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PHÆDRA TO HIPPOLYTUS.

TRANSLATED OUT OF OVID.

THE ARGUMENT.

Theseus, the son of Ægeus, having slain the Minotaur, promised to Ariadne, the daughter of Minos and Pasiphae, for the assistance which she gave him, to carry her home with him, and make her his wife; so together with her sister Phædra they went on board and sailed to Chios, where, being warned by Bacchus, he left Ariadne, and married her sister Phædra, who afterwards, in Theseus her husband's absence, fell in love with Hippolyfus her son-in-law, who had vowed celibacy, and was a hunter; wherefore, since she could not conveniently otherwise, she chose by this epistle to give him an account of her passion,

Ir thou 'rt unkind I ne'er shall health enjoy,
Yet much I wish to thee, my lovely boy:
Read this, and reading how my soul is seiz'd,
Rather than not, be with my ruin pleas'd:
Thus secrets safe to furthest shores may move;
By letters foes converse, and learn to love.
Thrice my sad tale, as I to tell it try'd,
Upon my faltering tongue abortive dy'd;
Long Shame prevail'd, nor could be conquer'd quite,
But what I blush'd to speak, Love made me write.
'Tis dangerous to resist the power of Love,
The gods obey him, and he 's king above;
He clear'd the doubts that did my mind confound,
And promis'd me to bring thee hither bound:
Oh may he come, and in that breast of thine
Fix a kind dart, and make it flame like mine!
Yet of my wedlock vows I'll lose no care,
Search back through all my fame, thou 'lt find it fair.
But Love long breeding to worst pain does turn;
Outward unharm'd, within, within I burn!
As the young bull or courser yet untam'd,
When yok'd or bridled first, are pinch'd and maim'd;
So my unpractis'd heart in love can find

No rest, th' unwonted weight so toils my mind:
When young, Love's pangs by arts we may remove,
• But in our riper years with rage we love.
To thee I yield then all my dear renown,
And pr'ythee let 's together be undone.
Who would not pluck the new-blown blushing rose,
Or the ripe fruit that courts him as it grows
But if my virtue hitherto has gain'd
Esteem for spotless, shall it now be stain'd?
Oh, in thy love I shall no hazard run;
'Tis not a sin, but when 'tis coarsely done.
And now should Juno leave her Jove to me,
I'd quit that Jove, Hippolytus, for thee:
Believe me too, with strange desires I change,
Among wild beasts I long with thee to range.
To thy delights and Delia I incline,
Make her my goddess too, because she 's thine:
I long to know the woods, to drive the deer,
And o'er the mountain's tops my hounds to cheer,
Shaking my dart; then, the chase ended, lie
Stretch'd on the grass; and would'st not thou be by?
Oft in light chariots I with pleasure ride,
And love myself the furious steeds to guide.

Now like a Bacchanal more wild I stray,
Or old Cybele's priests, as mad as they
When under Ida's hills they offerings pay:
Ev'n mad as those the deities of night
And water, Fauns and Dryads, do affright.
But still each little interval I gain,
Easily find 'tis love breeds all my pain.
Sure on our race love like a fate does fall,
And Venus will have tribute of us all.
Jove lov'd Europa, whence my father came,
And, to a bull transform'd, enjoy'd the dame:
She, like my mother, languish'd to obtain,
And fill'd her womb with shame as well as pain.
The faithless Theseus by my sister's aid
The monster slew, and a safe conquest made:
Now, in that family my right to save,
I am at last on the same terms a slave:
'Twas fatal to my sister and to me,
She lov'd thy father, but my choice was thee.
Let monuments of triumph then be shown
For two unhappy nymphs by you undone.
When first our vows were to Eleusis paid,
Would I had in a Cretan grave been laid!
"Twas there thou didst a perfect conquest gain,
Whilst love's fierce fever rag'd in every vein :
White was thy robe, a garland deck'd thy head,
A modest blush thy comely face o'erspread :
That face, which may be terrible in arms,
But graceful seem'd to me, and full of charms:
I love the man whose fashion 's least his care,
And hate my sex's coxcombs fine and fair;
For whilst thus plain thy careless locks let fly,
Th' unpolish'd form is beauty in my eye.
If thou but ride, or shake the trembling dart,
I fix my eyes, and wonder at thy art:
To see thee poise the javelin moves delight,
And all thou dost is lovely in my sight:
But to the woods thy cruelty resign,
Nor treat it with so poor a life as mine.
Must cold Diana be ador'd alone,
Must she have all thy vows, and Venus none?
That pleasure palls, if 'tis enjoy'd too long;
Love makes the weary firm, the feeble strong.
For Cynthia's sake unbend and ease thy bow,
Else to thy arm 'twill weak and useless grow,
Famous was Cephalus in wood and plain,
And by him many a boar and pard was slain,
Yet to Aurora's love he did incline,
Who wisely left old age for youth like thine.
Under the spreading shades her amorous boy,
The fair Adonis, Venus could enjoy;
Atalanta's love too Meleager sought,
And to her tribute paid of all he caught:
Be thou and I the next blest silvan pair;
Where Love's a stranger, woods but deserts are.
With thee, through dangerous ways unknown before,
I'll rove, and fearless face the dreadful boar.
Between two seas a little isthmus lies,
Where on each side the beating billows rise,
There in Trazena I thy love will meet,
More blest and pleas'd than in my native Crete,
As we could wish, old Theseus is away
At Thessaly, where always let him stay
With his Perithoüs, whom well I see
Preferr❜d above Hippolytus or më.
Nor has he only thus exprest his hate;
We both have suffer'd wrongs of mighty weight;
My brother first he cruelly did slay,
Then from my sister falsely ran away,
And left expos'd to every beast a prey;

