V.

Even I who dare not rank my self with thofe
Who pleas'd, into themfelves retire,
Find yet in great applaufes lefs repofe,
And do fame lefs, lefs than my felf admire.
Let her loud trumpet found me far and near,
Th' Antipodes will never of me hear.

Or were I known throughout this ball,
I've but a point, when I have all.
VI.

Then as for glory which comes after fate,
All that can then of me be faid,

I value leaft of all, it comes too late,
'Tis like th' embalming of the fenflefs dead.
Others with pleasure, what me labour coft
May read, and praife; but to me all is loft.
Juft as the Sun no joy does find

In that his light, which chears mankind.

VII.

Or fhould I after fate has clos'd my eyes,
Should I my living glories know,
My wifer, improv'd foul will then defpife.
All that poor mortals fay or think below.
Even they who of mens ignorance before
Complain'd, becaufe few did their works adore,
Will then the felf-fame cenfure raise,
Not from their filence, but their praise.

VIII.

Or grant 'twou'd pleasure bring to know that I
After my death live ftill in fame;
Those that admire me too muft fhortly dye,
And then where's my memorial, where my name?
My fame, tho longer liv'd, yet once fhall have
Like me, its death, its funeral, its grave.

This only difference will remain,

I fhall, that never rise again.

IX.

Death and deftruction fhall e'er long deface
The world, the work of hands divine ;
What pillars then, or monuments of brafs
Shall from the general ruin rescue mine ?

AN

All then fhall equal be; I care not then
To be a while the talk and boaft of men.
This only grant, that I may be
Prais'd by thy Angels, Lord, and thee.

IN

The INFIRMITY.

I.

N other things I ne'er admir'd to fee
Men injured by extremity.

But little thought in happiness

There might be danger of cauefs.
At least I thought there was no fear

Of ever meeting with too much on't here.

II.

But now these melting founds ftrike on my fene
With fuch a powerful excellence ;
I find that happiness may be
Screw'd up to fuch extremity,
That our too feeble faculties

May not be faid t'enjoy, but fuffer bliss.
III.

So frail's our mortal ftate, we can fuftain
A mighty blifs no more than pain.
We lofe our weak precarious breath
Tortur'd or tickled unto death.

As Sprights and Angels alike fright With too much horror, or with too much light. IV.

Alas! I'm over-pleas'd, what fhall I do
The painful joy to undergo?
Temper your too melodious fong,

Your dofe of blifs is much too strong; Like thofe that too rich cordials have, It don't fo much revive, as make me rave.

V.

What cruelty 'twou'd be ftill to confine
A mortal ear to airs divine?

The curfe of Cain you have on me,
Inverted by your harmony;

For fince with that you charm'd my ear, My blifs is much too great for me to bear.

VI.

Relieve this paroxyfm of delight,
And let it be less exquifite.

Let down my foul; 'tis too high fet;
I am not ripe for Heaven yet.

Give me a region more beneath,
This element's too fine for me to breathe.

W

The ARREST.

I.

Hither fo faft, fond paffion, doft thou sove,
Licentious and unconfin'd?

Sure this is not the proper fphere of love; Obey, and be not deaf, as thou art blind.

All is fo falfe and treacherous here, That I must love with caution, and enjoy with fear. II.

Contract thy fails, left a too gufty blast

Make thee from fhoar launch out too far; Weigh well this ocean, e'er thou make fuch hafte, It has a nature very fingular.

Men of the treacherous fhoar complain In other feas, but here moft danger's in the main.

III.

Should't thou, my foul, indulge thy forward love,
And not controul its headlong course,
The object in th' enjoyment vain will prove,
And thou on nothing fall with all thy force.
So th' eager Hawk makes fure of's prize,
Strikes with full might, but over-fhoots himself
and dies.

IV. Or

IV.

Or fhouldst thou with long fearch on fomething light That might content and ftay thy mind,

All good's here wing'd, and ftands prepar'd for flight,

"Twill leave thee reaching out in vain, behind.

Then when unconftant fate thou'ft prov'd, Thou'lt figh, and fay with tears, I wish I ne'er had lov'd.

V.

Well then, ye fofter powers, that love command } And wound our breafts with pleafing fmart, Gage well your launce, and bear à steady hand, Left it run in too deep into my heart.

Or if you're fix'd in your defign

Deeply to wound my heart, wound it with love divine.

To the Memory of my dear Neece, M.C.

I.

B. and philofophick med'cines have ap

Y tears to cafe my grief I've try'd,

ply'd ;

From books and company I've fought relief,
I've used all spells and charms of art
To lay this troubler of my heart;
I have, yet I'm ftill haunted by my grief.
These give some eafe, but yet I find
'Tis poetry at last must cure my mind.

II.

Come then, t' affwage my pain I'll try
By the fweet magick of thy harmony.
Begin, my Mufe, but 'twill be hard I know
For thee my genius to screw

To heights that to my theme are due,
The weight of grief has set my soul so low,
E 4

ΤΟ

To grace her death my strains should be As far above mortality as the.

III.

Is the then dead, and can it be
That I can live to write her elegy?
I hop'd, fince 'twas not to my foul deny'd
To fympathize in all the pain

Which the tho long did well fuftain,
Ț' have carry'd on the fympathy, and dy’d.
But death was fo o'erpleas'd, I fee,
At this rich spoil, that the neglected me.

IV.

Yet has fh' of all things made me bare,
But life, nor was it kindnefs here to spare.
So when th' Almighty would t'inform mankind
His eaftern Hero's patience try
With the extreams of mifery;

He gave this charge to the malicious fiend;
Of all life's bleffings him deprive,

Vex him with all thy plagues, but let him live.

V.

Yet will I live fweet foul) to fave
Thy name, fince thee 1 cannot from the grave.
I will not of this burthen life complain
Tho tears than verfes fafter flow,
Tho I am plung'd in grief and woe,
And like th' infpired Sibylls write in pain.
To dye for friends is thought to be
Heroick, but I'll life endure for thee.

VI.

'Tis juft, fince I in thee did live,

That thou fhouldft life and fame from me receive.
But how fhall I this debt of juftice pay?
The colours of my poetry

Are all too dead to copy thee,
"Twill be abufe the beft that I can fay.

Nature that wrought thy curious frame
Will find it hard to draw again the fame.
VII.

In council the Almighty fate
When he did man, his masterpiece create
His agent nature did the fame for thee;