Juft as a trav'iler to fome fhade retires,
To fhun the heat of Phoebus' fcorching fires.
Would kinder Heav'n but spread a mutual flame
Thro' either heart, and ftill encrease the same;
Then ages yet to come fhould us adore,
And fing the love we to each other bore,
Thus fhould they tell-Two heretofore there were, Whom mutual love engag'd, a happy pair:
Espinlus one, Aïtes t'other's name,
For love recorded in the books of fame :
These fure were fome of thofe that liv'd of old,
When goodly Saturn rul'd the age of gold.
Grant, mighty gods, that fome kind ghost may
And tell us on the banks of bleft Elyfium.
Your love's the theme of every tuneful tongue,
Admir'd by all, but chiefly by the young;
Wishes are vain to alter Heav'n's decrees,
Jove can deny or anfwer which he please:
I'll give the praise which to your beauty's due,
Tho' you feem falfe, yet I'll believe you true;
When you offend, you recompence the fame,
Double requittance takes from you the blame;
Hence for awhile my willing feet I move,
Being doubly bleft with pleasure and your love.
Happy ye Megarenfians may you be, From troubles, cares, and all unquiet free,
Succefs attend you when you plough the feas,
Because you honour'd lovely Diocles;
And gave the facred lover worthy praife:
Around whofe tomb, when time brings on the day,
The crouded youth in wanton dances play,
Contending with a kifs to bear the prize away.
And he whofe pointed kiss is sweetest found,
Homeward returns with a fresh garland crown'd.
Happy that boy, but greater is his bliss,
That tries and judgeth every wanton kiss:
He must be furely like young Ganymede,
Whofe lips had proving virtue, as 'tis said,
Like Lydian ftones found upon Timolus' fhore,
Which tries the bafer from the purer oar.
HORACE, Book IV. ODE VII.
Now Winter fnows are gone, Spring takes its
Grace paints the fields, and leaves the branches grace; The stubborn earth, that fcorn'd the dull-edg'd plough,
Frozen, congeal'd, and cover'd o'er with fnow,
Is thaw'd and foften'd by the heighten'd fun,
And murmuring riv'lets in their channels run ;
The nymphs and naked graces dance around,
And nimbly trip it o'er the graffy ground;
The minutes and the hours of every day
That swiftly roll and swiftly fly away,
With the declining year, forbid that we
Should ever hope for immortality,
The cold's allay'd by Zephyr's warmer blast;
The Spring and Summer come, but quickly wafte,
Next Autumn peeps, but wears away in haste,
And brings the lazy Winter at its heels;
The feasons roll on Time's immortal wheels.
The wained moon renews her orb again,
But can't reverse the years of dying men;
When ghaftly death appears to open view,
Then we must bid the world and all adieu,
And ne'er return again, alas! but go
Down to the melancholy fhades below,
And view the ghosts of generous heroes there,
Where Tullus, Ancus, and Æneas are.
When fate has fpun our lives, down then we must,
And all our limbs fhall moulder into duft.
Use well the time that you have here to stay,
Perhaps the gods wont lend another day;
What liberally you give, while you are here,
Shall fly the hands of a young spendthrift heir.
When dead and unto Minos' bar you come,
And wait and dread to hear your fatal doom:
Your eloquence and high defcent are vain,
Your piety cannot reitore to life again.
The chafte Hyppolitus muft yield to death,
His virtues couldn't buy a moment's breath :
Perithous, by stronger fate o'ercome,
Couldn't refift the irrevocable doom;
No more, alas! no more can Thefeus break
The adamantine chains that bar the Stygian lake.
On the Return of King WILLIAM.
In Imitation of HORACE, BOOK IV. Ode II.
Pindarum quiquis ftudet æmulari, &c.
To equal Cowley whofoeʼer aspires,
(Cowley a name of wide renown)
In vain his hopes, fuccefslefs his defires,
Icarus like, he'll tumble headlong down.
Cowley that rages like fwift ftreams that flow
Down from a lofty mountain's brow;
Which fwoln by fhow'rs, difdain their narrow bounds,
O'erflow their banks and drown their neighbouring
Whether he tunes his lyre
To amorous notes and Cupid's fofter fire;
Or bids his louder strings
"Sound mighty men, and mighty things,
"Then, then the British Swan takes wing
And foars beyond a common flight.
"Then he in loftier strains doth fing "Of fome immortal heroes might."
As you have seen the painful Bee, that roves About the woods, the flow'ry banks, and groves, To gather fragrant thyme;
So, unambitious I,
With much laborious industry,
Perhaps may hammer out a grateful rhyme.
But let fome greater poet fing
The honours of the British King,
When he shall lead the captive French along
To Westminster, attended with a noble throng.
The bounteous gods could ne'er bestow,
A greater gift on men,
No, tho' the golden age return again,
And streams of milk and wine in ev'ry channel flow.
Sing of the joyful merry day,
The city sport, and public play,
At England's mighty Monarch's fafe return,
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