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But turn-coat Time assists the foe in vain,
And, brib’d by thee, assists thy short-liv'd reign,
And to thy hungry womb drives back thy slaves

again.

Though mysteries are barr'd from laic eyes,
And the divine alone, with warrant pries
Into thy bosom, where the truth in private lies :

Yet this of thee the wise may freely say,
Thou from the virtuous nothing tak’st away,
And to be part with thee the wicked wisely pray.

Great Negative ! how vainly would the wise
Inquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise ?
Didst thou not stand to point their dull philoso-

phies.

Is, or is not, the two great ends of Fate,
And, true or false, the subject of debate,
That perfect or destroy the vast designs of Fate ;

When they have rack'd the politician's breast,
Within thiy bosom most securely rest,
And, when reduc'd to thee, are least unsafe and

best.

But Nothing, why does Something still permit,
That sacred monarchs should at council sit,
With persons highly thought at best for nothing

fit?

Whilst weighty Something modestly abstains From princes' coffers, and from statemen's brains, And nothing there like stately Nothing reigns.

Nothing, who dwell'st with fools in grave disguise, For whom they reverend shapes and forms devise, Lawn sleeves, and furs, and gowns, when they

like thee look wise.

French truth, Dutch prowess, British policy,
Hibernian learning, Scotch civility,
Spaniards' despatch, Danes' wit, are mainly seen

in thee.

The great man's gratitude to his best friend, Kings' promises, whores' vows, towards thee they

bend, Flow swiftly into thee, and in thee ever end.

JOHN DRYDEN.

BORN 1631-DIED 1700.

CYMON AND IPHIGENIA.
In that sweet isle where Venus keeps her court,
And every Grace, and all the Loves, resort ;
Where either sex is form’d of softer earth,
And takes the bent of pleasure from her birth ;
There lived a Cyprian lord, above the rest
Wise, wealthy, with a numerous issue bless'd.

But as no gift of fortune is sincere,
Was only wanting in a worthy heir ;
His eldest born, a goodly youth to view,
Excell’d the rest in shape and outward shew ;

Fair, tall, his limbs with due proportion join’d,
But of a heavy, dull, degenerate mind.
His soul belied the features of his face ;
Beauty was there, but beauty in disgrace.
A clownish mien, a voice with rustic sound,
And stupid eyes that ever loved the ground.
He look'd like Nature's error, as the inind
And body were not of a piece design'd,
But made for two, and by mistake in one were

join'd.
The ruling rod, the father's forming care,
Were exercised in vain on wit's despair;
The more inform'd, the less he understood,
And deeper sunk by floundering in the mud.
Now scorn'd of all, and grown the public shame,
The people from Galesus changed his name,
And Cymon call’d, which signifies a brute,
So well his name did with his nature suit.

His father, when he found his labour lost, And care employ'd that answer'd not the cost, Chose an ungrateful object to remove, And loath'd to see what nature made him love; So to his country farm the fool confined ; Rude work well suited with a rustic mind. Thus to the wilds the sturdy Cymon went, A squire among the swains, and pleased with

banishment. His corn and cattle were his only care, And his supreme delight, a country fair.

It happen'd on a summer's holiday, That to the green-wood shade he took his way ; For Cymon shunn'd the church, and used not

much to pray.

M

His quarter-staff, which he could ne'er forsake,
Hung half before and half behind his back.
He trudged along, unknowing what he sought,
And whistled as he went for want of thought.

By chance conducted, or by thirst constrain'd,
The deep recesses of the grove he gain'd;
Where, in a plain defended by the wood,
Crept through the matted grass a crystal flood ;
By which an alabaster fountain stood ;
And on the margin of the fount was laid
(Attended by her slaves) a sleeping maid.
Like Dian and her nymphs, when tired with sport
To rest by cool Eurotas they resort :
The dame herself the goddess well express'd,
Not more distinguish’d by her purple vest,
Than by the charming features of her face,
And ev'n in slumber a superior grace :
Her comely limbs composed with decent care,
Her body shaded with a slight cymar ;
Her bosom to the view was only bare,
Where two beginning paps were scarcely spy'd,
For yet their places were but signify'd.
The fanning wind upon her bosom blows,
To meet the fanning wind the bosom rose ;
The fanning wind, and purling streams, continue

her repose.

The fool of nature stood with stupid eyes, And gaping mouth, that testify'd surprise, Fix'd on her face, nor could remove his sight, New as he was to love, and novice to delight : Long mute he stood, and, leaning on his staff, His wonder witness'd with an idiot laugh ; Then would have spoke, but by his glim ering sense First found his want of words, and fear'd offence :

Doubted for what he was he should be known, By his clown accent, and his country tone. Through the rude chaos thus the running light Shot the first ray that pierced the native night ; Then day and darkness in the mass were mix’d, Till gather'd in a globe the beams were fix'd. Last shone the sun, who, radiant in his sphere, Illumined heaven and earth, and roll'd around the

year. So reason in his brutal soul began, Love made him first suspect he was a man ; Love made him doubt his broad barbarian sound; By love his want of words and wit he found; That sense of want prepared the future way To knowledge, and disclosed the promise of a day.

TRANSLATION OF THE NINTH ODE OF

THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

BEHOLD yon mountain's hoary height

Made higher with new mounts of snow; Again behold the Winter's weight

Oppress the labouring woods below : And streams, with icy fetters bound, Benumb'd and crampt to solid ground.

With well-heap'd logs dissolve the cold,

And feed the genial hearth with fires ;
Produce the wine, that makes us bold,

And sprightly wit and love inspires :
For what hereafter shall betide,
God, if 'tis worth his care, provide.

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