A warlike queen to thee thy being gave,
A mother worthy of a son so brave,
From cruel Theseus yet her death-did find,
Nor, though she gave him thee, could make him kind.
Unwedded too he murder'd her in spight,
To bastardize, and rob thee of thy right:
And if, to wrong thee more, two sons I've brought,
Believe it his, and none of Phædra's fault:
Rather, thou fairest thing the Earth contains,
I wish at first I'd dy'd of mother's pains.
How canst thou reverence then thy father's bed,
From which himself so abjectly is fled?
The thought affrights not me, but me inflames;
Mother and son are notions, very names
Of worn-out piety, in fashion then
When old dull Saturn rul'd the race of men;
But braver Jove taught pleasure was no sin,
And with his sister did himself begin.
Nearness of blood and kindred best we prove,
When we express it in the closest love.
Nor need we fear our fault should be reveal'd;
"Twill under near relation be conceal'd,
And all who hear our loves, with praise shall crown
A mother's kindness to a grateful son.
No need at midnight in the dark to stray,
Tunlock the gates, and cry, “My love, this way!"
No busy spies our pleasures to betray.
But in one house, as heretofore, we 'll live;
In public, kisses take; in public, give:
Though in my bed thou 'rt seen, 'twill gain applause
From all, whilst none have sense to guess the cause:
Only make haste, and let this league be sign'd;
So may my tyrant Love to thee be kind.
For this I am an humble suppliant grown;
Now where are all my boasts of greatness gone?
I swore I ne'er would yield, resolv'd to fight,
Deceiv'd by Love, that 's seldom in the right;
Now on my own I crawl, to clasp thy knees;
What 's decent no true lover cares or sees:
Shame, like a beaten soldier, leaves the place,
But beauty's blushes still are in my face.
Forgive this fond confession which I make,
And then some pity on my sufferings take.
What though 'midst seas my father's empire lies;
Though my great grandsire thunder from the skies;
What though my father's sive in beams drest gay
Drives round the burning chariot of the day;
Their honour all in me to Love's a slave,
Then, though thou wilt not me, their honour save.
Jove's famous island, Crete, in dower I'll bring,
And there shall my Hippolytus be king:

For Venus' sake then hear and grant my prayer,
So may'st thou never love a scornful fair;
In fields so may Diana grace thee still,
And every wood afford thee game to kill;
So may the mountain gods and satyrs all
Be kind, so may the boar before thee fall;
So may the water-nymphs in heat of day,
Though thou their sex despise, thy thirst allay.
Millions of tears to these my prayers I join,
Which as thou read'st with those dear eyes of thine,
Think that thou see'st the streams that flow from
mine.

EPISTLE TO MR. DUKE'.

My much-lov'd friend, when thou art from my eyes, How do I loath the day, and light despise ! * See the Answer, in Duke's poems.

