War, he fung, is toil and trouble,
Honour but an empty bubble;
Never ending, ftill beginning,
Fighting ftill, and still destroying :

If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think it worth enjoying!
Lovely Thaïs fits befide thee;

Take the good the gods provide thee.
The many rend the skies with loud applause:
So Love was crown'd, but Mufic won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz'd on the fair

Who caus'd his care,

Sigh'd and look'd, figh'd and look'd,

Sigh'd and look'd, and figh'd again.

At length, with love and wine at once oppreft, The vanquish'd victor funk upon her breast.

Now strike the golden lyre again :

A louder yet, and yet a louder ftrain.
Break his bands of fleep afunder,

And rouze him, like a rattling peal of thunder.

Hark, hark, the horrid found

Has rais'd up his head,

As awak'd from the dead,

And, amaz'd, he ftares around.

Revenge, revenge! Timotheus cries:
See the furies arife!

See the fnakes how they rear,

How they hifs in the air!

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!

Behold a ghaftly band,

Each a torch in his hand,

These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were flain,

Behold how they toss their torches on high,

How they point to the Perfian abodes,

And glitt'ring temples of their hoftile gods!The princes applaud with a furious joy,

And the king feiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy: Thaïs led the way,

To light him to his prey,

And, like another Helen, fir'd another Troy.

Thus, long ago,

Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,

While organs yet were mute;

Timotheus, to his breathing flute

And founding lyre,

Could fwell the foul to rage, or kindle foft defire.
At laft divine Cecilia came,

Inventrefs of the vocal frame;

The sweet enthufiaft, from her facred ftore,
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds,

And added length to folemn founds,
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,

Or both divide the crown;
He rais'd a mortal to the skies,

She drew an angel down.

A

SONG.

FROM DRYDEN'S COLLECTION.

SILLY fhepherd woo'd, but wist not How he might his mistress' favour gain. On a time they met, but kiss'd not;

Ever after that he fued in vain : Blame her not, alas, though she said nay To him that might, but fled away.

Time perpetually is changing;
Every moment alteration brings;
Love and beauty ftill eftranging;
Women are, alas! but wanton things!
He that will his mistress' favour gain,
Must take her in a merry vein.

A woman's fancy's like a fever,

Or an ague, that doth come by fits;
Hot, and cold, but conftant never,
Even as the pleasant humour hits.
Sick, and well again, and well, and fick,
In love it is a woman's trick.

Now the will, and now she will not,

Put her to the trial, if once she smile; Silly youth, thy fortune spill not, Ling'ring labours oft themselves beguile. He that knocks, and can't get in, His pick-lock is not worth a pin.

A woman's nay is no denial,
Silly youths in love are ferv'd fo.
Put her to a farther trial,

Haply fhe'll take it, and say no.
For 'tis a trick which women use,
What they love they will refuse.

Silly youth, why doft thou dally?
Having got time and season fit;

Then never stand "Sweet, fhall I? shall I?”
Nor too much commend an after wit;
For he that will not when he may,

When he will he shall have nay.

WRITTEN IN THE LEAVES of a FAN.

SAME COLLECTION.

FLAVIA the leaft and flightest toy
Can, with refiftlefs art, employ.
This fan, in meaner hands, would prove
An engine of small force in love.

Yet fhe, with graceful air and mien,

(Not to be told or fafely feen)

Directs its wanton motion fo,

That it wounds more than Cupid's bow ;
Gives coolness to the matchlefs dame,
To ev'ry other breast a flame.

SONG.

SAME COLLECTION.

Ar dead of night, when wrapp'd in sleep
The peaceful cottage lay;
Paftora left her folded sheep,

Her garland, crook, and useless scrip;

Love led the nymph aftray.

Loose and undress'd, she takes her flight To a near myrtle shade;

The conscious moon gave all her light,

To bless her ravish'd lover's fight,
And guide the loving maid.

His eager arms the nymph embrace:
And, to affuage his pain,

His reftlefs paffion he obeys.

At fuch an hour, in such a place,
What lover could contain ?

In vain she call'd the confcious moon,
The moon no fuccour gave;
The cruel ftars unmov'd look'd on,

And feem'd to fmile at what was done,
Nor would her honour fave.