Where can we now fo great a Pattern find?
Where can we meet fo bright, fo pure a Mind?
Mourn, drooping Britain, mourn from Shore to Shore,
Thy best belov'd MARIA is no more.
But tho' proud Fate has done her utmost Spite,
And bury'd all her Hopes in endless Night;
Tho' rav'nous Death has feiz'd the richeft Prey
That ever did a regal Scepter sway;
Her Name fhall live, and still continue fair,
Fragrant as rich Arabia's Spices are:
While Albion in triumphant State shall reign
Queen of the Ifles, and Goddess of the Main.
While Silver Thames in wanton Folds fhall play,
And Tribute to the British Ocean pay :
While haughty Lewis fhall remain abhorr'd,
And William be by all the World ador'd.
Our grateful Tongues her Vertue shall proclaim
Thro' all the diftant Provinces of Fame :
Still in our Hearts fhall chaft MARIA reign,
Tho' dead, her Station there fhe shall maintain.
Then Shepherds leave at last your mournful Lays,
And turn your Songs of Grief to Songs of Praise.
Prologue to a Mufick Speech in the Theatre at
Well: for a careful provident Bawd, fay I,
Give me my Mother-University.
Blefs us how neatly has the rank'd you here,.
Where drawn in Love's Battalia, you appear
The Black, the Brown, the Fair, and the not Fair.
I must confefs the Cafe is alter'd now,
From what your narrow fulfome Box could show.
A Mufick-Room, a fitter Name 'twould prove,
Call it a Stove, a Bathing-Tub of Love,
Where fweating Scholar faints, and knows not why,"
And melting Tallow-Chandler drips hard by,
And all this Heat from Love, or elfe July.
But now you're welcome hither, in this Row
Painting does in its full Perfection fhow,
Streter above you, Ladies here below.
Did not fuch Malice in your Beauties reign,
We yet might hope a Golden Age again :
When Nature taught her untold Tale of Love,
And Paflion from a ragged Gown could move.
Bit now thofe Days are gone, and faucy Art,
Mimick of Nature, acts the nobleft Part.
E'en Paffion is fuccefsful in this Age,
Unless fet off by Love's high Equipage.
The ruffling Pantaloon declares the Flame,
And the well-ty'd Cravat-ftring wins the Dame.
Plain Lovers, like plain Linnen, e'er cafhier'd,
In whofe Behalf no Point has e'er appear'd :
What Hopes then have unhappy we to pleafe,
Whom niggard Stars made not fo vain as these?
Alas! we hate your gentle ftinking Water,
Loath diftill'd Oils, but thofe of Mother Nature.
This knew our Fates, and plac'd us in a Town
Where Beauty is fo thin, fo rarely fown;
The Nymphs o'th' Fleece, and the three Gates go
(down.
Like homely Peafants us'd to wholesome Meat,
When Love invites us to your fplendid Treat;
We'll gape and gaze, and make no hearty Meal,
Give us our fturdy Beef and Mutton still.
But let us not defpair, I'll lead the Van,
And tho' I proudly fay't, we Scholars can,
Altho' not act the Fop, yet play the Man.
We'll run at all, and freely take our Lot,
From the fair Walcop down to foul Bess Scot.
S from a darken'd Room fome Optick Glafs
A Tranfmits the diftant Species as they pafs;
The World's large Landskip is from far defcry'd,
And Men contracted on the Paper glide.
Thus crowded Oxford reprefents Mankind,
And in thefe Walls Great Britain feems confin'd:
Oxford is now the publick Theatre,
And you both Audience and Actors are:
The gazing World on the new Scene attend,
Admire the Turns, and with a profp'rous End.
Oxford, the Seat of Peace, the quiet Cell,
Where Arts, remov'd from noify Bus'nefs, dwell;
Should calm your Minds, unite the jarring Parts,
And with a kind Contagion feize your Hearts.
O! may its Genius, like foft Mufick move,
And tune you all to Concord and to Love.
Our Acts which has in Tempest long been tofs'd,
Could never reft on fo fecure a Coaft.
From hence you may look back on civil Rage,
And view the Ruins of the former Age.
Here a new World its Glories may unfold,
And here be fav'd the Remnant of the old :
But while our Thoughts on publick Cares are bent,
Paft Ills to heal, and future to prevent,
Some vacant Hours allow to your Delight;
Mirth is the pleafing Bus nefs of the Night,
The King's Prerogative, the Subjects Right.
Were all your Hearts to fullen Cares confin'd,
The Body would be weary'd by the Mind.
'Tis Wifdom's Part, betwixt Extreams to steer,
Be Gods in Senate, but be Mortals here.
Upon Mr. Creech's Translation of Lucretius.
ET not the Thracian Bard admire,
Whofe powerful Strains and lift'ning Stones infpire,
To keep juft Measures with his Lyre;
Tho' taught by his commanding Harmony,
The Beafts forgot their native Cruelty,
And to a univerfal Peace did jointly all confpire:
Thy facred Hand does more,
That does Lucretius again reftore,
Who was a mighty Solitude before :
His rolling Atoms now we fee,
In Squadrons and juft Measures lie,
Even in Confufion now appears juft Symmetry.
Nought but a heav'nly Hand could make
Thefe Atoms their old Nothing forfake,
And a true decent Order take:
Thy charitable Hand has greater Wonders done,
And has Lucretius his own Errors fhown:
Our modern Atheist grieves to fee
His belov'd Sins fo lafh'd by thee,
That do'ft in this deserve ev'n of Posterity.
What Trophies can thy Victory out-do,
That triumph'ft o'er the prefent Times, the paft, and
A penfive Thought at the Rofe Spunging-Houfe in Woodstreet, and left there by T. Brown.
ON adverfa videns me fractum fata coarctum,
Carcer corpus habet, mens coaperta volat.
Algern. Sidney's Letter of Advice to his Friend, concerning the Education of his Son. By T.B.
Ince 'tis your only Study, and your Care,
How to difpofe of Bob, your Son and Heir,
I'll give you my Advice, Sir, in this grand Affair.
If Bob's ingenious, and a Boy of Parts,
Do not debauch him with the lib'ral Arts.
Those jilting Whores, inftead of Silk and Sattin,
Equipt in Linfey-Woolfey, Greek, and Latin,
Will fpoil his Fortune if they once come at him.
But if he is mercurially inclin'd,
Of Wit fagacious, and heroic Mind,
He'd beft perfue thofe honourable Courses
Of picking Pockets, and of taking Purses;
And I'll prescribe the Lad a fafe and true Gate,
How to avoid the dreaded Path of Newgate
Left bloody Judge and Jury fhould transport
The Boy to Tyburn.
Where, in a Fortnight's Time he'll learn his Cue,
Under-
To pick the Pockets of a free-born Nation,
In furnishing two Dishes for Collation:
Like learned Cooks, as all Men grant they are,
To make the felf-fame Sawce to Peace and War.
What better are we for this boafted Quiet,
If we must pawn our Birth-right for our Diet?
But fince it is by Providence decreed,
That Liberty and Property muft bleed;
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