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No drop of blood is spilt, which might be said
To mark our joyful holiday with red.

’T was only Heaven could work this wondrous thing,

· And only work’t by such a king. Again the northern hinds may sing and plough, And fear no harm but from the weather now ;

Again may tradesmen love their pain,

By knowing now for whom they gain ; The armour now may be hung up to sight, And only in their balls the children fright.

The gain of civil wars will not allow

Bay to the conqueror's brow:
At such a game what fool would venture in,
Where one must lose, yet neither side can win?
· How justly would our neighbours smile

At these mad quarrels of our isle ;
Swell’d with proud hopes to snatch the whole away,
Whilst we bett all, and yet for nothing play!

How was the silver Tine frighted before,

And durst not kiss the armed shore ! His waters ran more swiftly than they use, And hasted to the sea to tell the news :

The sea itself, how rough soe'er,

Could scarce believe such fury here.
How could the Scots and we be enemies grown?
That, and its master Charles, had made us one.

No blood so loud as that of civil war:

It calls for dangers from afar.
Let's rather go and seek out them and fame;
Thus our fore-fathers got, thus left, a name :

All their rich blood was spent with gains,

But that which swells their children's veins. Why sit we still, our spirits wrapt in lead ? Not like them whilst they liv’d, but now they ’re dead.

The noise at home was but Fate's policy,

To raise our spirits more high :
So a bold lion, ere he seeks his prey,
Lashes his sides and roars, and then away.

How would the German Eagle fear

To see a new Gustavus there ! How would it shake, though as't was wont to do," For Jove of old, it now bore thunder too !

Sure there are actions of this height and praise

Destin'd to Charles's days!
What will the triumphs of his battles be,
Whose very peace itself is victory! .

When Heaven bestows the best of kings,

It bids us think of mighty things :
His valour, wisdom, offspring, speak no less;
And we, the prophets' sons, write not by guess.

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VANDYKE is dead; but what bold Muse shall dare
(Though poets in that word with painters share)
T'express her sadness ? Poesy must become .
An art liķe Painting here, an art that 's dumb...
Let's all our solemn grief in silence keep, ...
Like some sad picture which he made to weep, ;
Or those who saw't; for none his works could view
Unmoy'd with the same passions which he drew.
His pieces so with their live objects strive,
That both or pictures seem, or both alive.
Nature herself, amaz'd, does doubting stand, . .
Which is her own and which the painter's hand;....
And does attempt the like with less success,
When her own work in twins she would express.
His all-resembling pencil did out-pass
The mimic imagery of looking-glass.
Nor was his life less perfect than his art,
Nor was his hand less erring than his heart.
There was no false or fading colour there, :;:
The figures sweet and well-proportion'd
Most other men, set next to him in view,
Appear'd more shadows than the men he drew.

Thus still he liv'd, till Heav'n did for him call; Where reverend Luke salutes him first of all ; Where he beholds new sights, divinely fair, And could almost wish for his pencil there; Did he not gladly see how all things shine, Wondrously painted in the Mind Divine, Whilst he, for ever ravish'd with the show, Scorns his own art, which we admire below.

Only his beauteous lady still he loves (The love of heavenly objects Heaven improves); He sees bright angels in pure beams appear, And thinks on her he left so like them here. And you, fair widow! who stay here alive, Since he so much rejoices, cease to grieve: Your joys and griefs were wont the same to be ; Begin not now, blest pair! to disagree. No wonder death mov'd not his generous mind; You, and a new-born You, he left behind : Ev'n Fate express'd his love to his dear wife, And let him'end your picture with his life.


HOW wretched does Prometheus' state appear,
Whilst he his second misery suffers here!
Draw him no more ; lest, as he tortur'd stands,
He blame great Jove's less than the painter's hands.
It would the Vulture's cruelty outgo,
If once again his liver thus should grow.
Pity him, Jove! and his bold theft allow;
The flames he once stole from thee grant him now!


HERE's to theė, Dick; this whining love despise;
Pledge me, my friend; and drink till thou be'st wise.

It sparkles brighter far than she :
'Tis pure and right, without deceit;
And such no woman ere will be:
No; they are all sophisticate.

With all thy servile pains what canst thou win,
But an ill-favour'd and uncleanly sin ?
· A thing so vile, and so short-liv’d, :.

That Venus' joys, as well as she,
With reason may be said to be
· From the neglected foam deriv'd.

Whom would that painted toy a beauty move; ..
Whom would it e'er persuade to court and love ;

Could he a woman's heart have seen', ;
(But, oh! no light does thither come),
And view'd her per ectly within,
When he lay shut up in her womb?

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