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Most of Mr. Prior's Epigrams are of this delicate cast, and have the thought, like those of Catullus, diffused thro’

'Tis CHLoe's eye, and cheek, and lip, and breast:
Friend How AR D's genius fancy'd all the rest.

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See, whilst thou weep'st, fair Chloe, fee
The world in fympathy with thee.
The chearful birds no longer fing,
Each drops his head, and hangs his wing.
The clouds have bent their bofom lower,
And shed their forrow in a fhow’r.

The brooks beyond their limit flow, :

And louder murmurs speak their woe :
The nymphs and fwains adopt thy cares:
They heave thy fighs, and weep thy tears.
Fantastick nymph I that grief should move
Thy heart obdurate against love.
Strange tears ! whose pow’r can foften all,
But that dear breast on which they fall.

The Epigram written on the leaves of a Fan by Dr. Ar.

terbury, late bishop of Rochester, contains a pretty thought,

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We shall now felećt fome Epigrams of the biting and fatirical kind, and fuch as turn upon the Pun or Equivoque, as the French call it : in which fort the Point is more confpicuous than in those of the former character.

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The following distich, in my opinion, is an admirable Epigram, having all the necessary qualities of one, especially Point and Brevity.

On a company of bad DAN CERs to good Musick.

How ill the motion with the music fuits !
So Orpheus fiddled, and fo danc'd the brutes.

This puts me in mind of another Epigram upon a bad fiddler, which I shall venture to infert merely for the humou of it, and not for any real excellence it contains.

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One of Martial's Epigrams, wherein he agreeably rallies the foolish vanity of a man who hired people to make verses for him, and published them as his own, has been thus translated into Engli/%.

Paul fo fond of the name of a poet is grown,

With gold he buys verfes and calls them his own.
Go on, master Paul, nor mind what the world fays,

They are furely his own for which a man pays.

Another Epigram of the fame Latin poet is very prettily imitated in the following Tetrastic.

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Whilst in the dark on thy foft hand I hung,
And heard the tempting Syren in thy tongue ;
What flames, what darts, what anguish I endul’d !
But when the candle enter'd I was cur'd.

We have a good Epigram by Mr. Cowley, on Prometheus ill painted ; to understand which, we must remember his ftory. Prometheus is feign’d by the ancient poets to have formed men of clay, and to have put life into them by fire ftolen from heaven, for which crime Jupiter caus'd him to. be chain'd to a rock, where a valture was fet to gnaw his liver, which grew again as fast as it was devoured. On this fiction the Epigram is founded.

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PRoMET H EU s drawn by a bad Painter.

How wretched does Prometheus’ state appear,
Whilst he his fecond mis'ry suffers here !
Draw him no more, lest, as he tortur'd stands,
He blame great ỹove's less than the painter's hands.
It would the Vulture's cruelty out-go,
If once again his liver thus should grow.
Pity him, řove, and his bold theft allow ;
The flames he once ftole from thee grant him now.

Some bad writer having taken the liberty to censure Mr. Prior, the poet very wittily lash'd his impertinence in this Epigram.

While faster than his costive brain indites,
Philo's quick hand in flowing letters writes,
His cafe appears to me like honest Teague's,
When he was run away with by his legs.
Pharbus, give Philo o'er himself command ;
Quicken his fenses, or restrain his hand:
Let him be kept from paper, pen, and ink;
So he may ceafe to write, and learn to think.

But perhaps there are none of Mr. Prior’s little pieces that have more humour and pleasantry than the following,

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Helen was just flipt into bed:
Her eye-brows on the toilet lay :
Away the kitten with them fled,
1 As fees belonging to her prey.
| For this misfortune careless ỹane,
| Aflure yourself, was loudly rated;
And madam getting up again,
With her own hand the mouse-trap baited.
On little things, as Sages write,
Depends our human joy, or forrow :
If we don't catch a mouse to-night,
Alas ! no eye-brows for to morrow.

Mr. Westley has given us a pretty Epigram alluding to a well-known text of scripture, on the fetting up a monument in Westminster Abbey, to the memory of the ingenious Mr. Dutler, author of Hudibras.

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As these Compositions are short, many of them have
the reputation of being written extempore, though they
are the effect of confideration and ftudy; the following
Epigram, however, has that additional merit; for which
reason, and for it’s uncommon Thought, we shall pre-
fent it to the Reader.
An E P 1 G R A M on an E P I G R A M.
One day in Chelsea gardens walking,
Of poetry and fuch things talking,
Says Ralph, a merry wag,
An Epigram, if fmart and good,
In all its circumstances should
Be like a Felly-Bag.
The fimile, i’faith, is new ;
But how can'ft make it out ? fays Hugh.
Quoth Ralph, I tell thee, friend ;
Makeit at top both wide and fit
To hold a budget full of wit,
: And point it at the End.
We shall close this chapter with an Epigram written on
the well-known story of Apollo and Daphne, by Mr. Smart :
When Phaebus was am’rous and long’d to be rude,
Miss Daphne cry’d Pish! and ran fwift to the wood ;
And rather than do fuch a naughty affair, -
She became a fine laurel to deck the God’s hair.
The nymph was, no doubt, of a cold constitution;
For fure to turn tree was an odd refolution !
Yet in this she behav'd like a true modern spouse,
For she fled from his arms to diftinguish his brows.

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| | "HE SE Compofitions generally contain some Elogi-
um of the virtues and good qualities of the de-

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to the nature of the subject. Their elegance confists in a nervous and expressive brevity; and fometimes, as we have elsewhere observed, they are closed with an epigrammatic point. In these compositions, no mere Epithet (properly fo called) should be admitted; for here illustration would impair the strength, and render the fentiment too diffuse and languid. Words that are synonymous are also to be rejećted. *- :

Tho' the true characteristic of the Epitaph is feriousness and gravity,yet we find many thatarejocofe and ludicrous; fome likewife have true metre and rhyme, while others are between profe and verfe, without any certain measure, tho' the words are truly poetical; and the beauty of this last fort is generally heighten’d by an apt and judicious Antitbests. We shall give examples of each.

There are in the Spećĩator feveral old Greek Epitaphs very beautifully translated into English verse, one of which I shall take the liberty of transcribing. It is written on Orpheus, a celebrated antient poet and mufician, whose story is well known. He is faid to have been the fon of Apollo and Calliope, one of the Nine Mufes, the Goddess meant in the last line of the Epitaph.

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No longer, Orpheus, shall thy facred strains . .
Lead stones, and trees, and beasts along the plains ;
No longer footh the boist'rous wind to sleep,
Or still the billows of the raging deep :
For thou art gone; the Mufes mourn’d thy fall
In folemn strains, thy mother most of all.
Ye mortals idly for your fonsye moan, *
If thus a Goddess could not fave her own. *

The ingenious translator observes, that if we take the fable for truth, as it was believed to be in the age when this was written, the turn appears to have piety to the gods, and a refigning spirit in the application ; but, if we confider the Point with respect to our present knowledge, it

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he believ’d it, may still be more valued than any one who fhould now write with a point of the fame nature. . , ,

- The following Epitaph on Sir Philip Sidney’s fister, the Countess of Pembroke, faid to be written by the famous Ben Johnson, is remarkable for the noble thought with which it concludes.

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