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First, they would bribe us without pence,
Deceive us without common sense,

And without power enslave.


Shall free born men, in humble awe,

Submit to servile shame;
Who from consent and custom draw
The same right to be ruld by law,

Which kings pretend to reign?


The duke shall wield his conquering sword,

The chancellor make a speech, The king shall pass his honest word, The pawn'd revenue sums afford,

And then, come kiss my breech.


So have I seen a king on chess

(His rooks and knights withdrawn, His queen and bishops in distress) Shifting about, grow less and less,

With here and there a pawn.




From harmony, from heavenly harmony

This universal frame began.


When nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay,

And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,

Arise, ye more than dead.
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony

This universal frame began:

From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.





What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

When Jubal struck the corded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound.
Less than a God they thought there could not

Within the hollow of that shell,

That spoke so sweetly and so well.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?



The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,

With shrill notes of anger,

And mortal alarms.
The double double double beat

Of the thundering drum
Cries, hark! the foes come;
Charge, Charge, 'tis too late to retreat.



The soft complaining flute
In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,
Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.



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Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs, and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion,

For the fair, disdainful dame.



But oh! what art can teach,

What human voice can reach,

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V. 37. Sharp violins] It is a judicious remark of Mr. Mason, that Dryden with propriety gives this epithet to the instrument; because, in the poet's time, they could not have arrived at that delicacy of tone, even in the hands of the best masters, which they now have in those of an inferior kind. See Essays on English Church Music, by the Rev. W. Mason, M.A., Precentor of York, 12mo. 1795, p. 218. T.


The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways

To mend the choirs above.



Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees uprooted left their place,

Sequacious of the lyre:
But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appear'd

Mistaking earth for heaven.


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As from the power of sacred lays

The spheres began to move, And

sung the great Creator's praise

To all the bless'd above;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.



FAREWELL, fair Armida, my joy and my grief,
In vain I have lov'd you, and hope no relief;
Undone by your virtue, too strict and severe,
Your eyes gave me love, and you gave me despair ;
Now call’d by my honour, I seek with content
The fate which in pity you would not prevent:
To languish in love, were to find by delay
A death that's more welcome the speediest way.



On seas and in battles, in bullets and fire,
The danger is less than in hopeless desire ;
My death's wound you give, though far off I bear
My fall from your sight — not to cost you a tear :

* This song, written on the death of Captain Digby, has been given by Mr. Malone in his Life of Dryden, on account, he

says, of its 'not having been preserved in Dryden's works, and being found entire only in a scarce Miscellany, viz. Covent Garden Drollery. I must, however, observe, that the song is printed entire in New Court Songs and Poems, by R. V. Gent. 8vo. 1672, p. 78. In this collection the second line runs thus:

' In vain I have lov'd you, and find no relief.' The sixth,

"A fate which in pity,' &c. The twelfth,

My fate from your sight,' &c. An answer from Armida, as she is called, follows the Song in this collection; but it is not worth citing. The ridiculous parody on this Song in the Rehearsal is too well known to

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