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Not Deborah did her in Fame excel,
She was a Mother to our Ifrael;
An Efther, who her Perfon did engage,
To fave her People from the publick Rage:
A Patronefs of true Religion:

In Court a Saint, in Field an Amazon.
Glorious in Life, deplored in her Death;
Such was unparallell'd Elizabeth.

Here lies her Type, who was of late

The Prop of Belgia, Stay of France, Spain's Foil, Faith's Shield, the Queen of State, Of Arms, of Learning, Fate and Chance. In brief, of Women, ne'er was feen So great a Prince, fo good a Queen. Such Virtues her Immortal made. Death envying all that cannot die, Her earthly Parts did fo invade, As in it felf wreck'd Majesty; But fo her Spirit infpir'd her Parts, That the lives ftill in Loyal Hearts.

Q. What is related in Hiftory concerning the ancient Britons Way of Worship?

A. The ancient Britons worship'd Mercury, whom they reckoned to be God of the High Way, Journies, Gain, and Merchandize; after they worfhip'd Apollo, Jupiter, Mars and Minerva. They and the Germans were accuftom'd to facrifice Men fometimes; which, with the Gauls, had the fame Religion, and Priefts, called Druids, from the Oaks under which they used to teach and facrifice; for they expounded all religious Myfteries, taught the Youth, decided Controverfies and Suits in Law, ordained Rewards and Punishments, and fuch as obeyed not their Decrees, they excommunicated, debarring them from all divine Exercises, and all Commerce with Men. Thefe Druids had one Chief over them, whofe Succeffor was always

elected.

elected. They were free from paying Taxes, from ferving in the Wars, and had many other Privileges. They committed not the Mysteries of their Religion to Writing; but to the Memory of their Difciples, who spent many Years in learning by Heart their Precepts in Verfe. They believed the Immortality of Souls. They read Philofophy to their Scholars. It is thought by fome that Diana's Temple ftood where St. Paul's Church in London ftands now: Minerva had her Temple at Bath, and Apollo in Scotland near Dalkeith. The Germans at firft had neither Temples, nor Images; but worship'd the Sun, Moon and Stars.

Q. What Verfes are thofe which were made by a Gentleman viewing the Tombs in WestminsterAbbey?

Here, in one common Ruin lies

The Great, the Fair, the Young, the Wife;
Th' ambitious King, whofe boundless Mind
Scarce to a World could be confin'd;
Now content with narrower Room,
Lies crowded in this Marble Tomb.
Death triumphs o'er the boasted State,
The vain Diftinctions of the Great.
Here, in one common Heap they lie,
And, Eloquent in Silence, cry,
Ambition is but Vanity.

And fee this fculptur'd Tomb contains,
Of Beauty the abhorr'd Remains;

That Face, which none unmov'd could view,
Has loft th' enchanting rofy Hue;

Those once refiftlefs, fparkling Eyes,
No more can heedlefs Hearts furprife;
That Form which every Charm could boast,
In loathfome Rottennefs is loft.

See there the Youth, whofe chearful Bloom
Promis'd a Train of Years to come;

Whole

Whofe foft Addrefs, and graceful Air,
Had fcarce obtain'd the yielding Fair,
When Fate derides th' expected Joys,
And all his flattering Hope deftroys.
There fleep the Bards, whofe lofty Lays
Have crown'd their Names with lafting Praises.
Who, tho' Eternity they give,

While Heroes in their Numbers live,
Yet these refign their tuneful Breath,
And Wit muft yield to mightier Death.
E'en I, the loweft of the Throng,
Unfkill'd in Verfe, or artful Song,
Shall fhortly shrowd my humble Head,
And mix with them among the Dead.

A Letter from Fair ROSA MOND to
King HENRY II.

EAD o'er thefe Lines, the Records of my
Shame,

RE

If thou canst fuffer yet my hateful Name;
Clean as this fpotlefs Page, 'till ftain'd by me,
Such was my Confcience, 'till feduc'd by thee;
Chafte were my Thoughts, and all ferene within,
'Till mark'd by thee with Characters of Sin.
Had fome fuccefsful Lover, in the Prime
Of equal Years, betray'd me to a Crime,
Refiftless Love had been my best Defence,
And gain'd Compaffion for the foft Offence:
But while thy wither'd Age had no fuch Charms,
To tempt a blooming Virgin to thy Arms,
I'm juftly Thought a Proftitute for Gold,
A mercenary Thing, to fordid Int'reft fold.

