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Fortune and life depend on fate alone,

My honour and my confcience are my own.
Ye great difturbers, who in endless noife,
In blood and horror, feek unnatural joys;
For what is all this bustle but to fhun

Those thoughts with which you dare not be alone?
As men in mifery, oppreft with care,

Seek in the rage of wine to drown despair.
Let others fight, and eat their bread in blood,
Regardless if the cause be bad or good,
Or cringe in courts, depending on the nods
Of strutting pigmies, who would pass for gods:
For me, unpractis'd in the courtier's fchool,
Who loath a knave, and tremble at a fool,
Who honour generous Wycherley opprest,
Poffeft of little, worthy of the best;
Rich in himself, in virtue that outshines
All but the fame of his immortal lines,

More than the wealthieft lord, who helps to drain
The famifh'd land, and rolls in impious gain.
What can I hope in courts, or how fucceed?
Tigers and wolves fhall in the ocean breed,
The whale and dolphin fatten on the mead,
And every element exchange its kind,
When thriving honesty in courts we find.
Happy the man, of mortals happiest he,
Whofe quiet mind from vain defires is free;
Whom neither hopes deceive nor fears torment,
But lives at peace within himself, content;

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In

In thought or act accountable to none

But to himself and to the gods alone.
O fweetnefs of Content! feraphic joy,

That, nothing wanting, nothing can destroy !
Where dwells this peace, this freedom of the mind?
Where, but in fhades remote from human kind;
In flowery vales, where nymphs and fhepherds meet,
But never comes within the palace-gate.

Farewel then cities, courts and camps farewel,
Welcome ye groves, here let me ever dwell;
From care, from bufinefs, and mankind remove,
All but the Mufes and infpiring Love.

How fweet the morn, how gentle is the night!
How calm the evening, and the noon how bright!
From hence, as from a hill, I view below

The crowded world, that like fome wood does show,
Where feveral wanderers travel day and night
Through feveral paths, and none are in the right.

AN IMITATION

O F THE

SECOND CHORUS IN THE SECOND ACT OF SENECA'S THYESTE S.

WHEN will the gods, propitious to our prayers, Compose our factions, and conclude our wars ?

Ye fons of Inachus, repent the guilt

Of crowns ufurp'd, and blood of parents fpilt,

For

For impious greatnefs vengeance is in store,
Short is the date of all ill-gotten power.

Give ear, ambitious princes, and be wife;
Liften, and learn wherein true greatnefs lies
Place not your pride in roofs that shine with gems,
In purple robes nor fparkling diadems,

Nor in dominion nor extent of land;

He's only great who can himself command:
Whofe guard is peaceful Innocence, whose guide
Is faithful Reafon; who is void of pride,
Checking ambition, nor is idly vain
Of the falfe incenfe of a popular train :
Who without ftrife or envy can behold
His neighbour's plenty, and his heaps of gold,
Nor covets other wealth but what we find
In the poffeffions of a virtuous mind.
Fearless he fees who is with virtue crown'd,
The tempeft rage, and hears the thunder found:
Ever the fame, let Fortune fmile or frown,
Whether upon the scaffold or the throne ;
Serenely as he liv'd, refigns his breath,
Meets destiny half way, nor shrinks at death.
Ye fovereign lords, who fit like gods in state,
Awing the world, and bustling to be great;
Lords but in title, vassals in effect,

Whom luft controls, and wild defires direct,
The reins of empire but fuch hands difgrace,
Where Paffion, a blind driver, guides the race.
What is this fame, thus crouded round with flaves?
The breath of fools, the bait of flattering knaves.

An

An honeft heart, a confcience free from blame,
Not of great acts, but good, give me the name;
In vain we plant, we build, our stores increase,
If confcience roots up all our inward peace.
What need of arms, of inftruments of war,
Of battering engines that deftroy from far?
The greatest king and conqueror is he
Who lord of his own appetites can be :
Bleft with a power that nothing can destroy,
And all have equal freedom to enjoy.
Whom worldly luxury and pomps allure,
They tread on ice, and find no footing fure.
Place me, ye powers! in fome obfcure retreat;
O keep me innocent, make others great ;
In quiet fhades, content with rural sports,
Give me a life remote from guilty courts,
Where, free from hopes or fears, in humble ease
Unheard-of I may live, and die in peace.
Happy the man who thus, retir'd from fight,
Studies himself, and feeks no other light;
But most unhappy he, who fits on high,
Expos'd to every tongue and every eye,
Whofe follies, blaz'd about, to all are known,
And are a fecret to himself alone:

Worse is an evil fame, much worse than none.

}

CHLOE.

C

C H L O

HLOE's the wonder of her sex,

'Tis well her heart is tender! How might fuch killing eyes perplex, With virtue to defend her!

But Nature, graciously inclin'd,
Nor bent to vex but please us,
Has to her boundless beauty join'd
A boundless will to eafe us.

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E.

SAME.

BE

RIGHT as the day, and like the morning fair,
Such Chloe is---and common as the---air.

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F injur'd fame, and mighty wrongs receiv'd,

OF

Chloe complains, and wondrously 's aggriev'd; 1

That free, and lavish of a beauteous face,

The fairest and the fouleft of her race;

She's mine, or thine, and strolling up and down
Sucks in more filth than any fink in town,

I not deny, this, I have faid 'tis true;

What wrong! to give so bright a nymph her due!

co.

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