The Poetical Works of John Gay :: :: University of Virginia Library

Of Happiness Terrestrial, and the Source
Whence human pleasures flow, sing Heavenly Muse,
Of sparkling juices, of th' enliv'ning Grape,
Whose quickning tast adds vigour to the Soul,
Whose sov'raign pow'r revives decaying nature,
And thaws the frozen Blood of hoary Age
A kindly warmth diffusing, Youthful fires
Gild his dim Eyes, and paint with ruddy hue
His wrizzled Visage, ghastly wan before:
Cordial restorative, to mortal Man
With copious Hand by bounteous Gods bestow'd.

BACCHUS Divine, aid my adventrous Song,
That with no middle flight intends to soar
Inspir'd, Sublime on Pegasean Wing
By thee upborn, I draw Miltonic Air.

When fumy Vapours clog our loaded Brows
With furrow'd Frowns, when stupid downcast Eyes
Th' external Symptoms of remorse within,
Our Grief express, or when in sullen Dumps
With Head Incumbent on Expanded Palm,
Moaping we sit in silent sorrow drown'd:
Whether Inviegling Hymen has trappand
Th' unwary Youth, and ty'd the Gordian Knot
Of jangling Wedlock, Indissoluble;
Worried all Day by loud Xantippes Din,
And when the gentle Dew of sleep inclines
With slumbrous weight his Eye-lids, She inflam'd
With Uncloy'd Lust, and itch Insatiable,
His Stock exhausted, still yells on for more;
Nor fails She to Exalt him to the Stars,
And fix him there among the Branched Crew
(Taurus, and Aries, and Capricorn,)
The greatest Monster of the Zodiac;
Or for the loss of Anxious Worldly Pelf,
Or Celia's scornful slights, and cold disdain
Had check'd his Am'rous flame with coy repulse,
The worst Events that Mortals can befall;
By cares depress'd, in pensive Hypoish Mood,
With slowest pace, the tedious Minuits Roll.

Thy charming sight, but much more charming Gust
New Life incites, and warms our chilly Blood,
Strait with pert Looks, we raise our drooping fronts,
And pour in Chrystal pure, thy purer juice,
With chearful Countenance, and steady Hand
Raise it Lip-high, then fix the spatious Rim
T' expecting Mouth, and now with Grateful tast,
The ebbing Wine glides swiftly o're the Tongue,
The circling Blood with quicker motion flies;
Such is thy pow'rful influence, thou strait
Dispell'st those Clouds that lowring dark eclips'd
The whilom Glories of our gladsom Face,
And dimpled Cheeks, and sparkling rolling Eyes,

Thy chearing Virtues, and thy worth proclaim.
So Mists and Exhalations that arise
From Hills or steamy Lake, Dusky or Gray
Prevail, till Phœbus sheds Titanian Rays,
And paints their Fleecy skirts with shining Gold;
Unable to resist, the Foggy damps
That veild the surface of the verdant Fields,
At the Gods penetrating Beams disperse:
The Earth again in former Beauty smiles,
In gaudiest Livery drest, all Gay and Clear.

When disappointed Strephon meets Repulse,
Scofft at, despis'd, in Melancholic mood
Joyless he wasts in sighs the lazy Hours,
Till Reinforc't by thy Almighty aid,
He Storms the Breach, and Wins the Beauteous Fort.

To pay Thee Homage, and receive Thy Blessings,
The British Marriner quits native shore,
And ventures through the tractless vast Abyss,
Plowing the Ocean, whilst the Upheav'd Oak
With beaked Prow, Rides tilting ore the Waves;
Shockt by Tempestuous jarring Winds she Rolls
In dangers Imminent, till she arrives
At those blest Climes, thou favourst with thy presence;
Whether, at Lusitanian sultry Coasts,
Or lofty Teneriff, Palma, Ferro,
Provence, Or at the Celtiberian Shores;
With gazing Pleasure, and Astonishment
At Paradice, (Seat of our antient sire,)
He thinks himself arriv'd, the Purple Grape
In largest Clusters Pendant, Grace the Vines
Innumerous, in Fields Grottesque and Wild
They with Implicit Curles the Oak entwine,
And load with Fruit Divine Her spreading Boughs;
Sight most delicious, not an Irksom Thought,
Or of left native Isle, or absent Friends,
Or dearest Wife, or tender sucking Babe,
His kindly treach'rous Mem'ry now presents;
The Jovial GOD has left no room for Cares.

CELESTIAL Liquor, thou that didst inspire
Maro and Flaccus, and the Grecian Bard,
With lofty Numbers, and Heroic strains
Unparelell'd, with Eloquence profound,
And Arguments Convincive didst enforce

Fam'd Tully, and Demosthenes Renown'd:
Ennius first Fam'd in Latin Song, invain
Drew Heliconian streams, Ungrateful whet
To Jaded Muse, and oft' with vain attempt
Heroic Acts in Flagging Numbers dull
With pains essay'd, but abject still and low,
His Unrecruited Muse could never reach
The mighty Theme, till from the Purple Font
Of bright Lenæan fire, Her barren drought
He quench'd, and with inspiring Nect'rous Juice
Her drooping Spirits chear'd, aloft she towres
Born on stiff Pennons, and of Wars alarms,
And Trophies won, in loftiest Numbers sings:
Tis thou the Hero's breast to Martial Acts,
And resolution bold, and ardour brave
Excit'st, thou check'st Inglorious lolling ease,
And sluggish Minds with gen'rous fires inflam'st,
O thou, that first my quickned Soul engag'd,
Still with thy aid assist me, What is dark
Illumin, What is low raise and support,
That to the height of this great Argument,
Thy Universal Sway o're all the World,
In everlasting Numbers, like the Theme
I may record, and sing thy Matchless Worth.

Had the Oxonian Bard thy Praise rehears'd,
His Muse had yet retain'd her wonted height;
Such as of late o're Blenheims Field she soard
Aerial, now in Ariconian Bogs
She lies Inglorious floundring, like her Theme
Languid and Faint, and on damp Wing immerg'd
In acid juice, invain attempts to rise.

With what sublimest Joy from noisy Town,
At Rural Seat, Lucretilis retir'd,
Flaccus, untainted by perplexing Cares,
Where the white Poplar, and the lofty Pine
Join Neighbouring Boughs, sweet Hospitable shade
Creating, from Phæbean Rays secure,
A cool Retreat, with few well chosen Friends
On flowry Mead Recumbent, spent the Hours
In Mirth Innocuous, and Alternate Verse!
With Roses Interwoven, Poplar wreaths
Their Temples bind, dress of Sylvestrian Gods;
Choicest Nectarian juice Crown'd largest Bowles,
And Overlook'd the lid, alluring sight,
Of fragrant Scent attractive, tast Divine!

Whether from Formian Grape depress'd, Falern
Or Setin, Massic, Gauran or Sabine,
Lesbian or Cæcuban, the chearing Bowl
Mov'd briskly round, and spur'd their heightned Wit
To Sing Mecænas praise their Patron kind.

But we, not as our Pristin sires, repair
T' umbrageous Grot or Vale, but when the Sun
Faintly from Western Skies his rays oblique
Darts sloping, and to Thetis watry Lap
Hastens in Prone Career, with Friends Select
Swiftly we hie to Devil Young or Old
Jocund and Boon, where at the entrance stands
A Stripling, who with Scrapes and Humil Cringe,
Greets us in winning Speech and Accent Bland;
With lightest bound, and safe unerring step
He skips before, and nimbly climbs the Stairs:
Melampus thus, panting with lolling Tongue,
And wagging Tail, Gamboles, and frisks before
His sequel Lord from pensive walk return'd,
Whether in Shady Wood, or Pastures Green,
And waits his coming at the well known Gate.
Nigh to the Stairs Ascent, in regal Port
Sits a Majestic Dame, whose looks denounce
Command and Sov'reignty, with haughty Air,
And Studied Mien, in Semicirc'lar Throne
Enclos'd, she deals around her dread Commands;
Behind her (Dazling sight) in order Rang'd,
Pile above Pile Chrystallin Vessels shine;
Attendant Slaves with eager stride advance,
And after Homage paid, bawl out aloud
Words Unintelligible, noise confus'd:
She knows the Jargon Sound, and strait describes
In Characters Mysterious Words obscure;
More legible are Algebraic Signs,
Or Mystic Figures by Magicians drawn,
When they Invoke aid Diabolical.

Drive hence the Rude and Barb'rous Dissonance
Of Savage Thracians, and Croatian Boors;
The loud Centaurean Broiles with Lapithæ.
Sound harsh, and grating to Lenæan God:
Chase brutal Feuds of Belgian skippers hence,
(Amid their Cups, whose Innate Tempers shown)
In clumsy Fist wielding Scymetrian Knife,
Who slash each others Eyes, and Blubber'd Face,

Prophaning Bacchanalian solemn rites:
Musicks Harmonious Numbers better suit
His Festivalls, from Instrument or Voice,
Or Gasperini's Hand the trembling string
Should touch, or from the Tuscan Dames,
Or warbling TOFTS more soft Melodious Tongue
Sweet Symphonies should flow, the Delian God
For Airy BACCHUS is Associate meet.

The Stairs Ascent now gain'd, our Guide unbars
The Door of Spatious Room, and creaking Chairs
(To ear offensive) round the Table sets,
We sit, when thus his Florid Speech begins:
Name, Sirs, the WINE that most invites your Tast,
Champaign or Burgundy, or Florence pure,
Or Hock Antique, or Lisbon New or Old,
Bourdeaux, or neat French White, or Alicant:
For Bourdeaux we with Voice Unanimous
Declare, (such Sympathy's in Boon Compeers.)
He quits the Room Alert, but soon returns,
One Hand Capacious glist'ring Vessels bore
Resplendant, th' other with a grasp secure,
A Bottle (mighty charge) upstaid, full Fraught
With goodly Wine, He with extended Hand
Rais'd high, pours forth the Sanguin frothy Juice,
O'respread with Bubbles, dissipated soon:
We strait t' our Arms repair, experienc't Chiefs;
Now Glasses clash with Glasses, (charming sound,)
And Glorious ANNA's Health the first the best
Crowns the full Glass, at HER inspiring Name
The sprightly Wine Results, and seems to Smile,
With hearty Zeal, and wish Unanimous
The Health we Drink, and in HER Health our own.

A Pause ensues, and now with grateful Chat
W' improve the Interval, and Joyous Mirth
Engages our rais'd Souls, Pat Repartee,
Or Witty Joke our airy Senses moves
To pleasant Laughter, strait the Ecchoing Room
With Universal Peals and Shouts Resounds.

The ROYAL DANE, blest Consort of blest QUEEN,
Next Crowns the Rubied Nectar, all whose Bliss
In ANNA's plac't, with Sympathetic Flame,
And Mutual Endearments, all HER Joys,

Like the kind Turtles pure untainted Love,
Center in HIM, who shares the grateful Hearts
Of Loyal Subjects, with his Sov'reign QUEEN;
For by HIS Prudent Care, united shores
Were sav'd from Hostile Fleets Invasion dire.

The Hero MARLBRO next, whose vast Exploits
Fames Clarion sounds, fresh Laurels, Triumphs new
We wish, like those HE won at Hockstets Field.

Next DEVONSHIRE Illustrious, who from Race
Of Noblest Patriots sprung, whose Soul's Endow'd,
And is with ev'ry Vertuous gift Adorn'd
That shon in His most worthy Ancestors,
For then distinct in sep'rate Breasts were seen
Virtues distinct, but all in HIM Unite.

Prudent GODOLPHIN, of the Nations weal
Frugal, but free and gen'rous of his own
Next Crowns the Bowl, with Faithful SUNDERLAND,
And HALIFAX, the Muses darling Son,
In whom Conspicuous, with full Lustre shine
The surest Judgment, and the brightest Wit,
Himself Mecænas and a Flaccus too,
And all the Worthies of the British Realm
In order rang'd succeeded, Healths that ting'd
The Dulcet Wine with a more charming Gust.

Now each the Mistress by whose scorching Eyes
Fir'd, tosts Cosmelia Fair, or Dulcibella,
Or Sylvia Comely Black, with jetty Eyes
Piercing, or Airy Celia sprightly Maid.
Insensibly thus flow Unnumber'd Hours;
Glass succeeds Glass, till the DIRCÆAN GOD
Shines in our Eyes, and with his Fulgent Rays
Enlightens our glad Looks with lovely Die;
All Blithe and Jolly that like Arthurs Knights,
Of Rotund Table, Fam'd in Pristin Records,
Now most we seem'd, such is the Power of Wine.

Thus we the winged Hours in harmless Mirth,
And Joys Unsully'd pass, till Humid Night
Has half her Race perform'd, now all Abroad
Is hush'd and silent, nor the Rumbling noise
Of Coach or Cart, or smoaky Link-Boys call
Is heard; but Universal silence Reigns:
When we in Merry Plight, Airy and Gay,
Surpriz'd to find the Hours so swiftly flie,
With hasty knock, or Twang of Pendant Cord
Alarm the drowsy Youth from slumb'ring Nod;
Startled he flies, and stumbles o'er the Stairs
Erroneous, and with busie Knuckles plies
His yet clung Eye-lids, and with stagg'ring Reel
Enters Confus'd, and Mutt'ring asks our Wills;
When we with Lib'ral Hand the Score discharge,
And Homeward each his Course with steady step
Unerring steer'd, of Cares and Coin bereft.

THE FAN. A .

POEM

IN THREE BOOKS.

------ ενθα τε οι θελκτηρια παντα τετυκτο: Ενθ' ενι μεν φιλοτης, εν δ' ιμερος, εν δ' οαριστυς Παρφασις, ητ' εκλεψε νοον πυκα περ φρονεοντων: Τον ρα οι εμβαλε χερσιν.
Homer Iliad. 14.

BOOK I.

I sing that graceful toy, whose waving play
With gentle gales relieves the sultry day,
Not the wide fan by Persian dames display'd,
Which o'er their beauty casts a grateful shade;
Nor that long known in China's artful land,
Which, while it cools the face, fatigues the hand:
Nor shall the muse in Asian climates rove,
To seek in Indostan some spicy grove,
Where stretch'd at ease the panting lady lies,
To shun the fervor of meridian skies,

While sweating slaves catch ev'ry breeze of air,
And with wide-spreading fans refresh the fair;
No busie gnats her pleasing dreams molest,
Inflame her cheek, or ravage o'er her breast,
But artificial Zephyrs round her fly,
And mitigate the feaver of the sky.

Nor shall Bermudas long the Muse detain,
Whose fragrant forests bloom in Waller's strain,
Where breathing sweets from ev'ry field ascend,
And the wild woods with golden apples bend;
Yet let me in some od'rous shade repose,
Whilst in my verse the fair Palmetto grows:
Like the tall pine it shoots its stately head,
From the broad top depending branches spread;
No knotty limbs the taper body bears,
Hung on each bough a single leaf appears,
Which shrivell'd in its infancy remains,
Like a clos'd fan, nor stretches wide its veins,
But as the seasons in their circle run,
Opes its ribb'd surface to the nearer sun:
Beneath this shade the weary peasant lies,
Plucks the broad leaf, and bids the breezes rise.

Stay, wand'ring Muse, nor rove in foreign climes,
To thy own native shore confine thy rhimes.
Assist, ye Nine, your loftiest notes employ,
Say what celestial skill contriv'd the toy;
Say how this instrument of Love began,
And in immortal strains display the Fan.

Strephon had long confess'd his am'rous pain,
Which gay Corinna railly'd with disdain:
Sometimes in broken words he sigh'd his care,
Look'd pale, and trembled when he view'd the fair;
With bolder freedoms now the youth advanc'd,
He dress'd, he laugh'd, he sung, he rhim'd, he danc'd:
Now call'd more pow'rful presents to his aid,
And, to seduce the mistress, brib'd the maid;
Smooth flatt'ry in her softer hours apply'd,
The surest charm to bind the force of pride:
But still unmov'd remains the scornful dame,
Insults her captive, and derides his flame.
When Strephon saw his vows dispers'd in air,
He sought in solitude to lose his care;
Relief in solitude he sought in vain,
It serv'd, like Musick, but to feed his pain.
To Venus now the slighted Boy complains,
And calls the Goddess in these tender strains.

O potent Queen, from Neptune's empire sprung,
Whose glorious birth admiring Nereids sung,

Who 'midst the fragrant plains of Cyprus rove,
Whose radiant presence gilds the Paphian grove,
Where to thy name a thousand altars rise,
And curling clouds of incense hide the skies:
O beauteous Goddess, teach me how to move,
Inspire my tongue with eloquence of love.
If lost Adonis e'er thy bosom warm'd,
If e'er his eyes, or godlike figure charm'd,
Think on those hours when first you felt the dart,
Think on the restless feaver of thy heart;
Think how you pin'd in absence of the swain:
By those uneasie minutes know my pain.
Ev'n while Cydippe to Diana bows,
And at her shrine renews her virgin vows,
The lover, taught by thee, her pride o'ercame;
She reads his oaths, and feels an equal flame:
Oh, may my flame, like thine, Acontius, prove,
May Venus dictate, and reward my love.
When crouds of suitors Atalanta try'd,
She wealth, and beauty, wit and fame defy'd;
Each daring lover with advent'rous race;
Pursu'd his wishes in the dang'rous race;
Like the swift hind, the bounding damsel flies,
Strains to the goal, the distanc'd lover dies.
Hippomenes, O Venus, was thy care,
You taught the swain to stay the flying fair,
Thy golden present caught the virgin's eyes,
She stoops; he rushes on, and gains the prize.
Say, Cyprian Deity, what gift, what art,
Shall humble into love Corinna's heart;
If only some bright toy can charm her sight,
Teach me what present may suspend her flight.
Thus the desponding youth his flame declares.
The Goddess with a nod his passion hears.

Far in Cythera stands a spacious grove,
Sacred to Venus and the God of love;

Here the luxuriant myrtle rears her head.
Like the tall oak the fragrant branches spread;
Here nature all her sweets profusely pours,
And paints th' enamell'd ground with various flow'rs;
Deep in the gloomy glade a grotto bends,
Wide through the craggy rock an arch extends,
The rugged stone is cloath'd with mantling vines,
And round the cave the creeping woodbine twines.

Here busie Cupids, with pernicious art,
Form the stiff bow, and forge the fatal dart;
All share the toil; while some the bellows ply,
Others with feathers teach the shafts to fly:
Some with joint force whirl round the stony wheel,
Where streams the sparkling fire from temper'd steel;
Some point their arrows with the nicest skill,
And with the warlike store their quivers fill.

A different toil another forge employs;
Here the loud hammer fashions female toys,
Hence is the fair with ornament supply'd,
Hence sprung the glitt'ring implements of pride;
Each trinket that adorns the modern dame,
First to these little artists ow'd its frame.
Here an unfinish'd di'mond crosslet lay,
To which soft lovers adoration pay;
There was the polish'd crystal bottle seen,
That with quick scents revives the modish spleen:
Here the yet rude unjoynted snuff-box lyes,
Which serves the railly'd fop for smart replies;
There piles of paper rose in gilded reams,
The future records of the lover's flames;
Here clouded canes 'midst heaps of toys are found,
And inlaid tweezer-cases strow the ground.
There stands the Toilette, nursery of charms,
Compleatly furnish'd with bright beauty's arms;
The patch, the powder-box, pulville, perfumes,
Pins, paint, a flattr'ing glass, and black-lead combs.

The toilsome hours in diff'rent labour slide,
Some work the file, and some the graver guide;
From the loud anvil the quick blow rebounds,
And their rais'd arms descend in tuneful sounds.
Thus when Semiramis, in ancient days,
Bad Babylon her mighty bulwarks raise;
A swarm of lab'rers diff'rent tasks attend:
Here pullies make the pond'rous oak ascend,
With ecchoing strokes the cragged quarry groans,
While there the chissel forms the shapeless stones;

The weighty mallet deals resounding blows,
'Till the proud battlements her tow'rs enclose.

Now Venus mounts her car, she shakes the reins,
And steers her turtles to Cythera's plains;
Strait to the grott with graceful step she goes,
Her loose ambrosial hair behind her flows:
The swelling bellows heave for breath no more,
All drop their silent hammers on the floor;
In deep suspence the mighty labour stands,
While thus the Goddess spoke her mild commands.

Industrious Loves, your present toils forbear,
A more important task demands your care;
Long has the scheme employ'd my thoughtful Mind,
By judgment ripen'd, and by time refin'd.
That glorious bird have ye not often seen
Who draws the car of the celestial Queen?
Have ye not oft survey'd his varying dyes,
His tail all gilded o'er with Argus' eyes?
Have ye not seen him in the sunny day
Unfurle his plumes, and all his pride display,
Then suddenly contract his dazling train,
And with long-trailing feathers sweep the plain?
Learn from this hint, let this instruct your art;
Thin taper sticks must from one center part:
Let these into the quadrant's form divide,
The spreading ribs with snowy paper hide;
Here shall the pencil bid its colours flow,
And make a miniature creation grow.
Let the machine in equal foldings close,
And now its plaited surface wide dispose.
So shall the fair her idle hand employ,
And grace each motion with the restless toy,
With various play bid grateful Zephyrs rise,
While love in ev'ry grateful Zephyr flies.

The master Cupid traces out the lines,
And with judicious hand the draught designs,
Th' expecting Loves with joy the model view,
And the joint labour eagerly pursue.
Some slit their arrows with the nicest art,
And into sticks convert the shiver'd dart;
The breathing bellows wake the sleeping fire,
Blow off the cinders, and the sparks aspire;
Their arrow's point they soften in the flame,
And sounding hammers break its barbed frame:
Of this, the little pin they neatly mold,
From whence their arms the spreading sticks unfold;

In equal plaits they now the paper bend,
And at just distance the wide ribs extend,
Then on the frame they mount the limber skreen,
And finish instantly the new machine.

The Goddess pleas'd, the curious work receives,
Remounts her chariot, and the grotto leaves;
With the light fan she moves the yielding air,
And gales, till then unknown, play round the fair.

Unhappy lovers, how will you withstand,
When these new arms shall grace your charmer's hand?
In ancient times, when maids in thought were pure,
When eyes were artless, and the look demure,
When the wide ruff the well-turn'd neck enclos'd,
And heaving breasts within the stays repos'd,
When the close hood conceal'd the modest ear,
E'er black-lead combs disown'd the virgin's hair;
Then in the muff unactive fingers lay,
Nor taught the fan in fickle forms to play.

How are the Sex improv'd in am'rous arts,
What new-found snares they bait for human hearts!

When kindling war the ravag'd globe ran o'er,
And fatten'd thirsty plains with human gore,
At first, the brandish'd arm the jav'lin threw,
Or sent wing'd arrows from the twanging yew;
In the bright air the dreadful fauchion shone,
Or whistling slings dismiss'd th' uncertain stone.
Now men those less destructive arms despise,
Wide-wastful death from thundring cannon flies,
One hour with more battalions strows the plain,
Than were of yore in weekly battels slain.
So love with fatal airs the nymph supplies,
Her dress disposes, and directs her eyes.
The bosom now its panting beautys shows,
Th' experienc'd eye resistless glances throws;
Now vary'd patches wander o'er the face,
And strike each gazer with a borrow'd grace;
The fickle head-dress sinks and now aspires
A tow'ry front of lace on branching wires.
The curling hair in tortur'd ringlets flows,
Or round the face in labour'd order grows.

How shall I soar, and on unweary wing
Trace varying habits upward to their spring!
What force of thought, what numbers can express,
Th' inconstant equipage of female dress?
How the strait stays the slender waste constrain,
How to adjust the manteau's sweeping train?
What fancy can the petticoat surround,
With the capacious hoop of whalebone bound?
But stay, presumptuous Muse, nor boldly dare
The Toilette's sacred mysteries declare;
Let a just distance be to beauty paid;
None here must enter but the trusty maid.
Should you the wardrobe's magazine rehearse,
And glossy manteaus rustle in thy verse;
Should you the rich brocaded suit unfold,
Where rising flow'rs grow stiff with frosted gold,
The dazled Muse would from her subject stray,
And in a maze of fashions lose her way.

BOOK II.

Olympus' gates unfold; in heav'n's high towers
Appear in council all th' immortal Powers;
Great Jove above the rest exalted sate,
And in his mind revolv'd succeeding fate,
His awful eye with ray superiour shone,
The thunder-grasping eagle guards his throne;
On silver clouds the great assembly laid,
The whole creation at one view survey'd.

But see, fair Venus comes in all her state,
The wanton Loves and Graces round her wait;
With her loose robe officious Zephyrs play,
And strow with odoriferous flowers the way,
In her right hand she waves the flutt'ring fan,
And thus in melting sounds her speech began.

Assembled Powers, who fickle mortals guide,
Who o'er the sea, the skies and earth preside,

Ye fountains whence all human blessings flow,
Who pour your bounties on the world below;
Bacchus first rais'd and prun'd the climbing vine,
And taught the grape to stream with gen'rous wine;
Industrious Ceres tam'd the savage ground,
And pregnant fields with golden harvests crown'd;
Flora with bloomy sweets enrich'd the year,
And fruitful autumn is Pomona's care.
I first taught woman to subdue mankind,
And all her native charms with dress refin'd:
Celestial Synod, this machine survey,
That shades the face, or bids cool Zephyrs play;
If conscious blushes on her cheek arise,
With this she veils them from her lover's eyes;
No levell'd glance betrays her am'rous heart,
From the fan's ambush she directs the dart.
The royal scepter shines in Juno's hand,
And twisted thunder speaks great Jove's command;
On Pallas' arm the Gorgon shield appears,
And Neptune's mighty grasp the trident bears:
Ceres is with the bending sickle seen,
And the strung bow points out the Cynthian Queen
Henceforth the waving fan my hands shall grace,
The waving fan supply the scepter's place.
Who shall, ye Powers, the forming pencil hold?
What story shall the wide machine unfold?
Let Loves and Graces lead the dance around,
With myrtle wreaths and flow'ry chaplets crown'd;
Let Cupid's arrows strow the smiling plains
With unresisting nymphs, and am'rous swains:
May glowing picture o'er the surface shine,
To melt slow virgins with the warm design.

Diana rose; with silver crescent crown'd,
And fix'd her modest eyes upon the ground;
Then with becoming mien she raised her head,
And thus with graceful voice the virgin said.

Has woman then forgot all former wiles,
The watchful ogle, and delusive smiles?

