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At length, the captain of the herd beguil'd
With a cow's-fkin, by curious art compil'd,
The longing queen obtains her full defire,
And in her infant's form bewrays the fire.

This Minotaur, when he came to Growth, was inclos'd in the Labyrinth, which was made by the curious Arts-mafter Dedalus, whofe Tale likewife we thus purfue.

When Dedalus the labyrinth had built,

In which t' include the queen Pafiphae's guilt,
And that the time was now expired full,
T'inclose the Minotaur, half inan, half bull:
Kneeling, he fays, Juft Minos end my moans,
And let my native foil intomb my bones:
Or if, dread fovereign, I deferve no grace,
Look with a piteous eye on my fon's face;
And grant me leave, from whence we are exil'd,
Or pity me, if you deny my child.

This, and much more, he speaks, but all in vain,
The king both fon and father will detain:
Which he perceiving, fays; Now, now, 'tis fit,
To give the world caufe to admire my wit:
Both land and fea are watch'd by day and night;
Nor land nor fea lies open to our flight,
Only the air remains; then let us try
To cut a paffage thro' the air and fly.
Jove be aufpicious in my enterprize,
I covet not to mount above the skies:
But make this refuge, fince I can prepare
No means to fly my lord but thro' the air.
Make me immortal, bring me to the brim
Of the black Stygian water Styx, I'll fwim.

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Oh! human wit, thou canst invent much ill, Thou searchest ftrange arts; who would think, by skill,

A heavy man, like a light bird, should stray,
And thro' the empty heavens find a way ?
He placeth in juft order all his quills,

Whose bottoms with refolved wax he fills ;
Then binds them with a line, and b'ing faft ty'd,
He placeth them like oars on either fide.
The tender lad the downy feathers blew,
And what his father meant, he nothing knew.
The wax he faften'd, with the ftrings he play'd,
Not thinking for his fhoulders they were made;
To whom his father fpake (and then look'd pale)
With these swift fhips, we to our land must fail.
All paffages doth cruel Minos ftop,

Only the empty air he ftill leaves ope.

That way muft we; the land and the rough deep
Doth Minos bar, the air he cannot keep.
But in thy way, beware thou fet no eye
On the fign Virgo, nor Bootes high:
Look not the black Orion in the face,

That shakes his fword, but juft with me keep pace.
Thy wings are now in faft'ning, follow me,
I will before thee fly; as thou fhalt fee
Thy father mount, or ftoop, fo I aread thee;
Make me thy guard, and safely I will lead thee.
If we fhould foar too near great Phoebus' feat,
The melting wax will not endure the heat:
Or if we fly too near the humid feas,

Our moiften'd wings we cannot shake with ease.
Fly between both, and with the gufts that rife,
Let thy light body fail amidst the skies.
And ever as his little fon he charms,
He fits the feathers to his tender arms:

And fhews him how to move his body light,
As birds firft teach their little young ones flight.
By this he calls to counsel all his wits,
And his own wings unto his fhoulders fits:
Being about to rife, he fearful quakes,
And in this new way his faint body fhakes.
First, ere he took his flight, he kifs'd his fon,
Whilft by his cheeks the brinifh waters run.
There was a hillock not so tow'ring tall,
As lofty mountains be, nor yet so small
To be with valleys even, and yet a hill;
From this, thus both attempt their uncouth skill.
The father moves his wings, and with refpect
His eyes upon his wandering fon reflect.
They bear a fpacious courfe, and the apt boy,
Fearless of harm, in his new track doth joy,
And flies more boldly. Now upon them looks
The fishermen, that angle in the brooks;
And with their eyes caft upward, frighted ftand.
By this, is Samos ifle on their left hand;
Upon the right, Lebinthos they forsake,
Aftipule and the fifhy lake;

Shady Pachine full of woods and groves.

When the rafh youth, too bold in vent'ring, roves;
Lofeth his guide, and takes his flight fo high,
That the foft wax againft the fun doth fry,
And the cords flip that kept the feathers faft,
So that his arms have power upon no blast.
He fearfully from the high clouds looks down
Upon the lower heavens, whofe curl'd waves frown.
At his ambitious height, and from the skies
He fees black night and death before his eyes.
Still melts the wax, his naked arms he shakes,
And thinking to catch hold, no hold he takes.

But now the naked lad down headlong falls,
And by the way, he father, father, calls;
Help, father, help, I die and as he speaks,
A violent furge his courfe of language breaks.
Th' unhappy father (but no father now)
Cries out aloud, Son Icarus where art thou?
Where art thou, Icarus, where doft thou fly?
Icarus where art? when lo, he may espy
The feathers fwim; aloud he doth exclaim:
The earth his bones, the fea ftill bears his name.

Achilles bis Concealment of his fex in the Court of Lycomedes.

Now from another world doth fail with joy,
A welcome daughter to the king of Troy.
The whilft the Grecians are already come,
(Mov'd with that general wrong 'gainst Ilium)
Achilles in a fmock his fex doth fmother,

And lays the blame upon his careful mother.
What mak'ft thou, great Achilles, teazing wool,
When Pallas in a helm fhould clafp thy fkull?
What do thefe fingers with fine threads of gold,
Which were more fit a warlike fhield to hold?
Why fhould that right hand rock or tow contain,
By which the Trojan Hector must be flain?
Caft off thy loofe veils, and thy armour take,
And in thy hand the fpear of Pallas shake.
Thus lady-like he with a lady lay,

Till what he was, her belly must bewray;
Yet was fhe forc'd (fo fhould we all believe)
Not to be forc'd fo, now her heart would grieve.
When he should rife from her, ftill would fhe cry,
(For he had arm'd him, and his rock laid by)

And with a soft voice speak: Achilles ftay,
It is too foon to rife, lie down I pray,

And then the man that forc'd her fhe would kifs: What force (Deidamea) call you this?

A Lover's Complaint.

From off a hill, whofe concave womb reworded
A plaintful ftory from a fift'ring vale,

My fpirits t' attend this double voice accorded,
And down I laid to lift the fad-tun'd tale,
Ere long efpied a fickle maid full pale,
Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,
Storming her words with forrow's wind and rain:
Upon her head a platted hive of straw,
Which fortify'd her vifage from the fun,
Whereon the thought might think fometime it faw
The carcafe of a beauty spent and done.
Time had not fcithed all that youth begun,
Nor youth all quit; but fpite of heaven's fell rage,
Some beauty peep'd thro' lattice of fear'd age.
Oft did the heave her napkin to her eyne,
Which on it had conceited characters;
Laundring the filken figures in the brine,
That feafon'd woe had pelleted in tears;
And often reading what contents it bears:
As often fhrieking undiftinguifh'd woe,
In clamours of all fize, both high and low.
Sometimes her level'd eyes their carriage ride,
As they did battery to the spheres intend;
Sometimes diverted, their poor balls are ty❜d
To th' orbed earth; fometimes they do extend
Their view right on; anon their gazes lend
To every place at once, and no where fix'd,
The mind and fight diftractedly commix'd.

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