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Of mortal seed they were not held,
Which other mortals so excell'd.
And beauty, too, in such excess
As yours, Zelinda! claims no less.
Smile but on me, and you shall scorn,
Henceforth, to be of princes born.
I can describe the shady grove

Where your loved mother slept with Jove;
And yet excuse the faultless dame,
Caught with her spouse's shape and name.
Thy matchless form will credit bring
To all the wonders I shall sing.

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TO MY LADY MORTON, ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY,1

AT THE LOUVRE IN PARIS.

MADAM! new years may well expect to find
Welcome from you, to whom they are so kind;
Still as they pass, they court and smile on you,
And make your beauty, as themselves, seem new.
To the fair Villiers we Dalkeith prefer,

And fairest Morton now as much to her;
So like the sun's advance your titles show,
Which as he rises does the warmer grow.

But thus to style you fair, your sex's praise,
Gives you but myrtle, who may challenge bays;
From armed foes to bring a royal prize,
Shows your brave heart victorious as your eyes.
If Judith, marching with the gen'ral's head,
Can give us passion when her story's read,

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1 'New-year's day': Lady Morton, daughter of Sir Edward Villiers, niece of the Duke of Buckingham, and wife of Lord Douglas, of Dalkeith, one of the most celebrated beauties of her day. She accompanied the Princess Henrietta in disguise to Paris. Waller, then in France, wrote these lines in 1650.

What may the living do, which brought away,
Though a less bloody, yet a nobler prey;

Who from our flaming Troy, with a bold hand,
Snatch'd her fair charge, the Princess, like a brand?
A brand! preserved to warm some prince's heart,
And make whole kingdoms take her brother's part.
So Venus, from prevailing Greeks, did shroud
The hope of Rome, and saved him in a cloud.
This gallant act may cancel all our rage,
Begin a better, and absolve this age.

Dark shades become the portrait of our time;
Here weeps Misfortune, and there triumphs Crime!
Let him that draws it hide the rest in night;
This portion only may endure the light,
Where the kind nymph, changing her faultless shape,
Becomes unhandsome, handsomely to 'scape,
When through the guards, the river, and the sea,
Faith, beauty, wit, and courage, made their way.
As the brave eagle does with sorrow see
The forest wasted, and that lofty tree
Which holds her nest about to be o'erthrown,
Before the feathers of her young are grown,
She will not leave them, nor she cannot stay,
But bears them boldly on her wings away;
So fled the dame, and o'er the ocean bore
Her princely burthen to the Gallic shore.
Born in the storms of war, this royal fair,
Produced like lightning in tempestuous air,
Though now she flies her native isle (less kind,
Less safe for her than either sea or wind!)
Shall, when the blossom of her beauty's blown,
See her great brother on the British throne;
Where peace shall smile, and no dispute arise,
But which rules most, his sceptre, or her eyes.

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TO A FAIR LADY, PLAYING WITH A

SNAKE.

1 STRANGE! that such horror and such grace
Should dwell together in one place;

A fury's arm, an angel's face!

2 'Tis innocence, and youth, which makes
In Chloris' fancy such mistakes,

To start at love, and play with snakes.

3 By this and by her coldness barr'd,
Her servants have a task too hard;
The tyrant has a double guard!

4 Thrice happy snake! that in her sleeve
May boldly creep; we dare not give
Our thoughts so unconfined a leave.

5 Contented in that nest of snow

He lies, as he his bliss did know,
And to the wood no more would go.

6 Take heed, fair Eve! you do not make
Another tempter of this snake;

A marble one so warm'd would speak.

TO HIS WORTHY FRIEND MASTER EVELYN,1

UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF 'LUCRETIUS.'

LUCRETIUS, (with a stork-like fate,

Born, and translated, in a state)

''Master Evelyn': the well-known author of 'Sylva,' translated the first book of Lucretius, De Rerum Natura.'

Comes to proclaim, in English verse,
No Monarch rules the universe;

But chance, and atoms, make this All
In order democratical,

Where bodies freely run their course,
Without design, or fate, or force.
And this in such a strain he sings,
As if his Muse, with angels' wings,
Had soar'd beyond our utmost sphere,
And other worlds discover'd there;
For his immortal, boundless wit,
To Nature does no bounds permit,
But boldly has removed those bars
Of heaven, and earth, and seas, and stars,
By which they were before supposed,
By narrow wits, to be enclosed,

Till his free Muse threw down the pale,
And did at once dispark them all.

So vast this argument did seem,
That the wise author did esteem
The Roman language (which was spread
O'er the whole world, in triumph led)
A tongue too narrow to unfold

The wonders which he would have told.
This speaks thy glory, noble friend!
And British language does commend;
For here Lucretius whole we find,
His words, his music, and his mind.
Thy art has to our country brought
All that he writ, and all he thought.
Ovid translated, Virgil too,

Show'd long since what our tongue could do;
Nor Lucan we, nor Horace spared;

Only Lucretius was too hard.

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Lucretius, like a fort, did stand
Untouch'd, till your victorious hand
Did from his head this garland bear,
Which now upon your own you wear:
A garland made of such new bays,
And sought in such untrodden ways,
As no man's temples e'er did crown,
Save this great author's, and your own!

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TO HIS WORTHY FRIEND SIR THOMAS

HIGGONS,1

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UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF THE VENETIAN TRIUMPH.'

THE winged lion's not so fierce in fight

As Liberi's hand presents him to our sight;
Nor would his pencil make him half so fierce,
Or roar so loud, as Businello's verse;
But your translation does all three excel,
The fight, the piece, and lofty Businel.

As their small galleys may not hold compare
With our tall ships, whose sails employ more air;
So does th' Italian to your genius vail,

Moved with a fuller and a nobler gale.
Thus, while your Muse spreads the Venetian story,
You make all Europe emulate her glory;

You make them blush weak Venice should defend
The cause of Heaven, while they for words contend;
Shed Christian blood, and pop'lous cities raze,
Because they're taught to use some different phrase.
If, list'ning to your charms, we could our jars
Compose, and on the Turk discharge these wars,

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Sir T. Liggons': a knight of some note, who translated the Venetian Triumph,' an Italian poem by Businello, addressed to Liberi, the painter.

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