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So that when Providence, for secret ends,
Corroding cares, or sharp affliction, sends ;
We must conclude it best it should be so,
And not desponding or impatient grow.
For he that will his confidence remove
From boundless wisdom and eternal love,
To place it on himself, or human aid,
Will meet those woes he labours to evade.
But, in the keenest agonies of grief,
Content 's a cordial that still gives relief:
Heaven is not always angry when he strikes,
But most chastises those whom most he likes;
And, if with humble spirits they complain,
Relieves the anguish, or rewards the pain.

TO ANOTHER FRIEND,
UNDER AFFLICTION.

SINCE the first man by disobedience fell
An easy conquest to the powers of Hell,
There's none in every stage of life can be
From the insults of bold affliction free.
If a short respite gives us some relief,
And interrupts the series of our grief,
So quick the pangs of misery return,
We joy by minutes, but by years we mourn.
Reason refin'd and to perfection brought,
By wise philosophy, and serious thought,
Support the soul beneath the pond'rous weight
Of angry stars, and unpropitious fate:
Then is the time she should exert her power,
And make us practise what she taught before.
For why are such voluminous authors read,
The learned labours of the famous dead,
But to prepare the mind for its defence,
By sage results, and well-digested sense;
That, when the storm of misery appears,
With all its real or fantastic fears,
We either may the rolling danger fly,
Or stem the tide before it swells too high?

But though the theory of wisdom 's known
With ease, what should, and what should not be done;
Yet all the labour in the practice lies,

To be, in more than words and notion, wise;
The sacred truth of sound philosophy

We study early, but we late apply,
When stubborn anguish seizes on the soul,
Right reason would its haughty rage control;
But, if it may n't be suffer'd to endure,
The pain is just, when we reject the cure.
For many men, close observation finds,
Of copious learning, and exalted minds,
Who tremble at the sight of daring woes,
And stoop ignobly to the vilest foes;
As if they understood not how to be
Or wise, or brave, but in felicity;
And by some action, servile or unjust,
Lay all their former glories in the dust.
For wisdom first the wretched mortal flies,
And leaves him naked to his enemies:

So that, when most his prudence should be shown,
The most imprudent, giddy things are done.
For when the mind 's surrounded with distress,
Fear or inconstancy the judgment press,
And render it incapable to make
Wise resolutions, or good counsels take.

Yet there's a steadiness of soul and thought,
By reason bred, and by religion taught,

Which, like a rock amidst the stormy waves, Unmov'd remains, and all affliction braves.

In sharp misfortunes, some will search too deep What Heaven prohibits, and would secret keep: But those events 'tis better not to know, Which, known, serve only to increase our woe. Knowledge forbid ('tis dangerous to pursue) With guilt begins, and ends with ruin too. For, had our earliest parents been content Not to know more than to be innocent, Their ignorance of evil had preserv'd Their joys entire; for then they had not swerv'd, But they imagin'd (their desires were such) They knew too little, till they knew too much. E'er since my folly must to wisdom rise; And few are, but by sad experience, wise.

Consider, friend! who all your blessings gave,
What are recall'd again, and what you have;
And do not murmur when you are bereft
Of little, if you have abundance left:
Consider too, how many thousands are
Under the worst of miseries, despair;
And do n't repine at what you now endure;
Custom will give you ease, or time will cure:
Once more consider, that the resent ill,
Though it be great, may yet be greater still;
And be not anxious; for, to undergo
One grief, is nothing to a numerous woe.
But since it is impossible to be
Human, and not expos'd to misery,
Bear it, my friend, as bravely as you can:
You are not more, and be not less than man!
Afflictions past can no existence find,

But in the wild ideas of the mind:
And why should we for those misfortunes mourn,
Which have been suffer'd, and can ne'er return?
Those that have weather'd a tempestuous night,
And find a calm approaching with the light,
Will not, unless their reason they disown,
Still make those dangers present that are gone.
What is behind the curtain none can see;
It may be joy: suppose it misery;
'Tis future still; and that which is not here,
May never come, or we may never bear.
Therefore the present ill alone we ought
To view, in reason, with a troubled thought:
But, if we may the sacred pages trust,
He 's always happy, that is always just.

TO HIS FRIEND,

INCLINED TO MARRY.

