So much Beauty in her Face,
In her Motions fuch a Grace;
In her kind inviting Eyes,
Such a foft Inchantment lyes,
That we please our felves too foon,
And are with vain Hopes undone.
After all her Softnefs, we

Are but Slaves, while fhe is free,
Free, alas, from all Defire,

Unless to fet the World on Fire.

Thou, Fair Diffembler, doft but thus
Deceive the World, as well as us:
Like fome ancient Heroe, thou
Wou'dft rather force Mankind to bow,
And venture round the World to roam,
Than govern with Content at home:
But trust me, Calia, trust me when
The Muse her self infpires my Pen;
A Minute spent in Love, out-weighs
Whole Years of Univerfal Praife;
And one Adorer kindly us'd,

Gives truer Joys than Crouds refus'd.

For what does Youth and Beauty serve?

Why more than all your Sex deferve?

Why fuch foft alluring Arts

To catch our Eyes, and charm our Hearts?
By our Lofs you nothing gain:

Unless you Love, you Please in vain.

BRU

T

TU

S.

E

By Mr. CowLEY.

Xcellent Brutus, of all Human Race

The beft, 'till Nature was improv'd by Grace, 'Till Men above themfelves Faith raised more Than Reason above Beasts before;

Virtue was thy Life's Center, and from thence
Did filently and conftantly Difpence

The gentle vigorous Influence
To all the wide and fair Circumference:
And all the Parts upon it lean'd fo eafily,
Obey'd the mighty Force fo willingly,

That none cou'd Difcord or Disorder fee
In all their Contrariety.

Each had his Motion natural and free,

[cou'd be

And the Whole no more mov'd, than the Whole World

From thy ftrict Rule fome think that thou didst fwerve (Mistaken Honefe Man) in Cafar's Blood;

What Mercy cou'd the Tyrant's Life deserve,

From him who kill'd Himself, rather than serve ?
Th' Heroick Exaltations of Good

Are fo far from Understood,

We count them Vice: Alas, our Sight's so ill,
That things which fwifteft Move, feem to ftand still
We look not upon Virtue in her height,

On her Supream Idea brave and bright,

In the Original Light:

But as her Beams reflected pafs
Through our own Nature, or ill Custom's Glass,
And 'tis no wonder fo,

If with dejected Eye

In ftanding Pools we feek the Sky,
That Stars fo high above fhould feem to us below.

III,

Can we ftand by and fee

Our Mother Robb'd, and Bound, and Ravish'd be,
Yet not to her Affiftance ftir,

Pleas'd with the Strength and Beauty of the Ravisher?
Or fhall we fear to kill him, if before,

The Cancell'd Name of Friend he bore?
Ingrateful Brutus do they call?

Ingrateful Cafar, who cou'd Rome enthral!
An A& more barbarous and unnatural.

(In th' exact Ballance of true Virtue try’d) Than his Succeffor Nero's Parricide!

There's none but Brutus cou'd deferve

'That all Men elfe fhou'd wish to ferve, And Cafar's ufurp'd Place to him fhou'd proffer; None can deferve't but he who wou'd refuse the Offer

IV.

Ill Fate affum'd a Body thee t'affright,
And wrap'd it self i' th' Terrors of the Night,
I'll meet thee at Philippi, faid the Spright;
I'll meet thee there, faidft Thou,

With fuch a Voice, and fuch a Brow,
As put the trembling Ghost to fudden Flight;
It vanish'd as a Taper's Light

Goes out when Spirits appear in fight.
One wou'd have thought t'had heard the Morning Crown
Or feen her well-appointed Star
Come marching up the Eastern-Hill afar.
Nor durft it in Philippi's Field appear,
But unfeen attack'd thee there.

Had it prefum'd in any Shape thee to oppose,
Thou wou'dft have forc'd it back upon thy Foes:
Or flain't like cafar, though it be

A Conqueror and a Monarch mightier far than He.

V.

What Joy can Human things to us afford,
When we fee perish thus, by odd Events,
Ill Men, and wretched Accidents,

The best Caufe and beft Man that ever drew a Sword
When we fee

The falfe Octavius, and wild Antonie,

God-like Brutus, Conquer Thee;

What can we fay, but thine own Tragick Word,
That Virtue, which had worshipp'd been by thee.
As the most folid Good, and greatest Deity,
By this fatal Proof became

An Idol only, and a Name?

Hold, Noble Brutus, and reftrain
The bold Voice of thy generous Difdain:

These mighty Gulphs are yet

Too deep for all thy Judgment and thy Wit.
The Time's fet forth already which shall quell
Stiff Reason when it offers to Rebel:

Which thefe great Secrets fhall unfeal,

And new Philofophers reveal.

A few Years more, fo foon hadft thou not dy'd, Would have confounded Human Virtue's Pride, And fhew'd thee a God Crucify'd.

An ODE on BRUTUS.

------Si quid novifti rectius iftis,
Candidus imperti; fi non, his utere mecum.

IS faid, that Favourite, Mankind,

But yet the doubtful are concern'd to find,
'Tis only one Man tells another fo.
And for this vaft Dominion here,
Which over other Beafts we claim,
Reafon, our best Credential does appear,
By which indeed we Domineer;

But how abfurdly, we may fee with Shame.
Reason, that folemn Trifle! light as Air!
Mov'd with each blaft of Cenfure, or Applause!
By partial Love, away 'tis blown;

Or the least Prejudice can weigh it down;
Thus our high Privilege becomes our Snare.
In any nice, and weighty Cause,

How wav'ring are the Wifeft!' yet the Grave
Impofe on that fmall Judgment which we have.

II.

In Works of Fame, whofe Names have spread fo wide, And ev❜n the force of Time defy'd,

Some Failings yet may be defcry'd.

Among the reft, with Wonder be it told,

That Brutus is ador'd for Cafar's Death;

By which he ftill furvives in Fame's Immortal Breath: Brutus ev'n He, of all the reft,

In whom we fhou'd that Deed the most deteft,
Is of Mankind esteem'd the best!
As Snow descending from fome lofty Hill,
Is by its rolling Courfe augmenting ftill;
So from Illuftrious Authors down has roll'd
'Till now, that Rev'rence he receiv'd of old;
Still ev'ry Age adds a profound Efteem,

And gild their Eloquence with Praise of him.
But Truth unvail'd, like a bright Sun appears,
To Shine away this heap of fev'nteen hundred Years,

III,

In vain 'tis urg'd by an Illuftrious Wit,*

(To whom I otherwise submit)

That Cæfar's Life no Pity cou'd deferve

From one who kill'd himself, rather than serve.
Had Brutus chose rather himself to flay,

Than any Mafter to obey,

Happy for Rome had been that noble Pride; [dy'd: The World had then remain'd in Peace, and only Brutus For he, whose Virtue wou'd disdain to own

Subjection to a Tyrant's Frown,

And his own Life had rather end,

[his Friend.

Wou'd fure, much rather kill himself, than only hurt

To his own Sword in the Philippian Field,

Brutus indeed at laft did yield;

But in thofe Times fuch Actions were not rare,
And then proceeded only from Despaire
Elfe, he perhaps had chofe to live,

In hopes another Cafar would forgive;

That fo he might for Publick Good, once more, Conspire against a Life which had fpar'd his before.

* Mr. Cowley.