To Winchester let Charles be ever kind,
The youngest Labour of his fertile Mind.
Here ancient Kings the British Scepter fway'd,
And all Kings fince have always been obey'd.
Rebellion here cou'd ne'er erect a Throne,
For Charles that Bleffing was referv'd alone.
Let not the ftately Fabrick you decree,
An Immature, abortive Palace be,
But may it grow the Mistress of your Heart,
And the full Heir of WRens ftupendous Art.
The happy Spot on which its Soveraign dwells,
With a juft Pride above the City fwells,
That like a loyal Subject chofe to lye
Beneath his Feet with humble Modefty.
Faft by a Reverend Church extends its Wings,
And pays due Homage to the best of Kings.
Nature, like Law, a Monarch will create
He's fcituated Head of Church, and State.
The graceful Temple that delights his Eye,
(Luxurious Toil of former Piety)
Has vanquifh'd envious Times devouring Rage,
And, like Religion, ftronger grows by Age.
It ftems the Torrent of the flowing Years,
Yet gay as Youth the facred Pile appears.
Of its great Rife we no Records have known,
It has out-liv'd all mem'ry but its own.
The monumental Marbles us affure,
It gave the Danish Monarchs Sepulture.
Here Death himself inthrones- the crowned Head,
For every Tomb's a Palace to the Dead.
But now my Mufe, nay rather all the Nine,
In a full Chorus of Applaufes join,
Of your great Wickam,
Wickam whofe Name can mighty Thoughts infufe,
But naught can eafe the travail of my Mufe,
Prefs'd with her Load, her feeble Strength decays,
And fhe's deliver'd of abortive Praise.
Here he for Youth erects a Nursery *
The great Coheiress of his Piety;
Where they through various Tongues coy knowledge
This is the Barrier of their learned Race,
From which they start, and all along the way
They to their God, and for their Sovereign pray,
And from their Infancies are taught t'obey.
Oh! may they never vex the quiet Nation,
And turn Apoftates to their Education.
When with thefe Objects Charles has fill'd his Sight,
Still fresh provoke his feeing Appetite.
A healthy Country opening to his view,
The chearful Pleafures of his Eyes renew.
On neighbouring Plains the Courfers wing'd with
Contend for Plate, the glorious Victors Meed.
Over the Course they rather fly than run,
In a wide Circle like the radiant Sun.
Then fresh Delights they for their Prince prepare,
And Hawks (the swift-wing'd Courfers of the Air,)
The trembling Bird with fatal haste pursue,
And feize the Quarry in their Masters view. [found,
Till like my Mufe, tir'd with the Game they've
They ftoop for ease, and pitch upon the Ground.
To a LADY, (whom he never faw, nor had any Defcription of) to prove be Loves her.
By a Perfon of Quality.
Righteft of Virgins! whofe high Race and Name
Befpeaks you worthy of the nobleft Flame,
Arms you with Power Divine, that can dispense
Its Influence beyond the reach of Senfe;
Making us frame of you, as Heaven above,
Idea's of our Ignorance and Love.
* The Coll, near Winchester, and new Coll. in Oxon,
Difdain not, faireft, fuch Devotions then
As the best Worshippers offer to Heav'n.
Nor think 'em feiga'd, fince things above do grow
(Concealed and distant) more admir'd below.
Abfence creates Efteem, and makes that fire
(Which the Suns near approaches quench) afpire,
While thofe who do enjoy perpetual Rays, [Days.
Curfe those bright Beams that crown our Halcyon
Know then, my Paflion Real is and Great,
Not fuch as from dull Senfe derives its heat,
But Sympathy; that Royal Law that binds
In a close Union things of different Kinds,
That fecret charm of Nature which inspires
The whole Creation with harmonious Fires,
Heads Cupid's Arrows, guides his roving Bow,
Extends its Empire o'er all things below.
Since then you know I love, how much, and how,
If of my Paffion you ftill difallow,
Know then the Lot is caft, the Gods approve
The Fates Deeree, and have pronounc'd, I Love.
SONG by the fame Hand.
Ome Brag of their Chloris, and fome of their Phyllis, – Some cry up their Celia's and bright Amaryllis : Thus Poets and Lovers their Miftreffes dub, And Goddeffes frame from the Washbowl and Tub; But away with these fictions, and counterfeit Folly, There's a thousand more Charms in the Name of my I cannot defcribe nor her Beauty nor Wit, [Dolly, Like Manna to each fhe's the relishing Bit; She alone by Enjoyment the more does prevail, And ftill with fresh Pleasure does hoift up your Sail. Nay had you a furfeit took of all others, One Look of my Doll ftrait your Stomach recovers. But when I confider her Humour and Feature, I'm apt to fufpect she's inclin'd to the Creature
What contrary Winds in my Breaft then arife, [prife?
What Hopes, and what Fear, and what Doubt do fur-
What Storms do I feel of Trouble and Care,
While my Wishes themfelves at variance are?
For fometimes I with her more Cruel, lefs Fair,
But then I should either not Love, or Despair:
I'd have her to Love too, not Amorous be,
I'd have her be coy, but kinder to me.
But fhould the in me this Humour discover,
She'd quickly discard her Impertinent Lover.
Eneath a cool Shade, where fome here have been, Convenient for Lovers, most pleasant and green; Alexis and Chloris lay, preffing foft Flowers,
With Kiffing and Loving they paft the dull Hours.
She clofe in his Arms with her Head on his Breaft,
And fainting with Pleafure; you guess at the reft :
She blusht and fhe figh'd with a Joy beyond measure,
All ravisht with Billing and dying with Pleasure.
But while thus in Transports extended they lay,
A handfom young Shepherd was paffing that way!
She faw him and cry'd------Oh Alexis, betray'd!
Oh what have you done------you have ruin'd a Maid;
But the Shepherd being modeft difcreetly paft by,
And left 'em again at their leifure to die.
And often they languish'd with Joy beyond measure,
All Ravisht with Billing and dying with Pleasure.
On the Death of MELANTHA.
EEP, all you Virgins, meet o'er this fad
Hearfe,
And you, great Goddefs of Immortal Verfe:
Come here a while and Mourn:
Weave not with rofie Crowns your Hair,
Let Tears be all the Gems you wear,
And shed them plentifully on this Urn.
For 'tis Melantha, 'tis that lovely Fair,
That lyes beneath this weeping Marble here.
But wou'd you know, why she has took her flight
Into the Bofom of eternal Night,
Before her Beauties fcarce had fhew'd their Light,
Hark, and lament her Fare;
As the young God of Love one Day
Sate on a Rock at play,
And wantonly let fly his Darts
Among the Nymphs and Shepherds Hearts,
Melantha by unhappy chance came by.
Love jefting cry'd, I'll make her prove
The Godhead, fhe contemn'd, of Love.
In fcorn fhe bad him ftrike and did his shaft defic
While the Boy flightly threw a Dart
To wound, but not deftrøy, her Heart.
But greedy Death, fond of this beauteous Prey,
Caught the fwift Arrow as it flew,
And added to't his own Strength too,
Which made fo deep a Wound, that, as she lay,
In filent Sighs fhe breath'd her Soul away.
Then all the little Gods begun to weep,
Oh let your Sighs with theirs due measure keep :
For fair Melantha fhe is dead,
Her Beauteous Soul to Death's dark Empire's fled.
Flora, the Bounteous Goddefs of the Plains,
Who in fresh Groves, and sweetest Meadows reigns.
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