Night, kinder night, 's the much more welcome guest, For though it bring small ease, it hides at least ; Or if e'er slumbers and my eyes agree,

[thee. 'Tis when they 're crown'd with pleasing dreams of Last night methought (Heaven make the next as Free as first innocence, and unconfin'd [kind!) As our first parents in their Eden were, Ere yet condemn'd to eat their bread with care; We two together wander'd through a grove, 'Twas green beneath us, and all shade above, Mild as our friendship, springing as our love; Hundreds of cheerful birds fill'd every tree, And sung their joyful songs of liberty; While through the gladsome choir well pleas'd we walk'd,

And of our present valued state thus talk'd:

How happy are we in this sweet retreat?
Thus humbly blest, who 'd labour to be great?
Who for preferments at a court would wait,
Where every gudgeon 's nibbling at the bait?
What fish of sense would on that shallow lie,
Amongst the little starving wriggling fry,
That throng and crowd each other for a taste
Of the deceitful, painted, poison'd paste;
When the wide river he behind him sees,
Where he may launch to liberty and ease?
No cares or business here disturb our hours,
While, underneath these shady peaceful bowers,
In cool delight and innocence we stray,
And midst a thousand pleasures waste the day:
Sometimes upon a river's bank we lie,
Where skimming swallows o'er the surface fly,
Just as the Sun, declining with his beams,
Kisses and gently warms the gliding streams;
Amidst whose current rising fishes play,
And roll in wanton liberty away.
Perhaps hard by there grows a little bush,
On which the linnet, nightingale, and thrush,
Nightly their solemn orgies meeting keep,
And sing their vespers ere they go to sleep:
There we two lie, between us may be 's spread
Some books, few understand, though many read.
Sometimes we Virgil's sacred leaves turn o'er,
Still wondering, and still finding cause for more.
How Juno's rage did good Eneas vex,
Then how he had revenge upon her sex
In Dido's state, whom bravely he enjoy'd,
And quitted her as bravely too when cloy'd;
He knew the fatal danger of her charms,
And scorn'd to melt his virtue in her arms.
Next Nisus and Euryalus we admire,

Their gentle friendship, and their martial fire;
We praise their valour, 'cause yet match'd by none,
And love their friendship, so much like our own.
But when to give our minds a feast indeed,
Horace, best known and lov'd by thee, we read,
Who can our transports, or our longings tell,
To taste of pleasures, prais'd by him so well?
With thoughts of love and wine by him we're fir'd,
Two things in sweet retirement much desir'd:
A generous bottle and a lovesome she,
Are th' only joys in nature next to thee:
To which retiring quietly at night,
If (as that only can) to add delight,
When to our little cottage we repair,
We find a friend or two, we'd wish for there,
Dear Beverley, kind as parting lovers' tears,
Adderly, honest as the sword he wears,
Wilson, professing friendship yet a friend,
Or Short, beyond what numbers can commend,

Finch, full of kindness, generous as his blood,
Watchful to do, to modest merit, good;
Who have forsook the vile tumultuous town,
And for a taste of life to us come down ;
With eager arms, how closely we embrace!
What joys in every heart, and every face!
The moderate table 's quickly cover'd o'er,
With choicest meats at least, though not with store:
Of bottles next succeeds a goodly train,
Full of what cheers the heart, and fires the brain:
Fach waited on by a bright virgin glass,
Clean, sound, and shining like its drinker's lass.
Then down we sit, while every genius tries
"T" improve, till he deserves his sacrifice:
No saucy Hour presumes to stint delight,
We laugh, love, drink, and when that 's done 'tis
Well warm'd and pleas'd, as we think fit we'll part,
Each takes th' obedient treasure of his heart,
And leads her willing to his silent bed,
Where no vexatious cares come near his head,
But every sense with perfect pleasure 's fed;
Till in full joy dissolv'd, each falls asleep

[night.

For, as to some good-nature I pretend,

I fear'd to read, lest I should not commend.
Lucretius english'd! 'twas a work might shake
The power of English verse to undertake.
This all men thought; but you are born, we find,
'T" outdo the expectations of mankind;
Since you 've so well the noble task perform❜d,
Envy 's appeas'd, and Prejudice disarm'd:
For when the rich original we peruse,
And by it try the metal you produce,
Though there indeed the purest ore we find,
Yet still in you it something seems refin❜d:
Thus when the great Lucretius gives a loose,
And lashes to her speed his fiery Muse;
Still with him you maintain an equal pace,
And bear full stretch upon him all the race;
But when in rugged way we find him rein
His verse, and not so smooth a stroke maintain;
There the advantage he receives is found,
By you taught temper, and to choose his ground.
Next, his philosophy you 've so exprest

