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And from his memory inflame their breafts-
To matchless valour, and adventures high:
The Virgins also shall on feastful days
Visit his Tomb with flowers, only bewailing
His lot unfortunate in nuptial choice,
From whence captivity and lofs of eyes.
Chor. All is beft, though we oft doubt
What th' unfearchable difpofe

Of highest wifdom brings about,
And ever beft found in the close.
Oft he feems to hide his face,

1745

8750

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With peace and confolation hath dismist,
And calm of mind, all paffion spent.

1700

THE END.

POEMS, &c.

UPON

SEVERAL OCCASIONS,

IN

ENGLISH and LATIN, &c.

Compos'd at feveral times.

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LY CIDA S.

In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend,unfortunately drown'din his paffage from Chefter on the Irish Seas, 1637. And by occafion foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy then in their height.

Y

ET once more, O ye Laurels, and once

more

Ye myrtles brown, with Ivy never-fear, I come to pluck your Berries harsh and crude,

And with forc'd fingers rude,

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter conftraint, and fad occafion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due ;
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not fing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to fing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not flote upon his watry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of fome melodious tear.

Begin then, Sifters of the facred well,

That from beneath the feat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and fomewhat loudly fweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse:
So may fome gentle Mufe

With lucky words favour my deftin'd Urn ;
And as the paffes turn,

And bid fair peace be to my fable shroud.
For we were nurft upon the self-fame hill,
Fed the fame flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the Gray-fly winds her fultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the Star, that rofe at Ev'ning bright,
Toward Heav'n's defcent had flop'd his weftering
Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute, [wheel.
Temper'd to th'Oaten Flute;

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel
From the glad found would not be absent long,
And old Damætas lov'd to hear our fong.

But O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone, and never must return!
Thee, Shepherd, thee the Woods, and defart Caves
With wild Thyme and the gadding Vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes mourn.

The Willows, and the Hazel Copfes green,

Shall now no more be feen,

Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy foft layes.

As killing as the Canker to the Rofe,

Or

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