Imatges de pÓgina
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1

Deucalion, to restore Mankind
Was bid to throw the Stones behind ;
So, those who here their Gifts convey,
Are forc'd to look another Way:
For, few, a chosen few, must know,
The Mysteries that lye below.

Sad Charnel-house! a dismal Dome,
For which all Mortals leave their Home;
The Young, the Beautiful, and Brave,
Here bury'd in one common Grave,
Where each Supply of Dead renews
Unwholesome Damps, offensive Dews :
And lo! the Writing on the Walls
Points out where each new Victim falls ;
The Food of Worms, and Beasts obscene,
Who round the Vault luxuriant reign.

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See where those mangled Corpses lye,
Condemn'd by Female Hands to dye ;
A comely Dame once clad in white,
Lyes there confing'd to endless Night;
By cruel Hands her Blood was spilt,
And
yet

her Wealth was all her Guilt.

And here six Virgins in a Tomb,
All beauteous Offspring of one Womb,
Oft in the Train of Venus seen,
As fair and lovely as their Queen :

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In Royal Garments each was drest,
Each with a Gold and Purple Vest;
I saw them of their Garments stript,
Their Throats were cut, their Bellies ript,
Twice were they bury'd, twice were born,
Twice from their Sepulchres were torn;
But, now dismember'd, here are cast,
And find a resting Place at last.

HERE, off the curious Trav'ler finds,
The Combat of opposing Winds :
And seeks to learn the secret Cause,
Which alien feems from Nature's Laws:
Why at this Cave's tremendous Mouth,
He feels at once both North and South:
Whether the Winds in Caverns pent
Through Clifts oppugnant force a Vent ;
Or, whether, op'ning all bis Stores,
Fierce Æolus in Tempests roars.

Yet, from this mingled Mass of Things,
In Time a new Creation springs.
These crude Materials once shall rise,
To fill the Earth, and Air, and Skies :
In various Forms appear agen
Of Vegetables, Brutes, and Men,
So Jove pronounc'd among the Gods,
Olympus trembling as he nods:

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ANOTHER

LOUISA to STREPHON.

Written in the Year 1730.

A ,

H, Strephon, how can

Her, who, without thy Pity, dies?
To Strephon I have still been true,
And of as noble Blood as you ;
Fair Issue of the genial Bed,
A Virgin in thy Bosom bred ;
Embrac'd thee closer than a Wife ;
When thee I leave, I leave my Life.
Why should

my Shepherd take amiss
That oft I wake thee with a Kiss ?
Yet you of ev'ry Kiss coinplain ;
Ah! is not. Love a pleasing Pain?
A Pain which ev'ry happy Night
You cure with Ease and with Delight ;
With Pleasure, as the Poet sings,
Too great for Mortals less than Kings.

CHLOE, when on thy Breast I lye, Obferves me with revengeful Eye:

If Chloe o'er thy Heart prevails,
She'll tear me with her desp'rate Nails ;
And with relentless Hands destroy
The tender Pledges of our Joy,
Nor have I bred a spurious Race;
They all were born from thy Embrace.

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CONSIDER, Strephon, what you
For, should I dye for Love of you,
I'll haunt thy Dreams, a bloodless Ghost;
And all my Kin, a num'rous Host,
Who down direct our Lineage bring
From Victors o'er the Mempbian King;
Renown'd in Sieges and Campaigns,
Who never Aed the bloody Plains,
Who in tempestuous Seas can sport,
And scorn the Pleasures of a Court;
From whom great Sylla found his Doom ;
Who scourg'd to Death that Scourge of Rome,
Shall on thee take a Vengeance dire ;
Thou, like Alcides, shalt expire,
When his envenom'd Shirt he wore,
And Skin and Flesh in Pieces tore,
Nor less that Shirt, my Rival's Gift,
Cut from the Piece that made her Shift,
Shall in thy dearest Blood be dy'd,
And make thee tear thy tainted Hyde.

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ANOTHER.

Written in the Year 1725.

D

Rind,

Eprivod of Root, and Branch, and Rind,

Yet Flow'rs I bear of ev'ry Kind;
And such is my prolifick Pow'r,
They bloom in less than half an Hour :
Yet Standers-by may plainly see
They get no Nourishment from me.
My Head, with Giddiness goes round;
And

yet I firmly stand my Ground: :
All over naked I am feen,
And painted like an Indian Queen,
No Couple-Beggar in the Land
E’er join'd such Numbers Hand in Hand ;
I join them fairly with a Ring ;
Nor can our Parson blame the Thing;
And tho no Marriage Words are spoke,
They part not till the Ring is broke.
Yet hypocrite Fanaticks cry,
I'm but an Idol rais'd on high ;
And once a Weaver in our Town,
A damn'd Cromwellian, knock'd me down.

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