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As Cupid's shaft; or HERME S' rod;
And pow'rful too, as either God.

A LA MALADE.

AH

H lovely AMORET, the care
Of all that know what's

good, or fair!
Is heav'n become our rival too?
Had the rich gifts, confer'd on you
So amply thence, the common end
Of giving lovers, to pretend?

Hence, to this pining sickness (meant
To weary thee to a consent
Of leaving us) no pow'r is giv'n
Thy beauties to impair: for heav'n
Sollicits thee with such a care,
As roses from their stalks we tear ;
When we would still preserve them new,
And fresh, as on the bush they grew.

With such a grace you entertain,
And look with such contempt on pain,
That languishing you conquer more,
And wound us deeper than before.
So lightnings which in storms appear,
Scorch more than when the skies are clear,

And as pale fickness does invade
Your frailer part, the breaches made
In that fair lodging, still more clear
Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.
So nymphs o'er pathless mountains born,
Their light robes by the brambles torn

From

From their fair limbs, exposing new
And unknown beauties to the view
Of following Gods, increase their flame,
And haste, to catch the flying game.

Upon the Death of my Lady RICH.

MWhere headly death, and pining sickness

, reigns

,

Prove all a defart! and none there make stay,
But savage beasts, or men as wild as they !
There the fair light, which all our island grac'd,
Like Hero's taper in the window plac'd,
Such fate from the malignant air did find,
As that exposed to the boist'rous wind.

Ah cruel heav'n! to snatch so soon away
Her, for whose life had we had time to pray,
With thousand vows, and tears, we should have fought
That fad decree's suspension to have wrought.
But we, alas, no whisper of her pain
Heard, 'till 'twas fin to wish her here again.
That horrid word at once, like lightning spread,
Strook all our ears,

the Lady Rich is dead !
Heart-rending news! and dreadful to those few
Who her resemble, and her steps persue:
That Death should license have to rage among
The fair, the wise, the virtuous, and the young !

The * PAPHIAN Queen from that fierce battel born,
With goared hand, and veil so rudely torn,
Like terror did among th’ Immortals breed;
Taught by her wound that Goddesses may bleed.

D

All

* Venus.

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All stand amazed ! but beyond the rest Th'* heroic dame whose happy womb she bleft, Mov’d with just grief, expostulates with heav'n ; Urging the promise to th' obsequious giv'n, Of longer life: for ne'er was pious soul More apt t'obey, more worthy to controul. A skilful eye at once might read the race Of CALEDONIAN Monarchs in her face, And sweet humility: her look and mind At once were lofty, and at once were kind. There dwelt the scorn of vice, and pity too, For those that did what she disdain'd to do: So gentle and severe, that what was bad At once her hatred, and her pardon had. Gracious to all; but where her love was due, So faft, so faithful, loyal, and so true, That a bold hand as soon might hope to force The rowling lights of heav'n, as change her course.

Some happy Angel, that beholds her there, Instruct us to record what she was here! And when this cloud of sorrow's over-blown, Through the wide world we'll make her graces known. So fresh the wound is, and the grief so vast, That all our art, and pow'r of speech, is waste. Here paffion fways, but there the Muse shall raise Eternal monuments of louder praise.

There our delight, complying with her fame, Shall have occasion to recite thy name, Fair SACHARIS SA! and now only fair ! To sacred friendship we'll an altar rear ; (Such as the ROMAN s did erect of old.) Where, on a marble pillar, shall be told * Chriftian Countess of Devonshire.

The

The lovely paflion each to other bare,
With the resemblance of that matchless Pair.
NARCISS U s to the thing for which he pin'd
Was not more like, than yours to her fair mind :
Save that she grac'd the sev'ral parts of life,
A spotless virgin, and a faultless wife :
Such was the sweet converse 'twixt her and you,
As that she holds with her associates now.

How false is hope, and how regardless fate,
That such a love should have so short a date !
Lately I saw her fighing part from thee;
(Alas that That the last farewell should be!)
So look'd AsTRÆA, her remove design'd,
On those distressed friends she left behind.
Consent in virtue knit your hearts so fast,
That still the knot, in spight of death, does laft:
For, as your tears, and sorrow-wounded soul,
Prove well that on your part this bond is whole:
So, all we know of what they do above,
Is, that they happy are, and that they love.
Let dark oblivion, and the hollow grave,
Content themselves our frailer thoughts to have :
Well chosen love is never taught to die,
But with our nobler part invades the sky.
Then grieve no more, that one so heav'nly shap'd
The crooked hand of trembling age escap'd.
Rather, since we beheld her not decay,
But that she vanish'd so entire away,
Her wondrous beauty, and her goodness, merit
We should suppose, that some propitious spirit
In that cæleftial form frequented here;
And is not dead, but ceases to appear.

D 2

The

The Battel of the SUMMER-ISLAND S.

C Α Ν Τ Ο Ι.

What fruits they have, and how heav'n smiles
Upon those late-discover'd ifles.

Betwixt a nation, and two whales, I write : Seas stain'd with goar I sing, advent'rous toil ! And how these monsters did disarm an ille.

BERMUDA wall'd with rocks who does not know?
That happy island! where huge lemons grow ;
And

orange trees, which golden fruit do bear :
Th’HESPERIAN garden boasts of none fo fair :
Where shining pearl, coral, and many a pound,
On the rich shore, of amber-greece is found.
The lofty cedar, which to heav'n aspires,
The Prince of trees! is fewel for their fires :
The smoke, by which their loaded spits do turn,
For incense might on facred altars burn:
Their private roofs on od'rous timber born,
Such as might palaces for Kings adorn.
The sweet palmitoes a new BACCHU S yield,
With leaves as ample as the broadest shield :
Under the shadow of whose friendly boughs
They fit, carowsing where there liquor grows.
Figs there unplanted thro’ the fields do grow,
Such as fierce Caro did the Roman s show;
With the rare fruit inviting them to spoil
CARTHAG E, the mistress of so rich a soil.

The

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