University of Virginia Library

ON THE MARRIAGE OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS FREDERICK PRINCE OF WALES:

PUBLISHED AMONG THE OXFORD CONGRATULATORY VERSES, 1736.

MISCELLANEOUS VERSES,

WRITTEN AT WHITMINSTER, FROM 1742 to 1750.

LEARNING:

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN DICK AND NED.

THE day was sullen, bleak, and wet,
When Dick and Ned together met
To waste it in a friendly chat,
And much they talk'd of this and that;
Till many a question wisely stated,
And many a knotty point debated,
From topic still to topic turning,
They fall at length on Books and Learning:
Then each with eagerness displays
His eloquence, to give them praise.
Far in their eulogy they launch,
And scan them o'er in ev'ry branch;
Thus, th' excellencies making known
Of Learning, slyly show their own.
Here Dick (who often takes a pride
To argue on the weaker side)
Cries, Softly, Ned, this talk of learning
May hold with men in books discerning;
Who boast of what they call a taste,
But for all else we run too fast;
For lay but prejudice aside,
And let the cause be fairly try'd,
What is the worth of any thing,
But for the happiness 'twill bring?
And that, none ever would dispute,
Is only found in the pursuit;
For if you once run down your game,
You frustrate and destroy your aim:
He, without doubt, pray mark me, Ned,
Has most to read, who least has read;
And him we needs must happiest find,
Whose greatest pleasure is behind.—
Ned, who was now 'twixt sleep and wake,
Stirr'd by this argument to speak,
Full aptly cry'd, With half an eye
Your far-fetcht sophistry I spy;
Which, ne'er so subtlely disputed,
By two plain words shall be confuted:
To give your reasoning due digestion,
I first affirm you beg the question.
Learning's a game, which, who attains,
A great and worthy pleasure gains;
Not light and transient like the chace,
But stable with unfading grace.
There are, indeed, who are so idle,
They leave all emprize in the middle;
Nor for reflection read or comment,
But just to kill the present moment:
These hunt romances, tales, and hist'ries,
As men pursue a common mistress,
Who when once caught but moves their loathing,
And well if she 's not worse than nothing;
But those of steady, serious life,
Know there 's no pleasure like a wife;
And such the wise true learning find
A lasting help-mate to their mind.—
Good sir, quoth Dick, and made a leg,
I say 'tis you the question beg.
Your similies of wife and mistress
Will serve your argument to distress.
If knowledge never was attain'd,
Which sages always have maintain'd,
Then knowledge cannot be a wife;
And you yourself conclude the strife.
You no less fallacy advance
'Gainst tales, and fables, and romance;
For I shall prove t'ye in the sequel,
That reading of all kinds is equal;
And none can serve a better end,
Than cheerfully our time to spend.
Nor is't of moment, gay, or serious,
But, as the readers minds are various,
Each please himself. You contradict
Philosophers of every sect,
Unless with them you will maintain
All human learning to be vain.
This, Socrates affirm'd of old,
And this our wisest moderns hold.
Therefore, if you have prov'd romances,
And such like, vain and idle fancies,
They've said the same of all the knowledge
I'th' sage and philosophic college.—
Ned was by this a little nettled:
Quoth he, This thing shall soon be settled;
With your own arguments disputed,
And you with your own weapons routed.
You hold the pleasure to consist
In the pursuit; this must exist
For ever you have eke maintain'd,
Asserting knowledge can't be gain'd;
By this you fairly overthrow
Your first position; for, if so,
How can it ever be agreed
Who least has read has most to read?
If ten miles upwards you could run,
Would you be nearer to the sun?
Or daily from the sea should drink,
Say would you ever find it shrink?
Men most delighted are, the fact is,
As they more skilful grow by practice;
This true in all we have concern in,
Much more is found to hold in learning.
Who various sciences has read,
Has made a store-house of his head;
And with him ever bears within
A large and plenteous magazine,
Whence he's secure to draw at leisure
All sorts of precious hoarded treasure:
Rich in ideas, ne'er shall he
A prey become to poverty;
And roaming free, his active mind
Can ne'er be fetter'd or confin'd;
Nor of dull solitude complain,
His thoughts, a cheerful social train:
For books of the superior kind
With just ideas fill the mind,
Nourish its growing youth, confirm
Its manhood: prop its age infirm:
Learning, our ev'ry step attends,
The best of pilots and of friends;
Assists our various ills to bear,
In fortunes adverse waves to steer;
How best in calmer hours to sail,
And how improve the prosp'rous gale.—
Alas! quoth Dick, mere puff and froth this is,
Which you advance for your hypothesis:
At best a well-laid theory;
No substance or reality;
Nor found with practice to agree.
Your scheme would be more true and ample,
If well supported by example.
But these all make against your system,
And therefore wisely you supprest 'em;
Not all your books can raise the mind
Above the weakness of mankind.
Zeno, of stoic reading vain,
Affirm'd there was no harm in pain.
Pyrrho would vaunt (but then he'd lie)
Indifference or to live or die.
Carneades oft spent his breath
T'inspire the bold contempt of death;
And once his wisdom did affect
So far to ape the stoic sect,
He thought he felt an inclination
To die, because it was the fashion.
Hearing Antipater (a wise one!)
Had kill'd himself by drinking poison,
He crys, resolv'd to do the same,
Give me—but what, forbears to name;
Then, baulking his expecting friends,
In mere mull'd wine this poison ends.
Not all his learning and wise reading,
Could Zeno's pupil keep from heeding
The rig'rous twinges of the stone,
Or but suppress one single groan;
Forc'd to own pain at length an evil,
And give his doctrine to the devil.
Thus these philosophers and leaders
Of various sects (profoundest readers)
From all their books could ne'er attain,
Death to contemn, or smile at pain;
And much less reap'd they joy or pleasure,
Their volumes yielding no such treasure.—
Ned, who now heartily was vext,
Began to stickle for his text;
Fairly, quoth he, examples cite,
We soon shall set this matter right;
But those you bring, tho' slyly pickt out,
And with all art and cunning trickt out,
'Tis plain to see you falsely vent 'em,
And speciously misrepresent 'em.
Tho' Dionysius did wince,
His master ne'er was known to flinch;
His other pupil, Posidonius,
Alone would prove your scheme erroneous.
When Pompey, who on purpose came
So far to hear this sage declaim,
Finding him on his sick bed laid,
And with severest pains assay'd,
Would fain have gone without his errant;
The steady stoic would not hear on't;
Began, and bravely held it out,
Amidst the torments of the gout;
Nor could avail th' acutest pang,
To stop or discompose th' harangue.
Could Epictetus, with such bravery,
Or Æsop, bear their painful slavery;
Unless by Learning's hand supported,
And that relief which Books afforded;
Whilst all their votaries have taught
That freedom dwells but in the thought.
Hence did Philoxenus desire
From the rich banquet to retire;
Chose rather back to gaol be hurried,
Than there with royal dulness worried:
His thoughts expatiating free
And undisturb'd with poetry;
Made bread and water more delicious
Than choicest feasts of Dionysius;
Proving no pain or thraldom worse is
Than slavishly to hear bad verses.—
Quoth Dick, 'Tis difficult to know
The truth of facts so long ago.
Writers enhance their hero's glory,
The better to set off their story;
And throw a varnish and a gloss over
Th' acts of their favourite philosopher.
You, of Philoxenus, advance
Mere folly, pride, and arrogance;
His reading made him no great winner,
That lost so foolishly his dinner.
Which is the wiser part d'ye think,
T'approve, and smile, and eat, and drink;
Or sourly criticisms mutter,
And quarrel with your bread and butter?