Be curs'd that female Fiend, whofe practis'd Art,
With wanton Tales, betray'd my guiltless Heart;
Let her with endless Infamy be curs'd;
Of all the Agents Hell employs, the worst:

Perdition

Perdition to herfelf the Wretch infur'd,
When the my youthful Modesty allur'd:
O fatal Day! when, to my Virtue's Wrong,
I fondly liften'd to her flattering Tongue!
But O more fatal Moment, when the gain'd
That vile Confent, which all my Glory ftain'd!
Yet Heav'n can tell, with what extream Regret,
The Fury of thy lawless Flames I met;
For unexperienc'd in the Ways of Sin,
A confcious Honour ftruggled ftill within.
O could I !-but the ill-tim'd Wish is vain,
Could I my former Innocence regain,
Thy proffer'd Kingdom, Henry, were a Prize,
Which, ballanc'd with that Wealth, I fhould def-
But I no more my Sex's Pride can boast,
[pife:
Alas! what has one Moment's Madnefs coft?
Not Woodflock's charming Bowers can eafe my
For I must fly my felf to find Relief. [Grief,
Oft while the Sun in length'ning Shades declines,
And thro' the waving Trees more mildly fhines,
Alone thro' all the beauteous Walks I rove,
Hoping the Sweets of Solitude to prove ;
But at my Sight each verdant Prospect wears
A gloomy View, and ev'ry Plant appears,
To bend its Top, o'ercharg'd with dewy Tears:
Methinks each painted Bloffom hangs its Head,
Avoids my Touch, and withers where I tread.
If angling near a crystal Brook I stand,

And with deluding Skill the Bait command,
The cautious Fish that fly the Snare upbraid
My heedlefs Youth, more eafily betray'd.
Amidst the Garden, wrought by curious Hands,
A noble Statue of Diana ftands,

Naked fhe ftands, with juft Proportions grac❜d,
And bathing in a filver Fountain's plac'd;
When near the flow'ry Borders advance,
At me the feems to dart an angry Glance.

What

What Scenes, alas! can please a guilty Mind!
What Joy can I, in thefe Receffes, find,
For lawless and forbidden Love design'd!

In fome obfcure and melancholy Cell,
Rather a weeping Penitent I'd dwell,
Than here a glorious Proftitute remain,
To all my Sex's Modefty a Stain.

This ftately Lab'rinth, rais'd with vaft Expence,
Difplays my Shame, and its Magnificence.
As thro' the stately Rooms I lately walk'd.
And with my Woman of its Paintings talk'd,
She fpy'd the Draught of Tarquin's wanton'
Flame,

And heedlefs ask'd the injur'd Beauty's Name;
This, I reply'd, is that illuftrious Dame,
Renown'd for Chastity, I fhould have faid;
But here a rifing Blush my Face o'erfpread,
Confus'd I ftopt, and left th' enquiring Maid.
Lucretia's Story on my Life had caft

A black Reproach, who yet can live difgrac'd;
I fhould, like her, with juft Refentment prefs'd,
Have plung'd the fatal Dagger in my Breaft.

What fpecious Colours can difguife my Sin, Or calm the reftlefs Monitor within?

}

Thy Greatnefs, Henry, but augments my Shame,
And adds immortal Scandal to my Name,
My odious Name, which, as the worft Difgrace,
The Cliffords cancel from their noble Race.
To what propitious Refuge fhall I run,
The Terrors of a guilty Mind to fhun?
In vain the Sun its Morning Light difplays,
I turn my Eyes, and ficken at its Rays;
'The filver Moon and fparkling Stars by Night,
Torment me too with their officious Light;
The glimmering Tapers round my Chambers
plac'd,

Acrofs the Room fantaftick Shadows caft;
In all my Dreams, the melancholy Scene
Prefents an injur'd, a revengeful Queen :

Laft

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