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That set thee there to testify their right; Of heav'n, that though the world hath done his worst

And art become a traitor to their name, ' nut it out by discords most unkind,

That trusted thee with all the best they might; Equal in perfect union stand

Thou shalt stand still bely'd and slandered, And this note, madam, Er will be forc’d


The only gazing-stock of ignorance, Remains recorded in so many hearts,

And by thy guile the wise admonished, As time nor malice cannot wrong your right,

Thamaver more desire such hopes t'advance, The inheritance of fame you must possess :

Consid'ring Trna glory with the dead You that have built you by your great deserts And yet lie safe (as fresh as their fame to chance. (Out of small means) a far more exquisite

All those great worthies of antiquity," And glorious dwelling for your honour'd name, Which long fore-liv'd thee, and shall long survive; Than all the gold that leaden minds can frame. Who stronger tombs found for eternity,

Than could the pow'rs of all the earth contrive.

Where they remain these trifles to upbraid, DESCRIPTION OF STONE-HENGE.

Out of the reach of spoil, and way of rage; And whereto serves that wondrous trophy now Though time with all his pow'r of years hath laid That on the goodly plain near Walton stands ? Long batt'ry, back'd with undermining age; That huge dumb heap, that cannot tell us how, Yet they make head only with their own aid, Nor what, nor whence it is; nor with whose hands,

And war with his all-conqu’ring forces wage; Nor for whose glory—it was set to shew,

Pleading the heaven's prescription to be free, How much our pride mocks that of other lands.

And have a grant t'endure as long as he.
Whereon, when as the gazing passenger
Had greedy look'd with admiration ;
And fain would know his birth, and what he were;

How there erected; and how long agon:

Ah! I remember well (and how can I Inquires and asks his fellow traveller

But evermore remember well) when first What he had heard, and his opinion.

Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was And he knows nothing. Then he turns again, The flame we felt; whenas we sat and sigh'd And looks and sighs; and then admires afresh, And look'd upon each other, and conceiv'd And in himself with sorrow doth complain

Not what we ail'd, yet something we did ail ; The misery of dark forgetfulness:

And yet were well, and yet we were not well, Angry with time that nothing should remain, And what was our disease we could not tell. Our greatest wonders' wonder to express.

Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look: And thus Then ignorance, with fabulous discourse, In that first garden of our simpleness Robbing fair art and cunning of their right,

We spent our childhood: But when years began Tells how those stones were by the devil's force To reap the fruit of knowledge; ah, how then From Afric brought to Ireland in a night;

Would she with graver looks, and sweet stern brow, And thence to Brittany, by magic course,

Check my presumption and my forwardness; From giants' hands redeem’d by Merlin's sleight. Yet still would give me flowers, still would me show And then near Ambri plac’d, in memory

What she would have me, yet not have me know, Of all those noble Britons murder'd there, By Hengist and his Saxon treachery, Coming to parley, in peace at unaware.

THE STORY OF ISULIA. With this old legend then credulity

- There was sometime a nymph, Holds her content, and closes up her care.

Isulia named, and an Arcadian born, But is antiquity so great a liar?

Whose mother dying left her very young Or do her younger sons her age abuse ;

Unto her father's charge, who carefully Seeing after-comers still so apt t'admire

Did breed her up until she came to years
The grave authority that she doth use,

Of womanhood, and then provides a match
That rev'rence and respect dares not require Both rich and young, and fit enough for her.
Proof of her deeds, or once her words refuse? But she, who to another shepherd had,
Yet wrong they did us, to presume so far

Call's Sirthis, vow'd her love, as unto one
Upon our early credit and delight;

Her heart esteem'd more worthy of her love, For once found false, they straight became to mar Could not by all her father's means be wrought Our faith, and their own reputation quite;

To leave her choice, and to forget her vow. That now her truths hardly believed are; (right. This nymph one day, surcharg'd with love and grief, And though she avouch the right, she scarce bath Which commonly (the more the pity), dwell