But if we find from books arise
This squeamish taste, more nice than wise,
'Tis happier sure, and wiser yet,
Ne'er to have learnt the alphabet:
Yet tho' I scruple not to grant
'Twas Learning made him arrogant,
I still must strenuously maintain
Indifference to death or pain
Proceeds from natural disposition,
More than from bookish acquisition.
Examples of your suff'ring sages
We find not five in fifteen ages.
Such volunteers in pain abound,
In parts where Books were never found.
To prove my words, if 'tis your hap
T'have pictures in't, consult your map;
There, Ned, a Brahmin may you see
Ty'd by the heels to post or tree;
From whence he reaches downward to make
A fire to roast his breast and stomach;
And this he ne'er abates or puts out,
Tho' it should burn his very guts out!
Yet this from Learning can't proceed,
For none of these can write or read.
Nor is the next a man of Letters,
Who's gall'd by those enormous fetters;
Nor yet is he a better Scholar,
Who groans beneath that iron collar.
Dan Prior's muse a case records,
And sweetly too, so take his words:
At Tonquin, if a prince should dye,
(As Jesuits write, who never lye,)
The wife, and counsellor, and priest,
Who serv'd him most and lov'd him best,
Prepare and light his funeral fire,
And cheerful on the pile expire.
In Europe 'twould be hard to find,
In each degree, one half so kind.
But why on European ground
Is no such instance to be found?
Say, does our learning or our reading
Fall so far short of Tonquin breeding?
But, as I said before, a case,
So far remov'd by time and place,
Is seldom faithfully related,
Or, in most points, exaggerated.
Let us by modern facts be try'd,
And not our ears, but eyes decide.
Consider but your nearest neighbour,
Mark well his ceaseless toil and labour;
Or fellow students at the College,
Who drudge both night and day for knowledge;
Are they for ten years poring better
Than if they 'd never known a letter?
This thumbs philosophers that teach
To be content is to be rich;
And finds, he thinks, with greatest rapture,
These riches grow with ev'ry chapter;
But sound his heart, you'll find it heaving
To college rents and future living:
This reads the Stoics, and from them
Learns all misfortunes to contemn.
But a bare nose, or finger's bleeding,
Shall countervail his ten years reading.
Do not most men more selfish grow,
And more reserv'd, the more they know?
And when they come to study less,
To promote others happiness,
They must, 'tis by experience shown,
Of consequence impair their own.
When Umbrio, fixt upon the skies
In absence, turns his musing eyes,
And never condescends t' afford,
But in a learn'd dispute, a word;
Can I persuade myself, that he
Is happier than his company?
Were it not better for a while
To lay his wisdom by, and smile,
And join with them to laugh and chat,
Altho' he cannot tell at what?
Yet he'll indulge these sullen fits,
And keep his mirth for brother wits:
Then let us follow him to these,
And see if he be more at ease.
No; soon again his pleasure fails,
He frowns, he yawns, he bites his nails;
And shews by discontented looks,
He wants to leave 'em for his books.
Pursue him to his country seat;
Is there his happiness complete?
With endless volumes fill'd the room,
Must needs dispel that sullen gloom:
In vain. Ere he an hour has sat,
Disliking this, and tir'd with that,
Some modern book augments his spleen,
Which th' Ancients can't take off again.
Impatient from himself to fly,
Shall he the field amusements try?
No; those a philosophic mind
Too barren pleasures needs must find.
Then shall he try his hours to spend
In chat with neighbouring country friend?
Lo! there his joys as vainly plac'd;
One knowledge wants, and one a taste,
This too reserv'd, that too affected,
Envy'd by this, by that suspected:
Poor Umbrio meets, at ev'ry turning,
Some sad reverse intail'd on learning;
And, tir'd o' th' country, back amain
Drives to be tir'd of town again.
Observe again, th' unletter'd brow
No frowns contract, no wrinkles plow;
See Bubo's front serenely sleek;
Chagrin ne'er wastes Aphronius' cheek;
Simplicius with eternal smile;
And Dullman ever found tranquil;
Prig with self-approbation blest;
While nought disturbs Asello's rest.—
Quoth Ned, I can no longer bear
Such overt falsities to hear;
Of arguments there is no end,
When with a sophist you contend;
Thy proofs all falsely are asserted,
Or else most wilfully perverted:
In this, as well as other countries,
Men drown and hang themselves upon trees;
Or, too displeas'd with this to bear it,
Leap into t'other world from garret.
Yet none in grave discourse, e'er thought
Such fit examples to be brought;
'Cause these from madness must proceed,
And those from poverty and need.
The sages I produced, ne'er sought
Their end or pain: their volumes taught
Neither to hasten death nor shun it,
But with indifference look upon it;
Nor ills to court nor yet to fear,
Whate'er Fate gave resign'd to bear:
From whence I proved beyond dispute,
That Learning bears the choicest fruit;
And plenteous harvests ever yields
To those who duly till her fields.
But you deny the truth, averring
Her soil not only cold but barren;
And the spontaneous idle weed
The cultivated crop t'exceed.
Now turn we to your happy Clan,
And their delights and pleasures scan;
See them returning from the field,
Their joys are o'er; the fox is kill'd;
How shall they pass the tedious night,
Till sport return with morning light?
From whence procure them recreation,
Nor sought from books or conversation?
The bottle, lo! their sole resort,
Oppressive thought they drown in port;
Or, with dear dice or cards beguile,
And shield them from themselves awhile.
Our gallants now to town repair;
What endless pleasures wait 'em there!
One half the day in sleep is past,
They study how the rest to waste;
Till drum or playhouse shall invite
To crown with happiness the night.
The dress, the valet, and the glass,
Help two long irksome hours to pass:
The dinner serves them to complain
Of taverns, waiters, cooks, champaign.
With joy they hear the house is full:
The play begins; 'tis grave, 'tis dull.
And two more hours their cruel fate
Ordains their happiness must wait.
Their patience now the drum rewards
With whispers, wax-lights, bows, and cards
Now, while at whist they take their seat,
Go ask them, are their joys complete!
Or wait they for some favourite vice;
Their girl, their bottle, or their dice?
Say, would you for a pattern chuse
Dullman, whose passion is the news?
Ne'er could the freedom of his mind
In prison'd volumes be confin'd;
In looser sheets is all his lore,
Free as the Sybil's leaves of yore.
He ne'er could on one science fix,
So fell perforce on politics;
In these he can descant as well
As any modern Machiavel:
Here little progress will enable
T' attack the deepest at the table.
Great is, I grant you, his delight,
When reading a retreat or fight,
Or sally or surprise, by the French meant
To storm the enemies entrenchment:
Or ships engaging with the Spaniard;
Or loss of mast by storm, or mainyard;
Or cargo sunk, or crew all drownded ;
Or spurious babe in Wapping found dead.
Or how the stubborn Dutch go on slow;
Or robb'ry on Blackheath or Hounslow.
But should they e'er restrain the press,
How great were Dullman's dire distress?
And should all Europe be at peace,
His pleasure totally must cease.
Let us from these now turn our eyes
Upon the man that's learn'd and wise:
You see him, from his early youth,
Taught the pursuits of heav'nly Truth:
In ev'ry season, ev'ry place,
He follows still the pleasing chace;
The nearer to the glorious prize,
It shines the brighter in his eyes:
And not alone in Books is found,
But ev'ry object all around.
He not the least of these disdains,
Or finds ungrateful to his pains.
But like the bee, from ev'ry flower
And ev'ry weed, with artful power
Collects alone the choicest juice,
And lays in store for future use.
Thus all things to improvement turning,
Still grows his pleasure with his Learning.