In genuine terms, so plain, yet neatly drest,

With twining limbs, that still Love's posture keep, Those murderers that now mingle it all day

At dawn of morning to renew delight,
So quiet craving Love, till the next night:
Then we the drowsy cells of Sleep forsake,
And to our books our earliest visit make;
Or else our thoughts to their attendance call,
And there, methinks, Fancy sits queen of all;
While the poor under-faculties resort,
And to her fickle majesty make court;
The Understanding first comes plainly clad,
But usefully; no entrance to be had.
Next comes the Will, that bully of the mind,
Follies wait on him in a troop behind;
He meets reception from the antic queen,
Who thinks her majesty 's most honour'd, when
Attended by those fine-drest gentlemen.
Reason, the honest counsellor, this knows,
And into court with resolute virtue goes;
Lets Fancy see her loose irregular sway,
Then how the flattering follies sneak away!
This image, when it came, too fiercely shook
My brain, which its soft quiet straight forsook;
When waking as I cast my eyes around,
Nothing but old loath'd vanities I found;
No grove, no freedom, and, what 's worse to me,
No friend; for I have none compar'd with thee.
Soon then my thoughts with their old tyrant Care
Were seiz'd; which to divert, I fram'd this prayer:
"Gods! life 's your gift, then season 't with such
fate,

That what ye meant a blessing prove no weight.
Let me to the remotest part be whirl'd,
Of this your plaything made in haste, the world;
But grant me quiet, liberty, and peace,
By day what's needful, and at night soft ease;
The friend I trust in, and the she I love,
Then fix me; and if e'er I wish remove,
Make me as great (that's wretched) as ye can.
Set me in power, the woefull'st state of man;
To be by fools misled, to knaves a prey,
But make life what I ask, or take 't away.”

TO MR. CREECH,

UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF LUCretius.

SIR, when your book the first time came abroad,
I must confess I stood amaz'd and aw'd;

In schools, may learn from you the easy way
To let us know what they would mean and say:
If Aristotle's friends will show the grace
To wave for once their statute in that case.
Go on then, sir, and since you could aspire,
And reach this height, aim yet at laurels higher :
Secure great injur'd Maro from the wrong
He unredeem'd has labour'd with so long
In Holbourn rhyme, and, lest the book should fail,
Expos'd with pictures to promote the sale:
So tapsters set out signs, for muddy ale.
You 're only able to retrieve his doom,
And make him here as fam'd as once at Rome:
For sure, when Julius first this isle subdued,
Your ancestors then mixt with Roman blood;
Some near ally'd to that whence Ovid came,
Virgil and Horace, those three sons of Fame;
Since to their memory it is so true,
And shows their poetry so much in you.
Go on in pity to this wretched isle,
Which ignorant poetasters do defile
With lousy madrigals for lyric verse;
Instead of comedy with nasty farce.
Would Plautus, Terence e'er, have been so lewd
T' have drest Jack-pudding up to catch the crowd?
Or Sophocles five tedious acts have made,
To show a whining fool in love betray'd
By some false friend or slippery chambermaid,
Then, ere he hangs himself, bemoans his fall
In a dull speech, and that fine language call?
No, since we live in such a fulsome age,
When nonsense loads the press, and choaks the stage;
When blockheads will claim wit in Nature's spite,
And every dunce, that starves, presumes to write,
Exert yourself, defend the Muse's cause,
Proclaim their right, and to maintain their laws
Make the dead ancients speak the British tongue;
That so each chattering daw, who aims at song,
In his own mother-tongue may humbly read
What engines yet are wanting in his head
To make him equal to the mighty dead;
For of all Nature's works we most should scorn
The thing who thinks himself a poet born,
Unbred, untaught, he rhymes, yet hardly spells,
And senselessly, as squirrels jangle bells.

Such things, sir, here abound; may therefore you
Be ever to your friends, the Muses, true!

May our defects be by your powers supply'd, Till, as our envy now, you grow our pride; Till by your pen restor'd, in triumph borne, The majesty of Poetry return!

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN UPON HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF YORK

COMING TO THE THEATRE, FRIDAY, APRIL 21, 1682.

