Thistle
The Fixte Satire by Horace, by Thomas Drant
chosen by Meredith
Not due difcent from haughtie houle,
nor thyne Hetrurie lande,
(Myne owne good Lord) doth caufe they name
and honour ffyll to ffande.
Not fathers fyre not mothers fyre
two cheuetant sin the fielde:
(About whole banners fuche a route
of luffye bloods bare fhielde.)
To Mr. Stanley after his return from France, by John Hall
chosen by Steph
Bewitched Senses do you like
And cast some shadow o’re mine eye,
Or do I noble Stanley see,
What! May I trust you, is it he?
Confess and yet be graduall,
Lest suddain joy so heavy fall
Upon my soul, and sink unto
A deeper agony of woe:
Tis he, tis he, we are no more
A barb’rous Nation, he brought o’re
As much Humanity, as may
Well Civilize America;
More Learning then might Athens raise
To Glory in her proudest dayes.
With reason might the boyling main
Be calm, and hoary Neptine chain
Those winds that might disturbers be
Whiles our Apollo was at sea;
And made her for all knowledge stand
In competition with the land
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