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Hence 'tis a Wit, that greatest Word of Fame,
Grows fuch a common Name;

And Wits by our Creation they become,
Juft fo, as Titular Bishops made at Rome.
'Tis not a Tale, 'tis not a feft,
Admir'd with Laughter at a Feaft,
Nor florid Talk which can the Title gain;
The Proofs of Wit for ever must remain.

'Tis not to force fome Lifelefs Verfes meet,
With their five Gouty Feet.

All every where, like Man's must be the Soul,
And Reafon the Inferiour Powers controul.

Such were the Numbers which could call,
The Stones into the Theban Wall.
Such Miracles are ceas'd; and now we fee,
No Towns or Houses rais'd by Poetry.


Yet 'tis not to adorn and gild each Part;
That shows more Coft than Art.
Jewels at Nofe and Lips but ill appear;
Rather than all Thing Wit, let none be there.
Several Lights will not be feen,

If there be nothing elfe between.

Men doubt, becaufe they ftand fo thick i'th' Sky,
If those be Stars, which paint the Galaxy.


'Tis not when two like Words make up one Noife,
Jefts for Dutch-Men, and English Boys.
In which who finds out Wit, the fame may fee
In Anagrams and Acroftiques, Poetry;
Much lefs can that have any Place,
At which a Virgin hides her Face;
Such Drofs the Fire muft purge away; 'tis juft
The Author blush there, where the Reader must.



'Tis not fuch Lines as almoft crack the Stage,
When Bajazet begins to Rage.
Nor a tall Metaphor in the Bombaft-way,
Nor the dry Chips of Short-Lung'd Seneca.
Nor upon all Things to obtrude,
And force fome odd Similitude.

What is it then, which like the Power Divine,
We only can by Negatives define?


In a true peice of Wit all Things must be ;
Yet all Things there agree.

As in the Ark, joyn'd without force or ftrife,
All Creatures dwel't; all Creatures that had Life :-
Or as the Primitive Forms of all

(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,
Makes me forget and injure you.

I took you for my felf, fure when I thought
That you in any thing were to be taught.
Correct my Error with thy Pen ;
And if any ask me then,

What thing right Wit, and height of Genius is,
I'll only fhew your Lines, and fay, 'Tis this.



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,
And wand'ring thro the lonely Rocks,
He nourish'd endless Woe,

The Nymphs and Shepherds round him came,
His Grief fome pity, others blame,

The fatal Caufe all kindly feek:
He mingl'd his Concern with theirs,
He gave 'em back their Friendly Tears;
He figh'd, but wou'd not speak.

Clorinda came among the reft,
And the too kind Concern exprefs'd,

And ask'd the Reafon of his Woe?
She ask'd, but with an Air and Mein,
That made it eafily forefeen,

She fear'd too much to know.

The Shepherd rais'd his mournful Head;
And will you pardon me, he faid,
While I the Truth reveal?

Which nothing from my Breaft fhou'd tear,
Which never fhou'd offend your Ear,
But that you bid me tell.

'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;
'Tis what I thought, 'tis what I fear'd,
And yet I pardon you, the cry'd;
But you fhall promise ne'er again,
To breath your Vows, or fpeak your Pain;
He bow'd, obey'd, and dy'd.

Mr. Prior.



David's Song under Michal's Window.


Awake, awake, my Lyre,

And tell thy Silent Mafter's humble Tale,
In founds that may prevail;
Sounds that gentle Thoughts infpire,
Tho' fo exalted the,
And I fo lowly be,

Tell her fuch diff'rent Notes make all thy Harmony.


Hark, how the Strings awake,

And tho' the Moving Hand approach not near,
Themfelves with awful fear,

A kind of numerous Trembling make.
Now all thy Forces try,

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
To Cure, but not to Wound,
And the to Wound, but not to Cure.
Too weak too wilt thou prove,
My Paffion to remove,

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;
All thy vain Mirth lay by,
Bid thy Strings filent lie,

Sleep, Sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy Mafter die.


Pfalm 114.
WHEN Ifrael was from Bondage led,
Led by th' Almighty's Hand,
From out a Foreign Land,

The great Sea beheld, and fled.
As Men purfa'd, when that fear paft they find,
Stop on fome higher Ground to look behind,
So whilft through wondrous ways,

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


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