"But write thy best and top; and in each line "Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill "And does thy northern dedications fill. 160 "Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame "Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise "And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise. 165 "Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part ; 170 175 66 By which one way to dulness 'tis inclined, "Which makes thy writings lean on one side still' 180 46 And, in all changes, that way bends thy will. Nor let thy mountain belly make pretence "Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense. "A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ, "But sure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit. "Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep; “Thy tragic Muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep. "With whate'er gall thou sett'st thy self to write, 66 Thy inoffensive satyrs never bite; "In thy fellonious heart though venom lies, "It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dyes. 185 190 66 Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame "In keen Iambicks, but mild Anagram. "Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command "Some peacefull province in Acrostick land. "There thou may'st wings display and altars raise, "And torture one poor word ten thousand ways; Or, if thou would'st thy diff'rent talents suit, "Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute." He said, but his last words were scarcely heard, 195 200 For Bruce and Longville had a trap prepared, 205 A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY. Nov. 2 Chived Abouy 932 AD. FROM harmony, from heav'nly harmony This universal frame began. When Nature underneath a heap And cou'd not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high: Then cold and hot and moist and dry And Musick's pow'r obey. From harmony, from heav'nly harmony 5 10 What passion cannot Musick raise and quell? His list'ning brethren stood around, And, wond'ring, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound; Less than a god they thought there cou'd not dwell That spoke so sweetly, and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell? 20 3. The trumpets loud clangor With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Of the thundering drum Cries, heark the foes come! Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat! 4. The soft complaining flute The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. 5. Sharp violins proclaim The song began from Jove, A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god; 25 And while he sought her snowy breast; Then round her slender waste he curl'd, And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'raign of the world. The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, The jolly god in triumph comes; Flush'd with a purple grace Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes. He shews his honest face; Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain ; Bacchus blessings are a treasure, Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain. 4. Sooth'd with the sound the king grew vain; Fought all his battails o'er again; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. The master saw the madness rise, His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; 35 40 45 50 55 |