SOCIETY;

ADDRESSED TO HENRY BERKELEY, ESQ.

[OMITTED]

TOBACCO;

A TALE. ADDRESSED TO J. H. BROWNE, ESQ.

ARCHIMAGE;

A POEM, WRITTEN IN IMITATION OF SPENCER, AND DESCRIPTIVE OF THE AUTHOR AND FOUR OF HIS BOAT'S CREW.

AN APOLOGY FOR WRITING VERSE;

ADDRESSED TO THE HONOURABLE CHARLES YORKE.

TO WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, Esq.

TO LORD BATHURST.

IMITATION OF HORACE, Lib. 2. Ode 15.

THE DANGER OF WRITING VERSE;

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A YOUNG POET AND HIS FRIEND.

ADDRESSED TO SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS, KNT. Occasioned by his satirical Ode upon Mr. Hussey's Marriage with the Duchess of Manchester; which gave so much personal Offence.

FRIEND.
THE Man at whose birth Melpomene smil'd,
Who fancies forsooth he 's Apollo's own child,
In the country indulges an indolent ease,
And will make neither Sportsman nor Justice of Peace.

POET.
Will our Poet succeed any better in town?
Is he likely to rise by the Sword or the Gown?

FRIEND.
Lackaday sir, the Muse has so addled his pate,
That he finds himself fit for no post in the state.

POET.
But Horace, your friend, though his sons you abuse,
Shews the dignity, value, and charms of the Muse:

FRIEND.
'Tis true, sir, but there he has chose to conceal,
What I, for the sake of young Bards, shall reveal:
Then know, this profession but tends to expose
To the fear of your friends, the revenge of your foes.
Will the man, by your Verses once injur'd, forgive,
Tho' the cause of his pain shou'd no longer survive?
All your friends tho' unhurt, you observe, are perplext
With a jealous concern, lest their turn should be next.

POET.
But, good sir, what need that the Bard must abuse?
Let him sport with an innocent Pastoral Muse:

FRIEND.
I grant, and the World will allow there 's no need;
You may chuse what you'll write, but they 'll chuse what they read;
And, dear ignorant Friend, to make short of the matter,
There's nothing will please 'em but personal satire:
Nor fancy the world will e'er call for your rhimes,
Unless they believe 'em a touch on the times;
Of this truth artful Pope may an instance afford,
Who nam'd his late Work from the Year of our Lord.
This Horace confest: for that Poet divine,
Who at first wrote his Odes to his mistress and wine,
Soon with Character fill'd the satyrical page,
And adapted his Muse to the taste of the age.
But satire 's a thing, that 'tis dang'rous to deal in,
For tho' many want taste, yet there 's none but has feeling.
This duly consider'd, the Poet disclaim,
Nor let Horace inveigle your fancy with fame;
For the reason why he can unenvied divert us,
Is because we are sure he 's unable to hurt us;
His Characters touch not the Moderns; and no man
Sees himself or his nation expos'd in a Roman:
Yet were he alive, I should think it, tho' loth,
My duty to give this advice to you both.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN LORD DUCIE AND HIS HORSE.

DUCIE.
O the dull lazy dog, how untimely he fails,
When in view we 've the Prince and the Princess of Wales!
Is this a fit time, you ungrateful, to flinch?

HORSE.
You may whip me and spur me; I'll not stir an inch.
I wish I 'd been Cambridge's, then I had seen
Hay and oats for my dinner and tasted a bean,
Which your Pythagorick decrees have forbid;
And that makes me so faint, I 'ant fit to be rid.

DUCIE.
I 'll convince you how foolish the outcry which you make;
What signify Oats if you 're rid of your stomach?
Without scruple, I grant, when extravagant Vesie
Gave his horse Hay and Oats, you were justly uneasy.
But with Cambridge's horses 'tis quite a new case;
They are trying to make you displeas'd with your place;
'Tis the way of all servants; but pray, do they say
How many long miles they are rid in a day?
How oft the poor devils are gallopt to Villiers?
I'll warrant they often have envied my Thillers .
Did you e'er know me out when pronouncing the doom
Prophetic of Cambridge's annual groom?
Now if he kills a groom once a twelvemonth, or more,
Of horses at least he must kill half a score.
He cares little for 'em, and feels no more pain,
If in harvest it pours down whole buckets of rain;
While I and my servants are toiling all day,
In the heat of the sun to roast you your hay.
With his good friend the World on the water he goes,
And calls off his hands to his barges and shows.
But you want to change for his place, you 're so cunning;
Did he ever build you a stable to run in?
Have you seen in his fields such a house as your own,
With one pillar of brick and another of stone?
No, no, sir, he builds you your buildings of taste:
And so all his fortune is running to waste.
Am I ever profuse in wigs, waistcoats, or coats,
In castles or porticos, bridges or boats?

HORSE.
What's all this to me, if I never eat Oats?

THE AUTHOR TO THE SCRIBLERIAD.

THE SCRIBLERIAD:

AN HEROIC POEM, IN SIX BOOKS.

THE SCRIBLERIAD.

BOOK I.

BOOK II.

BOOK III.

BOOK IV.

BOOK V.

BOOK VI.

MISCELLANEOUS VERSES,

WRITTEN AT TWICKENHAM. FROM 1751 to 1801.

A DIALOGUE

BETWEEN A MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT AND HIS SERVANT, In Imitation of the 7th Satire of the Second Book of Horace.

Servant.
LONG have I heard your fav'rite theme,
A gen'ral reformation scheme,
To keep the Poor from ev'ry sin,
From gaming, murther, and from gin.
And now have I no less an itch
To venture to reform the Rich.

