Calhovn's Miscellanie Vol 1 | Page 33

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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