« EelmineJätka »
Ne forte pudori Sit tibi mufa lyra folers, et cantor Apollo.
By Mr. TICKEL L.
HE Opera first Italian masters taught,
Enrich'd with songs, but innocent of thought.
No charms are wanting to thy artful song,
Thy ftyle hath match'd what ancient Romans knew,
Landskips how gay the bow'ry grotto yields,
Ten thousand pangs my anxious bosom tear,
Let joy transport fair Rofamonda's shade, And wreaths of myrtle crown the lovely maid. While now perhaps with Dido's ghost the roves, And hears and tells the story of their loves, Alike they mourn, alike they bless their fate, Since love, which made 'em wretched, makes 'em great, Nor longer that relentless doom bemoan, Which gain’d a Virgil, and an Addison.
Accept, great monarch of the British lays, The tribute song an humble subject pays. So tries the artless lark her early flight, And soars, to hail the God of verse and light. Unrival'd as thy merit be thy fame, And thy own laurels Made thy envy'd name: Thy name, the boast of all the cuneful choir, Shall tremble on the strings of ev'ry lyre ; While the charm'd reader with thy thought complies ; Feels corresponding joys or sorrows rise, And views thy Rofamond with Henry's eyes.
M E N.
W O MEN.
Guardian Angels, &c.
A Prospea of Woodstock-Park, terminating
in the Bower.
Enter QUEEN and Page.
QUE E N.
What scenes appear !
And soft Elyfiums rise:
With wild variety surprises.