Member.
What, John! are you too turn'd projector?
Come then, for once I'll hear your lecture.
For since a member, as 'tis said,
His projects to his servants read,
And of a fav'rite speech a book made,
With which he tired each night a cook-maid,
And so it hap't that ev'ry morning
The tasteless creatures gave him warning—
Since thus we use 'em, 'tis but reason
We hear our servants in their season.
Begin.

Servant.

Member.
To whom d'ye preach this senseless sermon?

Servant.
To you, good sir.

Member.
To me, ye vermin?

Servant.

Member.
Who then is free?

Servant.

Member.
Where is my cane, my whip, my hanger?
I'll teach you to provoke my anger.

Servant.
Heyday! my master's brain is crack't!
Or else he's making some new act—

Member.
To set such rogues as you to work
Perhaps, or send you to the Turk.

THE INTRUDER.

IN IMITATION OF HORACE, BOOK I. SATIRE IX.

THE FABLE OF JOTHAM:

TO THE BOROUGH-HUNTERS.

THE FAKEER:

A TALE.

A Fakeer (a Religious well known in the East,
Not much like a parson, still less like a priest)
With no canting, no sly jesuitical arts,
Field-preaching, hypocrisy, learning or parts;
By a happy refinement in mortification,
Grew the oracle, saint, and the pope of his nation.
But what did he do this esteem to acquire?
Did he torture his head or his bosom with fire?
Was his neck in a portable pillory cased?
Did he fasten a chain to his leg or his waist?
No. His holiness rose to this sovereign pitch
By the merit of running long nails in his breech.
A wealthy young Indian, approaching the shrine,
Thus in banter accosts the prophetic divine:
This tribute accept for your interest with FO,
Whom with torture you serve, and whose will you must know;
To your suppliant disclose his immortal decree;
Tell me which of the heav'ns is allotted for me.
Fakeer.
Let me first know your merits.

Indian.
I strive to be just:
To be true to my friend, to my wife, to my trust:
In religion I duly observe ev'ry form:
With an heart to my country devoted and warm:
I give to the poor, and I lend to the rich—

Fakeer.
But how many nails do you run in your breech?

Indian.
With submission I speak to your rev'rence's tail;
But mine has no taste for a tenpenny nail.

Fakeer.
Well! I'll pray to our prophet and get you preferr'd;
Though no farther expect than to heaven the third.
With me in the thirtieth your seat to obtain,
You must qualify duly with hunger and pain.

Indian.

AN ELEGY

WRITTEN IN AN EMPTY ASSEMBLY-ROOM.

In scenes where Hallet's genius has combined
With Bromwich to amuse and cheer the mind;
Amid this pomp of cost, this pride of art,
What mean these sorrows in a female heart?
Ye crouded walls, whose well enlightened round
With lovers sighs and protestations sound,
Ye pictures flatter'd by the learn'd and wise,
Ye glasses ogled by the brightest eyes,
Ye cards, which beauties by their touch have blest,
Ye chairs, which peers and ministers have prest,
How are ye chang'd! like you my fate I moan,
Like you, alas! neglected and alone—
For ah! to me alone no card is come,
I must not go abroad—and cannot be at home.
Blest be that social power, the first who pair'd
The erring footman with th' unerring card.
'Twas Venus sure; for by their faithful aid
The whisp'ring lover meets the blushing maid;
From solitude they give the cheerful call
To the choice supper, or the sprightly ball;
Speed the soft summons of the gay and fair,
From distant Bloomsbury to Grosvenor Square;
And bring the colonel to the tender hour,
From the Parade, the Senate, or the Tower.
Ye records, patents of our worth and pride!
Our daily lesson, and our nightly guide!
Where'er ye stand disposed in proud array,
The vapours vanish, and the heart is gay;
But when no cards the chimney-glass adorn,
The dismal void with heart-felt shame we mourn;
Conscious neglect inspires a sullen gloom,
And brooding sadness fills the slighted room.
If but some happier female's card I've seen,
I swell with rage, or sicken with the spleen;
While artful pride conceals the bursting tear,
With some forced banter or affected sneer:
But now grown desp'rate, and beyond all hope,
I curse the ball, the duchess and the pope.
And as the loads of borrow'd plate go by,
“Tax it! ye greedy ministers,” I cry.
Far other dreams my sensual soul employ,
While conscious nature tastes unholy joy:
I view the traces of experienced charms,
And clasp the regimentals in my arms.
To dream last night I clos'd my blubber'd eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits arise:
Alas! no more; methinks I wand'ring go
To distant quarters 'midst the Highland snow,
To the dark inn where never wax-light burns,
Where in smoak'd tap'stry faded Dido mourns;
To some assembly in a country town,
And meet the colonel—in a parson's gown!!
I start—I shriek—
O! could I on my waking brain impose,
Or but forget at least my present woes!
Forget 'em—how!—each rattling coach suggests
The loath'd ideas of the crouding guests.
To visit—were to publish my disgrace;
To meet the spleen in ev'ry other place;
To join old maids and dowagers forlorn;
And be at once their comfort and their scorn!
For once to read—with this distemper'd brain,
Ev'n modern novels lend their aid in vain.
My Mandoline—what place can music find
Amid the discord of my restless mind?
How shall I waste this time which slowly flies!
How lull to slumber my reluctant eyes!
This night the happy and th' unhappy keep
Vigils alike,—NORFOLK has murder'd sleep.

A DIALOGUE

BETWEEN A DISAPPOINTED CANDIDATE AND HIS FRIEND.

Candidate.
I have lost my election.
On Sir Politic's family-interest I stood:
Five hundred, he swore they were steady and good—
Had faithfully promised, nay four had subscribed,
But the day of the poll ev'ry scoundrel was bribed.
Two months have I led this damn'd canvassing life,
Cajoling some rustic or speeching his wife.
Plagued, surfeited, poison'd, and harass'd, I'm grown,
Wan, meagre, dejected, and mere skin and bone.
This sure was enough, but at last to be beat—
Had this trouble and plague but procured me a seat.—

Friend.
Prithee sit thee down here, and these vanities end:
And be proud of a seat in the house of a friend:
Which no art can obtain and no brib'ry procure:
Which true worth, sense, and virtue, alone can insure.

Candidate.
But while virtue lies buried in mere speculation,
Who must act for the public, who care for the nation?
Tho' I pay due regard to the title of friend,
Yet the cares of a patriot must further extend;
To his country his present, his posthumous fame;
And 'tis bus'ness alone can ennoble his name.

Friend.
That true fame is the offspring of action 'tis granted,
But a thousand are busy for one that is wanted:
This business, we boast of, we daily create,
From an itch to be meddling, important and great.
But to polish our parts and our reason refine,
Each art is a jewel: each science a mine.

Candidate.
All arts when compared with the art to persuade,
Seem debased to some vile and mechanical trade:
To soothe haughty man and his errors reform,
Or by reason averting some popular storm,
On the fortunes perhaps of a kingdom decide:
These, these are my wishes; this should be my pride.
So important a service, such merit, must bring
Applause from my country; reward from my King.

