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Eager our Souls to bring Relief,

Swife from their opening Bosom flow, To fooch the mourning Parents Grief,

Or guard the Infant from the Blow..

So lively has each Nymph complain'd,

When Fate thy Muse despairing drew; That tho' we know her Sorrows feign’d,

Yet still we weep, and think 'em true.

A while we argue to perswade

Our melting Eyes to hide their Woc, Till to their View the lovely Maid

Reveals her Wounds, and bids 'em flow

Thy artful Voice, with equal Eafe,

Each diffrent Passion can employ ; Now give us Pain, but to increase,

And from our Grief improve our Joyo

Who in your soft deceiving Strains

With tbose kind Conquerors agree; Who threaten firft the dreadful Chains

Then set the trembling Captive free.

What Raptures does thy Verse infuse,

When Beauty does the Theme inspire ! What Heat transports thy foaring Muse !

If Scenes of War thy Bofom Fire !



While for bright Fame, or gay Delight,

Each Hero you alike prepare,
Lead the fierce Warrior to the Fight,

Or the young Lover to the Fair.

Nature astonish'd at thy Art

Casts on thy Muse a jealous Eye; Her Joys unable to impart,

Or longer pleafe when thou art by.

The Artist thus, his Skill to grace,

Some beauteous breathing Form design'd, Forsakes the Virgin's Cheek, to trace

Features more bright in his own Mind.

Each glowing Charm the Canvass fires;

Does with Delight the Nymph surprize, Who owes that Beauty She admires,

More to his Pencil than her Eyes.

What, thor our Lawrels fairer risi,

And from thy Ames date their Bloom, We pay too dearly for the Prize,

Thus fadly purchas'd by thy Doom..':

Pity, ye Gods, that doubtful Dart

Which your mysterious Anger threw, Shou'd give at once both Joy and Smart,

Augment our Fame and Sorrow too.


Just fo the Skies, severely bright,

Their vengeful Light’nings oft employ, And gild tirat Oak with fairer Light,

They mean next Moment to destroy,

How mournful is the only Choice,

Your Heayens afford our Breast to ease, Or to lament thy Dying Voice,

Or never hope our own Mou'd pleasc.

Thus to the Heirs of. bright Renowng

The Purple you a while deny,
Who, c'er they boaft the Regal Crown,

Must view their King and Parent Dye.

Strange, that the Glories which we claim

From thy fad. Eate, no Pleasures give, The fair Encreafe of all our Fame,

The only Cause for which we grieve.

See † SHAKESPEAR's Awful. Reverend Shade

Rising, his Fav'rite to adore !
And binds thy Brows with Lawrel, male

By Fame, to made his own before.

To thy Indulgence pleas'd to owe

The Terrors that his Muse imparts,

+ Shakespear's Works, revis'd and corre&ed by Mr. Rowe.



To swell our Eye, the Scenes of Woe,

The moving Dread to thake our Hearts..

The diff'rent Fates of all that rcign

Distinguish'd in whose Muse appear, What the good Men may hope to gain,

And what the daring Tyrant fear.

Whose || Tragick Voice Thall next presume

To fill our Breasts with fad Despair ?? Or trembling for the Lover's Doom,

Or anxious for the Dying Fair?

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To Tears, whose Sighs her Wrongs confefs,

Our Eyes with soft Compaffion flow; Teaching thy Virgin's feign’d Diftress,

To give our Bosom real Woe.

In vain we ask our Reason's Aid,

To stop our Tears, or case our Pain ; To view thy Fair Repenting Maid,

Each Cheek muft swell, each Heart complais.

O! footh her Anguifh! calm her Grief!

O ! quickly to her Refuge fly!
O! bring the Fainting Fair Relief,

Or with her give us Leave to Dye!

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Such moving Scenes thy Mufe unfolds;

Constrain’d its Anguifh to declare ju A Savage Heart each Bofom holds,

That can attend and not despair.

What Wonders does thy Verfe contain,

What Magick throthy Numbers flows Pleas'd with our Grief, we then complain,

Then only, when we want our Woes.

No Eye those Sorrows does refuse,

Thy penfive Maids expiring give; Scarce more delighted, when thy Muse

Sufpends their Fate, and bids 'em livc.

Strange that our Cheeks shou'd grieve the more :

When you the falling Tear restrain ; And to forbid us to deplore,

Shou'd only give us greater Pain.

Thus trenibling for her Lover's Fare,

A while the Virgin's Sorrows flow; Owning, to hear his Sighs abate

Her Joy, more painful'than her Woe.

0, may each Mute with Sorrows meet !

Soft as thy own, thy Worth declare; Since nothing but a Voice so sweet,

Can ever fing a Fame fo Fair.

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