"But write thy best and top; and in each line "Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill 160 165 "Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part; 170 175 By which one way to dulness 'tis inclined, "Which makes thy writings lean on one side still, And, in all changes, that way bends thy will. "Nor let thy mountain belly make pretence "Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense. "A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ, "But sure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit. "Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep; Thy tragic Muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep. "With whate'er gall thou sett'st thy self to write, "Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command "Some peacefull province in Acrostick land. "There thou may'st wings display and altars raise, "And torture one poor word ten thousand ways; Or, if thou would'st thy diff'rent talents suit, "Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute." He said, but his last words were scarcely heard, 180 185 190 195 200 What passion cannot Musick raise and quell? His list'ning brethren stood around, And, wond'ring, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound; Less than a god they thought there cou'd not dwell That spoke so sweetly, and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell? 20 The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. 5. Sharp violins proclaim 35 Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantick indignation, Depth of pains and height of passion, 40 33 Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne; His valiant peers were plac'd around, Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound; (So shou'd desert in arms be crown'd.) The lovely Thais, by his side, Sate like a blooming Eastern bride, In flow'r of youth and beauty's .pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair. 2. Timotheus, plac'd on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touch'd the lyre ; 5 10 15 20 The song began from Jove, A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god; 25 And while he sought her snowy breast; Then round her slender waste he curl'd, And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'raign of the world. The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, The jolly god in triumph comes; Flush'd with a purple grace Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes. He shews his honest face; Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain; Bacchus blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure; Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain. 4. Sooth'd with the sound the king grew vain Fought all his battails o'er again; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. The master saw the madness rise, His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; 35 40 45 50 55 |