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S

SIM

I L E,

From PHEDRA and HYPPOLITUS.

O when bright Venus yielded up her Charms,

The bleft Adonis languish'd in her Arms: His idle Horn on fragrant Myrtles hung, His Arrows fcatter'd, and his Bow unftrung. Obfcure in Coverts lay his dreaming Hounds, And bay'd the fancy'd Boar with feeble Sounds; For nobler Sports he quits the favage Fields, And all the Heroe to the Lover yields.

S

The Same PARODIED.

O when bright Abigail refign'd her Charms, The happy Curate languish'd in her Arms: His unbrush'd Beaver on the Floor was tofs'd; His Notes were scatter'd, and his Bible loft. In Alehouse hid his dreaming Clerk was found, And rear'd the fancy'd Stave with feeble Sound: For nobler Sheets his Concordance he leaves, And all the Parfon to the Lover gives.

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VERSES

ON THE

Expected Arrival of Queen CHARLOTTE,

In an EPISTLE to a FRIEND, 1761.

By a GENTLEMAN of OXFORD.

Containing the Sentiments, Images, Metaphors, Machinery, Similies, Allufions, and all other Poetical Decorations, of the OXFORD VERSES, which were to appear on that aufpicious Occafion.

ES-every hopeful Son of Rhyme

YES

Will furely feize this happy Time,
Vault upon Pegasus's Back,
Now grown an Academick Hack,
And fing the Beauties of a Queen,
(Whom, by the by, he has not feen ;)
Will fwear her eyes are black as jet,
Her teeth as Pearls in Coral fet;
Will tell us that the Rofe has lent

Her Cheek its Bloom, her Lips its Scent,
That Philomel breaks off her Song,

And liftens to her fweeter Tongue;

That

That Venus and the Graces join'd
To form this Phoenix of her Kind,
And Pallas undertook to store

Her Mind with Wisdom's chiefest Lore:
Thus form'd, Jove iffues a Decree
That GEORGE's Confort fhe fhall be:
Then Cupid (for what Match is made
By Poets without Cupid's Aid ? )
Picks out the fwifteft of his Darts,
And pierces inftant both their Hearts.

Your fearful Profe-men here might doubt
How best to bring this Match about,
For Winds and Waves are ill-bred Things,
And little care for Queens and Kings;
But as the Gods affembled ftand,
And wait each youthful Bard's Command,
All fancy'd Dangers they deride,
Of boift'rous Winds, and fwelling Tide;
Neptune is call'd to wait upon her,
And Sea-Nymphs are her Maids of Honour;
Whilft we, inftead of eastern Gales,
With Vows and Praises fill the Sails,
And when, with due poetick Care
They fafely land the Royal Fair,
They catch the happy Simile,

Of Venus rifing from the Sea.

Soon

Soon as she moves, the Hill and. Vale,
Refponfive tell the joyful Tale;
And Wonder holds th' enraptur'd Throng
To fee the Goddefs pafs along;
The bowing Forefts all adore her,
And Flow'rs fpontaneous fpring before her,
Where you and I all Day might travel,
And meet with nought but Sand and Gravel;
But Poets have a piercing Eye,

And many pretty Things can spy,
Which neither you nor I can fee,

But then the Fault's in you

and me.

The King aftonish'd must appear,

And find that Fame has wrong'd his Dear;
Then Hymen, like a Bishop, ftands,
To join the Lovers' plighted Hands;
Apollo and the Mufes wait,

The nuptial Song to celebrate.

But I, who rarely fpend my Time
In paying Court or fpinning Rhyme ;
Who cannot from the high Abodes,
Call down, at will, a Troop of Gods;
Muft in the plain profaick Way,
The Wishes of my Soul convey.

May Heaven our Monarch's Choice approve,
May he be bleft with mutual Love,

And

And be as happy with his Queen,
As with my Chloe I have been;

When wand'ring through the Beechen Grove,

She fweetly fmil'd and talk'd of Love!

1

And oh! that he may live to fee
A Son as wife and good as he;
And may his Confort grace the Throne
With Virtues equal to his own!
Our Courtly Bards will needs be telling,
That fhe's like Venus or like Helen;
I wish that she may prove as fair
As Egremont and Pembroke are ;
For tho' by Sages 'tis confeft,
That Beauty's but a Toy at heft;
Yet, 'tis methinks, in married Life,
A pretty Douceur with a Wife:
And may the Minutes as they fly,
Strengthen fill the nuptial Tye,
While Hand in Hand thro' Life they go,
'Till Love fhall into Friendship grow;
For tho' these Bleffings rarely wait
On regal Pomp, and tinfel'd State,
Yet Happiness is Virtue's Lot,
Alike in Palace and in Cot:

'Tis true, the grave Affairs of State,
With little Folks have little Weight;

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