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To fwell our Eye, the Scenes of Woe,
The moving Dread to flake our Hearts..

The diff'rent Fates of all that reign
Diftinguish'd in whofe Mufe appear,
What the good Men may hope to gain,
And what the daring Tyrant fear.

Whofe Tragick Voice fhall next prefume
To fill our Breasts with fad Despair?
Or trembling for the Lover's Doom,
Or anxious for the Dying Fair?

To Tears, whofe Sighs her Wrongs confefs,
Our Eyes with foft Compaffion flow;
Teaching thy Virgin's feign'd Distress,
To give our Bofom real Woe.

In vain we ask our Reason's Aid,

To ftop our Tears, or cafe our Pain;

To view thy Fair Repenting Maid,

Each Cheek muft fwell, each Heart complain.

O! footh her Anguish! calm her Grief!

O quickly to her Refuge fly!

O bring the Fainting Fair Relief,

Or with her give us Leave to Dye!

His excellent Tragedies.

Such

Such moving Scenes thy Mufe unfolds,
Conftrain'd its Anguifh to declare ;.
A Savage Heart each Bofom holds,
That can attend and not defpair.

What Wonders does thy Verfe contain,
What Magick thro' thy Numbers flows,
Pleas'd with our Grief, we then complain,
Then only, when we want our Woes.

No Eye thofe Sorrows does refuse,
Thy penfive Maids expiring give;
Scarce more delighted, when thy Mufe
Sufpends their Fate, and bids 'em live.

Strange that our Cheeks fhou'd grieve the more
When you the falling Tear reftrain ;

And to forbid us to deplore,

Shou'd only give us greater Pain.

Thus trembling for her Lover's Fate,
A while the Virgin's Sorrows flow;
Owning, to hear his Sighs abate

0,

Her Joy, more painful than her Woe..

may each Mufe with Sorrows meet! Soft as thy own, thy Worth declare; Since nothing but a Voice fo fweet,

Can ever fing a Fame so Fair.

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A fecond Life to thy Great Dead,
Thy kind Infpirtng Numbers Gave;
Had we that Power, the Tears We fhed
Had fell to wet fome other Grave.

Thine, like each Fabled Hero's Age, Thy felf with Virtue didst Infpire; And acting well on Life's frail Stage,

Doft with the fame Applaufe retire.

POEM S

Ο Ν

Several Occafions.

An EPISTLE to FLAVIA,

On the Sight of two Pindarick Odes on the Spleen and Vanity. Written by a Lady her

Friend.

F

LAVIA, to you with Safety I commend

This Verfe, the fecret Failing of your Friend

To your good Nature I fecurely truft, :
Who know, that to conceal, is to be juft.
The Mufe, like wretched Maids by Love, undone,
From Friends, Acquaintance and the Light would run

Confcious

Conscious of Folly, fears attending Shame,
Fears the cenforious World, and Lofs of Fame,
Some Confident by Chance he finds, (tho' few.
Pity the Fools, whom Love or Verfe undo)
Whofe fond Compaffion fooths her in the Sing
And fets her on to venture once again.

Sure, in the better Ages of old Time,

Nor Poetry nor Love was thought a Crime;
From Heav'n they both the Gods beft Gifts were fsent,
Divinely perfect both, and innocent.

Then were bad Poets and loofe Loves not known;
None felt a Warmth which they might blush to own.
Beneath cool Shades our happy Fathers day,

And spent in pure untainted Joys the Day:
Artlefs their Loves, artlefs their Numbers were,
While Nature fimply did in both appear,

Nor could the Cenfor or the Critick fear.

T

Pleas'd to be pleas'd, they took what Heaven bestow'ds

Nor were too curious of the given Good.

At length, like Indians fond of fancy'd Toys, -
We loft being happy, to be thought more wife.
In one curs'd Age, to punish Verse and Sin,
Criticks and Hangmen, both at once, came in.
Wit and the Laws had both the fame ill Fate,
And partial Tyrants fway'd in either State.
Ill-natur❜d Cenfure would be fure to damn
An Alien-wit of independent Fame,

While Bays grown old, and harden'd in Offence,
Was fuffer'd to write on in Spite of Senfe;

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