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Brutus for absent Porcia fighs,
And fterner Caffius melts at Junia's eyes.

What is loose love? a tranfient gust,
Spent in a fudden storm of lust,
fed from wild defire,
A wand'ring, felf-consuming fire.
But Hymen's kinder flames unite;

And burn for ever one;
Chafte as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
Productive as the Sun.




Oh fource of ev'ry focial tye,
United with, and mutual joy!
What various joys on one attend,
As fon, as father, brother, husband, friend?
Whether his hoary fire he fpies,

While thousand grateful thoughts arise; 30
Or meets his spouse's fonder eye;

Or views his fmiling progeny;


What tender paffions take their turns,
What home-felt raptures move?

His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,'
With rev'rence, hope, and love.



Hence guilty joys, distastes, furmizes,
Hence falfe tears, deceits, difguifes,
Dangers, doubts, delays, furprizes;

Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine:
Pureft love's unwafting treasure,
Conftant faith, fair hope, long leifure,
Days of eafe, and nights of pleasure;

Sacred Hymen! these are thine".

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These two Chorus's are enough to fhew us his great talents for this fpecies of Poetry, and to make us lament he did not prosecute his purpose in executing fome plans he had chalked out; but the Character of the Managers of Playhouses was what (he faid) foon determined him to lay afide all thoughts of that




APPPY the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,


Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in fummer yield him shade, In winter fire.

Bleft, who can unconcern'dly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound fleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixt; fweet recreation:
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unfeen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die,

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.



This was a very early production of our Author, written at out twelve years old. P.

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The dying Christian to his SOUL.

OD E'.



ITAL fpark of heav'nly flame:
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh the pain, the blifs of dying!
Ceafe, fond Nature, ceafe thy ftrife,
And let me languish into life.


Hark! they whisper; Angels say,

Sifter Spirit, come away.
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my fenfes, shuts my fight,
Drowns my fpirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my Soul, can this be Death?

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This ode was written in imitation of the famous fonnet of Hadrian to his departing foul; but as much fuperior to his original in fenfe and fublimity, as the Chriftian Religion is to the


The world recedes; it disappears!
Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears
With founds feraphic ring:

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy Victory?

O Death! where is thy Sting?

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