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In cruel absence doom'd past joys to mourn, And think on hours that will no more return! Oh let me ne'er the pangs of absence try, Save me from absence, Love, or let me die.

Thus to almighty Love I cry'd, When angry thus the god reply'd: "Blessings greater none can havé, Art thou not Amynta's slave? Cease, fond mortal, to implore, For Love, ev'n Love himself's no more."


ALSE though she be to me and love,

I'll ne'er pursue revenge;
For still the charmer I approve,

Though I deplore her change. In hours of bliss we oft have met,

They could not always last; And though the present I regret, I'm grateful for the past.

1. I



LOVE and am belov'd again,
Strephon no more shall sigh in vain;
I've try'd his faith, and found him true,
And all my coyness bid adieu.

2. I love, and am belov'd again,
Yet still my Thyrsis shall complain;
I'm sure he's mine, while I refuse him,
But when I yield, I fear to lose him.

1. Men will grow faint with tedious fasting : 2. And both will tire with often tasting, When they find the bliss not lasting.

1. Love is complete in kind possessing. 2. Ah no! ah no! that ends the blessing.

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me no more I am deceived,
That Cloe's false and common;

I always knew (at least believ'd)
She was a very woman:
As such I lik'd, as such caress'd,
She still was constant when possess'd,
She could do more for no man.
But, oh! her thoughts on others ran,
And that you think a hard thing:
Perhaps she fancy'd you the man,

And what care I one farthing?

You think she's false, I'm sure she's kind;
I take her body, you her mind,
Who has the better bargain?


CRUEL Amynta, can you see

A heart thus torn, which you betray'd? Love of himself ne'er vanquish'd me,

But through your eyes the conquest made. In ambush there the traitor lay, Where I was led by faithless smiles; No wretches are so lost as they Whom much security beguiles.


SEE, see, she wakes, Sabina wakes!
And now the Sun begins to rise;

Less glorious is the morn that breaks
From his bright beams, than her fair eyes.
With light united, day they give,

But different fates ere night fulfil;

How many by his warmth will live!
How many will her coldness kill!




HARD is the task, and bold th' adventurous flight,
Of him, who dares in praise of beauty write;
For when to that high theme our thoughts ascend,
'Tis to detract, too poorly to commend.
And he, who, praising beauty, does no wrong,
May boast to be successful in his song:
But when the fair themselves approve his lays,
And one accepts, and one vouchsafes to praise ;
His wide ambition knows no farther bound,
Nor can his Muse with brighter fame be crown'd.



WERE there on Earth another voice like thine,

Another hand so blest with skill divine!
The late afflicted world some hopes might have,
And Harmony retrieve thee from the grave.


"GRANT me, gentle Love," said I, "One dear blessing ere I die; Long I've borne excess of pain, Let me now some bliss obtain


PIOUS Selinda goes to prayers,

If I but ask the favour; And yet the tender fool's in tears,

When she believes I'll leave her.

Would I were free from this restraint,

Or else had hopes to win her! Would she could make of me a saint, Or I of her a sinner!




O HARMONY! to thee we sing,
To thee the grateful tribute bring

Of sacred verse, and sweet-resounding lays;
Thy aid invoking while thy power we praise.
All hail to thee,
All-powerful Harmony!

Wise Nature owns thy undisputed sway,
Her wondrous works resigning to thy care:
The planetary orbs thy rule obey,
And tuneful roll, unerring in their way,
Thy voice informing each melodious sphere.


All hail to thee,
All-powerful Harmony !

Thy voice, O Harmony, with awful sound,
Could penetrate th' abyss profound,
Explore the realms of ancient Night,
And search the living source of unborn Light.
Confusion heard thy voice, and fled,
And Chaos deeper plung'd his vanquish'd head.
Then didst thou, Harmony, give birth
To this fair form of Heaven and Earth;
Then all those shining worlds above
In mystic dance began to move
Around the radiant sphere of central fire,
A never-ceasing, never-silent choir.

