XXXV.

Her face with thousand beauties bleft,
Her mind with thoufand virtues ftor'd,
Her power with boundless joy confest,
Her perfon only not ador'd-:

XXXVI.

Yet ought his forrow to be checkt;
Yet ought his paffions to abate;
If the great mourner would reflect,
Her glory in her death compleat.
XXXVII.

She was inftructed to command,
Great king, by long obeying thee;
Her fcepter, guided by thy hand,
Preferv'd the ifles, and rul'd the fea.
XXXVIII.

But oh! 'twas little, that her life

O'er earth and water bears thy fame :
In death, 'twas worthy William's wife,
Amidst the stars to fix his name.
XXXIX.

Beyond where matter moves, or place
Receives its forms, thy virtues roll;

From Mary's glory, angels trace.
The beauty of her partner's foul..
XL..

Wife Fate, which does its heaven decree

To heroes, when they yield their breath, Haftens thy triumph. Half of thee

Is deify'd before thy death.

XLI. Alone

XLI.

Alone to thy renown 'tis given,
Unbounded through all worlds to go:
While fhe, great Saint, rejoices Heaven;
And thou fuftain'ft the orb below.

In IMITATION of ANACREON.

LET them cenfure: what care I?

The herd of critics I defy.

Let the wretches know, I write,
Regardless of their grace or fpite.
No, no the fair, the gay, the young,
Govern the numbers of my fong;
All that they approve is sweet;
And all is sense that they repeat.

Bid the warbling Nine retire;
Venus, ftring thy fervant's lyre :
Love shall be my endlefs theme;
Pleasure shall triumph over Fame :
And, when these maxims I decline,
Apollo, may thy fate be mine!
May I grafp at empty praise ;
And lofe the nymph, to gain the bays!

D E

Sur la Prife, de Namur,

par les Armes du Roi, l'Année 1692.

Par Monfieur BOILEAU DESPREAUX.

I.

UELLE docte & fainte yvréffe
Aujourd'hui me fait la loi ?

Chaftes Nymphes du Permeffe,
N'eft-ce pas vous que je voi?
Accourez, troupe fçavante :
Des fons que ma lyre enfante ;
Ces arbres font rejoüis :
Marquez en bien la cadence :
Et vous, vents, faites filence :

Je vais parler de Louis.

II.

Dans fes chanfons immortelles,
Comme un aigle audacieux,
Pindare étendant fes aifles,
Fuit loin des vulgaires yeux.
Mais, ô ma fidele lyre,
Si, dans l'ardeur qui m'infpire,
Tu peus fuivre mes tranfports;

Les chênes des monts de Thrace
N'ont rien oui, que n'efface
La douceur de tes accords.

III. Eft-ce

AN

ENGLISH

BALLAD,

On the Taking of NAMUR by the KING of GREAT BRITAIN, 1695

"Dulce eft defipere in loco."

I. and II.

OME folks are drunk, yet do not know it

SOME

So might not Bacchus give you law?

Was it a Muse, O lofty Poet,

Or Virgin of St. Cyr, you faw?

Why all this fury?what's the matter,

That oaks must come from Thrace to dance?

Muft ftupid stocks be taught to flatter?

And is there no fuch wood in France ?
Why must the winds all hold their tongue ?
If they a little breath fhould raise,

Would that have spoil'd the Poet's fong,
Or puff'd away the Monarch's praife :

Pindar, that eagle, mounts the skies, -
While Virtue leads the noble way:
Too like a vulture Boileau flies,

prey.

Where fordid Intereft fhews the When once the Poet's honour ceases, From reafon far his transports rove: And Boileau, for eight hundred pieces, Makes Louis take the wall of Jove.