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There was no number now of death,

The fifters fcarce flood ftill themfelves to breathe:
The fifters now quite wearied

In cutting fingle thread.
Began at once to part whole looms,

One ftroke did give whole houfes dooms:
Now dy'd the frofty hairs,

"The aged and decrepid years;

They fell, and only begg'd of fate

Some few months more, but 'twas alas too late. Then death, as if afham'd of that,

A conqueft fo degenerate,

Cut off the young and lufty too:

The young were reckoning o'er

What happy days, what joys they had in ftore: But fate, e'er they had finish'd their account, them flew.

The wretched ufurer died,

And had no time to tell where he his treasures

hid;

The merchant did behold

His Chips return with fpice and gold; He faw't, and turn'd afide his head, Nor thank'd the gods, but fell amidst his riches dead.

XXII.

The meetings and affemblies ceafe; no more
The people throng about the orator,

No courfe of juftice did appear,
No noife of lawyers fill'd the car,

'The fenate caft away

The robe of honour, and obey

Death's more refiflcis way,
Whilft that with dictatorian power

Doth all the great and leffer officers devour.
No magiftrates did walk about;

No purpie aw'd the rout:
The common people too

A purple of their own did faew:
And all their bodies o'er
The ruling colours bore.
No judge, no legislators fit,
Since this new Draco came,
And harsher laws did frame,

Laws that, like his, in blood are writ.
The benches and the pleading-place they leave,
About the streets they run and rave:
The madness which great Solon did of late
But only counterfeit

For the advantage of the flate, Now his fucceffers do to truly initute.

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Up ftarts the foldier from his bed,

He, though death's fervant, is not freed, Death him cafer'd, 'caufe now his help the not need.

He that ne'er knew before to yield,
Or to give back, or leave the field,
Would fain now from himselfhave fled.
He fnatch'd his fword now rusted o'er,
Dreadful and sparkling now no more,
And thus in open streets did roar;
How have I, Death, fo ill deferv'd of thee,
That now thyfelf thou should'st revenge on me?
Have I fo many lives on thee bestow`¿?
Have I the earth so often. dy'd in blood?
Have I, to flatter thee, fo many flain?
And must I now thy prey remain ?

Let me at least, if I must die,
Meet in the field fome gallant enemy.

Send, gods, the Perfian troops again:
No, they're a bafe and a degenerate tralo;
They by our women may be flain.
Give me, great heavens, fome manful foes,
Let me my death amidst fome valiant Grecians
choofe,

Let me furvive to die at Syracufe,

Where my dear country fhall her glory of
For you, great gods! into my mind infeft,
What miferies, what doom,
Muft on my Athens, fhortly come!
My thoughts infpir'd prefage

Slaughters and battles to the coming age: Oh! might I die upon that glorious flaget, Oh that but then he grafp'd his fword, n death concludes his rage.

XXIV.

Draw back, draw back thy fword, ✪ Fate!
Left thou repent when 'tis too late,
Left, by thy making now fo great a wafe,
By spending all mankind upon one feaft,

Thou tarve thyfelf at last :

What men wilt thou referve in store, Whom in the time to come thou may't devour, When thou fhalt have deftroyed all before?

But, if thou wilt not yet give o'er, If yet thy greedy ftomach calls for møre, If more remain whom thou must kill, And if thy jaws are craving ftill, Carry thy fury to the Scythian coafts, The northern wildernefs and eternal frosts! Against thofe barbarous crowds thy arrows whet, Where arts and laws are ftrangers yet;

Where thou may'ft kill, and yet the lofs will not be great.

There rage, there fpread, and there infect the air,

Marder whole towns and families there,
Thy worft against thole favage nations dare,
Thofe whom mankind can fpare,
Thofe whom mankind itself doth fear;
Amidst that dreadful night and fatal cold,

There thou may't walk unfeer, and bold, There let thy flames their empire hold. Unto the fartheft feas, and nature's ends, Where never fummer's fun its beams extends,

Carry thy plagues, thy pains, thy heats,
Thy raging fires, thy torturing sweats,
Where never ray or heat did come,
They will rejoice at fuch a doom,
They'll blefs thy peftilential fire,
Though by it they expire,

They'll thank the very flames with which they do

confume.'

XXV.

Then if that banquet will not thee fuffice,
Seek out new lands where thou may't tyrannize;
Search every foreft, every hill,

And all that in the hollow mountains dwell;

Thofe wild and untame troops devour, Thereby thou wilt the reft of men fecure, And that the rest of men will thank thee for. Let all thofe human beafts be flain, Till fcarce their memory remain; Thyfelf with that ignoble flaughter fill, 'Twill be permitted thee that blood to spill.

