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Whom I began to think, and call my own :


AREWEL, too little, and too lately known,

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For sure our souls were near allied, and thine
Cast in the same poetic mould with mine.
One common note on either lyre did strike,
And knaves and fools we both abhorr'd alike.
To the same goal did both our studies drive ;
The last set out, the soonest did arrive.
Thus Nisus fell upon the flipp’ry place,

, Whilft his

young friend perform’d, and won the


O early, ripe! to thy abundant store
What could advancing age have added more?
It might (what nature never gives the young)
Have taught the smoothness of thy native tongue,
But satire needs not those, and wit will shine
Thro the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
A noble error, and but seldom made,

poets are by too much force betray'd, Vol. 11.


Thy gen’rous fruits, tho gather'd ere their prime, Still shew'd a quickness; and maturing time But mellows what we write, to the dull sweets

of rhyme. Once more, hail, and farewel; farewel, thou young But ah too short, Marcellus of our tongue ! Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around:

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Excellent in the Two SISTER-ARTS of


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I. THOU youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,

Made in the last promotion of the blest; Whole palms, new pluck'd from paradise, In Aprcading brancheş more sublimely rise,

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Rich with immortal green above the rest :
Whether, adopted to some neighb’ring star,
Thou roll'st above us, in thy wand'ring race,

Or, in procession fix'd and regular,
Moy'd with the heaven's majestic pace;

Or, call’d to more superior bliss,
Thou tread'st, with seraphims, the vast abyss :
Whatever happy region is thy place,
Cease thy celestial song a little space;
Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,

Since heaven's eternal year is thine.
Hear then a mortal muse thy praise rehearse,

In no ignoble verse
But such as thy own voice did practise here,
When thy first fruits of Poesy were given ;
To make thyself a welcome inmate there :

While yet a young probationer,
And candidate of heaven.

If by traduction came thy mind,

Our wonder is the less to find
A soul fo charming from a stock so good;
Thy father was transfus’d into thy blood:
So wert thou born into a tuneful strain,
An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.

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But if thy pre-existing foul

Was form'd, at first, with myriads more, It did thro all the mighty poets roll,

Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, And was that Sappho laft, which once it was

before. If so, then cease thy flight, o heaven-born

mind ! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore : Nor can thy foul a fairer mansion find,

Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind,

May we presume to say, that, at thy birth,
New joy was sprung in heaven, as well as here on

For fure the milder planets did combine
On thy auspicious horoscope to fhine,
And e'en the most malicious were in trine.
Thy brother-angels at thy birth

Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high,

That all the people of the sky
Might know a poetess was born on earth,

And then, if ever, mortal ears
Had heard the music of the spheres.

And if no clust'ring swarm of bees
On thy sweet mouth distill’d their golden dew,

'Twas that such vulgar miracles

Heaven had not leisure to renew : For all thy blest fraternity of love Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holy-day above.

IV. O gracious God! how far have we Prophan'd thy heavenly gift of poesy? Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, Debas'd to each obscene and impious use, Whose harmony was first ordain'd above For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love ? O wretched we! why were we hurry'd down

This lubrique and adult’rate age, (Nay added fat pollutions of our own) T'increase the streaming ordures of the stage? What can we say t’excuse our second fall ? Let this thy vestal, heaven, atone for all : Her Arethufian stream remains unsoild, Unmix’d with foreign filth, and undefild; Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.

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