Thy felf without the leaft remaining Signs,
Of ancient Virtue so deprav'd,
As ev'n they wish'd to be enslav'd:
What more than humane aid
Could raise thee from a state so low,
Protect thee from thy felf, thy greatest Foe?
Something Celestial fure, a Heroine,
Of matchless Form, and a majestick Mien;
By all respected, fear'd, but more belov'd,
More than her Laws, her great Example mov'd;
The Bounds that in her Godlike mind
Were to her Paffions fet, feverely shin'd,
But that of doing good was unconfin'd.
So juft, that absolute Command,
Destructive in another Hand,
In hers had chang'd its Nature, had been useful made.
Oh! had the longer staid,
Less fwiftly to her Native Heaven retir'd,
For her the Harps of Albion had been strung,
Th' Harmonious Nine could never have aspir'd
To a more lofty and immortal Song.
Epitaphium Vivi Auctoris.
HIC, O Viator, fub Lare parvulo,
Couleius hic eft Conditus, hic jacet
Defunctus bumani laboris
Sorte, Supervacuaque vita,
Non indecora pauperie Nitens,.
Et non inerti nobilis otio,
Vanoque dilectis popello
Divitiis animofus hoftis.
Poffis ut illum dicere mortuum,
En Terra jam nunc Quantula fufficit?
Exemta fit curis, viator,
Terra fit illa Levis, precare.
Hic Sparge Flores, Sparge breves Rofas,
Nam Vita gaudet mortua Floribus,
Herbisque Odoratis Corona
Vatis adhuc Cinerem Calentem.
Thus Translated into English.
Mr. Cowley's Epitaph on himself, yet Alive.
HERE, Traveller, under this Cott
Is Cowley buried; here he lies
Discharg'd of Man's painful Lot,
And Life's supervacuities.
Shining in comely Poverty,
Renowned for his active Ease,
Riches deadly Enemy,
Which the vain People so much please,
That you may say I'm dead alive,
Lo! what a spot of Ground I have,
Wish it may quiet be and thrive,
For 'tis no larger than a Grave.
Strow Flow'rs here, strow short-liv'd Roses,
For thus dead Life is pleas'd beset,
And Crown with fragrant Posfes
The Poets Ashes vigorous yet.
A Pastoral Dialogue.
By Sir Charles Sedley.
Trephon! O Strephon! once the Jollieft Lad,
That with fhrill Pipe did ever Mountain glad,
Whilome the foremost at our rural Plays,
The Pride and Glory of our Holidays:
Why doft thou now fit musing all alone,
Teaching the Turtles yet a fadder Groan ?
Well'd with thy Tears, why does the Neighb'ring
(Brook,
Bear to the Ocean what she never took?
Why do our Woods, fo us'd to hear thee Sing,
With nothing now but with thy Sorrows Ring?
Thy Flocks are well and fruitful, and no Swain
Than thee more welcome, to the Hill or Plain.
No Loss of these, or Care of those are left,
Hath wretched Strephon of his Peace bereft;
I could invite the Wolf, my cruel Guest,
And play unmov'd, while he on all did feast :
I could endure that every Swain out-run,
Out-threw, out-wrestled, and each Nymph should
(shun
The hapless Strephon: But the Gods, I find
To no luch Trifles have this Heart design'd.
A feller Grief, and sadder Loss, I plain,
Than ever Shepherd, or did Prince fustain:
Bright Galatea, in whose matchless Face
Sat rural Innocence with heavenly Grace,]
In whose no less to be adored Mind,
With equal Light, even distant Virtues shin'd;
Chafte, without Pride; tho' gentle, yet not foft,
Not always cruel, nor yet kind too oft :
Fair Goddess of these Fields, who for our Sports,
'Tho' the might well become despised Courts,
Belov'd of all, and loving one alone,
Is from my Sight, I fear, for ever gone.
Now I am fure thou wonder'st not I grieve,
But rather art amazed that I live.
Thy Cafe indeed is pitiful, but yet Thou on thy Loss too great a Prize dost set; Women, like Days are, Strephon, fome be far More bright and glorious than others are : Yet none so wonderful were ever seen, But by as fair they have fucceeded been.
Others as fair, and may as worthy prove, But fure I never shall another love : Her bright Idea wanders in my Thought, At once my Poison, and my Antidote. The Stag shall fooner with the Eagle foar, Séas leave their Fishes naked on the Shore; The Wolf fhall fooner by the Lambkin die, And from the Kid the hungry Lyon fly; Than I forget her Face: What once I love, May from my Eyes, but not my Heart remove.
The parting of Hector with his Princess Andro mache, and on'y Son Astyanax, when he went upon his laft Expedition, in which he was flain by Achilles.
Done out of the Greek of Homer, Iliad. 6.
By Mr. Knightly Chetwood.
HECTOR, tho' warn'd by an approaching Cry,
That to Troy'sWalls the conqu'ring Greeks drew nigh
T' his Princess one short Visit pays in haste,
Some Damon told him this would be his laft:
Her, fwiftly paffing thro' the spacious Streets,
He nor at Home, nor in the Circle meets,
Nor at * Minerva's, where the beauteous Train
Made Prayers and Vows to angry Powers in Vain.
She, half distracted with the loud Alarms,
(The Prince was carry'd in his Nurse's Arms)
Runs to a Turret, whose commanding Height
Presented all the Battle to her Sight,
Advancing Grecians, and the Trojans Flight..
Here Heltor finds her, with a Lover's Pace,
She speeds, and breathless Sinks, in his Embrace;
The Nurse came after with her Princely Care,
As Hesperus fresh, promifing, and fair;
Hector in little, with Paternal Joy,
He bleft in filent Smiles, the lovely Boy.
The Princess, at his Sight compos'd again,
Preffing his Hand, does gently thus complain.
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