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Now, now I seize, I clasp thy charms,

And now you burst (ah cruel !) from my arms,
And swiftly shoot along the Mall,

Or softly glide by the canal,
Now shown by Cynthia's silver ray,

And now on rolling waters snatched away.

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PART OF THE NINTH ODE OF THE

FOURTH BOOK.

LEST you should think that verse shall die,

Which sounds the silver Thames along, Taught on the wings of Truth to fly

Above the reach of vulgar song ;

Though daring Milton sits sublime,

In Spenser native muses play; Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,

Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay.

Sages and chiefs long since had birth,

Ere Cæsar was, or Newton named ; These raised new empires o'er the earth,

And those, new heavens and systems framed.

Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride !
They had no poet, and they died.
In vain they schemed, in vain they bled !
They had no poet, and are dead.

THE SATIRES OF DR. JOHN DONNE,

(DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S,)

VERSIFIED.

Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legentes,
Quærere, num illius, num rerum dura negårit
Versiculos natura magis factos, et ountos
Mollius?

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