And as for thee, thou huge and mighty frame, As inmates both together, walking forth That standst corrupted so with time's despite, With other maids to fish upon the shore ; And giv’st false evidence against their fame Estrays apart, and leaves her company,

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To entertain herself with her own thoughts : Her husband to bestow on her that prize,
And wanders on so far, and out of sight,

With safeguard of her body at her will.
As she at length was suddenly surpriz'd

The captain seeing his wife, the child, the nymph, By pirates, who lay lurking underneath

All crying to him in this piteous sort,
Those hollow rocks, expecting there some prize. Felt his rough nature shaken too, and grants
And notwithstanding all her piteous cries,

His wife's request, and seals his grant with tears ;
Intreaties, tears, and prayers, those fierce men And so they wept all four for company:
Rent hair and veil, and carried her by force

And some beholders stood not with dry eyes ; Into their ship, which in a little creek

Such passion wrought the passion of their prize. Hard by at anchor lay,

Never was there pardon, that did take
And presently they hoisted sail and so away. Condemned from the block, more joyful than
When she was thus inshipp'd, and woefully This grant to her. For all her misery
Had cast her eyes about to view that hell

Seem'd nothing to the comfort she receivid,
Of horror, whereinto she was so suddenly emplung'd, By being thus saved from impurity;
She spies a woman sitting with a child

And from the woman's feet she would not part,
Sucking her breast, which was the captain's wife. Nor trust her hand to be without some hold
To her she creeps, down at her feet she lies; Of her, or of the child, so long as she remain'd
* O woman, if that name of woman may

Within the ship, which in few days arrives Move you to pity, pity a poor maid;

At Alexandria, whence these pirates were ; The most distressed soul that ever breath'd;

And there this woeful maid for two years' space And save me from the hands of those fierce men. Did serve, and truly serve this captain's wife, Let me not be defild and made unclean,

(Who would not lose the benefit of her Dear woman, now, and I will be to you

Attendance, for her profit otherwise) The faithfull'st slave that ever mistress servid; But daring not in such a place as that Never poor soul shall be more dutiful,

To trust herself in woman's habit, cray'd To do whatever you command, than I.

That she might be apparel'd like a boy; No toil will I refuse; so that I may

And so she was, and as a boy she serv'd. Keep this poor body clean and undeflower'd, At two years' end her mistress sends her forth Which is all I will ever seek. For know

Onto the port for some commodities, It is not fear of death lays me thus low,

Which whilst she sought for, going up and down, But of that stain will make my death to blush.” She heard some merchantmen of Corinth talk, All this would nothing move the woman's heart, Who spake that language the Arcadians did, Whom yet she would not leave, but still besought; And were next neighbours of one continent. “ O woman, by that infant at your breast,

To them, all rapt with passion, down she kneels, And by the pains it cost you at the birth,

Tells them she was a poor distressed boy, Save me, as ever you desire to have

Born in Arcadia, and by pirates took, Your babe to joy and prosper in the world: And made a slave in Egypt: and besought Which will the better prosper sure, if you

Them, as they fathers were of children, or Shall mercy shew, which is with mercy paid!” Did hold their native country dear, they would Then kisses she her feet, then kisses too

Take pity on her, and relieve her youth The infant's feet; and “ Oh, sweet babe,” (said she) From that sad servitude wherein she liv'd: “ Could’st thou but to thy mother speak for me, For which she hoped that she had friends alive And crave her to have pity on my case,

Would thank them one day, and reward them too; Thou might'st perhaps prevail with her so much If not, yet that she knew the heav'ns would do. Although I cannot; child, ah, could'st thou speak." The merchants mov'd with pity of her case, The infant, whether by her touching it,

Being ready to depart, took her with them, Or by instinct of nature, seeing her weep,

And landed her upon her country coast : Looks earnestly upon her, and then looks

Where, when she found herself, she prostrate falls, Upon the mother, then on her again,

Kisses the ground, thanks gives unto the gods, And then it cries, and then on either looks:

Thanks them who had been her deliverers, Which she perceiving;“ blessed child,” (said she) And on she trudges through the desart woods, * Although thou can’st not speak, yet dost thou cry Climbs over craggy rocks, and mountains steep, Unto thy mother for me. Hear thy child,

