ON LUCINDA'S DEATH.

BY THE SAME.

COME all ye doleful, dismal cares,
That ever haunted guilty mind!

The pangs of love when it despairs,

And all those stings the jealous find :
Alas! heart-breaking tho' ye be,
Yet welcome, welcome all to me!

5

Who now have loft-----but oh! how much?

No language, nothing can express,

Except my grief; for fhe was fuch,

That praises would but make her less. io

Yet who can ever dare to raise

His voice on her, unless to praise ?

Free from her fex's fmalleft faults,

And fair as womankind can be ; Tender and warm as lover's thoughts,

Yet cold to all the world but me. Of all this nothing now remains, But only fighs and endless pains.

15

SONG.

BY JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER.*

INSULTIN

NSULTING beauty, you misspend
Those frowns upon your slave;
Your scorn against such rebels bend
Who dare with confidence pretend

That other eyes their hearts defend

5

From all the charms you have.

Your conq'ring eyes so partial are,
Or mankind is fo dull,

That, while I languish in despair,

Many proud fenfeless hearts declare 10

They find you not fo killing fair
To wish you merciful.

They an inglorious freedom boaft;

I triumph in my chain;

Nor am I unreveng'd, though loft; 15
Nor you unpunish'd, though unjust;
When I alone, who love you most,
Am kill'd with your difdain.

* Born 1648; dyed 1680.

THE SIXTEENTH ODE OF THE SECOND BOOK

OF HORACE.

BY THOMAS OTWAY.*

IN ftorms when clouds the moon do hide,

And no kind stars the pilot guide,
Shew me at fea the boldeft there
Who does not wish for quiet here.
For quiet (friend) the foldier fights,
Bears weary marches, fleepless nights,
For this feeds hard, and lodges cold,
Which can't be bought with hills of gold.
Since wealth and power too weak we find
To quell the tumults of the mind,

Or from the monarch's roofs of state

Drive thence the cares that round him wait,
Happy the man with little bleft,

Of what his father left poffeft;
No bafe defires corrupt his head,
No fears difturb him in his bed.

What then in life, which foon must end,
Can all our vain defigns intend?

From shore to shore why should we run,
When none his tiresome felf can fhun?

* Born 1651; dyed 1682.

15

20

For baneful care will still prevail,

And overtake us under fail :

'Twill dodge the great man's train behind,

Out-run the roe, out-fly the wind.
If then thy foul rejoice to-day,
Drive far to-morrow's cares away:
In laughter let them all be drown'd:
No perfect good is to be found.
One mortal feels fate's fudden blow,
Another's ling'ring death comes flow;
And what of life they take from thee,
The gods may give to punish me.
Thy portion is a wealthy stock,
A fertile glebe, a fruitful flock,
Horfes and chariots for thy ease,

Rich robes to deck and make thee please:

For me, a little cell I chufe,

Fit for my mind, fit for my muse,

25

30

35

Which foft content does beft adorn,

Shunning the knaves and fools I fcorn.

40

THE RETIREMENT.

BY JOHN NORRIS.*

I.

WELL, I have thought on't, and I find

This bufie world is nonfenfe all;

I here despair to please my mind,

Her sweetest honey is fo mixt with gall. Come then, I'll try how 'tis to be alone, Live to myself a while, and be my own.

II.

I've try'd, and bless the happy change;

So happy, I could almost vow Never from this retreat to range,

For fure I ne'er can be fo bleft as now: From all th' allays of blifs I here am free, I pity others, and none envy me.

III.

Here in this shady lonely grove,

I fweetly think my hours away,

Neither with business vex'd nor love,

Which in the world bear fuch tyrannic fway.

5

10

15

Born 1657; dyed 1711.