I WOULD not have you, Strephon, choose a mate,
From too exalted, or too mean a state;
For in both these we may expect to find
A creeping spirit, or a haughty mind.
Who moves within the middle region, shares
The least disquiets, and the smallest cares.
Let her extraction with true lustre shine;
If something brighter, not too bright for thine:
Her education liberal, not great;
Neither inferior, nor above her state.
Let her have wit; but let that wit be free
From affectation, pride, and pedantry:
For the effect of woman's wit is such,
Too little is as dangerous as too much.
But chiefly let her humour close with thine;
Unless where yours does to a fault incline;

The least disparity in this destroys,

CRUELTY AND LUST.

Like sulphurous blasts, the very buds of joys.
Her person amiable, straight, and free
From natural, or chance, deformity.
Let not her years exceed, if equal thine;
For women, past their vigour, soon decline:
Her fortune competent; and, if thy sight
Can reach so far, take care 'tis gather'd right.
If thine 's enough, then her's may be the less:
Do not aspire to riches in excess.

For that which makes our lives delightful prove,
Is a genteel sufficiency and love.

TO A PAINTER

DRAWING DORINDA'S PICTURE.

PAINTER, the utmost of thy judgment show;
Exceed ev'n Titian, and great Angelo:
With all the liveliness of thought express
The moving features of Dorinda's face.
Thou canst not flatter, where such beauty dwells;
Her charms thy colours, and thy art, excels.
Others less fair, may from thy pencil have
Graces, which sparing Nature never gave:
But in Dorinda's aspect thou wilt see
Such as will pose thy famous art, and thee;
So great, so many in her face unite,

So well proportion'd, and so wondrous bright,
No human skill can e'er express them all,
But must do wrong to th' fair original.
An angel's hand alone the pencil fits,
To mix the colours when an angel sits.
Thy picture may as like Dorinda be
As art of man can paint a deity;
And justly may perhaps, when she withdraws,
Excite our wonder, and deserve applause :
But when compared, you 'll be oblig'd to own,
No art can equal what 's by Nature done.
Great Le'y's noble hand, excell'd by few,
The picture fairer than the person drew:
He took the best that Nature could impart,
And made it better by his powerful art.
But had he seen that bright, surprising grace,
Which spreads itself o'er all Dorinda's face,
Vain had been all the essays of his skill;
She must have been confest the fairest still.
Heaven in a landscape may be wondrous fine,
And look as bright as painted light can shine;
But still the real glories of the place
All art, by infinite degrees, surpass.

TO THE PAINTER, AFTER HE HAD FINISHED
DORINDA'S PICTURE.

PAINTER, thou hast perform'd what man can do;
Only Dorinda's self more charms can shew.
Bold are thy strokes, and delicate each touch;
But still the beauties of her face are such
As cannot justly be describ'd; though all
Confess 't is like the bright original.
In her, and in thy picture, we may view
The utmost Nature, or that Art, can do;
Each is a masterpiece, design'd so well,
That future times may strive to parallel;
But neither Art nor Nature 's able to excel.

AN EPISTOLARY ESSAY1.

WHERE can the wretched'st of all creatures fly,
To tell the story of her misery?

Where, but to faithful Cælia, in whose mind
A manly bravery 's with soft pity join'd.

I fear, these lines will scarce be understood,
Blurr'd with incessant tears, and writ in blood;
But if you can the mournful pages read,
The sad relation shows you such a deed,
As all the annals of th' infernal reign
Shall strive to equal, or exceed in vain.

Neronior's fame, no doubt, has reach'd your ears,
Whose cruelty has cans'd a sea of tears;
Fill'd each lamenting town with funeral sighs,
Deploring widows' shrieks, and orphans' cries.
At every health the horrid monster quaff'd,
Ten wretches dy'd, and as they dy'd he laugh'd:
Till, tir'd with acting Devil, he was led,
Drunk with excess of blood and wine, to bed.
Oh, cursed place!I can no more command
My pen: shame and confusion shake my hand:
But I must on, and let my Cælia know
How barbarous are my wrongs, how vast my woe.
Among the crowds of western youths who ran
To meet the brave, betray'd, unhappy man 2,
My husband, fatally uniting, went;