Mcafure the ruder world throughout,
March all the ocean's fhores about,
Only pafs by and fpare the British ifle.
Go on, and (what Columbus ence fhall do
When days and time unto their ripeness grow)
Find out new lands and unknown countries too:

Attempt thofe lands which yet are hid
From all mortality befide:

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Nor is this all which we thee grant; Rather than thou should'ft full employment want, (We do permit) in Greece thy kingdom plant. Ranfack Lycurgus' streets throughout, They've no defence of walls to keep thee out. On wanton and proud Corinth feize, Nor let her double waves thy flames appeafe. Let Cyprus feel more fires than those of love: Let Delos, which at first did give the fun,

See unknown flames in her begun,
Now let her with the might unconftant prove,
And from her place might truly move:
Let Lemnos all thy anger feel,
And think that a new Vulcan fell,
And brought with him new anvils, and new hell.
Nay, at Athens ton we give thee up,

All that thou find'ft in field, or camp, or fhop:
Make havoc there without controal

Of
every ignorant and contmon foul.
But then, kind Plague, thy conquest: top;
Let arts, and let the learned the e frape,
Upon Minerva's fell commit ne vape;

Touch not the facred throng, And let Apollo's priefts be, like him, young, Like him, be healthful too, and strong. But ah! too ravenous Plague, whilft I Strive to keep off the mifery,

The learned too, as faft as others, round me die;
They from corruption are not free,
Are mortal, though they give an immortality.

XXVII.

They turn'd their authors o'er, to try

What help, what cure, what remedy, All nature's ftores against this plague supply; And though befides they fhunn'd it every where, They fearch'd it in their books, and fain would meet it there;

They turn'd the records of the ancient times, And chiefly those that were made famous by their crimes,

To find if men were punish'd so before;
But found not the difeafe nor cure.

Nature, alas! was now furpris'd,

And all her forces feiz'd,

Before he was how to refift advis'd.
So when the elephants did firft affright
The Romans with unufual fight,
They many battles lofe,

Before they knew their foes,

[pofe.

Before they understood fuch dreadful troops t'op

XXVIII.

Now every different fect agrees

Against their common adverfary, the disease,
And all their little wranglings ceafe;

The Pythagoreans from their precepts swerve,
No more their filence they obferve,

Out of their schools they run,
Lament, and cry, and groan;

They now defir'd their metempsychosis;
Not only to difpute, but with

That they might turn to beafts, or fowls, or fish.
If the Platonics had been here,

They would have curs'd their master's year, When all things fhall be as they were, When they again the fame difeafe fhall bear : All the philofophers would now, What the great Stagyrite fhall do, Themfelves into the waters headlong throw.

XXIX.

The Stoics felt the deadly stroke, At first affault their courage was not broke, They call'd in all the cobweb aid Of rules and precepts, which in store they had; They bid their hearts stand out,

Bid them be calm and tout,

But all the ftrength of precept will not do't.
They can't the ftorms of paffion now affuage;
As common men, are angry, grieve, and rage.
The gods are call'd upon in vain,
The gods gave no release unto their pain,
The gods to fear ev'n for themselves began.
For now the fick unto their temples came,
And brought more than an hely flame,
There at the altars made their prayer,
They facrific'd, and died there,

A ficrifice or feen heinre;
T heaven, only us'd ante the mo

Of lambs or bulls, fhould now Loaded with priests see its own altars too!

Xxx.

The woods gave funeral piles no more,
The dead the very fire devour,
And that almighty conqueror o'erpower.
The noble and the common duft

Into each other's graves are thrust.
No place is facred, and no tomb;
'Tis now a privilege to confume;
Their afhes no diftinction had;
Too truly all by death are equal made.
The ghofts of thofe great heroes that had filed
From Athens, long fince banished,
Now o'er the city hovered;
Their anger yielded to their love,
They left th' immortal joys above,

So much their Athens' danger did them move.
They came to pity, and to aid,

But now, alas! were quite difmay'd,
When they beheld the marbles open lay'd,
And poor men's bones the noble urns invade;
Back to the bleffed feats they went,
And now did thank their banishment,
By which they were to die in foreign countries sent.

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But what, great Gods! was worst of all, Hell forth its magazines of luft did call,

Nor would it be content

With the thick troops of fouls were thither fent;
Into the upper world it went.
Such guilt, fuch wickedness,
Such irreligion did increase,

That the few good which did furvive [live Were angry with the plague for fuffering them to More for the living than the dead did grieve. Some robb'd the very dead,

Though fure to be infected ere they fled, Though in the very air fure to be punished. Some nor the fhrines nor temples fpar'd,

Nor gods nor heavens fear'd, Though fuch example of their power appear'd

Virtue was now efteem'd an empty name, And honefty the foolish voice of fame;

For, having paft those torturing flames befite, They thought the punishment already o'er,

Thought heaven no worse torments had in ftore;

Here having felt one hell, they thought there wa

no more.