Does man against her charms too pow'rful prove,
Or are the sex grown novices in love?
Why then these arms? or why should artful eyes,
From this slight ambush, conquer by surprize?
No guilty thought the spotless virgin knows,
And o'er her cheek no conscious crimson glows;
Since blushes then from shame alone arise,
Why should we veil them from her lover's eyes?
Let Cupid rather give up his command,
And trust his arrows in a female hand.
Have not the Gods already cherish'd pride,
And women with destructive arms supply'd?
Neptune on her bestows his choicest stores,
For her the chambers of the deep explores;
The gaping shell its pearly charge resigns,
And round her neck the lucid bracelet twines:
Plutus for her bids earth its wealth unfold,
Where the warm oar is ripen'd into gold;
Or where the ruby reddens in the soil,
Where the green emerald pays the searcher's toil.
Does not the di'mond sparkle in her ear,
Glow on her hand, and tremble in her hair?
From the gay nymph the glancing lustre flies,
And imitates the lightning of her eyes.
But yet if Venus' wishes must succeed,
And this fantastick engine be decreed,
May some chast story from the pencil flow,
To speak the virgin's joy, and Hymen's woe.

Here let the wretched Ariadne stand,
Seduc'd by Theseus to some desart land,
Her locks dishevell'd waving in the wind,
The crystal tears confess her tortur'd mind;
The perjur'd youth unfurles his treach'rous sails,
And their white bosoms catch the swelling gales.
Be still, ye winds, she crys, stay, Theseus, stay;
But faithless Theseus hears no more than they.
All desp'rate, to some craggy cliff she flies,
And spreads a well-known signal in the skies;
His less'ning vessel plows the foamy main,
She sighs, she calls, she waves the sign in vain.

Paint Dido there amidst her last distress,
Pale cheeks and blood-shot eyes her grief express:
Deep in her breast the reeking sword is drown'd,
And gushing blood streams purple from the wound:
Her sister Anna hov'ring o'er her stands,
Accuses heav'n with lifted eyes and hands,
Upbraids the Trojan with repeated cries,
And mixes curses with her broken sighs.
View this, ye maids; and then each swain believe;
They're Trojans all, and vow but to deceive.

Here draw OEnone in the lonely grove,
Where Paris first betray'd her into love;
Let wither'd garlands hand on ev'ry bough,
Which the false youth wove for OEnone's brow,
The garlands lose their sweets, their pride is shed,
And like their odours all his vows are fled;
On her fair arm her pensive head she lays,
And Xanthus' waves with mournful look surveys;
That flood which witness'd his inconstant flame,
When thus he swore, and won the yielding dame:
These streams shall sooner to their fountain move,
Than I forget my dear OEnone's love.
Roll back, ye streams, back to your fountain run,
Paris is false, OEnone is undone.
Ah wretched maid! think how the moments flew,
E'er you the pangs of this curs'd passion knew,
When groves could please, and when you lov'd the plain,
Without the presence of your perjur'd swain.

Thus may the nymph, whene'er she spreads the fan,
In his true colours view perfidious man,
Pleas'd with her virgin state in forests rove,
And never trust the dang'rous hopes of love.

The Goddess ended. Merry Momus rose,
With smiles and grins he waggish glances throws,
Then with a noisie laugh forestalls his joke,
Mirth flashes from his eyes while thus he spoke.

Rather let heav'nly deeds be painted there,
And by your own examples teach the fair.

Let chast Diana on the piece be seen,
And the bright crescent own the Cynthian Queen;
On Latmos' top see young Endymion lies,
Feign'd sleep hath clos'd the bloomy lover's eyes,
See, to his soft embraces how she steals,
And on his lips her warm caresses seals;
No more her hand the glitt'ring Jav'lin holds,
But round his neck her eager arms she folds.
Why are our secrets by our blushes shown?
Virgins are virgins still—while 'tis unknown.
Here let her on some flow'ry bank be laid,
Where meeting beeches weave a grateful shade,
Her naked bosom wanton tresses grace,
And glowing expectation paints her face,
O'er her fair limbs a thin loose veil is spread,
Stand off, ye shepherds; fear Actæon's head;
Let vig'rous Pan th' unguarded minute seize,
And in a shaggy goat the virgin please.
Why are our secrets by our blushes shown?
Virgins are virgins still—while 'tis unknown.

There with just warmth Aurora's passion trace,
Let spreading crimson stain her virgin face;
See Cephalus her wanton airs despise,
While she provokes him with desiring eyes;
To raise his passion she displays her charms,
His modest hand upon her bosom warms;
Nor looks, nor pray'rs, nor force his heart persuade,
But with disdain he quits the rosie maid.

Here let dissolving Leda grace the toy,
Warm cheeks and heaving breasts reveal her joy;
Beneath the pressing swan she pants for air,
While with his flutt'ring wings he fans the fair.
There let all-conqu'ring gold exert its pow'r,
And soften Danae in a glitt'ring show'r.

Would you warn beauty not to cherish pride,
Nor vainly in the treach'rous bloom confide,

On the machine the sage Minerva place,
With lineaments of wisdom mark her face;
See, where she lies near some transparent flood,
And with her pipe chears the resounding wood:
Her image in the floating glass she spies,
Her bloated cheeks, worn lips, and shrivell'd eyes;
She breaks the guiltless pipe, and with disdain
Its shatter'd ruins flings upon the plain.
With the loud reed no more her cheek shall swell,
What, spoil her face! no. Warbling strains, farewell.
Shall arts, shall sciences employ the fair?
Those trifles are beneath Minerva's care.

From Venus let her learn the married life,
And all the virtuous duties of a wife.
Here on a couch extend the Cyprian dame,
Let her eye sparkle with the growing flame;
The God of war within her clinging arms,
Sinks on her lips, and kindles all her charms.
Paint limping Vulcan with a husband's care,
And let his brow the cuckold's honours wear;
Beneath the net the captive lovers place,
Their limbs entangled in a close embrace.
Let these amours adorn the new machine,
And female nature on the piece be seen;
So shall the fair, as long as fans shall last,
Learn from your bright examples to be chast.

BOOK III.

Thus Momus spoke. When sage Minerva rose,
From her sweet lips smooth elocution flows,
Her skillful hand an iv'ry pallet grac'd,
Where shining colours were in order plac'd.
As Gods are bless'd with a superior skill,
And, swift as mortal thought, perform their will,
Strait she proposes, by her art divine,
To bid the paint express her great design.
Th' assembled Pow'rs consent. She now began,
And her creating pencil stain'd the fan.

O'er the fair field, trees spread, and rivers flow,
Tow'rs rear their heads, and distant mountains grow;
Life seems to move within the glowing veins,
And in each face some lively passion reigns.
Thus have I seen woods, hills, and dales appear,
Flocks graze the plains, birds wing the silent air
In darken'd rooms, where light can only pass
Through the small circle of a convex glass;
On the white sheet the moving figures rise,
The forest waves, clouds float along the skies.

She various fables on the piece design'd,
That spoke the follies of the female kind.

The fate of pride in Niobe she drew:
Be wise, ye nymphs, that scornful vice subdue.
In a wide plain th' imperious mother stood,
Whose distant bounds rose in a winding wood;
Upon her shoulder flows her mantling hair,
Pride marks her brow, and elevates her air;
A purple robe behind her sweeps the ground,
Whose spacious border golden flow'rs surround:
She made Latona's altars cease to flame,
And of due honours robb'd her sacred name.
To her own charms she bad fresh incense rise,
And adoration own her brighter eyes.
Sev'n daughters from her fruitful loyns were born,
Sev'n graceful sons her nuptial bed adorn,
Who, for a mother's arrogant disdain,
Were by Latona's double offspring slain.
Here Phœbus his unerring arrow drew,
And from his rising steed her first-born threw,

His op'ning fingers drop the slacken'd rein,
And the pale corse falls headlong to the plain.
Beneath her pencil here two wrestlers bend,
See, to the grasp their swelling nerves distend,
Diana's arrow joins them face to face,
And death unites them in a strict embrace.
Another here flies trembling o'er the plain;
When heav'n pursues we shun the stroke in vain.
This lifts his supplicating hands and eyes,
And 'midst his humble adoration dies.
As from his thigh this tears the barbed dart,
A surer weapon strikes his throbbing heart:
While that to raise his wounded brother tries,
Death blasts his bloom, and locks his frozen eyes.
The tender sisters bath'd in grief appear,
With sable garments and dishevell'd hair,
And o'er their gasping brothers weeping stood;
Some with their tresses stopt the gushing blood,
They strive to stay the fleeting life too late,
And in the pious action share their fate.
Now the proud dame o'ercome by trembling fear,
With her wide robe protects her only care;
To save her only care in vain she tries,
Close at her feet the latest victim dies.
Down her fair cheek the trickling sorrow flows,
Like dewy spangles on the blushing rose,
Fixt in astonishment she weeping stood,
The plain all purple with her children's blood;
She stiffens with her woes: no more her hair
In easie ringlets wantons in the air;
Motion forsakes her eyes, her veins are dry'd,
And beat no longer with the sanguine tide;
All life is fled, firm marble now she grows,
Which still in tears the mother's anguish shows.

Ye haughty fair, your painted fans display,
And the just fate of lofty pride survey;
Though lovers oft extoll your beauty's power,
And in celestial similies adore,
Though from your features Cupid borrows arms,
And Goddesses confess inferior charms,
Do not, vain maid, the flatt'ring tale believe,
Alike thy lovers and thy glass deceive.

Here lively colours Procris' passion tell,
Who to her jealous fears a victim fell.

Here kneels the trembling hunter o'er his wife,
Who rolls her sick'ning eyes, and gasps for life;
Her drooping head upon her shoulder lies,
And purple gore her snowy bosom dies.
What guilt, what horror on his face appears!
See, his red eye-lid seems to swell with tears,
With agony his wringing hands he strains,
And strong convulsions stretch his branching veins.

Learn hence, ye wives; bid vain suspicion cease,
Lose not in sullen discontent your peace.
For when fierce love to jealousie ferments,
A thousand doubts and fears the soul invents,
No more the days in pleasing converse flow,
And nights no more their soft endearments know.

There on the piece the Volscian Queen expir'd,
The love of spoils her female bosom fir'd;
Gay Chloreus' arms attract her longing eyes,
And for the painted plume and helm she sighs;
Fearless she follows, bent on gaudy prey,
Till an ill-fated dart obstructs her way;
Down drops the martial maid; the bloody ground
Floats with a torrent from the purple wound.
The mournful nymphs her drooping head sustain,
And try to stop the gushing life in vain.

Thus the raw maid some tawdry coat surveys,
Where the fop's fancy in embroidery plays;

His snowy feather edg'd with crimson dyes,
And his bright sword-knot lure her wand'ring eyes;
Fring'd gloves and gold brocade conspire to move,
Till the nymph falls a sacrifice to love.

Here young Narcissus o'er the fountain stood,
And view'd his image in the crystal flood;
The crystal flood reflects his lovely charms,
And the pleas'd image strives to meet his arms.
No nymph his unexperienc'd breast subdu'd,
Eccho in vain the flying boy pursu'd,
Himself alone the foolish youth admires,
And with fond look the smiling shade desires:
O'er the smooth lake with fruitless tears he grieves,
His spreading fingers shoot in verdant leaves,
Through his pale veins green sap now gently flows,
And in a short-lived flow'r his beauty blows.

Let vain Narcissus warn each female breast,
That beauty's but a transient good at best.
Like flow'rs it withers with th' advancing year,
And age like winter robs the blooming fair.
Oh Araminta, cease thy wonted pride,
Nor longer in thy faithless charms confide;
Ev'n while the glass reflects thy sparkling eyes,
Their lustre and thy rosie colour flies!

Thus on the fan the breathing figures shine,
And all the Powers applaud the wise design.

The Cyprian Queen the painted gift receives,
And with a grateful bow the synod leaves.
To the low world she bends her steepy way
Where Strephon pass'd the solitary day;
She found him in a melancholy grove,
His down-cast eyes betray'd desponding love,
The wounded bark confess'd his slighted flame,
And ev'ry tree bore false Corinna's name;
In a cool shade he lay with folded arms,
Curses his fortune, and upbraids her charms,
When Venus to his wond'ring eyes appears,
And with these words relieves his am'rous cares.

Rise, happy youth, this bright machine survey,
Whose ratt'ling sticks my busie fingers sway,
This present shall thy cruel charmer move,
And in her fickle bosom kindle love.

The fan shall flutter in all female hands,
And various fashions learn from various lands.
For this, shall elephants their ivory shed;
And polish'd sticks the waving engine spread:
His clouded mail the tortoise shall resign,
And round the rivet pearly circles shine.

On this shall Indians all their art employ,
And with bright colours stain the gaudy toy;
Their paint shall here in wildest fancies flow,
Their dress, their customs, their religion show,
So shall the British fair their minds improve,
And on the fan to distant climates rove.
Here China's ladies shall their pride display,
And silver figures gild their loose array;
This boasts her little feet and winking eyes;
That tunes the fife, or tinkling cymbal plies:
Here cross-leg'd nobles in rich state shall dine,
There in bright mail distorted heroes shine.
The peeping fan in modern times shall rise,
Through which unseen the female ogle flies;
This shall in temples the sly maid conceal,
And shelter love beneath devotion's veil.
Gay France shall make the fan her artist's care,
And with the costly trinket arm the fair.
As learned Orators that touch the heart,
With various action raise their soothing art,
Both head and hand affect the list'ning throng,
And humour each expression of the tongue.
So shall each passion by the fan be seen,
From noisie anger to the sullen spleen.

While Venus spoke, joy shone in Strephon's eyes,
Proud of the gift, he to Corinna flies.
But Cupid (who delights in am'rous ill,
Wounds hearts, and leaves them to a woman's will)
With certain aim a golden arrow drew,
Which to Leander's panting bosom flew:

Leander lov'd; and to the sprightly dame
In gentle sighs reveal'd his growing flame;
Sweet smiles Corinna to his sighs returns,
And for the fop in equal passion burns.

Lo Strephon comes! and with a suppliant bow,
Offers the present, and renews his vow.

When she the fate of Niobe beheld,
Why has my pride against my heart rebell'd?
She sighing cry'd. Disdain forsook her breast,
And Strephon now was thought a worthy guest.

In Procris' bosom when she saw the dart,
She justly blames her own suspicious heart,
Imputes her discontent to jealous fear,
And knows her Strephon's constancy sincere.

When on Camilla's fate her eye she turns,
No more for show and equipage she burns:
She learns Leander's passion to despise,
And looks on merit with discerning eyes.

Narcissus' change to the vain virgin shows,
Who trusts to beauty, trusts the fading rose.
Youth flies apace, with youth your beauty flies,
Love then, ye virgins, e'er the blossom dies.

Thus Pallas taught her. Strephon weds the dame,
And Hymen's torch diffus'd the brightest flame.

THE SHEPHERD's WEEK. IN SIX PASTORALS.

------ Libeat mihi sordida rura,
Atque humiles habitare casas.
—Virg.

PROLOGUE.

To the Right Honourable the Lord Viscount Bolingbroke.

Lo, I who erst beneath a tree
Sung Bumkinet and Bowzybee,
And Blouzelind and Marian bright,
In apron blue or apron white,
Now write my sonnets in a book,
For my good lord of Bolingbroke.

As lads and lasses stood around
To hear my boxen haut-boy sound,
Our Clerk came posting o'er the green
With doleful tidings of the Queen;
That Queen, he said, to whom we owe
Sweet Peace that maketh riches flow;
That Queen who eas'd our tax of late,
Was dead, alas!—and lay in state.

At this, in tears was Cic'ly seen,
Buxoma tore her pinners clean,
In doleful dumps stood ev'ry clown,
The parson rent his band and gown.

For me, when as I heard that death
Had snatch'd Queen ANNE to Elzabeth,
I broke my reed, and sighing swore
I'd weep for Blouzelind no more.

While thus we stood as in a stound,
And wet with tears, like dew, the ground,
Full soon by bonefire and by bell
We learnt our Liege was passing well.
A skilful leach (so God him speed)
They said had wrought this blessed deed.
This leach Arbuthnot was yclept,
Who many a night not once had slept;
But watch'd our gracious Sov'raign still:
For who could rest when she was ill?
Oh, may'st thou henceforth sweetly sleep!
Sheer, swains, oh sheer your softest sheep
To swell his couch; for well I ween,
He sav'd the realm who sav'd the Queen.

Quoth I, please God, I'll hye with glee
To court, this Arbuthnot to see.
I sold my sheep and lambkins too,
For silver loops and garment blue:
My boxen haut-boy sweet of sound,
For lace that edg'd mine hat around;
For Lightfoot and my scrip I got
A gorgeous sword, and eke a knot.

So forth I far'd to court with speed,
Of soldier's drum withouten dreed;
For Peace allays the shepherd's fear
Of wearing cap of Granadier.

There saw I ladies all a-row
Before their Queen in seemly show.
No more I'll sing Buxoma brown,
Like goldfinch in her Sunday gown;
Nor Clumsilis, nor Marian bright,
Nor damsel that Hobnelia hight.
But Lansdown fresh as flow'r of May,
And Berkely lady blithe and gay,
And Anglesey whose speech exceeds
The voice of pipe, or oaten reeds;
And blooming Hyde, with eyes so rare,
And Montague beyond compare.
Such ladies fair wou'd I depaint
In roundelay or sonnet quaint.

There many a worthy wight I've seen
In ribbon blue and ribbon green.
As Oxford, who a wand doth bear,
Like Moses, in our Bibles fair;
Who for our traffick forms designs,
And gives to Britain Indian mines.
Now, shepherds, clip your fleecy care,
Ye maids, your spinning-wheels prepare,
Ye weavers, all your shuttles throw,
And bid broad-cloths and serges grow,
For trading free shall thrive again,
Nor leasings leud affright the swain.

There saw I St. John, sweet of mien,
Full stedfast both to Church and Queen.
With whose fair name I'll deck my strain,
St. John, right courteous to the swain;

For thus he told me on a day,
Trim are thy sonnets, gentle Gay,
And certes, mirth it were to see
Thy joyous madrigals twice three,
With preface meet, and notes profound.
Imprinted fair, and well y-bound.
All suddenly then home I sped,
And did ev'n as my Lord had said.

Lo here, thou hast mine Eclogues fair,
But let not these detain thine ear.
Let not affairs of States and Kings
Wait, while our Bowzybeus sings.
Rather than verse of simple swain
Should stay the trade of France or Spain,
Or for the plaint of Parson's maid,
Yon' Emp'ror's packets be delay'd;
In sooth, I swear by holy Paul,
I'd burn book, preface, notes and all.

April, 1714.

MONDAY; OR, THE SQUABBLE.

Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, Cloddipole.
LOBBIN CLOUT.
Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake;
No thrustles shrill the bramble-bush forsake,
No chirping lark the welkin sheen invokes;
No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes;
O'er yonder hill does scant the dawn appear,
Then why does Cuddy leave his cott so rear?

CUDDY.
Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween, my plight is guest,
For he that loves, a stranger is to rest;
If swains belye not, thou hast prov'd the smart,
And Blouzelinda's mistress of thy heart.
This rising rear betokeneth well thy mind,
Those arms are folded for thy Blouzelind.
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree,
Thee Blouselinda smites, Buxoma me.

LOBBIN CLOUT.
Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more by half,
Than does their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf:
Woe worth the tongue! may blisters sore it gall,
That names Buxoma, Blouzelind withal.

CUDDY.
Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise,
Lest blisters sore on thy own tongue arise.
Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithesome swain,
The wisest lout of all the neighbouring plain!

From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies,
To know when hail will fall, or winds arise.
He taught us erst the heifer's tail to view,
When stuck aloft, that show'rs would strait ensue;
He first that useful secret did explain,
That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain.
When swallows fleet soar high and sport in air,
He told us that the welkin would be clear.
Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse,
And praise his sweetheart in alternate verse.
I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee,
That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.

LOBBIN CLOUT.
See this tobacco-pouch that's lin'd with hair,
Made of the skin of sleekest fallow deer.
This pouch, that's ty'd with tape of reddest hue,
I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due.

CUDDY.
Begin thy carrols then, thou vaunting slouch,
Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.

LOBBIN CLOUT.
My Blouzelinda is the blithest lass,
Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grass.
Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows,
Fair is the daisie that beside her grows,
Fair is the gillyflow'r, of gardens sweet,
Fair is the mary-gold, for pottage meet.
But Blouzelind's than gillyflow'r more fair,
Than daisie, mary-gold, or king-cup rare.

CUDDY.
My brown Buxoma is the featest maid,
That e'er at Wake delightsome gambol play'd.
Clean as young lambkins or the goose's down,
And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown.
The witless lamb may sport upon the plain,
The frisking kid delight the gaping swain,
The wanton calf may skip with many a bound,
And my cur Tray play deftest feats around;
But neither lamb nor kid, nor calf nor Tray,
Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.

LOBBIN CLOUT.
Sweet is my toil when Blouzelind is near,
Of her bereft 'tis winter all the year.

With her no sultry summer's heat I know;
In winter, when she's nigh, with love I glow.
Come Blouzelinda, ease thy swain's desire,
My summer's shadow and my winter's fire!

CUDDY.
As with Buxoma once I work'd at hay,
Ev'n noon-tide labour seem'd an holiday;
And holidays, if haply she were gone,
Like worky-days I wish'd would soon be done.
Eftsoons, O sweet-heart kind, my love repay,
And all the year shall then be holiday.

LOBBIN CLOUT.
As Blouzelinda in a gamesome mood,
Behind a haycock loudly laughing stood,
I slily ran, and snatch'd a hasty kiss,
She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amiss.
Believe me, Cuddy, while I'm bold to say,
Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay.

CUDDY.
As my Buxoma in a morning fair,
With gentle finger stroak'd her milky care,
I queintly stole a kiss; at first, 'tis true,
She frown'd, yet after granted one or two.
Lobbin, I swear, believe who will my vows,
Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cows.

LOBBIN CLOUT.
Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen butter's dear,
Of Irish swains potatoe is the chear;
Oats for their feasts, the Scottish shepherds grind,
Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind.
While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise,
Nor leeks nor oatmeal nor potatoe prize.

CUDDY.
In good roast-beef my landlord sticks his knife,
The capon fat delights his dainty wife,
Pudding our Parson eats, the Squire loves hare,
But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare.
While she loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be,
Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.

LOBBIN CLOUT.
As once I play'd at Blindman's-buff, it hapt
About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt.
I miss'd the swains, and seiz'd on Blouzelind.
True speaks that ancient proverb, Love is blind.

CUDDY.
As at Hot-cockles once I laid me down,
And felt the weighty hand of many a clown;
Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and I
Quick rose, and read soft mischief in her eye.

LOBBIN CLOUT.
On two near elms, the slacken'd cord I hung,
Now high, now low my Blouzelinda swung.
With the rude wind her rumpled garment rose,
And show'd her taper leg, and scarlet hose.

CUDDY.
Across the fallen oak the plank I laid,
And my self pois'd against the tott'ring maid,
High leapt the plank; adown Buxoma fell;
I spy'd—but faithful sweethearts never tell.

LOBBIN CLOUT.
This riddle, Cuddy, if thou can'st, explain,
This wily riddle puzzles ev'ry swain.
What flower is that which bears the Virgin's name,
The richest metal joined with the same?

CUDDY.
Answer, thou Carle, and judge this riddle right,
I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight.
What flower is that which royal honour craves,
Adjoin the Virgin, and 'tis strown on graves.

CLODDIPOLE.
Forbear, contending louts, give o'er your strains,
An oaken staff each merits for his pains.
But see the sun-beams bright to labour warn,
And gild the thatch of goodman Hodges' barn.
Your herds for want of water stand adry,
They're weary of your songs—and so am I.

Rosemary.

Marygold.

TUESDAY; OR, THE DITTY.

MARIAN.

Young Colin Clout, a lad of peerless meed,
Full well could dance, and deftly tune the reed;
In ev'ry wood his carrols sweet were known,
At ev'ry wake his nimble feats were shown.
When in the ring the rustick routs he threw,
The damsels pleasures with his conquests grew;
Or when aslant the cudgel threats his head,
His danger smites the breast of ev'ry maid,
But chief of Marian. Marian lov'd the swain,
The Parson's maid, and neatest of the plain.
Marian, that soft could stroke the udder'd cow,
Or lessen with her sieve the barley mow;
Marbled with sage the hardn'ing cheese she press'd,
And yellow butter Marian's skill confess'd;
But Marian now devoid of country cares,
Nor yellow butter nor sage cheese prepares.
For yearning love the witless maid employs,
And Love, say swains, all busie heed destroys.
Colin makes mock at all her piteous smart,
A lass, who Cic'ly hight, had won his heart,
Cic'ly the western lass who tends the kee,
The rival of the Parson's maid was she.
In dreary shade now Marian lyes along,
And mixt with sighs thus wails in plaining song.

Ah woful day! ah woful noon and morn!
When first by thee my younglings white were shorn,
Then first, I ween, I cast a lover's eye,
My sheep were silly, but more silly I.
Beneath the shears they felt no lasting smart,
They lost but fleeces while I lost a heart.

Ah Colin! canst thou leave thy Sweetheart true!
What I have done for thee will Cic'ly do?

Will she thy linnen wash or hosen darn,
And knit thee gloves made of her own-spun yarn?
Will she with huswife's hand provide thy meat,
And ev'ry Sunday morn thy neckcloth plait?
Which o'er thy kersey doublet spreading wide,
In service-time drew Cic'ly's eyes aside.

Where-e'er I gad I cannot hide my care,
My new disasters in my look appear.
White as the curd my ruddy cheek is grown,
So thin my features that I'm hardly known;
Our neighbours tell me oft in joking talk
Of ashes, leather, oatmeal, bran and chalk;
Unwittingly of Marian they devine,
And wist not that with thoughtful love I pine.
Yet Colin Clout, untoward shepherd swain,
Walks whistling blithe, while pitiful I plain,

Whilom with thee 'twas Marian's dear delight
To moil all day, and merry-make at night.
If in the soil you guide the crooked share,
Your early breakfast is my constant care.
And when with even hand you strow the grain,
I fright the thievish rooks from off the plain,
In misling days when I my thresher heard,
With nappy beer I to the barn repair'd;
Lost in the musick of the whirling flail,
To gaze on thee I left the smoaking pail;
In harvest when the Sun was mounted high,
My leathern bottle did thy drought supply;
When-e'er you mow'd I follow'd with the rake,
And have full oft been sun-burnt for thy sake;
When in the welkin gath'ring show'rs were seen,
I lagg'd the last with Colin on the green;
And when at eve returning with thy carr,
Awaiting heard the gingling bells from far;
Strait on the fire the sooty pot I plac't,
To warm thy broth I burnt my hands for haste.
When hungry thou stood'st staring, like an Oaf,
I slic'd the luncheon from the barly loaf,
With crumbled bread I thicken'd well thy mess.
Ah, love me more, or love thy pottage less!

