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-Ne forte pudori
Sit tibi mufa lyræ folers, et cantor Apollo.
By Mr. TICKELL.
HE Opera firft Italian mafters taught, Enrich'd with fongs, but innocent of thought. Britannia's learned theatre difdains
Melodious trifles, and enervate strains ;
No charms are wanting to thy artful fong,
From words fo fweet new grace the note; receive,
Thy stile hath match'd what ancient Romans knew,
That height of thought may seem fuperfluous aid
Landskips how gay the bow'ry grotto yields,
Till Vanbrugh fram'd, and Marlbro' rais'd the dome.
Let joy transport fair Rosamonda's fhade, And wreaths of myrtle crown the lovely maid. While now perhaps with Dido's ghost she roves, And hears and tells the ftory of their loves, Alike they mourn, alike they blefs their fate, Since love, which made 'em wretched, makes 'em great, Nor longer that relentless doom bemoan, Which gain'd a Virgil, and an Addison. Accept, great monarch of the British lays, The tribute fong an humble subject pays. So tries the artlefs lark her early flight, And foars, to hail the God of verfe and light. Unrival'd as thy merit be thy fame,
And thy own laurels shade thy envy'd name :
And views thy Rofamond with Henry's eyes.
M E N.
W O M E N.
Grideline, wife to Sir Trusty.
Guardian Angels, &c.