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joined to such striking instances. Thus, in Aureng-Zebe, I from this hour

Affume the right of man's defpotic pow'r.

Man is by nature form'd your fex's head.

Which is palpably taken from Samson Agonistes.

Therefore God's univerfal law

Gave to the man defpotic pow'r

Over his female in due awe;

Nor from that right to part an hour.

I may perhaps appear too minute in my obfervations, when I place this line of Dryden's tragedy:

That prefent fervice, which you vaunt, afford

In comparison with the following from Milton's; Boaft not of what thou wouldst have done, but do What then thou wouldst.

But the fameness of the expreffion, as well as of the thought, plainly point out the imitation in the following: AURENG-ZEBE.

Quite otherwife my mind foretells my fate:

Short is my life.

Thefe thoughts are but your melancholy's food.

SAMSON AGONISTES.

All otherwife to me my thoughts portend,

And I fhall fhortly be with them that reft.
Believe not these fuggeftions, which proceed

From humours black.

Nor can it be doubted but that Milton's fimile,

with head declin'd,

Like a fair flow'r furcharg'd with dew, the weeps,

Gave Dryden the hint of his :

Your head declin'd (as hiding grief from view)
Droops like a rofe furcharg'd with morning dew.

In this fame play, Dryden fomewhere calls wives "cleaving mischiefs ;" an expreffion no where made use of, as I remember, but in Milton's tragedy.

THE

St. James's Magazine.

For NOVEMBER, 1762.

The EPHESIAN MATRON, A TA L E.

Imitated from LA FONTAINE, in which his Measure and Manner are attempted,

I

By Mr. C. DENIS.

F ever tale was hackt about,
Grown obfolete, almoft worn out,
'Tis that which now I undertake;
Then why, for good APOLLO's fake,
Muft we be dinn'd with it again?
Th' attempt's as foolish as 'tis vain.
Methinks I hear the critics roar,
To what do you pretend?
Can you fay more

Than gay PETRONIUS faid before?
Or dare prefume to mend
The charming eafy LA FONTAINE ?

I'll make them no reply,

For there would be no end.

To trike out fomething new I'll try.
VOL. I.

X

For

For as my guide and mafter fomewhere writes,
'Tis not the tale, but how 'tis told, delights.
At EPHESUS a matron liv'd,

Her name we are not told;
But if PETRONIUS is believ'd,
Dame nature cast her in perfection's mold.
Picture each virtue, every grace,

That can adorn the mind and face,
And fomething more, as may be gueft,
To make her happy hufband bleft.
The honey-moon, nay moons were o'er,
And yet with pleasure ftill they bore
Love's fweet connubial chain;
That facred, dreaded, neceffary tye,
Which links mankind to conftant joy,
Or everlasting pain;

In vulgar phrase as one would tell,
That marriage is or heav'n or hell,
'Twas heav'n here,

And people flock'd from far and near
To fee a fight fo very rare,

A husband and a wife that lov'd fo well:
But oh! this blifs was foon o'er-caft;
For cruel fate with keeneft blast

Nipp'd all their budding Joys.

The flow'r that blooms at morn, at evening dies,
So far'd it with our loving pair;

Each was the other's only care.
This man, adorn'd with graceful ease,
So pleafing, and so fond to please,
Who doated on his wife to death,
All on a fudden yields his breath.
Whether it was by draught or pill,

The doctor or disease,

Imports us not; he dy'd; and in his will
Left comfort much could wealth repair
The lofs of spouse fo very dear;

:

But

But all this goodness heighten'd more
Her grief, and wound it to despair.
Tho' many a widow tears her hair,
And yet abandons not her store,
Wetting each guinea with a tear,
As prudently fhe counts them o'er.

Such fighs the fetch'd, fuch trickling drops fhe fhed,
Might foften rocks, but not recall the dead.

To offer comfort or relief,

Was like a hone to sharpen grief.
Beauty fhines moft, when the appears
In all the penfive state of tears;
For forrow loves to make a fhew,
And sweet dejection is the pomp of woe.
Tho' thofe who talk fo much about it,
Give reafon for fome folks to doubt it,
That grief to me seems moft fincere,
Which only drops a filent tear.
Our matron's ran fo very high,
'Twas not enough her lofs to mourn,
For nothing now will ferve her turn
But with her dear to die.

It was refolv'd, and down fhe went
Beneath the dreary monument.
Mark what effects from cuftom flow;
A favourite maid attempts to prove
The force of fympathising woe :
Into the vault she too must go

And die for friendship, as her dame for love;
At least the fancied fo;

As often happens in fuch plight,
Not having yet examin'd quite

Whether she could or no.
At first she let her lady rave,
Nor ftrove the torrent to refift;
Thinking the flood, or foon or late

Muft needs of courfe abate:
But here her aim was mift.

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For oh! no comfort will she have,
Only to find out means and ways
To end her wretched wretched days,
And join her lord within the grave.
The way was easy to be found,

She might have poifon'd, hang'd, or drown'd,

But that were doing things in hafte;

So it was fixt no food to tafte;
She only would regale her fight
With the poor fad but dear remains
Of what was once her whole delight,
Leaving the lamp unoil'd to waste,

Till friendly hunger gnaw'd her from her pains.
The morning paft, the evening came,
Still refolution held the fame;

Still to the fatal purpose true,

She raves again, again runs thro'

The litany of grief.

'Twas ftars, and fate, and all that stuff, And tears, and fighs, and fobs enough.

But to be brief,

She did her part e'en to excell;

If true diftrefs can act fo well.

Not diftant far from where our mourners wept,
Another corpfe was kept;

But in a different shape:
For this was dangling high in air.
Whether it was fome ftate affair,

Or only murder, or a rape,

That brought him there,

Is not my business to declare.

In chains he hung, a terror to all those
Who dare the laws oppofe.

Yet this affords us no relief;

For on each road exprerience fhews
Such fpectacles may frighten crows,
But never fear'd a thief.

A guard

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