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HAT find I here?


Fair Portia's counterfeit !-What demi-god

Hath come fo near creation! Move these eyes?
Or, whether, riding on the balls of mine,
Seem they in motion ?-Here are fever'd lips,
Parted with fugar breath: so sweet a bar

Should funder fuch sweet friends.-Here, in her hairs,
The painter plays the fpider, and hath woven
A golden mesh t' intrap the hearts of men
Fatter than gnats in cobwebs. But her eyes--
How could he fee to do them! having made one,
Methinks it should have power to fteal both his,
And leave itself unfinish'd!

I SAW young Harry, with his beaver on,
His cuiffes on his thighs, gallantly arm'd,
Rife from the ground, like feathered Mercury;
And vaulted with fuch ease into his feat,
As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds,
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,

And witch the world with noble horfemanship.

HEAR him but reafon in divinity

And, all admiring, with an inward wish,
You would defire the king were made a prelate.
Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs-
You'd fay, it hath been all in all his study.
Lift his discourse of war-and you shall hear
A fearful battle render'd you in music.
Turn him to any cause of policy-
The Gordian knot of it he will unloofe,

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Familiar as his garter. When he speaks --
The air, a charter'd libertine, is still;
And the mute wonder lurketh in men's ears,
To steal his sweet and honey'd fentences.



AKE thy demands to thofe that own thy power! Know, I am ftill beyond thee. And tho' fortune Has ftripp'd me of this train, this pomp of greatness, This outfide of a king, yet ftill my faul,

Fix'd high, and on herself alone dependant,
Is ever free and royal; and, even now,
As at the head of battle-does defy thee!

GIVE me leave to tell you, that, at my birth,
The front of heaven was full of fiery fhapes;
The goats ran from the mountains; and the herda
Were ftrangely clam'rous in the frighted fields.
Thefe figns have-mark'd me extraordinary;
And all the courses of my life do fhew

I am not in the roll of common men.

Where is he living, clipp'd in with the fea

"That chides the banks of England, Wales, or Scotland,
Who calls me pupil, or hath read to me ?
And bring him out, that is but woman's fon,
Can trace me in the tedious ways of art,
Or hold me pace in deep experiments.

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WAY!-no woman could defcend fo low.
A skipping, dancing, worthless tribe you are;
Fit only for your yourselves. You herd together;
And when the circling glafs warms your vain hearts,
You talk of beauties that you never faw,
And fancy raptures that you never knew.

GO, gentlemen, go; each man to his charge.
Let not babbling dreams affright our fouls.
Confcience is but a word that cowards ufe;
Devis'd, at first, to keep the ftrong in awe.
Remember whom you are to cope withal:
A fort of vagabonds, of rafcals, runaways;
A fcum of Britons, and bafe lackey-peasants;
Whom their o'er cloy'd country vomits forth
To defperate adventures and deftruction.
And who doth lead them, but a paltry fellow,
Long kept in Bretagne, at his mother's cost?
A milk-fop; one, that never in his life
Felt fo much cold as over fhoes in fnow.
Let's whip thefe ftragglers o'er the feas again;
Lash hence thefe over-weening rags of France,
These famifh'd beggars, weary of their lives
Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit,*
For want of means, poor rats, had hang'd themselves.
If we be conquer'd, let men conquer us ;


And not these baftard Britons, whom our fathers

Have, in their own land, beaten, bobb'd, and thump'd, And left on record heirs of fhame.

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ET, yet endure-nor murmur, O my foul !


For, are not thy tranfgreffions great and numberless? Do they not cover thee, like rifing floods ? And prefs thee, like a weight of waters, down? Does not the hand of righteousness afflict thee ?— And who shall plead against it? who shall say, To Pow'r Almighty, Thou haft done enough; Or bid his dreadful rod of vengeance stay ?Wait, then, with patience, till the circling hours Shall bring the time of thy appointed rest, And lay thee down in death.



Hrid me of this torture, quickly there,
My Madam with the everlafting voice.
The bells, in time of peftilence, ne'er made
Like noise, or were in that perpetual motion.
All my houfe,

But now, fteam'd like a bath, with her thick breath.
A lawyer could not have been heard, nor scarce
Another woman, fuch a hail of words

She has let fall.

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HERE is a ftupid weight upon my fenfes ;
A difmal fullen ftillness, that fucceeds

The form of rage and grief, like filent death,
After the tumult and the noife of life.

Would it were death, as fure 'tis wond'rous like it


For I am fick of living. My foul is pall'd:
She kindles not, with anger, or revenge.
Love was th' informing active fire within:
Now, that is quench'd; the mafs forgets to move,
And longs to mingle with its kindred earth.





HENCEFORTH, let no man truft the first false step
Of guilt. It hangs upon a precipice,

Whose steep descent in laît perdition ends.

How far am I plung'd down, beyond all thought
Which I this evening fram'd!-

Confummate horror! guilt beyond a name !-
Dare not, my foul, repent. In thee, repentance:
Were fecond guilt; and 't were blafpheming Heav'n
To hope for mercy. My pain can only cease
When gods want power to punish.-Ha! the dawn-
Rife never more, O fun !-let night prevail :
Eternal darknefs close the world's wide fcene.
And hide me from myself.


WHY do they lay me on a couch of thorns?
How should I rest ?-They bid me close my eyes-
But, through the lids, I fee a thousand forms
Numberless terrors !-I fhut both ears—and yet
1 hear infernal Howlings -Death and despair
Have laid hold upon me!-Oh, miferable that I am!
Wou'd I had died as innocent as Gloucester !
Let me think no more!- -Is there no phyfician
Can cure the mina? Nothing to kill reflection ?-
That I could drink oblivion down!-Oh! when
Shall I have reft ?

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