Unus'd to arms, and thoughtless of th' event.
But when the battle was by treachery won,
The chief, and all but his false friend, undone;
Though, in the tumult of that desperate night,
He 'scap'd the dreadful slaughter of the fight;
Yet the sagacious bloodhounds, skill'd too well
In all the murdering qualities of Hell,
Each secret place so regularly beat,
They soon discover'd his unsafe retreat.
As hungry wolves triumphing o'er their prey,
To sure destruction hurry them away;
So the purveyors of fierce Moloc's son
With Charion to the common butchery run;
Where proud Neronior by his gibbet stood,
To glut himself with fresh supplies of blood.
Our friends, by powerful intercession, gain'd
A short reprieve, but for three days obtain❜d,
To try all ways might to compassion move
The savage general; but in vain they strove.
When I perceiv'd that all addresses fail'd,
And nothing o'er his stubborn soul prevail'd;
Distracted almost, to his tent I flew,

To make the last effort, what tears could do.
Low on my knees I fell; then thus began:
"Great genius of success, thou more than man!
Whose arms to every clime have terrour hurl'd,
And carry'd conquest round the trembling world!
Still may the brightest glories Fame can lend,
Your sword, your conduct, and your cause, attend.
Here now the arbiter of fate you sit,
While suppliant slaves their rebel heads submit.
Oh, pity the unfortunate! and give

But this one thing: oh, let but Charion live!

This piece was occasioned by the barbarity of Kirke, a commander in the western rebellion, 1685, who debauched a young lady with a promise to save her husband's life, but hanged him the next morning.

2 The duke of Monmouth.

And take the little all that we possess.
I'll bear the meagre anguish of distress
Content, nay, pleas'd, to beg or earn my bread:
Let Charion live, no matter how I'm fed.
The fall of such a youth no lustre brings

To him whose sword performs such wondrous things
As saving kingdoms, and supporting kings.
That triumph only with true grandeur shines,
Where godlike courage, godlike pity joins.
Cæsar, the eldest favourite of war,

Took not more pleasure to submit, than spare:
And since in battle you can greater be,
That over, be n't less merciful than he.
Ignoble spirits by revenge are known,

And cruel actions spoil the conqueror's crown;
In future histories fill each mournful page
With tales of blood, and monuments of rage:
And, while his annals are with horrour read,
Men curse him living, and detest him dead.
Oh! do not sully with a sanguine dye
(The foulest stain) so fair a memory!
Then, as you'll live the glory of our isle,
And Fate on all your expeditions smile:
So, when a noble course you 've bravely ran,
Die the best soldier, and the happiest man.
None can the turns of Providence foresee,
Or what their own catastrophe may be;
Therefore, to persons labouring under woe,
That mercy they may want, should always show:
For in the chance of war the slightest thing
May lose the battle, or the victory bring.
And how would you that general's honour prize,
Should in cool blood his captive sacrifice?

"He that with rebel arms to fight is led,
To justice forfeits his opprobrious head:
But 't is unhappy Charion's first offence,
Seduc'd by some too plausible pretence,
To take the injuring side by errour brought;
He had no malice, though he has the fault.
Let the old tempters find a shameful grave,
But, the half innocent, the tempted, save;
Vengeance divine, though for the greatest crime,
But rarely strikes the first or second time:
And he best follows th' Almighty's will,
Who spares the guilty he has power to kill.
When proud rebellions would unhinge a state,
And wild disorders in a land create,
Tis requisite the first promoters should

Put out the flames they kindled, with their blood: But sure 't is a degree of murder, all

That draw their swords should undistinguish'd fall.

And since a mercy must to some be shown,
Let Charion 'mongst the happy few be one:
For as none guilty has less guilt than he,
So none for pardon has a fairer plea.

"When David's general had won the field,
And Absalom, the lov'd ungrateful, kill'd,
The trumpets sounding made all slaughter cease,
And misled Israelites returu'd in peace.
The action past, where so much blood was spilt,
We hear of none arraign'd for that day's guilt;
But all concludes with the desir'd event,
The monarch pardons, and the Jews repent.
"As great example your great courage warms,
And to illustrious deeds excites your arms;
So when you instances of mercy view,
They should inspire you with compassion too:
For he that emulates the truly brave,
Would always conquer, and should always save.”
VOL VIIL

Here, interrupting, stern Neronior cry'd, (Swell'd with success, and blubber'd up with pride) Madam, his life depends upon my will,

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For every rebel I can spare or kill.

I'll think of what you 've said: this night return
At ten, perhaps you 'll have no cause to mourn.
Go, see your husband, bid him not despair;
His crime is great, but you are wondrous fair."
When anxious miseries the soul amaze,
And dire confusion in the spirits raise,
Upon the least appearance of relief,
Our hopes revive, and mitigate our grief;
Impatience makes our wishes earnest grow,
Which through false optics our deliverance show,
For while we fancy danger does appear
Most at a distance, it is oft too near,
And many times, secure from obvious foes,
We fall into an ambuscade of woes.

