Such if there be, who loves fo long, fo well; The well-fung woes fhall footh my penfive ghoft; He beft can paint 'em, who fhall feel 'em moft. 1 EPITAPH Defign'd for Mr. Rowe in Westminster-Abbey. By Mr. P O PE. To the Memory of Nicholas Rowe Efq; his Wife erected this Monument. HY reliques, Rowe, to this fair fhrine we truft, THY And facred, place by Dryden's awful duft: Two TWO CHORUS'S TO THE Tragedy of Brutus, Not yet Publick. *************************** Y Chorus of Athenians. Strophe I. E fhades, where facred truth is fought; Groves, where immortal fages taught ;. Where heav'nly vifions Plato fir'd, And godlike Zeno lay infpir'd! H 5 War, War, horrid war, your thoughtful walks invades, And steel now glitters in the mufes fhades. Antiftrophe 1. Oh heav'n-born fifters! fource of art! Who charm the fenfe, or mend the heart; Moral truth, and myftic fong! To what new clime, what diftant sky, Say, will ye blefs the bleak Atlantic shore, Strophe 2. When Athens finks by fates unjust, An Athens rifing near the pole ! Till fome new tyrant lifts his purple hand, And civil madness tears them from the land. Antiftrophe 2. Ye Gods! what juftice rules the ball? Freedom and arts together fall; Fools Fools grant whate'er ambition craves, In ev'ry age, in ev'ry state! Still when the luft of tyrant pow'r fucceeds, CHORUS of Youths and Virgins. O Semichorus. H tyrant love! haft thou poffeft The prudent, learn'd and virtuous breaftè Wisdom and wit in vain reclaim, And arts but foften us to feel thy flame. Love, foft intruder, enters here, But entring learns to be fincere. And Brutus tenderly reproves. Which nature has impreft? Why, nature, doft thou fooneft fire The mild and gen'rous breast? |