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CHORUS.

Love's purer flames the Gods approve;
The Gods and Brutus bend to love :
Brutus for abfent Portia fighs,
And fterner Caffius melts at Junia's eyes.
What is loofe love? a tranfient guft,
Spent in a fudden ftorm of luft,
A vapour fed from wild defire,
A wand'ring, self-consuming fire.
But Hymen's kinder flames unite;
And burn for ever one;
Chafte as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
Productive as the Sun.

SEMICHORUS.

Oh fource of ev'ry focial tye,
United wish, and mutual joy!
What various joys on one attend,
As fon, as father, brother, husband, friend?
Whether his hoary fire he fpies,
While thousand grateful thoughts arise;
Or meets his spouse's fonder eye;
Or views his fmiling progeny;

What tender paffions take their turns,
What home-felt raptures move?
His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
With rev'rence, hope, and love.

CHORUS.
Hence guilty joys, diftaftes, furmizes,
Hence falfe tears, deceits, disguises,
Dangers, doubts, delays, furprizes;

Fires that fcorch, yet dare not shine:
Pureft love's unwafting treasure,
Conftant faith, fair hope, long leisure,
Days of ease, and nights of pleasure :
Sacred Hymen! these are thine.

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ODE

ODE ON SOLITUDE.:

care

Η

Appy the man whose wish and ca
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground;

Whofe herds with milk, whofe fields with bread,
Whofe flocks fupply him with attire,
Whofe trees in fummer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Bleft, who can unconcern'dly find,
Hours, days and years flide foft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound fleep by night; ftudy and ease,
Together mixt; fweet recreation;
And innocence, which moft does please,
With meditation,

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The

The Dying Christian to his Soul.

ODE.

I.

VITA

ITAL spark of heav'nly flame!
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh the pain, the blifs of dying!
Ceafe, fond Nature, cease thy ftrife,
And let me languish into life.

II.
Hark! the whisper; Angels fay,
Sifter Spirit, come away.
What is this absorbs me quite ?
Steals my fenfes, fhuts my fight,
Drowns my fpirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my Soul, can this be Death?

III.
The world recedes; it difappears!
Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears
With founds feraphic ring:
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy Victory?
O Death! where is thy Sting?

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A N

ESSAY

ΟΝ

CRITICISM.

Written in the Year 1709.

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