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Muft I forbid my eyes that heavenly fight,

They 've view'd fo oft with languishing delight?

Muft my ears fhun that voice, whofe charming found Seem'd to relieve, while it encreas'd, my wound?

O Waller! Petrarch! you who tun'd the lyre
To the foft notes of elegant defire ;

Though Sidney to a rival gave her charms,
Though Laura dying left her lover's arms,
Yet were your pains lefs exquifite than mine,
'Tis easier far to lofe, than to. refign!

INSCRIPTION for a BusT of Lady SUFFOLK Defigned to be fet up in a Wood at Stowe.



ER wit and beauty for a court were made:
But truth and goodness fit her for a shade.





(Sent to a Friend, in a Lady's Name.)

AY, my Cerinthus, does thy tender breast


Feel the fame feverish heats that mine moleft?

Alas! I only wish for health again,

Because I think my lover fhares my pain:
-For what would health avail to wretched me,
If you could, unconcern'd, my illness see?



I'M weary of this tedious dull deceit ;

Myfelf I torture, while the world I cheat: Though Prudence bids me ftrive to guard my fame, Love fees the low hypocrify with shame;

Love bids me all confefs, and call thee mine,

Worthy my heart, as I am worthy thine :

Weakness for thee I will no longer hide;
Weakness for thee is woman's noblest pride.



("Quid quæri, Labiene, jubes, &c.")

HAT, Labienus, would thy fond defire,
Of horned Jove's prophetic thrine enquire?
Whether to feek in arms a glorious doom,
Or bafely live, and be a king in Rome?
If life be nothing more than death's delay;
If impious force can honeft minds dismay,
Or Probity may Fortune's frown difdain;
If well to mean is all that Virtue can;
And right, dependant on itself alone,
Gains no addition from fuccefs?- 'Tis known:
Fix'd in my heart these constant truths I bear,
And Ammon cannot write them deeper there.


Our fouls, allied to God, within them feel The fecret dictates of th' Almighty will;

This is his voice, be this our oracle.

When firft his breath the feeds of life instill'd,
All that we ought to know was then then reveal'd.
Nor can we think the Omniprefent mind

Has truth to Libya's defart fands confin'd,
There, known to few, obfcur'd, and loft, to lie
Is there a temple of the Deity,

Except earth, fea, and air, yon azure pole;
And chief, his holieft fhrine, the virtuous foul?
Where-e'er the eye can pierce, the feet can move,
This wide, this boundlefs univerfe is Jove.
Let abject minds, that doubt because they fear,
With pious awe to juggling priests repair;
I credit not what lying prophets tell
Death is the only certain oracle.

Cowards and brave muft die one deftin'd hour-
This Jove has told; he needs not tell us more.

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Written in the Year 1734,

O on, my friend, the noble task pursue,
And think thy genius is thy country's due;

To vulgar wits inferior themes belong,

But Liberty and Virtue claim thy fong.

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Yet ceafe to hope, though grac'd with every charm,
The patriot verfe will cold Britannia warm;
Vainly thou ftriv'ft our languid hearts to raise,
By great examples drawn from better days
No longer we to Sparta's fame afpirę,
What Sparta fcorn'd, inftructed to admire;
Nurs'd in the love of wealth, and form'd to bend
Our narrow thoughts to that inglorious end:
No generous purpose can enlarge the mind,
No focial care, no labour for mankind,
Where mean felf-interest every action guides,
In camps commands, in cabinets prefides;
Where luxury confumes the guilty store,
And bids the villain be a flave for more.

Hence, wretched nation, all thy woes arife,
Avow'd corruption, licens'd perjuries,

Eternal taxes, treaties for a day,

Servants that rule, and fenates that obey.

O people,

O people, far unlike the Grecian race,
That deems a virtuous poverty disgrace,
That fuffers public wrongs and public fhame,
In council infolent, in action tame!

Say, what is now th' ambition of the great?
Is it to raise their country's finking state;
Her load of debt to eafe by frugal care,
Her trade to guard, her harrafs'd poor to spare?
Is it, like honeft Somers, to infpire

The love of laws, and Freedom's facred fire?
Is it, like wife Godolphin, to fuftain

The balanc'd world, and boundless power restrain?
Or is the mighty aim of all their toil,
Only to aid the wreck, and fhare the spoil?
On each relation, friend, dependant, pour,
With partial wantonnefs, the golden shower,
And, fenc'd by strong corruption, to defpife
An injur'd nation's unavailing cries?
Rouze, Britons, rouze! if fenfe of fhame be weak,
Let the loud voice of threatening danger fpeak.
Lo! France, as Perfia once, o'er every land
Prepares to stretch her all-oppreffing hand.
Shall England fit regardless and sedate,
A calm fpectatrefs of the general fate;
Or call forth all her virtue, and oppose,

Like valiant Greece, her own and Europe's foes?
O let us feize the moment in our power,
Our follies now have reach'd the fatal hour;
No later term the angry gods ordain;
This crifis loft, we shall be wife in vain.




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