Friend.
Should the Minister's jealousy check your ambition,
What resource have you then?

Candidate.
What resource? Opposition.
In the House I'd harangue, in the Country declaim,
With my breath blow each popular spark to a flame.
I'd pursue the mean wretch to the brink of disgrace;
Unless duly appeased by some eminent place:
For no honours, no titles, no ribbands I'd have,
Let him deck with those trappings some indolent slave.

Friend.
And are there no charms but in place and employment?
No private delights, no domestic enjoyment?
Are the cares for your kindred, your parent, or race,
When compared with the public so sordid and base?
Love, friendship, philosophy, learning, and mirth,
Tho' despised, can they lose their intrinsical worth?
Now reading, composing, discourse, meditation,
Are all terms of contempt or at best out of fashion.
But tho' fame in this age is to bus'ness confined,
Retirement's the test of true greatness of mind.
Let reflection divert you from placing your joys
In vain ostentation, in hurry and noise;
Let the good and the virtuous your merits spread forth,
In the permanent tribute to personal worth.

VERSES

OCCASIONED BY THE MARRIAGE AND GAME ACT, BOTH PASSED THE SAME SESSION.

ON THE APPOINTMENT OF LORD TEMPLE TO BE FIRST LORD OF THE ADMIRALTY.

AGAINST INCONSTANCY;

ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF ------.

NEVER tell me, my Lord, of the pleasures of change,
Nor inveigle from home my reluctance to range;
I plead guilty, variety's vot'ry profest,
By none more than myself her delights are confest;
But to ask where she's found would some judgments perplex,
In each woman we find her, but not in the sex.
Whatever their breeding, their rank, or their name,
In themselves only various, the sex are the same.
A wife, by your looks, you would tell me grows old,
Oft unsightly in shape, and she may be a scold:
But possest of the charms which your senses delude,
In the nat'ral coquet, or unnatural prude,
You may flatter yourself all the days of your life,
And you've only obtain'd, what you loath in a wife.
Then invite me no more, my kind tempter, to range,
Like for like is no gain; I shall lose if I change.

TO Mr. WHITEHEAD,

ON HIS BEING MADE POET LAUREAT.

EPILOGUE SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE,

BY MISS POPE, IN THE Character of Miss Notable, in the Lady's Last Stake: 1760.

YES—I'm resolv'd—I'll live and die a Maid.
Expos'd! and jeer'd! abandon'd and betray'd!
Such usage!—monstrous—bear it those who can,
Here—I renounce that faithless creature—Man.
Sooner in cells and nunneries I'll hide
The just resentment of my injur'd pride,
Than tame and quiet stay another minute
In this vile world—and not—make mischief in it.
For ever leave the world!—That's not the worst—
To be a nun—one must be papist first.
To change religion and beyond sea roam—
But—one may be a methodist at home.
Hold! to be qualify'd for that, they say,
The hopeful convert first must—go astray.
'Tis, I've been told, a blessed situation—
But then—I loathe the odious preparation.
What! can one then devise no kind of plan,
Without this necessary evil, Man!
Can woman singly find herself no station?
Sinner or saint must be by his creation!
Why, faith, without him—nothing can be done:
One can—I think—be nothing—but a Nun.
Whatever woman's vanity may boast,
He makes the peeress—and He makes the toast.
Her last best title—she from him derives—
For—to be widows—we must first be wives.
To this hard fate is every maiden born:
We can not have the rose without the thorn.
—Then—I give up the world and all its folly,
For solitude and musing melancholy.
Oh! how I long to quit this empty dream,
And fix some sober plan, some lasting scheme!—
'Twill soon be settled when I've once begun it.—
I'll go to Ranelagh—and think upon it.

EPILOGUE SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE,

BY MISS PRITCHARD, In the Character of Maria in the Tamer tamed: 1760.

WELL! since I've thus succeeded in my plan,
And conquer'd this all-conquering tyrant, man,
To farther conquests still my soul aspires,
And all my bosom glows with martial fires.
Suppose—a female regiment we raise—
We must—for men grow scarceish now-a-days,
Now every man of spirit is enlisted—
Why, ladies—these brave lads should be assisted.
The glorious scheme my flutt'ring heart bewitches:
But hold—I've promis'd not to wear the breeches.
No matter—in this variegated army
We'll find some regimentals that shall charm ye.
If plumes and lace recruiting can persuade,
We'll try to shew our taste in masquerade.
My feather here is fitted in a trice:
Then for the crest, the motto, and device—
Death's head and bones!—No—we'll have flames and darts!
In Latin mottos men may shew their parts,
But ours shall be true English—like our hearts.
Our uniform we'll copy from the Greek;
The drapery and emblems true antique:
Minerva's ægis! and Diana's bow!—
And thus equipt to India's coasts we'll go.
Temples of gold, and diamond mines we'll rob:
—And every month we'll make a new Nabob.
Amid this glorious scene of contributions,
Spoil, presents—hourly change and revolutions,
While high on stately elephants we ride,
Whose feet can trample European pride,
Think not our country we can e'er forget:
We'll plunder—but to pay the nation's debt.
Then there's America—we'll soon dispatch it,
This tedious war—when we take up the hatchet.
Heroes and soldiers Indian wiles may catch;
But—in a woman they may meet their match.
To art, disguise, and stratagem no strangers,
We fear no hazard, nor once think of dangers
In our true character of Female Rangers.

A DIALOGUE

BETWEEN SIR RICHARD LYTTELTON AND THE THAMES.

Sir Richard.
WHILE fondly I triumph'd alone in your breast,
And none else to your bosom so closely you prest,
No monarch on earth was so happy as I:
I envy'd no king of a land that was dry.

Thames.
While you on my banks was contented to stray,
With the days and the months I roll'd glibly away.
Nor envy'd I then ('tis no treason I hope)
The Tweed her lord Bute, or the Tiber her Pope.

Sir Richard.
Piccadilly, it must be confest, has its charms:
By the prospect allured I deserted your arms:
Tho' the cielings were damp and the walls hardly dry,
I'd have gone there tho' Burroughs had sworn I should die.

Thames.
Your neighbour, Sir Charles, has employ'd ev'ry art
With resistless allurements to ravish my heart.
To gaze on his charms with delight I could stay
From morning to night, from December to May.

Sir Richard.
Should your lover prove false and abandon your shore,
Rebuilding his house where 'twas founded before?
Should I, loaded with picture and statue and urn,
To present you the spoils of the Tiber, return?

Thames.
Tho' inconstant in thought you should often be stealing
To your loved Piccadilly, or even to Ealing:
Your walls would I clasp in my amorous arms,
And swell with delight to contemplate your charms.

TO OZIAS HUMPHRY, Esq.