Last Friday's eve, when as the sun was set,
I, near yon stile, three sallow gypsies met.
Upon my hand they cast a poring look,
Bid me beware, and thrice their heads they shook,
They said that many crosses I must prove,
Some in my worldly gain, but most in love.
Next morn I miss'd three hens and our old cock,
And off the hedge two pinners and a smock.

I bore these losses with a christian mind,
And no mishaps could feel, while thou wert kind.
But since, alas! I grew my Colin's scorn,
I've known no pleasure, night, or noon, or morn.
Help me, ye gypsies, bring him home again,
And to a constant lass give back her swain.

Have I not sate with thee full many a night,
When dying embers were our only light,
When ev'ry creature did in slumbers lye,
Besides our cat, my Colin Clout, and I?
No troublous thoughts the cat or Colin move,
While I alone am kept awake by love.

Remember, Colin, when at last year's wake,
I bought the costly present for thy sake,
Couldst thou spell o'er the posie on thy knife,
And with another change thy state of life?
If thou forget'st, I wot, I can repeat,
My memory can tell the verse so sweet.
As this is grav'd upon this knife of thine,
So is thy image on this heart of mine.
But woe is me! Such presents luckless prove,
For Knives, they tell me, always sever Love.

Thus Marian wail'd, her eyes with tears brimfull,
When Goody Dobbins brought her cow to bull.
With apron blue to dry her tears she sought,
Then saw the cow well serv'd, and took a groat.

WEDNESDAY; OR, THE DUMPS.

SPARABELLA

The wailings of a maiden I recite,
A maiden fair, that Sparabella hight.
Such strains ne'er warble in the linnet's throat,
Nor the gay goldfinch chaunts so sweet a note.
No magpye chatter'd, nor the painted jay,
No ox was heard to low, nor ass to bray.
No rusling breezes play'd the leaves among,
While thus her madrigal the damsel sung.

A while, O D'Urfey, lend an ear or twain,
Nor, though in homely guise, my verse disdain;
Whether thou seek'st new kingdoms in the sun,
Whether thy muse does at New-market run,
Or does with gossips at a feast regale,
And heighten her conceits with sack and ale,
Or else at wakes with Joan and Hodge rejoice,
Where D'Urfey's lyricks swell in every voice;
Yet suffer me, thou bard of wond'rous meed,
Amid thy bays to weave this rural weed.

Now the Sun drove adown the western road,
And oxen laid at rest forget the goad,
The clown fatigu'd trudg'd homeward with his spade,
Across the meadows stretch'd the lengthen'd shade:
When Sparabella pensive and forlorn,
Alike with yearning love and labour worn,
Lean'd on her rake, and strait with doleful guise
Did this sad plaint in moanful notes devise.

Come night as dark as pitch, surround my head,
From Sparabella Bumkinet is fled;
The ribbon that his val'rous cudgel won,
Last Sunday happier Clumsilis put on.
Sure if he'd eyes (but Love, they say, has none)
I whilome by that ribbon had been known.
Ah, well-a-day! I'm shent with baneful smart,
For with the ribbon he bestow'd his heart.

My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid
'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.

Shall heavy Clumsilis with me compare?
View this, ye lovers, and like me despair.
Her blubber'd lip by smutty pipes is worn,
And in her breath tobacco whiffs are born;
The cleanly cheese-press she could never turn,
Her aukward fist did ne'er employ the churn;
If e'er she brew'd, the drink would strait go sour,
Before it ever felt the thunder's power:
No huswifry the dowdy creature knew;
To sum up all, her tongue confess'd the shrew.

My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid,
'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.

I've often seen my visage in yon lake,
Nor are my features of the homeliest make.
Though Clumsilis may boast a whiter dye,
Yet the black sloe turns in my rolling eye;
And fairest blossoms drop with ev'ry blast,
But the brown beauty will like hollies last.
Her wan complexion's like the wither'd leek,
While Katherine pears adorn my ruddy cheek.
Yet she, alas! the witless lout hath won,
And by her gain, poor Sparabell's undone!

Let hares and hounds in coupling straps unite,
The clocking hen make friendship with the kite,
Let the fox simply wear the nuptial noose,
And join in wedlock with the wadling goose;
For love hath brought a stranger thing to pass,
The fairest shepherd weds the foulest lass.

My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid,
'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.

Sooner shall cats disport in waters clear,
And speckled mackrels graze the meadows fair,
Sooner shall scriech-owls bask in sunny day,
And the slow ass on trees, like squirrels, play,
Sooner shall snails on insect pinions rove,
Than I forget my shepherd's wonted love.

My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid,
'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.

Ah! didst thou know what proffers I withstood,
When late I met the Squire in yonder wood!
To me he sped, regardless of his game,
While all my cheek was glowing red with shame;
My lip he kiss'd, and prais'd my healthful look,
Then from his purse of silk a Guinea took,
Into my hand he forc'd the tempting gold,
While I with modest struggling broke his hold.
He swore that Dick in liv'ry strip'd with lace,
Should wed me soon, to keep me from disgrace
But I nor footman priz'd nor golden fee,
For what is lace or gold compar'd to thee?

My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid,
'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.

Now plain I ken whence Love his rise begun.
Sure he was born some bloody butcher's son,
Bred up in shambles, where our younglings slain,
Erst taught him mischief and to sport with pain.

The father only silly sheep annoys,
The son the sillier shepherdess destroys.
Does son or father greater mischief do?
The sire is cruel, so the son is too.

My plaint, ye lasses, with this burthen aid,
'Tis hard so true a damsel dies a maid.

Farewell ye woods, ye meads, ye streams that flow;
A sudden death shall rid me of my woe.
This penknife keen my windpipe shall divide.
What, shall I fall as squeaking pigs have dy'd!
No --- To some tree this carcass I'll suspend.
But worrying curs find such untimely end!
I'll speed me to the pond, where the high stool
On the long plank hangs o'er the muddy pool,
That stool, the dread of ev'ry scolding quean;
Yet, sure a lover should not dye so mean!
There plac'd aloft, I'll rave and rail by fits,
Though all the parish say I've lost my wits;
And thence, if courage holds, myself I'll throw,
And quench my passion in the lake below.

Ye lasses, cease your burthen, cease to moan,
And, by my case forewarn'd, go mind your own.

The sun was set; the night came on a-pace,
And falling dews bewet around the place,
The bat takes airy rounds on leathern wings,
And the hoarse owl his woful dirges sings;
The prudent maiden deems it now too late,
And 'till to-morrow comes defers her fate.

Dumps, or Dumbs, made use of to express a fit of the Sullens. Some have pretended that it is derived from Dumops, a King of Egypt, who built a Pyramid, and dy'd of Melancholy. So Mopes after the same manner is thought to have come from Merops, another Egyptian King who dy'd of the same distemper; but our English Antiquaries have conjectured that Dumps, which is, a grievous heaviness of spirits, comes from the word Dumplin, the heaviest kind of pudding that is eaten in this country, much used in Norfolk, and other counties of England.

THURSDAY; OR, THE SPELL.

HOBNELIA.

Hobnelia, seated in a dreary vale,
In pensive mood rehears'd her piteous tale,
Her piteous tale the winds in sighs bemoan,
And pining eccho answers groan for groan.

I rue the day, a rueful day, I trow,
The woful day, a day indeed of woe!
When Lubberkin to town his cattle drove,
A maiden fine bedight he hapt to love;
The maiden fine bedight his love retains,
And for the village he forsakes the plains.
Return my Lubberkin, these ditties hear;
Spells will I try, and spells shall ease my care.

With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.

When first the year, I heard the cuckow sing,
And call with welcome note the budding spring,
I straitway set a running with such haste,
Deb'rah, who won the smock, scarce ran so fast.
'Till spent for lack of breath, quite weary grown,
Upon a rising bank I sat adown,
Then doff'd my shoe, and by my troth, I swear,
Therein I spy'd this yellow frizled hair,
As like to Lubberkin's in curl and hue,
As if upon his comely pate it grew.

With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.

At eve last Midsummer no sleep I sought,
But to the field a bag of hemp-seed brought,
I scatter'd round the seed on ev'ry side,
And three times in a trembling accent cry'd,
This hemp-seed with my virgin hand I sow,
Who shall my true-love be, the crop shall mow.
I strait look'd back, and if my eyes speak truth,
With his keen scythe behind me came the youth.

With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.

Last Valentine, the day when birds of kind
Their paramours with mutual chirpings find;
I rearly rose, just at the break of day,
Before the sun had chas'd the stars away;
A-field I went, amid the morning dew
To milk my kine (for so should huswives do;)
Thee first I spy'd, and the first swain we see,
In spite of fortune shall our true-love be;
See, Lubberkin, each bird his partner take,
And canst thou then thy sweatheart dear forsake?

With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.

Last May-day fair I search'd to find a snail
That might my secret lover's name reveal;
Upon a gooseberry bush a snail I found,
For always snails near sweetest fruit abound.
I seiz'd the vermine, home I quickly sped,
And on the hearth the milk-white embers spread.
Slow crawl'd the snail, and if I right can spell,
In the soft ashes mark'd a curious L:
Oh, may this wondrous omen lucky prove!
For L is found in Lubberkin and Love.

With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.

Two hazel-nuts I threw into the flame,
And to each nut I gave a sweet-heart's name.
This with the loudest bounce me sore amaz'd,
That in a flame of brightest colour blaz'd.
As blaz'd the nut so may thy passion grow,
For 'twas thy nut that did so brightly glow.

With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.

As peascods once I pluck'd, I chanc'd to see
One that was closely fill'd with three times three,
Which when I cropp'd I safely home convey'd,
And o'er my door the spell in secret laid.
My wheel I turn'd, and sung a ballad new,
While from the spindle I the fleeces drew
The latch mov'd up, when who should first come in,
But in his proper person,—Lubberkin.

I broke my yarn surpriz'd the sight to see,
Sure sign that he would break his word with me.
Eftsoons I join'd it with my wonted slight,
So may again his love with mine unite!

With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.

This Lady-fly I take from off the grass,
Whose spotted back might scarlet red surpass.
Fly, Lady-Bird, North, South, or East or West,
Fly where the Man is found that I love best.
He leaves my hand, see, to the West he's flown,
To call my true-love from the faithless town.

With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground.
And turn me thrice around, around, around.

I pare this pippin round and round again,
My shepherd's name to flourish on the plain.
I fling th' unbroken paring o'er my head,
Upon the grass a perfect L is read;
Yet on my heart a fairer L is seen
Than what the paring marks upon the green.

With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.

This pippin shall another tryal make,
See from the core two kernels brown I take;
This on my cheek for Lubberkin is worn,
And Boobyclod on t' other side is born.
But Boobyclod soon drops upon the ground,
A certain token that his love's unsound,
While Lubberkin sticks firmly to the last;
Oh were his lips to mine but join'd so fast!

With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.

As Lubberkin once slept beneath a tree,
I twitch'd his dangling garter from his knee;
He wist not when the hempen string I drew,
Now mine I quickly doff of inkle blue;
Together fast I tye the garters twain,
And while I knit the knot repeat this strain.
Three times a true-love's knot I tye secure,
Firm be the knot, firm may his love endure.

With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.

As I was wont, I trudg'd last market-day
To town, with new-laid eggs preserv'd in hay.
I made my market long before 'twas night,
My purse grew heavy and my basket light.
Strait to the pothecary's shop I went,
And in love-powder all my mony spent;
Behap what will, next Sunday after prayers,
When to the ale-house Lubberkin repairs,
These golden flies into his mug I'll throw,
And soon the swain with fervent love shall glow.

With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,
And turn me thrice around, around, around.

But hold—our Light-foot barks, and cocks his ears,
O'er yonder stile see Lubberkin appears.
He comes, he comes, Hobnelia's not bewray'd,
Nor shall she crown'd with willow die a maid.
He vows, he swears, he'll give me a green gown,
Oh dear! I fall adown, adown, adown!

FRIDAY; OR, THE DIRGE.

BUMKINET, GRUBBINOL.
BUMKINET.
Why, Grubbinol, dost thou so wistful seem?
There's sorrow in thy look, if right I deem.
'Tis true, yon oaks with yellow tops appear,
And chilly blasts begin to nip the year;
From the tall elm a show'r of leaves is born,
And their lost beauty riven beeches mourn.

Yet ev'n this season pleasance blithe affords,
Now the squeez'd press foams with our apple hoards.
Come, let us hye, and quaff a cheary bowl,
Let cyder new wash sorrow from thy soul.

GRUBBINOL.
Ah Bumkinet! since thou from hence wert gone,
From these sad plains all merriment is flown;
Should I reveal my grief 'twould spoil thy chear.
And make thine eye o'erflow with many a tear.

BUMKINET.
Hang sorrow! Let's to yonder hutt repair,
And with trim sonnets cast away our care.
Gillian of Croydon well thy pipe can play,
Thou sing'st most sweet, o'er hills and far away.
Of Patient Grissel I devise to sing,
And catches quaint shall make the vallies ring.
Come, Grubbinol, beneath this shelter, come,
From hence we view our flocks securely roam.

GRUBBINOL.
Yes, blithesome lad, a tale I mean to sing,
But with my woe shall distant vallies ring,
The tale shall make our kidlings droop their head,
For woe is me!—our Blouzelind is dead.

BUMKINET.

Is Blouzelinda dead? farewel my glee!
No happiness is now reserv'd for me.
As the wood pigeon cooes without his mate,
So shall my doleful dirge bewail her fate.
Of Blouzelinda fair I mean to tell,
The peerless maid that did all maids excell.

Henceforth the morn shall dewy sorrow shed,
And ev'ning tears upon the grass be spread;
The rolling streams with watry grief shall flow,
And winds shall moan aloud—when loud they blow.
Henceforth, as oft as autumn shall return,
The dropping trees, when'er it rains, shall mourn;
This season quite shall strip the country's pride,
For 'twas in autumn Blouzelinda dy'd.

Where-e'er I gad, I Blouzelind shall view,
Woods, dairy, barn and mows our passion knew.
When I direct my eyes to yonder wood,
Fresh rising sorrow curdles in my blood.
Thither I've often been the damsel's guide,
When rotten sticks our fuel have supply'd;

There I remember how her faggots large,
Were frequently these happy shoulders charge.
Sometimes this crook drew hazel boughs adown,
And stuff'd her apron wide with nuts so brown;
Or when her feeding hogs had miss'd their way,
Or wallowing 'mid a feast of acorns lay;
Th' untoward creatures to the stye I drove,
And whistled all the way—or told my love.

If by the dairy's hatch I chance to hie,
I shall her goodly countenance espie,
For there her goodly countenance I've seen,
Set off with kerchief starch'd and pinners clean.
Sometimes, like wax, she rolls the butter round,
Or with the wooden lilly prints the pound.
Whilome I've seen her skim the clouted cream,
And press from spongy curds the milky stream.
But now, alas! these ears shall hear no more
The whining swine surround the dairy door,
No more her care shall fill the hollow tray,
To fat the guzzling hogs with floods of whey.
Lament, ye swine, in grunting spend your grief,
For you, like me, have lost your sole relief.

When in the barn the sounding flail I ply,
Where from her sieve the chaff was wont to fly,
The poultry there will seem around to stand,
Waiting upon her charitable hand.
No succour meet the poultry now can find,
For they, like me, have lost their Blouzelind.

Whenever by yon barley mow I pass,
Before my eyes will trip the tidy lass.
I pitch'd the sheaves (oh could I do so now)
Which she in rows pil'd on the growing mow.
There ev'ry deale my heart by love was gain'd,
There the sweet kiss my courtship has explain'd.
Ah, Blouzelind! that mow I ne'er shall see,
But thy memorial will revive in me.

Lament, ye fields, and rueful symptoms show,
Henceforth let not the smelling primrose grow;
Let weeds instead of butter-flow'rs appear,
And meads, instead of daisies, hemlock bear;
For cowslips sweet let dandelions spread,
For Blouzelinda, blithesome maid, is dead!
Lament ye swains, and o'er her grave bemoan,
And spell ye right this verse upon her stone.

Here Blouzelinda lyes—Alas, alas!
Weep shepherds—and remember flesh is grass.

GRUBBINOL.

Albeit thy songs are sweeter to mine ear,
Than to the thirsty cattle rivers clear;
Or winter porridge to the lab'ring youth,
Or bunns and sugar to the damsel's tooth;
Yet Blouzelinda's name shall tune my lay,
Of her I'll sing for ever and for aye.

When Blouzelind expir'd, the weather's bell
Before the drooping flock toll'd forth her knell;
The solemn death-watch click'd the hour she dy'd,
And shrilling crickets in the chimney cry'd;
The boding raven on her cottage sate,
And with hoarse croaking warn'd us of her fate;
The lambkin, which her wonted tendance bred,
Dropp'd on the plains that fatal instant dead;
Swarm'd on a rotten stick the bees I spy'd,
Which erst I saw when goody Dobson dy'd.

How shall I, void of tears, her death relate,
While on her dearling's bed her mother sate!
These words the dying Blouzelinda spoke,
And of the dead let none the will revoke.

Mother, quoth she, let not the poultry need,
And give the goose wherewith to raise her breed,
Be these my sister's care—and ev'ry morn
Amid the ducklings let her scatter corn;
The sickly calf that's hous'd, be sure to tend,
Feed him with milk, and from bleak colds defend.
Yet e'er I die—see, mother, yonder shelf,
There secretly I've hid my worldly pelf.
Twenty good shillings in a rag I laid,
Be ten the Parson's, for my sermon paid.
The rest is yours—my spinning-wheel and rake,
Let Susan keep for her dear sister's sake;
My new straw-hat that's trimly lin'd with green,
Let Peggy wear, for she's a damsel clean.
My leathern bottle, long in harvests try'd,
Be Grubbinol's—this silver ring beside:
Three silver pennies, and a ninepence bent,
A token kind, to Bumkinet is sent.

Thus spoke the maiden, while her mother cry'd,
And peaceful, like the harmless lamb, she dy'd.

To show their love, the neighbours far and near,
Follow'd with wistful look the damsel's bier.
Sprigg'd rosemary the lads and lasses bore,
While dismally the Parson walk'd before.
Upon her grave the rosemary they threw,
The daisie, butter-flow'r and endive blue.

After the good man warn'd us from his text,
That none could tell whose turn would be the next;
He said, that heaven would take her soul, no doubt,
And spoke the hour-glass in her praise—quite out.

To her sweet mem'ry flow'ry garlands strung,
O'er her now empty seat aloft were hung.
With wicker rods we fenc'd her tomb around,
To ward from man and beast the hallow'd ground,
Lest her new grave the Parson's cattle raze,
For both his horse and cow the church-yard graze.

Now we trudg'd homeward to her mother's farm,
To drink new cyder mull'd, with ginger warm.
For gaffer Tread-well told us by the by,
Excessive sorrow is exceeding dry.

While bulls bear horns upon their curled brow,
Or lasses with soft stroakings milk the cow;
While padling ducks the standing lake desire,
Or batt'ning hogs roll in the sinking mire;
While moles the crumbled earth in hillocks raise,
So long shall swains tell Blouzelinda's praise.

Thus wail'd the louts in melancholy strain,
'Till bonny Susan sped a-cross the plain;
They seiz'd the lass in apron clean array'd,
And to the ale-house forc'd the willing maid;
In ale and kisses they forget their cares,
And Susan Blouzelinda's loss repairs.

Dirge, or Dyrge, a mournful Ditty or Song of Lamentation over the dead; not a contraction of the Latin Dirige in the popish Hymn Dirige Gressus meos, as some pretend. But from the Teutonic Dyrke, Laudare, to praise and extol. Whence it is possible their Dyrke and our Dirge was a laudatory Song to commemorate and applaud the Dead. Cowell's Interpreter.

SATURDAY; OR, THE FLIGHTS.

BOWZYBEUS.

Sublimer strains, O rustick Muse, prepare;
Forget a-while the barn and dairy's care;
Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raise,
The drunkard's flights require sonorous lays,
With Bowzybeus' songs exalt thy verse,
While rocks and woods the various notes rehearse.

'Twas in the season when the reapers toil
Of the ripe harvest 'gan to rid the soil;
Wide through the field was seen a goodly rout,
Clean damsels bound the gather'd sheaves about,
The lads with sharpen'd hook and sweating brow
Cut down the labours of the winter plow.
To the near hedge young Susan steps aside,
She feign'd her coat or garter was unty'd,
What-e'er she did, she stoop'd adown unseen,
And merry reapers, what they list, will ween.
Soon she rose up, and cry'd with voice so shrill
That eccho answer'd from the distant hill;
The youths and damsels ran to Susan's aid,
Who thought some adder had the lass dismay'd.

There fast asleep they Bowzybeus spy'd,
His hat and oaken staff lay close beside.
That Bowzybeus who could sweetly sing,
Or with the rozin'd bow torment the string;
That Bowzybeus who with finger's speed
Could call soft warblings from the breathing reed;
That Bowzybeus who with jocond tongue,
Ballads and roundelays and catches sung.
They loudly laugh to see the damsel's fright,
And in disport surround the drunken wight.

Ah Bowzybee, why didst thou stay so long?
The mugs were large, the drink was wondrous strong!
Thou should'st have left the Fair before 'twas night,
But thou sat'st toping 'till the morning light.

Cic'ly, brisk maid, steps forth before the rout,
And kiss'd with smacking lip the snoring lout.
For custom says, Whoe'er this venture proves,
For such a kiss demands a pair of gloves.
By her example Dorcas bolder grows,
And plays a tickling straw within his nose.
He rubs his nostril, and in wonted joke
The sneering swains with stamm'ring speech bespoke.
To you, my lads, I'll sing my carrol's o'er,
As for the maids,—I've something else in store.

No sooner 'gan he raise his tuneful song,
But lads and lasses round about him throng.
Not ballad-singer plac'd above the croud
Sings with a note so shrilling sweet and loud,
Nor parish-clerk who calls the psalm so clear,
Like Bowzybeus sooths th' attentive ear.

Of nature's laws his carrols first begun,
Why the grave owle can never face the sun.
For owles, as swains observe, detest the light,
And only sing and seek their prey by night.
How turnips hide their swelling heads below,
And how the closing colworts upwards grow;
How Will-a-Wisp mis-leads night-faring clowns,
O'er hills, and sinking bogs, and pathless downs.
Of stars he told that shoot with shining trail,
And of the glow-worm's light that gilds his tail.
He sung where wood-cocks in the summer feed,
And in what climates they renew their breed;
Some think to northern coasts their flight they tend,
Or to the moon in midnight hours ascend.
Where swallows in the winter's season keep,
And how the drowsie bat and dormouse sleep.
How nature does the puppy's eyelid close,
'Till the bright sun has nine times set and rose.
For huntsmen by their long experience find,
That puppys still nine rolling suns are blind.

Now he goes on, and sings of Fairs and shows,
For still new fairs before his eyes arose.
How pedlars stalls with glitt'ring toys are laid,
The various fairings of the country maid.

Long silken laces hang upon the twine,
And rows of pins and amber bracelets shine;
How the tight lass, knives, combs, and scissars spys,
And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes.
Of lott'ries next with tuneful note he told,
Where silver spoons are won and rings of gold.
The lads and lasses trudge the street along,
And all the fair is crouded in his song.
The mountebank now treads the stage, and sells
His pills, his balsams, and his ague-spells;
Now o'er and o'er the nimble tumbler springs,
And on the rope the ventrous maiden swings;
Jack Pudding in his parti-colour'd jacket
Tosses the glove, and jokes at ev'ry packet.
Of Raree-shows he sung, and Punch's feats,
Of pockets pick'd in crowds, and various cheats.

Then sad he sung the Children in the Wood.
Ah barb'rous uncle, stain'd with infant blood!
How blackberrys they pluck'd in desarts wild,
And fearless at the glittering fauchion smil'd;
Their little corps the robin-red-breasts found,
And strow'd with pious bill the leaves around.
Ah gentle birds! if this verse lasts so long,
Your names shall live for ever in my song.

For buxom Joan he sung the doubtful strife,
How the sly sailor made the maid a wife.

To louder strains he rais'd his voice, to tell
What woeful wars in Chevy-chace befell,
When Piercy drove the deer with hound and horn,
Wars to be wept by children yet unborn!
Ah With'rington, more years thy life had crown'd,
If thou hadst never heard the horn or hound!
Yet shall the Squire who fought on bloody stumps,
By future bards be wail'd in doleful dumps.

All in the land of Essex next he chaunts,
How to sleek mares starch quakers turn gallants;
How the grave brother stood on bank so green.
Happy for him if mares had never been!

Then he was seiz'd with a religious qualm,
And on a sudden, sung the hundredth psalm.

He sung of Taffey Welch, and Sawney Scot,
Lilly-bullero and the Irish Trot.
Why should I tell of Bateman or of Shore,
Or Wantley's Dragon slain by valiant Moore,
The bow'r of Rosamond, or Robin Hood,
And how the grass now grows where Troy town stood?

His carrols ceas'd: the list'ning maids and swains
Seem still to hear some soft imperfect strains.
Sudden he rose; and as he reels along
Swears kisses sweet should well reward his song.
The damsels laughing fly: the giddy clown
Again upon a wheat-sheaf drops adown;
The pow'r that guards the drunk, his sleep attends,
'Till, ruddy, like his face, the sun descends.

TRIVIA;

OR, THE ART of WALKING the Streets of LONDON.

Quo te Mœri pedes? An, quo via ducit, in Urbem?
—Virg.

BOOK I.

Of the Implements for walking the Streets, and Signs of the Weather.