WHEN too much plenty, luxury, and ease,
Had surfeited this isle to a disease;
When noisome blains did its best parts o'erspread,
And on the rest their dire infection shed;
Our great Physician, who the nature knew
Of the distemper, and from whence it grew,
Fix'd, for three kingdoms' quiet, sir, on you:
He cast his searching eyes o'er all the frame,
And finding whence before one sickness came,
How once before our mischiefs foster'd were,
Knew well your virtue, and apply'd you there:
Where so your goodness, so your justice sway'd,
You but appear'd, and the wild plague was stay'd.
When, from the filthy dunghill-faction bred,
New-form'd Rebellion durst rear up its head,
Answer me all: Who struck the monster dead?
See, see, the injur'd prince, and bless his name,
Think on the martyr from whose loins he came;
Think on the blood was shed for you before,
And curse the parricides that thirst for more.
His foes are yours, then of their wiles beware:
Lay, lay him in your hearts, and guard him there,
Where let his wrongs your zeal for him improve;
He wears a sword will justify your love.
With blood still ready for your good t' expend,
And has a heart that ne'er forgot his friend.

His duteous loyalty before you lay,
And learn of him, unmurmuring, to obey.
Think what he 'as borne, your quiet to restore;
Repent your madness, and rebel no more.

No more let Boutefeus hope to lead petitions, Scriveners to be treasurers; pedlars, politicians; Nor every fool, whose wife has tript at court, Pluck up a spirit, and turn rebel for 't.

In lands where cuckolds multiply like ours, What prince can be too jealous of their powers, Or can too often think himself alarm'd?" They 're mal-contents that every where go arm'd: And when the horned herd 's together got, Nothing portends a commonwealth like that.

Cast, cast your idols off, your gods of wood, Ere yet Philistines fatten with your blood: Renounce your priests of Baal with amen faces, Your Wapping feasts, and your Mile-end high places. Nail all your medals on the gallows' post, In recompense th' original was lost: At these, illustrious repentance pay, In his kind hands your humble offerings lay: Let royal pardon be by him implor'd, Th' atoning brother of your anger'd lord: He only brings a med'cine fit t' assuage A people's folly, and rouz'd monarch's rage. An infant prince, yet labouring in the womb, Fated with wondrous happiness to come, He goes to fetch the mighty blessings home: Send all your wishes with him, let the air With gentle breezes waft it safely there, The seas, like what they 'll carry, calm and fair:

Let the illustrious mother touch our land
Mildly, as hereafter may her son command;
While our glad monarch welcomes her to shore,
With kind assurance she shall part no more.

Be the majestic babe then smiling born,
And all good signs of fate his birth adorn,
So live and grow, a constant pledge to stand
Of Cæsar's love to an obedient land.

SPOKEN TO

HER ROYAL HIGHNESS,

ON HER RETURN FROM SCOTLAND, IN THE YEAR 1682.

ALL you, who this day's jubilee attend,
And every loyal Muse's loyal friend,
That come to treat your longing wishes here,
Turn your desiring eyes, and feast them there.
Thus falling on your knees with me implore,
May this poor land ne'er lose that presence more!
But if there any in this circle be,

That come so curst to envy what they see,
From the vain fool, that would be great too soon,
To the dull knave that writ the last lampoon!
Let such, as victims to that beauty's fame,
Hang their vile blasted heads, and die with shame.
Our mighty blessing is at last return'd,
The joy arriv'd for which so long we mourn'd:
From whom our present peace we expect increas'd,
And all our future generations blest.
Time, have a care: bring safe the hour of joy,
When some blest tongue proclaims a royal boy:
And when 'tis born, let Nature's hand be strong;
Bless him with days of strength, and make them

long;

Till charg'd with honours we behold him stand,
Three kingdoms' banners waiting his command,
His father's conquering sword within his hand:
Then th' English lions in the air advance,
And with them roaring music to the dance,
Carry a Quo Warranto into France.

PROLOGUE

TO MRS. BEIN'S CITY HEIRESS, 1682.

How vain have prov'd the labours of the stage,
In striving to reclaim a vicious age!
Poets may write, the mischief to impeach;
You care as little what the poets teach,
As you regard at church what parsons preach.
But where such follies and such vices reign,
What honest pen has patience to refrain?
At church, in pews, ye most devoutly snore,
And here, got dully drunk, ye come to roar;
Ye go to church, to glout and ogle there,
And come to meet, more lewd, convenient here:
With equal zeal ye honour either place,
And run so very evenly your race,
Y' improve in wit just as ye do in grace.
It must be so; some demon has possest
Our land, and we have never since you blest.
Y' have seen it all, and heard of its venon,
In reverend shape it stalk'd about the town,
Six yeomen tall attending on its frown.

