Each Verse fo fwells, expreffive of the Woes,

And ev'ry Tear in Lines fo mournful flows;
We, fpite of Fame, her Fall revers'd believe,
O'er-look her Crimes, and think fhe ought to live.

Let Joy transport fair ROS A MONDA's Shade.
And Wreaths of Myrtle crown the lovely MAID.
While now, perhaps, with DIDO's Ghost she roves,
And hears and tells the Story of their Loves;

Alike they Mourn, alike they Blefs their Fate,

Since LovE, which made 'em Wretched, makes 'em

Nor longer that relentless Doom bemoan,

Which gain'd a VIRGIL and an ADDISON.
Accept, great MONARCH, of the British Lays,
The Tribute-Song an humble Subject pays.
So tries the artless Lark her early Flight,

And foars to hail the GOD of Verfe and Light;
Unrival'd as unmatch'd be ftill thy Fame,
And thy own Lawrels fhade thy envy'd Name:
Thy Name, the Boaft of all the tuneful Quire,
Shall tremble on the Strings of ev'ry Lyre;
While with thy Sentiments each SOUL complies,
Feels correfponding Joys or Sorrows rife,

And views thy ROSAMOND with HENRY's Eyes.

On

W

On a LADY's Orange.

Hence this? Has VENUS then refign'd the Prize,
-Naked she won, expos'd to Mortal Eyes?

Juft Goddefs! who, to the firft Beauty due,
(Her felf lefs Fair) the Fruit refigns to you.
With Balls like this, fhe fwift Atlanta stay'd,
And on the panting YOUTH, beftow'd the MAID.
Had you been there, and thrown this in the Chase,
Hippomenes had ftop'd, Atlanta won the Race.

SONG.

LUCINDA has the De'il and all

Of that bright thing we BEAUTY call;

But if fhe won't come to my Arms,
Why, what care I for all her Charms.

Beauty's the Sawce to Love's high Meat,
But who minds Sawce that must not Eat?

It is indeed a mighty Treasure,

But in the Ufing lies the Pleasure;
Bullies thus, that only fee't,
Dn all the Gold in Lumbard-ftreet.

EPITAPH on a Taylor's Wife.

H'

ERE lies a TAYLOR'S Counter-part,

Who lov'd a YARD with all her Heart. Her Crofs-leg'd Spouse knew what would ease her, And often stole a YARD to please her; Yet all his CABBAGE Would not fave The loving Baggage from the Grave: But here fhe Slumbers, foon forgotten, Now dead, not valued of a BUTTON.

ON

ΟΝ ΤΗΕ

DEATH

OF

Mr. VIN E R.
NER.

By the late Mr. Arch-Deacon, PARNEL.

S Viner Dead? and fhall each Mufe become
Silent as Death, and as his Mufick Dumb?
Shall he depart without a POET's Praife,

Who oft to Harmony has tun'd their Lays?

Shall he, who knew the Elegance of Sound,

Find no one VOICE to fing him to the Ground?
MUSICK and POETRY are Sister-Arts,
Shew a like Genius, and confenting Hearts:

My Soul with his is fecretly ally'd,

And I am forc'd to fpeak, fince VINER dy'd.

Oh that my Muse, as once his Notes, could fwell!
That I might all his Praises tell;

That I might fay with how much SKILL he play'd
How nimbly four extended Strings furvey'd;
How Bow and Fingers, with a noble Strife,
Did raise the VOCAL FIDDLE into Life;
How various Sounds, in, various Order rang'd,
By unobferv'd Degrees minutely chang'd;
Thro' a vaft Space could in Divifions run,
Be all distinct, yet all agree in One:
And how the fleeter Notes could swiftly pafs,
And skip alternately from Place to Place;
The Strings could with a fudden Impulfe bound,
Speak every Touch, and tremble into Sound.

The liquid Harmony, a tuneful Tide,

Now feem'd to rage, anon wou'd gently glide;
By Turns would ebb and flow, would rife and fall,
Be loudly daring, or be foftly fmall:

While all was blended in one common Name,
Wave pufh'd on Wave, and all compos'd a Stream.

The diff'rent TONES melodioufly combin'd, . Temper'd with Art, in fweet Confufion join'd; The Soft, the Strong, the Clear, the Shrill, the Deep, Would fometimes foar aloft, and fometimes creep;