On a Fan of the Author's Design, in which was painted the Story of Cephalus and Procris, with the Motto Aura Veni.
COME, gentle Air! th' Æolian shepherd faid,
While Procris panted in the secret shade:
Come, gentle Air! the fairer Delia cries,
While at her feet her swain expiring lies.
Lo! the glad gales o'er all her beauties stray,
Breathe on her lips, and in her bosom play!
In Delia's hand this toy is fatal found,
Nor could that fabled dart more surely wound:
Both gifts deftructive to the givers prove;
Alike both lovers fall by those they love.
Yet Guiltless too this bright destroyer lives,
At random wounds, nor knows the wound she gives :
She views the story with attentive eyes,
And pities Procris while her lover dies.
FAIN would my Muse the flow'ry treasure fing,
And humble glories of the youthful Spring;
Where op'ning roses breathing sweets diffuse,
And foft carnations show'r their balmy dews;
Where lilies finile in virgin robes of white,
The thin undress of fuperficial light,
And vary'd tulips show so dazzling gay,
Blushing in bright diversities of day.
Each painted flow'ret in the lake below
Surveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow;
And pale Narciffus, on the bank in vain
Transformed, gazes on himself again.
Here aged trees cathedral walks compofe,
And mount the hill in venerable rows;
There the green infants in their beds are laid,
The Garden's hope, and its expected shade.
Here orange-trees with blooms and pendants shine,
And vernal honours to their autumn join;
Exceed their promise in the ripen'd store,
Yet in the rifing blossom promise more.
There in bright drops the crystal fountains play,
By laurels shielded from the piercing day :
Where Daphne, now a tree as once a maid,
Still from Apollo vindicates her shade;
Still turns her beauties from th' invading beam,
Nor seeks in vain for fuccour to the stream.
The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves,
At once a shelter from her boughs receives,
Where fummer's beauty midst of winter stays,
And winter's coolness spite of fummer's rays.
WHILE Celia's tears make sorrow bright,
Proud Grief fits swelling in her eyes;
The fun, next those the fairest light,
Thus from the ocean first did rife:
And thus thro' mists we fee the fun,
Which else we durst not gaze upon.
These silver drops, like morning dew,
Foretell the fervour of the day:
So from one cloud soft show'rs we view,
And blasting lightnings burst away.
The stars that fall from Celia's eye
Declare our doom in drawing nigh.
The baby in that funny sphere
So like a Phaëton appears,
That Heav'n, the threaten'd world to spare,
Thought fit to drown him in her tears;
Else might th' ambitious nymph aspire
To fet, like him, heav'n too on fire.
SILENCE! coeval with eternity,
Thou wert ere Nature's felf began egan to be;
'Twas one vast nothing all, and all slept fast in thee.
Thine was the fway ere heav'n was form'd, or earth,
Ere fruitful Thought conceiv'd Creation's birth,
Or midwife Word gave aid, and spoke the infant
Then various elements against thee join'd,
In one more various animal combin'd,
And fram'd the clam'rous race of bufy human-kind.
The tone mov'd gently first, and speech was low,
Till wrangling Science taught it noise and show,
And wicked Wit arole, thy most abufive foe.
But rebel Wit deferts thee oft' in vain:
Loft in the maze of words he turns again,
And feeks a furer state, and courts thy gentle reign.
Afflicted Senfe thou kindly dost set free,
Oppress'd with argumental tyranny,
And routed Reafon finds a fafe retreat in thee.
With thee in private modest Dulness lies,
And in thy bosom lurks in Thought's disguise; Thou varnisher of fools, and cheat of all the wife!
Yet thy indulgence is by both confeft;
Folly by thee lies fleeping in the breast,
And 'tis in thee at lait that Wisdom seeks for reft.
Silence! the knave's repute, the whore's good name, The only honour of the wishing dame;
The very want of tongue makes thee a kind of fame.
But couldst thou seize some tongues that now are free, How church and state should be oblig'd to thee!
At fenate and at bar how welcome wouldst thou be!
Yet speech e'en there submissively withdraws
From rights of subjects, and the poor man's caufe:
Then pompous Silence reigns, and stills the noisy laws.
Paft services of friends, good deeds of foes,
What fav'rites gain, and what the nation owes,
Fly the forgetful world, and in thy arms repose.
The country wit, religion of the town,
The courtier's learning, policy o' th' gown,
Are best by thee express'd, and shine in thee alone.
The parson's cant, the lawyer's sophiftry,
Lord's quibble, critic's jest, all end in thee;
All rest in peace at last, and sleep eternally.
THO' Artemifia talks by fits
Of counsels, classics, fathers, wits;
Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Locke;
Yet in some things methinks she fails;
"Twere well if she would pare her nails,
And wear a cleaner smock.
Haughty and huge as High-Dutch bride,
Such naftiness and fo much pride
Are oddly join'd by Fate :
On her large squab you find her spread,
Like a fat corpfe upon a bed,
That lies and stinks in state.
She wears no colours (fign of grace)
On any part, except her face;
All white and black befide:
Dauntless her look, her gesture proud,
Her voice theatrically loud,
And mafculine her stride.
So have I seen, in black and white,
A prating thing, a magpie hight,
Majestically stalk;
A ftately worthlefs animal,
That plies the tongue, and wags the tail,
All flutter, pride, and talk.
PHRYNE had talents for mankind;
Open she was and unconfin'd,
Like some free port of trade :
Merchants unloaded here their freight,
And agents from each foreign state
Here first their entry made.
Her learning and good breeding fuch,
Whether th Italian or the Dutch,
Spaniards or French came to her;
To all obliging she'd appear;
'Twas Si Signior, 'twas Yaw Mynheer,
'Twas S'il vous plait, Monfieur.
Obscure by birth, renown'd by crimes,
Still changing names, religions, climes,
At length the turns a bride:
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