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And let 'em grapple; The Blood more stirs
To rowze a Lyon than to start a Hare.

By it Leap,
To pluck bright Honour from the pale-fac'd Moon,
Or dive into the Bottom of the Deep,
Where Fathom-line could never touch the Ground,
And pluck up drowned Honour by the Locks.Shak.Hen.4. Partı,

BOW. See Archers and Arrow.

Well-skill'd to throw The flying Dart, and draw the far-deceiving Bow. Dryd. Virg.

She said, and from her Quiver chose with speed The winged Shaft, predestin'd for the Deed : Then to the stubborn Eugh her Strength apply'd, Till the far-diftant Horns approach'd on either Side : The Bow-string touch'd her Breast, so strong lhe drew ! Whizzing in Air, the fatal Arrow flew : At once the twanging Bow, and founding Dart,, (Dryd. Virgi The Traitor heard, and felt the Point within his Heart.

He fell,
Pierc'd with an Arrow from the distant War;
Fix'd in his Throat the flying Weapon stood,
And stop'd his Breath, and drank the vital Blood. Dryd. Virgi

A Sylvan Lodge, that like Pomona's Arbour smild,
With Flowrets deck'd, and fragrant Smells. The Roof
Of thickest Covert was inwoven Shade,
Lawrel and Mirtle ; and what higher grew
Of firm and fragrant Leaf : On either fide,
Acanthus, and each od'rous bushy Shrub,
Fenc'd up the verdant Wall: Each beauteous Flower,
Iris, Allhues, Roses and Jessamin,
Reard high their flourish'd Heads between, and wrought
Mosaick: Under foot the Violet,
Crocus, and Hyacinth, with rich Inlay
Broider'd the Ground; more colour'd than with Stone
Of costlieft Emblem. In shady Bower,
More facred, or fequefter'd, tho' but feign'd,
Pan or Sylvanus never slept, nor Nymph,
Nor Faunis haunted.

BOW L. See Drinking.
Make me a Bowl, a mighty Bowl!
Large as my capacious Soul !
Vast as my Thirst is ! Let it have
Depth enough to be my Grave !
I mean, the

Grave of all my Care,
For I intend to bury't there.
Let it of Silver fashion'd be,
Worchy of Wine, worthy of me ;


Yet draw no Shapes of Armour there,
No Cask, nor Shield, nor Sword, nor Spear :
Nor Wars of Thebes, nor Wars of Troy ;
Nor any other martial Toy :
For what do I vain Armour prize,
Who mind not such rough Exercise ?
But gentler Sieges, softer Wars ;
Fights that cause no Wourds nor Scars.
Til have no Battles on my Place,
Left Sight of them should Broils create :
Left that provoke to Quarrels too,
Which Wine it self enough can do.
Draw me no Constellations there ;
No Ram, nor Bull, nor Dog, nor Bear ;
Nor any of that monstrous Fry
Of Animals that stock the Sky:
For what are Stars to my Design ?
Stars, which I, when drunk, outshine.
I lack no Pole-ftar on the Brink,
To guide in the wide Sea of Drink;
But would for ever there be cost,
And will no Heaven, feek no Coast.
Yet, gentle Artist, if thou'lt try
Thy Skill; then draw me, (let me see)
Draw me first a spreading Vine,
Make irs Arms the Bowl entwine
With kind Embraces, such as I
Twift about my loving She.
Let its Boughs o'erspread above
Scenes of Drinking, Scenes of Love.
Draw next the Patron of that Tree ;
Draw Bercbus, and soft Cupid by :
Draw them both in toping Shapes,
Their Temples crown'd with cluster'd Grapes :
Make them lean against the Cup,
As 'twere to keep their Figures up:
And when their reeling Forms I view,
I'll think them drunk, and be so too.

Vulcan contrive me such a Cup,
As Nifter us'd of old ;
Shew all thy Care to trim it up,

Damask it round with Gold:
Make it fo large, that, fill'd with Sack

Up to the swelling Brim,
Vast' Toasts on the delicious Lake,

Like Ships ac Sea may swim :





And carve thereon a spreading Vine,

Then add Two lovely Boys ;
Their Limbs in am'rous Folds entwine,

The Type of future Joys.
Cupid and Bacchus


May Love and Drink still reign:
With Wine I wash away my Care,
And then to Love again.

Two Bowls I have, well-turn'd of beachen Wood:
The Lids are Ivy: Grapes in Clusters lurk
Beneath the Carving of the curious Work :
Two Figures on the Sides emboss'd appear,
Conon, and what's his Name who made the Sphere,
And shew'd the Seasons of the sliding Year:
The Kembo-Handles seem with Bears-foot carv'd :

Orpheus on his Lyre laments his Love,
With Beasts encompass'd, and a dancing Grove. Dryd. Virg.

Dogs with their Tongues their Wounds do heal,

But Men with Hands, as thou shalt feel. Hud.
At first both parties in Reproaches jar,
And make their Tongues the Trumpets of the War.
They clutch their horny Fifts, exchange with furious Blows,
Scarce one escapes with more than half a Nose.
Some stand their Ground with half their Visage gone,
But with the Remnant of a Face fight on.
One Eye remaining for the other spies,
Which now on Earth a trampled Jelly lies.

