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ON MY FIRST DAUGHTER.
HERE lies, to each her parents ruth,
At six months end she parted hence
With safety of her innocence;
Whose soul heaven's Queen, whose name she bears, In comfort of her mother's tears,
Hath placed amongst her virgin-train :
ON MY FIRST SON.
FAREWELL, thou child of my right hand, and joy ;
Rest in soft peace, and ask'd, say here doth lie
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such,
AN ODE-TO HIMSELF.
WHERE dost Thou carless lie
It is the common moth,
That eats on wits and arts, and [so] destroys them both:
Are all the Aonian springs
Dried up ? lies Thespia waste? Doth Clarius' harp want strings, That not a nymph now sings; Or droop they as disgrac'd, To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies defac'd?
If hence thy silence be,
As 'tis too just a cause;
'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause.
What though the greedy fry
Of worded balladry
They die with their conceits, And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits.
Then take in hand thy lyre,
To give the world again : Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain.
And since our dainty age
Cannot endure reproof, Make not thyself a page, To that strumpet the stage, But sing high and aloof, Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof,
THE JUST INDIGNATION THE AUTHOR TOOK AT THE
VULGAR CENSURE OF HIS PLAY, "THE NEW INN,"
COME leave the loathed stage,
Where pride and impudence, in faction knit,
Indicting and arraigning every day,
Something they call a play.
Let their fastidious, vain
Run on and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn ;
Say that thou pour'st them wheat,
"Twere simple fury still thyself to waste
No doubt some mouldy tale,
As the shrieve's crusts, and nasty as his fish-
Thrown forth, and raked into the common tub,
For who the relish of these guests will fit,
And much good do't you then:
Can feed on orts; and, safe in your stage-clothes,
The stagers and the stage-wrights too, your peers,
Which, if they are torn, and turn'd, and patch'd
The gamesters share your gilt, and you their stuff.—
Leave things so prostitute
Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's lyre;
And though thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold
As curious fools, and envious of thy strain,
But when they hear thee sing
His zeal to God, and his just awe o'er men:
Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers
In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign;
THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD., NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE