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TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
ROBERT, EARL OF OXFORD,
A N D
UCH were the notes thy once-lov'd Poet sung,
Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue.
For him thou oft haft bid the world attend,
Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
And sure, if aught below the seats divine
A foul supreme, in each hard instance try'd,
rage power, the blaft of public breath; The lust of lucre, and the dread of death.
In vain to deserts thy retreat is made;
Sept. 25, 1721.
H E SI
THE RISE OF WOM A N.
WHAT antient times (those times we fancy wile)
Have left on long record of woman's rise,
In days of yore (no matter where or when,