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CHORUS of Youths and Virgins.



H.Tyrant Love! haft thou poffeft

The prudent, learn'd, and virtuous breast? Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim,

And Arts but foften us to feel thy flame.
Love, foft intruder, enters here,
But entring learns to be fincere.
Marcus with blushes owns he loves,
And Brutus tenderly reproves.
Why, Virtue, doft thou blame defire,
Which Nature has impreft?
Why, Nature, doft thou fooneft fire
The mild and gen'rous breast?


Love's purer flames the Gods approve ;
The Gods and Brutus bend to love:

Brutus for abfent Portia fighs,

And fterner Caffius melts at Junia's eyes.

What is loofe love? a tranfient gust,
Spent in a fudden ftorm of luft,

A vapour fed from wild defire,

A wand'ring, self-consuming fire.
But Hymen's kinder flames unite;

And burn for ever one ;

Chafte as cold Cynthia's virgin light,
Productive as the Sun.


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VER. 9. Why, Virtue, etc.] In allufion to that famous

conceit of Guarini,

"Se il peccare è sì dolce, etc.



Oh fource of ev'ry focial tye,

United with, and mutual joy!

What various joys on one attend,

As fon, as father, brother, husband, friend?
Whether his hoary fire he fries,


While thousand grateful thoughts arise;
Or meets his fpoufe's fonder eye;


Or views his fmiling progeny ;

What tender paffions take their turns,
What home-felt raptures move?

His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns,
With rev'rence, hope, and love.


Hence guilty joys, diftastes, furmizes,
Hence falfe tears, deceits, difguifes,
Dangers, doubts, delays, furprizes;

Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine:
Pureft love's unwafting treasure,
Conftant faith, fair hope, long leifure,
Days of ease, and nights of pleasure ;
Sacred Hymen! thefe are thine.





HAPPY the man, whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air,

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whofe fields with bread,
Whofe flocks fupply him with attire,
Whose trees in fummer yield him fhade,
In winter fire.

Bleft, who can unconcern'dly find

Hours, days, and years flide foft away,

In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound fleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixt; fweet recreation;
And innocence, which moft does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unfeen, unknown,

Thus unlamented let me die,

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.




This was a very early production of our Author, written at about twelve years old. P.




The dying Chriftian to his Sou L.



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İTAL spark of heav'nly flame !
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh the pain, the blifs of dying!
Ceafe, fond Nature, cease thy ftrife,
And let me languish into life.


Hark! they whifper; Angels fay,
Sifter Spirit, come away.
What is this abforbs me quite ?

Steals my fenfes, fhuts my fight,
Drowns my fpirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my Soul, can this be Death?

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III. The

* This ode was written in imitation of the famous fonnet of Hadrian to his departing foul; but as much fuperior in fenfe and fublimity to his original, as the Chriftian Religion is to the Pagan.


The world recedes; it disappears!

Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears

With founds feraphic ring:

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy Victory?
O Death! where is thy Sting?

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