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                  For The


 Spoken on Tueſday, January the

             4th, 1703.

SUCH is, Yee Fair, your Univerſal Sway,
That all our Joys to you their Homage pay ,
We find not one ſincere, if Beauty be away.
Bacchus no longer Rival Charm can boaſt,
No Son of his can drink without a Toaſt.
The circling Glaſs no ſprightly Thoughts can raiſe,
That bears not Numbers ſacred to your Praiſe.
Love muſt be there, and mingle with the Charm,
To teach the dull inſiped Juice to warm.
Inſpir'd by you, the teeming Muſe brings forth,
And Wit and Muſick are the lovely Birth.
Well pleas'd the Maſters touch the trembling Strings,
And bleſs their Art which ſuch an Audience brings :
Yet vain thoſe Strings, and vain were all that Art,
If Beauty did not join to fire the Heart.
Some pleaſing Thoughts their Harmony may move,
But the true real Joy we taſte is Love.
Thus Loyally we own your rightful Reign,
Think Life well ſpent with you, and Loſs of Freedom Gain :
From you our God of Verſe derives his Lays,
To you he conſecrates his Lyre and Bays ;
To you he bids his tuneful Sons ſubmit,
You, who refine their Pleaſures and their Wit.
What Praiſe, what Honours might the Muſes hope,
Wou'd you vouchſafe the ſinking Stage to prop !
Well wou'd your Preſence pay the Poet's Pain,
The Comick Art, and lofty Tragick Strain :
Since what was Sung to you cou'd ne'er be Sung in vain.

                                    A                               EPI

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