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“ But write thy best and top; and in each line
By arrogating Jonson's hostile name;
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,
Thy inoffensive satyrs never bite ; “In thy fellonious heart though venom lies, “ It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dyes.
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame “ In keen lambicks, but mild Anagram. “ 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,
For Bruce and Longville had a trap prepared,
A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY.
FROM harmony, from heav'nly harmony
This universal frame began.
Of jarring atoms lay,
Arise, ye more than dead.
And Musick's pow'r obey.
This universal frame began;
From harmony to harmony
What passion cannot Musick raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the corded shell,
And, wond'ring, on their faces fell
Within the hollow of that shell,
That spoke so sweetly, and so well.
Excites us to arms
And mortal alarms.
Of the thundering drum
Cries, heark: the foes come! Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat !
The woes of hopeless lovers,
The spheres began to move,
To all the bless'd above :
ALEXANDER'S FEAST ;
OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC.
By Philip's warlike son,
On his imperial throne ;
(So shou'd desert in arms be crown'd.)
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
Timotheus, plac'd on high
Amid the tuneful quire,
And heav'nly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove,
And while he sought her snowy breast;
Then round her slender waste he curl'd,
The list’ning crowd admire the lofty sound,
With ravish'd ears
Affects to nod,
3. The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young.
The jolly god in triumph comes ;
Flush'd with a purple grace
He shews his honest face ;
Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain ;
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
Fought all his battails o'er again ;
The master saw the madness rise,