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Reason in vain employs her aid,

The furious will on fancy waits;

While Reason, still by hopes or fears betray'd,
Too late advances, or too soon retreats.

Music alone with sudden charms can bind

The wandering sense, and calm the troubled mind.


Music alone with sudden charms can bind
The wandering sense, and calm the troubled mind.
Begin the powerful song, ye sacred Nine,
Your instruments and voices join;
Harmony, peace, and sweet desire,
In every breast inspire.

Revive the melancholy drooping heart,
And soft repose to restless thoughts impart.
Appease the wrathful mind,

To dire revenge and death inclin'd:
With balmy sounds his boiling blood assuage,
And melt to mild remorse his burning rage.
"Tis done; and now tumultuous passions cease;
And all is hush'd, and all is peace.

The weary world with welcome ease is blest,
By music lull'd to pleasing rest.


"Tis done; and now tumultuous passions cease; And all is hush'd, and all is peace.

The weary world with welcome ease is blest,
By Music lull'd to pleasing rest.

Ah, sweet repose, too soon expiring!
Ah, foolish man, new toils requiring!
Curs'd Ambition, strife pursuing,
Wakes the world to war and ruin.
See, see, the battle is prepar'd!
Behold, the hero comes!
Loud trumpets with shrill fifes are heard;
And hoarse resounding drums.
War, with discordant notes and jarring noise,
The harmony of Peace destroys.


War, with discordant notes and jarring noise,
The harmony of Peace destroys.

See the forsaken fair, with streaming eyes,
Her parting lover mourn;

She weeps, she sighs, despairs, and dies, And watchful wastes the lonely livelong nights Bewailing past delights,

That may no more, no, never more return.
O soothe her cares

With softest, sweetest airs,
Til Victory and Peace restore

Her faithful lover to her tender breast,
Within her folding arms to rest,
Thence never to be parted more,
No, never to be parted more.


Let Victory and Peace restore Her faithful lover to her tender breast, Within her folding arms to rest, Thence never to be parted more, No, never to be parted more. Enough, Urania, heavenly fair! Now to thy native skies repair! And rule again the starry sphere; Cecilia comes, with holy rapture fill'd, To ease the world of care, Cecilia, more than all the Muses skill'd! Phœbus himself to her utust yield,

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AFTER a painful life in study spent,

The learn'd themselves their ignorance lament;
And aged men, whose lives exceed the space
Which seems the bound prescrib'd to mortal race,
With hoary heads, their short experience grieve,
As doom'd to die before they've learn❜d to live,
So hard it is true knowledge to attain,
So frail is life, and fruitless human pain!
Whoe'er on this reflects, and then beholds,
With strict attention, what this book unfolds,
With admiration struck, shall question who
So very long could live, so much to know?
For so complete the finish'd piece appears,
That learning seems combin'd with length of years;
And both improv'd by purest wit, to reach
At all that study or that time can teach.
But to what height must his amazement rise,
When, having read the work, he turns his eyes
Again to view the foremost opening page,
And there the beauty, sex, and tender age,
Of her beholds, in whose pure mind arose
Th' ethereal source from whence this current flows!
When prodigies appear, our reason fails,
And superstition o'er philosophy prevails.
Some heavenly minister, we straight conclude,
Some angel-mind, with female form endued,
To make a short abode on Earth was sent,
(Where no perfection can be permanent)
And, having left her bright example here,
Was quick recall'd, and bid to disappear.
Whether around the throne, eternal hymns
She sings amid the choir of seraphims;
Or some refulgent star informs, and guides,
Where she, the blest intelligence, presides;
Is not for us to know who here remain;
For 'twere as impious to inquire as vain:
And all we ought, or can, in this dark state,
Is, what we have admir'd, to imitate.



As when of old heroic story tells,
Of knights imprison'd long by magic spells,
Till future time the destin'd hero send,
By whom the dire enchantment is to end:
Such seems this work, and so reserv'd for thee,
Thou great revealer of dark poesy.

