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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?

0 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 exquisite 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.

1732.

HER wit and beauty for a court were made:
But truth and goodness fit her for a fhade.

SULPICIA TO CERINTHUS,

IN HER SICKNESS.

FROM

TIBULLUS.

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

SAY,

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 shares my pain:
For what would health avail to wretched me,
If you could, unconcern'd, my illness fee?

SULPI

I'

SULPICIA TO CERINTHUS.

M weary of this tedious dull deceit;

Myfelf I torture, while the world I cheat: Though Prudence bids me strive 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.

CATO'S SPEECH TO LABIENUS.

In the Ninth Book of LUCAN.

("Quid quæri, Labiene, jubes, &c.")

WHAT, Labienus, would thy fond defire,

Of horned Jove's prophetic fhrine 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 difmay,
Or Probity may Fortune's frown disdain;
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

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, obscur'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 boundless 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.

Yet cease to hope, though grac'd with every charm, `
The patriot verse 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 aspire,
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-intereft every action guides,
In camps commands, in cabinets prefides;
Where luxury confumes the guilty store,
And bids the villain be a slave for more.

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

Eternal taxes, treaties for a day,

Servants that rule, and fenates that obey.

O people, d

O people, far unlike the Grecian race,
That deems a virtuous poverty difgrace,
That fuffers public wrongs and public shame,
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 ease 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 share 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 sense of shame be weak,
Let the loud voice of threatening danger speak.
Lo! France, as Perfia once, o'er every land
Prepares to ftretch her all-oppreffing hand.
Shall England fit regardless and fedate,
A calm fpectatrefs of the general fate;
Or call forth all her virtue, and oppofe,

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 fhall be wife in vain.

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