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Ev’n you (with your good leave I'll say)
Ign’rant of Nothing seem to be.

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

Conspicuous as the lambent flame.

Touch NOTHING, Sir, and you'll confess
You touch a thing that's bodiless.

View NOTHING, Sir, and you shall view

What's colourless and shapeless 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 useful, 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 f rhombus' rumbling roll,

Inconstant Luna's course controll;

Nor vain | Dictæan 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 shore.

NOTHING has influence, Sir, to rule

The grilly Pluto's ruthless soul ;

To curb the rigid Sisters three,
And stem 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 instrument, which was used in incantations. || The herb Dictamnum, famous for its medicinal virtues.

$ The plains of Phlegræa are noted for the battle said 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 strange 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, muse, rehearse,

In this thy good-for-NOTHING verse,

Lest, after all, a theme so light,

Should NOTHING but disgust excite.

FIDICINIS ET PHILOMELÆ CERTAMEN.

BY

STRA DA.

TOW

,

Now Sol

, descending from his mid-day blaze,

With mild effulgence shot his golden rays ;

When Strephon took his lyre to sooth his care,
And pour’d its music through the silent air,
Where Tiber's streams in pleasing murmurs flow,

And the broad holm-oaks cool the vale below.

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Strephon admir’d the songster's sweet essay,
And strove again to wake the vocal lay;

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Now the full inusic of his lyre explores,

Or shews, with Aying hand, a master's pow'rs.
In vary'd strains the bird renews her song,

In many a labour'd trill it flows along.

Thus with responding zeal her skill she proves,
When o'er the strings the swain his finger moves,

And careless seem'd his touch, the music flow;

Its simple sounds in even tenor flow.
Instant the chords his hurrying finger plies,

The quicken’d tones in rapid movement rise.

He stops : responsive to each note she sings ;
With equal pow’rs fhe imitates his strings.
As one perplex’d, what other strain to chuse,
One plain, unvary'd tune the bird pursues ;
No quaver mixes in her artless note,

,

Free, like the current, issuing from her throat.

Now

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