Wades thorough rivers, struggles thorough bogs, Dear mother, it's for me it cries,

Sustained only by the force of love ; It's all the speech it hath. Accept those cries, Until she came unto her native plains, Save me at his request from being defil'd:

Unto the fields where first she drew her breath. Let pity move thee, that thus moves thy child." There she lifts up her eyes, salutes the air, The woman, tho' by birth and custom rude,

Salutes the trees, the bushes, flow'rs and all: Yet having veins of nature, could not be

And,“ Oh, dear Sirthis, here I am,” said she, But pierceable, did feel at length the point “ Here, notwithstanding all my miseries, Of pity enter so, as out gush'd tears,

I am, the same I ever was to thee; a pure, (Not usual to stern eyes) and she besought

A chaste, and spotless maid."

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During these troubles in the court was hid

BALLAD ON A WEDDING. One that Apollo soon miss’d, little Cid;

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, And having spy'd him, call'd him out of the throng,

Where I the rarest things have seen: And advis'd him in his ear not to write so strong.

Oh things without compare!

Such sights again cannot be found Murrey was summon’d, but 'twas urg'd, that he In any place on English ground, Was chief already of another company.

Be it at wake, or fair. Hales set by himself most gravely did smile

At Charing-Cross, hard by the way

Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, To see them about nothing keep such a coil;

There is a house with stairs; Apollo had spy'd him, but knowing his mind

And there did I see coming down Past by, and call’d Falkland, that sate just behind:

Such folks as are not in our town,

Vorty at least, in pairs.
But he was of late so gone with divinity,
That he had almost forgot his poetry,

Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, Though, to say the truth, and Apollo did know it, (His beard no bigger though than thine) He might have been both his priest and his poet.

Walk'd on before the rest:

Our landlord looks like nothing to him: At length who but an Alderman did appear,

The king (God bless him) 'twou'd undo him, At which Will Davenant began to swear;

Shou'd he go still so drest.
But wiser Apollo bade him draw nigher,
And, when he was mounted a little higher,

At Course-a-park, without all doubt,
He should have first been taken out

By all the maids i' th' town: He openly declar'd, that the best sign

Though lusty Roger there had been, Of good store of wit's to have good store of coin, Or little George upon the green, And without a syllable more or less said,

Or Vincent of the crown. He put the laurel on the Alderman's head.

But wot you what? the youth was going At this all the wits were in such amaze

To make an end of all his wooing ; That, for a good while, they did nothing but gaze

The parson for him staid: One upon another; not a man in the place

Yet by his leave, for all his haste, But had discontent writ at large in his face.

He did not so much wish all past

(Perchance) as did the maid. Only the small poets cheer'd up again,

The maid-and thereby hangs a tale-
Out of hope, as 'twas thought, of borrowing; For such a maid no Whitson ale
But sure they were out, for he forfeits his crown

Could ever yet produce:
When he lends to any poet about the town.

No grape that's kindly ripe, could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,

Nor half so full of juice.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover:

Pr’ythee why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,

Looking ill prevail ?
Pr'ythee why so pale?

Her finger was so small, the ring
Wou'd not stay on which they did bring,

It was too wide a peck:
And to say truth (for out it must)
It look'd like the great collar (just)

About our young colt's neck.
Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice stole in and out,

As if they fear'd the light:
But oh! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter Day,

Is half so fine a sight.

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Pr’ythee why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't?
Pr’ythee why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her :-
The devil take her.

He wou'd have kiss'd her once or twice,
But she wou'd not, she was so nice,

She wou'd not do't in sight;
And then she look'd as who shou'd say,
I will do what I list to day;

And you shall do't at night.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,

By this time all were stol'n aside, No daizy makes comparison,

To counsel and undress the bride; (Who sees them is undone)

But that he must not know: For streaks of red were mingled there,

But yet 'twas thought he guest her mind,
Such as are on a Katherine pear,

And did not mean to stay behind
The side that's next the sun.

Above an hour or so.

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