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Which could no more his tongue and counsels miss;
Rome, the world's head, was nothing without his.
Wrong to those facred ashes I should do,
Should I compare any to him but you;
You, to whom Art and Nature did difpenfe
The confulfhip of wit and eloquence.
Nor did your fate differ from his at all,
Because the doom of exile was his fall;
For the whole world, without a native home,
Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
But like a melting woman fuffer'd he,
He who before out-did humanity;

Nor could his fpirit constant and stedfast prove,
Whose art 't had been, and greatest end, to move,
You put ill-fortune in so good a dress,
That it out-fhone other men's happiness :
Had your prosperity always clearly gone,
As your high merits would have led it on,
You 'ad half been lost, and an example then
But for the happy—the least part of men.
Your very fufferings did fo graceful fhew,
That some strait envy'd your affliction too;
For a clear confcience and heroic mind
In ills their business and their glory find.

So, though less worthy ftones are drown'd in night,
The faithful diamond keeps his native light,
And is oblig'd to darkness for a ray,.

That would be more opprefs'd than help'd by day.
Your foul then moft fhew'd her unconquer'd power
Was ftronger and more armed than the Tower.

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Sure unkind Fate will tempt your spirit no more ;
Sh' has try'd her weakness and your strength before,
'T' oppose him still, who once has conquer'd fo,
Were now to be

rebel, not your



Fortune henceforth will more of providence have,
And rather be your friend than be flave.






Little thought the time would ever be,
That I fhould wit in dwarfish pofies fee.

As all words in few letters live,

Thou to few words all fense doft give.
'Twas Nature taught you this rare art,
In fuch a little much to fhew;
Who, all the good she did impart
To womankind, epitomiz'd in you.

'If, as the ancients did not doubt to fing,
The turning years be well compar'd to' a ring,
We'll write whate'er from you we hear;
For that 's the pofy of the year.
This difference only will remain-
That Time his former face does fhew,
Winding into himself again;

But your unweary'd wit is always new,

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'Tis faid that conjurers have an art found out
To carry fpirits confin'd in-rings about :
The wonder now will lefs appear,
When we behold your magic here.
You,' by your rings, do prisoners take,
And chain them with your myftic spells,

And, the strong witchcraft full to make, Love, the great devil, charm'd to thofe circles, dwells.

They who above do various circles find,

Say, like a ring th' Equator heaven does bind.
When heaven shall be adorn'd by thee
(Which then more Heaven than 'tis will be),
'Tis thou must write the pofy there;

For it wanteth one as yet,

Though the fun pass through 't twice a year; The fun, who is esteem'd the God of wit.

Happy the hands which wear thy facred rings,
They'll teach those hands to write mysterious things.
Let other rings, with jewels bright,
Caft around their coftly lights
Let them want no noble ftone,

By nature rich and art refin'd;

Yet hall thy rings give place to none, But only that which muft thy marriage bind.

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'HO fays the times do learning difallow ? 'Tis false; 'twas never honour'd so as now. When you appear, great Prince! our night is done You are our morning-star, and shall be' our fun. But our fcene 's London now; and by the rout We perish, if the Round-heads be about: For now no ornament the head must wear, No bays, no mitre, not fo much as hair. How can a play pafs fafely, when know ye Cheapfide-crofs falls for making but a fhow? Our only hope is this, that it be may

A play may pass too, made extempore.
Though other arts poor and neglected grow,
They 'll admit Poesy which was always so.
But we contemn the fury of these days,

And scorn no less their censure than their praise:
Our Mufe, bleft Prince! does only' on you rely
Would gladly live, but not refuse to die.
Accept our hafty zeal! a thing that, 's play'da
Ere 'tis a play, and acted ere 'tis made.
Our ignorance, but our duty too, we show
I would all ignorant people would do so !
At other times expect our wit or art.;
This comedy is acted by the heart.


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THE play, great Sir! is done; yet needs muft


Though you brought all your father's mercies here,
It may offend your Highness; and we 'ave now
Three hours done treafon here, for aught we know,
But power your grace can above Nature give,
It can give power to make abortives live ;

In which, if our bold wishes fhould be croft,
'Tis but the life of one poor week 't has loft.
Though it should fall beneath your mortal scorn,
Scarce could it die more quickly than 'twas born.

M R.




"Immodicis brevis eft ætas, & rara fenectus." Mart.

T was a dismal and a fearful night,


Scarce could the morn drive on th' unwilling light, When fleep, death's image, left my troubled breast, By fomething liker death poffeft.

My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,

And on my foul hung the dull weight

Of fome intolerable fate.

What bell was that? ah me! too niuch I know.

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