Those sullen clouds, which have, for ages past,
O'er Persius' too-long suffering Muse been cast,
Disperse, and fly before thy sacred peu,
And, in their room, bright tracks of light are seen.
Sure Phobus' self thy swelling breast inspires,
The god of music, and poetic fires:

Else, whence proceeds this great surprise of light!
How dawns this day, forth from the womb of Night
Our wonder now does our past folly show,
Vainly contemning what we did not know:
So unbelievers impiously despise
The sacred oracles in mysteries.
Persius before in small esteem was had,
Unless what to antiquity is paid;
But, like Apocrypha, with scruple read
(So far our ignorance our faith misled);
Till you, Apollo's darling priest, thought fit
To place it in the poet's sacred writ.

As coin, which bears some awful monarch's face,
For more than its intrinsic worth will pass;
So your bright image, which we here behold,
Adds worth to worth, and dignifies the gold,
To you we all this following treasure owe,
This Hippocrene, which from a rock did flow.
Old stoic virtue, clad in rugged lines,
Polish'd by you, in modern brilliant shines;
And as before, for Persius, our esteem
To his antiquity was paid, not him:
So now, whatever praise from us is due,
Belongs not to old Persius, but the new,
For, still obscure, to us no light he gives;
Dead in himself, in you alone he lives.

So stubborn flints their inward heat conceal, Till art and force th' unwilling sparks reveal; But through your skill, from those small seeds of


Bright flames arise, which never can expire.



THE design of this satire is to expose and reprehend all manner of intemperance and debauchery; but more particularly that exorbitant luxury used by the Romans in their feasting. The poet draws the occasion from an invitation which he here makes to his friend to dine with him; very artfully preparing him with what he was to expect from his treat, by beginning the satire, with a particular invective | against the vanity and folly of some persons, who, having but mean fortunes in the world, attempted to live up to the height of men of great estates and quality. He shows us the miserable end of such spendthrifts and gluttons, with the manner and courses which they took to bring themselves to it; advising men to live within bounds, and to proportion their inclinations to the extent of their fortune. He gives his friend a bill of fare of the entertainment he has provided for him; and from thence he takes occasion to reflect upon the temperance and frugality of the greatest men in former ages: to which he opposes the riot and intemperance of the present; attributing to the latter a visible remissness in the care of Heaven over the Roman state. He instances some lewd practices at feasts, and, by the by, touches the nobility with making vice and debauchery consist with their principal pleasures. He concludes with a repeated invitation to his friend; advising him (in one particular somewhat freely) to a neglect of all cares and disquiets for the present, and moderate use of pleasure for the future.

Ir noble Atticus make splendid feasts,
And with expensive food indulge his guests,
His wealth and quality support the treat;
Nor is it luxury in him, but state.
But when poor Rutilus spends all he's worth,
In hopes of setting one good dinner forth;
"T'is downright madness: for what greater jests,
Than begging gluttons, or than beggars' feasts?
But Rutilus is now notorious grown,
And proves the common theme of all the town.
A man in his full tide of youthful blood,
Able for arms, and for his country's good;
Urg'd by no power, restrain'd by no advice,
But following his own inglorious choice:
'Mongst common fencers practises the trade,
That end debasing for which arms were made;
Arms which to man ne'er-dying fame afford,
But his disgrace is owing to his sword.
Many there are of the same wretched kind,
Whom their despairing creditors may find
Lurking in shambles; where with borrow'd coin
They buy choice meats, and in cheap plenty dine;
Such, whose sole bliss is eating; who can give
But that one brutal reason why they live.
And yet, what's more ridiculous, of these
The poorest wretch is still most hard to please;
And he whose thin transparent rags declare
How much his tatter'd fortune wants repair,


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Would ransack every element for choice
Of every fish and fowl at any price ;
If, brought fron far, it very dear has cost,
It has a flavour then, which pleases most,
And he devours it with a greater gust.

