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Not tho' his monftrous Bulk had cover'd o'er
Nine spreading Acres, or nine thousand more;
Not tho' the Globe of Earth had been the Giant's Floor.
Nor in eternal Torments could he lie,

Nor could his Corps fufficient Food supply:
But he's the Tytius, who, by Love opprefs'd,
Or Tyrant Paffion preying on his Breaft,
And ever-anxious Thoughts, is robb'd of Reft.
The Sifyphus is he, whom Noife and Strife
Seduce from all the foft Retreats of Life ;
To vex the Government, disturb the Laws:
Drunk with the Fumes of popular Applaufe,
He courts the giddy Croud to make him great,

And fweats, and toils in vain to mount the fov'raign Seat.
For ftill to aim at Pow'r, and still to fail,

Ever to ftrive, and never to prevail,

What is it but, in Reafon's true Account,

To heave the Stone against the rifing Mount?

Which urg'd, and labour'd, and forc'd up with Pain,

(Plain.

Recoils, and rowls impetuous down, and fmoaks along the

Then ftill to treat thy ever-craving Mind

With ev'ry Bleffing, and of ev'ry Kind;

Yet never fill thy rav'ning Appetite,
Tho' Years and Seafons vary thy Delight;
Yet nothing to be feen of all the Store,

But ftill the Wolf within thee barks for more;
This is the Fable's Moral which they tell
Of fifty foolish Virgins damn'd in Hell,
To leaky Veffels which the Liquor fpill,

To Veffels of their Sex, which none cou'd ever fill.
As for the Dog, the Furies, and their Snakes,
The gloomy Caverns, and the burning Lakes,
And all the vain infernal Trumpery,
They neither are, nor were, nor e'er can be.
But here on Earth the Guilty have in view
The mighty Pains to mighty Mischiefs due:
Racks, Prifons, Poifons, the Tarpeian Rock,
Stripes, Hangmen, Pitch, and fuffocating Smoak;
And laft, and moft, if these were caft behind,
Th'avenging Horrour of a confcious Mind,
Whofe deadly Fear anticipates the Blow,
And fees no End of Punishment and Woe;
But looks for more at the laft Gafp of Breath;
This makes a Hell on Earth, and Life a Death.

Dryd. Lucr.

Thus Men, too careless of their future State, Difpute, know nothing, and repent too late. Dryd. D. of Guife.

Then

Then whither went his Soul, let fuch relate, Who fearch the Secrets of the future State. Divines can fay but what themselves believe; Strong Proofs they have, but not demonftrative: For were all plain, then all Sides must agree, And Faith it felf be loft in Certainty.

To live uprightly then is fure the best,

To fave our felves, and not to damn the reft. Dryd. Pal. Arc.
GALES. See Paradife.

The Story of GANYMEDE in Needle-work.
There Ganymede is wrought with living Art,
Chafing thro' Ida's Grove the trembling Hart:
Breathlefs he seems, yet eager to pursue;
When from aloft defcends in open View
The Bird of Jove, and fowfing on his Prey,
With crooked Talons bears the Boy away.
In vain, with lifted Hand and gazing Eyes,
His Guards behold him foaring thro' the Skies;

And Dogs purfue his Flight with imitated Cries. Dryd. Virg.
GARDEN.

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Now did I not fo near my Labours End

Strike Sail, and haft'ning to the Harbour tend,
My Song to flow'ry Gardens might extend.
To teach the vegetable Arts, to fing

The Paftan Rofes, and their double Spring:

How Succ'ry drinks the running Streams, and how
Green Beds of Partley near the River grow:
How Cucumers along the Surface creep,
With crooked Bodies, and with Bellies deep;
The late Narciffus, and the winding Trail
Of Bears-foot, Myrtle green, and Ivy pale.
For where with ftately Tow'rs Tarentum ftands,
And deep Galefus foaks the yellow Sands,
I chanc'd an old Corycian Swain to know,
Lord of few Acres, and those barren too;
Unfit for. Sheep or Vines, and more unfit to fow.
Yet lab'ring well his little Spot of Ground,

Some fcatt'ring Pot-herbs here and there he found;
Which cultivated with his daily Care,

And bruis'd with Vervain, were his frugal Fare :
Sometimes white Lillies did their Leaves afford,

With wholesom Poppy Aow'rs to mend his homely Board.
For late returning home, he fupp'd at Eafe,

And wifely deem'd the Wealth of Monarchs lefs:
The Little of his own, because his own, did pleafe.
To quit his Care, he gather'd, first of all,

In Spring the Rofes, Apples in the Fall,

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And when cold Winter fplit the Rocks in twain,
And Ice the running Rivers did reftrain,

He ftripp'd the Bears-foot of its leafy Growth,

And calling weftern Winds, accus'd the Spring of Sloth.
He therefore firft among the Swains was found
To reap the Product of his labour'd Ground,

And fqueeze the Combs with golden Liquor crown'd.
His Limes were firft in Flow'r, his lofty Pines
With friendly Shade fecur'd his tender Vines:
For ev'ry Bloom his Trees in Spring afford,
An Autumn Apple was by Tale reftor'd.
He knew to rank his Elms in even Rows,
For Fruit the grafted Pear-tree to difpofe,
And tame to Plums the Sournefs of the Sloes.
With fpreading Planes he made a cool Retreat,

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To fhade Good-fellows from the Summer's Heat. Dryd. Virg.
Bear me, fome God, to Baia's gentle Seats,

Or cover me in Umbria's green Retreats,

Where ev'n rough Rocks with tender Myrtle bloom,
And trodden Weeds fend out a rich Perfume.
Where western Gales eternally refide,

And all the Seafons lavish all their Pride:

Bloffoms, and Fruits, and Flow'rs together rife,
And the whole Year in gay Confufion lies.
O bleffed Shades! O gentle cool Retreat
From all th'immoderate Heat

In which the frantick World does burn and fweat:
Where Birds that dance from Bough to Bough,
And fing above in ev'ry Tree,

Are not from Fears and Cares more free,
Than we, who lie, or walk below.

