But nearer care (O pardon it!) supplies And scorn the ardent vows that I have blessed; And rise each morning to some fresh disdain; More heavy chains than those of hopeless love. 79 90 100 Soon fall the flowers of joy; soon seeds of hatred shoot. Say, shepherd, say, are these reflections true; 110 Or was it but the woman's fear, that drew This cruel scene, unjust to Love and you; Will you be only, and for ever mine; Shall neither time, nor age our souls disjoin; From this dear bosom shall I ne'er be torn; Or you grow cold, respectful, and forsworn? And can you not for her you love do more, Than any youth for any nymph before! AN ODE PRESENTED TO THE KING, ON HIS MAJESTY'S ARRIVAL IN Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus 1 AT Mary's tomb, (sad sacred place!) MDCXCV.1 2 The future, pious, mournful fair, 3 For her the wise and great shall mourn, Shall bless her name, and sigh her fate. 4 Fair Albion shall, with faithful trust, Her holy Queen's sad reliques guard; 1 Queen Mary died on the 28th December, 1694, in the 33d year of her age. Till Heaven awakes the precious dust, And gives the saint her full reward. 5 But let the king dismiss his woes, 6 If pressed by grief our monarch stoops; If he, whose hand sustained them, droops, 7 Embattled princes wait the chief, Whose voice should rule, whose arm should lead, 8 The great example they demand, 9 They seek that joy, which used to glow, When the thick squadrons pressed the foc, 10 To give the mourning nations joy, Restore them thy auspicious light, Great sun, with radiant beams destroy Those clouds, which keep thee from our sight. 11 Let thy sublime meridian course For Mary's setting rays atone; Our lustre with redoubled force 12 See, pious King, with different strife 13 Her beauty, in thy softer half Buried and lost, she ought to grieve: And let her weep, but let her live. 14 Thou, guardian angel, save the land 15 Her former triumphs all are vain, Unless new trophies still be sought; And hoary majesty sustain The battles, which thy youth has fought. 16 Where now is all that fearful love, Which made her hate the war's alarms; 17 While still she chid the coming spring, Which called him o'er his subject seas: While, for the safety of the king, She wished the victor's glory less. 18 'Tis changed, 'tis gone; sad Britain now Hastens her lord to foreign wars; Happy, if toils may break his woe, 19 In martial din she drowns her sighs, Lest he the rising grief should hear: She pulls her helmet o'er her eyes, Lest he should see the falling tear. 20 Go, mighty prince, let France be taught, 21 Fierce in the battle make it known, 22 Belgia indulged her open grief, While yet her master was not near; 23 As waters from their sluices, flowed 24 But when her anxious lord returned, Raised is her head, her eyes are dried; 25 That freedom which all sorrows claim, |