tom D'Urfey, a playwright and song-writer.

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