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Alas! The Famous Settle, Durfy, Tate,
That early propt the deep Intrigues of State;
Dull Whiggish Lines the World could ne're applaud,
While your swift Genius did appear abroad.
And thou great Bays, whose yet unconquer'd Pen
Wrote with strange force, as well of Beasts as Men;
Whose Noble Genius grieved from afar,
Because new Worlds for Bays did not appear:
None to contend with, the Ambitious Elf
Begins a Civil War against himself:
Alas! How cruel is a Poets Fate,
Or who indeed would be a Laureat,
That must, or fall, or turn with every turn of State.
Poor Bard! If thy hot Zeal for Loyal Wem,
Forbids thy tacking sing his Requiem,
Sing something, Prethee, to enure thy Thumb,
Nothing but Conscience strikes a Poet Dumb:
Conscience! That dull Chimera of the Schools,
A Learned Imposition upon Fools:
Thee, Dryden, art not silenc'd with such stuff,
'y'Gad thy Conscience has been large enough.
But here are Loyal Subjects still and Foes,
Many to Mourn for, many to Oppose:
Shall thy great Master, thy Almighty Jove,
Whom thou to place above the Gods hast strove;
Shall he from Davids Throne so early fall,
And Laureat Dryden not a tear let fall,
Nor Sings the Bard his Exit in one poor Pastoral.
Thee fear confines, thee, Dryden, fear confines,
And Grief, not Shame, stops thy recanting Lines;
Our Damon is as Generous as Great,
And well would pardon tears that Love create.
Shouldst thou in Justice to thy vexed Soul
Not Sing to him, but thy lost Lord condole;
But Silence is a Damning Errour, John,
I'd or my Master, or my self bemoan.
FINIS.
A POEM, in Praise of Beauty and Musick, Set, by Mr. Will. Crofts, after the manner of a St. Caecilia's SONG.
WHEN Mighty Jove the Universe had fram'd,
And sprightly Man the Lord of all Proclaim'd,
With Joy and Innocence his Days were Crown'd,
For Musick was the First, Great, Bliss he found;
Then, Ev'ry Orb with Harmony did Rowl,
And all Appear'd as Tuneful as his Soul:
Musick began, Beauty, his Joys, Improv'd;
For Woman soon Appear'd, and then he Lov'd.
Chorus.
Then all, in a Chorus, your Instruments Raise,
While Beauty and Musick, with Musick, we Praise.
II.
Musick! the Pleasure of the Blest,
Beauty! the Wand'ring Lover's Rest;
Musick! the Spring of Soft Desire,
And Beauty! Fewel to Love's Fire:
By THIS the frozen heart is warm'd,
By THAT the Passions are Allarm'd;
For Who's so Cold whom Beauty cannot Fire?
Or who So Dull that Musick can't Inspire?
III.
Without these Two, we Justly might Complain
That Life were Burthensome, and Vain,
A Tedious Journey, full of Pain:
IV.
But when Beauty and Musick together are Joyn'd,
Then, so great is the Pleasure it can't be Defin'd;
And the Bliss we Enjoy, with Time, fly's so fast
That Ages Run on e're we think Minutes past.
Chorus.
Then All, in a Chorus, your Instruments Raise,
While Beauty and Musick, with Musick, we Praise.
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