Pleas'd with the false Neronior's dark reply,
I thought the end of all my sorrows nigh,
And to the main-guard hasten'd, where the prey,
Of this blood-thirsty fiend, in durance lay.
When Charion saw me, from his turfy bed
With eagerness he rais'd his drooping head:
"Oh! fly, my dear, this guilty place," he cry'd,
"And in some distant clime thy virtue hide!
Here nothing but the foulest demons dwell,
The refuge of the damn'd, and mob of Hell.
The air they breathe is every atom curst:
There's no degree of il's, for all are worst.
In rapes and murders they alone delight,
And villanies of less importance slight:
Act them indeed, but scorn they should be nam'd,
For all their glory 's to be more than damn'd.
Neronior's chief of this infernal crew,

And seems to merit that high station too:
Nothing but rage and lust inspire his breast,
By Asmodai and Moloc both possest.
When told you went to intercede for me,
It threw my soul into an agony;
Not that I would not for my freedom give
What 's requisite, or do not wish to live;
But for my safety I can ne'er be base,
Or buy a few short years with long disgrace;
Nor would I have your yet unspotted fame
For me expos'd to an eternal shame.
With ignominy to preserve my breath,
Is worse, by infinite degrees, than death.
But if I can 't my life with honour save,
With honour I'll descend into the grave.
For though revenge and malice both combine
(As both to fix my ruin seem to join)
Yet, maugre all their violence and skill,
I can die just, and I'm resolv'd I will.
"But what is death we so unwisely fear?
An end of all our busy tumults here:
The equal lot of poverty and state,
Which all partake of by a certain fate.
Whoe'er the prospect of mankind surveys,
At divers ages, and by divers ways,
Will find them from this noisy scene ret're;
Some the first minute that they breathe, expire:
Others, perhaps, survive to talk, and go;
But die, before they good or evil know.
Here one to puberty arrives; and then
Returns lamented to the dust again:
Another there maintains a longer strife
With all the powerful enemies of life;
Till, with vexation tir'd, and threescore years,
He drops into the dark, and disappears,

Y

I'm young, indeed, and might expect to see
Times future, long and late posterity,
'Tis what with reason I could wish to do,

If to be old, were to be happy too.

But since substantial grief so soon destroys
The gust of all imaginary joys,

Who would be too importunate to live,
Or more for life, than it can merit, give!
"Beyond the grave stupendous regions lie,
The boundless realms of vast eternity;
Where minds, remov'd from earthly bodies, dwell;
But who their government or laws can tell?
What's their employment till the final doom
And Time 's eternal period shall come?
Thus much the sacred oracles declare,
That all are bless'd or miserable there;
Though, if there 's such variety of fate,
None good expire too soon, nor bad too late.
For my own part, with resignation, still
I can submit to my Creator's will;
Let him recall the breath from him I drew,
When he thinks fit, and when he pleases too.
The way of dying is my least concern;
That will give no disturbance to my urn.
If to the seats of happiness I go,
There end all possible returns of woe:
And when to those blest mansions I arrive,
With pity I'll behold those that survive.
Once more I beg, you 'd from these tents retreat,
And leave me to my innocence and Fate."

"Charion," said I, "oh, do not urge my flight!
I'll see the event of this important night:
Some strange presages in my soul forebode
The worst of miseries, or the greatest good.
Few hours will show the utmost of my doom;
A joyful safety, or a peaceful tomb.
If you miscarry, I'm resolv'd to try
If gracious Heaven will suffer me to die:
For, when you are to endless raptures gone,
If I survive, 't is but to be undone.
Who will support an injur'd widow's right,
From sly Injustice, or oppressive Might?
Protect her person, or her cause defend?
. She rarely wants a foe, or finds a friend:
I've no distrust of Providence; but still
'Tis best to go beyond the reach of ill:
And those can have no reason to repent,
Who, though they die betimes, die innocent.
But to a world of everlasting bliss
Why would you go, and leave me here in this!
'Tis a dark passage; but our foes shall view,
I'll die as calin, though not so brave, as you:
That my behaviour to the last may prove
Your courage is not greater than my love."

