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HERE end my chains, and thraldom cease,

If not in joy, I'll live in peace.

Since for the pleasures of an hour
We must endure an age of pain,
I'll be this abject thing no more;
Love give me back my heart again.

Defpair tormented first my breast,
Now Falfehood, a more cruel guest.
O, for the peace of human-kind,
Make women longer true, or fooner kind;
With juftice or with mercy reign,

O Love! or give me back my heart again.


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NOUGH, enough, my foul of worldly noife,
Of airy pomps, and fleeting joys;

What does this bufy world provide at best,

But brittle goods that break like glass,

But poison'd sweets, a troubled feast,


And pleasures like the winds that in a moment pass?


Thy thoughts to nobler meditations give,
And ftudy how to die, not how to live.


How frail is beauty! ah how vain

And how fhort-liv'd thofe glories are,
That vex our days and nights with pain,
And break our hearts with care!
In duft we no diftinction fee.

Such Helen is; fuch, Myra, thou must be.


How short is life! why will vain courtiers toil
And crowd a vainer monarch for a fimile?
What is that monarch but a mortal man,
His crown a pageant, and his life a span ?
With all his guards and his dominions, he
Must ficken too, and die as well as we.


Those boasted names of conquerors and kings
Are swallow'd, and become forgotten things:
One deftin'd period men in common have,
The great, the vile; the coward, and the brave,
Are food alike for worms, companions in the grave.
The prince and parafite together lie,

No fortune can exalt, but death will climb as high.

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WHY, Granville, is thy life confin'd

To fhades? Thou, whom the gods defign'd

In public, to do credit to mankind?

Why fleeps the noble ardour of thy blood,
Which from thy ancestors so many ages past,

From Rollo down to Bevil flow'd,

And then appear'd again at last

In thee, when thy victorious lance*

Bore the difputed prize from all the youth of France. In the first trials that are made for fame,

Those to whom fate fuccefs denies,

If taking counsel from their fhame,
They modeftly retreat, are wife :

But why fhould you? who still fucceed

In all you do, whether with graceful art you lead
The fiery barb, or with as graceful motion tread
In fhining balls, where all agree

To give the highest praise and the first place to thee.
So lov'd and prais'd, whom all admire,

Why, why fhould you from courts and camps retire?

*At a caroufal at Paris, in the year 1689.

If Myra is unkind, if it can be

That any nymph can be unkind to thee; If, penfive made by love, you thus retire, Awake your Mufe, and string your lyre; Your tender fong and your melodious strain Can never be addrest in vain,

She needs must love, and we shall have you back again,



HOE'ER thou art, who tempt'ft in fucha ftrain,
Sweet is thy Syren fong, but fung in vain;
When the winds rage, and the loud billows roar,
What fool will truft the fea, and quit the shore?
Early and vain into the world I came,
Big with falfe hopes, and eager after fame,
Till, looking round me ere the race began,
Madmen and giddy fools were all that ran
Reclaim'd betimes, I from the lift retire,
And thank the gods who my retreat inspire.
Survey the world, and with impartial eyes
Confider, and examine, all who rise,

Weigh well their actions and their treacherous ends,
How greatness grows, and by what steps afcends,
What murders, treafons, perjuries, deceit,
How many fall, to make one monster great.
Would you command, have fortune in your power?
Hug whom you ftab, and fimile when you devour:

Be bloody, falfe, flatter, forfwear, and lie,
Turn pandar, pathic, parafite, or spy;

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Such thriving arts may your wifh'd purpose bring,
At least a general be, perhaps a king.
Fortune we moft unjustly partial call,
A miftrefs free, who bids alike to all,
But on fuch terms as only fuit the base,
Honour denies, and fhuns the foul embrace
The honeft man, who ftarves and is undone,
Not fortune, but his virtue, keeps him down.
Had Cato bent beneath the conquering cause,
He might have liv'd to give new senates laws;
But, on vile terms difdaining to be great,
He perish'd by his choice, and not his fate :
Honour and life th' ufurper bids, and all
That vain mistaken men good fortune call;
Virtue forbids, and fets before his eyes
An honeft death, which he accepts, and dies.
O glorious refolution! noble pride!

More honour'd than the tyrant liv'd, he dy'd;
More prais'd, more lov'd, more envy'd in his doom
Than Cæfar trampling on the rights of Rome.)
The virtuous nothing fear but life with fhame,
And death's a pleasant road that leads to fame.
On bones and scraps of dogs let me be fed,
My limbs uncover'd, and expos'd my head
To bleakeft colds, a kennel be my bed;
This, and all other martyrdom, for thee
Seems glorious all, thrice-beauteous Honesty!




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