Silence becomes an Amicable Guest,

[Breaft: And Peace, with downy Wings, fits brooding on his Soft Hours pafs over, void of Noife and Strife, And gently Waft him to the Verge of Life: While in a flow, and regular Decay Death fteals, unfelt, upon his fetting Day: As Mellow Fruits, ungather'd, drop away. Bleft Solitude! O harmlefs, eafie State! Entrencht in Wisdom, from the Storms of Fate, Thus on a bleaky Cliff, the regal Tree, Affail'd by Winds, and Heav'ns Inclemency,! Expands his Branches o'er the Clouds, above Their Blafts, unmov'd as his Immortal Jove. The Gods fmile on us, and propitious are, When Prudence does our Actions first prepare. The Stroaks of Fortune Fools alone endure; The Wife, and Virtuous can themfelves fecure.

This Charles of Spain, and Diocletian knew,
Who timely from the conquer'd World withdrew;
Oppreft with Fame, they laid the Burthen down,
And wifely, for Content exchang'd a Crown.
Lords of themfelves, and of their Paffions grown,
They made new Realms and Conquests of their own:
Nor had they need more Nations to Subdue,
Themfelves were Emperors and Empires too:
Th' exterior Shows of Greatnefs they declin'd,
And for an Eden loft, gain'd Paradife of Mind.
Elyfium juftly was by Poets feign'd,

A Seat which none but quiet Souls obtain❜d.
Sweet Myrtle Groves (where Birds for ever Sing)
And Meadows Smiling with Immortal Springs
Were fecret Manfions of Eternal Reft,

And made Retirements for the Pious Bleft.

O! that kind Heav'n wou'd grant me a Retreat (Before I die) in some sweet Country Seat: Or (if my Wishes have too large a Bound) An humble Cottage fenc'd with Ofiers round, Where Silver Streams in Flow'ry Valleys glide, And rows of Willows deck the Rivers fide.

with what Pleasure wou'd my Soul forego
This Riot of a Life! this Pomp of Woe!
Supply'd with Food, which Nature's Bounty gave,
In need of nothing, nothing wou'd I crave:
My future Actions fhou'd my past Redeem,
And all my Life be fuited to my Theme.

To my Lady DURSLEY, on ber Reading Milton's Paradife Loft.

By Mr. PRIOR.

Hand how by Sin Eue'sbiafted Chaims decay'd;

ERE reading how fond Adam was betray'd,

Our common Lofs unjustly you complain;
Small is that part of it which you fuftain.

You ftill (fair Mother) in your Offspring trace The Stock of Beauty deftin'd for your Race; Kind Nature, Forming them, the Features took From Heav'ns own Work, in Eve's original Look,

You, happy Saint, the Serpent's pow'r controul, Whilft fcarce one actual Guilt defiles your Soul: And Hell does o'er your Mind vain Triumphs boaft, Which gains a Heav'n, for Earthly Eden loft.

With equal Virtue had frail Eve been arm'd, In vain the Fruit had blufh'd, the Serpent charm'd: Our Blifs by Penitence had ne'er been bought; Adam had never faln, or Milton wrote.

Upon the Poems of the English Ovid, Anacreon, Pindar and Virgil, A BRAHAM COWLEY, in Imitation of his own Pindarick Odes.

By T. SPR a t.

LET all this meaner rout of Books ftand by,

The common People of our Library;

Let them make way for Cowley's Leaves to come,
And be hung up within this Sacred Room:
Let no prophane Hands break the Chain,
Or give them unwish'd Liberty again
But let this Holy Relick be laid here,
With the fame Religious Care,
As Numa once the Target kept,
Which down from Heav'n leapt ;
Juft fuch another is this Book,

Which its Original from Divine Hands took,
And brings as much good too, to thofe that on it look,
But yet in this they differ, that cou'd be
Eleven times likened by a Mortal Hand,
But this which here doth ftand
Will never any of its own fort fee,
But muft live ftill without fuch Company.
For never yet was writ,

In the two learned Ages which Time left behind,
Nor in this ever fhall we find,

Nor any one like to it,

Of all the numerous Monuments of Wit.

II.

Cowley! What God did fill thy Breaft,

And taught thy Hand 'Indite?

(For God's a Poet 100,

He doth create and fo do you)

Or elfe at leaft

[write!

What Angel fate upon thy Pen when thou didst

There he fate and mov'd thy Hand

As proud of his Command,

As when he makes the dancing Orbs to reel,
And Spins out Poetry from Heaven's Wheel.
Thy Hand too, like a better Spheat,

[hear.
Gives us more ravishing Mufick, made for Men to
Thy Hand too like the Sun which Angels move,
Has the fame Influence from above,
Produces Gold and Silver of a nobler Kind;
Of greater Price and more refin'd.

[Race,

Yet in this it exceeds the Sun, 't has no degenerate Brings forth no Lead, nor any thing fo base.

III.

What holy veftal Hearth,

What Immortal Breath,

Did give fo pure Poetick Flame its Birth?
Juft fuch a Fire as thine,

Of fuch an unmixt glorious Shine,
Was Prometheus's Flames,

Which from no less than Heav'n came,
Along he brought the fparkling Coal,
From fome Cœleftial Chimney stole,
Quickly the plundred Stars he left,
And as he haftned down

With the robb'd Flames his Hands ftill fhone,
And feem'd as if they were burnt for the Theft
Thy Poetry's compounded of the fame,
Such a Bright Immortal Flame,
Juft fo temper'd is thy Rage,

Thy Fires as Light, and pure as they,
And go as high as his did, if not higher,
That thou may'ft seem to us

A true Prometheus,

[Fire.

But that thou didst not steal the leaft Spark of thy

IV.

Such as thine was Arion's Verfe.

Which he did to the lift'aing Fish rehearse;

Which when they heard play'd on his Lute, They first curft Nature that fhe made them Mute. So noble were his Lines, which made the very Waves Strive to turn his Slaves,

Lay down their boiftrous Noise,

And dance to his harmonious Voice,

Which made the Sirens lend their Ear,
And from his fweeter Tunes fome Treachery fear,
Which made the Dolphin proud,

That he was allow'd,

With Atlas, the great Porter of the Skies, to take
Such Heav'nly Musick up, and carry't on his Back
So full and graceful thy Words go,

And with the fame Majestick Sweetness flow,
Yet his Verfe only carry'd him o'er the Seas,
But there's a very Sea of Wit in these,
As Salt and Boundless as the other Ocean is.

V.

Such as thine are, was great Amphion's Song, Which brought the wond'ring Stones along; The wond'ring Stones skipt from their Mother [Earth, And left their Father Cold, as his first Breath, They rofe, and knew not by what magick Force they

So were his Words, fo plac'd his Sounds, [hung. Which forc'd the Marbles rife from out their [Grounds, Which cut and carved, made them fhine, A Work which can be out-done by none but thine, The amazed Poet faw the Building rife,

And knew not how to truft his Eyes: The willing Mortar came, and all the Trees Leapt into Beams he fees.

He faw the Streets appear,

Streets, that muft needs be Harmonious there;
He saw the Walls dance round t' his Pipe,
The Glorious Temple fhew its Head,

He faw the Infant City ripe,

And all like the Creation by a Word was Bred,