Through winter streets to steer your course aright,
How to walk clean by day, and safe by night,
How jostling crouds, with prudence to decline,
When to assert the wall, and when resign,
I sing: Thou, Trivia, Goddess, aid my song,
Thro' spacious streets conduct thy bard along;
By thee transported, I securely stray
Where winding alleys lead the doubtful way,
The silent court, and op'ning square explore,
And long perplexing lanes untrod before.
To pave thy realm, and smooth the broken ways,
Earth from her womb a flinty tribute pays;
For thee, the sturdy paver thumps the ground,
Whilst ev'ry stroke his lab'ring lungs resound;
For thee the scavinger bids kennels glide
Within their bounds, and heaps of dirt subside.
My youthful bosom burns with thirst of fame,
From the great theme to build a glorious name,
To tread in paths to ancient bards unknown,
And bind my temples with a Civic crown;
But more, my country's love demands the lays,
My country's be the profit, mine the praise.

When the black youth at chosen stands rejoice,
And clean your shoes resounds from ev'ry voice;
When late their miry sides stage-coaches show,
And their stiff horses through the town move slow;
When all the Mall in leafy ruin lies,
And damsels first renew their oyster cries:

Of Shoes.

Then let the prudent walker shoes provide,
Not of the Spanish or Morocco hide;
The wooden heel may raise the dancer's bound,
And with the scallop'd top his step be crown'd:
Let firm, well hammer'd soles protect thy feet
Thro' freezing snows, and rains, and soaking sleet.

Should the big laste extend the shoe too wide,
Each stone will wrench th' unwary step aside:
The sudden turn may stretch the swelling vein,
Thy cracking joint unhinge, or ankle sprain;
And when too short the modish shoes are worn,
You'll judge the seasons by your shooting corn.

Of Coats.

Nor should it prove thy less important care,
To chuse a proper coat for winter's wear.
Now in thy trunk thy D'oily habit fold,
The silken drugget ill can fence the cold;
The frieze's spongy nap is soak'd with rain,
And show'rs soon drench the camlet's cockled grain.
True Witney broad-cloth with its shag unshorn,
Unpierc'd is in the lasting tempest worn:
Be this the horse-man's fence; for who would wear
Amid the town the spoils of Russia's bear?
Within the Roquelaure's clasp thy hands are pent,
Hands, that stretch'd forth invading harms prevent.
Let the loop'd Bavaroy the fop embrace,
Or his deep cloak be spatter'd o'er with lace.
That garment best the winter's rage defends,
Which from the shoulders full and low depends;
By various names in various counties known,
Yet held in all the true Surtout alone:
Be thine of Kersey firm, tho' small the cost,
Then brave unwet the rain, unchill'd the frost.

Of Canes.

If the strong cane support thy walking hand,
Chairmen no longer shall the wall command;
Ev'n sturdy carr-men shall thy nod obey,
And rattling coaches stop to make thee way:
This shall direct thy cautious tread aright,
Though not one glaring lamp enliven night.
Let beaus their canes with amber tipt produce,
Be theirs for empty show, but thine for use.
In gilded chariots while they loll at ease,
And lazily insure a life's disease;
While softer chairs the tawdry load convey
To Court, to White's, Assemblies, or the Play;
Rosie-complexion'd health thy steps attends,
And exercise thy lasting youth defends.
Imprudent men heav'n's choicest gifts prophane.
Thus some beneath their arm support the cane;

The dirty point oft checks the careless pace,
And miry spots thy clean cravat disgrace:
O! may I never such misfortune meet,
May no such vicious walkers croud the street,
May Providence o'er-shade me with her wings,
While the bold Muse experienc'd dangers sings.

Not that I wander from my native home,
And (tempting perils) foreign cities roam.
Let Paris be the theme of Gallia's muse,
Where slav'ry treads the street in wooden shoes;
Nor do I rove in Belgia's frozen clime,
And teach the clumsy boor to skate in rhyme,
Where, if the warmer clouds in rain descend,
No miry ways industrious steps offend,
The rushing flood from sloping pavements pours,
And blackens the canals with dirty show'rs.
Let others Naples' smoother streets rehearse,
And with proud Roman structures grace their verse,
Where frequent murders wake the night with groans,
And blood in purple torrents dies the stones;
Nor shall the Muse thro' narrow Venice stray,
Where Gondolas their painted oars display.
O happy streets, to rumbling wheels unknown,
No carts, no coaches shake the floating town!
Thus was of old Britannia's city bless'd,
E'er pride and luxury her sons possess'd:
Coaches and chariots yet unfashion'd lay,
Nor late-invented chairs perplex'd the way:
Then the proud lady trip'd along the town,
And tuck'd up petticoats secur'd her gown,
Her rosie cheek with distant visits glow'd,
And exercise unartful charms bestow'd;
But since in braided gold her foot is bound,
And a long trailing manteau sweeps the ground,
Her shoe disdains the street; the lazy fair
With narrow step affects a limping air.
Now gaudy pride corrupts the lavish age,
And the streets flame with glaring equipage;
The tricking gamester insolently rides,
With Loves and Graces on his chariot's sides;
In sawcy state the griping broker sits,
And laughs at honesty, and trudging wits:
For you, O honest men, these useful lays
The Muse prepares; I seek no other praise.

Of the Weather.

When sleep is first disturb'd by morning cries;
From sure prognosticks learn to know the skies,
Lest you of rheums and coughs at night complain;
Surpriz'd in dreary fogs or driving rain.

When suffocating mists obscure the morn,
Let thy worst wig, long us'd to storms, be worn;
Or like the powder'd footman, with due care
Beneath the flapping hat secure thy hair.
Be thou, for ev'ry season, justly drest,
Nor brave the piercing frost with open breast;
And when the bursting clouds a deluge pour,
Let thy Surtout defend the drenching show'r.

Signs of cold Weather.

The changing weather certain signs reveal.
E'er winter sheds her snow, or frosts congeal,
You'll see the coals in brighter flame aspire,
And sulphur tinge with blue the rising fire:
Your tender shins the scorching heat decline,
And at the dearth of coals the poor repine;
Before her kitchen hearth, the nodding dame
In flannel mantle wrapt, enjoys the flame;
Hov'ring, upon her feeble knees she bends,
And all around the grateful warmth ascends.

Signs of fair Weather.

Nor do less certain signs the town advise,
Of milder weather, and serener skies.
The ladies gayly dress'd, the Mall adorn
With various dyes, and paint the sunny morn;
The wanton fawns with frisking pleasure range,
And chirping sparrows greet the welcome change:
Not that their minds with greater skill are fraught,
Endu'd by instinct, or by reason taught,
The seasons operate on ev'ry breast;
'Tis hence that fawns are brisk, and ladies drest.
When on his box the nodding coachman snores,
And dreams of fancy'd fares; when tavern doors
The chairmen idly croud; then ne'er refuse
To trust thy busie steps in thinner shoes.

Signs of rainy Weather.

But when the swinging signs your ears offend
With creaking noise, then rainy floods impend;
Soon shall the kennels swell with rapid streams,
And rush in muddy torrents to the Thames.
The bookseller, whose shop's an open square,
Foresees the tempest, and with early care
Of learning strips the rails; the rowing crew
To tempt a fare, cloath all their tilts in blue:
On hosiers poles depending stockings ty'd,
Flag with the slacken'd gale, from side to side;

Church-monuments foretell the changing air;
Then Niobe dissolves into a tear
And sweats with secret grief: you'll hear the sounds
Of whistling winds, e'er kennels break their bounds;
Ungrateful odours common-shores diffuse,
And dropping vaults distill unwholesome dews,
E'er the tiles rattle with the smoaking show'r,
And spouts on heedless men their torrents pour.

Superstition to be avoided.

All superstition from thy breast repel.
Let cred'lous boys, and prattling nurses tell,
How, if the festival of Paul be clear,
Plenty from lib'ral horn shall strow the year;
When the dark skies dissolve in snow or rain,
The lab'ring hind shall yoke the steer in vain;
But if the threat'ning winds in tempests roar,
Then war shall bathe her wasteful sword in gore.
How, if on Swithin's feast the welkin lours,
And ev'ry penthouse streams with hasty show'rs,
Twice twenty days shall clouds their fleeces drain
And wash the pavement with incessant rain.
Let not such vulgar tales debase thy mind;
Nor Paul nor Swithin rule the clouds and wind.

If you the precepts of the Muse despise,
And slight the faithful warning of the skies,
Others you'll see, when all the town's afloat,
Wrapt in th' embraces of a kersey coat,
Or double-button'd frieze; their guarded feet
Defie the muddy dangers of the street,
While you, with hat unloop'd, the fury dread
Of spouts high-streaming, and with cautious tread
Shun ev'ry dashing pool; or idly stop,
To seek the kind protection of a shop.
But bus'ness summons; now with hasty scud
You jostle for the wall; the spatter'd mud
Hides all thy hose behind; in vain you scow'r,
Thy wig alas! uncurl'd, admits the show'r.
So fierce Alecto's snaky tresses fell,
When Orpheus charm'd the rig'rous pow'rs of hell,
Or thus hung Glaucus' beard, with briny dew
Clotted and strait, when first his am'rous view
Surpriz'd the bathing fair; the frighted maid
Now stands a rock, transform'd by Circe's aid.

Implements proper for female Walkers.

Good houswives all the winter's rage despise,
Defended by the riding-hood's disguise:
Or underneath th' umbrella's oily shed,
Safe thro' the wet, on clinking pattens tread.

Let Persian dames th' umbrella's ribs display,
To guard their beauties from the sunny ray;
Or sweating slaves support the shady load,
When eastern Monarchs show their state abroad;
Britain in winter only knows its aid,
To guard from chilly show'rs the walking maid.
But, O! forget not, Muse, the patten's praise,
That female implement shall grace thy lays;
Say from what art divine th' invention came,
And from its origine deduce the name.

An Episode of the Invention of Pattens.

Where Lincoln wide extends her fenny soil,
A goodly yeoman liv'd grown white with toil;
One only daughter bless'd his nuptial bed,
Who from her infant hand the poultry fed:
Martha (her careful mother's name) she bore,
But now her careful mother was no more.
Whilst on her father's knee the damsel play'd,
Patty he fondly call'd the smiling maid;
As years encreased, her ruddy beauty grew,
And Patty's fame o'er all the village flew.

Soon as the gray-ey'd morning streaks the skies,
And in the doubtful day the woodcock flies,
Her cleanly pail the pretty houswife bears,
And singing, to the distant field repairs:
And when the plains with ev'ning dews are spread,
The milky burthen smoaks upon her head,
Deep, thro' a miry lane she pick'd her way,
Above her ankle rose the chalky clay.

Vulcan by chance the bloomy maiden spies,
With innocence and beauty in her eyes,
He saw, he lov'd; for yet he ne'er had known
Sweet innocence and beauty meet in one.
Ah Mulciber! recal thy nuptial vows,
Think on the graces of thy Paphian spouse,
Think how her eyes dart inexhausted charms,
And canst thou leave her bed for Patty's arms?

The Lemnian Pow'r forsakes the realms above,
His bosom glowing with terrestrial love:
Far in the lane a lonely hut he found,
No tenant ventur'd on th' unwholesome ground.
Here smoaks his forge, he bares his sinewy arm,
And early strokes the sounding anvil warm;
Around his shop the steely sparkles flew,
As for the steed he shap'd the bending shoe.

When blue-ey'd Patty near his window came,
His anvil rests, his forge forgets to flame.
To hear his soothing tales she feigns delays;
What woman can resist the force of praise?

At first she coyly ev'ry kiss withstood,
And all her cheek was flush'd with modest blood
With headless nails he now surrounds her shoes,
To save her steps from rains and piercing dews;
She lik'd his soothing tales, his presents wore,
And granted kisses, but would grant no more.
Yet winter chill'd her feet, with cold she pines,
And on her cheek the fading rose declines;
No more her humid eyes their lustre boast,
And in hoarse sounds her melting voice is lost.

This Vulcan saw, and in his heav'nly thought,
A new machine mechanick fancy wrought,
Above the mire her shelter'd steps to raise,
And bear her safely through the wintry ways.
Strait the new engine on his anvil glows,
And the pale virgin on the patten rose.
No more her lungs are shook with drooping rheums,
And on her cheek reviving beauty blooms.
The God obtain'd his suit; tho' flatt'ry fail,
Presents with female virtue must prevail.
The patten now supports each frugal dame,
Which from the blue-ey'd Patty takes the name.

A Town in Oxfordshire.

A Joseph, Wrap-rascal, &c.

White's Chocolate-house in St. James's Street.

Haud equidem credo quia sit divinitus illis,
Ingenium, aut rerum fato prudentia major.

Virg. Georg. 1.

BOOK II.

Of walking the Streets by Day.

Thus far the Muse has trac'd in useful lays,
The proper implements for wintry ways;
Has taught the walker, with judicious eyes,
To read the various warnings of the skies.
Now venture, Muse, from home, to range the town,
And for the publick safety risque thy own.

The Morning.

For ease and for dispatch the morning's best;
No tides of passengers the street molest.
You'll see a draggled damsel, here and there,
From Billingsgate her fishy traffick bear;
On doors the sallow milk-maid chalks her gains;
Ah! how unlike the milk-maid of the plains!
Before proud gates attending asses bray,
Or arrogate with solemn pace the way;
These grave physicians with their milky chear
The love-sick maid and dwindling beau repair;
Here rows of drummers stand in martial file,
And with their vellom thunder shake the pile,
To greet the new-made bride. Are sounds like these
The proper prelude to a state of peace?

Now industry awakes her busie sons,
Full charg'd with news the breathless hawker runs
Shops open, coaches roll, carts shake the ground,
And all the streets with passing cries resound.

What Trades prejudicial to Walkers.

If cloath'd in black you tread the busy town,
Or if distinguish'd by the rev'rend gown,
Three trades avoid; oft in the mingling press
The barber's apron soils the sable dress;
Shun the perfumer's touch with cautious eye,
Nor let the baker's step advance too nigh.
Ye walkers too that youthful colours wear,
Three sullying trades avoid with equal care;
The little chimney-sweeper skulks along,
And marks with sooty stains the heedless throng;
When small-coal murmurs in the hoarser throat,
From smutty dangers guard thy threaten'd coat:
The dust-man's cart offends thy cloaths and eyes,
When through the street a cloud of ashes flies;
But whether black or lighter dyes are worn,
The chandler's basket, on his shoulder born,
With tallow spots thy coat; resign the way,
To shun the surly butcher's greasy tray,
Butchers, whose hands are dy'd with blood's foul stain,
And always foremost in the hangman's train.

To whom to give the Wall.

Let due civilities be strictly paid.
The wall surrender to the hooded maid;
Nor let thy sturdy elbow's hasty rage
Jostle the feeble steps of trembling age:
And when the porter bends beneath his load,
And pants for breath; clear thou the crouded road.
But, above all, the groping blind direct,
And from the pressing throng the lame protect.
You'll sometimes meet a fop, of nicest tread,
Whose mantling peruke veils his empty head,
At ev'ry step he dreads the wall to lose,
And risques, to save a coach, his red-heel'd shoes;
Him, like the miller, pass with caution by,
Lest from his shoulder clouds of powder fly.

To whom to refuse the Wall.

But when the bully, with assuming pace,
Cocks his broad hat, edg'd round with tarnish'd lace,
Yield not the way; defie his strutting pride,
And thrust him to the muddy kennel's side;
He never turns again, nor dares oppose,
But mutters coward curses as he goes.

Of whom to enquire the Way.

If drawn by bus'ness to a street unknown,
Let the sworn porter point thee through the town;
Be sure observe the signs, for signs remain,
Like faithful land-marks to the walking train.

Seek not from prentices to learn the way,
Those fabling boys will turn thy steps astray;
Ask the grave tradesman to direct thee right,
He ne'er deceives, but when he profits by't.

Where famed St. Giles's ancient limits spread,
An inrail'd column rears its lofty head,
Here to sev'n streets sev'n dials count the day,
And from each other catch the circling ray.
Here oft the peasant, with enquiring face,
Bewilder'd, trudges on from place to place;
He dwells on ev'ry sign with stupid gaze,
Enters the narrow alley's doubtful maze,
Tries ev'ry winding court and street in vain,
And doubles o'er his weary steps again.
Thus hardy Theseus, with intrepid feet,
Travers'd the dang'rous labyrinth of Crete;
But still the wandring passes forc'd his stay,
Till Ariadne's clue unwinds the way.
But do not thou, like that bold chief, confide
Thy ventrous footsteps to a female guide;
She'll lead thee with delusive smiles along,
Dive in thy fob, and drop thee in the throng.

Useful Precepts.

When waggish boys the stunted beesom ply
To rid the slabby pavement; pass not by
E'er thou hast held their hands; some heedless flirt
Will over-spread thy calves with spatt'ring dirt.
Where porters hogsheads roll from carts aslope,
Or brewers down steep cellars stretch the rope,
Where counted billets are by carmen tost;
Stay thy rash step, and walk without the post.

What though the gath'ring mire thy feet besmear,
The voice of industry is always near.
Hark! the boy calls thee to his destin'd stand,
And the shoe shines beneath his oily hand.
Here let the Muse, fatigu'd amid the throng,
Adorn her precepts with digressive song;
Of shirtless youths the secret rise to trace,
And show the parent of the sable race.

Like mortal man, great Jove (grown fond of change)
Of old was wont this nether world to range
To seek amours; the vice the monarch lov'd
Soon through the wide etherial court improv'd,
And ev'n the proudest Goddess now and then
Would lodge a night among the sons of men;
To vulgar Deitys descends the fashion,
Each, like her betters, had her earthly passion.

Then Cloacina (Goddess of the tide
Whose sable streams beneath the city glide)
Indulg'd the modish flame; the town she rov'd,
A mortal scavenger she saw, she lov'd;
The muddy spots that dry'd upon his face,
Like female patches, heighten'd ev'ry grace:
She gaz'd; she sigh'd. For love can beauties spy
In what seems faults to every common eye.

Now had the watchman walk'd his second round;
When Cloacina hears the rumbling sound
Of her brown lover's cart, for well she knows
That pleasing thunder: swift the Goddess rose,
And through the streets pursu'd the distant noise,
Her bosom panting with expected joys.
With the night-wandring harlot's airs she past,
Brush'd near his side, and wanton glances cast;
In the black form of cinder-wench she came,
When love, the hour, the place had banish'd shame;
To the dark alley, arm in arm they move:
O may no link-boy interrupt their love!

When the pale moon had nine times fill'd her space,
The pregnant Goddess (cautious of disgrace)
Descends to earth; but sought no midwife's aid,
Nor midst her anguish to Lucina pray'd;
No cheerful gossip wish'd the mother joy,
Alone, beneath a bulk, she dropt the boy.

The child through various risques in years improv'd,
At first a beggar's brat, compassion mov'd;
His infant tongue soon learnt the canting art,
Knew all the pray'rs and whines to touch the heart.

Oh happy unown'd youths, your limbs can bear
The scorching dog-star, and the winter's air,
While the rich infant, nurs'd with care and pain,
Thirsts with each heat, and coughs with ev'ry rain!

The Goddess long had mark'd the child's distress,
And long had sought his suff'rings to redress;
She prays the Gods to take the fondling's part,
To teach his hands some beneficial art
Practis'd in streets: the Gods her suit allow'd,
And made him useful to the walking croud,
To cleanse the miry feet, and o'er the shoe
With nimble skill the glossy black renew.
Each Power contributes to relieve the poor:
With the strong bristles of the mighty boar

Diana forms his brush; the God of day
A tripod gives, amid the crouded way
To raise the dirty foot, and ease his toil;
Kind Neptune fills his vase with fetid oil
Prest from th' enormous whale; The God of fire,
From whose dominions smoaky clouds aspire,
Among these gen'rous presents joins his part,
And aids with soot the new japanning art:
Pleas'd she receives the gifts; she downward glides,
Lights in Fleet-ditch, and shoots beneath the tides.

Now dawns the morn, the sturdy lad awakes,
Leaps from his stall, his tangled hair he shakes,
Then leaning o'er the rails, he musing stood,
And view'd below the black canal of mud,
Where common-shores a lulling murmur keep,
Whose torrents rush from Holborn's fatal steep:
Pensive through idleness, tears flow'd apace,
Which eas'd his loaded heart, and wash'd his face;
At length he sighing cry'd; That boy was blest,
Whose infant lips have drain'd a mother's breast;
But happier far are those, (if such be known)
Whom both a father and a mother own:
But I, alas! hard fortune's utmost scorn,
Who ne'er knew parent, was an orphan born!
Some boys are rich by birth beyond all wants,
Belov'd by uncles, and kind good old aunts;
When time comes round, a Christmas-box they bear,
And one day makes them rich for all the year.
Had I the precepts of a Father learn'd,
Perhaps I then the coach-man's fare had earn'd,
For lesser boys can drive; I thirsty stand
And see the double flaggon charge their hand,
See them puff off the froth, and gulp amain,
While with dry tongue I lick my lips in vain.

While thus he fervent prays, the heaving tide
In widen'd circles beats on either side;
The Goddess rose amid the inmost round,
With wither'd turnip tops her temples crown'd;
Low reach'd her dripping tresses, lank, and black
As the smooth jet, or glossy raven's back;
Around her waste a circling eel was twin'd,
Which bound her robe that hung in rags behind.
Now beck'ning to the boy; she thus begun,
Thy prayers are granted; weep no more, my son:
Go thrive. At some frequented corner stand,
This brush I give thee, grasp it in thy hand,
Temper the foot within this vase of oil,
And let the little tripod aid thy toil;

On this methinks I see the walking crew
At thy request support the miry shoe,
The foot grows black that was with dirt imbrown'd,
And in thy pocket gingling halfpence sound.
The Goddess plunges swift beneath the flood,
And dashes all around her show'rs of mud:
The youth strait chose his post; the labour ply'd
Where branching streets from Charing-cross divide;
His treble voice resounds along the Meuse,
And White-hall echoes—Clean your Honour's shoes.

Useful Precepts (continued).

Like the sweet ballad, this amusing lay
Too long detains the walker on his way;
While he attends, new dangers round him throng;
The busy city asks instructive song.

Where elevated o'er the gaping croud,
Clasp'd in the board the perjur'd head is bow'd,
Betimes retreat; here, thick as hailstones pour
Turnips, and half-hatch'd eggs, (a mingled show'r)
Among the rabble rain: Some random throw
May with the trickling yolk thy cheek o'erflow.

Of narrow Streets.

Though expedition bids, yet never stray
Where no rang'd posts defend the rugged way.
Here laden carts with thundring waggons meet,
Wheels clash with wheels, and bar the narrow street;
The lashing whip resounds, the horses strain,
And blood in anguish bursts the swelling vein.
O barb'rous men, your cruel breasts asswage,
Why vent ye on the gen'rous steed your rage?
Does not his service earn your daily bread?
Your wives, your children by his labours fed!
If, as the Samian taught, the soul revives,
And, shifting seats, in other bodies lives;
Severe shall be the brutal coachman's change,
Doom'd in a hackney horse the town to range:
Carmen, transform'd, the groaning load shall draw,
Whom other tyrants with the lash shall awe.

The most inconvenient Streets to Walkers.

Who would of Watling-street the dangers share,
When the broad pavement of Cheap-side is near?
Or who that rugged street would traverse o'er,
That stretches, O Fleet-ditch, from thy black shore
To the Tow'r's moated walls? Here steams ascend
That, in mix'd fumes, the wrinkled nose offend.
Where chandlers cauldrons boil; where fishy prey
Hide the wet stall, long absent from the sea;
And where the cleaver chops the heifer's spoil,
And where huge hogsheads sweat with trainy oil,

Thy breathing nostril hold; but how shall I
Pass, where in piles Cornavian cheeses lye;
Cheese, that the table's closing rites denies,
And bids me with th' unwilling chaplain rise.

The Pell-mell celebrated.

O bear me to the paths of fair Pell-mell,
Safe are thy pavements, grateful is thy smell!
At distance rolls along the gilded coach,
Nor sturdy carmen on thy walks encroach;
No lets would bar thy ways were chairs deny'd
The soft supports of laziness and pride;
Shops breathe perfumes, thro' sashes ribbons glow,
The mutual arms of ladies, and the beau.
Yet still ev'n here, when rains the passage hide,
Oft' the loose stone spirts up a muddy tide
Beneath thy careless foot; and from on high,
Where masons mount the ladder, fragments fly;
Mortar, and crumbled lime in show'rs descend,
And o'er thy head destructive tiles impend.

The Pleasure of walking through an Alley.

But sometimes let me leave the noisie roads,
And silent wander in the close abodes
Where wheels ne'er shake the ground; there pensive stray,
In studious thought, the long uncrouded way.
Here I remark each walker's diff'rent face,
And in their look their various bus'ness trace.
The broker here his spacious beaver wears,
Upon his brow sit jealousies and cares;
Bent on some mortgage (to avoid reproach)
He seeks bye streets, and saves th' expensive coach.
Soft, at low doors, old letchers tap their cane,
For fair recluse, who travels Drury-lane;
Here roams uncomb'd the lavish rake, to shun
His Fleet-street draper's everlasting dun.

Inconveniences that attend those who are unacquainted with the Town.

Careful observers, studious of the town,
Shun the misfortunes that disgrace the clown;
Untempted, they contemn the jugler's feats,
Pass by the Meuse, nor try the thimble's cheats.
When drays bound high, they never cross behind,
Where bubbling yest is blown by gusts of wind:
And when up Ludgate-hill huge carts move slow,
Far from the straining steeds securely go,
Whose dashing hoofs behind them fling the mire,
And mark with muddy blots the gazing 'squire.
The Parthian thus his jav'lin backward throws,
And as he flies infests pursuing foes.

The thoughtless wits shall frequent forfeits pay,
Who 'gainst the centry's box discharge their tea.
Do thou some court, or secret corner seek,
Nor flush with shame the passing virgin's cheek.

Precepts vulgarly known.

Yet let me not descend to trivial song,
Nor vulgar circumstance my verse prolong;
Why should I teach the maid when torrents pour,
Her head to shelter from the sudden show'r?
Nature will best her ready hand inform,
With her spread petticoat to fence the storm.
Does not each walker know the warning sign,
When wisps of straw depend upon the twine
Cross the close street; that then the paver's art
Renews the ways, deny'd to coach and cart?
Who knows not that the coachman lashing by,
Oft' with his flourish cuts the heedless eye;
And when he takes his stand, to wait a fare,
His horses foreheads shun the winter's air?
Nor will I roam when summer's sultry rays
Parch the dry ground, and spread with dust the ways;
With whirling gusts the rapid atoms rise,
Smoak o'er the pavement, and involve the skies.

