Teaching the brawny Cyclops how to frame
His thunder, mix'd with terror, wrath, and flame.
Had the old Greeks discover'd your abode,
Crete had not been the cradle of their god;

On that small island they had looked with scorn,
And in Great Britain thought the Thunderer born.

21

TO THE DUCHESS,

WHEN HE PRESENTED THIS BOOK TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS.

MADAM! I here present you with the rage,
And with the beauties of a former age;
Wishing you may with as great pleasure view
This, as we take in gazing upon you.

Thus we writ then: your brighter eyes inspire
A nobler flame, and raise our genius higher.
While we your wit and early knowledge fear,
To our productions we become severe;
Your matchless beauty gives our fancy wing,
Your judgment makes us careful how we sing.
Lines not composed, as heretofore, in haste,
Polish'd like marble, shall like marble last,
And make you through as many ages shine,
As Tasso has the heroes of your line.

Though other names our wary writers use,
You are the subject of the British Muse;
Dilating mischief to yourself unknown,

Men write, and die of wounds they dare not own.
So the bright sun burns all our grass away,
While it means nothing but to give us day.

10

20

TO MR CREECH,

ON HIS TRANSLATION OF LUCRETIUS.'1

WHAT all men wish'd, though few could hope to see,
We are now bless'd with, and obliged by thee.
Thou, from the ancient, learned Latin store,
Giv'st us one author, and we hope for more.
May they enjoy thy thoughts!-Let not the stage
The idlest moment of thy hours engage;

Each year that place some wondrous monster breeds,
And the wits' garden is o'errun with weeds.
There, Farce is Comedy; bombast called strong;
Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
"Tis hard to say they steal them now-a-days;
For sure the ancients never wrote such plays.
These scribbling insects have what they deserve,
Not plenty, nor the glory for to starve.
That Spenser knew, that Tasso felt before;
And death found surly Ben exceeding poor.
Heaven turn the omen from their image here!
May he with joy the well-placed laurel wear!
Great Virgil's happier fortune may he find,
And be our Cæsar, like Augustus, kind!

But let not this disturb thy tuneful head;
Thou writ'st for thy delight, and not for bread;
Thou art not cursed to write thy verse with care;
But art above what other poets fear.

What may we not expect from such a hand,
That has, with books, himself at free command?
Thou know'st in youth, what age has sought in vain;
And bring'st forth sons without a mother's pain.
So easy is thy sense, thy verse so sweet,

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20

Thy words so proper, and thy phrase so fit,

3)

Lucretius': this piece is not contained in Anderson, or the edition of 1693.

We read, and read again; and still admire

81

Whence came this youth, and whence this wondrous fire!

Pardon this rapture, sir! but who can be

Cold, and unmoved, yet have his thoughts on thee?

Thy goodness may my several faults forgive,
And by your help these wretched lines may live.
But if, when view'd by your severer sight,

They seem unworthy to behold the light,

Let them with speed in deserv'd flames be thrown!
They'll send no sighs, nor murmur out a groan;
But, dying silently, your justice own.

40

SONGS.

STAY, PHOEBUS!

1 STAY, Phœbus! stay;

The world to which you fly so fast,
Conveying day

From us to them, can pay your haste

With no such object, nor salute your rise,
With no such wonder as De Mornay's eyes.

2 Well does this prove

The error of those antique books,

Which made you move

About the world; her charming looks

Would fix your beams, and make it ever day,

Did not the rolling earth snatch her away.

PEACE, BABBLING MUSE!

1 PEACE, babbling Muse!

I dare not sing what you indite;
Her eyes refuse

To read the passion which they write.
She strikes my lute, but, if it sound,
Threatens to hurl it on the ground;
And I no less her anger dread,

Than the poor wretch that feigns him dead,
While some fierce lion does embrace
His breathless corpse, and lick his face;
Wrapp'd up in silent fear he lies,
Torn all in pieces if he cries.

CHLORIS! FAREWELL.

1 CHLORIS! farewell. I now must go; For if with thee I longer stay,

Thy eyes prevail upon me so,

I shall prove blind, and lose my way.

2 Fame of thy beauty, and thy youth,

Among the rest, me hither brought; Finding this fame fall short of truth,

Made me stay longer than I thought.

3 For I'm engaged by word and oath,
A servant to another's will;
Yet, for thy love, I'd forfeit both,
Could I be sure to keep it still.

4 But what assurance can I take,

When thou, foreknowing this abuse,
For some more worthy lover's sake,
Mayst leave me with so just excuse?

5 For thou mayst say, 'twas not thy fault That thou didst thus inconstant prove; Being by my example taught

To break thy oath, to mend thy love.

6 No, Chloris! no: I will return,

And raise thy story to that height, That strangers shall at distance burn, And she distrust me reprobate.

7 Then shall my love this doubt displace,
And gain such trust, that I may come
And banquet sometimes on thy face,
But make my constant meals at home.

TO FLAVIA.

1 'Tis not your beauty can engage
My wary heart;

The sun, in all his pride and rage,
Has not that art;

And yet he shines as bright as you,
If brightness could our souls subdue.

2 'Tis not the pretty things you say, Nor those you write,

Which can make Thyrsis' heart your prey; For that delight,

L