Night.
See Enchantress.

--The rosy Sun in western Waves
(The Day declining) plung'd his weary Car,
And brought returning Night.--

Low in the West the setting Sun was laid,
Up rose the Night with glitt'ring Stars array'd,
And silver Cynthia cast a lengthning Shade.--

Mean while the Hemisphere rolls round, and Night
Swift rushes from the Sea: in dusky Shade
Involving Earth, and Heav'n.--

Now the descending Sun roll'd down the Light,
The Hills lie cover'd in the Shades of Night.--

Now Night had shed her silver Dews around,
And with her sable Wings embrac'd the Ground.--

And now the dewy Night is hast'ning swift
From Heav'n: and setting Stars perswade to Sleep.

The Moon now rising, in her stately Car
With Dew besprinkled, did the Sun succeed;
And o'er the silent World her Round began.
Nor Beast, nor Bird is heard: ev'n carking Care
Sleep overcomes; as, nodding, thro' the Skies
On Earth it falls, and every where bestows
A sweet Forgetfulness of Labours past.--

'Twas now the Season, when the first Repose,
Sweet Gift of Gods, on weary Mortals creep.--

Sunk in the western Ocean was the Day:
And dewy Night shed from her azure Car,
Repose, and Slumber, o'er the weary World.--

'Twas Night, when ev'ry Creature void of Cares,
The common Gift of balmy Slumber shares.--

Now Night her Coursers to her Chariot joins,
Whilst all the starry shining Train advance,
And round their Mother's Wheels in Chorus dance:
Then follows silent Sleep, with dusky Wings
Involv'd, and fleeting Midnight Visions brings.--

'Twas Night, and weary Nature lull'd asleep
The Birds, and Beasts, and Fishes of the Deep,
And every Creature else.--

Now was the World forsaken by the Sun,
And Phoebe half her nightly Race had run.--

--And now the dewy Night
Had almost reach'd Heaven's middle Arch.--

Deep Silence reign'd: Arctophylax had driv'n
His lazy Wain half round the northern Heav'n.--

'Twas now the Mid of Night, when Slumbers close
Our Eyes, and sooth our Cares with soft Repose.--

'Twas dead of Night, when weary Bodies close
Their Eyes in balmy Sleep, and sweet Repose:
The Winds no longer whisper thro' the Woods,
Nor murm'ring Tides disturb the gentle Floods:
The Stars in silent Order mov'd around,
And Peace, with downy Wings, was brooding o'er the Ground.
The Flocks, and Herds, and parti--colour'd Fowl,
Which haunt the Woods, or swim the weedy Pool,
Stretch'd on the quiet Earth securely lay,
Forgetting the past Labours of the Day.--

Night! friendly Pow'r, beneath whose gloomy Reign,
Yon spangled Arch glows with the starry Train:
Who dost the Cares of Earth and Heav'n allay,
Till Nature, quicken'd by th'inspiring Ray,
Wakes to new Vigour with the rising Day.--
Nobility.

What's the Advantage, or the real Good,
In tracing from the Source our antient Blood?
To have our Ancestors in Paint or Stone,
Preserv'd as Relicks, or, like Monsters, shewn?
The brave Emilii, as in Triumph plac'd:
The virtuous Curii, half by time defac'd:
Corvinus, with a mould'ring Nose, that bears,
Injurious Scars, the sad Effect of Years:
And Galba grinning, without Nose or Ears?

Vain are their Hopes, who fancy to inherit
By Trees of Pedigree, or Fame, or Merit:
Tho' plodding Heralds thro' each Branch may trace
Old Captains, and Dictators of their Race,
While their ill Lives that Family belie,
And grieve the Brass which stands dishonour'd by.--

Long Galleries of Ancestors, and all
The Follies which ill grace a Country--Hall,
Challenge no Wonder or Esteem from me:
Virtue alone is true Nobility.--

Convince the World that you're devout and true,
Be just in all you say, and all you do:
Whatever be your Birth, you're sure to be
A Peer of the first Magnitude to me.--

But who will call those Noble, who deface,
By meaner Acts, the Glories of their Race:
Whose only Title to their Father's Fame
Is couch'd in the dead Letters of his Name?
A Dwarf as well may for a Giant pass:
A Negro for a Swan: a crook'd--back'd Lass
Be call'd Europa.--

If You have Strength Achilles' Arms to bear,
And Courage to sustain a ten Years War,
Tho' foul Thersites' Offspring, You shall be
More lov'd by all, and more esteem'd by me,
Than if by Chance You from some Hero came,
In Nothing like your Father but his Name.--

But, Ponticus, I would not you should raise
Your Credit by hereditary Praise:
Let your own Acts immortalize your Name:
'Tis poor relying on another's Fame:
For take the Pillars but away, and all
The Superstructure must in Ruins fall.--

Ah! what avail my kindred Gods above,
That in their Number I can reckon Jove!--

A long Descent, and boasted Ancestors,
And Acts not done by Us, I count not ours.--

No slothful Heir am I to an Estate,
Possessing, by Descent, paternal Lands:
Nor nobly born, nor with proud Titles grac'd,
Were any of my humble Ancestors;
But Virtue, fair, and shining, is my boast.--
The Man that vaunts his Race, but trumpets forth
The Praise of Others.--

For You believe, and You are right in this,
No matter what his Race, but what he is:
Before King Tullius time, by Birth a Slave,
Innumerable low--born Men were brave;
For Virtue and strict Probity renown'd,
Rever'd they liv'd, with ample Honours crown'd.--

From a mean Stock the pious Decii came,
Small their Estates, and vulgar was their Name:
Yet such their Virtue, that their Loss alone,
For Rome and all our Legions could attone:
Their Country's Doom they by their own retriev'd,
Themselves more Worth than all the Host they fav'd--