Frosty Weather.

Winter my theme confines; whose nitry wind
Shall crust the slabby mire, and kennels bind;
She bids the snow descend in flaky sheets,
And in her hoary mantle cloath the streets.
Let not the virgin tread these slipp'ry roads,
The gath'ring fleece the hollow patten loads;
But if thy footsteps slide with clotted frost,
Strike off the breaking balls against the post.
On silent wheel the passing coaches roll;
Oft' look behind, and ward the threatning pole.
In harden'd orbs the school-boy moulds the snow,
To mark the coachman with a dext'rous throw.
Why do ye, boys, the kennel's surface spread,
To tempt with faithless pass the matron's tread?
How can ye laugh to see the damsel spurn,
Sink in your frauds, and her green stocking mourn?
At White's the harness'd chairman idly stands,
And swings around his waste his tingling hands:
The sempstress speeds to 'Change with red-tipt nose;
The Belgian stove beneath her footstool glows;
In half-whipt muslin needles useless lie,
And shuttle-cocks across the counter fly.

These sports warm harmless; why then will ye prove,
Deluded maids, the dang'rous flame of love?

The Dangers of Foot-ball.

Where Covent-Garden's famous temple stands,
That boasts the work of Jones' immortal hands;
Columns with plain magnificence appear,
And graceful porches lead along the square:
Here oft' my course I bend, when lo! from far
I spy the furies of the foot-ball war:
The 'prentice quits his shop, to join the crew,
Encreasing crouds the flying game pursue.
Thus, as you roll the ball o'er snowy ground,
The gath'ring globe augments with ev'ry round.
But whither shall I run? the throng draws nigh,
The ball now skims the street, now soars on high;
The dext'rous glazier strong returns the bound,
And gingling sashes on the pent-house sound.

An Episode of the great Frost.

O roving Muse, recal that wond'rous year,
When winter reign'd in bleak Britannia's air;
When hoary Thames, with frosted oziers crown'd,
Was three long moons in icy fetters bound.
The waterman, forlorn along the shore,
Pensive reclines upon his useless oar,
Sees harness'd steeds desert the stony town,
And wander roads unstable, not their own:
Wheels o'er the harden'd waters smoothly glide,
And rase with whiten'd tracks the slipp'ry tide.
Here the fat cook piles high the blazing fire,
And scarce the spit can turn the steer entire.
Booths sudden hide the Thames, long streets appear,
And num'rous games proclaim the crouded fair.
So when a gen'ral bids the martial train
Spread their encampment o'er the spacious plain;
Thick-rising tents a canvas city build,
And the loud dice resound thro' all the field.

'Twas here the matron found a doleful fate:
Let elegiac lay the woe relate,
Soft as the breath of distant flutes, at hours
When silent evening closes up the flow'rs;
Lulling as falling water's hollow noise;
Indulging grief, like Philomela's voice.

Doll ev'ry day had walk'd these treach'rous roads;
Her neck grew warpt beneath autumnal loads
Of various fruit; she now a basket bore,
That head, alas! shall basket bear no more.

Each booth she frequent past, in quest of gain,
And boys with pleasure heard her shrilling strain.
Ah Doll! all mortals must resign their breath,
And industry it self submit to death!
The cracking crystal yields, she sinks, she dyes,
Her head, chopt off, from her lost shoulders flies;
Pippins she cry'd, but death her voice confounds,
And pip-pip-pip along the ice resounds.
So when the Thracian furies Orpheus tore,
And left his bleeding trunk deform'd with gore,
His sever'd head floats down the silver tide,
His yet warm tongue for his lost consort cry'd;
Eurydice with quiv'ring voice he mourn'd,
And Heber's banks Eurydice return'd.

A Thaw.

But now the western gale the flood unbinds,
And black'ning clouds move on with warmer winds.
The wooden town its frail foundation leaves,
And Thames' full urn rolls down his plenteous waves;
From ev'ry penthouse streams the fleeting snow,
And with dissolving frost the pavements flow.

How to know the Days of the Week.

Experienc'd men, inur'd to city ways,
Need not the Calendar to count their days.
When through the town with slow and solemn air,
Led by the nostril, walks the muzled bear;
Behind him moves majestically dull,
The pride of Hockley-hole, the surly bull;
Learn hence the periods of the week to name,
Mondays and Thursdays are the days of game.

When fishy stalls with double store are laid;
The golden-belly'd carp, the broad-finn'd maid,
Red-speckled trouts, the salmon's silver joul,
The joynted lobster, and unscaly soale,
And luscious 'scallops, to allure the tastes
Of rigid zealots to delicious fasts;
Wednesdays and Fridays you'll observe from hence,
Days, when our sires were doom'd to abstinence.

When dirty waters from balconies drop,
And dext'rous damsels twirle the sprinkling mop,
And cleanse the spatter'd sash, and scrub the stairs;
Know Saturday's conclusive morn appears.

Remarks on the Crys of the Town.

Successive crys the seasons' change declare,
And mark the monthly progress of the year.
Hark, how the streets with treble voices ring,
To sell the bounteous product of the spring!
Sweet-smelling flow'rs, and elder's early bud,
With nettle's tender shoots, to cleanse the blood:

And when June's thunder cools the sultry skies,
Ev'n Sundays are prophan'd by mackrell cries.

Wallnuts the fruit'rer's hand, in autumn, stain,
Blue plumbs and juicy pears augment his gain;
Next oranges the longing boys entice,
To trust their copper fortunes to the dice.

Of Christmas.

When rosemary, and bays, the Poet's crown,
Are bawl'd, in frequent cries, through all the town,
Then judge the festival of Christmas near,
Christmas, the joyous period of the year.
Now with bright holly all your temples strow,
With lawrel green, and sacred misletoe.
Now, heav'n-born Charity, thy blessings shed;
Bid meagre Want uprear her sickly head:
Bid shiv'ring limbs be warm; let plenty's bowle
In humble roofs make glad the needy soul.
See, see, the heav'n-born maid her blessings shed;
Lo! meagre Want uprears her sickly head;
Cloath'd are the naked, and the needy glad,
While selfish Avarice alone is sad.

Precepts of Charity.

Proud coaches pass, regardless of the moan
Of infant orphans, and the widow's groan;
While Charity still moves the walker's mind,
His lib'ral purse relieves the lame and blind.
Judiciously thy half-pence are bestow'd,
Where the laborious beggar sweeps the road.
Whate'er you give, give ever at demand,
Nor let old-age long stretch his palsy'd hand.
Those who give late, are importun'd each day,
And still are teaz'd because they still delay.
If e'er the miser durst his farthings spare,
He thinly spreads them through the publick square,
Where, all beside the rail, rang'd beggars lie,
And from each other catch the doleful cry;
With heav'n, for two-pence, cheaply wipes his score,
Lifts up his eyes, and hasts to beggar more.

Where the brass knocker, wrapt in flannel band,
Forbids the thunder of the footman's hand;
Th' upholder, rueful harbinger of death,
Waits with impatience for the dying breath;
As vultures, o'er a camp, with hov'ring flight,
Snuff up the future carnage of the fight.
Here canst thou pass, unmindful of a pray'r,
That heav'n in mercy may thy brother spare?

Come, F***, sincere, experienc'd friend,
Thy briefs, thy deeds, and ev'n thy fees suspend;

Come let us leave the Temple's silent walls,
Me bus'ness to my distant lodging calls:
Through the long Strand together let us stray:
With thee conversing, I forget the way.
Behold that narrow street which steep descends,
Whose building to the slimy shore extends;
Here Arundel's fam'd structure rear'd its frame,
The street alone retains an empty name:
Where Titian's glowing paint the canvas warm'd,
And Raphael's fair design, with judgment, charm'd,
Now hangs the bell'man's song, and pasted here
The colour'd prints of Overton appear.
Where statues breath'd, the work of Phidias' hands,
A wooden pump, or lonely watch-house stands.
There Essex' stately pile adorn'd the shore,
There Cecil's, Bedford's, Villers', now no more.
Yet Burlington's fair palace still remains;
Beauty within, without proportion reigns.
Beneath his eye declining art revives,
The wall with animated picture lives;
There Hendel strikes the strings, the melting strain
Transports the soul, and thrills through ev'ry vein;
There oft' I enter (but with cleaner shoes)
For Burlington's belov'd by ev'ry Muse.

The Happiness of Walkers.

O ye associate walkers, O my friends,
Upon your state what happiness attends!
What, though no coach to frequent visit rolls,
Nor for your shilling chairmen sling their poles;
Yet still your nerves rheumatic pains defye,
Nor lazy jaundice dulls your saffron eye;
No wasting cough discharges sounds of death,
Nor wheezing asthma heaves in vain for breath;
Nor from your restless couch is heard the groan
Of burning gout, or sedentary stone.
Let others in the jolting coach confide,
Or in the leaky boat the Thames divide;
Or, box'd within the chair, contemn the street,
And trust their safety to another's feet,
Still let me walk; for oft' the sudden gale
Ruffles the tide, and shifts the dang'rous sail.
Then shall the passenger too late deplore
The whelming billow, and the faithless oar;
The drunken chairman in the kennel spurns,
The glasses shatters, and his charge o'erturns.
Who can recount the coach's various harms,
The legs disjointed, and the broken arms?

I've seen a beau, in some ill-fated hour,
When o'er the stones choak'd kennels swell the show'r
In gilded chariot loll; he with disdain
Views spatter'd passengers all drench'd in rain;
With mud fill'd high, the rumbling cart draws near,
Now rule thy prancing steeds, lac'd charioteer!
The dust-man lashes on with spiteful rage,
His pond'rous spokes thy painted wheel engage,
Crush'd is thy pride, down falls the shrieking beau,
The slabby pavement crystal fragments strow,
Black floods of mire th' embroider'd coat disgrace,
And mud enwraps the honours of his face.
So when dread Jove the son of Phœbus hurl'd,
Scarr'd with dark thunder, to the nether world;
The headstrong coursers tore the silver reins,
And the sun's beamy ruin gilds the plains.

If the pale walker pant with weak'ning ills,
His sickly hand is stor'd with friendly bills:
From hence he learns the seventh-born doctor's fame,
From hence he learns the cheapest tailor's name.

Shall the large mutton smoak upon your boards?
Such, Newgate's copious market best affords.
Would'st thou with mighty beef augment thy meal?
Seek Leaden-hall; St. James's sends thee veal.
Thames-street gives cheeses; Covent-garden fruits;
Moor-fields old books; and Monmouth-street old suits.
Hence may'st thou well supply the wants of life,
Support thy family, and cloath thy wife.

Volumes on shelter'd stalls expanded lye,
And various science lures the learned eye;
The bending shelves with pond'rous scholiasts groan,
And deep divines to modern shops unknown:
Here, like the bee, that on industrious wing
Collects the various odours of the spring,
Walkers, at leisure, learning's flow'rs may spoil,
Nor watch the wasting of the midnight oil,
May morals snatch from Plutarch's tatter'd page,
A mildew'd Bacon, or Stagyra's sage.
Here saunt'ring prentices o'er Otway weep,
O'er Congreve smile, or over D** sleep;
Pleas'd sempstresses the Lock's fam'd Rape unfold,
And Squirts read Garth, 'till apozems grow cold.

O Lintot, let my labours obvious lie,
Rang'd on thy stall, for ev'ry curious eye;

So shall the poor these precepts gratis know,
And to my verse their future safeties owe.

What walker shall his mean ambition fix
On the false lustre of a coach and six?
Let the vain virgin, lur'd by glaring show,
Sigh for the liv'ries of th' embroider'd beau.

See yon bright chariot on its braces swing,
With Flanders mares, and on an arched spring;
That wretch, to gain an equipage and place,
Betray'd his sister to a lewd embrace.
This coach, that with the blazon'd 'scutcheon glows,
Vain of his unknown race, the coxcomb shows.
Here the brib'd lawyer, sunk in velvet, sleeps;
The starving orphan, as he passes, weeps;
There flames a fool, begirt with tinsell'd slaves,
Who wastes the wealth of a whole race of knaves.
That other, with a clustring train behind,
Owes his new honours to a sordid mind.
This next in court-fidelity excells,
The publick rifles, and his country sells.
May the proud chariot never be my fate,
If purchas'd at so mean, so dear a rate;
O rather give me sweet content on foot,
Wrapt in my virtue, and a good Surtout!

Cloacina was a Goddess whose image Tatius (a King of the Sabines) found in the common-shore, and not knowing what Goddess it was, he called it Cloacina from the place in which it was found, and paid to it divine honours. Lactant. 1, 20. Minuc. Fel. Oct. p. 232.

Thames-street.

Cheshire anciently so called.

A Cheat commonly practis'd in the streets with three thimbles and a little ball.

The name of an Apothecary's boy, in the Poem of the Dispensary.

BOOK III.

Of walking the Streets by Night.

O TRIVIA, Goddess, leave these low abodes,
And traverse o'er the wide ethereal roads,
Celestial Queen, put on thy robes of light,
Now Cynthia nam'd, fair regent of the Night.
At sight of thee the villain sheaths his sword,
Nor scales the wall, to steal the wealthy hoard.
O may thy silver lamp from heav'n's high bow'r
Direct my footsteps in the midnight hour!

The Evening.

When night first bids the twinkling stars appear,
Or with her cloudy vest inwraps the air,
Then swarms the busie street; with caution tread,
Where the shop-windows falling threat thy head;

Now lab'rers home return, and join their strength
To bear the tott'ring plank, or ladder's length;
Still fix thy eyes intent upon the throng,
And as the passes open, wind along.

Of the Pass of St. Clement's.

Where the fair columns of St. Clement stand,
Whose straiten'd bounds encroach upon the Strand;
Where the low penthouse bows the walker's head,
And the rough pavement wounds the yielding tread;
Where not a post protects the narrow space,
And strung in twines, combs dangle in thy face;
Summon at once thy courage, rouze thy care,
Stand firm, look back, be resolute, beware.
Forth issuing from steep lanes, the collier's steeds
Drag the black load; another cart succeeds,
Team follows team, crouds heap'd on crouds appear,
And wait impatient, 'till the road grow clear.
Now all the pavement sounds with trampling feet,
And the mixt hurry barricades the street.
Entangled here, the waggon's lengthen'd team
Cracks the tough harness; here a pond'rous beam
Lies over-turn'd athwart; for slaughter fed
Here lowing bullocks raise their horned head.
Now oaths grow loud, with coaches coaches jar,
And the smart blow provokes the sturdy war;
From the high box they whirl the thong around,
And with the twining lash their shins resound:
Their rage ferments, more dang'rous wounds they try,
And the blood gushes down their painful eye.
And now on foot the frowning warriors light,
And with their pond'rous fists renew the fight;
Blow answers blow, their cheeks are smear'd with blood,
'Till down they fall, and grappling roll in mud.
So when two boars, in wild Ytene bred,
Or on Westphalia's fatt'ning chest-nuts fed,
Gnash their sharp tusks, and rous'd with equal fire.
Dispute the reign of some luxurious mire;
In the black flood they wallow o'er and o'er,
'Till their arm'd jaws distil with foam and gore.

Of Pick-Pockets.

Where the mob gathers, swiftly shoot along,
Nor idly mingle in the noisy throng.
Lur'd by the silver hilt, amid the swarm,
The subtil artist will thy side disarm.
Nor is thy flaxen wigg with safety worn;
High on the shoulder, in a basket born,
Lurks the sly boy; whose hand to rapine bred,
Plucks off the curling honours of thy head.

Here dives the skulking thief with practis'd slight,
And unfelt fingers make thy pocket light.
Where's now thy watch, with all its trinkets, flown?
And thy late snuff-box is no more thy own.
But lo! his bolder theft some tradesman spies,
Swift from his prey the scudding lurcher flies;
Dext'rous he 'scapes the coach with nimble bounds,
Whilst ev'ry honest tongue stop thief resounds.
So speeds the wily fox, alarm'd by fear,
Who lately filch'd the turkey's callow care;
Hounds following hounds grow louder as he flies,
And injur'd tenants joyn the hunter's cries.
Breathless he stumbling falls: Ill-fated boy!
Why did not honest work thy youth employ?
Seiz'd by rough hands, he's dragg'd amid the rout,
And stretch'd beneath the pump's incessant spout:
Or plung'd in miry ponds, he gasping lies,
Mud choaks his mouth, and plaisters o'er his eyes.

Of Ballad-Singers.

Let not the ballad-singer's shrilling strain
Amid the swarm thy list'ning ear detain:
Guard well thy pocket; for these Syrens stand
To aid the labours of the diving hand;
Confed'rate in the cheat, they draw the throng,
And cambrick handkerchiefs reward the song.
But soon as coach or cart drives rattling on,
The rabble part, in shoals they backward run.
So Jove's loud bolts the mingled war divide,
And Greece and Troy retreat on either side.

Of walking with a Friend.

If the rude throng pour on with furious pace,
And hap to break thee from a friend's embrace,
Stop short; nor struggle through the croud in vain,
But watch with careful eye the passing train.
Yet I (perhaps too fond) if chance the tide
Tumultuous bear my partner from my side,
Impatient venture back; despising harm,
I force my passage where the thickest swarm.
Thus his lost bride the Trojan sought in vain
Through night, and arms, and flames, and hills of slain.
Thus Nisus wander'd o'er the pathless grove,
To find the brave companion of his love,
The pathless grove in vain he wanders o'er:
Euryalus, alas! is now no more.

Of inadvertent Walkers.

That walker, who regardless of his pace,
Turns oft' to pore upon the damsel's face,
From side to side by thrusting elbows tost,
Shall strike his aking breast against the post;

Or water, dash'd from fishy stalls, shall stain
His hapless coat with spirts of scaly rain.
But if unwarily he chance to stray,
Where twirling turnstiles intercept the way,
The thwarting passenger shall force them round,
And beat the wretch half breathless to the ground.

Useful Precepts.

Let constant vigilance thy footsteps guide,
And wary circumspection guard thy side;
Then shalt thou walk unharm'd the dang'rous night,
Nor need th' officious link-boy's smoaky light.
Thou never wilt attempt to cross the road,
Where alehouse benches rest the porter's load,
Grievous to heedless shins; no barrow's wheel,
That bruises oft' the truant school-boy's heel,
Behind thee rolling, with insidious pace,
Shall mark thy stocking with a miry trace.
Let not thy vent'rous steps approach too nigh,
Where gaping wide, low steepy cellars lie;
Should thy shoe wrench aside, down, down you fall,
And overturn the scolding huckster's stall,
The scolding huckster shall not o'er thee moan,
But pence exact for nuts and pears o'erthrown.

Safety first of all to be consider'd.

Though you through cleanlier allies wind by day,
To shun the hurries of the publick way,
Yet ne'er to those dark paths by night retire;
Mind only safety, and contemn the mire.
Then no impervious courts thy haste detain,
Nor sneering ale-wives bid thee turn again.

The Danger of crossing a Square by Night.

Where Lincoln's-Inn, wide space, is rail'd around,
Cross not with vent'rous step; there oft' is found
The lurking thief, who while the day-light shone,
Made the walls eccho with his begging tone:
That crutch which late compassion mov'd, shall wound
Thy bleeding head, and fell thee to the ground.
Though thou art tempted by the link-man's call,
Yet trust him not along the lonely wall;
In the mid-way he'll quench the flaming brand,
And share the booty with the pilf'ring band.
Still keep the publick streets, where oily rays
Shot from the crystal lamp, o'erspread the ways.

The Happiness of London.

Happy Augusta! law-defended town!
Here no dark lanthorns shade the villain's frown;
No Spanish jealousies thy lanes infest,
Nor Roman vengeance stabs th' unwary breast;
Here tyranny ne'er lifts her purple hand,
But liberty and justice guard the land;
No bravos here profess the bloody trade,
Nor is the church the murd'rer's refuge made.

Of Chairmen.

Let not the chairman, with assuming stride,
Press near the wall, and rudely thrust thy side:

The laws have set him bounds; his servile feet
Should ne'er encroach where posts defend the street.
Yet who the footman's arrogance can quell,
Whose flambeau gilds the sashes of Pell-mell,
When in long rank a train of torches flame,
To light the midnight visits of the dame?
Others, perhaps, by happier guidance led,
May where the chairman rests, with safety tread;
Whene'er I pass, their poles unseen below,
Make my knee tremble with the jarring blow.

Of crossing the Street.

If wheels bar up the road, where streets are crost,
With gentle words the coachman's ear accost:
He ne'er the threat, or harsh command obeys,
But with contempt the spatter'd shoe surveys.
Now man with utmost fortitude thy soul,
To cross the way where carts and coaches roll;
Yet do not in thy hardy skill confide,
Nor rashly risque the kennel's spacious stride;
Stay till afar the distant wheel you hear,
Like dying thunder in the breaking air;
Thy foot will slide upon the miry stone,
And passing coaches crush thy tortur'd bone,
Or wheels enclose the road; on either hand
Pent round with perils, in the midst you stand,
And call for aid in vain; the coachman swears,
And car-men drive, unmindful of thy prayers.
Where wilt thou turn? ah! whither wilt thou fly?
On ev'ry side the pressing spokes are nigh.
So sailors, while Carybdis' gulph they shun,
Amaz'd, on Scylla's craggy dangers run.

Of Oysters.

Be sure observe where brown Ostrea stands,
Who boasts her shelly ware from Wallfleet sands;
There may'st thou pass, with safe unmiry feet,
Where the rais'd pavement leads athwart the street.
If where Fleet-ditch with muddy current flows,
You chance to roam; where oyster-tubs in rows
Are rang'd beside the posts; there stay thy haste,
And with the sav'ry fish indulge thy taste:
The damsel's knife the gaping shell commands,
While the salt liquor streams between her hands.

The man had sure a palate cover'd o'er
With brass or steel, that on the rocky shore
First broke the oozy oyster's pearly coat,
And risqu'd the living morsel down his throat.
What will not lux'ry taste? Earth, sea, and air
Are daily ransack'd for the bill of fare.
Blood stuff'd in skins is British christians food,
And France robs marshes of the croaking brood;

Spongy morells in strong ragousts are found,
And in the soupe the slimy snail is drown'd.

Observations concerning keeping the Wall.

When from high spouts the dashing torrents fall,
Ever be watchful to maintain the wall;
For should'st thou quit thy ground, the rushing throng
Will with impetuous fury drive along;
All press to gain those honours thou hast lost,
And rudely shove thee far without the post.
Then to retrieve the shed you strive in vain,
Draggled all o'er, and soak'd in floods of rain.
Yet rather bear the show'r, and toils of mud,
Than in the doubtful quarrel risque thy blood.
O think on OEdipus' detested state,
And by his woes be warn'd to shun thy fate.

Where three roads join'd, he met his sire unknown;
(Unhappy sire, but more unhappy son!)
Each claim'd the way, their swords the strife decide,
The hoary monarch fell, he groan'd and dy'd!
Hence sprung the fatal plague that thin'd thy reign,
Thy cursed incest! and thy children slain!
Hence wert thou doom'd in endless night to stray
Through Theban streets, and cheerless groap thy way.

Of a Funeral.

Contemplate, mortal, on thy fleeting years;
See, with black train the funeral pomp appears!
Whether some heir attends in sable state,
And mourns with outward grief a parent's fate;
Or the fair virgin, nipt in beauty's bloom,
A croud of lovers follow to her tomb.
Why is the herse with 'scutcheons blazon'd round,
And with the nodding plume of Ostrich crown'd?
No: The dead know it not, nor profit gain;
It only serves to prove the living vain.
How short is life! how frail is human trust!
Is all this pomp for laying dust to dust?

Of avoiding Paint.

Where the nail'd hoop defends the painted stall,
Brush not thy sweeping skirt too near the wall;
Thy heedless sleeve will drink the colour'd oil,
And spot indelible thy pocket soil.
Has not wise nature strung the legs and feet
With firmest nerves, design'd to walk the street?
Has she not given us hands, to groap aright,
Amidst the frequent dangers of the night?
And think'st thou not the double nostril meant,
To warn from oily woes by previous scent?

Of various Cheats formerly in practice.

Who can the various city frauds recite,
With all the petty rapines of the night?

Who now the Guinea-dropper's bait regards,
Trick'd by the sharper's dice, or juggler's cards?
Why should I warn thee ne'er to join the fray,
Where the sham-quarrel interrupts the way?
Lives there in these our days so soft a clown,
Brav'd by the bully's oaths, or threat'ning frown?
I need not strict enjoyn the pocket's care,
When from the crouded play thou lead'st the fair;
Who has not here, or watch, or snuff-box lost,
Or handkerchiefs that India's shuttle boast?

An Admonition to Virtue.

O! may thy virtue guard thee through the roads
Of Drury's mazy courts, and dark abodes,
The harlots guileful paths, who nightly stand,
Where Katherine-street descends into the Strand.
Say, vagrant Muse, their wiles and subtil arts,
To lure the strangers unsuspecting hearts;
So shall our youth on healthful sinews tread,
And city cheeks grow warm with rural red.

How to know a Whore.

'Tis she who nightly strowls with saunt'ring pace,
No stubborn stays her yielding shape embrace;
Beneath the lamp her tawdry ribbons glare,
The new-scower'd manteau, and the slattern air;
High-draggled petticoats her travels show,
And hollow cheeks with artful blushes glow;
With flatt'ring sounds she sooths the cred'lous ear,
My noble captain! charmer! love! my dear!
In riding-hood near tavern-doors she plies,
Or muffled pinners hide her livid eyes.
With empty bandbox she delights to range,
And feigns a distant errand from the 'Change;
Nay, she will oft' the Quaker's hood prophane,
And trudge demure the rounds of Drury-lane.
She darts from sarsnet ambush wily leers,
Twitches thy sleeve, or with familiar airs
Her fan will pat thy cheek; these snares disdain,
Nor gaze behind thee, when she turns again.

A dreadful Example.

I knew a yeoman, who for thirst of gain,
To the great city drove from Devon's plain
His num'rous lowing herd; his herds he sold,
And his deep leathern pocket bagg'd with gold;
Drawn by a fraudful nymph, he gaz'd, he sigh'd;
Unmindful of his home, and distant bride,
She leads the willing victim to his doom,
Through winding alleys to her cobweb room.
Thence thro' the street he reels from post to post,
Valiant with wine, nor knows his treasure lost.

