V.

Leave me upon fome Lybian Plain,
So fhe my Fancy entertain,

And when the thirsty Monsters meet,
They'll all pay homage to my Feet.

VI.

The Magick of ORINDA's Name,
Not only can their fierceness tame,

But, if that mighty word I once rehearfe,
They seem fubmiffively to roar in Verfe.

THE

GROVE.

A

By the fame Author.

H happy Grove! Dark and fecure retreat,

Of Sacred filence, Reft's eternal Seat;
How well your cool and unfrequented fhade,
Suits with the chaft retirements of a Maid.
Oh! If kind Heaven had been so much my friend,
To make my Fate upon my choice depend;
All my ambition I would here confine,
And only this Elyfium should be mine.

Fond Men by Paffion wilfully betray'd;
Adore those Idols which their fancy made;

Purchafing

Purchafing Riches, with our time and care,
We lose our freedom in a gilded Snare;

And having all, all to our felves, refuse,.
Oppreft with Bleffings which we fear to use.
Fame is at best but an inconftant good,
Vain are the boafted Titles of our Blood;
We fooneft lose what we moft highy prize,
And with our Youth our fhort-liv'd Beauty dies.
In vain our Fields and Flocks increase our store,
If our abundance makes us with for more.
How happy is the harmless Country Maid,
Who rich by Nature, fcorns fuperfluous aid!
Whofe modeft Cloaths no wanton eyes invite,
But like her Soul, preferves the Native White;
Whofe little Store, her well taught Mind does
please,

Not pinch'd with want, nor cloy'd with wanton ease,

Who free from Storms, which on the Great Ones Makes but few Wishes and enjoys them all; (fall,

No care but Love can discompofe her Breast,

Love, of all Cares the sweetest and the best.

Whil'ft on sweet Grafs her bleating Charge does

lie,

Our happy Lover feeds upon her eye;
Not one on whom or Gods or Men impofe,
But one whom Love has for this Lover chose,
Under fome favourite Myrtle's fhady Boughs,
They speak their Paffions in repeated Vows:
And whilft a Blufh confeffes how the burns,
His faithful heart makes as fincere returns.
Thus in the Arms of Love and Peace they lie
And whilft they Live,their flames can never die.

THE

THE

DUEL

OF THE

STAGS.

Written by the Honourable

Sir ROBERT HOWARD.

I

N Windfor Foreft, before War destroy'd

The harmless Pleafures which foft Peace

enjoy'd;

A mighty Stag grew Monarch of the Herd,
By all his Savage Slaves obey'd, and fear'd: