The Works of John Hall-Stevenson :: :: University of Virginia Library

A living Monument
Of the Friendship and Generosity of the Great;
After an Intimacy of thirty Years,
With most of the great Personages of these Kingdoms,
Who did him the Honour to assist him
In the laborious Work
Of getting to the far End of a great Fortune,
These his Noble Friends,
From Gratitude for the many happy Days and Nights
Enjoy'd by his Means,
Exalted him, through their Influence,
In the forty-seventh Year of his Age,
To an Ensigncy;
Which he actually enjoys at present
In Gibraltar.

Omnis Aristippum decuit, color, et modus, et res—
Nunc in Aristippi furtim præcepta relabor,
Et mihi res, non me rebus submittere conor—

The Actors in this Dramatic Tale, are

The Suspicious Husband, Angravalle.
His Wife, Bindocchia.
Her Friend, Paulina.
Her Husband's Friend, Niceno.

Scene NAPLES.
What sober heads hast thou made ake?
How many hast thou kept from nodding?
How many wise-ones, for thy sake,
Have flown to thee, and left off plodding?
Thou wouldst, although the grave-ones shake
Their solemn locks, and strike one mute,
As soon be in the infernal lake,
As in the place of Pitt or Bute;
Whose heads incessantly send forth
Projects with glittering trains, like squibs,
And scatter, through the South and North,
Vollies of Ministerial Fibs.
Asleep, down precipices hurry'd,
Or, like Prometheus, chain'd to rocks—

By vultures gnaw'd, or monsters worry'd,
Hell-hounds, whose cry is, Dei Vox—
Or, victims to a heavier curse,
They dream they're dup'd, and fall unpity'd;
To fall a dupe is ten times worse
Than to be worried and Dewitted.
Philosophy and Grace is thine,
Not spiritual Grace, but sprightly;
Inspir'd by the God of Wine,
Inspir'd like old Anacreon nightly.
That Light divine, that heavenly Grace,
I fear, alas! thou wouldst not chuse;
That shines and blackens Whitefield's face,
Like the japan upon his shoes.
Whether thy Grace from Heaven descends,
Or rises from the earth below,
Oft hast thou rais'd thy helpless friends,
Oft given thy purse unto thy foe.—
Who gives his foe his purse outright
Shews plain, if I have any skill,
Not only that he bears no spite,
But that he bears him a good-will.

And also is perhaps as meek,
And is as little of a bite,
As he who only gives his cheek
(For Lesly gives nought else) to smite;
Or Whitefield, emptying the pockets
Of whores, and bawds, and gaping throngs;
Turning his eyes out of their sockets,
Singing and selling David's songs.
Now thou art gone, where can I find
Spirit and ease above controul,
Serenity and health of mind,
And gaiety and strength of soul?
Precepts I find, examples none,
And guides as blind as a guide stone.
The sportive Muse is my Physician,
To cure the folly, and the madness,
Of pride of Envy, and Ambition,
Of Spleen, and melancholy Sadness.
Soon as I touch the jocund lyre,
That instant, driven from their seat,
The dæmons of the mind retire,
And go and persecute the Great.

O! may their torments never cease,
May they be scourg'd both night and day,
Till they have brought thee back in peace,
And then, like thee, may they be ever gay!

Zachary Moore.