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CHARLES COTTON.

TO CHLORIS.

ORD! how you take upon you still!

How you crow and domineer!

How still expect to have your will,

And carry the dominion clear,

As you were still the same that once you were!

Fie, Chloris, 'tis a gross mistake,

Correct your errors, and be wise;
I kindly still your kindness take,

But yet have learn'd, though love I prize,
Your froward humours to despise,
And now disdain to call them cruelties.

I was a fool while you were fair,
And I had youth t' excuse it;

And all the rest are so that lovers are:
I then myself your vassal sware,
And could be still so (which is rare),
But on condition that you not abuse it.
'Tis beauty that to woman-kind

Gives all the rule and sway;
Which once declining, or declin'd,

Men afterwards unwillingly obey.

Yet still you have enough, and more than needs,
To rule a more rebellious heart than mine;
For as your eyes still shoot, my heart still bleeds,
And I must be a subject still:

Nor is it much against my will,

Though I pretend to wrestle and repine.

Your beauties, sweet, are at their height,
And I must still adore;

New years new graces still create,
Nay, mangre time, mischance, and fate,

You in your very ruins shall have more

Than all the beauties that have grac'd the world before.

SIR RICHARD FANSHAW.

THOU

HOU blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes. Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon; What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? Thou'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon, And passing proud a little colour makes thee. If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives,

Know then, the thing that swells thee is thy bane; For the same beauty, doth in bloody leaves The sentence of thy early death contain.

Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thysweet flow'r, If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn, And many Herods lie in wait each hour,

To murder thee as soon as thou art born. Nay, force thy bud to blow, their tyrant breath Anticipating life to hasten death.

JOHN DRYDEN.

ALEXANDER'S FEAST,

Or, the Power of Music:

AN ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

TWAS at the royal feast, for Persia won

By Philip's warlike son:

Aloft in awful state

The god-like hero sate

On his imperial throne :

His valiant peers were plac'd around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound:
So should desert in arms be crown'd.

The lovely Thaïs by his side

Sat, like a blooming eastern bride,
In flower of youth, and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!

None but the brave,

None but the brave,

None but the brave deserves the fair!

Timotheus plac'd on high,

Amid the tuneful choir,

With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:

The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.

The song began from Jove;
Who left his blissful seats above,
(Such is the power of mighty love!)
A dragon's fiery form belied the god:
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,
When he to fair Olympia press'd,

And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov❜reign of the world;

The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound;
A present deity! they shout around;

A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound:

With ravish'd ears,

The monarch hears,

Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres.

The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung;
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young:
The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;
Flush'd with a purple grace,

He shews his honest face.

Now give the hautboys breath-he comes, he comes! Bacchus, ever fair and young,

Drinking joys did first ordain:

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;
Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure;

Sweet is pleasure after pain.

Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain;

Fought all his battles o'er again;

And thrice be routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain.

The master saw the madness rise,
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he heav'n and earth defy'd,
Chang'd his hand, and check'd his pride.
He chose a mournful muse,

Soft pity to infuse :

He sung Darius, great and good!

By too severe a fate

Fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, fall'n,
Fall'n from his high estate,
And welt'ring in his blood:
Deserted, at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed;
On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.

With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his alter'd soul

The various turns of chance below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smil'd to see
That love was in the next degree;
"Twas but a kindred sound to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures.
War, he sung, is toil and trouble,
Honour but an empty bubble;
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying :
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think it worth enjoying!
Lovely Thaïs sits beside thee;

Take the good the gods provide thee.
The many rend the skies with loud applause :
So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz'd on the fair

Who caus'd his care,

Sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,

Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again.

At length, with love and wine at once opprest,
The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

Now strike the golden lyre again:
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.
Break his bands of sleep asunder,

And rouze him, like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark, the horrid sound

Has rais'd up his head,

As awak'd from the dead,

And, amaz'd, he stares around.

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