WE find, in the annals of famed Richmond Hill,
That each touch of the pencil makes work for the quill.
In the morning a picture is shewn by Patoun:
A volume of poems is publish'd at noon.
With all the bright tints that the palette affords
Cleopatra is drawn. With the choicest of words
That bards of all ranks may contribute to deck her,
The Treas'ry completes what's begun by th' Exchequer.
But, Humphry, by whom shall your labours be told,
How your colours enliven the young and the old?
And was it for this you indulged in your freak,
To excel all the moderns and rival th' antique,
On sublime Saint Gotardo to venture your neck?
No poet d'ye find to extol your design,
The glow of your tints, or the grace of your line?
With lofty Parnassus proud Richmond may vie,
And spout ev'ry hour her bright streams to the sky.
Are the founts of the vallies exhausted and dry?
Then we'll cull from their borders the flow'rs of the mead
To present you a wreath not unworthy your head.
The swans of sweet Thames their best quills shall afford
Your genius, your talent, your life to record;
And shall not your Sheridan give you an ode,
To describe ancient Rome and the charms of the road,
With the taste you acquired in that learned abode?
From that learned abode shall Corilla pour forth
Her extempore lays to acknowledge your worth.
From more distant Elysium your Goldsmith shall tell his
Old friends at the club how you're praised by Apelles.
How Zeuxis admires you, how Raphael fears:
How the ancients and moderns are all by the ears:
What zeal old Protogenes shews in your service:
How he treats the great Titian no better than Jervis:
How Proserpine lately was chuckling to think
She had just caught you napping on Phlegeton's brink:
(No mortal since Orpheus her fancy could taste
And only your pencil his lyre had surpast.)
How she longs to possess you by force or by stealth.
—Now your danger you know—so take care of your health.

Mr. WILKES'S SOLILOQUY,

THE DAY BEFORE HIS ELECTION FOR CHAMBERLAIN OF LONDON: A PARODY on Cæsar's Speech in the Boat.

THUS far my bark has found a prosp'rous gale,
And though in this my last attempt I fail,
I've done enough. Scotland has felt my pen,
Has felt and trembled in her darkest den.
Horne I've subdued, and Sawbridge to his shame
Is but my second in the lists of fame.
I've taught the mob the senate to defeat,
And, spite of rule and order, kept my seat.
Of pow'r and profit I've enjoy'd my share,
Trustee, Receiver, Treasurer, Lord Mayor.
And since by these proud titles made so great
That Charon's boat shall groan beneath my weight,
What is't to me if 'tis ordain'd my lot,
Unburied with some creditor to rot,
I'll still have wine and women whilst alive,
For Christian burial let the vulgar strive.
My corse let bailiffs seize or surgeons tear,
My spirit the surviving world shall fear.

ON PAINTING;

ADDRESSED TO Mr. PATCH, A CELEBRATED PICTURE CLEANER.

THY pen in haste, Thalia, snatch,
To sing of Titian and Carach,—
Bassan, and Tintoret—and Patch.
'Tis Exeter demands the strain;
Shall Burleigh's master ask in vain?
Burleigh, the place where every Muse
Her favourite elegance may chuse.
For there the Romans and Venetians
Display a shew, which all the Grecians,
Whate'er ingenious Webb may say,—
Could ne'er have equall'd in their day.
Protogenes and famed Apelles—
The story well enough to tell is,
How one could colour, t'other draw—
But were their colours warm or raw?
Why nothing now remains to show it,
Except the historian and the poet.
And shall we trust that wanton tribe
Who all, with fancy's pen describe.
No Patch.—but had thy healing hand
Been present in Achaia's land,
Their art divine had now been known,
Their tints in all their lustre shone.
Honours divine you must have shared,
A mortal with the gods compared.
Did Grecian god or Romish saint
E'er match the wonders of thy paint?
In miracles you far excel 'em.—
How shall the Muse attempt to tell 'em?
When human forms displease your taste,
Ill drawn, ill colour'd, or ill placed;
Or when unskilful hand has hurt 'em,
To rock or fountain you convert 'em—
Make Niobe marble, Battus touchstone,
(Salvator never painted such stone)
Or change, like Jove, to bull or swan,
Ill moulded horse or graceless man.
Turn we from poets to the church?
You leave all fiction in the lurch,
Tho' beads and reliques oft have fail'd,
Your pencil ever has prevail'd.
The holy head of Januarius
Oft in effect has proved precarious;
Nor has the thundering mountain stopt
Its lava, tho' his blood has dropt.
But you at once can make it still,
Or run on either side the hill.
Your art miraculous the same,
Administer'd to blind or lame.
You cure the darkest drop serene:
Give eyes to see and to be seen.
Heal the poor martyr flay'd and rackt,
Shrivel'd and scorcht, and torn and hackt.
Restore the decollated head,
Revive the dying and the dead.
Your charity you ne'er withhold
From bodies naked, raw or cold;
And when you find an arm or shape awry,
Hide the defect with flowing drapery.
When wanton Eve and carnal Adam,
Drunk with that fruit their God forbad 'em,
Lie at their length, in fond embraces,
With bodies naked as their faces,
You cover Adam's limbs and Eve's
With thick festoons of flowers and leaves;
So draw the eyes of every prude,
To weep the children in the wood.
Where'er you see ungracious Ham,
Bent to disclose his father's shame;
And, spite of modest Shem and Japhet,
Persist the boozy sire to laugh at,
You aid the pious brother's cares:
Your delicacy suits with theirs.
So when each over-curious elder,
(As if to look for Hans-en-kelder)
Tugs hard, with trembling hand, to lift
The folds of chaste Susanna's shift;
If Time, whose trick is to discover,
As much as any tatling lover,
Should make a third with these unfolders,
And leave her bare to all beholders;
A veil, by your propitious art,
White and unspotted as her heart,
O'er the much-injured matron hung,
Shall shield her from the censuring tongue.
Alcides's ill-directed wife,
Gave him a shirt, which cost his life:
You gave his Omphale a shift,
Which proves a better-fated gift,
It sits so gracefully upon her,
And recommends her to his Honour .
But be it still your greatest praise,
From dull obscurity to raise,
From all those evils that assault 'em,
From gums, from oils, from deadly spaltum;
And give to works almost divine,
Once more in native tints to shine.
Then I, like Newton's bard, may write,
Patch waved his brush, and all was light.

ON SEEING THE HEAD OF Sir ISAAC NEWTON,

Richly gilt, and placed by a celebrated Optician upon the top of a certain Temple, in a conspicuous part of his Garden on Richmond Hill.

