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Like Eastern Kings a lazy fate they keep,
And, close confin'd to their own palace, sleep.

From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,
And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deferter of thy brother's blood!
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks, now fading at the blaft of death;
Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before,
And those love-darting eyes moft roll no more.
Thus, if eternal Justice rules the ball,

Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herses shall besiege your gates ;
There passengers shall ftand, and pointing say,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)
Lo! these were they, whose fouls the Furies Ateeld,
And curs’d with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow 45
For others good, or melt at others woe.

What can atone (oh ever injur'd shade!) Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleas'd thy pale ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier: 50 By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, By frangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!


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What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear, 55
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show?
What tho' no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face i

What tho' no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be dress’d,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breaft:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While Angels with their filver wings o'ershade
The ground now facred by thy reliques made.

So, peaceful, rests without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. 7•
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot ;
A heap of duft alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be !

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, 75
Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue,
Ev'n he, whose foul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays ;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart,

Life's idle business at once gasp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more !


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O wake the soul by tender strokes of art,

To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:
For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage, 5
Commanding tears to stream thro' ev'ry age ;
*Tyrants no more their savage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;

In pitying Love, we but opr weakness show,
And wild Ambition well deserves its woe.
Here tears fhall flow from a more gen'rous cause,
Such tears as Patriots shed for dying Laws :
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise,

And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was :
No common object to your fight displays,
But what with pleasure Heav'n itself surveys, 20
A brave man ftruggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state,
While Cato gives his little Senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country's cause?
Who sees him act, but envies ev'ry deed ?

Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev'n when proud Cæsar 'midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the



wars, Ignobly vain and'impotently great, Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state ; 30 As her dead Father's rev'rend image past, The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercalt ; The triumph ceas'd, tears gush'd from ev'ry eye; The world's great Victor pass’d unheeded by; Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd,

35 And honour'd Cæsar's less than Cato's sword.

Britons, attend: be worth like this approv'd, And show, you have the virtue to be mov'd. With honeft fcorn the first fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdu'd; Your scene precariously subsists too long

41 On French translation, and Italian song. Dare to have sense yourselves; affert the stage, Be juftly warm’d with your own native rage: Such plays alone should win a British ear, 45 As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.


Τ ο

Mr. Rowe's JANE SHORE.

Designed for Mrs. OLDFIELD.

PRopicious this! the of our Play

From her own sex should mercy find to-day! You might have held the pretty head aside, Peep'd in your fans, been serious, thus, and cry'd, The Play may pass -- but that strange creature, Shore, I can't indeed now I so hate a whore

6 Just as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull, And thanks his stars he was not born a fool ; So from a sister finner you shall hear, " How strangely you expose yourself, my dear ?" 10 But let me die, all raillery apart, Our sex are still forgiving at their heart; And, did not wicked custom fo contrive, We'd be the best, good-natur'd things alive.

There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale, 15 That virtuous ladies


while they rail ;
Such rage without betrays the fire within ;
In some close corner of the soul, they sin;
Still hoarding up, molt scandalously nice,
Amidst their virtues a reserve of vice.
The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns,
Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain cram:.



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