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Yet lest thy ignorance betray thy name
Of man and pious, read and mourn : the shame
Of an exemption from just sense doth show
Irrational, beyond excess of woe.
Since reason, then, can privilege a tear,
Manhood, uncensur’d, pay that tribute here
Upon this noble urn. Here, here remains
Dust far more precious than in India's veins :
Within these cold embraces, ravish'd, lies
That which completes the ages tyrannies ;
Who weak to such another ill appear,
For what destroys our hope secures our fear.
What sin, unexpiated in this land
Of groans, hath guided so severe a hand ?
The late great victim * that your altars knew,
Ye angry gods! might have excus’d this new
Oblation, and have spar'd one lofty light
Of virtue, to inform our steps aright;
By whose example good, condemned, we 25
Might have run on to kinder destiny,
But as the leader of the herd fell first
A sacrifice, to quench the raging thirst
Of inflam`d vengeance for past crimes ; so none
But this white fatted youngling could atone, 30
By his untimely fate, that impious smoke
That sullied carth, and did Heav'n's pity choke.
Let it suffice for us that we have lost
In him more than the widow'd world can boast

* King Charles the first.

In any lump of her remaining clay.

3:5 Fair as the grey-ey'd Morn he was; the day, Youthful, and climbing upwards still, imparts No haste like that of his increasing parts. Like the meridian beam, his virtue's light Was seen as full of comfort, and as bright. 40 Had his noon been as fix'd as clear—but he, That only wanted immortality To make him perfect, now submits to night In the black bosom of whose sable spite He leaves a cloud of flesh behind, and flies, 45 Refin'd, all ray and glory to the skies.

Great Saint ! shine there in an eternal sphere, And tell those powers to whom thou now draw'st

near

That by our trembling sense, in Hastings dead,
Their anger and our ugly faults are read, 50
The short lines of whose life did to our eyes
Their love and majesty epitomise :
Tell them, whose stern decrees impose our laws,
The feasted grave may close her hollow jaws.
Tho'sin search Nature, to provide her here 55
A second entertainment half so dear,
She'll never meet a plenty like this hearse,
Till Time present her with the universe.

58

G

TO SIR JOHN MENNIS,
Being invited from Calais to Pologne to eat a pige

I.
All on a weeping Monday,
With a fat Bulgarian sloven,
Little Admiral John
To Bologne is gone,
Whom I think they call Old Loven,

II.
Hadst thou not thy fill of carting *
Will. Aubrey, Count of Oxon,
When nose lay in breech,
And breech made a speech,
So often cry'd a pox on? -

III.
A knight by land and water
Esteem'd at such a high rate,
When 'tis told in Kent
In a cart that he went,
They'll say now, Hang him, pirate.

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IV.
Thou might'st have ta’en example
From what thou read'st in story,
Being as worthy to sit
On an ambling tit
As thy predecessor Dory.
* We three riding in a cart from Dunkirk to Calais

a fat Dutch woman, who broke wind all along.

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V.
But, oh! the roof of linen,
Intended for a shelter :
But the rain made an ass
Of tilt and canvass,
And the snow, which you know is a melter. 25

VI.
But with thee to inveigle
That tender stripling Astcot,
Who was soak'd to the skin
Thro' drugget so thin,
Having neither coat nor waistcoat.

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VII.
He being proudly mounted,
Clad in cloak of Plymouth,
Defy'd cart so base,
For thief without grace,
That goes to make a wry mouth.

35 VIII. Nor did he like the omen, For fear it might be his doom One day for to sing, With gullet in string, A hynin of Robert Wisdom.

40 IX. But what was all this bus'ness ? For sure it was important; For who rides i' th' wet, When affairs are not great, The neighbours make but a sport on't. 45

X.
To a goodly fat sow's baby,
O John ! thou hadst a malice ;
The old driver of swine
That day sure was thine,
Or thou hadst not quitted Calais.

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TO SIR RICHARD FANSHAW.

UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF

PASTOR FIDO.

Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate,
That few but such as cannot write translate ;
But what in them is want of art or voice,
In thee is either modesty or choice.
While this great piece, restor’d by thee, doth stand
Free from the blemish of an artless hand, 6
Secure of fame thou justly dost esteem
Less honour to create than to redeem.
Nor ought a genius less than his that writ
Attempt translation; for transplanted wit
All the defects of air and soil doth share,
And colder brains like colder cliinates are ;
In vain they toil, since nothing can beget
A vital spirit but a vital heat.
That servile path thou nobly dost decline 15
Of tracing word by word and line by line :
Those are the labour'd births of slavish brains,
Not the effect of poetry, but pains ;

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