Not Deborah did her in Fame excel,
She was a Mother to our Ifrael;
An Efther, who her Person did engage,
To fave her People from the publick Rage :
A Patroness of true Religion :
In Court a Saint, in Field an Amazon.
Glorious in Life, deplored in her Death;
Such was unparallell'd Elizabeth.

Here lies her Type, who was of late

The Prop of Belgia, Stay of France, Spain's Foil, Faith's Shield, the Queen of State, Of Arms, of Learning, Fate and Chance. In brief, of Women, ne'er was seen So great a Prince, so good a Queen. Such Virtues her Immortal made. Death envying all that cannot die, Her earthly Parts did so invade, As in it self wreck'd Majesty; But so her Spirit inspir'd her Parts, That she lives ftill in Loyal Hearts.

Q. What is related in History concerning the ancient Britons Way of Worship?

A. The ancient Britons worship'd Mercury, whom they reckoned to be God of the High Way, Journies, Gain, and Merchandize; after they worship'd Apollo, Jupiter, Mars and Minerva. They and the Germans were accustom'd to sacrifice Men sometimes; which, with the Gauls, had the same Religion, and Priests, called Druids, from the Oaks under which they used to teach and sacrifice; for they expounded all religious Mysteries, taught the Youth, decided Controverfies and Suits in Law, erdained Rewards and Punishments, and such as obeyed not their Decrees, they excommunicated, debarring them from all divine Exercises, and all Commerce with Men. These Druids had one Chief over them, whose Successor was always elected. elected. They were free from paying Taxes, from ferving in the Wars, and had many other Privileges. They committed not the Mysteries of their Religion to Writing; but to the Memory of their Disciples, who spent many Years in learning by Heart their Precepts in Verse. They believed the Immortality of Souls. They read Philosophy to their Scholars. It is thought by some that Diana's Temple stood where St. Paul's Church in London stands now: Minerva had her Temple at Bath, and Apollo in Scotland near Dalkeith. The Ger. mans at first had neither Temples, nor Images; but worship'd the Sun, Moon and Stars.

Q. What Verfes are those which were made by a Gentleman viewing the Tombs in WestminsterAbbey ?

Here, in one common Ruin lies

The Great, the Fair, the Young, the Wife,
Th' ambitious King, whose boundless Mind
Scarce to a World could be confin'd;
Now content with narrower Room,
Lies crowded in this Marble Tomb.
Death triumphs o'er the boafted State,
The vain Distinctions of the Great.
Here, in one common Heap they lie,
And, Eloquent in Silence, cry,
Ambition is but Vanity.

}

And fee this sculptur'd Tomb contains,
Of Beauty the abhorr'd Remains;
That Face, which none unmov'd could view,
Has lost th' enchanting rosy Hue;
Those once refistless, sparkling Eyes,
No more can heedless Hearts surprise;
That Form which every Charm could boast,
In loathsome Rottenness is loft.

See there the Youth, whose chearful Bloom
Promis'd a Train of Years to come;

Whole

1

Whose soft Address, and graceful Air,
Had scarce obtain'd the yielding Fair,
When Fate derides th' expected Joys,
And all his flattering Hope destroys.
There sleep the Bards, whose lofty Lays
Have crown'd their Names with lasting Praises
Who, tho' Eternity they give,
While Heroes in their Numbers live,
Yet these resign their tuneful Breath,
And Wit must yield to mightier, Death.
E'en I, the lowest of the Throng,
Unskill'd in Verse, or artful Song,
Shall shortly shrowd my humble Head,
And mix with them among the Dead.

A Letter from Fair ROSAMOND to
King HENRY II.

