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Ingrateful Brutus, do they call?
Ingrateful Cafar, who could Rome enthral?
An Act more barbarous and unnatural
(In th' exact Ballance of true Virtue try'd)
Than his Succeffor Nero's Parricide!

There's none but Brutus could deferve,
That all Men elfe fhould wish to ferve,
And Cafar's ufurp't place to him fhould proffer;
None can deferve'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, faid the Spright,
I'll meet thee there, faid'ft thou,
With fuch a Voice, and fuch a Brow,
As put the trembling Ghost to fudden flight;
It vanifht 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 prefum'd in any Shape thee to oppose,
Thou would't have forc'd it back upon thy Foes:
Or flain't like Cafar, though it be,
A Conqueror and a Monarch, mightier far than be.

What Joy can human Things to us afford,
When we fee perifh thus, by odd Events,
Ill Men, and wretched Accidents,
The beft Caufe, and beft Man that ever drew a Sword!
When we fee,

The falfe Octavius, and wild Antony,

God-like Brutus, conquer thee,


What can we fay, but thine own Tragick Word,
That Virtue, which had worship'd been by thee,
As the moft 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:
Thefe mighty Gulphs are yet

Too deep for all thy Judgment and thy Wit.
'The Time's fet forth already, which fhall quell
Stiff Reafon, when it offers to Rebel.

Which thefe great Secrets fhall unfeal,
And new Philofophies reveal.

A few Years more, fo foon hadft thou not dy'd,
Would have confounded Humane Virtues Pride,
And fhew'd thee a God Crucify'd.



Sarpedon's Speech to Glaucus.

THUS to Glaucus fpake

Divine Sarpedon, fince he did not find,
Others as great in Place, as great in Mind.
Above the reft, 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 Guefts carowfe the fparkling Tears
Of the rich Grape, whilft Mufick Charms their Ears.
Why as we pafs, do thofe on Xanthus Shore,
As Gods behold us, and as Gods adore?


But that as well in danger, as degree,
We ftand the firft; that when our Lycian's fee
Our brave Examples, they admiring fay,
Behold our Gallant Leaders! Thefe are they
Deferve the Greatnefs; and un-envied ftand,
Since what they act, tranfcends what they command.

Could the declining of this Fate, Oh Friend,
Our date to immortality extend?

Orif Death fought not them, who feek not Death,
Would I advance? Or fhould my vainer Breath
With fuch a Glorious Folly thee infpire?
But fince with Fortune Nature doth confpire,
Since Age, Difeafe, or fome lefs noble End,
Though not lefs 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.

HE 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 fhould invade
His foft Repofe; when th'unexpected found
Of Dogs, and Men, his wakeful Ear doth wound..
Rouz'd with the Noife, he fcarce believes his Ear,
Willing to think th' Illusions of his Fear,

Had given this falfe Alarm, but ftraight his View
Confirms, that more than all he fears is True.
Betray'd in all his Strength, the Wood befet,
All Inftruments, all Arts of rain met;

He calls to mind his Strength, and then his fpeed,
His winged Heels, and then his armed Head;
With thefe 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 fpeed does Recompenfe.
Then Curfes his confpiring Feet, whofe Scent
Betrays that Safety which their Swiftnefs lent.
Then tries his Friends; among the bafer Herd,
Where he fo lately was obey'd and fear'd,
His Safety feeks: The Herd, unkindly wife,
Or chafes him from thence, or from him flies.
Like a declining Statefman, left forlorn
To his Friends pity, and Purfuers Scorn,
With Shame remembers, while himself was one
Of the fame Herd, himself the fame 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 clafhing 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, forfaken, and purfu'd, at last
All fafety in Defpair of Safety plac'd,


Courage he thence refumes, refolv'd to bear
All their Affaults, fince 'tis in vain to fear.
And now too late he withes for the Fight,
That Strength he wafted in ignoble Flight;
But when he fees the eager Chafe renew'd,
Himfelf by Dogs, the Dogs by Men purfu'd;
He ftraight revokes his bold Refolve, and more
Repents his Courage, than his Fear before;
Finds that uncertain Ways unfafest are,
And Doubt a greater Mifchief than Defpair.
Then to the Stream, when neither Friends nor Force,
Nor Speed, nor Art avail, he fhapes his Courfe;
Thinks not their Rage fo defperate t'affay
An Element more merciless than they.
But fearless they purfue, nor can the Flood
Quench their dire Thirft; 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 laft Fury of extream Despair.
So fares the Stag among th' enraged Hounds,
Repels their Force, and Wounds returns for Wounds.



Morpheus, the humble God, that dwells
In Cottages and fmoaky 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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