Ev'n you (with your good leave I'll say)

Ign'rant of NOTHING feem to be.

Yet NOTHING's clear as Sol's bright beam,

Confpicuous as the lambent flame.

Touch NOTHING, Sir, and you'll confefs

You touch a thing that's bodiless.

View NOTHING, Sir, and you fhall view

What's colourless and fhapeless too.

NOTHING, tho' deaf, can hear, and speaks

Although it never filence breaks;

Flies without wings; and ev'n can run

Without a leg to stand upon.

Nay, lacking motion, parts, and place,

NOTHING can move through empty space.

NOTHING more ufeful, Sir, you'll find

Than art of healing, to mankind:

Let not the lover then rehearse

The mutt'ring wizard's magic verse,

Nor,

Nor, with the rhombus' rumbling roll,

Inconftant Luna's courfe controll;

Nor vain || Dictaan herbage crop
Along the lofty Ida's top;

For NOTHING's lenient aid, be sure,

The pining lover's wounds can cure;
Or, if by Charon ferry'd o'er,

Can fetch him from the Stygian fhore.
NOTHING has influence, Sir, to rule

The grifly Pluto's ruthless foul ;

To curb the rigid Sifters three,

And ftem the force of destiny.

Stretch'd on the fam'd § Phlegræa's field,

And taught by mightier pow'r to yield,

The

A kind of rolling inftrument, which was used in incantations.

|| The herb Dictamnum, famous for its medicinal virtues.

The plains of Phlegræa are noted for the battle faid to be fought there, between the giants and the gods.

The Titan offspring NOTHING prove

More pow'rful than the bolts of Jove.

NOTHING, how ftrange to tell! is found

Beyond the universal round.

NOTHING-but wherefore add we more?

NOTHING ev'n gods themselves adore.

Virtue to merit has pretence,

NOTHING has greater excellence.

In fine, let Jove his honours claim,

NOTHING can boast a higher name.

But hold! no more the theme prolong, 'Tis time to end a filly song;

No more of NOTHING, mufe, rehearse,

In this thy good for NOTHING verfe,

Left, after all, a theme fo light,

Should NOTHING but difguft excite.

FIDICINIS ET PHILOMELE CERTAMEN.

BY STRAD A.

Now Sol, defcending from his mid-day blaze,

With mild effulgence fhot his golden rays;

When Strephon took his lyre to footh his care,
And pour'd its mufic through the filent air,

Where Tiber's ftreams in pleafing murmurs flow,

And the broad holm-oaks cool the vale below.

His ftrains the jealous Philomela move,

The sweetest Syren of the neighb'ring grove.
Behind the verdant spray fhe hears unfeen,

And, envious, echos each melodious strain.
Keen emulation fwells her little throat,

To try her pow'rs, and warble note for note.
Strephon admir'd the fongfter's sweet effay,

And ftrove again to wake the vocal lay;

Now the full mufic of his lyre explores,

Or fhews, with flying hand, a mafter's pow'rs.

In vary'd ftrains the bird renews her song,
In many a labour'd trill it flows along.

Thus with refponding zeal her skill she proves,
When o'er the strings the fwain his finger moves,
And carelefs feem'd his touch, the mufic flow;

Its fimple founds in even tenor flow.
Inftant the chords his hurrying finger plies,
The quicken'd tones in rapid movement rise.
He ftops: refponfive to each note she sings;
With equal pow'rs fhe imitates his strings.
As one perplex'd, what other ftrain to chufe,
One plain, unvary'd tune the bird purfues;
No quaver mixes in her artless note,

Free, like the current, iffuing from her throat.

Now