The vagrant wretch th' assembled watchmen spies,
He waves his hanger, and their poles defies;
Deep in the Round-house pent, all night he snores,
And the next morn in vain his fate deplores.

Ah hapless swain, unus'd to pains and ills!
Canst thou forego roast-beef for nauseous pills?
How wilt thou lift to Heav'n thy eyes and hands,
When the long scroll the surgeon's fees demands!
Or else (ye Gods avert that worst disgrace)
Thy ruin'd nose falls level with thy face,
Then shall thy wife thy loathsome kiss disdain,
And wholesome neighbours from thy mug refrain.

Of Watchmen.

Yet there are watchmen, who with friendly light
Will teach thy reeling steps to tread aright;
For sixpence will support thy helpless arm,
And home conduct thee, safe from nightly harm;
But if they shake their lanthorns, from afar
To call their breth'ren to confed'rate war
When rakes resist their pow'r; if hapless you
Should chance to wander with the scow'ring crew;
Though fortune yield thee captive, ne'er despair,
But seek the constable's consid'rate ear;
He will reverse the watchman's harsh decree,
Moved by the rhet'rick of a silver fee.
Thus would you gain some fav'rite courtier's word;
Fee not the petty clarks, but bribe my Lord.

Of Rakes.

Now is the time that rakes their revells keep;
Kindlers of riot, enemies of sleep.
His scatter'd pence the flying Nicker flings,
And with the copper show'r the casement rings.
Who has not heard the Scowrer's midnight fame?
Who has not trembled at the Mohock's name?
Was there a watchman took his hourly rounds,
Safe from their blows, or new-invented wounds?
I pass their desp'rate deeds, and mischiefs done
Where from Snow-hill black steepy torrents run;
How matrons, hoop'd within the hoghead's womb,
Were tumbled furious thence, the rolling tomb
O'er the stones thunders, bounds from side to side.
So Regulus to save his country dy'd.

A necessary Caution in a dark Night.

Where a dim gleam the paly lanthorn throws
O'er the mid pavement, heapy rubbish grows;
Or arched vaults their gaping jaws extend,
Or the dark caves to common-shores descend.
Oft' by the winds extinct the signal lies,
Or smother'd in the glimmering socket dies,

E'er night has half roll'd round her ebon throne;
In the wide gulph the shatter'd coach o'erthrown
Sinks with the snorting steeds; the reins are broke,
And from the crackling axle flies the spoke.
So when fam'd Eddystone's far-shooting ray,
That led the sailor through the stormy way,
Was from its rocky roots by billows torn,
And the high turret in the whirlewind born,
Fleets bulg'd their sides against the craggy land,
And pitchy ruines blacken'd all the strand.

Who then through night would hire the harness'd steed,
And who would choose the rattling wheel for speed?

A Fire.

But hark! distress with screaming voice draws nigh'r,
And wakes the slumb'ring street with cries of fire.
At first a glowing red enwraps the skies,
And born by winds the scatt'ring sparks arise;
From beam to beam the fierce contagion spreads;
The spiry flames now lift aloft their heads,
Through the burst sash a blazing deluge pours,
And splitting tiles descend in rattling show'rs.
Now with thick crouds th' enlighten'd pavement swarms,
The fire-man sweats beneath his crooked arms,
A leathern casque his vent'rous head defends,
Boldly he climbs where thickest smoak ascends;
Mov'd by the mother's streaming eyes and pray'rs,
The helpless infant through the flame he bears,
With no less virtue, than through hostile fire
The Dardan hero bore his aged sire.
See forceful engines spout their levell'd streams,
To quench the blaze that runs along the beams;
The grappling hook plucks rafters from the walls,
And heaps on heaps the smoaky ruine falls.
Blown by strong winds the fiery tempest roars,
Bears down new walls, and pours along the floors;
The Heav'ns are all a-blaze, the face of night
Is cover'd with a sanguine dreadful light:
'Twas such a light involv'd thy tow'rs, O Rome,
The dire presage of mighty Cæsar's doom,
When the sun veil'd in rust his mourning head,
And frightful prodigies the skies o'erspread.
Hark! the drum thunders! far, ye crouds, retire:
Behold! the ready match is tipt with fire,
The nitrous store is laid, the smutty train
With running blaze awakes the barrell'd grain;
Flames sudden wrap the walls; with sullen sound
The shatter'd pile sinks on the smoaky ground.

So when the years shall have revolv'd the date,
Th' inevitable hour of Naples' fate,
Her sapp'd foundations shall with thunders shake,
And heave and toss upon the sulph'rous lake;
Earth's womb at once the fiery flood shall rend,
And in th' abyss her plunging tow'rs descend.

Consider, reader, what fatigues I've known,
The toils, the perils of the wintry town;
What riots seen, what bustling crouds I bor'd,
How oft' I cross'd where carts and coaches roar'd;
Yet shall I bless my labours, if mankind
Their future safety from my dangers find.
Thus the bold traveller, (inur'd to toil,
Whose steps have printed Asia's desert soil,
The barb'rous Arabs haunt; or shiv'ring crost
Dark Greenland's mountains of eternal frost;
Whom providence in length of years restores
To the wish'd harbour of his native shores;)
Sets forth his journals to the publick view,
To caution, by his woes, the wandring crew.

And now compleat my gen'rous labours lye,
Finish'd, and ripe for immortality.
Death shall entomb in dust this mould'ring frame,
But never reach th' eternal part, my fame.
When W* and G**, mighty names, are dead;
Or but at Chelsea under custards read;
When Criticks crazy bandboxes repair,
And Tragedies, turn'd rockets, bounce in air;
High-rais'd on Fleet-street posts, consign'd to fame,
This work shall shine, and walkers bless my name.

New Forest in Hampshire, antiently so called.

Gentlemen, who delighted to break windows with half-pence.

[OVID'S METAMORPHOSES]

THE STORY OF ARACHNE

[_]

FROM The Beginning of the Sixth Book of Ovid's Metamorphoses.

Pallas , attentive heard the Muses song,
Pleas'd that so well they had reveng'd their wrong;
Reflecting thus,—A vulgar soul can praise,
My fame let glorious emulation raise,
Swift vengeance shall pursue th' audacious pride
That dares my sacred Deity deride.
Revenge the Goddess in her breast revolves,
And strait the bold Arachne's fate resolves.
Her haughty mind to heav'n disdain'd to bend,
And durst with Pallas in her art contend.
No famous town she boasts, or noble name;
But to her skillful hand owes all her fame;

Idmon her father on his trade rely'd,
And thirsty wool in purple juices dy'd;
Her mother, whom the shades of death confine,
Was, like her husband, born of vulgar line.
At small Hypæpæ though she did reside,
Yet industry proclaim'd what birth deny'd,
All Lydia to her name due honour pays,
And ev'ry city speaks Arachne's praise.
Nymphs of Timolus quit their shady woods,
Nymphs of Pactolus leave their golden floods,
And oft' with pleasure round her gazing stand,
Admire her work, and praise her artful hand,
They view'd each motion, with new wonder seiz'd;
More than the work her graceful manner pleas'd.

Whether raw wool in its first orbs she wound,
Or with swift fingers twirl'd the spindle round,
Whether she pick'd with care the knotty piece,
Or comb'd like streaky clouds the stretching fleece,
Whether her needle play'd the pencil's part;
'Twas plain from Pallas she derived her art.
But she, unable to sustain her pride,
The very mistress of her art defy'd.
Pallas obscures her bright celestial grace,
And takes an old decrepid beldam's face.
Her head is scatter'd o'er with silver hairs,
Which seems to bend beneath a load of years.
Her trembling hand, emboss'd with livid veins,
On trusty staff her feeble limbs sustains.

She thus accosts the nymph, “Be timely wise,
“Do not the wholsome words of age despise,
“For in the hoary head experience lies:
“On earth contend the greatest name to gain;
“To Pallas yield; with heav'n you strive in vain.”

Contempt contracts her brow, her passions rise,
Wrath and disdain inflame her rolling eyes:
At once the tangling thread away she throws,
And scarce can curb her threatning hands from blows.
“Worn out with age, and by disease declin'd,
“(She cries) thy carcase has surviv'd thy mind;
“These lectures might thy servile daughters move,
“And wary doctrines for thy neices prove;
“My counsel's from my self, my will commands,
“And my first resolution always stands:

“Let her contend; or does her fear impart
“That conquest waits on my superior art?”

The goddess strait throws off her old disguise,
And heav'nly beauty sparkles in her eyes,
A youthful bloom fills up each wrinkled trace,
And Pallas smiles with ev'ry wonted grace.
The nymphs surpriz'd the deity adore,
And Lydian dames confess her matchless pow'r;
The rival maid alone unmov'd remains,
Yet a swift blush her guilty feature stains;
In her unwilling cheek the crimson glows,
And her check'd pride a short confusion knows.
So when Aurora first unveils her eyes,
A purple dawn invests the blushing skies;
But soon bright Phœbus gains th' horizon's height,
And gilds the hemisphere with spreading light.

Desire of conquest sways the giddy maid,
To certain ruin by vain hopes betray'd,
The goddess with her stubborn will comply'd,
And deign'd by trial to convince her pride.
Both take their stations, and the piece prepare,
And order ev'ry slender thread with care;
The web inwraps the beam; the reed divides,
While through the wid'ning space the shuttle glides,
Which their swift hands receive; then pois'd with lead,
The swinging weight strikes close th' inserted thread.
They gird their flowing garments round their wast,
And ply their feet and arms with dext'rous haste.
Here each inweaves the richest Tyrian dye,
There fainter shades in soften'd order lye;
Such various mixtures in the texture shine,
Set off the work, and brighten each design.
As when the sun his piercing rays extends,
When from thin clouds some drisly show'r descends;
We see the spacious humid arch appear,
Whose transient colours paint the splendid air;
By such degrees the deep'ning shadows rise
As pleasingly deceive our dazled eyes;
And though the same th' adjoining colour seems,
Yet hues of diff'rent natures die th' extremes.
Here height'ning gold they midst the woof dispose,
And in the web this antique story rose.

Pallas the lofty mount of Mars designs,
Celestial judgment guides th' unerring lines;

Here, in just view, the Athenian structures stand,
And there, the Gods contend to name the land;
Twelve deities she frames with stately mien,
And in the midst superior Jove is seen;
A glowing warmth the blended colours give,
The figures in the picture seem to live.
Heav'n's thundring monarch sits with awful grace,
And dread omnipotence imprints his face:
There Neptune stood, disdainfully he frown'd,
And with his trident smote the trembling ground,
The parting rocks a spacious chasm disclose,
From whence a fiery prancing steed arose;
And on that useful gift he founds his claim,
To grace the city with his honour'd name.
See her own figure next with martial air,
A shining helmet decks her flowing hair;
Her thoughtful breast her well-pois'd shield defends,
And her bare arm a glitt'ring spear extends,
With which she wounds the plain; from thence arose
A spreading Tree, green olives load the boughs;
The Pow'rs her gift behold with wondring eyes,
And to the goddess give the rightful prize.

Such mercy checks her wrath, that to dissuade
By others fate the too presumptuous maid,
With miniature she fills each corner space,
To curb her pride, and save her from disgrace.

Hœmus and Rhodope in this she wrought,
The beauteous colours spoke her lively thought;
With arrogance and fierce ambition fir'd,
They to the sacred names of Gods aspir'd;
To mountains chang'd their lofty heads arise,
And lose their less'ning summits in the skies.

In that, in all the strength of art was seen
The wretched fate of the Pygmœan queen;
Juno enrag'd, resents th' audacious aim,
And to a crane transforms the vanquish'd dame;
In that voracious shape she still appears,
And plagues her people with perpetual wars.

In this, Antigone for beauty strove
With the bright consort of imperial Jove:
Juno incens'd, her royal pow'r display'd,
And to a bird converts the haughty maid.
Laomedon his daughter's fate bewails,
Nor his, nor Ilion's fervent pray'r prevails,
But on her lovely skin white feathers rise,
Chang'd to a clam'rous stork she mounts the skies.

In the remaining orb, the heav'nly maid
The tale of childless Cynaras display'd,
A settled anguish in his look appears,
And from his bloodshot eyes flow streams of tears;
On the cold ground, no more a father, thrown;
He, for his daughters, clasp'd the polish'd stone.
And when he sought to hold their wonted charms,
The temple's steps deceiv'd his eager arms.
Wreaths of green olive round the border twine,
And her own tree incloses the design.

Arachne paints th' amours of mighty Jove,
How in a bull the God disguis'd his love,
A real bull seems in the piece to roar,
And real billows breaking on the shore:
In fair Europa's face appears surprize,
To the retreating land she turns her eyes,
And seems to call her maids, who wond'ring stood,
And with their tears increas'd the briny flood;
Her trembling feet she by contraction saves
From the rude insult of the rising waves.

Here am'rous Jove dissolving Leda trod,
And in the vig'rous swan conceal'd the God.
Love lends him now an eagle's new disguise,
Beneath his flutt'ring wings Asteria lies.
Th' enliv'ning colours here with force express'd
How Jove the fair Antiope caress'd.
In a strong satyr's muscled form he came
Instilling love, transports the glowing dame,
And lusty twins reward his nervous flame.
Here how he sooth'd the bright Alcmena's love,
Who for Amphitryon took th' impostor Jove,

And how the God, in golden show'r, allur'd
The guarded nymph, in brazen walls immur'd.
How, in a swain, Mnemosyne he charms;
How lambent flame the fair Ægina warms:
And how with various glitt'ring hues inlaid
In serpent's form Deöis he betray'd.
Here you, great Neptune, with a short-liv'd flame
In a young bull enjoy th' Æolian dame.
Then in Enipeus' shape intrigues pursue.
'Tis thus th' Aloïds boast descent from you.
Here to Bisaltis was thy love convey'd,
When a rough ram deceiv'd the yielding maid.

Ceres, kind mother of the bounteous year,
Whose golden locks a sheafy garland bear;
And the dread dame, with hissing serpents hung,
(From whom the Pegasæan courser sprung,)
Thee in a snuffling stallion's form enjoy,
Exhaust thy strength, and ev'ry nerve employ;
Melantho as a dolphin you betray,
And sport in pleasures on the rolling sea;
Such just proportion graces ev'ry part,
Nature her self appears improv'd by art.
Here in disguise was mighty Phœbus seen,
With clownish aspect, and a rustick mien;
Again transform'd, he's dress'd in faulcon's plumes,
And now the lion's noble shape assumes;
Now, in a shepherd's form, with treach'rous smiles,
He Macareian Isse's heart beguiles.
Here his plump shape enamour'd Bacchus leaves,
And in the grape Erigone deceives.
There Saturn, in a neighing horse, she wove,
And Chiron's double form rewards his love.
Festoons of flow'rs inwove with ivy shine,
Border the wond'rous piece, and round the texture twine.

Not Pallas, nor ev'n spleen it self could blame,
The wond'rous work of the Mœonian dame;
With grief her vast success the goddess bore,
And of celestial crimes the story tore.
Her boxen shuttle, now enrag'd, she took,
And thrice the proud Idmonian artist struck:
Th' unhappy maid, to see her labours vain,
Grew resolute with pride, and shame, and pain:

Around her neck a fatal noose she ty'd,
And sought by sudden death her guilt to hide.
Pallas with pity saw the desp'rate deed,
And thus the virgin's milder fate decreed.
“Live, impious rival, mindful of thy crime,
“Suspended thus to waste thy future time,
“Thy punishment involves thy num'rous race,
“Who, for thy fault, shall share in thy disgrace:”
Her incantation magick juices aid,
With sprinkling drops she bath'd the pendent maid,
And thus the charm its noxious power display'd.
Like leaves in autumn drop her falling hairs,
With these her nose, and next her rising ears.
Her head to the minutest substance shrunk,
The potent juice contracts her changing trunk;
Close to her sides her slender fingers clung,
There chang'd to nimble feet in order hung;
Her bloated belly swells to larger size,
Which now with smallest threads her work supplies;
The virgin in the spider still remains;
And in that shape her former art retains.

The Story of Acheloüs and Hercules.

[_]

BOOK IX.

Theseus requests the God to tell his Woes,
Whence his maim'd Brow, and whence his Groans arose:
When thus the Calydonian Stream reply'd,
With twining Reeds his careless Tresses ty'd.
Ungrateful is the Tale; for who can bear,
When conquer'd, to rehearse the shameful War?
Yet I'll the melancholy Story trace;
So great a Conqu'ror softens the Disgrace:
Nor was it still so mean the Prize to yield,
As great and glorious to dispute the Field.

Perhaps you've heard of Deïanira's Name,
For all the Country spoke her Beauty's Fame.
Long was the Nymph by num'rous Suiters woo'd,
Each with Address his envy'd Hopes pursu'd:
I joyn'd the loving Band; to gain the Fair,
Reveal'd my Passion to her Father's Ear.
Their vain Pretensions all the Rest resign,
Alcides only strove to equal mine;
He boasts his Birth from Jove, recounts his Spoils,
His Step-dame's Hate subdu'd, and finish'd Toils.

Can Mortals then (said I) with Gods compare?
Behold a God; mine is the watry Care:
Through your wide Realms I take my mazy Way,
Branch into Streams, and o'er the Region stray:
No foreign Guest your Daughter's Charms adores,
But one who rises in your native Shores.
Let not his Punishment your Pity move;
Is Juno's Hate an Argument for Love?
Though you your Life from fair Alcmena drew,
Jove's a feign'd Father, or by Fraud a true.
Chuse then; confess thy Mother's Honour lost,
Or thy Descent from Jove no longer boast.

While thus I spoke, he look'd with stern Disdain,
Nor could the Sallies of his Wrath restrain,
Which thus break forth. This Arm decides our Right;
Vanquish in Words, be mine the Prize in Fight.

Bold he rush'd on. My Honour to maintain,
I fling my verdant Garments on the Plain,
My Arms stretch forth, my pliant Limbs prepare,
And with bent Hands expect the furious War.
O'er my sleek Skin now gather'd Dust he throws,
And yellow Sand his mighty Muscles strows.
Oft he my Neck and nimble Legs assails,
He seems to grasp me, but as often fails.
Each Part he now invades with eager Hand;
Safe in my Bulk, immoveable I stand.
So when loud Storms break high, and foam and roar
Against some Mole, that stretches from the Shore;
The firm Foundation lasting Tempests braves,
Defies the warring Winds, and driving Waves.

Awhile we breathe, then forward rush amain,
Renew the Combat, and our Ground maintain;
Foot strove with Foot, I prone extend my Breast,
Hands war with Hands, and Forehead Forehead prest.
Thus have I seen two furious Bulls engage,
Inflam'd with equal Love, and equal Rage;
Each claims the fairest Heifer of the Grove,
And Conquest only can decide their Love:
The trembling Herds survey the Fight from far,
Till Victory decides th' important War.
Three times in vain he strove my Joints to wrest,
To force my Hold, and throw me from his Breast;
The fourth he broke my Gripe, that clasp'd him round,
Then with new Force he stretch'd me on the Ground;
Close to my Back the mighty Burthen clung,
As if a Mountain o'er my Limbs were flung.
Believe my Tale; nor do I, boastful, aim
By feign'd Narration to extol my Fame.

No sooner from his Grasp I Freedom get,
Unlock my Arms, that flow'd with trickling Sweat,
But quick he seiz'd me, and renew'd the Strife,
As my exhausted Bosom pants for Life:
My Neck he gripes, my Knee to Earth he strains;
I fall, and bite the Sand with Shame and Pains.

O'er-match'd in Strength, to Wiles and Arts I take,
And slip his Hold, in Form of speckled Snake;
Who, when I wreath'd in Spires my Body round,
Or show'd my forky Tongue with hissing Sound,
Smiles at my Threats; Such Foes my Cradle knew,
He cries, dire Snakes my Infant Hand o'erthrew;
A Dragon's Form might other Conquests gain,
To war with me you take that Shape in vain.
Art thou proportion'd to the Hydra's Length,
Who by his Wounds receiv'd augmented Strength?
He rais'd a hundred hissing Heads in Air,
When one I lopt, up-sprung a dreadful Pair.
By his Wounds fertile, and with Slaughter strong,
Singly I quell'd him, and stretch'd dead along.
What can'st thou do, a Form precarious, prone,
To rouse my Rage with Terrors not thy own?
He said; and round my Neck his Hands he cast,
And with his straining Fingers wrung me fast;
My Throat he tortur'd, close as Pincers clasp,
In vain I strove to loose the forceful Grasp.

Thus vanquish'd too, a third Form still remains,
Chang'd to a Bull, my Lowing fills the Plains.
Strait on the Left his nervous Arms were thrown
Upon my brindled Neck, and tugg'd it down;
Then deep he struck my Horn into the Sand,
And fell'd my Bulk along the dusty Land.
Nor yet his Fury cool'd; 'twixt Rage and Scorn,
From my maim'd Front he tore the stubborn Horn:
This, heap'd with Flowers and Fruits, the Naiads bear,
Sacred to Plenty, and the bounteous Year.

He spoke; when lo, a beauteous Nymph appears,
Girt like Diana's Train, with flowing Hairs;
The Horn she brings in which all Autumn's stor'd,
And ruddy Apples for the second Board.

Now Morn begins to dawn, the Sun's bright Fire
Gilds the high Mountains, and the Youths retire;
Nor stay'd they, till the troubled Stream subsides,
And in its Bounds with peaceful Current glides.
But Acheloüs in his oozy Bed
Deep hides his Brow deform'd, and rustick Head:

No real Wound the Victor's Triumph show'd,
But his lost Honours griev'd the watry God;
Yet ev'n that Loss the Willow's Leaves o'erspread,
And verdant Reeds, in Garlands, bind his Head.

The Death of Nessus the Centaur.

This Virgin, too, thy Love, O Nessus, found
To her alone you owe the fatal Wound.
As the strong Son of Jove his Bride conveys,
Where his Paternal Lands their Bulwarks raise;
Where from her slopy Urn Evenus pours
Her rapid Current, swell'd by wintry Show'rs,
He came. The frequent Eddies whirl'd the Tide,
And the deep rolling Waves all Pass deny'd.
As for himself, he stood unmov'd by Fears,
For now his Bridal Charge employ'd his Cares,
The strong-limb'd Nessus thus officious cry'd,
(For he the Shallows of the Stream had try'd)
Swim thou, Alcides, all thy Strength prepare,
On yonder Bank I'll lodge thy Nuptial Care.

Th' Aonian Chief to Nessus trusts his Wife,
All pale, and trembling for her Heroe's Life:
Cloath'd as he stood in the fierce Lion's Hide,
The laden Quiver o'er his Shoulder ty'd,
(For cross the Stream his Bow and Club were cast),
Swift he plung'd in; These Billows shall be past,
He said, nor sought where smoother Waters glide,
But stem'd the rapid Dangers of the Tide.
The Bank he reach'd; again the Bow he bears;
When, hark! his Bride's known Voice alarms his Ears.
Nessus, to thee I call (aloud he cries)
Vain is thy Trust in Flight, be timely wise:
Thou Monster double-shap'd, my Right set free;
If thou no Rev'rence owe my Fame and me,
Yet Kindred shou'd thy lawless Lust deny;
Think not, perfidious Wretch, from me to fly,
Tho' wing'd with Horse's Speed; Wounds shall pursue;
Swift as his Words the fatal Arrow flew:
The Centaur's Back admits the feather'd Wood,
And thro' his Breast the barbed Weapon stood;
Which, when in Anguish, thro' the Flesh he tore,
From both the Wounds gush'd forth the spumy Gore
Mix'd with Lernæan Venom; this he took,
Nor dire Revenge his dying Breast forsook.
His Garment, in the reeking Purple dy'd,
To rouse Love's Passion, he presents the Bride.

The Death of Hercules.

Now a long Interval of Time succeeds,
When the great Son of Jove's immortal Deeds,
And Stepdame's Hate, had fill'd Earth's utmost Round;
He from OEchalia, with new Lawrels crown'd,
In Triumph was return'd. He Rites prepares,
And to the King of Gods directs his Pray'rs;
When Fame (who Falshood cloaths in Truth's Disguise,
And swells her little Bulk with growing Lies)
Thy tender Ear, O Deianira, mov'd,
That Hercules the fair Iole lov'd.
Her Love believes the Tale; the Truth she fears
Of his new Passion, and gives way to Tears.
The flowing Tears diffus'd her wretched Grief.
Why seek I thus, from streaming Eyes, Relief?
She cries; indulge not thus these fruitless Cares,
The Harlot will but triumph in thy Tears:
Let something be resolv'd, while yet there's Time;
My Bed not conscious of a Rival's Crime.
In Silence shall I mourn, or loud complain?
Shall I seek Calydon, or here remain?
What tho', ally'd to Meleager's Fame,
I boast the Honours of a Sister's Name?
My Wrongs, perhaps, now urge me to pursue
Some desp'rate Deed, by which the World shall view
How far Revenge and Woman's Rage can rise,
When weltring in her Blood the Harlot dies.

Thus various Passions rul'd by turns her Breast.
She now resolves to send the fatal Vest,
Dy'd with Lernæan Gore, whose Pow'r might move
His Soul anew, and rouse declining Love.
Nor knew she what her sudden Rage bestows,
When she to Lychas trusts her future Woes;
With soft Endearments she the Boy commands,
To bear the Garment to her Husband's Hands.

Th' unwitting Heroe takes the Gift in haste,
And o'er his Shoulders Lerna's Poyson cast,
As first the Fire with Frankincense he strows,
And utters to the Gods his holy Vows;
And on the Marble Altar's polish'd Frame
Pours forth the grapy Stream; the rising Flame
Sudden dissolves the subtle pois'nous Juice,
Which taints his Blood, and all his Nerves bedews.
With wonted Fortitude he bore the Smart,
And not a Groan confess'd his burning Heart.
At length his Patience was subdu'd by Pain,
He rends the sacred Altar from the Plain;
OEte's wide Forests eccho with his Cries:
Now to rip off the deathful Robe he tries,

100

Where-e'er he plucks the Vest, the Skin he tears,
The mangled Muscles and huge Bones he bares,
(A ghastful Sight!) or raging with his Pain,
To rend the sticking Plague he tugs in vain.
As the red Iron hisses in the Flood,
So boils the Venom in his curdling Blood.
Now with the greedy Flame his Entrails glow,
And livid Sweats down all his Body flow;
The cracking Nerves burnt up are burst in twain,
The lurking Venom melts his swimming Brain.

