• POEMS .
Purfues hi& rage, arad thinks that Triumph cheap That's but attended with the common heap, T ill his more happy fortune doth afford Some Royal Captive that deferv’d his fword, And only now is o f his Laurel proud, Thinking his dang’rous valour well bellow’d ; But then retreats, and fpending hate no more, Thinks Mercy now what Courage was before: As Cowardife in fight, fo equally He doth abhor a blou^y ViÖory : So, Madam, though your Beauty were allow’d T o befevere unto the yielding Croud, That were fubdu’d e’re you an O bjeS knew W orthy your Conqueft and your Mercy too ; Yet now ’tis gain’d, your Viäory’fc compleat. Only yout Clemency fhould be as great. None will difputc the power o f your Eyes, Thatundcrftands Thilaßer is their prize. Hope not your Glory can have new acccfs, For all your future Trophees will grow lefs: And with that Homage be you fatisfi’d From him that conquers all the World befidc. Nor let your Rigour now the T tiumph blot, And lofe the honour which your Beauty got. Be juft and kind unto your Peace and Fame, In being fo to him, for they’re the fame ; And live and die at once, if you would be Nobly tranfmitted to Pofteriry. Take heed left in the flory they perufc Amurther which no language can excu fe: But wifely fpare the trouble o f one frown ; Give him his happinefs, and know your own.