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But for a fit Comparison must seek

In Virgil's Latin, or in Homer's Greek.

Anger is mad; and Choler mere Difeafe:
His Mufe fought what was sweet, and what would please:
Still led where Nature's beauteous Rays entice;
Not touching vile Deformities, or Vice.
Here no Chimera skips, no Goblin frights;
No Satyr's here, nor Monster elfe, that bites.
Sweetness his very Vinegar allay'd;

And all his Snakes in Ladies Bofom play'd.
Nature rejoic'd beneath his charming Power;
His lucky hand made every thing a Flower.
So every Shrub to Jessamin improves ;

And rudeft Holts, to goodly Myrtle Groves.
Some, from a Sprig he carelefly had thrown,
Have furnish'd a whole Garden of their own.
Some, by a Spark that from his Chariot came,
Take Fire, and blaze, and raise a deathless Name?
Others a lucklefs Imitation try;

And, whilft they fear, and whilft they venture high,
Flutter and flounce, but have not Wing to fly.
Some, in loose Words their empty Fancies bind,
Which whirl about, with Chaff, before the Wind.
Here, brave Conceits in the Expreffion fail:
There, big the Words, but with no Senfe at all.
Still Waller's Senfe might Waller's Language truft ;
Both pois'd, and always bold, and always juft.
None e'er may reach that ftrange Felicity,
Where Thoughts are eafie, Verfe fo fweet, and free,
Yet not defcend one Step from Majesty.

On the Infanta of Portugal.

HOW

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OW Cruel was Alonzo's Fate,
fix his Love fo high;
That he muft perish for her Hate,
Or for her Kindness dye?:

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II.

Tortur❜d and Mangl'd, Cut and Maim'd, l'th' midst of all his Pain,

He with his dying Breath proclaim'd, 'Twas better than Disdain.

111.

The Gentle Nymph long fince defign'd,
For the proud Mounfieur's Bed;
Now to a Holy Goal confin'd,
Drops Tears for every Bead.

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An Epitaph on the Lord Fairfax. By the D. of Buckingham.

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Nder this Stone does lie

Under

One born for Victory.

Fairfax the Valiant, and the only He,

Who e'er for that alone a Conqueror would be.
Both Sexes Virtues were in him combin'd:
He had the Fierceness of the manlieft Mind,
And eke the Meeknefs too of Womankind.
He never knew what Envy was, or Hate;

His Soul was fill'd with Worth and Honesty,
And with another thing quite out of date,
Call'd Modefty.

II.

He ne'er feem'd impudent, but in the Field ; a Place Where Impudence it felf dares feldom fhew her Face: Had any Stranger spy'd him in the Room With fome of those whom he had overcome,

And had not heard their Talk, but only feen
Their Gesture and their Mien,

They would have fworn he had the Vanquish'd been;
For as they brag'd, and dreadful would appear,
While they their own ill lucks in War repeated,
His Modesty still made him blush to hear
How often he had them defeated.

III.

Through his whole Life the part he bore
Was Wonderful and Great;

And yet, it fo appear'd in nothing more,
Than in his private laft Retreat :
For it's a ftranger thing to find
One Man of fuch a glorious Mind,
As can difmifs the Pow'r h' has got,
Than Millions of the Polls and Braves,
Thofe defpicable Fools and Knaves,
Who fuch a Pother make,

Through Dulness and Mistake,
In feeking after Power, but get it not.
IV.

When all the Nation he had won,

And with Expence of Blood had bought
Store great enough he thought,

Of Fame and of Renown;

He then his Arms laid down,
With full as little Pride

As if he had been of his Enemy's fide,'
Or one of them cou'd do that were undone
He neither Wealth nor Places fought;
For others, not himself he fought.

He was content to know,

For he had found it fo,

That when he pleas'd to conquer, he was able,
And left the Spoil and Plunder to the Rabble:
He might have been a King,

But that he understood

How much it is a meaner thing

To be unjustly Great, than honourably Good,

V.

This from the World did Admiration draw,
And from his Friends both Love and Awe,
Remembring what in Fight he did before:
And his Foes lov'd him too,

As they were bound to do,

Because he was resolv'd to fight no more.
So bleft of all, he dy'd; but far more bleft were we,
If we were fure to live, 'till we could fee
A Man as great in War, in Peace as just as he.

To the Memory of my Noble Friend, Mr. WALLER.

By Sir JOHN COTTON, BAY.

OT Sleep, beneath the Shade in Flow'ry Fields,

Nor, to affwage his Thirft, the living Spring, I'th' heat of Summer, more delight does bring; Than unto me thy well tun'd Numbers do, In which thou dost both please and profit too. Born in a Clime where Storms and Tempefts grow; Far from the Place where Helicon does flow: The Muses travel'd far to bless thy Sight, And taught thee how to Think, and how to Write. Th’* Ascraan Shepherd tells us he indeed * Hefiod. Had feen them dancing, while his Flocks did feed. Not Petrarch's Laura, nor bright Stella's Fame, Shall longer live than Sacharissa's Name. Thou do'ft not write like those, who brand the Times, And themselves moft, with sharp Satyrick Rhimes : Nor does thy Mufe, with smutty Verfes, tear The modeft Virgin's chast and tender Ear. Free from their Faults, what e'er thy Mufe indites, Not Ovid, nor Tibullus fofter writes.

The choice of tuneful Words t'exprefs our Thought,
By thy Example we have firft been taught.
Our English ↑ Virgil, and our Pindar too, Cowley.
In this ('tis faid) fome Negligence did fhew.
I'll add but this, left while I think to raise
Thy Worth, I kindly injure thee with Praise ;
Thy Verfes have a Genius, and must
Live until all things crumble into Dust.

Upon my Noble Friend, Mr. WALLer. By Sir Thomas Higgons.

Though I can add but little to his Name,

Whofe Mufe hath giv'n him such immortalFame; Yet, in the Crowd of those who dress his Hearse, I come to pay the Tribute of a Verfe.

Athens and Rome, when Learning flourish'd most,
Could never fuch a finish'd Poet boaft:
Whofe matchlefs foftness in the English Tongue
Out-does what Horace, or Anacreon Sung.
Judgment does fome to Reputation raise;
And for Invention others wear the Bayes:
He poffeft both, with fuch a Talent ftill,
As fhew'd not only force of Wit, but Skill
So faultlefs was his Mufe, 'tis hard to know
If he did more to Art, or Nature owe.
Read where you will, he's Mufick all along,
And his Senfe eafie, as his Thought is ftrong.
Some ftriving to be Clear, fall Flat and Low;
And when they think to mount, obfcure they grow.
He is not darker for his lofty Flight;
Nor does his Eafinefs deprefs his Height;
But ftill perfpicuous, wherefoe'er he fly,

And, like the Sun, is brightest, when he's high.
Ladies admire, and tafte his gentle Vein,
Which does the greatest Statesmen entertain,

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