ON LUCINDA'S DEATH. BY THE SAME. COME all ye doleful, dismal cares, The pangs of love when it despairs, And all those stings the jealous find : 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 That other eyes their hearts defend 5 From all the charms you have. Your conq'ring eyes so partial are, That, while I languish in despair, Many proud fenfeless hearts declare 10 They find you not fo killing fair They an inglorious freedom boaft; I triumph in my chain; Nor am I unreveng'd, though loft; 15 * 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, Or from the monarch's roofs of state Drive thence the cares that round him wait, Of what his father left poffeft; What then in life, which foon must end, From shore to shore why should we run, * 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. 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. |