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Hence 'tis a Wit, that greatest Word of Fame,
And Wits by our Creation they become,
'Tis not to force fome Lifelefs Verfes meet,
All every where, like Man's must be the Soul,
Such were the Numbers which could call,
Yet 'tis not to adorn and gild each Part;
If there be nothing elfe between.
Men doubt, becaufe they ftand fo thick i'th' Sky,
'Tis not when two like Words make up one Noife,
'Tis not fuch Lines as almoft crack the Stage,
What is it then, which like the Power Divine,
In a true peice of Wit all Things must be ;
As in the Ark, joyn'd without force or ftrife,
(If we compare great things with fmall) Which without Difcord or Confufion lie, In that strange Mirror of the Deity.
But Love, that Molds one Man up out of Two,
I took you for my felf, fure when I thought
What thing right Wit, and height of Genius is,
The Defpairing Shepherd.
Alexis fhun'd his Fellow-Swains,
Their Rural Sports, and Jocund Strains, (Heav'n guard us all from Cupid's Bow!)
He loft his Crook, he left his Flocks,
The Nymphs and Shepherds round him came,
The fatal Caufe all kindly feek:
Clorinda came among the reft,
And ask'd the Reafon of his Woe?
She fear'd too much to know.
The Shepherd rais'd his mournful Head;
Which nothing from my Breaft fhou'd tear,
'Tis thus I rove, 'tis thus complain, Since you appear'd upon the Plain,
You are the Cause of all my Care : Your Eyes ten thousand Dangers dart, Ten thoufand Torments vex my Heart; I love, and I despair.
Too much, Alexis, I have heard;
David's Song under Michal's Window.
Awake, awake, my Lyre,
And tell thy Silent Mafter's humble Tale,
Tell her fuch diff'rent Notes make all thy Harmony.
Hark, how the Strings awake,
And tho' the Moving Hand approach not near,
A kind of numerous Trembling make.
Now all thy Charms apply,
Revenge upon her Ear the Conquests of her Eye.
Weak Lyre! Thy Virtue fure
Is useless here, fince thou art only found
Phyfick to other Ills, thou art Nourishment to Love.
Sleep, Sleep again, my Lyre,
For thou can'ft never tell my humble Tale,
In Sounds that will prevail,
Nor gentle Thoughts in her infpire;
Sleep, Sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy Mafter die.
The great Sea beheld, and fled.
The Sacred Army went,
The Waves afar ftood up to gaze, And their own Rocks did reprefent, Solid as Waters are above the Firmament. Old Jordan's Waters to their Spring, Start back with fudden Fright; The Spring amazed at the Sight, Ask'd what News from Sea they bring. The Mountains fhook; and to the Mountains fide, The little Hills leap'd round themfelves to hide, As young affrighted Lambs,
When they ought dreadful Spy,
Run trembling to their helpless Dams, The mighty Sea and River by, Were glad for their excufe to fee the Hills to fly. What ail'd the mighty Sea to flee? Or why did Jordan's Tide, Back to his Fountain Glide? 'Jordan's Tide, what ailed thee?
Why leap'd the Hills? Why did the Mountains shake? What ail'd them their fix'd Natures to forfake?
Fly where thou wilt, O Sea! And Jordan's Current cease; Jordan, there is no need of thee,
For at God's Word, when e're he pleafe, The Rocks fhall weep new Waters forth instead of the C