Glad, like a boy, to snatch the first good day, What is't to me (a passenger, God wot,) But why all this of avarice? I have none.' I wish you joy, sir, of a tyrant gone: But does no other lord it at this hour, As wild and mad? the avarice of power ? Does neither rage inflame nor fear appal? Not the black fear of death, that saddens all? With terrors round, can reason hold her throne, Despise the known, nor tremble at th' unknown? Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire, In spite of witches, devils, dreams, and fire? Pleas'd to look forward, pleas'd to look behind, And count each birthday with a grateful mind? Has life no sourness, drawn so near its end? Canst thou endure a foe, forgive a friend? Has but melted the rough parts away, age As winter fruits grow mild ere they decay? Walk sober off, before a sprightlier age THE FIRST ODE OF THE FOURTH BOOK OF HORACE. TO VENUS. AGAIN? new tumults in my breast? Ah, spare me, Venus! let me, let me rest! As in the gentle reign of my queen Anne. Nor circle sober fifty with thy charms. Turn, turn to willing hearts your wanton fires: There spread round Murray1 all your blooming loves; Noble and young, who strikes the heart With every sprightly, every decent part; To charm the mistress, or to fix the friend: Shall stretch thy conquests over half the kind : 1 Afterwards Lord Mansfield. Make but his riches equal to his wit. (Thy Grecian form) and Chloe lend the face: His house, embosom'd in the grove, Sacred to social life and social love, Shall glitter o'er the pendent green, Shall call the smiling loves and young desires; And all the kind deceivers of the soul! Absent I follow through th' extended dream; And now you burst (ah, cruel!) from my arms, And swiftly shoot along the mall, Or softly glide by the canal ; Now shown by Cynthia's silver ray, And now on rolling waters snatch'd away. THE NINTH ODE OF THE FOURTH BOOK OF HORACE. A FRAGMENT. LEST you should think that verse shall die Though daring Milton sits sublime, Sages and chiefs long since had birth And those new heavens and systems fram'd. Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride! In vain they schem'd, in vain they bled! SATIRES OF DR. JOHN DONNE, DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S, VERSIFIED. Quid vetat et nosmet Lucilî scripta legentes HOR. SATIRE II. YES, thank my stars! as early as I knew That all beside one pities, not abhors; As who knows Sappho, smiles at other whores. I grant that poetry's a crying sin; It brought (no doubt) th' excise and army in : Catch'd like the plague, or love, the Lord knows how, But that the cure is starving, all allow. Yet like the papist's is the poet's state, Poor and disarm'd, and hardly worth your hate! Here a lean bard, whose wit could never give Himself a dinner, makes an actor live: The thief condemn'd, in law already dead, So prompts and saves a rogue who cannot read. Thus as the pipes of some carv'd organ move, |