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The Garden.

Fain would my Muse the flow'ry treasure sing,
And humble glories of the youthful Spring ;
Where op’ning roses breathing sweets diffuse,
And soft carnations show'r their balmy dews;
Where lilies smile, in virgin robes of white,
The thin updress of superficial light,
And vary'd tulips show so dazzling gay,
Blushing in bright diversities of day.
Each painted flow'ret in the lake below
Surveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow;
And pale Narcissus, on the bank in vain
Transformed, gazes on himself again.
Her aged trees cathedral walks compose,
And mount the hill in venerable rows;
There the green infants in their beds are laid,
The Garden's hope, and its expected shade.
Here orange-trees with blooms and pendants shine,
And vernal honors to their autumn join ;
Exceed their promise in their ripen'd store,
Yet in the rising blossom promise more.
There in bright drops the crystal fountains play,
By laurels shielded from the piercing day;
Where Daphne, now a tree, as once a maid,
Still from Apollo vindicates her shade ;
Still turns her beauties from th' invading beam,
Nor seeks in vain for succour to the stream ;

The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves, At once a shelter from her boughs receives, Where summer's beauty midst of winter stays, And winter's coolness spite of summer's rays.


While Celia's tears make sorrow bright,

Proud Grief sits swelling in her eyes ; The sun, next those the fairest light,

Thus from the ocean first did rise ; And thus through mists we see the sun, Which else we durst not gaze upon.

These silver drops, like morning dew,

Foretel the fervor of the day:
So from one cloud soft show'rs we view,

And blasting lightnings burst away.
The stars that fall from Celia's eye,
Declare our doom in drawing nigh.

The baby in that sunny sphere

So like a Phaëton appears,
That Heav'n, the threaten'd world to spare,

Thought fit to drown himn in her tears;
Else might th' ambitious nymph aspire
To sei, like him, heav'n too on fire.


On Silence.


Silence ! coeval with eternity ; Thou wert, ere Nature's self began to be ; 'Twas one vast nothing all, and all slept fast in thee.

II. Thine was the sway, ere heav'n was form’d, or earth, Ere fruitful Thought conceiv'd Creation's birth, Or midwife Word gave aid, and spoke the infant forth.

III. Then various elements against thee join'd, In one more various animal combin’d, And fram’d the clam'rous race of busy human-kind,


The tongue mov'd gently first, and speech was low, Till wrangling Science taught it noise and show, And wicked Wit arose, thy most abusive foe.

V. But rebel Wit deserts thee oft in vain : Lost the maze of words he turns again, And seeks a surer state, and courts thy gentle reign, VI. Afflicted Sense thou kindly dost set free, Oppress'd with argumental tyranny, And routed Reason finds a safe retreat in thee.

VII. With thee in private, modest Dulness lies, And in thy bosom lurks in Thought's disguise ; Thou varnisher of fools, and cheat of all the wise!

VIII. Yet thy indulgence is by both confest ; Folly by thee lies sleeping in the breast, And 'tis in thee at last that Wisdom seeks for rest.

IX. Silence! the knave's repute, the whore's good name, The only honor of the wishing dame, The very want of tongue makes thee a kind of fame!

X. But couldst thou seize some tongues that now are

free, How church and state should be oblig'd to thee ! At senate, and at bar, how welcome wouldst thou be ?

XI. Yęt speech, ev’n there, submissively withdraws From rights of subjects, and the poor man's cause; Then pompous Silence rcigns, and stills the noisy


XII. Past services of friends, good deeds of foes, What fav’rites gain, and what the nation owes, Fly the forgetful world, and in thy arms repose.

The country wit, religion of the town,
The courtier's learning, policy o' th’ gown,
And best by thee express’d, and shine in thee alone.

The parson's cant, the lawyer's sophistry,
Lord's quibble, critic's jest, all end in thee ;
All rest in peace at last, and sleep eternally.


Artemisia. Thouch Artemisia talks, by fits, Of counsels, classics, fathers, wits;

Reads Malbranche, Boyle, and Locke; Yet in some things methinks she fails : 'Twere well if she would pare her nails,

And wear a cleaner smock.

Haughty and huge as High-Dutch bride,
Such rastiness, and so much pride,

Are oddly join'd by Fate :
On her large squab you find her spread,
Like a fat corpse upon a bed,

That lies and stinks in stare.

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