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On the new Forcers of Conscience under



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you have thrown off your Prelate Lord
And with stiff Vows renounc'd his Liturgie,
To feize the widow'd whore Pluralitie

From them, whose lin ye envy'd, not abhorrid;

ye for this adjure the Civil Sword
To force our Consciences, that Christ fet free,
And ride us with a claffic Hierarchy

Taught ye by meer A. S. and Rotherford?
Men whose Life, Learning, Faith, and pure Intent

Would have been held in high Efteem with Paul,

Must now be nam'd and printed Hereticks,
By shallow Edwards and Scotch what d'ye-call

But we do hope to find out all your tricks,
Your plots, and packing, worse than thofe of Trent,

That so the Parliament
May with their wholesome and preventive fhears
Clip your Phylacteries, though baulk your Ears,

And fuccour our juft Fears;
When they hall read this clearly in your charge,
New Presbyter is but Old Priest writ Large.

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The fifth ODE of Horace, Lib. I.

Rendered almost word for word without Rhyme,

according to the Latin Measure, as near as the Language will permit.


Hat slender Youth, bedew'd with liquid odours,

Courts thee on Roses in some pleasant Cave,
Pyrrha, for whom bind'ft thou
In wreaths thy golden Hair,

Plain in thy neatness? O how oft shall he
On Faith and changed Gods complain, and Seas,

Rough with black winds and storms
Unwonted shall admire;

Who now enjoys thee credulous, all Gold,
Who always vacant, always amiable

Hopes thee ; of flattering gales

Unmindful! Hapless they,
To whom thou untry'd feem'ít fair. Me in my vow'd
Picture the sacred wall declares t'have hung

My dank and dropping weeds
To the stern God of Sea.




To the Nightingale.

Nightingale, that on yon bloomy Spray
Warbleft at eve, when all the Woods'arê

Thou with fresh hope the Lover's heart

doit fill,
While the jolly hours lead on propitious

Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day,

first heard before the sallow Cuccoo's bill,
Portend success in Love; O, if Jove's will

Have link'd that amorous pow'r to thy soft lay, Now timely fing, ere the rude Bird of Hate

Foretel my hopeless doom in fome Grove nigh;

As thou from year to year hait sung too late For my relief; yet hadīt no reason why: Whether the Mufe, or Love call thee his mate,

Both them I serve, and of their train am I.


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On his being arriv'd to his 2 3d Year.


Ow soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,

Stol'n on his wing my three and twentieth year! My haiting days flie on with full career,

But my late spring no bud or blossom fhew'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,

That I to manhood am arriv'd so near ; And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely happy spirits indu’th. Yet be it lefs or more, or foon or flow,

It shall be still in strictest measure .ev'n

To that same lot, however mean or high, Tow'rd which Time leads me, and the will of Heavin ; All is, if I have grace to use it fo, As ever in my great Talk master's eyes.


To the Soldier, to spare bis Dwelling-place. C

Aptain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms, -

Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, If ever deed of honour did thee please,

Guard them, and him within protect from harms.
He can requite thee; for hc knows the charms

Thit call Fame on fuch gentle acts as these,
And he can spread thy name o'er Lands and Seas,

What-ever clime the Sun's bright circle warms.
List not thy spear against the Muses Bower.

The great Emathian Conqueror bid spare
The houte of Pindarus, when Temple and Tower


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Went to the ground: And the repeated air
Of sad Electra's Poet had the power i

To save thAthenian Walls from ruin bare.


To a Lady.
L a at and the
Wisely haft fhund the broad way

and the greeng And with those few art eminently seen,

That labour up the Hill of Heav'nly Truth.
The better part with Mary and with Ruth

Chofen thou hast, and they that overween,
And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen,

find in thee, but pity and ruth.
Thy care is fixt, and zealously attends

To fill thy odorous Lamp with deeds of light,

And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure
Thou, when the bridegroom with his feastful friend

Paffes to bliss at the mid-hour of night,
Haft gain'd thy entrance, Virgin wife and pure.

No anger


To the Lady Margaret Lee Daughter to the

Earl of Marlborough.
Aughter to that good Earl, once President

Of England's Council, and her Treasury,
Who liv'd in both unitain d with gold or fee,

And left them both more in himself content,
Till the sad breaking of that Parliament
Broke him, as that dishonest victory

At Chæronea, fatal to Liberty,
Kill'd with report that old man eloquent.


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