Once more my Muse is blest; her humble Voice Does in thy wondrous Works, once more, rejoyce. Not the bright Mount, where e’ery sacred Tongue, In skilful Choirs, immortal Numbers sung Not great _Apollo’s_ own inspiring Beams, Nor sweet _Castalia’s_ consecrated Streams, To thy learn’d Sisters could so charming be. As are thy Songs, and thou thy self, to me. Æthereal Air, soft Springs, and verdant Fields; Cool Shades, and Sunny Banks, thy Presence yields. Never were Soul and Body better joyn’d; A Mansion, worthy so divine a Mind! No wonder e’ery Swain adores thy Name, And e’ery Tongue proclaims thy Deathless Fame; For who can such resistless Power controul, Where Wit and Beauty both invade the Soul? Beauty, that still does her fresh Conquests find; And _Sacred Wit_, that ever charms the Mind: Through all its Forms, that lovely _Proteus_ chase; And e’ery Shape has its Peculiar Grace. Hail, _Thou Heav’n-Born_! Thou most transcendent _Good_! If Mortals their chief Blessings understood! Thou that, while Kingdoms, Thrones, and Pow’rs decay, Hast, with Eternity, one constant Stay: Liv’st, and will live, like the great God of _Love_; For ever young, although as old as _Jove_. While we, alas! in dark Oblivion lye, Thou ne’er wilt let thy lov’d _Astrea_ dye. No, my good Friend, Thy Works will mount the Skies, And see their Author’s learned Ashes rise. Much to the Fame of thy fair Sex of Old, By skilful Writers, has been greatly told: But all the boasted Titles they have gain’d By others Labours, weakly are sustain’d; While thou look’st down, and scorn’st so mean a Praise: Thy own just Hands do thy own Trophies raise. Rich is the Soil, and vast thy Native Store; Yet Thou (Wit’s Great _Columbus_) seek’st out more. Through distant Regions spread’st thy Towring Wings, And Foreign Treasure to thy Country brings. This Work let no Censorious Tongue despise, And judge thee wealthy with unlawful Prize, We owe to thee, our best Refiner, more Than him, who first dig’d up the rugged Ore. Tho’ this vast Frame were from a _Chaos_ rais’d, The great Creator should not less be prais’d: By its bright Form, his Pow’rs as much display’d, As if the World had been from Nothing made. And if we may compare great Things with Small, Thou therefore canst not by just Censure fall; While the rude Heap, which lay before unform’d, To Life and Sense, is by thy Spirit warm’d. _Geo. Jenkins._ La Monstre. The LOVER’S WATCH: or, the ART of making LOVE. The ARGUMENT. ‘Tis in the most happy and august Court of the best and greatest Monarch of the World, that _Damon_, a young Nobleman, whom we will render under that Name, languishes for a Maid of Quality, who will give us leave to call her _Iris_.