Then, lifting both his Hands aloft, he cries,
Glut thy Revenge, dread Empress of the Skies;
Sate with my Death the Rancour of thy Heart,
Look down with Pleasure, and enjoy my Smart.
Or, if e'er Pity mov'd a hostile Breast,
(For here I stand thy Enemy profest)
Take hence this hateful Life with Tortures torn,
Inur'd to Trouble, and to Labours born.
Death is the Gift most welcome to my Woe,
And such a Gift a Stepdame may bestow.
Was it for this Busiris was subdu'd,
Whose barb'rous Temples reek'd with Strangers Blood?
Press'd in these Arms his Fate Antæus found,
Nor gain'd recruited Vigour from the Ground.
Did I not triple-form'd Geryon fell?
Or did I fear the triple Dog of Hell?
Did not these Hands the Bull's arm'd Forehead hold?
Are not our mighty Toils in Elis told?
Do not Stymphalian Lakes proclaim thy Fame?
And fair Parthenian Woods resound thy Name?
Who seiz'd the golden Belt of Thermodon?
And who the Dragon-guarded Apples won?
Could the fierce Centaur's Strength my Force withstand
Or the fell Boar that spoil'd th' Arcadian Land?
Did not these Arms the Hydra's Rage subdue,
Who from his Wounds to double Fury grew?
What if the Thracian Horses, fat with Gore,
Who human Bodies in their Mangers tore,
I saw, and with their barb'rous Lord o'erthrew?
What if these Hands Nemæa's Lion slew?
Did not this Neck the heav'nly Globe sustain?
The female Partner of the Thund'rer's Reign
Fatigu'd, at length suspends her harsh Commands,
Yet no Fatigue hath slack'd these valiant Hands.
But now new Plagues pursue me; neither Force,
Nor Arms, nor Darts can stop their raging Course.

101

Devouring Flame thro' my rack'd Entrails strays,
And on my Lungs and shrivell'd Muscles preys.
Yet still Eurystheus breathes the vital Air.
What Mortal now shall seek the Gods with Pray'r?

The Transformation of Lychas into a Rock.

The Hero said; and with the Torture stung,
Furious o'er OEte's lofty Hills he sprung.
Stuck with the Shaft, thus scours the Tyger round,
And seeks the flying Author of his Wound.
Now might you see him trembling, now he vents
His anguish'd Soul in Groans and loud Laments;
He strives to tear the clinging Vest in vain,
And with up-rooted Forests strows the Plain;
Now kindling into Rage, his Hands he rears,
And to his kindred Gods directs his Pray'rs.
When Lychas, lo, he spies; who trembling flew,
And in a hollow Rock conceal'd from View,
Had shun'd his Wrath. Now Grief renew'd his Pain,
His Madness chaf'd, and thus he raves again.

Lychas, to thee alone my Fate I owe,
Who bore the Gift, the Cause of all my Woe.
The Youth all pale, with shiv'ring Fear was stung,
And vain Excuses faulter'd on his Tongue.
Alcides snatch'd him, as with suppliant Face
He strove to clasp his Knees, and beg for Grace:
He toss'd him o'er his Head with airy Course,
And hurl'd with more than with an Engine's Force;
Far o'er the Eubæan Main aloof he flies,
And hardens by Degrees amid the Skies.
So show'ry Drops, when chilly Tempests blow,
Thicken at first, then whiten into Snow,
In Balls congeal'd the rolling Fleeces bound
In solid Hail result upon the Ground.
Thus, whirl'd with nervous Force thro' distant Air,
The Purple Tide forsook his Veins, with Fear;
All Moisture left his Limbs. Transform'd to Stone,
In ancient Days the craggy Flint was known;
Still in th' Eubæan Waves his Front he rears,
Still the small Rock in human Form appears,
And still the Name of hapless Lychas bears.

102

The Apotheosis of Hercules.

But now the Hero of immortal Birth
Fells OEte's Forests on the groaning Earth;
A Pile he builds; to Philoctetes' Care
He leaves his deathful Instruments of War;
To him commits those Arrows, which again
Shall see the Bulwarks of the Trojan Reign.
The Son of Pæan lights the lofty Pyre,
High round the Structure climbs the greedy Fire;
Plac'd on the Top, thy nervous Shoulders spread
With the Nemæan Spoils, thy careless Head
Rais'd on the knotty Club, with Look Divine,
Here thou, dread Hero, of Celestial Line,
Wert stretch'd at Ease; as when a chearful Guest,
Wine crown'd thy Bowls, and Flow'rs thy Temples drest.

Now on all Sides the potent Flames aspire,
And crackle round those Limbs that mock the Fire:
A sudden Terror seiz'd th' immortal Host,
Who thought the World's profess'd Defender lost.
This when the Thund'rer saw, with Smiles he cries,
'Tis from your Fears, ye Gods, my Pleasures rise;
Joy swells my Breast, that my all-ruling Hand
O'er such a grateful People boasts Command,
That you my suff'ring Progeny wou'd aid;
Tho' to his Deeds this just Respect be paid,
Me you've oblig'd. Be all your Fears forborn,
Th' OEtean Fires do thou, great Hero, scorn.
Who vanquish'd all things, shall subdue the Flame.
That Part alone of gross maternal Frame
Fire shall devour; while what from me he drew
Shall live immortal, and its Force subdue;
That, when he's dead, I'll raise to Realms above;
May all the Pow'rs the righteous Act approve.
If any God dissent, and judge too great
The sacred Honours of the heav'nly Seat,
Ev'n he shall own his Deeds deserve the Sky,
Ev'n he, reluctant, shall at length comply.
Th' assembled Pow'rs assent. No Frown till now
Had mark'd with Passion vengeful Juno's Brow.
Mean while whate'er was in the Pow'r of Flame
Was all consum'd; his Body's nervous Frame
No more was known, of human Form bereft,
Th' eternal Part of Jove alone was left.

103

As an old Serpent casts his scaly Vest,
Wreathes in the Sun, in youthful Glory drest;
So when Alcides mortal Mold resign'd,
His better Part enlarg'd, and grew refin'd;
August his Visage shone; Almighty Jove
In his swift Carr his honour'd Offspring drove;
High o'er the hollow Clouds the Coursers fly,
And lodge the Hero in the starry Sky.

The Transformation of Galanthis.

Atlas perceiv'd the Load of Heav'n's new Guest.
Revenge still rancour'd in Eurystheus' Breast
Against Alcides' Race. Alcmena goes
To Iolè, to vent maternal Woes;
Here she pours forth her Grief, recounts the Spoils
Her Son had bravely reap'd in glorious Toils.
This Iolè, by Hercules' Commands,
Hyllus had lov'd, and joyn'd in nuptial Bands.
Her swelling Womb the teeming Birth confess'd,
To whom Alcmena thus her Speech address'd.

O, may the Gods protect thee, in that Hour,
When, 'midst thy Throws, thou call'st th' Ilithyian Pow'r!
May no Delays prolong thy racking Pain,
As when I su'd for Juno's Aid in vain.

When now Alcides' mighty Birth drew nigh,
And the tenth Sign roll'd forward on the Sky,
My Womb extends with such a mighty Load,
As Jove the Parent of the Burthen show'd.
I could no more th' encreasing Smart sustain:
My Horror kindles to recount the Pain;
Cold chills my Limbs while I the Tale pursue,
And now methinks I feel my Pangs anew.
Sev'n Days and Nights amidst incessant Throws,
Fatigu'd with Ills I lay, nor knew Repose;
When lifting high my Hands, in Shrieks I pray'd,
Implor'd the Gods, and call'd Lucina's Aid.
She came, but prejudic'd, to give my Fate
A Sacrifice to vengeful Juno's Hate.
She hears the groaning Anguish of my Fits,
And on the Altar at my Door she sits.
O'er her left Knee her crossing Leg she cast,
Then knits her Fingers close, and wrings them fast:
This stay'd the Birth; in mutt'ring Verse she pray'd,
The mutt'ring Verse th' unfinish'd Birth delay'd.
Now with fierce Struggles, raging with my Pain,

104

At Jove's Ingratitude I rave in vain.
How did I wish for Death! such Groans I sent,
As might have made the flinty Heart relent.

Now the Cadmeian Matrons round me press,
Offer their Vows, and seek to bring Redress;
Among the Theban Dames Galanthis stands,
Strong limb'd, red hair'd, and just to my Commands:
She first perceiv'd that all these racking Woes
From the persisting Hate of Juno rose.
As here and there she pass'd, by chance she sees
The seated Goddess; on her close-press'd Knees
Her fast-knit Hands she leans; with chearful Voice
Galanthis cries, Whoe'er thou art, rejoice,
Congratulate the Dame, she lies at Rest,
At length the Gods Alcmena's Womb have blest.
Swift from her Seat the startled Goddess springs,
No more conceal'd, her Hands abroad she flings;
The Charm unloos'd, the Birth my Pangs reliev'd;
Galanthis' Laughter vex'd the Pow'r deceiv'd.
Fame says, the Goddess dragg'd the laughing Maid
Fast by the Hair; in vain her Force essay'd
Her grov'ling Body from the Ground to rear;
Changed to Fore-feet her shrinking Arms appear:
Her hairy Back her former Hue retains,
The Form alone is lost; her Strength remains;
Who, since the Lye did from her Mouth proceed,
Shall from her pregnant Mouth bring forth her Breed
Nor shall she quit her long frequented Home,
But haunt those Houses where she lov'd to roam.

Iolaus restor'd to Youth.

While Iolè the fatal Change declares,
Alcmena's pitying Hand oft wip'd her Tears.
Grief too stream'd down her Cheeks; soon Sorrow flies,
And rising Joy the trickling Moisture dries,
Lo Iolaus stands before their Eyes.
A Youth he stood; and the soft Down began
O'er his smooth Chin to spread, and promise Man.
Hebe submitted to her Husband's Pray'rs,
Instill'd new Vigour, and restor'd his Years.

105

The Prophecy of Themis.

Now from her Lips a solemn Oath had past,
That Iolaus this Gift alone shou'd taste,
Had not just Themis thus maturely said,
(Which check'd her Vow, and aw'd the blooming Maid.)

Thebes is embroil'd in War. Capaneus stands
Invincible, but by the Thund'rer's Hands.
Ambition shall the guilty Brothers fire,
Both rush to mutual Wounds, and both expire.
The reeling Earth shall ope her gloomy Womb,
Where the yet breathing Bard shall find his Tomb.
The Son shall bathe his Hands in Parent's Blood,
And in one Act be both unjust and good.
Of Home and Sense depriv'd, where-e'er he flies,
The Furies and his Mother's Ghost he spies.
His Wife the fatal Bracelet shall implore,
And Phegeus stain his Sword in Kindred Gore.
Callirhoë shall then with suppliant Pray'r
Prevail on Jupiter's relenting Ear.
Jove shall with Youth her Infant Sons inspire
And bid their Bosoms glow with manly Fire.

Eteocles and Polynices.

Amphiaraus.

Alcmæon.

The Debate of the Gods.

When Themis thus with prescient Voice had spoke,
Among the Gods a various Murmur broke;
Dissention rose in each immortal Breast,
That one should grant what was deny'd the rest.
Aurora for her aged Spouse complains,
And Ceres grieves for Jason's freezing Veins;
Vulcan would Erichthonius' Years renew,
Her future Race the Care of Venus drew,
She would Anchises' blooming Age restore;
A diff'rent Care employ'd each heav'nly Pow'r.
Thus various Int'rests did their Jars encrease,
Till Jove arose; he spoke, their Tumults cease.

Is any Rev'rence to our Presence giv'n,
Then why this Discord 'mong the Pow'rs of Heav'n?
Who can the settled Will of Fate subdue?
'Twas by the Fates that Iolaus knew

106

A second youth. The Fates determin'd Doom
Shall give Callirhoe's Race a youthful Bloom.
Arms nor Ambition can this Pow'r obtain;
Quell your Desires; ev'n me the Fates restrain.
Could I their Will controul, no rolling Years
Had Æacus bent down with Silver Hairs;
Then Rhadamanthus still had Youth possess'd,
And Minos with eternal Bloom been bless'd.
Jove's Words the Synod mov'd; the Pow'rs give o'er,
And urge in vain unjust Complaint no more.
Since Rhadamanthus' Veins now slowly flow'd,
And Æacus and Minos bore the Load;
Minos, who in the Flow'r of Youth and Fame,
Made mighty Nations tremble at his Name,
Infirm with Age, the proud Miletus fears,
Vain of his Birth, and in the Strength of Years,
And now regarding all his Realms as lost,
He durst not force him fron his native Coast.
But you by choice, Miletus, fled his Reign,
And thy swift Vessel plow'd th' Ægean Main;
On Asiatick Shores a Town you frame,
Which still is honour'd with the Founder's Name.
Here you Cyanëe knew, the beauteous Maid,
As on her Father's winding Banks she stray'd:
Caunus and Byblis hence their Lineage trace,
The double Offspring of your warm Embrace.

Mæander.

107

RURAL SPORTS.

A GEORGIC. INSCRIBED To Mr. POPE.

------ Securi Prœlia ruris
Pandimus. ------
Nemesian.

[CANTO I]

You, who the sweets of rural life have known,
Despise th' ungrateful hurry of the town;
In Windsor groves your easie hours employ,
And, undisturb'd, your self and Muse enjoy.
Thames listens to thy strains, and silent flows,
And no rude wind through rustling osiers blows,
While all his wond'ring Nymphs around thee throng,
To hear the Syrens warble in thy song.

But I, who ne'er was bless'd by Fortune's hand,
Nor brighten'd plough-shares in paternal land,
Long in the noisie town have been immur'd,
Respir'd its smoak, and all its cares endur'd,
Where news and politicks divide mankind,
And schemes of state involve th' uneasie mind;
Faction embroils the world; and ev'ry tongue
Is moved by flatt'ry, or with scandal hung

108

Friendship, for sylvan shades, the palace flies,
Where all must yield to int'rest's dearer ties;
Each rival Machiavel with envy burns,
And honesty forsakes them all by turns;
While calumny upon each party's thrown,
Which both promote, and both alike disown.
Fatigu'd at last; a calm retreat I chose,
And sooth'd my harrass'd mind with sweet repose,
Where fields, and shades, and the refreshing clime,
Inspire the sylvan song, and prompt my rhime.
My muse shall rove through flow'ry meads and plains,
And deck with Rural Sports her native strains,
And the same road ambitiously pursue,
Frequented by the Mantuan swain, and you.

'Tis not that rural sports alone invite,
But all the grateful country breaths delight;
Here blooming health exerts her gentle reign,
And strings the sinews of th' industrious swain.
Soon as the morning lark salutes the day,
Through dewy fields I take my frequent way,
Where I behold the farmer's early care,
In the revolving labours of the year.

When the fresh spring in all her state is crown'd,
And high luxuriant grass o'erspreads the ground,
The lab'rer with the bending scythe is seen,
Shaving the surface of the waving green,
Of all her native pride disrobes the land,
And meads lays waste before his sweeping hand:
While with the mounting sun the meadow glows,
The fading herbage round he loosely throws;
But if some sign portend a lasting show'r,
Th' experienc'd swain foresees the coming hour,
His sun-burnt hands the scatt'ring fork forsake,
And ruddy damsels ply the saving rake;
In rising hills the fragrant harvest grows,
And spreads along the field in equal rows.

Now when the height of heav'n bright Phœbus gains,
And level rays cleave wide the thirsty plains,
When heifers seek the shade and cooling lake,
And in the middle path-way basks the snake;
O lead me, guard me from the sultry hours,
Hide me, ye forests, in your closest bowers:
Where the tall oak his spreading arms entwines,
And with the beech a mutual shade combines;
Where flows the murm'ring brook, inviting dreams,
Where bord'ring hazle overhangs the streams
Whose rolling current winding round and round,
With frequent falls makes all the wood resound;
Upon the mossy couch my limbs I cast,
And ev'n at noon the sweets of ev'ning taste.

109

Here I peruse the Mantuan's Georgic strains,
And learn the labours of Italian swains;
In ev'ry page I see new landschapes rise,
And all Hesperia opens to my eyes.
I wander o'er the various rural toil,
And know the nature of each different soil:
This waving field is gilded o'er with corn,
That spreading trees with blushing fruit adorn:
Here I survey the purple vintage grow,
Climb round the poles, and rise in graceful row:
Now I behold the steed curvet and bound,
And paw with restless hoof the smoaking ground:
The dewlap'd bull now chases along the plain,
While burning love ferments in ev'ry vein;
His well-arm'd front against his rival aims,
And by the dint of war his mistress claims:
The careful insect 'midst his works I view,
Now from the flow'rs exhaust the fragrant dew;
With golden treasures load his little thighs,
And steer his distant journey through the skies;
Some against hostile drones the hive defend;
Others with sweets the waxen cells distend:
Each in the toil his destin'd office bears,
And in the little bulk a mighty soul appears.

Or when the ploughman leaves the task of day,
And trudging homeward whistles on the way;
When the big-udder'd cows with patience stand,
Waiting the stroakings of the damsel's hand;
No warbling chears the woods; the feather'd choir
To court kind slumbers to their sprays retire;
When no rude gale disturbs the sleeping trees,
Nor aspen leaves confess the gentlest breeze;
Engag'd in thought, to Neptune's bounds I stray,
To take my farewel of the parting day;
Far in the deep the sun his glory hides,
A streak of gold the sea and sky divides;
The purple clouds their amber linings show,
And edg'd with flame rolls ev'ry wave below:
Here pensive I behold the fading light,
And o'er the distant billow lose my sight.

Now night in silent state begins to rise,
And twinkling orbs bestrow th' uncloudy skies;
Her borrow'd lustre growing Cynthia lends,
And on the main a glitt'ring path extends;
Millions of worlds hang in the spacious air,
Which round their suns their annual circles steer.
Sweet contemplation elevates my sense,
While I survey the works of providence.

110

O could the muse in loftier strains rehearse,
The glorious author of the universe,
Who reins the winds, gives the vast ocean bounds,
And circumscribes the floating worlds their rounds,
My soul should overflow in songs of praise,
And my Creator's name inspire my lays!

As in successive course the seasons roll,
So circling pleasures recreate the soul.
When genial spring a living warmth bestows,
And o'er the year her verdant mantle throws,
No swelling inundation hides the grounds,
But crystal currents glide within their bounds;
The finny brood their wonted haunts forsake,
Float in the sun, and skim along the lake,
With frequent leap they range the shallow streams,
Their silver coats reflect the dazling beams.
Now let the fisherman his toils prepare,
And arm himself with ev'ry watry snare;
His hooks, his lines peruse with careful eye,
Encrease his tackle, and his rod retye.

When floating clouds their spongy fleeces drain,
Troubling the streams with swift-descending rain,
And waters tumbling down the mountain's side,
Bear the loose soil into the swelling tide;
Then, soon as vernal gales begin to rise,
And drive the liquid burthen thro' the skies,
The fisher to the neighb'ring current speeds,
Whose rapid surface purles unknown to weeds;
Upon a rising border of the brook
He sits him down, and ties the treach'rous hook;
Now expectation chears his eager thought,
His bosom glows with treasures yet uncaught,
Before his eyes a banquet seems to stand,
Where ev'ry guest applauds his skilful hand.

Far up the stream the twisted hair he throws,
Which down the murm'ring curren gently flows;
When if or chance or hunger's pow'rful sway
Directs the roving trout this fatal way,
He greedily sucks in the twining bait,
And tugs and nibbles the fallacious meat:
Now, happy fisherman, now twitch the line!
How thy rod bends! behold, the prize is thine!
Cast on the bank, he dies with gasping pains,
And trickling blood his silver mail distains.

You must not ev'ry worm promiscuous use,
Judgment will tell thee proper bait to chuse;
The worm that draws a long immod'rate size
The trout abhors, and the rank morsel flies;

111

And if too small, the naked fraud's in sight,
And fear forbids, while hunger does invite.
Those baits will best reward the fisher's pains,
Whose polish'd tails a shining yellow stains:
Cleanse them from filth, to give a tempting gloss,
Cherish the sully'd reptile race with moss;
Amid the verdant bed they twine, they toil,
And from their bodies wipe their native soil.

But when the sun displays his glorious beams,
And shallow rivers flow with silver streams,
Then the deceit the scaly breed survey,
Bask in the sun, and look into the day.
You now a more delusive art must try,
And tempt their hunger with the curious fly.

To frame the little animal, provide
All the gay hues that wait on female pride,
Let nature guide thee; sometimes golden wire
The shining bellies of the fly require;
The peacock's plumes thy tackle must not fail,
Nor the dear purchase of the sable's tail.
Each gaudy bird some slender tribute brings,
And lends the growing insect proper wings:
Silks of all colours must their aid impart,
And ev'ry fur promote the fisher's art.
So the gay lady, with expensive care,
Borrows the pride of land, of sea, and air;
Furs, pearls, and plumes, the glittering thing displays,
Dazles our eyes, and easie hearts betrays.

Mark well the various seasons of the year,
How the succeeding insect race appear;
In this revolving moon one colour reigns,
Which in the next the fickle trout disdains.
Oft' have I seen a skilful angler try
The various colours of the treach'rous fly;
When he with fruitless pain hath skim'd the brook,
And the coy fish rejects the skipping hook,
He shakes the boughs that on the margin grow,
Which o'er the stream a waving forrest throw;
When if an insect fall (his certain guide)
He gently takes him from the whirling tide;
Examines well his form with curious eyes,
His gaudy vest, his wings, his horns and size.
Then round his hook the chosen fur he winds,
And on the back a speckled feather binds,
So just the colours shine thro' ev'ry part,
That nature seems to live again in art.
Let not thy wary step advance too near,
While all thy hope hangs on a single hair;

112

The new-form'd insect on the water moves,
The speckled trout the curious snare approves;
Upon the curling surface let it glide,
With nat'ral motion from thy hand supply'd,
Against the stream now gently let it play,
Now in the rapid eddy roll away.
The scaly shoals float by, and seiz'd with fear
Behold their fellows tost in thinner air;
But soon they leap, and catch the swimming bait,
Plunge on the hook, and share an equal fate.

When a brisk gale against the current blows,
And all the watry plain in wrinkles flows,
Then let the fisherman his art repeat,
Where bubbling eddys favour the deceit.
If an enormous salmon chance to spy
The wanton errors of the floating fly,
He lifts his silver gills above the flood,
And greedily sucks in th' unfaithful food;
Then downward plunges with the fraudful prey,
And bears with joy the little spoil away.
Soon in smart pain he feels the dire mistake,
Lashes the wave, and beats the foamy lake,
With sudden rage he now aloft appears,
And in his eye convulsive anguish bears;
And now again, impatient of the wound,
He rolls and wreaths his shining body round;
Then headlong shoots beneath the dashing tide,
The trembling fins the boiling wave divide;
Now hope exalts the fisher's beating heart,
Now he turns pale, and fears his dubious art;
He views the tumbling fish with longing eyes,
While the line stretches with th' unwieldy prize;
Each motion humours with his steady hands,
And one slight hair the mighty bulk commands:
'Till tir'd at last, despoil'd of all his strength,
The game athwart the stream unfolds his length.
He now, with pleasure, views the gasping prize
Gnash his sharp teeth, and roll his blood-shot eyes;
Then draws him to the shore, with artful care,
And lifts his nostrils in the sick'ning air:
Upon the burthen'd stream he floating lies,
Stretches his quivering fins, and gasping dies.

Would you preserve a num'rous finny race?
Let your fierce dogs the rav'nous otter chase;
Th' amphibious monster ranges all the shores,
Darts through the waves, and ev'ry haunt explores:
Or let the gin his roving steps betray,
And save from hostile jaws the scaly prey.

113

I never wander where the bord'ring reeds
O'erlook the muddy stream, whose tangling weeds
Perplex the fisher; I, nor chuse to bear
The thievish nightly net, nor barbed spear;
Nor drain I ponds the golden carp to take,
Nor trowle for pikes, dispeoplers of the lake.
Around the steel no tortur'd worm shall twine,
No blood of living insect stain my line;
Let me, less cruel, cast the feather'd hook,
With pliant rod athwart the pebbled brook,
Silent along the mazy margin stray,
And with the fur-wrought fly delude the prey.

CANTO II.

Now, sporting Muse, draw in the flowing reins,
Leave the clear streams awhile for sunny plains.
Should you the various arms and toils rehearse,
And all the fisherman adorn thy verse;
Should you the wide-encircling net display,
And in its spacious arch enclose the sea,
Then haul the plunging load upon the land,
And with the soale and turbet hide the sand;
It would extend the growing theme too long,
And tire the reader with the watry song.

Let the keen hunter from the chase refrain,
Nor render all the plowman's labour vain,
When Ceres pours out plenty from her horn,
And cloaths the fields with golden ears of corn.
Now, now, ye reapers, to your task repair,
Haste, save the product of the bounteous year:
To the wide-gathering hook long furrows yield,
And rising sheaves extend through all the field.

Yet if for silvan sport thy bosom glow,
Let thy fleet greyhound urge his flying foe.
With what delight the rapid course I view!
How does my eye the circling race pursue!
He snaps deceitful air with empty jaws,
The subtle hare darts swift beneath his paws;
She flies, he stretches, now with nimble bound.
Eager he presses on, but overshoots his ground;
She turns, he winds, and soon regains the way,
Then tears with goary mouth the screaming prey
What various sport does rural life afford!
What unbought dainties heap the wholesome board!

114

Nor less the spaniel, skilful to betray,
Rewards the fowler with the feather'd prey.
Soon as the lab'ring horse with swelling veins,
Hath safely hous'd the farmer's doubtful gains,
To sweet repast th' unwary partridge flies,
With joy amid the scatter'd harvest lies;
Wandring in plenty, danger he forgets,
Nor dreads the slav'ry of entangling nets.
The subtle dog scowrs with sagacious nose
Along the field, and snuffs each breeze that blows,
Against the wind he takes his prudent way,
While the strong gale directs him to the prey;
Now the warm scent assures the covey near,
He treads with caution, and he points with fear;
Then (lest some sentry fowl the fraud descry,
And bid his fellows from the danger fly)
Close to the ground in expectation lies,
Till in the snare the flutt'ring covey rise.
Soon as the blushing light begins to spread,
And glancing Phœbus gilds the mountain's head,
His early flight th' ill-fated partridge takes,
And quits the friendly shelter of the brakes:
Or when the sun casts a declining ray,
And drives his chariot down the western way,
Let your obsequious ranger search around,
Where yellow stubble withers on the ground:
Nor will the roving spy direct in vain,
But numerous coveys gratifie thy pain.
When the meridian sun contracts the shade,
And frisking heifers seek the cooling glade;
Or when the country floats with sudden rains,
Or driving mists deface the moist'ned plains;
In vain his toils th' unskilful fowler tries,
While in thick woods the feeding partridge lies.