The hour approach'd; as to Neronior's tent, With trembling, but impatient steps, I went, A thousand horrours throng'd into my breast, By sad ideas and strong fears possest: Where'er I pass'd, the glaring lights would show Fresh objects of despair, and scenes of woe.

Here, in a crowd of drunken soldiers, stood A wretched, poor, old man, besmear'd with blood; And at his feet, just through the body run, Struggling for life, was laid his only son; By whose hard labour he was daily fed, Dividing still, with pious care, his bread: And while he mourn'd, with floods of aged tears, The sole support of his decrepid years, The barbarous mob, whose rage no limit knows, With blasphemous derision, mock'd his woes.

There, under a wide oak, disconsolate, And drown'd in tears, a mournful widow sate. High in the boughs the murder'd father hung; Beneath, the children round the mother clung: They cry'd for food, but 't was without relief: For all they had to live upon, was grief. A sorrow so intense, such deep despair, No creature, merely human, long could bear, First in her arms her weeping babes she took, And, with a groan, did to her husband look: Then lean'd her head on theirs, and, sighing, cry'd,

"Pity me, Saviour of the world!" and dy'd.

From this sad spectacle my eyes I turn'd,
Where sons their fathers, maids their lovers, mourn'd;
Friends for their friends, sisters for brothers, wept,
Prisoners of war, in chains, for slaughter kept:
Each every hour did the black message dread,
Which should declare the person lov'd was dead.
Then I beheld, with brutal shouts of mirth,
A comely youth, and of no common birth,
To execution led; who hardly bore
The wounds in battle he receiv'd before:
And, as he pass'd, I heard him bravely cry,
"I neither wish to live, nor fear to die."

At the curs'd tent arriv'd, without delay,
They did me to the general convey:
Who thus began

"Madam! by fresh intelligence, I find,
That Charion's treason 's of the blackest kind;
And my commission is express to spare
None that so deeply in rebellion are:
New measures therefore it is vain to try;
No pardon can be granted; he must die.
Must, or I hazard all: which yet I'd do
To be oblig'd in one request by you:
And, maugre all the dangers I foresee,
Be mine this night, I'll set your husband free.
Soldiers are rough, and cannot hope success
By supple flattery, and by soft address;
The pert, gay coxcomb, by these little arts,
Gains an ascendant o'er the ladies' hearts.
But I can no such whining methods use:
Consent, he lives; he dies, if you refuse.”

Amaz'd at this demand; said I, "The brave,
Upon ignoble terms, disdain to save:
They let their captives still with honour live,
No more require, than what themselves would give;
For, generous victors, as they scorn to do
D'shonest things, scorn to propose them too.
Mercy, the brightest virtue of the mind,
Should with no devious appetite be join'd:
For if, when exercis'd, a crime it cost,
Th' intrinsic lustre of the deed is lost.
Great men their actions of a piece should have;
Heroic all, and each entirely brave;

From the nice rules of Honour none should swerve;. Done, because good, without a mean reserve.

"The crimes new charg'd upon the unhappy youth
May have revenge, and malice, but no truth.
Suppose the accusation justly brought,
And clearly prov'd to the minutest thought;
Yet mercies next to infinite abate
Offences next to infinitely great:
And 't is the glory of a noble mind,
In full forgiveness not to be confin'd.

Your prince's frowns, if you have cause to fear,
This act will more illustrious appear;
Though his excuse can never be withstood,
Who disobeys, but only to be good.

Perhaps the hazard's more than you express;
The glory would be, were the danger less.
For be that, to his prejudice, will do
A noble action, and a generous too,
Deserves to wear a more resplendent crown,
Than he that has a thousand battles won.
Do not invert divine compassion so,
As to be cruel, and no mercy show!
Of what renown can such an action be,
Which saves my husband's life, but ruins me?
Though, if you finally resolve to stand
Upon so vile, inglorious a demand,