In riot thus, while money lasts, he lives,
Till forc'd of mere necessity to eat,
And that exhausted, still new pledges gives;
Nothing of silver or of gold he spares,
He comes to pawn his dish to buy his meat.
Not what his mother's sacred image bears;
The broken relic he with speed devours,
As he would all the rest of's ancestors,
They'd pay the price of one luxurious meal.
If wrought in gold, or if expos'd to sale,
Thus certain ruin treads upon his heels,
The stings of hunger, soon, and want, he feels;
And thus is he reduc'd, at length, to serve
Fencers for miserable scraps, or starve.

The question is, at whose expense 'tis drest.
Imagine now you see a plenteous feast;
In great Ventidius we the bounty prize;
In Rutilus the vanity despise.
Strange ignorance! that the same man who knows
How far yon mount above this mole-hill shows,
Should not perceive a difference as great
Between small incomes and a vast estate!
From Heaven to mortals sure that rule was sent,
To be our never-erring pilot here,
Of" Know thyself," and by some god was meant,
Through all the various courses which we steer.
Thersites, though the most presumptuous Greek,
Yet durst not for Achilles' armour speak;
When scarce Ulysses had a good pretence,
With all th' advantage of his eloquence.
Whoe'er attempts weak causes to support,
Ought to be very sure he's able for't;
And not mistake strong lungs and impudence,
For harmony of words and force of sense:
Fools only make attempts beyond their skill;
A wise man's power's the limit of his will.

If Fortune has a niggard been to thee,
Devote thyself to thrift, not luxury;
And wisely make that kind of food thy choice,
To which necessity confines thy price.
Well may they fear some miserable end,
Whom gluttony and want at once attend;
Whose large voracious throats have swallow'd all,
Both land and stock, interest and principal:
Well may they fear, at length, vile Pollio's fate,
Who sold his very ring to purchase meat;
And, though a knight, 'mongst common slaves
now stands,

Begging an alms with undistinguish'd hands.
Sure sudden death to such should welcome be,
On whom each added year heaps misery,
Scorn, poverty, reproach, and infamy.
But there are steps in villainy which these
Observe to tread and follow by degrees.
Money they borrow, and from all that lend,
Which, never meaning to restore, they spend;
But that and their small stock of credit gone,
Lest Rome should grow too warm, from thence they


For of late years 'tis no more scandal grown,
For debt and roguery to quit the town,
Than, in the midst of summer's scorching heat,
From crowds, and noise, and business, to retreat,
One only grief such fugitives can find,
Reflecting on the pleasures left behind,

The plays and loose diversions of the place;
But not one blush appears for the disgrace.
Ne'er was of modesty so great a dearth,
That out of countenance, Virtue's fled from

Baffled, expos'd to ridicule and scorn,
She's with Astrea gone, not to return.

This day, my Persicus, thou shalt perceive
Whether myself I keep those rules I give,
Or else an unsuspected glutton live;
If moderate fare and abstinence I prize
In public, yet in private gormandize.
Evander's feast reviv'd, to day thou'lt see;
That poor Evander, I, and thou shalt be
Alcides and Eneas both to me.

Meantime, I send you now your bill of fare;
Be not surpris'd that 'tis all homely cheer:
For nothing from the shambles I provide,
But from my own small farm the tenderest kid,
And fattest of my flock, a suckling yet,
That ne'er had nourishment but from the teat;
No bitter willow-tops have been its food,
Scarce grass; its veins have more of milk than

Next that, shall mountain 'sparagus be laid,
Pull'd by some plain, but cleanly country maid.
The largest eggs, yet warm within their nest,
Together with the hens which laid them, drest;
Clusters of grapes preserv'd for half a year,
Which plump and fresh as on the vines appear;
Apples of a ripe flavour, fresh and fair,
Mixt with the Syrian and the Signian pear,
Mellow'd by winter, from their cruder juice,
Light of digestion now, and fit for use.

Such food as this would have been heretofore
Accounted riot in a senator:

When the good Curius thought it no disgrace,l
With his own hands a few small herbs to dress;
And from his little garden cull'd a feast,
Which fetter'd slaves would now disdain to taste;
For scarce a slave, but has to dinner now,
The well-dress'd paps of a fat pregnant sow.

