Justice and equal Government are things That Subjects make more happy than their Kings. But thine from Justice rife, and doing well. Thy latest Toil! How Barb'rous was the Rage, A E PROLOGUE By Sir Charles Sedley. NVY and Faction rule the grumbling Age, The State they cannot, but they shake the Stage: This barren Trade fome would engross, ftill hoping From our poor Port to banish interloping; And like the plodding Lawyers take great care To elbow blooming Merit from the Bar. In ev'ry Age there were a fort of Men, As you do know, damn'd all was written then; Thousands before 'em less provoke their pride, Than one poor Rival ftreining by their fide. Such Vermin Criticks we expect to find, For Nature knows not how to lofe a kind, The ftinking Pole-Cat, or the Mole that's blind. But against old, as well as new to rage, Is the peculiar frenzy of this Age. Shakespear muft down, and you must praise no more The pride of Nature, and the shame of Schools, The living fink beneath your prefent fpite, } To a Lady, who discovered a new Star in Caffiopeia. The Words and Tune by Mr. C. Dryden. I. AS Ariana, Young and Fair, By Night the Starry Quire did tell, This happy Star unfeen before, Perhaps was kindled from her Eyes, And made for mortals to adore A new-born Glory in the Skies. IL Or if within the Sphere it grew, Before she gaz'd the Lamp was dim; But from her Eyes the Sparkles flew That gave new Luftre to the Gem. Bright Omen! what doft thou portend, Thou threatning Beauty of the Sky? What great, what happy Monarch's end! For fure by thee 'tis fweet to dye. Whether to thy fore-boding Fire We owe the Crescent in decay? Or must the mighty Gaul Expire Such a prefage will late be fhown A SONG By the E. of M. 1. INCE from my Dear Aftraa's fight, SINCE I was fo rudely torn, My Soul has never known delight, Unless it was to mourn. II. But oh, alas! with weeping Eyes W S O N. G.. By Mr. Prior. HILST I am fcorch'd with hot defire, Your drops of Pity on my Fire, Alas! but make it fiercer burn. Ah! would you have the flame fuppreft Æ N I G Μ A. By Mr. Prior. Y Birth I'm a Slave, yet can give you a Crown, a I'm oblig'd by juft Maxims to govern my Life, But this fury once over, I've fuch winning arts, That you love me much more than you do your own Hearts. VERSES on the Snuff of a Candle; made in Sickness. By Mrs. WHARTON. EE there the Taper's dim and doleful Light, Singloomy Waves flently rous abou And reprefents to my dim weary fight, My Light of Life almost as near burnt out. Ah Health! Best part and substance of our joy, (For without thee 'tis nothing but a fhade) Why doft thou partially thy felf employ, Whilst thy proud Foes as partially invade ? What we, who ne'er enjoy, fo fondly feek, Those who poffefs thee ftill, almost despise; To gain immortal glory, raise the weak, Taught by their former want thy worth to prize. Dear melancholy Mufe, my conftant guide, Charm this coy Health back to my fainting Heart, Or I'll accufe thee of vain-glorious pride, And fwear thou doft but feign the moving Art. But why do I upbraid thee, gentle Mufe ; L'AL |