R

EAD o'er these Lines, the Records of my

Shame, If thou canst suffer yet my hateful Name; Clean as this spotless Page, 'till stain'd by me, Such was my Conscience, 'till seduc'd by thee; Chafte were my Thoughts, and all ferene within, 'Till mark'd by thee with Characters of Sin. Had some successful Lover, in the Prime Of equal Years, betray'd me to a Crime, Resistless Love had been my best Defence, And gain'd Compassion for the soft Offence: But while thy wither'd Age had no such Charms, To tempt a blooming Virgin to thy Arms, I'm justly Thought a Prostitute for Gold, A mercenary Thing, to fordid Int'rest sold. Be curs'd that female Fiend, whose practis'd Art, With wanton Tales, betray'd my guiltless Heart; Let her with endless Infamy be curs'd; Of all the Agents Hell employs, the worst:

Perdition

Perdition to herself the Wretch insur'd,
When she my youthful Modesty allur'd:
O fatal Day! when, to my Virtue's Wrong,
I fondly liften'd to her flattering Tongue!
But O more fatal Moment, when she gain'd
That vile Consent, which all my Glory stain'd !
Yet Heav'n can tell, with what extream Regret,
The Fury of thy lawless Flames I met;
For unexperienc'd in the Ways of Sin,
A confcious Honour struggled still within.
O could I!-but the ill-tim'd Wish is vain,
Could I my former Innocence regain,
Thy proffer'd Kingdom, Henry, were a Prize,
Which, ballanc'd with that Wealth, I should def-
But I no more my Sex's Pride can boast, [pise:
Alas! what has one Moment's Madness cost?
Not Woodstock's charming Bowers can ease my
For I must fly my self to find Relief. [Grief,
Oft while the Sun in length'ning Shades declines,
And thro' the waving Trees more mildly shines,
Alone thro' all the beauteous Walks I rove,
Hoping the Sweets of Solitude to prove;
But at my Sight each verdant Profpect wears
A gloomy View, and ev'ry Plant appears,
To bend its Top, o'ercharg'd with dewy Tears:
Methinks each painted Blossom hangs its Head,
Avoids my Touch, and withers where I tread.
If angling near a crystal Brook I stand,
And with deluding Skill the Bait command,
The cautious Fish that fly the Snare upbraid
My heedless Youth, more easily betray'd.
Amidst the Garden, wrought by curious Hands,
A noble Statue of Diana stands,
Naked she stands, with just Proportions grac'd,
And bathing in a silver Fountain's plac'd;
When near the flow'ry Borders I advance,
At me she seems to dart an angry Glance.

What

What Scenes, alas! can please a guilty Mind!
What Joy can I, in these Receffes, find,
For lawless and forbidden Love design'd!

In fome obfcure and melancholy Cell,

Rather a weeping Penitent I'd dwell,
Than here a glorious Prostitute remain,
To all my Sex's Modesty a Stain.
This stately Lab'rinth, rais'd with vast Expence,
Displays my Shame, and its Magnificence.
As thro' the stately Rooms I lately walk'd.
And with my Woman of its Paintings talk'd,
She spy'd the Draught of Tarquin's wanton

Flame,

And heedless ask'd the injur'd Beauty's Name;
This, I reply'd, is that illustrious Dame,
Renown'd for Chastity, I should have said;
But here a rifing Blush my Face o'erspread,
Confus'd I stopt, and left th' enquiring Maid.
Lucretia's Story on my Life had caft

A black Reproach, who yet can live disgrac'd;
I should, like her, with just Resentment press'd,
Have plung'd the fatal Dagger in my Breaft.

}

What specious Colours can disguise my Sin, Or calm the restless Monitor within? Thy Greatness, Henry, but augments my Shame, And adds immortal Scandal to my Name, My odious Name, which, as the worst Disgrace, The Cliffords car.cel from their noble Race. To what propitious Refuge shall I run, The Terrors of a guilty Mind to fhun? In vain the Sun its Morning Light displays, I turn my Eyes, and ficken at its Rays; 'The filver Moon and sparkling Stars by Night, Torment me too with their officious Light; The glimmering Tapers round my Chambers

plac'd,

Across the Room fantastick Shadows caft;
In all my Dreams, the melancholy Scene
Presents an injur'd, a revengeful Queen :

Laft