XXVII.

They turn d'their Authors o'er, to try it bas c What Help, what Cure, what Remedyin All Nature's Stores against this Plague fupply; And though befides they thonn'd it every where, They fearch'd it in their Books, and fain would meet it alebit s's bad yam ved T

there,

They turn'd the Records of the ancient Times? And chiefly thofe that were made famous by their Crimes, To find if Men were punish'd fo before; 101/2 But found i the Difeafe nor C Cure.

furpris'd, Before he was how to rent advisa.

Nature, alas! was no And all her Forces feiz dd susimas Con sy year So when the Elephants did fifft affrightonaw nƆ лекотан mans with unusual fight 15 191 19 They many Battles fofe, Battles fofe,om lest weg Before they knew their Foes,

Before they underflood fuch dreadful Troops toppose. Sve insilnou. XXVIII.

Now ev'ry different Sect agrees noi*
Against their common Adverfary, the Difeafe, 1!
Difeafe,
And all their little Wranglings ceafe; dy bas
The Pythagorean's from their Precepts fwerve,
it Silence they obferve,
more their Silence
Out of their Schools they run,
Lament, and cry, and groan;

No

They now defir'd their Metempfychofis:

Not only to difpute, but with

That they might turn to Beafts, or Fowls, or Fish.

If the Platonicks had been here,

They would have cur

their Mafter's Year,

When all things fhall be as they were,

When they again the fame Difeafe fhould bear:
All the Philofophers would now,

What the great Stagyrite fhall do,

Themselves into the Waters headlong throw.
9911 JON 972 3cisqazion nibu
lenomml as evig yǝds riguos 40

The Stoicks felt the deadly Stroke, At first Affault their Courage root brokeels and was 21917, 1959 bu They call'd in all the Cobweb Aid Of Rules and Precepts, which in Store they had; They bid their Hearts ftand out, i won DIA Bid them be calm and ftout, b of'slow yodu doldw yy But all the Strength of Precepts will not do't., They can't the Storms of Paffions now affwage; H As common Men, are angry, grieve, and rage, The Gods are call'd upon in vain, 'The Gods gave no Releafe unto their Pain, d: mal The Gods to fear even for themselves began.dou For now the Sick unto their Temples came, And brought more than an holy Flame, T There at the Altars made their Prayer, They facrific'd and died there,

A Sacrifice not feen before hi adi teh soM

3

01.9m02
That Heaven, only us'd unto the Gore
Of Lambs or Bulls, fhould now
Loaded with Priests fee its own Altars too!

The Woods gave fun'ral Piles no more,
The Dead the very Fire devour,

And that almighty Conqueror o'er-power.
The noble and the common Duft
Into each other's Graves are thruft,
No Place is facred, and no Tomb, ~
'Tis now a Privilege to confume;
Their Ashes no diftinction had;
Too truly all by Death are equal made.
The Ghosts of thofe great Heroes that had filed
From Athens long fince banished,

Now o'er the City hovered;

Their Anger yielded to their Love,
They left th' immortal Joys above,

So much their Athens' Danger did them move.

They

They came to pity, and to aid,

But now, alas! were quite difmay'd,

T

When they beheld the Marbles open lay'd,AAA Bones the noble Urns invade:

And poor

Back to the bleed

to the bleffed Seats t they went, And now did thank their Banifhment,

By which they were to die, in foreign Countries fent.

XXXI. to fit

But what, Great Gods! was worst of all,

was, wone

Hell forth its Magazines of Luft did call,omni

Nor would it be content

With the thick Troops of Souls were thither fenti

Into the upper World it went.

Such Guilt, fuch Wickednefs,
Such Irreligion did increase,

That the few Good which did furvive,

Were angry with the Plague for fuffering them to live; More for the Living than the Dead did grieve.

Some robb'd the very Dead,

Tho' fure to be infected ere they fed,
Tho' in the very Air fure to be punifhed..
Some nor the Shrines nor Temples fpar'd,
Nor Gods, nor Heavens fear'd,

Tho' fuch Example of their Power appear❜d.
Virtue was now efteem'd an empty Name,
And Honefly the foolish Voice of Fame;
For having paft thofe tort'ring Flames before,
They thought the Punishment already o'er,

Thought Heaven no worfe Torments had in Store'; Here having felt one Hell, they thought there was no more.

Upon

Upon the Poems of the English Ovid, Anacreon, Pindar and Virgil, ABRAHAM COWLEY, in Imitation of his own Pindarick Odes.

LE

I.

ET all this meaner Rout of Books stand by
The common People of our Library;

3

Let them make way for Cowley's Leaves to come,
And be hung up within this Sacred Room :
Let no prophane Hands break the Chain,
Or give them unwifh'd Liberty again.
But let his Holy Relick be laid here,
With the fame Religious Care,
As Numa once the Target kept,
Which down from Heav'n leapt ;
Juft fuch another is this Book,

Which its Original from Divine Hands took,

And brings as much good too, to thofe that on it look.
But yet in this they differ, that cou'd be
Eleven times likened by a mortal Hand,

But this which here doth ftand
Will never any of its own fort fee,
But muft fill live without fuch Company.
For never yet was writ,

In the two learned Ages which Time left behind,
Nor in this ever fhall we find,
Nor any one like to it,

Of all the numerous Monuments of Wit.

II.

Cowley! What God did fill thy Breast,
And taught thy Hand t' indite?

(For God's a Poet too,

He doth create, and fo do you)
Or elfe at least

What

What Angel fat upon thy Pen when thou didst write?
There he fat and mov'd thy Hand

As proud of his Command,

As when he makes the dancing Orbs to reel,
And fpins out Poetry from Heaven's Wheel.
Thy Hand too, like a better Sphere,

Gives us more ravishing Mufick, made for Men to hear.
Thy Hand too like the Sun which Angels move,
Has the fame Influence from above,
Produces Gold and Silver of a nobler Kind;
Of greater Price and more refin'd.

Yet in this it exceeds the Sun, 't has no degenerate Race,
Brings forth no Lead, nor any thing fo base.
III.

What holy veftal Hearth,

What Immortal Breath,

Did give fo pure Poetic Flame its Birth?
Juft fuch a Fire as thine,

Of fuch an unmixt glorious Shine,
Was Prometheus's Flames,

Which from no less than Heav'n came,
Along he brought the fparkling Coal,
From fome Cœleftial Chimney stole,
Quickly the plundred Stars he left,
And as he haftned down

With the robb'd Flames his Hands ftill fhone,
And feem'd as if they were burnt for the Theft,
Thy Poetry's compounded of the fame,

Such a bright Immortal Flame,

Juft fo temper'd is thy Rage,

Thy Fires as light and pure as they,

And go as high as his did, if not higher,

That thou may'st seem to us

A true Prometheus,

But that thou didst not steal the leaft Spark of thy Fire.

IV.

Such as thine was Arion's Verse,

Which he did to the lift'ning Fish rehearse;
S

VOL. II,

Which