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XXIX,

The last fair instance thou must give,
Whence Naffau's virtue can be try'd;
And fhew the world, that thou canst live
Intrepid, as thy confort dy'd;

XXX.

Thy virtue, whofe refiftlefs force
No dire event could ever stay,
Muft carry on its deftin'd courfe;
Though death and envy ftop the way.
XXXI.

For Britain's fake, for Belgia's, live:
Pierc'd by their grief, forget thy own ;
New toils endure, new conquest give,

And bring them ease, though thou haft none,
XXXII.

Vanquish again; though the be gone,
Whofe garland crown'd the victor's hair:
And reign, though fhe has left the throne,
Who made thy glory worth thy care.
XXXIII.

Fair Britain never yet before

Breath'd to her king an useless

Fond Belgia never did implore,

prayer a

While William turn'd averfe his ear.

XXXIV.

But, fhould the weeping hero now Relentless to their wishes prove; Should he recall, with pleafing woe, The object of his grief and love; VOL. I.

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XXXV. Hes

XXXV.

Her face with thoufand beauties bleft,
Her mind with thousand virtues stor❜d,
Her power with boundless joy confeft,
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,
Amidft the ftars 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 spite.
No, no the fair, the gay, the young,
Govern the numbers of my fong;
All that they approve is sweet;
And all is fenfe that they repeat.

;

Bid the warbling Nine retire Venus, ftring thy fervant's lyre : Love shall be my endless 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!

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O D E

Sur la Prife de N A MUR,

par les Armes du Roi, l'Année 1692.

Par Monfieur BOILEAU DESPREAUX.

Q

I.

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

Chaftes Nymphes du Permeffe,
N'est-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,
fuivre mes transports;

Tu

peus
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.

SOME folks are drunk, yet do not know it:

So might not Bacchus give you law?

Was it a Mufe, 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 ftocks 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 should raise,
Would that have fpoil'd the Poet's fong,
Or puff'd away the Monarch's praife-?

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

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