Tat. Juu.
Nor tho his Teeth are beaten out, his Eyes
Hang by a String, in Bumps his Forehead rife,
Shalĩ he presume to mention his Disgrace,
Or beg Amends for his demolish'd Face.

Dryd. Juv.
Thus often at the Temple-Stairs we've seen
Two Tritons of a rough Athletick Mien,
Sourly dispute fome Quarrel of the Flood
With Knuckles bruis'd, and Face besmear'd in Blood;
But at the first Appearance of a Fare,
Both quit the Fray, and to their Oars repair.

BRAVE. See Courage.
The Brave do never thun the Light,
Just are their Thoughts, and open are their Tempers.
Freely without Disguise they love and hate:
Still are they found in the fair Face of Day,
And Heav'n and Men are Judges

of their A&tions. Row.Fair Pen.

With what rich Globes did her soft Bosom swell ?

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Plump as ripe Clusters rose each glowing Breaft,
Courting the Hand, and suing to be press'd.

Duke The yielding Marble of her snowy Breast.

Thy little Breasts with soft Compassion swell'd, Shov'd up and down, and heav'd like dying Birds. Otw. Orph.

BRIDE. The Virgin Bride, who swoons with deadly Fear, To see the End of all her Wilhes near : When, blushing, from the Light and publick Eyes To the kind Covert of the Night she flies, With equal Fires to meet the Bridegroom moves ; Melts in his Arms, and with a Loose the loves. Rox. Fair Pes.

What strange Disorders youthful Brides express;
Impatient Longings for the Happiness:
Approaching Joys will so disturb the Soul,
As Needles always tremble near the Pole. Otw. Don Carl.

BROOK. See Country-Life, River, Stream.
See gentle Brooks, how quietly they glide,
Kissing the rugged Banks on either Side :
While in their crystal Streams at once they show,
And with them feed the Flow'rs which they bestow :
Tho' rudely throng'd by a too near Embrace,
In gentle Murmurs they keep on their Race

To the lov'd Sea ; for Streams have their Desires,
Cool as they are, they feel Love's pow'rful Fires :
And with such Passion, that if any Force,
Stop or moleft them in their am'rous Course,

They swell, break down with Rage, and ravage o'er
The Banks they kiss'd, and Flow'rs they fed before. Denk,

BRUTUS. See Liberty.
Excellent Brutus ! of all human Race
The best, till Nature was improv'd by Grace :
From thy ftri& Rule, some think that thou didit swerve,
(Miftaken honeft Men,) in Cefar's Blood.
What Mercy could the Tyrant's Life deserve
From him, who kill'd himself rather than serve
Th'Heroick Exaltations of Good ?

Are fo far from understood.
We count them Vice : Alas! our Sight's so ill,
That things which swiftest move, seem to ftand Still,
We look not upon Virtue in her Height,
On her fupreme Idea, brave and bright,

In th'original Light;
But as her Beams refe&ted pass
Thro' our own Nature, or ill Cuftom's Glas;

And 'tis no Wonder so

If with dejected Eye,
In standing Pools we seek the Sky,



That Stars so high above, should seem to us below.

Can wo stand by, and see
Our Mother robb'd, and bound, and ravith'd be ;

Yet not to her Assistance ftir,
Pleas'd with the Strength and Beauty of the Ravilher ?
Or shall we fear to kill him, if before

The cancelld Name of Friend he bore ?

Ingraceful Brutus doʻthey call ?
Ingrateful Cafar, who could Rome enthrall !
An A& more barbarous and unnatural,
(In th'exa& Ballance of true Virtue try'd)
Than his Successor Nero's Parricide.

There's none but Brutus could deferve

That all Men else would wish to serve,
And Cæsar's usurp'd Place to him should proffer ;
None can deserve't but he who would refuse the Offer.

Ill Fate affam'd a Body thee c'affright,
And wrap'd it self i'th'Terrors of the Night ;
I'll meet thee at Philippi, sad the Spright :

I'll meet thee there, faid' it thou,

With such a Voice, and such a Brow, As put the trembling Ghost to fuddain Flight.

What Joy can humant things to us afford,
When we fee perish thus, by odd Events,

III Men, and wretched Accidents,
The best Cause, and best Man that ever drew a Sword ?

When we see
The false O&avius and wild Anthony,

God-like Bratus, conquer thee?
What can we say, but thy own tragick Word,
That Virtue, which had worshipp'd been by chee,
As the moft Colid Good, and greatest Deity,

By that fatal Proof became,
An Idol only, and a Name?

BULL. See Enjoyment.
So fares the Bull in his lov'd Female's Sight,
Proudly he bellows, and preludes the Fight:
He cries his goring Horns against a Tree,
And meditates his abfent Enemy :
He pushes at the Winds, he digsthe Strand
With his black Hoofs, and spurns the yellow Sand. Dryd. Virg:

As when two Bulls for their fair Female fight,
In Sila's Shades, or on Taburnus Height:
With Horns adverse they meet; the Keeper Alies :
Mute stands the Herd ; the Heifars rowl their Eyes,
And wait th’Event, which Vi&or they fhall bear,
And who fhall be the Lord, to rule the lofty Year,

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