Come, gentle Eve, the friend of care,

Come, Cynthia, lovely queen of night! Refresh me with a cooling breeze,

And cheer me with a lambent light. Lay me, where o'er the verdant ground

Her living carpet Nature spreads; Where the green bower, with roses crown'd,

In showers its fragrant foliage shedsa Improve the peaceful hour with wine,

Let mufick die along the grove ; Around the bowl let myrtles twine,

And every strain be tun'd to love. Come, Stella, queen of all my heart !

Come, born to fill its vast desires! Thy looks perpetual joys impart,

Thy voice perpetual love inspires. Whilst all my with and thine complete,

By turns we languish and we burn, Let fighing gales our sighs repeat,

Our murmurs-murmuring brooks return. Let me when nature calls to rest,

And blushing skies the morn foretell, Sink on the down of Stella's breast,

And bid the waking world farewell.

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AN O D E. LAS! with swift and filent pace, Α'

Impatient time rolls on the year; The seasons change, and nature's face

Now sweetly smiles, now frowns severe.





What plagues, what tortures, are in store for thee,
Thou sluggish idler, dilatory flave !
Behold the model of consummate beauty,
Torn from the mourning earth by thy neglect !

Such was the will of Heav'n—A band of Greeks
That mark'd my course, suspicious of my purpose,
Rufh'd out and seiz'd me, thoughtless and unarm’d,
Breathless, amaz'd, and on the guarded beach
Detain'd me tili Demetrius set me free.


So fure the fall of greatness rais’d on crimes !
So fix'd the justice of all-conscious Heav'n!

When haughty guilt exults with impious joy,
Mistake shall blast, or accident destroy ;
Weak man with erring rage may throw the dart,
But Heav'n fhall guide it to the guilty heart.

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ARRY a Turk! a haughty, tyrant king !

Who thinks us women born to dress and fing To please his fancy !—see no other man ! Let him persuade me to it—if he can: Besides, he has fifty wives; and who can bear To have the fiftieth part her paltry share ?

'Tis true, the fellow 's handsome, strait, and tall; But how the devil should he please us all ! My swain is little-true-but, be it known, My pride's to have that little all my own. Men will be ever to their errors blind, Where woman's not allow'd to speak her mind I swear this Eastern pageantry is nonsense, And for one man-one wife's enough of conscience.

In vain proud man usurps what 's woman's due; For us alone, they honour's paths pursue : Inspir'd by us, they glory's heights ascend; Woman the source, the object, and the end. Tho' wealth, and pow'r, and glory, they receive, These all are trifles to what we can give. For us the statesman labours, hero fights, Bears toilsome days, and wakes long tedious nights ; And, when blest peace has filenc'd war's alarıns, Receives his full reward in beauty's arms.

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Spoken by Mr. GARRICK, APRIL 5, 1750,

Before the MASQUE of COMUS.
Acted at DrurY-LANE THEATRE, for the Benefit of

Milton's Grand-Daughter *.


E patriot crowds, who burn for England's fame,

Whose gen’rous zeal, unbought by Aatt'ring rhymes,
Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times,
Immortal patrons of succeeding days,
Attend this prelude of perpetual praise ;
Let wit, condemn’d the feeble war to wage
With close malevolence, or publick rage,
Let study, worn with virtue's fruitless lore,
Behold this theatre, and grieve no more.
This night, distinguish'd by your siniles, shall tell
That never Britain can in vain excel;
The flighted arts futurity shall trust,
And rising ages hasten to be just.

At length our mighty bard's victorious lays
Fill the loud voice of universal praise ;
And baffled spite, with hopeless anguish dumb,
Yields to renown the centuries to come;
With ardent haste each candidate of fame,
Ambitious, catches at his tow'ring name;
He sees, and pitying fees, vain wealth bestow
Those pageant honours which he scorn'd below,
While crowds aloft the laureat bust behold,
Or trace his form on circulating gold.

* See Vol. IX. p. 150.

K 2


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