Large was his Fame, but short his Glorious Race, Like young _Lucretius_ liv’d and dy’d apace. So early Roses fade, so over all They cast their fragrant scents, then softly fall, While all the scatter’d perfum’d leaves declare, How lovely ‘twas when whole, how sweet, how fair. Had he been to the _Roman_ Empire known, When great _Augustus_ fill’d the peaceful Throne; Had he the noble wond’rous Poet seen, And known his Genius, and survey’d his Meen, (When Wits, and Heroes grac’d Divine abodes,) He had increas’d the number of their Gods; The Royal Judge had Temples rear’d to’s name. And made him as Immortal as his Fame; In Love and Verse his _Ovid_ he’ad out-done, And all his Laurels, and his _Julia_ won. Mourn, Mourn, unhappy World, his loss deplore, The great, the charming _Strephon_ is no more. SONG. _By_ A. B. Cease, cease, _Aminta_, to complain, Thy Languishment give o’re, Why shoud’st thou sigh because the Swain Another does Adore? Those Charms, fond Maid, that vanquish’d thee, Have many a Conquest won, And sure he could not cruel be, And leave ‘em all undon. The Youth a Noble temper bears, Soft and compassionate, And thou canst only blame thy Stars, That made thee love too late; Yet had their Influence all been kind They had not cross’d my Fate, The tend’rest hours must have an end, And Passion has its date. The softest love grows cold and shy, The face so late ador’d, Now unregarded passes by, Or grows at last abhorr’d; All things in Nature fickle prove, See how they glide away; Think so in time thy hopeless love Will die, as Flowers decay. A SONG. _By Mrs._ A. B. While, _Iris_, I at distance gaze, And feed my greedy eyes, That wounded heart, that dyes for you, Dull gazing can’t suffice; Hope is the Food of Love-sick minds, On that alone ‘twill Feast, The nobler part which Loves refines, No other can digest. In vain, too nice and Charming Maid, I did suppress my Cares; In vain my rising sighs I stay’d, And stop’d my falling tears; The Flood would swell, the Tempest rise, As my despair came on; When from her Lovely cruel Eyes, I found I was undone. Yet at your feet while thus I lye, And languish by your Eyes, ‘Tis far more glorious here to dye, Than gain another Prize. Here let me sigh, here let me gaze, And wish at least to find As raptur’d nights, and tender days, As he to whom you’re kind. A PARAPHRASE _on the_ LORDS PRAYER. _By Mrs._ A. B. _OUR FATHER_,