Where he beholds new fights, divinely fair, H PROMETHEUS ILL-PAINTED. OW wretched does Prometheus' state appear, Whilft he his fecond mifery fuffers here! Draw him no more; left, as he tortur'd stands, He blame great Jove's less than the painter's hands. It would the Vulture's cruelty outgo, If once again his liver thus fhould grow. Pity him, Jove! and his bold theft allow; The flames he once ftole from thee grant him now! ODE H D E. 'ERE 's to thee Dick; this whining love defpife; Pledge me, my friend; and drink till thou be'st wife. It sparkles brighter far than fhe: 'Tis pure and right, without deceit ; With all thy fervile pains what canft thou win, A thing fo vile, and fo fhort-liv'd, Whom would that painted toy a beauty move; When he lay shut up in her womb? Follies they have fo numberless in store, But fighs and tears have fexes too. Hera Here's to thee again; thy fenfelefs forrows drown; No error here can dangerous prove: FRIENDSHIP IN ABSENCE. W HEN chance or cruel bufinefs parts us two, Whilft fleep does our dull bodies tie, Abroad, and meet each other half the way. Like loving stars, which oft combine, Yet not themselves their own conjunctions know. 'Twere an ill world, I'll fwear, for every friend, I'm there with thee, yet here with me thou art, And strangely ev'n our prefence multiply. Pure is the flame of Friendship, and divine, Like that which in Heaven's fun does fhine: He in the upper air and fky Does no effects of heat beftow; But, as his beams the farther fly, So much, fo much both one do prove, Each day think on me, and each day I shall By every wind that comes this way, Such and fo many I'll repay, As fhall themselves make winds to get to you. A thousand pretty ways we 'll think upon, Alas! ten thousand will not do: And, when no art affords me help or cafe, I feek with verfe my griefs t' appeafe; And beats itself against the cage, Finding at last no passage out, It fits and fings, and fo o'ercomes its rage. TO THE BISHOP OF LINCOLN, UPON HIS ENLARGEMENT OUT OF THE TOWER. PARDON, my lord, that I am come fo late T'exprefs my joy for your return of fate! My thoughts awhile, like you, imprifon'd lay; They hinder one another in the crowd, And none are heard, whilst all would speak aloud... And be afraid to fhew itself the laft, The throng of gratulations now would be When of your freedom men the news did hear, Where it was wifh'd-for, that is every where, 'Twas like the speech which from your lips does fall As foon as it was heard, it ravish'd all." So eloquent Tully did from exile come; Thus long'd-for he return'd, and cherish'd Rome; |