Could the refolve of love's neglect

Preferve you from the violation Of coming years, then more respect Were due to fo divine a fashion ; Nor would I indulge my paffion.

OF ENGLISH VERSE.

POETS

OETS may boaft, as fafely vain,

Their works fhall with the world remain :

Both bound together, live or die,

The verses and the prophecy.

But who can hope his line should long
Laft in a daily changing tongue ?
While they are new, envy prevails,
And, as that dies, our language fails.

When architects have done their

part,

The matter may betray their art:
Time, if we use ill-chofen ftone,
Soon brings a well-built palace down.

Poets, that lasting marble feek,

Muft carve in Latin or in Greek:

We write in fand; our language grows, And, like the tide, our work o'erflows.

Chaucer his fenfe can only boast,

The glory of his numbers loft!
Years have defac'd his matchless strain,
And yet he did not fing in vain.

The beauties which adorn'd that age, The shining objects of his page, Hoping they should immortal prove, Rewarded with fuccefs his love.

This was the generous poet's scope,
And all an English pen can hope,
To make the fair approve his flame,
That can fo far extend their name.

Verfe, thus defign'd, has no ill fate,
If it arrive but at the date
Of fading beauty; if it prove
But as long-liv'd as the prefent love.

SONG.

WHILE I listen to thy voice,

Chloris, I feel my life decay:

That powerful noise

Calls my fleeting foul away.
Oh! suppress that magic found
Which destroys without a wound.

Peace, Chloris! peace! or finging die, That together you and I

To heav'n may go;

For all we know

Of what the bleffed do above,

Is that they fing, and that they love.

FLATMAN.

Of the three of his poetry ;

This poet is a miserable imitator of Cowley. following extracts, the firft is in the beft ftyle the fecond a fpecimen of his wit; and the third is remarkable from its having been imitated by Mr. Pope, in bis Ode of "The Dying Chriftian.”

SONG.

REMOV'D from fair Urania's eyes,

66

Into a village far away,

Fond Aftrophil began to fay:

Thy charms, Urania, I despise;

"Go, bid fome other shepherd for thee die, "That never understood thy tyranny."

Return'd at length, the amorous swain,
Soon as he faw his deity,

Ador'd again and bow'd his knee,
Became her flave, and wore her chain.

The needle thus, that motionless did lie,

Trembles and moves when the lov'd loadstone's by.

SONG.

How happy a thing were a wedding,
And a bedding,

If a man might purchase a wife,
For a twelvemonth and a day;
But to live with her all a man's life,

For ever and for aye;

Till fhe grow as grey as a cat,

Good faith, Mr. Parson, I thank you for that.

SONG.

A THOUGHT ON DEATH.

WHEN on my fick bed I languish,
Full of forrows, full of anguish;
Fainting, gasping, trembling, crying,
Panting, groaning, speechless, dying,
Methinks I hear fome gentle spirit say,
Be not fearful, come away!