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-Ne forte pudori

Sit tibi mufa lyræ folers, et cantor Apollo.



HE Opera firft Italian mafters taught,

Enrich'd with fongs, but innocent of thought,

Britannia's learned theatre difdains

Melodious trifles, and enervate strains ;

And blushes on her injur'd ftage to fee
Nonfenfe well-tun'd, and sweet stupidity.

No charms are wanting to thy artful fong,
Soft as Corelli, but as Virgil ftrong.

From words fo fweet new grace the note: receive,
And mufic borrows helps, fhe us'd to give.

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Thy stile hath match'd what ancient Romans knew,
Thy flowing numbers far excel the new ;
Their cadence in fuch eafy found convey'd,
That height of thought may seem fuperfluous aid;
Yet in fuch charms the noble thoughts abound,
That needlefs feem the sweets of easy found.
Landskips how gay the bow'ry grotto yields,
Which thought creates, and lavish fancy builds!
What art can trace the visionary scenes,
The flow'ry groves, and everlafting greens,
The babbling founds that mimic echo plays,
The fairy fhade, and its eternal maze,
Nature and art in all their charms combin'd,
And all Elyfium to one view confin'd!
No farther could imaginaiton roam,

Till Vanbrugh fram'd, and Marlbro' rais'd the dome.
Ten thousand pangs my anxious bosom tear,
When drown'd in tears I fee th' imploring fair:
When bards lefs foft the moving words supply,
A feeming justice dooms the nymph to die:
But here she begs, nor can she beg in vain,
(In dirges thus expiring fwans complain)
Each verfe fo fwells, expreffive of her woes,
And ev'ry tear in lines fo mournful flows ;
We, fpite of fame, her fate revers'd believe,
O'erlook her crimes, and think fhe ought to live.


Let joy tranfport fair Rofamonda's fhade,
And wreaths of myrtle crown the lovely maid.
While now perhaps with Dido's ghoft the 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 artless 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 fhade thy envy'd name :
Thy name, the boast of all the tuneful choir,
Shall tremble on the ftrings of ev'ry lyre;

While the charm'd reader with thy thought complies;
Feels correfponding joys or forrows rife,
And views thy Rofamond with Henry's eyes.

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Grideline, wife to Sir Trusty.

Guardian Angels, &c.

SCENE Woodstock-Park.


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