Ingrateful Brutus, do they call?
Ingrateful Cafar, who could Rome enthral!
An At more barbarous and unnatural
(In the exact Ballance of true Virtue try'd)
Than his Succeffor Nero's Parricide!
There's none but Brutus could deserve, That all Men else should wish to serve, And Cafar's usurp't place to him should proffer; None can deserve't, but he who would refuse the offer.
Ill-Fate affum'd a Body, thee t'affright,
And wrap't it felf in the terrors of the Night,
I'll meet thee at PHILIPPI, said the Spright;
I'll meet thee there, faid'st thou,
With fuch a Voice, and fuch a Brow,
As put the trembling Ghost to fudden flight;
It vanisht as a Taper's Light
Goes out when Spirits appear in Sight.
One would have thought it had heard the Morning Crow,
Or feen her weil-appointed Star, Come marching up the Eastern-Hill afar. Nor durft it in Philippi's Field appear, But unfeen attack'd thee there. Had it presum'd in any Shape thee to oppose, Thou would'st have forc'd it back upon thy Foes: Or flain't like Cafar, though it be, A Conqueror and a Monarch, mightier far than he.
What Joy can human Things to us afford,
When we fee perish thus, by odd Events,
Ill Men, and wretched Accidents,
The best Cause, and best Man that ever drew a Sword!
The false Octavius, and wild Antony,
God-like Brutus, conquer thee;
What can we say, but thine own Tragick Word,
That Virtue, which had worship'd been by thee,
As the most folid Good, and greatest Deity,
By this fatal Proof became,
An Idol only, and a Name ?
Hold, Noble Brutus, and restrain
The bold Voice of thy generous Disdain:
These mighty Gulphs are yet
Too deep for all thy Judgment and thy Wit.
"The Time's fet forth already, which shall quell
Stiff Reason, when it offers to Rebel.
Which these great Secrets shall unseal,
And new Philofophies reveal.
A few Years more, fo foon hadit thou not dy'd,
Would have confounded Humane Virtues Pride,
And shew'd thee a God Crucify'd.
Sarpedon's Speech to Glaucus.
THUS to Glaucus fpake
Divine Sarpedon, since he did not find,
Others as great in Place, as great in Mind.
Above the rest, why is our Pomp, our Power,
Our Flocks, our Herds, and our Poffeffions more?
Why all the Tributes, Land and Sea affords,
Heap'd in great Chargers, load our Sumptuous Boards?
Our chearful Guests carowse the sparkling Tears
Of the rich Grape, whilst Musick Charms their Ears.
Why as we pass, do those on Xanthus Shore,
As Gods behold us, and as Gods adore ?
But that as well in danger, as degree,
We stand the first; that when our Lycian's fee
Our brave Examples, they admiring fay,
Behold our Gallant Leaders! These are they
Deserve the Greatness; and un-envied stand,
Since what they act, transcends what they conimand.
Could the declining of this Fate, Oh Friend,
Our date to Inmortality extend?
Or if Death fought not them, who seek not Death,
Would I advance? Or should my vainer Breath
With such a Glorious Folly thee inspire?
But fince with Fortune Nature doth confpire,
Since Age, Disease, or fome less noble End,
Though not less certain, doth our Days attend;
Since 'tis decreed, and to this period lead
A Thousand Ways, the noblest Path we'll tread;
And bravely on, till they, or we, or all,
A common Sacrifice to Honour fall.
Denham, from the 12th of Homer's Iliad.
The Hunting of the Stag.
THE Stag now confcious of his fatal Growth,
At once indulgent to his fear and floth,
To fome dark covert his Retreat had made,
Where nor Man's Eye, nor Heaven's should invade
His foft Repose; when th'unexpected found
Of Dogs, and Men, his wakeful Ear doth wound.
Rouz'd with the Noise, he scarce believes his Ear,
Willing to think th' Illusions of his Fear,
Had given this false Alarm, but straight his View
Confirms, that more than all he fears is True.
Betray'd in all his Strength, the Wood beset,
All Instruments, all Arts of rain met;
He calls to mind his Strength, and then his speed,
His winged Heels, and then his armed Head;
With these t'avoid, with that his Fate to meet,
But fear prevails, and bids him trust his Feet.
So faft he Flyes, that his reviewing Eye
Has loft the Chafers, and his Ear the Cry;
Exulting, till he finds, their nobler Senfe
Their difporportion'd speed does Recompenfe.
Then Curses his confpiring Feet, whose Scent
Betrays that Safety which their Swiftness lent.
Then tries his Friends; among the baser Herd,
Where he so lately was obey'd and fear'd,
His Safety feeks: The Herd, unkindly wife,
Or chases him from thence, or from him flies.
Like a declining Statesman, left forlorn
To his Friends pity, and Purfuers Scorn,
With Shame remembers, while himseff was one
Of the fame Herd, himself the same had done.
Thence to the Coverts, and the confcious Groves,
The Scenes of his paft Triumphs, and his Loves;
Sadly Surveying where he rang'd alone
Prince of the Soyl, and all the Herd his own;
And like a bold Knight-Errant did Proclaim,
Combat to all, and bore away the Dame;
And taught the Woods to eccho to the Stream
His dreadful Challenge, and his clashing Beam.
Yet faintly now declines the fatal Strife;
So much his Love was dearer than his Life.
Now every Leaf, and every moving Breath,
Presents a Foe, and every Foe a Death.
Wearied, forsaken, and pursu'd, at last
All fafety in Despair of Safety plac'd,
Courage
Courage he thence refumes, resolv'd to bear All their Affaults, since 'tis in vain to fear. And now too late he withes for the Fight, That Strength he wasted in ignoble Flight; But when he sees the eager Chase renew'd, Himself by Dogs, the Dogs by Men pursu'd; He ftraight revokes his bold Resolve, and more Repents his Courage, than his Fear before; Finds that uncertain Ways unsafeft are, And Doubt a greater Mischief than Despair. Then to the Stream, when neither Friends nor Force, Nor Speed, nor Art avail, he shapes his Course; Thinks not their Rage so desperate t'assay An Element more merciless than they. But fearless they pursue, nor can the Flood Quench their dire Thirst; alas! they thirst for Blood. So towards a Ship the Oar-fin'd Gallies ply, Which wanting Sea to ride, or Wind to fly, Stands but to fall reveng'd on those that dare Tempt the last Fury of extream Defpair. • So fares the Stag among th' enraged Hounds, Repels their Force, and Wounds returns for Wounds. Denham.
Morpheus, the humble God, that dwells
In Cottages and smoaky Cells,
Hates gilded Roofs and Beds of Down;
And tho' he fears no Prince's Frown,
Flies from the Circle of a Crown.
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