Sometimes, with humble note and zealous lore,
'Twould play the apostolic function o'er:

But Heaven have mercy on us when it swore!
Whene'er it swore, to prove the oaths were true,
Out of his mouth at random halters flew
Round some unwary neck, by magic thrown,
Though still the cunning devil sav'd its own:
For when th' enchantment could no longer last,
The subtle Pug, most dextrously uncast,
Left awful form for one more seeming pious,
And in a moment vary'd to defy us;
From silken doctor, home-spun Ananias:
Left the lewd court, and did in city fix,
Where still by its old arts it plays new tricks,
And fills the heads of fools with politics.
This demon lately drew in many a guest,
To part with zealous guinea for-no feast.
Who, but the most incorrigible fops,

For ever doom'd in dismal cells, call'd shops,
To cheat and damn themselves to get their livings,
Would lay sweet money out in sham thanksgivings?
Sham plots you may have paid for o'er and o'er;
But who e'er paid for a sham treat before?
Had you not better sent your offerings all
Hither to us, than Sequestrators' Hall?

I being your steward, justice had been done ye;
I could have entertain'd you worth your money.

THE SIXTEENTH ODE

OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.

IN storms when clouds the Moon do hide,
And no kind stars the pilot guide,
Show me at sea the boldest there,
Who does not wish for quiet here.
For quiet, friend, the soldier fights,
Bears weary marches, sleepless nights,
For this feeds hard, and lodges cold;
Which can't be bought with hills of gold.
Since wealth and power too weak we find,
To quell the tumults of the mind;
Or from the monarch's roofs of state
Drive thence the cares that round him wait:
Happy the man with little blest,
Of what his father left possest;
No base desires corrupt his head,
No fears disturb him in his bed.
What then in life, which soon must end,
Can all our vain designs intend?
From shore to shore why should we run,
When none his tiresome self can shun?
For baneful Care will still prevail,
And overtake us under sail,

'Twill dodge the great man's train behind,
Outrun the roe, outfly the wind.
If then thy soul rejoice to-day,
Drive far to-morrow's cares away.
In laughter let them all be drown'd:
No perfect good is to be found.

One mortal feels Fate's sudden blow,
Another's lingering death comes slow;
And what of life they take from thee,
The gods may give to punish me.
Thy portion is a wealthy stock,
A fertile glebe, a fruitful flock,
Horses and chariots for thy ease,

Rich robes to deck and make thee please.

For me, a little cell I choose,
Fit for my mind, fit for my Muse,
Which soft Content does best adorn,
Shunning the knaves and fools I scorn.

I

THE COMPLAINT.

A SONG. TO A SCOTCH TUNE.

LOVE, I doat, I rave with pain,
No quiet's in my mind,

Though ne'er could be a happier swain,
Were Sylvia less unkind.

For when, as long her chains I've worn,
I ask relief from smart,
She only gives me looks of scorn;

Alas! 'twill break my heart!
My rivals, rich in worldly store,
May offer heaps of gold,
But surely I a Heaven adore,
Too precious to be sold;
Can Sylvia such a coxcomb prize,

For wealth, and not desert;
And my poor sighs and tears despise ?
Alas! 'twill break my heart!

When, like some panting, hovering dove,
I for my bliss contend,

And plead the cause of eager Love,
She coldly calls me friend.
Ah, Sylvia! thus in vain you strive
To act a healer's part,
"Twill keep but lingering pain alive,
Alas! and break my heart.
When, on my lonely, pensive bed
I lay me down to rest,

In hope to calm my raging head,
And cool my burning breast,
Her cruelty all ease denies;

With some sad dream I start,
All drown'd in tears I find my eyes,
And breaking feel my heart.

Then rising, through the path I rove,

That leads me where she dwells,
Where to the senseless waves my Love
Its mournful story tells:
With sighs I dew and kiss the door,
Till morning bids depart;
Then vent ten thousand sighs and more:
Alas! 'twill break my heart!

But, Sylvia, when this conquest 's won,
And I am dead and cold,
Renounce the cruel deed you 've done,
Nor glory when 'tis told;

For every lovely generous maid
Will take my injur'd part,
And curse thee, Sylvia, I 'm afraid,
For breaking my poor heart.

PROLOGUE

TO N. LEE'S CONSTANTINE THE GREAT.

WHAT think ye meant wise Providence, when first
Poets were made? I'd tell you, if I durst,
That 'twas in contradiction to Heaven's word,
That when its spirit o'er the waters stirr'd,

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