RESOLVED to rescue Newton's bust
From dull obscurity and dust,
Or the vile purpose of a sign,
And give the demigod a shrine;
First o'er his venerable head
The most resplendent gold I spread:
This obvious and apparent hint
Bespeaks him master of the mint
Next (that the hero might be placed
To shew his genius and my taste)
An insulated building's top
Affords his contemplation scope.
No walls his active eye t'imprison;
No trees to intercept th' horizon;
Prevent the planets path to trace,
And speculate on time and space.
Here be he fixt till restless love
Of knowledge instigates to move,
To depths where nature gives to view
Her treasures to the chosen few.
For as he proves that all things tend
By their own nature to descend,
He, by the laws of gravitation,
May gain a more convenient station,
From whence his all-exploring eye,
In nature's secrets best may pry.
There undiscover'd yet, may find
The hidden origin of wind:
And, traced from their mysterious source,
Detect the fountains in their course;
With curious observation, mark well
How gushing waters foam and sparkle;
Compare their lustre as they pass
With hues of the prismatic glass:
Till, yielding now to his enquiries,
The yet impenetrable Iris,
Shall all the various colours shew,
That decorate her wond'rous bow.

TO A LADY WHO WAS VERY HANDSOME,

AND HAD ASKED THE AUTHOR HIS OPINION OF THE WITCH OF ENDOR.

Dear Madam,

You honoured me with your commands to give you the most complete idea of the Witch of Endor;—I can find no way to do it so exactly, as by recommending to you to look in the glass. You will see by this how much I am,

A PARODY OF ACHILLES' SPEECH,

POPE'S HOMER, BOOK FIRST, LINE 309.

A PARODY ON “DEATH AND THE LADY;”

In a Dialogue between Lord North and Lord Sandwich:

LORD NORTH.
PROUD lord of fleets, lay your commission down,
And walk a private man about the town.
I now resume the shining post I gave ye,
And you no more must lord it o'er the navy.

LORD SANDWICH.
What bold attempt is this; will you, my lord,
Presume to threat or move me from my board?
Must I, lord Sandwich, yield to your decree,
Because you're bigger round the waist than me?

LORD NORTH.
Reply not to me with a catch-club jest,
And know the man with whom you dare contest.
Play not with my superior pow'r and worth;
My rank is Premier, and my name is North.

LORD SANDWICH.
Thy power and worth are not to me unknown;
But still I think more highly of my own:
For while the Fleet is my peculiar care,
I awe the French, the Spaniard, and Lord Mayor.

LORD NORTH.
Great is your power, but greater my command;
You press the City; but I tax the Land;
And, as my various Features smile or pout,
So sure this man comes in, and that goes out.

LORD SANDWICH.
The brave with tyrant ministers contests;
Instead of speeches now I'll write protests;
Call back the thunderstruck seceding crew,
Instead of going out, I'll turn out you.

LORD NORTH.
Call not for them, their skill will never do,
They know what 'tis to starve; and so shall you.
I'll hear no more, I'm summon'd by the King;
And so—you may protest, or speak, or sing.

AN INVITATION TO A BALL AT LADY COOPER'S:

WRITTEN BY SIR GREY COOPER, 1781; And occasioned by Mr. Cambridge having spoken in Admiration of the Duchess of Devonshire.

EVER a just and elegant Spectator
Of beauty, grace, and all the charms of nature,
Your moral wit with Addison might share
The trust of Guardian to the British fair:
With you conversing with delight we feel
You could with perfect ease out Tatler Steele:
You've writ the best things in the World, and sure
Your taste surpasses far the Connoisseur:
A Rambler too you've been, and like the Bee,
Gather'd sweet spoils from ev'ry flow'r and tree.
At last you turn Adventurer, and fly
Too near the flame of Devonshire's bright eye.
That charming flame whose animating ray
Would tempt e'en Dædalus to soar astray:
Again your wings to burn you seem t' aspire;
You are no child, and do not dread the fire.
But, ah! beware the fable's fatal end,
And e'er too late take caution from a friend:
Come hither with your Icarus and try
A flight together in our middle sky;
That region has its stars; tho' not so bright,
They shed a milder and a safer light.

ANSWER.

You've dress'd me out in borrow'd rags and tatters
Of Ramblers, Guardians, Tatlers, and Spectators;
You've given me wings to fly from pole to pole,
“With thoughts beyond the reaches of my soul.”
To claims like these I've not the least pretence,
Resume them all, and grant me Common Sense.

THE PROGRESS OF LIBERTY.

WHAT progress does Liberty make ev'ry week!
How quick from Versailles has she reach'd Martinique!
And so soon will her power all the Indies subdue,
We shall see her dominion extend to Peru;
For now to her standard so great the resort is,
Her conquests she's spreading much quicker than Cortez.
At the rate she goes on, she will soon be possest
Of all hearts that too long have been slaves in the West.
Then Eastward she'll bend—'tis but crossing the ocean—
And she'll put the Poissardes of Morocco in motion.
Now, turning Algiers, and the kingdoms piratical,
Into popular boroughs and states democratical;
In Egypt, a new constitution and laws
Shall end the contention, of Beys and Bashaws.
But how shall she pass by the strict Dardanelle?
How teach such inveterate slaves to rebel?
How impress on the children of predestination
Those maxims which tend to such strange reformation?
That tyranny turn to a free common-weal,
To états-généreaux, and a hotel-de-ville?
How make the Vizier such a poor renegade,
As to change his three tails for a Christian cockade?
Should Constantinople embrace the idea,
Sure nothing will easier yield than Crimea;
For we know that the mighty Tartarian Cham,
Submitted to Russia, as meek as a lamb!
Content to resign on the very first notice,
Bag and baggage he sail'd o'er the Palus Mæotis.
From the Crim', the divinity lands at Oczakow,
Then hey! for her favourite Veto at Cracow!
If she meet, in her road, hyperborean Kate,
She may chance to persuade that sublime autocrate,
'Ere she quits this vain world, to adopt her opinions,
And present her to all her extensive dominions.
Now in haste over Sweden and Denmark she wanders,
To see how her pupils are acting in Flanders.
From thence to Great Britain she travels with speed,
And, perch'd on the pillar in famed Runnymead,
She surveys the whole island, and finds it in awe
Of no pow'r upon earth, but of justice and law;
With no wrongs to redress, and no rights to restore;
She has all she can wish, and she asks for no more.

ON SEEING THIS MOTTO TO A FRENCH PAPER:
“DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI.”

TO die for one's country, I grant is decorum,
To establish the rights of mankind or restore 'em.
But I first must be sure of my facts ere I full see
That the fate of the bleeding Parisians is dulce.
Most men with poor Agag agree that 'tis “bitter,”
And for Frenchmen I find 'tis an epithet fitter.
Have they died like the heroes of Rome or of Greece?
No.—They suffer their fate from another's caprice.
And when not in the humour to die, they are martyr'd;
So, without their consent, they are hang'd, drawn, and quarter'd.
As a tax it is frequently levied; but no man
Has made a free gift of his life like a Roman.
Their zealous compatriots have saved them the labour;
Each man is so busy in hanging his neighbour.
Which has made the mere mob such expert undertakers,
By performing the funeral rites of the Bakers.
To die, in fine language, is noble and specious,
But who dies like a Paulus, a Curtius or Decius,
Devoted for Rome? or the Theban Menæcius?
Let me see such examples of virtue, before I
Acknowledge 'tis dulce pro patria mori.
But lest you should think that I talk like a tory,
Of Livy and Tacitus read the history:
Examine the tales which they tell for their glory,
And you'll find that of France a quite different story.

