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Now thro' the Place contagious Fevers reign, And madding Phrenfies rack the tortur'd Brain. Ate aloft her vengeful Terrors bears, Impetuous Death a ghaftly Visage wears; A pois'nous Vapour taints the gloomy Sky, The Scourge is up; Ten-thousand rave and die.. An Embaffy decrees the falling State, And splendid Presents on the Message wait; In mournful Pomp the penfive Envoys move, And feek, to heal their Griefs, Olympian Jove. Appeas'd with holy Rites, the Godhead spoke, And Words like these the Silence awful broke: • Callirrhoe's Blood, by young Corefus fpilt,

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Shall fave the finking State, and purge the
Guilt;

• Or fome illuftrious Substitute may give
• His offer'd Life, and bid the Virgin live."
Disclos'd the welcome Answer sparkling Joy,
And a new Luftre beams from ev'ry Eye:
Elate, the Tribes now bid avaunt Despair,
Exulting shout, and seize the defin'd Fair;
The deftin'd Fair bewails the fad Conftraint,
Far off refounds the paffionate Complaint:

Some one to die!' fhe begs the gazing Croud, With piercing Cries, and Interceffion loud; The once-enamour'd Train the Service flies; To love was eafy, but to live was wise.

Lo! rob'd in White, the mitred Victimstands, With Eyes uplifted, and befeeching Hands!

The

The trembling Prieft unfheath'd the fatal Blade, And, fighing, thus addrefs'd the frighted Maid: Accept, dear Object of my fondest Aim, • This last best Proof of an unfully'd Flame ; Far from that Breast be pungent Grief re'mov'd,

This Heart fhall bleed, and fave the Life it 'lov'd.'

Quick, ere his Words the fixt Intent reveal, Deep in his Bofom lodg'd the pointed Steel; His Fall while weeping Multitudes admire, Truth and Corefus by one Wound expire. Mean-time new Pangs thro' all the Virgin dart,

She feels a Tumult rage in ev'ry Part; Then firft her Soul a soft Emotion feiz'd, And firft in Death the hapless Lover pleas'd. • And wou'd'ft thou only die (she said) to save • AWretch ingrate from the remorseless Grave? Thy gen'rous Act its due Return to give,

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"Tis just to perish, and 'tis base to live.'

She ending here, and, catching at the Word,
Plung'd to her fick'ning Heart the reeking
Sword;

Then funk, with decent Care and eafy Pace,
And clafp'd the Body with a cold Embrace :
Interr'd one Tomb the fated Pair confin'd,
In Life divided, but in Death conjoin'd.

The

The CONTENTED CLOWN.

γουλ

A TALE.

OUNG Hodge, a poor, but a contented
Swain,

Rented a homely Cottage on a Plain ;
Homely you'd fay, if you the Cottage saw,
The Walls were rear'd of Mud, and thatch'd
with Straw:

In wond'r
'rous Form at every Corner food
A mighty Pole lopp'd from a neighb'ringWood;
Not Columns plac'd for Show and wanton Pride,
But to support with Safety every Side.

For when, with furious Blaft, the North Wind blew,

Hodge long had thought that Ruin muft enfue:
And Landlord nought would give, so lov'd he
Pelf,

That Hodge e'en turn'd an Architect himself:
Therefore, as he confulted Ufe alone,
Laid Parlour, Hall, and Kitchen, into one.
Well with the Place the Furniture agreed;
No Implements of Luxury, but Need:
Five wooden Platters in a comely Row,
With eke as many Beechen Spoons below;
An Iron Pot stood open to the View,

By which that he good Living kept you knew:

On

On half one side the antique Bed was plac'd, One whole Chair, and three broke, the other grac'd;

All that you cou'd unneceffary call,

Were fome old tatter'd Ballads on the Wall:
Alike of Wealth was all his Stock and Store,
Two Bee-Hives (one forfaken) at the Door,
And Cabbages and Turnips half a Score:
A meagre Tit that on the Common graz'd,
A fmall Runt Cow that from a Calf he rais'd;
One Cock, two Hens, and half a Dozen Chicks,
Two little Heaps of Hay, which Hodge call'd
Ricks:

Three Pigs, within Doors kept, and ferv'd with
Care;

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To thefe-a Wife-two Girls-a Son and Heir:
These were his Stock-nor did he e'er repine,
Tho' Pigs, Wife, Children, often did combine
To greet his Ears, and in loud Concert join.
But 'midst this Scene of Poverty and Woes,
Hodge, by his Looks, no Difcontentment fhows;
He feels no fecret Pangs, betrays no Spleen,
But in his Face a blithful Mirth is feen.
At Work he whiftles; when his Work is done,
No more is tir'd than when he first begun;
Homeward he hies, and tunes a merry Song,
His lov'd, tho' dirty fquawling Tribe among:
Happy the Day, as happy proves the Night,
And Madge and Hodge experience true Delight;

Nor

Nor doubt that both their Pleasures are fincere, When a brave chopping Child comes every Year. Such Hodge's Life was, which a neighb'ring 'Squire

Did often with an envious Mind admire ; Wonder'd a Clown, in fuch penurious State, Never repin'd at Heav'n, and curs'd his Fate, But still was merry, and was still content; And tho' his Charge increas'd--ftill paid his Rent. -The 'Squire once caught him felling down an Oak,

And, tho' he toil'd, ftill fung 'twixt ev'ry Stroke: Pleas'd at his lightfome Heart, began a Chat, And after fome Difcourfe of this and that ;

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Pray Hodge, cries he, as Hardship you endure, How can you be fo merry, and so poor? You whiftle, fing, contented are, and free, • Some Secret fure you have; pray tell it me.'

Hodge ftops a while, and with a Leer replies,
You fhall the Secret know without Difguife:
. Why, when I think of such fine Folk as you,
That ride in Coaches, and have nought to do;
Who live upon the Fat of all the Land,
• Have Coaches, Horfes, Servants at Command:
Why then, an't please your Worship, in good
Faith,

A fecret Curfe or two my Father hath,
Who under fuch a Star a Son begot,

That never will thro' Life be worth a Groat.

• But

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