What Prince's Quire of Mufick can excel

That which within this Shade does dwell?
To which we nothing pay or give:

Birds, like other Poets, live

Without Reward or Thanks for their obliging Pains :
'Tis well if they become not Prey.
The whiftling Winds add their lefs artful Strains,
And a grave Bafe the murm'ring Fountains play.
Nature does all this Harmony beflow;

But to our Plants Art's Mulick too,

The Pipe, Theorbo, and Ghittar we owe;

The Lute it felf, which once was green and mute:
When Orpheus ftruck th'infpir'd Lute,

The Trees danc'd round, and understood,
By Sympathy, the Voice of Wood.

Thefe are the Spells that to kind Sleep invite,

Add.

And

And nothing does within Resistance make
Which yet we moderately take,

;

Who would not chufe to be awake.

When he's incompass'd round with fuch Delight,
To th'Ear, the Smell, the Touch, the Tafte, the Sight?
When Venus would her dear Adonis keep

A Pris'ner in the downy Bands of Sleep;
She od'rous Herbs and Shrubs beneath him fpread,
As the moft foft and sweetest Bed;

Not her own Lap would more have charm'd his Head.
We no-where Art do fo triumphant fee,

As when it grafts or buds the Tree;

In other things we count it to excel,
If it a docil Scholar can appear
To Nature, and but imitate her well;
It over-rules, and is her Master here.

Who would not joy to fee his conqu'ring Hand
O'er all the vegetable World command ?

He bids th'ill-natur'd Crab produce
The gentle Apple's winy Juice.
He does the favage Hawthorn teach
To bear the Medlar and the Pear;
He bids the ruftick Plum to rear
A nobler Trunk, and be a Peach.
Ev'n Daphne's Coynefs he does mock,
And weds the Cherry to her Stock;
Tho' fhe refus'd Apollo's Suit,

Ev'n fhe, that chaste and Virgin Tree,
Now wonders at her felf, to fee

That fhe's a Mother made, and blushes in her Fruit.
Methinks I fee great Dioclefian walk

In the Salonian Garden's noble Shade,
Which by his own imperial Hands were made.
Methinks I fee him fmile while he does talk
With the Embaffadors, who come in vain
T'invite him to a Throne again:
If I, my Friends, fays he, fhould to you fhow
All the Delights that in this Garden grow;

'Tis likelier much that you would with me ftay,
Than 'tis that you should carry me away:

And truft me not, my Friends, if ev'ry Day
I walk not here with more Delight,
Than ever, after the most happy Fight,

In Triumph to the Capitol I rode,

(Cowl.

To thank the Gods, and to be thought my felf almost a God.

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GARDEN of Eden. Sea Paradife.

GAUNTLETS.

He threw

Two pond'rous Gauntlets down in open View
Gauntlets which Eryx wont in Fight to wield,
And fheath his Hands within the lifted Field.
With Fear and Wonder feiz'd, the Croud beholds
The Gloves of Death, with feven diftinguifh'd Folds
Of rough Bull-Hides: The Space within is fpread
With Iron, or with Loads of heavy Lead.

Thefe round their Shoulders to their Wrists they ty'd:
Both on the Tiptoe ftand, at full Extent,
Their Arms aloft, their Bodies inly bent:
Their Heads from aiming Blows they bear afar;
And clafhing Gauntlets then provoke the War.
One on his Youth and pliant Limbs relies,
One on his Sinews and his Giant Size:
The laft is ftiff with Age, his Motion flow,
He heaves for Breath, and ftaggers to and fro,
And Clouds of iffuing Smoke his Noftrils loudly blow.
Yet equal in Succefs, they ward, they strike;
Their Ways are diff'rent, but their Art alike.
Before, behind, the Blows are dealt around;
Their hollow Sides the ratling Thumps refound.
A Storm of Strokes, well meant, with Fury flies,
And errs about their Temples, Ears, and Eyes:
Not always errs; for oft the Gauntlet draws
A fweeping Stroke along the crackling Jaws.
Heavy with Age, Entellus ftands his Ground,
But with his warping Body wards the Wound:
His Hand and watchful Eye keep even Pace,
While Dares traverfes and fhifts his Place:
With Hands on high Entellus threats the Foe,
But Dares watch'd the Motion from below,
And flip'd afide, and fhun'd the long-defcending Blow.
Entellus waftes his Forces on the Wind,
And thus deluded of the Stroke defign'd,
Headlong and heavy fell; his ample Breaft
And weighty Limbs his antient Mother preft.
He lays on load with either Hand amain,

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And headlong drives the Trojan o'er the Plain;

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Nor Stops, nor Stays, nor Reft, nor Breath allows,
But Storms of Strokes defcend about his Brows,
A ratling Tempeft, and a Hail of Blows,

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