TO A FRIEND

OLD Ovid tells, (as I and you know,)
A tale of Jupiter and Juno:
She, jealous hussy, thought her cows
Were fatal to his marriage vows;
And, swallowing ev'ry's gossip's lies,
Beset him with the strangest spies:
Old Argus with his hundred eyes.
With two he slept, and watch'd with four;
The rascal ogled with a score.—
Well, but to leave the ancient story,
How is it in the case before ye?
Your rooted passion for your cows,
Disturbs the quiet of your spouse:
This youth, I prophecy, she'll find
A faithful Argus to her mind;
Whose vigilance and care supplies
The want of number in his eyes.
While you, so practised to survey,
Thro' Storer's glass, the milky way,
Shall there find out a proper station,
To form a splendid constellation;
When you and Joe, your wife and cow,
Shall leave your dairy here below.

A FREE TRANSLATION OF BOILEAU;

Epist. 1. l. 61.

Pyr.
To the siege; for I've oft' been invited to come,
And with glory to conquer all-conquering Rome.

Tut.
I agree that great glory from thence would ensue,
And 'tis worthy alone Alexander or you.
After such an exploit, there's no more to be done.—

Pyr.
Yes—the countries that border on Rome must be won.

Tut.
Any more?

Pyr.
Don't you see Syracuse is so near.

Tut.
Any more?

Pyr.
Give me that, and to Carthage I steer.

Tut.
Now I see, you're resolved to be master of all,
The near, and the distant, the great and the small;
And I plainly perceive you will not be at rest,
Till you've tried all the East, when you've conquer'd the West.
So Egypt is yours. Your Ambition then ranges,
And bears you away to the Tigris and Ganges.
But when crown'd with success and with glory you tire us,
What's left to be done, when return'd to Epirus?

Pyr.
Why to feast on good cheer, and good liquor to quaff;
And, forgetting our labours, to sit down and laugh.

Tut.
Then why should we travel to Egypt and Rome?
Who forbids us to laugh without stirring from home?

EPIGRAMS.

1.

[THUS Flavia exclaim'd, when beholding the coffin]

THUS Flavia exclaim'd, when beholding the coffin,
Which her dear loving spouse to the Abbey went off in;
“And why might not I, like the Braminy dames,
“Leap to his dear arms, through the midst of the flames;
“Here, Jenny, go send for a load of dry faggots,;—
“But hold!—They may say these are whimsies or maggots.
“Would it give his dear manes the smallest concern?
“Would his ashes be much discomposed in their urn?
“If I say with St. Paul “Better marry than burn.”

2. ON MEETING AT MR. GARRICK'S

An Author very shabbily drest in an old velvet Waistcoat, on which he had sewed Embroidery of a later date.

3. QUIN'S DEATH.

4. ACTEON NO CUCKOLD.

I ne'er can agree on
The tale of Acteon,
With a moral so much misapplied;
As by wits who suppose,
They may class him with those,
Who have err'd in the choice of a bride.
But Diana undrest,
Was too tempting a jest,
To be lost on so curious a wag;
So the goddess in wrath
Leap'd out of the bath,
And turn'd the rash youth to a stag,

5. IMITATION OF SHAKSPEARE.

There is a honey-moon in works of Taste,
Which gazed on for awhile, grows full and splendid;
But in the wane is wasting to obscurity,
Shorn of its beams by wanton criticism,
Or hourly fading through satiety.

6. THE HISTORIAN IN LOVE:

AN IMPROMPTU, On the Author seeing his Daughter reading the Life of Mr. Gibbon, just after she had been assisting Lady Newdigate in a Charity for distressed Ribbon Weavers.

7. OCCASIONED BY THE CONDUCT OF THE FRENCH TOWARDS THE POPE IN THE YEAR 1794.

In times of old, at War's imperious call,
England has oft “Robb'd Peter to pay Paul.”
France, her enormous reck'ning to defray,
Peter has robb'd, but Paul will never pay.

8. ON SEEING A DECENT-LOOKING YOUNG WOMAN COME DOWN A STAIRCASE IN CLEMENT'S-INN:

A Parody of Jane Shore's Speech. Act 1st. Scene the last.

Yes! Man, that lawless libertine, may sin
In ev'ry corner of St. Clement's-Inn.
But Woman! if she clamber in the dark
The vice-worn staircase of some lawyer's clerk,
A writ of error blots her spotless name;
A habeas corpus ever damns her fame.

9. TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

Who complained of one Relation who gave late Breakfasts on account of long Prayers,—and of another who gave bad Dinners.

Our ghostly guides, to Heav'n who point the way,
Enjoin this golden precept—Fast and Pray.
How well, O pious youth, thy days are pass'd,
Who pray with Sanctus and with Parcus fast.

10. LINES GIVEN EXTEMPORE

To Doctor Monsey, Physician to Chelsea Hospital, Upon his expressing Surprize that the Scribleriad was not more known and talked of.

Dear doctor, did you ever hear I had
So piqued myself on the Scribleriad,
That every pensioner of Chelsea,
The learning and the wit should well see;
Enough for me if only one see,
But let that one be doctor Monsey.

11. THE FOLLOWING FRENCH LINES

Being put into Mr. Cambridge's Hand, by a Friend who seemed somewhat too partial to this species of French Writing, he was induced to translate them, for the Sake of introducing the two concluding Lines, which expose the false Wit, and give a just Ridicule to the Idea of dying for Love.

Each shepherd falls a victim to your eye,
Thrill'd by your notes the birds for envy die;
Henceforth in deserts must you sing alone,
When all the lovers and the bards are gone.
Yet some blind bard may strike the social string;
And a deaf nightingale in safety sing.

12.

13. ON SEEING A TAPESTRY CHAIR-BOTTOM BEAUTIFULLY WORKED BY HIS DAUGHTER FOR MRS. HOLROYD.

While Holroyd may boast of her beautiful bottom,
I think of what numberless ills may bespot 'em:
'Tis true they're intended for clean petticoats;
But beware of th' intrusion of bold Sanculottes;
Who, regardless of Charlotte's most elegant stitches,
May rudely sit down without linen or breeches:
Would you know from what quarter the mischief may come,
When the batt'ry's unmask'd then beware of the bomb.

14. A TRANSLATION

Of the following Epigram in the Eton collection.

As --- was stepping out of bed,
A lurking Mouse he spies;
And thus, alarm'd with sudden dread,
Aloud to Tony cries:
Tony make haste—the trap prepare—
I see the rascal dodging.—
Friend, quoth the Mouse, you need not fear,
I come but for a lodging;
Nor plant that dreadful engine there,
To catch me by the neck fast;
For surely I had ne'er come here,
If I had wanted breakfast.

The WORLD.

[Ye sages say, who know mankind]