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Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-tos, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,
The glowing violet,

The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid amarantus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,



To strew the laureat herse where Lycid lies.
For, so to interpose a little ease,


Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay me! Whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides.
Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide,
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows deny'd,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded mount
Looks tow'ard Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward. Angel, now, and melt with ruth:
And, O ye Dolphins, waft the hapless youth.


Where, other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,


Weep no more, woful Shepherds, weep no more, 165 For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,

Junk though he be beneath the wat❜ry floor;
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,

And yet anon repairs his drooping head,

And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore 170 Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:

So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,

Through the dear might of him that walk'd the


160. "The fable of Bellerus old," &c. the Bellerian promontory, or Land's end in Cornwall, near which is Mount St. Michael, a fortress on a rock, named from a supposed vision or apparition of St. Michael.

And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
That sing, and, singing, in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.



Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals grey; He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, 190 And now was dropt into the western bay : At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue: To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.


On the new Forcers of Conscience under the

BECAUSE you have thrown off your prelate lord,
And with stiff vows renounc'd his liturgy,
To seize the widow'd whore Plurality

From them whose sin ye envied, not abhorr'd; Dare ye for this adjure the civil sword


To force our consciences that Christ set free, And ride us with a classic hierarchy Taught ye by mere A. S. and Rotherford? Men, whose life, learning, faith, and pure intent Would have been held in high esteem with Paul, 10 Must now be nam'd and printed heretics By shallow Edwards and Scotch what d'ye call: But we do hope to find out all your tricks, Your plots and packing worse than those of Trent, That so the Parliament 15

May, with their wholesome and preventive shears,
Clip your phylacteries, though bauk your ears,
And succour our just fears,
When they shall read this clearly in your charge,
New Presbyter is but old Priest writ large.

THE FIFTH ODE OF HORACE, Lib. I. Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa....rendered almost word for word without rhyme, according to the Latin measure, as near as the language will permit.

WHAT slender youth, bedew'd with liquid odours,
Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave,
Pyrrha? for whom bind'st thou
In wreaths thy golden hair,

Plain in thy neatness? O how oft shall he
On faith and changed Gods complain, and seas
Rough with black winds, and storms
Unwonted shall admire!


My dank and dropping weeds

To the stern God of sea.


Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold,
Who always vacant, always amiable

Hopes thee, of flattering gales
Unmindful. Hapless they

To whom thou untry'd seem'st fair. Me, in my vow'd
Picture, the sacred wall declares t' have hung



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O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still;
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill,
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.

First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,
Portend success in love; O if Jove's will
Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate

Foretel my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; 10
As thou from year to year hast sung too late
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why:

Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.


DONNA leggiadra, il cui bel nome honora
L'herbosa val di Rheno, e il nobil varco;
Bene è colui d'ogni valore scarco,
Qual tuo spirto gentil non innamora ;
Che dolcemente mostra si di fuora
De sui atti soavi giamai parco,
E i don', che son d'amor saette ed arco,
La onde l'alta tua virtu s'infiora.
Quando tu vaga parli, o lieta canti

Che mover possa duro alpestre legno,
Guardi ciascun a gli occhi, ed a gli orecchi
L'entrata, chi di te si trouva indegno;

Gratia sola di su gli vaglia, inauti
Che'l disio amoroso al cuor s'invecchi.

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