He must submit; if 't is my fate to mourn

His death, I'll bathe with virtuous tears his urn."
“Well, madam," haughtily, Neronior cry'd,
"Your courage and your virtue shall be try'd.
But to prevent all prospect of a flight,
Some of my lambs 3 shall be your guard to-night:
By them, no doubt, you 'll tenderly be us'd;
They seldom ask a favour that 's refus'd:
Perhaps you'll find them so genteelly bred,
They'll leave you but few virtuous tears to shed.
Surrounded with so innocent a throng,
The night must pass delightfully along:
And in the morning, since you will not give
What I require, to let your husband live,
You shall behold him sigh his latest breath,
And gently swing into the arms of Death.
His fate he merits, as to rebels due:
And yours will be as much deserv'd by you."
Oh, Cælia, think! so far as thought can show,
What pangs of grief, what agonies of woe,
At this dire resolution, seiz'd my breast!
By all things sad and terrible possest.
In vain I wept, and 't was in vain I pray'd,
For all my prayers were to a tiger made:
A tiger! worse; for, 't is beyond dispute,
No fiend 's so cruel as a reasoning brute.
Encompass'd thus, and hopeless of relief,
With all the squadrons of despair and grief,
Ruin it was not possible to shun:

What could I do? Oh! what would you have done?
The hours that pass'd, till the black morn return'd,
With tears of blood should be for ever mourn'd.
When, to involve me with consummate grief,
Beyond expression, and above belief,
"Madam," the monster cry'd, "that you may find
I can be grateful to the fair that 's kind;
Step to the door, I'll show you such a sight,
Shall overwhelm your spirits with delight.
Does not that wretch, who would dethrone his king,
Become the gibbet, and adorn the string?
You need not now an injur'd husband dread;
Living he might, he 'll not upbraid you dead.
T was for your sake I seiz'd upon his life;
He would perhaps have scorn'd so chaste a wife.
And, madam, you'll excuse the zeal I show,
To keep that secret none alive should know."
"Curs'd of all creatures! for, compar'd with thee,
The devils," said I, " are dull in cruelty.
Oh, may that tongue eternal vipers breed,
And wasteless their eternal hunger feed;
In fires too hot for salamanders dwell,
The burning earnest of a hotter Hell;
May that vile lump of execrable lust
Corrupt alive, and rot into the dust!

May'st thou, despairing at the point of death, With oaths and blasphemies resign thy breath; And the worst torments that the damn'd should share, In thine own person all united bear!"

Oh Calia! oh my friend! what age can show Sorrows like mine, so exquisite a woe? Indeed it does not infinite appear, Because it can't be everlasting here: But it's so vast, that it can ne'er increase; And so confirm'd, it never can be less.

ON THE MARRIAGE

OF THE EARL OF A with the COUNTESS OP 5

TRIUMPHANT beauty never looks so gay
As on the morning of a nuptial day,
Love then within a larger circle moves,
New graces adds, and every charm improves :
While Hymen does his sacred rites prepare,
The busy nymphs attend the trembling fair;
Whose veins are swell'd with an unusual heat,
And eager pulses with strange motions beat:
Alternate passions various thoughts impart,
And painful joys distend her throbbing heart:
Her fears are great, and her desires are strong:
The minutes fly too fast-yet stay too long:
Now she is ready-the next moment not;
All things are done-then something is forgot:
She fears-yet wishes the strange work were done;
Delays yet is impatient to be gone.
Disorders thus from every thought arise;
What loves persuades, I know not what denies.

Achates' choice does his firm judgment prove,
And shows at once he can be wise and love;
Because it from no spurious passion came,
But was the product of a noble flame:
Bold, without rudeness; without blazing, bright:
Pure as fix'd stars, and uncorrupt as light:
By just degrees it to perfection grew;
An early ripeness, and a lasting too.
So the bright Sun, ascending to his noon,
Moves not too slowly, nor is there too soon.

But, though Achates was unkindly driven
From his own land, he 's banish'd into Heaven:
For sure the raptures of Cosmelia's love
Are next, if only next, to those above.
Thus Power Divine does with his foes engage;
Rewards his virtues, and defeats their rage:
For first it did to fair Cosmelia give
All that a human creature could receive;
Whate'er can raise our wonder or delight,
Transport the soul, or gratify the sight.
Then in the full perfection of her charms,
Lodg'd the bright virgin in Achates' arms.

What angels are, is in Cosmelia seen;
Their awful glories, and their godlike mien:
For, in her aspect all the graces meet;
All that is noble, beautiful, or sweet:
There every charm in lofty triumph sits,
Scorus poor defect, and to no fault submits:
There symmetry, complexion, air, unite,
Sublimely noble, and amazing bright.
So, newly finish'd by the hand Divine,
Before her fall, did the first woman shine.
But Eve in one great point she does excel:
Cosmelia never err'd at all; she fell.

3 Kirke used to call the most inhuman of his From her Temptation in despair withdrew, soldiers his lambs.

Nor more assaults, whom it could ne'er subdae,

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