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What angel fat upon thy pen when thou didst They rofe, and knew not by what magic force they write?

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What holy vestal hearth,
What immortal breath,

Did give fo pure poetic flame its birth?
Juft fuch a fire as thine,

Of fuch an unmix'd glorious fhine,

Was Prometheus's flame,

Which from no less than heaven came.
Along he brought the sparkling coal,
From fome celeftial chimney ftole;
Quickly the plunder'd ftars he left,

And as he haften'd down

With the robb'd flames his hands ftill fhone, And feem'd as if they were burnt for the theft. Thy poetry's compounded of the fame,

Such a bright immortal flame;

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hung.

So were his words, fo plac'd his founds, Which forc'd the marbles rife from out their

grounds,

Which cut and carved, made them shine, A work which can be outdone by none but thine. Th' amazed poet faw the building rife,

And knew not how to truft his eyes: The willing mortar came, and all the trees Leap into beams he fees.

He faw the streets appear,

Streets, that muft needs be harmonious there :
He faw the walls dance round t' his pipe,
The glorious temple fhew its head,
He faw the infant city ripe,

And all like the creation by a word was bred.
So great a verfe is thine, which though it will not
raise

Marble monuments to thy praife;

Yet 'tis no matter, cities they must fall,

And houses, by the greatest glutton Time be eaten all:

But thy verfe builds a fame for thee, Which fire cannot devour, nor purify,

Which fword and thunder doth defy,

As round, and full, as the great circle of eternity.

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The very nature of good poetry. He was a poet that could fpeak least truth: Sober and grave men fcorn'd the name, Which once was thought the greatest fame. Poets had nought elfe of Apollo, but his youth: Few ever spake in rhyme, but that their feet The trencher of fome liberal man might meet. Or elfe they did fome rotten mistress paint,

Call her their goddess, or their faint. Though contrary in this they to their master run, For the great god of wit, the fun,

When he doth fhew his miftrefs, the white moon, He makes her spots, as well as beauty, to be fhewn. Till now the fifters were too old, and therefore

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You, Sir, have rais'd the price of wit,
By bringing in more store of it:
Poetry, the queen of arts, can now

Reign without dissembling too.
You've fhewn a poet must not needs be bad;
That one may be Apollo's prieft,

And be fill'd with his oracles, without being mad;
Till now, wit was a curfe (as to Lot's wife
'Twas to be turn'd to falt)
Because it made men lead a life
Which was nought elfe but one continual fault.
You firft the mufes to the Chriftians brought,
And you then first the holy language taught:
In you good poetry and divinity meet,
You are the first bird of paradise with feet.

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Before God the great cenfor them bestow'd, According to their ranks, in feveral tribes abroad; Whilft yet the fun and moon Were in perpetual conjunction: Whilft all the stars were but one milky way, And in natural embraces lay.

Whilft yet none of the lamps of heaven might Call this their own, and that another's light, So glorious a lump as thine, Which chemistry may feparate, but not refine: So mixt, fo pure, fo united does it shine, A chain of fand, of which each link is all divine

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Where we a pure exalted mufe do find, Such as may well become a glorified mind.

Such fongs tune angels when they love, And do make courtship to fome filter-mind above (For angels need not scorn such soft defires, Seeing thy heart is touch'd with the fame tires).

So when they clothe themfelves in fleth, And their light in fome human shapes do drefs (For which they fetch'd ftuff from the nigh bouring air):

So when they stoop, to like fome mortal fair,

Such words, fuch odes as thine they ufe, With fuch foft ftrains, love into her heart infle Thy love is on the top, if not above mortality; C'e in, and from corruption free,

Such as affections in eternity fhall be ;

Which fhall remain unspotted there,
Only to fhew what once they were:
Thy Cupid's fhafts all golden are;

Thy Venus has the falt, but not the froth o'th'

XI.

Thy high Pindarics foar

So high, where never any wing till now could get
And yet thy wit

Doth feem fo great, as thofe that do fly lower.
"Thou ftand'ft on Pindar's back;
And therefore thou a higher flight doft take:
Only thou art the cagle, he the wren,

Thou haft brought him from the duft,
And made him live again.

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Pindar has left his barbarous Greece, and thinks &
To be led by thee to the English shore;
An honour to him: Alexander did no more,
Nor fcarce fo much, when he did fave his houfe
before,

When his word did affuage
A warlike army's violent rage:
Thou haft given to his name,

Than that great conqueror fav'd him from, a brighter flanie.

[ftay, He only left fome walls where Pindar's name night Which with time and age decay:

But thou haft made him once again to live;
Thou didst to him new life and breathing give
And as in the laft refurrection,

Thou hast made him rife more glorious, and put on
More majefty; a greater foul is given to him, by

you,

Than ever be in happy Thebes or Greece could fhew.

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