But heretofore 'twas thought a sumptuous treat,
On birth-days, festivals, or days of state,
A salt dry flitch of bacon to prepare:
If they had fresh meat, 'twas delicions fare!
Which rarely happen'd: and 'twas highly priz'd
If aught was left of what they sacrific'd.

To entertainments of this kind would come
The worthiest and the greatest men in Rome;
Nay, seldom any at such treats were seen,
But those who had, at least, thrice consuls been ;
Or the dictator's office had discharg'd,
And now from honourable toil enlarg'd,
Retid to husband and manure the land,
Humbling themselves to those they might com-

Then might y' have seen the good old general
Before th' appointed hour, to such a feast;
His spade aloft, as 'twere in triumph held,
Proud of the conquest of some stubborn field.
'Twas then when pious consuls bore the sway,
And Vice, discourag'd, pale and trembling lay,
Our censors then were subject to the law,
Ev'n Power itself of Justice stood in awe.
It was not then a Roman's anxious thought,
Where largest tortoise shells were to be bought,
Where pearls might of the great st price be had,
And shining jewels to adorn his bed,
That he at vast expense might loll his head.

Plain was his couch, and only rich his mind:
Contentedly he slept, as cheaply as he din'd.
The soldier then, in Grecian arts unskill'd,
Returning rich with plunder from the field,
If cups of silver or of gold be brought,
With jewels set, and exquisitely wrought,
To glorious trappings straight the plate he turn'd,
And with the glittering spoil his horse adorn'd;
Or else a helmet for himself be made,
Where various warlike figures were inlaid :
The Roman wolf suckling the twins was there,
And Mars himself, arm'd with his shield and


Hovering above his crest, did dreadful show,
As threatening death to each resisting foe.
No use of silver, but in arms, was known;
Splendid they were in war, and there alone.
No sideboards then with gilded plate were dress'd,
No sweating slaves with massive dishes press'd;
Expensive riot was not understood,

But earthen platters held their homely food.
Who would not envy them that age of bliss,
That sees with shame the luxury of this?
Heaven unwearied then did blessings pour,
And pitying Jove foretold each dangerous hour;
Mankind were then familiar with the god,
He snuff'd their incense with a gracious nod,
And would have still been bounteous, as of old,
Had we not left him for that idol, gold.
His golden statues hence the god have driven :
For well he knows where our devotion's given.
"Tis gold we worship, though we pray to Heaven.
Woods of our own atïorded tables then,
Though none can please us now but from Japan.
Invite my lord to dine, and let him have
The nicest dish his appetite can crave;
But let it on an oaken board be set,
His lordship will grow sick, and cannot eat:
Something's amiss, he knows not what to think,
Either your venison's rank, or ointments stink.
Order some other table to be brought,
Something at great expeuse in India bought,
Beneath whose orb large yawning panthers lie,
Carv'd on rich pedestals of ivory:

He finds no more of that offensive smell,
The meat recovers, and my lord grows well.
An ivory table is a certain whet;
You would not think how heartily he'll eat,
As if new vigour to his teeth were sent,
By sympathy from those o' th' elephant.

But such fine feeders are no guests for me:
Riot agrees not with frugality;
Then, that unfashionable man am I,
With me they'd starve for want of ivory:
For not one inch does my whole house afford,
Not in my very tables, or chess-board;
Of bone the handles of my knives are made,
Yet no ill taste from thence affects the blade,
Or what I carve; nor is there ever left
Any unsavoury haut-goût from the haft.

A hearty welcome to plain wholesome meat
You'll find, but serv'd up in no formal state;
No sewers nor dextrous carvers have I got,
Such as by skilful Trypherus are taught;
In whose fam'd schools the various forms appear
Of fishes, beasts, and all the fowls o' th' air;
And where, with blunted knives, his scholars learn
How to dissect, and the nice joints discem;
While all the neighbours are with noise opprest,
From the harsh carving of his wooden feast.

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