--Impartial Earth
Wraps in her Lap with equal Care
The High and Low: nor royal Birth
Preserves it's poor Distinction there.--

-- For my Heir
Manius I'll chuse.--What him, of humble Birth,
Obscure, a Fondling, and a Son of Earth?--
Obscure! why pr'ythee what am I? I know
My Father, Grandsire, and great Grandsire too:
If farther I derive my Pedigree,
I can but guess beyond the fourth Degree.
The rest of my forgotten Ancestors,
Were Sons of Earth like him, or Sons of Whores.--

But Thou hast Land: a Country Seat secure
By a just Title: costly Furniture:
A fuming Pan thy Lares to appease:
What can be wanting when a Man has these?
If this be not enough to swell thy Soul,
Then please thy Pride, and search the Herald's Roll:
Where thou shalt find thy famous Pedigree,
Drawn from the Root of some old Tuscan Tree:
And Thou, a thousand off, a Fool of long Degree:
Who clad in Purple, can'st thy Censor greet,
And loudly call him Cousin, in the Street.--

To whom is this Advice and Censure due?
Rubellius Plautus, 'tis apply'd to You;
Who think your Person second to divine,
Because descended from the Drusian Line:
Tho' yet you no illustrious Act have done,
To make the World distinguish Julia's Son,
From the vile Offspring of a Trull, who sits
By the Town Wall, and for her living knits.
You are poor Rogues, You cry, the baser Scum,
The inconsiderable Dregs of Rome:
Who know not from what Corner of the Earth,
The Wretch obscure, who got you, stole his Birth:
Mine I derive from Cecrops.--May your Grace
Live, and enjoy the Splendor of your Race!
Yet of these base Plebeians we have known
Some, who, by charming Eloquence, have grown
Great Senators, and Honours to that Gown:
Some, at the Bar, with Subtlety defend
The Cause of an unlearned noble Friend:
Or on the Bench the knotty Laws untye.
Others their stronger Youth to Arms apply:
Go to Euphrates, or those Forces join
Which garrison the Conquests near the Rhine.
While You, Rubellius, on your Birth rely:
Tho' You resemble your Great Family,
No more than those rough Statues on the Road,
(Which we call Mercuries,) are like that God.
Your Highness tho' excells in this alone,
You are a living Statue, they of Stone.

That we may therefore You, not Your's, admire,
First, Sir, some Honour of your own acquire:
Add to that Stock, which justly we bestow,
On those blest Shades to whom You all Things owe.--

On ev'ry Vice more public Shame attends,
As he is Great, and Noble, who offends.--

Why vaunt you thus of Pedigree?
Consider whence you really rise,
To God, your Maker, lift your Eyes:
No Man ignoble is, but He,
Who basely can to Guilt submit,
And his high Origin forget.--
Noon.

When the bright Sun in his Meridian burns,
When the Grass thirsts, and Cattle most enjoy
The cooling Shade.--

Now torrid Sirius from the Zenith scorch'd
The thirsty Indians: and the fiery Sun
Parch'd the mid Globe: the withering Herbage burn'd:
The fervid Rays the shallow Rivers dry'd,
And in their empty Channels bak'd the Mud.--

Amidst the Noon--tides sultry Fervour seek
A shady Vale; where Jove's tall aged Tree
Extends its Length of Boughs: and thick with Oaks
A gloomy Grove lets fall its sacred Shade.--

Now in it's full Meridian blaz'd the Sun.--

The Sun, now in its full Meridian, made
The Clouds disperse, and shorten'd ev'ry Shade.--

High Noon had now withdrawn the Shades of Things:
The midmost Sky bright Phoebus now possess'd,
At equal Distance from the East and West.--

The mid--Day Sun now shone with equal Light,
Between the past, and the succeeding Night.--

'Twas when the Summer Sun, at Noon of Day,
Thro' glowing Cancer shot his burning Ray.--

The mid--Day Sun Heav'n's highest Point had gain'd,
And half his Way was past, and half remain'd.--
Oath.
See Perjury.

--She spreads abroad
Her Hands to Heav'n, and to the blazing God.
By those bright Beams, she cry'd, thy Mother swears:
By Him who Us, and all Things sees, and hears!
That Phaebus whom thou seest, who blesses Earth
And Heav'n with cheering Influence, gave Thee Birth:
If not, may I this Light for ever lose,
And view that God no more, whose Name I use!--

Then good Æneas with his Sword unsheath'd,
Thus prays.--Thou Sun! be witness to my Vows!
And Thou Ausonian Land, for which I bore
Such mighty Toils! Thou Heav'n's Almighty King!
And Thou, Saturnian Juno! Goddess! hear,
Now more propitious! And Thou, potent Mars!
Whose Deity controuls, and turns all Wars:
You, Fountains! and You, Rivers! I invoke:
And whatsoe'er Divinity resides,
Or in high Heav'n above, or Seas below.

-- Then thus reply'd
Latinus, with his Eyes erect to Heav'n,
And his Right Hand extended to the Stars.
By the same Pow'rs! by Earth! by Heav'n! and Sea!
I swear, Æneas: by Latona's Twins!
And two--fac'd Janus! by th' infernal Gods!
And griefly Pluto's Court! Hear Thou this Oath,
Great Jove! whose Thunder ratifies our Leagues.
Upon the Altars, and the middle Fires
I lay my Hand, and thus attest the Gods.--

For by the black infernal Styx I swear,
(That dreadful Oath which binds the Thunderer,)
'Tis fix'd: th' irrevocable Doom of Jove;
No Force can bend me, no Perswasion move.—