Hervor. I do by enchantments cause, that the dead fhall never en-... Angantyr. Falfe woman, thou joy reft until Angantyr deliver me doft not understand that thou speakTirfing *** eft foolishly of that in which thou doft rejoice; for Tirfing fhall, if thou wilt believe me, maid, destroy all thy off-fpring.

Verses on Henry I. wrote immediately after his Death. The Author

unknown.

KYNG Henry is dead, bewty of the world!

For whome is great dole:

Goddes now maken rowm for their kinde brother!
For he is fole.

Mercurius in fpeeche, Marce in battayle,
In harte ftrong Apollo,
Jupiter in heft, egall with Saturn
And enemie to Cupido!

King he was of right!

And man he was of moft myght!
And glorious in rayninge!

And, when he left his crowne,
Then fell honour down!

For miffe of fuch a king;
Normandy than gan lowre,
For loffee of their floure,
And fang wel a way!

England made mone,
And Scotland did grone,

For to fee that day!

VERSES written on the gates of Bologna in Italy, much admired by Travellers and others who have by chance met with them.

SI tibi pulchra domus, si splendida mensa; quid inde?
Si species auri, argenti quoque massa, quid inde?
Si tiba sponsa decens, si sit generosa; quid inde?
Si tibi sunt nati, si prædia magna; quid inde?
Si fueris pulcher, fortis divesve; quid inde?
Si doceas alios qualibet arte; quid inde?
Si longus servorum inserviat ordo; quid inde?
Si faveat mundus, si prospera cuncta; quid inde?
Si Prior, aut Abbas, si Dux, si Papa; quid inde?
Si felix annos regnes per mille; quid inde?
Si rota Fortunæ se tollit ad astra; quid inde?
Tam cito, tamque cito fugiunt hæc, ut nihil inde.
Sola manet Virtus, nos glorificabimur inde.
Ergo Deo pare, bene nam tibi provenit inde.

TRANSLATION.

What, if the ftatelieft buildings were thy own;
What, if the choiceft fruits thy table crown?

f thou haft heaps on heaps of gold in store,
And each fucceeding year ftill adding more?
What, if thou had'st the faireft, kindeft wife,
To be the sweet companion of thy life?
If thou art blefs'd with fons, a large estate,
And all around magnificent and great;
What, if thou'rt comely, valiant, rich, and firong,
And teachest others in each arty each tongue;
If thou hast numerous fervants at command,
All things in ftore, and ready to thy hand;
If thou wert king, commander of a nation
Full thoufand happy years without vexation;
If fortune rais'd thee to the highest strain
Of grandeur, wealth, and dignity: What then?!
Soon, very foon, all ends and comes to nought;
Virtue alone's the greateft glory fought.
Obey th' Almighty's will, from hence arise
All happiness within, in this all glory lies.

*

Quod fecisse voles in tempore quo morieris,
If facias juvenis, dum in corpore sanus haberis.

Lex ea sit vitae regula firma tunæ, »›

On Miss Frampton, who was buried in the Abbey church at Bath, an hundred Years since, wrote by Mr. Dryden.

BELOW this marble monument is laid

All that heav'n wants of this celeftial maid;
Preferve, O facred tomb! thy truft confign'd.
The mould was made on purpofe for the mind.
And fhe would lofe, if at the latter day,
One atom could be mix'd with other clay.
Such were the features of her heav'nly face,
Her limbs were form'd with fuch furprifing grace,
So faultlefs was the frame, as if the whole
Had been an emanation of the foul, "
Which her own inward fymmetry reveal'd,
And, like a picture fhone, in glass conceal'd;
Or, like the fun eclips'd with fhaded light,
Too piercing elfe to be fuftain'd by fight,
Each thought was vilible that rul'd within,"
As thro' a chryftal cafe the figur'd hours are feen.
And heav'n did this tranfparent veil provide,
Because she had no guilty thoughts to hide.
All white, a virgin faint, the fought the fkies,
For marriage, though it fullies not, it dies.

Cicero's maxim.

High tho' her wit, yet humble was her mind,
As if fhe could not, or fhe would not find
How much her worth transcended all her kind.
Yet he had learn'd fo much of heav'n below,
That when arriv'd, fhe fcarce had more to know;
But only to refresh the former hint,

And read her Maker in a fairer print.
So pious, that she had no time to fpare

For human thoughts, but feem'd confin'd to pray'r
Yet, in fuch charities the pafs'd the day,

'Twas wond'rous how the found an hour to pray.
A foul fo calm, it knew not ebbs or flows,
Which paffion could but curl, not difcompose,
A female foftnefs with a manly mind,
A daughter duteous, and a fifter kind,
In fickness patient, and in death refign'd.

Under the Busto of Comus, in a Beaufet, at Lord Melcombe's at Hammersmith. Written by his Lordship.

W

E. August, 1750.

HILE rofy wreaths the goblet deck,
Thus Comus fpoke, or feem'd to speak
"This place, for focial hours defign'd,
May care and business never find."
Come, every Mufe, without restraint
Let genius prompt, and fancy paint;
Let wit and mirth, with friendly ftrife,
Chafe the dull gloom that faddens life;
True wit, that firm to virtue's cause,
Refpects religion and the laws;
True mirth, that chearfulness fupplies
To modest ears and decent eyes;
Let thefe indulge their livelieft fallies,
Both fcorn the canker'd help of malice;
True to their country, and their friend,
Both fcorn to flatter or offend."

VIRTUE AND FAME.

To the Countess of Egremont. By Lord Lyt-n.

Said Virtue!" Hark ye, madam Fame,
Your ladyfhip is much to blame;
Jove bids you always wait on me,
And yet your face I feldom fee.

The Paphian queen employs your trumpet,
And bids it praise fome handfome ftrumpet,
Or, thund'ring thro' the ranks of war,
Ambition ties you to her car."

Saith Fame," Dear madam 1 protest
I never find myself so bleft

As when I humbly wait behind you;
But 'tis fo mighty hard to find you!
In fuch obfcure retreats you lurk!
To feek you is an endless work."
"Well answered Virtue, I allow
Your plea. But hear, and mark me now.
I know (without offence to others)
I know the best of wives and mothers;
Who never pafs'd an useless day
In fcandal, goffiping, or play:
Whofe modeft wit, chaftis'd by fense,
Is lively chearful innocence;

Whose heart nor envy knows, nor spite,
Whose duty is her fole delight;

Nor rul'd by whim, nor flave to fashion,
Her parent's joy, her husband's paffion."
Fame fmil'd, and answered, “On my life,
This is fome country parfon's wife,
Who never faw the court nor town,
Whofe face is homely as her gown;
Who banquets upon eggs and bacon"
"No, madam, no-you're much mistaken-
I beg you'll let me fet you right-
'Tis one with ev'ry beauty bright;
Adorn'd with ev'ry polish'd art
That rank or fortune can impart;
'Tis the moft celebrated toast

That Britain's fpacious ifle can boaft;
'Tis princely Petworth's noble dame;
'Tis EGREMONT-Go tell it, Fame!"

241

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