I feel

my heart new opened. Oh! how wretched

Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!

There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin,
More pangs and fears, than war or women have ;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

LA MORT REND TOUT EGAL.

SONG E.

E fongeois cette nuit, que d' ennui confumé

JE

Côte à côte d' un Pauvre on m' avoit inhumé,

Et que n'en pouvant pas fouffrir le voifinage,
En mots de qualité je lui tins ce language:
"Retire toi, coquin, va pourrir loin d'ici,
"Il ne t'appartient pas de m' approcher ainfi.”

"Co

Nubes obfcurans mentem nunc tollitur, & nunc

Sentio, quàm miser eft, qui regum pendet amore.

Non Bellona ferox tali formidine terret

Gentes, nec mater tali diftricta dolore,

Quales intùs agit stimulos fub pectore cura
Optatos inter rifus, certamque ruinam.

Et gravis eft cafus quando cadit, et cadit exfpes
Inftar Luciferi.

DIVESNE, PRISCO NATUS AB INACHO

NIL INTEREST, AN PAUPER ET INFIMA
DE GENTE.

HOR.

OMNO me quondam mortis ludebat imago,

SOME

Et videor juxta corpora, corpus iners.

Proximus hîc pauper tumulo putrebat eodem, Me gravis ac movit faftus et ira loqui :"Hinc longè, longè difcedas vile cadaver,

"Ne tangat, ne me polluat ifta lues."

"Lon

"Coquin!" ce me dit-il, d' une arrogance extreme, "Va chercher les coquins ailleurs, coquin toi-même : "Ici tous font egaux ; je ne te dois plus rien,

"Je fuis fur mon Fumier, comme toi fur le tien.”

Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,

Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!

Ceafe, fond Nature, cease thy ftrife,

And let me languish into life.

II.

Hark! they whisper; angels say,

"Sifter fpirit, come away:"

What

"Longiùs hinc abeas ;" retulit vehementius ille;

Tu jam vile lutum, vile cadaver ego.

"Cedere non libet; exæquat mortalia fatum :

"Hic mihi tam putrido væ locus, ifte tibi.”

Quid quæritans, pavens, et optans,

Limine ftas vagabundus hofpes?

II.

Quàm dulce, fed quàm difficile, eft mori !

Natura, litem define, define,

Fruarque vitâ! jàm fufurrant

Cœlicolæ, "Soror hùc adefto."

What is this abforbs me quite,

Steals my fenfes, fhuts my fight,

Drowns my fpirits, draws my breath;

Tell me, my foul, can this be death ?

III.

The world recedes, it disappears;

Heav'n opens to my eyes; my ears

With founds feraphic ring:

Lend, lend your wings, I mount! I fly!

O Death, where is thy victory?

O Grave, where is thy fting?