Nor must the sporting verse the gun forbear,
But what's the fowler's be the muse's care.
See how the well-taught pointer leads the way:
The scent grows warm; he stops; he springs the prey;
The flutt'ring coveys from the stubble rise,
And on swift wing divide the sounding skies;
The scatt'ring lead pursues the certain sight,
And death in thunder overtakes their flight.
Cool breathes the morning air, and winter's hand
Spreads wide her hoary mantle o'er the land;
Now to the copse thy lesser spaniel take,
Teach him to range the ditch and force the brake;
Not closest coverts can protect the game:
Hark! the dog opens; take thy certain aim;
The woodcock flutters; how he wav'ring flies!
The wood resounds: he wheels, he drops, he dies.

115

The tow'ring hawk let future poets sing,
Who terror bears upon his soaring wing:
Let them on high the frighted hern survey,
And lofty numbers paint their airy fray.
Nor shall the mountain lark the muse detain,
That greets the morning with his early strain;
When, midst his song, the twinkling glass betrays;
While from each angle flash the glancing rays,
And in the sun the transient colours blaze,
Pride lures the little warbler from the skies:
The light-enamour'd bird deluded dies.

But still the chase, a pleasing task, remains;
The hound must open in these rural strains.
Soon as Aurora drives away the night,
And edges eastern clouds with rosie light,
The healthy huntsman, with the chearful horn,
Summons the dogs, and greets the dappled morn;
The jocund thunder wakes th' enliven'd hounds,
They rouze from sleep, and answer sounds for sounds;
Wide through the furzy field their route they take,
Their bleeding bosoms force the thorny brake:
The flying game their smoaking nostrils trace,
No bounding hedge obstructs their eager pace;
The distant mountains eccho from afar,
And hanging woods resound the flying war:
The tuneful noise the sprightly courser hears,
Paws the green turf, and pricks his trembling ears;
The slacken'd rein now gives him all his speed,
Back flies the rapid ground beneath the steed;
Hills, dales and forests far behind remain,
While the warm scent draws on the deep-mouth'd train
Where shall the trembling hare a shelter find?
Hark! death advances in each gust of wind!
New stratagems and doubling wiles she tries,
Now circling turns, and now at large she flies;
Till spent at last, she pants, and heaves for breath,
Then lays her down, and waits devouring death.

But stay, advent'rous muse, hast thou the force
To wind the twisted horn, to guide the horse?
To keep thy seat unmov'd hast thou the skill
O'er the high gate, and down the headlong hill?
Can'st thou the stag's laborious chace direct,
Or the strong fox through all his arts detect?
The theme demands a more experienc'd lay:
Ye mighty hunters, spare this weak essay.

O happy plains, remote from war's alarms,
And all the ravages of hostile arms!
And happy shepherds, who secure from fear,
On open downs preserve your fleecy care!
Whose spacious barns groan with encreasing store,
And whirling flails disjoint the cracking floor:

116

No barb'rous soldier, bent on cruel spoil,
Spreads desolation o'er your fertile soil;
No trampling steed lays waste the ripen'd grain,
Nor crackling fires devour the promis'd gain:
No flaming beacons cast their blaze afar,
The dreadful signal of invasive war;
No trumpet's clangor wounds the mother's ear,
And calls the lover from his swooning fair.

What happiness the rural maid attends,
In chearful labour while each day she spends!
She gratefully receives what heav'n has sent,
And, rich in poverty, enjoys content:
(Such happiness, and such unblemish'd fame
Ne'er glad the bosom of the courtly dame.)
She never feels the spleen's imagin'd pains,
Nor melancholy stagnates in her veins;
She never loses life in thoughtless ease,
Nor on the velvet couch invites disease;
Her home-spun dress in simple neatness lies,
And for no glaring equipage she sighs:
Her reputation, which is all her boast,
In a malicious visit ne'er was lost:
No midnight masquerade her beauty wears,
And health, not paint, the fading bloom repairs.
If love's soft passion in her bosom reign,
An equal passion warms her happy swain;
No homebred jars her quiet state controul,
Nor watchful jealousie torments her soul;
With secret joy she sees her little race
Hang on her breast, and her small cottage grace;
The fleecy ball their busy fingers cull,
Or from the spindle draw the length'ning wool:
Thus flow her hours with constant peace of mind,
Till Age the latest thread of life unwind.

Ye happy fields, unknown to noise and strife,
The kind rewarders of industrious life;
Ye shady woods, where once I us'd to rove;
Alike indulgent to the muse and love;
Ye murm'ring streams that in Mæanders roll,
The sweet composers of the pensive soul,
Farewel.—The city calls me from your bow'rs:
Farewel amusing thoughts and peaceful hours.

117

TALES.

An Answer to the Sompner's Prologue of Chaucer.

[_]

In imitation of Chaucer's style.

The Sompner leudly hath his Prologue told,
And saine on the Freers his tale japing and bold;
How that in Hell they searchen near and wide,
And ne one Freer in all thilke place espyde,
But lo! the devil turned his erse about,
And twenty thousand Freers wend in and out.
By which in Jeoffrys rhyming it appears,
The devil's belly is the hive of Freers.

Now listneth lordings! forthwith ye shall hear,
What happend at a house in Lancashire.
A misere that had londs and tenement,
Who raketh from his villaines taxes and rent,
Owned a house which emptye long y-stood,
Full deeply sited in a derkning wood,
Murmring a shallow brook runneth along,
Mong the round stones it maken doleful song.

Now there spreaden a rumour that everich night
The rooms ihaunted been by many a sprite,
The miller avoucheth, and all there about,
That they full oft' hearen the hellish rout;
Some saine they hear the jingling of chains,
And some hath yheard the psautries straines,
At midnight some the headless horse imeet,
And some espien a corse in a white sheet,
And oother things, faye, elfin and elfe,
And shapes that fear createn to it selfe.

Now it so hapt, there was not ferre away,
Of grey Freers a faire and rich Abbaye,
Where liven a Freer ycleped Pere Thomas,
Who daren alone in derke through church-yerds pass.

118

This Freer would lye in thilke house all night,
In hope he might espyen a dreadful sprite.
He taketh candle, beades, and holy watere,
And legends eke of Saintes, and bookes of prayere.
He entreth the room, and looketh round about,
And haspen the door to haspen the goblin out.
The candle hath he put close by the bed,
And in low tone his ave marye said.
With water now besprinkled hath the floore,
And maken cross on key-hole of the doore.
Ne was there not a mouse-hole in thilke place,
But he y-crossed hath by God his grace;
He crossed hath this, and eke he crossed that,
With benedicite and God knows what.

Now he goeth to bed and lieth adown,
When the clock had just stricken the twelfth soun.
Bethinketh hem now what the cause had ibeen,
Why many sprites by mortals have been seen.
Hem remembreth how Dan Plutarch hath y-sed
That Cæsar's sprite came to Brute his bed;
Of chains that frighten erst Artemidore,
The tales of Pline, Valere, and many more.
Hem thinketh that some murdere here been done,
And he mought see some bloodye ghost anone,
Or that some orphlines writings here be stor'd,
Or pot of gold laine deep beneath a board:
Or thinketh hem, if he might see no sprite,
The Abbaye mought buy this house cheape outright.

As hem thus thinketh, anone asleep he lies.
Up starten Sathanas with saucer eyes.
He turned the Freer upon his face downright,
Displaying his nether cheeks ful broad and white.
Then quoth Dan Sathanas as he thwacked him sore,
Thou didst forget to guard thy postern-door.
There is an hole which hath not crossed been:
Farewel, from whence I came, I creepen in.

Now plain it is ytellen in my verse,
If Devils in Hell bear Freers in their erse,
On earth the Devil in Freers doth y-dwell;
Where there no Freers, the Devil mought keep in hell.

119

WORK for a COOPER.

A TALE.

A man may lead a happy life,
Without that needful thing, a wife:
This long have lusty Abbots known,
Who ne'er knew spouses—of their own.

What, though your house be clean and neat,
With couches, chairs, and beds compleat;
Though you each day invite a friend,
Though he should ev'ry dish commend,
On Bagshot-heath your mutton fed,
Your fowls at Brandford born and bred;
Though purest wine your cellars boast,
Wine worthy of the fairest Toast;
Yet there are other things requir'd:
Ring, and let's see the maid you hir'd—
Bless me! those hands might hold a broom,
Twirle round a mop, and wash a room:
A batchelor his maid should keep,
Not for that servile use to sweep,
Let her his humour understand,
And turn to ev'ry thing her hand.
Get you a lass that's young and tight,
Whose arms are, like her apron, white;
What though her shift be seldom seen?
Let that though coarse be always clean;
She might each morn your tea attend,
And on your wrist your ruffle mend;
Then if you break a roguish jest,
Or squeeze her hand, or pat her breast,
She crys, oh dear Sir, don't be naught!
And blushes speak her last night's fault.
To her your houshold cares confide,
Let your keys gingle at her side,
A footman's blunders teaze and fret ye,
Ev'n while you chide, you smile on Betty.
Discharge him then, if he's too spruce,
For Betty's for his master's use.

Will you your am'rous fancy baulk,
For fear some prudish neighbour talk?
But you'll object, that you're afraid
Of the pert freedoms of a maid;
Besides your wiser heads will say,
That she who turns her hand this way,
From one vice to another drawn,
Will lodge your silver spoons in pawn.
Has not the homely wrinkled jade
More need to learn the pilf'ring trade?
For Love all Betty's wants supplys,
Laces her shoes, her manteau dyes,
All her stuff suits she flings away,
And wears thread sattin every day.

Who then a dirty drab would hire,
Brown as the hearth of kitchin fire?
When all must own, were Betty put
To the black dutys of the slut,
As well she scowers or scrubs a floor,
And still is good for something more.

Thus, to avoid the greater vice,
I knew a Priest, of conscience nice,
To quell his lust for neighbour's spouse,
Keep fornication in his house.

120

But you're impatient all this time,
Fret at my counsel, curse my rhyme,
Be satisfy'd. I'll talk no more,
For thus my tale begins—Of yore
There dwelt at Blois a Priest full fair,
With rolling eye and crisped hair,
His chin hung low, his brow was sleek,
Plenty lay basking on his cheek,
Whole days at cloyster grates he sat,
Ogled, and talk'd of this and that
So feelingly; the Nuns lamented
That double barrs were e'er invented.
If he the wanton wife confest
With downcast eye, and heaving breast;
He stroak'd her cheek to still her fear,
And talk'd of sins en Cavalier.
Each time enjoyn'd her pennance mild,
And fondled on her like his child.
At ev'ry jovial gossip's feast
Pere Bernard was a welcome guest,
Mirth suffer'd not the least restraint,
He could at will shake off the saint;
Nor frown'd he when they freely spoke,
But shook his sides, and took the joke;
Nor fail'd he to promote the jest,
And shar'd the sins which they confest.
Yet that he might not always roam,
He kept conveniencies at home.
His maid was in the bloom of beauty,
Well-limb'd for ev'ry social duty;
He meddled with no houshold cares,
To her consign'd his whole affairs;
She of his Study kept the keys,
For he was studious—of his ease:
She had the power of all his locks,
Could rummage ev'ry chest and box,
Her honesty such credit gain'd,
Not ev'n the cellar was restrain'd.

In troth it was a goodly show,
Lin'd with full hogsheads all a-row;
One vessel, from the rank remov'd,
Far dearer than the rest he lov'd.
Pour la bonne bouche 'twas set aside,
To all but choicest friends deny'd.
He now and then would send a quart,
To warm some wife's retentive heart,
Against confession's sullen hour:
Wine has all secrets in its power.
At common feasts it had been waste.
Nor was it fit for layman's taste;
If monk or friar were his guest,
They drank it, for they know the best.
Nay, he at length so fond was grown,
He always drank it when—alone.

Who shall recount his civil labours,
In pious visits to his neighbours?
Whene'er weak husbands went astray,
He guest their wives were in the way,
'Twas then his charity was shown,
He chose to see them when alone.

Now was he bent on cuckoldom:
He knew friend Dennis was from home;
His wife (a poor neglected beauty,
Defrauded of a husband's duty)
Had often told him at confession,
How hard she struggled 'gainst transgression.
He now resolves, in heat of blood,
To try how firm her virtue stood.
He knew that wine (to love best aid)
Has oft' made bold the shamefac'd maid,
Taught her to romp, and take more freedoms,
Than nymphs train'd up at Smith's or Needham's.

A mighty bottle strait he chose,
Such as might give two Friars their dose:
Nannette he call'd: the cellar door
She strait unlocks, descends before,
He follow'd close. But when he spys
His fav'rite cask; with lifted eyes
And lifted hands aloud he crys.
Heigh day! my darling wine astoop!
It must, alas! have sprung a hoop;
That there's a leak is past all doubt,
(Reply'd the maid)—I'll find it out.

121

She sets the candle down in haste,
Tucks her white apron round her waste,
The hogshead's mouldy side ascends,
She straddles wide, and downward bends;
So low she stoops to seek the flaw,
Her coats rose high, her master saw—
I see—he crys—(then claspt her fast)
The leak through which my wine has past.

Then all in haste the maid descended,
And in a trice the leak was mended.
He found in Nannette all he wanted.
So Dennis' brows remain'd unplanted.

E'er since this time all lusty Friars
(Warm'd with predominant desires,
Whene'er the flesh with spirit quarrels)
Look on the sex as leaky barrels.
Beware of these, ye jealous spouses,
From such like coopers guard your houses;
For if they find not work at home,
For jobs through all the town they roam.

THE EQUIVOCATION.

A TALE.

An Abbot rich (whose taste was good
Alike in science and in food)
His Bishop had resolv'd to treat;
The Bishop came, the Bishop eat;
'Twas silence, 'till their stomachs fail'd;
And now at Hereticks they rail'd;
What Heresy (the Prelate said)
Is in that Church where Priests may wed!
Do not we take the Church for life?
But those divorce her for a wife,
Like laymen keep her in their houses,
And own the children of their spouses.
Vile practices! the Abbot cry'd,
For pious use we're set aside!
Shall we take wives? marriage at best
Is but carnality profest.
Now as the Bishop took his glass,
He spy'd our Abbot's buxom lass
Who cross'd the room; he mark'd her eye
That glow'd with love; his pulse beat high.
Fye, father, fye, (the Prelate crys)
A maid so young! for shame, be wise.
These indiscretions lend a handle
To lewd lay tongues, to give us scandal;
For your vows sake, this rule I give t' ye,
Let all your maids be turn'd of fifty.

The Priest reply'd, I have not swerv'd,
But your chast precept well observ'd;
That lass full twenty five has told,
I've yet another who's as old;
Into one sum their ages cast;
So both my maids have fifty past.

The Prelate smil'd, but durst not blame;
For why? his Lordship did the same.

Let those who reprimand their brothers
First mend the faults they find in others.

122

A true Story of an Apparition.

Scepticks (whose strength of argument makes out
That wisdom's deep enquirys end in doubt)
Hold this assertion positive and clear,
That sprites are pure delusions rais'd by fear.
Not that fam'd ghost, which in presaging sound
Call'd Brutus to Philippi's fatal ground;
Nor can Tiberius Gracchus' goary shade
These ever-doubting disputants persuade.
Strait they with smiles reply; those tales of old
By visionary Priests were made and told:
Oh might some ghost at dead of night appear,
And make you own conviction by your fear!
I know your sneers my easy faith accuse,
Which with such idle legends scares the Muse:
But think not that I tell those vulgar sprites,
Which frighted boys relate on winter nights;
How cleanly milk-maids meet the fairy train,
How headless horses drag the clinking chain,
Night-roaming ghosts, by saucer eye-balls known,
The common spectres of each country town.
No, I such fables can like you despise,
And laugh to hear these nurse-invented lies.
Yet has not oft the fraudful guardian's fright
Compell'd him to restore an orphan's right?
And can we doubt that horrid ghosts ascend,
Which on the conscious murd'rer's steps attend?
Hear then, and let attested truth prevail,
From faithful lips I learnt the dreadful tale.

Where Arden's forest spreads its limits wide,
Whose branching paths the doubtful road divide,
A trav'ler took his solitary way;
When low beneath the hills was sunk the day.
And now the skies with gath'ring darkness lour,
The branches rustle with the threaten'd shower;
With sudden blasts the forest murmurs loud,
Indented lightnings cleave the sable cloud,
Thunder on thunder breaks, the tempest roars,
And heav'n discharges all its watry stores.
The wand'ring trav'ler shelter seeks in vain,
And shrinks and shivers with the beating rain;
On his steed's neck the slacken'd bridle lay,
Who chose with cautious step th' uncertain way;
And now he checks the rein, and halts to hear
If any noise foretold a village near.
At length from far a stream of light he sees
Extend its level ray between the trees;

123

Thither he speeds, and as he nearer came
Joyfull he knew the lamp's domestick flame
That trembled through the window; cross the way
Darts forth the barking cur, and stands at bay.

It was an ancient lonely house, that stood
Upon the borders of the spacious wood;
Here towers and antique battlements arise,
And there in heaps the moulder'd ruine lyes;
Some Lord this mansion held in days of yore,
To chase the wolf, and pierce the foaming boar:
How chang'd, alas, from what it once had been!
'Tis now degraded to a publick Inn.

Strait he dismounts, repeats his loud commands;
Swift at the gate the ready landlord stands;
With frequent cringe he bows, and begs excuse.
His house was full, and ev'ry bed in use.
What not a garret, and no straw to spare?
Why, then, the kitchin fire and elbow-chair
Shall serve for once to nod away the night.
The kitchin ever is the servant's right,
Replys the host; there, all the fire around,
The Count's tir'd footmen snore upon the ground.

The maid, who listen'd to this whole debate,
With pity learnt the weary stranger's fate.
Be brave, she crys, you still may be our guest,
Our haunted room was ever held the best;
If then your valour can the fright sustain
Of rattling curtains, and the clinking chain,
If your couragious tongue have power to talk,
When round your bed the horrid ghost shall walk;
If you dare ask it, why it leaves its tomb,
I'll see your sheets well-air'd, and show the room.
Soon as the frighted maid her tale had told,
The stranger enter'd, for his heart was bold.

The damsel led him through a spacious hall,
Where Ivy hung the half-demolish'd wall;
She frequent look'd behind, and chang'd her hue,
While fancy tipt the candle's flame with blue.
And now they gain'd the winding stairs ascent,
And to the lonesome room of terrors went.
When all was ready, swift retir'd the maid,
The watch-lights burn, tuckt warm in bed was laid
The hardy stranger, and attends the sprite
Till his accustom'd walk at dead of night.

At first he hears the wind with hollow roar
Shake the loose lock, and swing the creaking door
Nearer and nearer draws the dreadful sound
Of rattling chains, that dragg'd upon the ground:
When lo, the spectre came with horrid stride,
Approach'd the bed, and drew the curtains wide!

124

In human form the ghastful Phantom stood,
Expos'd his mangled bosom dy'd with blood.
Then silent pointing to his wounded breast,
Thrice wav'd his hand. Beneath the frighted guest
The bed-cords trembled, and with shudd'ring fear
Sweat chill'd his limbs, high rose his bristled hair;
Then mutt'ring hasty pray'rs, he mann'd his heart,
And cry'd aloud; Say, whence and who thou art.
The stalking ghost with hollow voice replys,
Three years are counted, since with mortal eyes
I saw the sun, and vital air respir'd.
Like thee benighted, and with travel tir'd,
Within these walls I slept. O thirst of gain!
See, still the planks the bloody mark retain;
Stretch'd on this very bed, from sleep I start,
And see the steel impending o'er my heart;
The barb'rous hostess held the lifted knife,
The floor ran purple with my gushing life.
My treasure now they seize, the golden spoil
They bury deep beneath the grass-grown soil,
Far in the common field. Be bold, arise,
My steps shall lead thee to the secret prize;
There dig and find; let that thy care reward:
Call loud on justice, bid her not retard
To punish murder; lay my ghost at rest,
So shall with peace secure thy nights be blest;
And when beneath these boards my bones are found,
Decent interr them in some sacred ground.

Here ceas'd the ghost. The stranger springs from bed,
And boldly follows where the Phantom led;
The half-worn stony stairs they now descend,
Where passages obscure their arches bend
Silent they walk; and now through groves they pass,
Now through wet meads their steps imprint the grass;
At length amidst a spacious field they came:
There stops the spectre, and ascends in flame.
Amaz'd he stood, no bush, no briar was found,
To teach his morning search to find the ground;
What could he do? the night was hideous dark,
Fear shook his joints, and nature dropt the mark:
With that he starting wak'd, and rais'd his head,
But found the golden mark was left in bed.

What is the statesman's vast ambitious scheme,
But a short vision, and a golden dream?
Power, wealth, and title elevate his hope;
He wakes. But for a garter finds a rope.

125

The MAD-DOG.

A TALE.

A Prude, at morn and ev'ning pray'r,
Had worn her velvet cushion bare;
Upwards she taught her eyes to roll,
As if with them she wing'd her soul;
And when devotion warm'd the croud,
None sung, or smote their breasts, so loud.
Pale Penitence had mark'd her face
With all the meagre signs of grace;
Her mass-book was compleatly lin'd
With painted Saints of ev'ry kind:
But when in ev'ry page she view'd
Fine Ladys who the flesh subdu'd,
As quick her beads she counted o'er,
And cry'd—Such wonders are no more!
She chose not to delay confession,
To bear at once a year's transgression,
But ev'ry week set all things even,
And ballanc'd her accounts with heaven.

Behold her now in humble guise,
Upon her knees, with downcast eyes
Before the Priest: She thus begins,
And sobbing, blubbers forth her sins;
“Who could that tempting man resist?
“My virtue languish'd, as he kiss'd;
“I strove,—till I could strive no longer,
“How can the weak resist the stronger?”

The Father ask'd her, where and when?
How many times? What sort of men?
By what degrees her blood was heated?
How oft' the failing was repeated?

Thus have I seen a pregnant wench
All flush'd with guilt, before the bench;
The Judges (wak'd by wanton thought)
Dive to the bottom of her fault;
They leer, they simper at her shame,
And make her call all things by name.

And now to sentence he proceeds,
Prescribes how oft' to tell her beads,

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Shows her what Saints could do her good,
Doubles her fasts to cool her blood.
Eas'd of her sins, and light as air,
Away she trips; perhaps to pray'r.
'Twas no such thing.—Why then this haste?
The clock has struck, the hour is past,
And on the spur of inclination,
She scorn'd to bilk her assignation.

Whate'er she did, next week she came,
And piously confess'd the same;
The Priest, who female frailties pity'd,
First chid her, then her crimes remitted.

But did she now her crimes bemoan
In penitential sheets alone?
And was no bold, no beastly fellow
The nightly partner of her pillow?
No, none,—for next time, in the grove,
A bank was conscious of her love.
Confession day was come about,
And now again it all must out;
She seems to wipe her twinkling eyes;
What now, my child, the father crys;
Again, says she!—with threatning looks,
He thus the prostrate dame rebukes.

“Madam, I own there's something in it,
“That virtue has th' unguarded minute;
“But pray now tell me, what are whores,
“But women of unguarded hours?
“Then you must sure have lost all shame;
“What! ev'ry day, and still the same!
“And no fault else! 'Tis strange to find
“A woman to one sin confin'd!
“Pride is this day her darling passion,
“The next day slander is in fashion;
“Gaming succeeds; if fortune crosses,
“Then virtue's mortgaged for her losses;
“By use her fav'rite vice she loaths,
“And loves new follies like new cloaths:
“But you! beyond all thought unchaste,
“Have all sin center'd near your waste!
“Whence is this appetite so strong?
“Say, Madam, did your mother long?
“Or is it lux'ry or high diet
“That won't let virtue sleep in quiet?”

She tells him now with meekest voice,
That she had never err'd by choice;
Nor was there known a virgin chaster,
'Till ruin'd by a sad disaster.

That she a fav'rite lap-dog had,
Which, (as she stroak'd and kiss'd) grew mad,
And on her lip a wound indenting,
First set her youthful blood fermenting.

The Priest reply'd with zealous strain,
“You should have sought the means to gain;
“Doctors by various ways, we find,
“Treat these distempers of the mind.
“Let gaudy ribbands be deny'd
“To her, who raves with scornful pride;
“And if religion rack her notions,
“Lock up her volumes of devotions;
“But if for man her rage prevail,
“Barr her the sight of creatures male.
“Or else to cure such venom'd bites,
“And set the shatter'd thoughts to rights,
“They send you to the ocean's shore,
“And plunge the Patient o'er and o'er.

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“The dame reply'd, Alas! in vain
“My kindred forc'd me to the Main;
“Naked, and in the face of day;
“(Look not, ye fishermen, this way!)
“What virgin had not done as I did?
“My modest hand, by nature guided,
“Debarr'd at once from human eyes
“The place where female honour lyes,
“And tho' thrice dipt from top to toe,
“I still secur'd the post below;
“And cover'd it with Gripe so fast
“Not one drop through my fingers past;
“Thus owe I to my bashful care,
“That all the rage is settled there.”

[Weigh well the projects of mankind;
Then tell me, Reader, canst thou find
The man from madness wholly free?
They all are mad—save you and me.
Do not the statesman, fop and wit
By daily follies prove they're bit?
And when the briny cure they try'd,
Some part still kept above the tide?

Some men (when drench'd beneath the wave)
High o'er their heads their fingers save:
Those hands by mean extortion thrive
Or in the pocket lightly dive:
Or more expert in pilf'ring vice,
They burn and itch to cog the dice.

Plunge in a courtier; strait his fears
Direct his hands to stop his ears.
And now truth seems a grating noise,
He loves the sland'rer's whisp'ring voice;
He hangs on flatt'ry with delight,
And thinks all fulsome praise is right.

All women dread a watry death:
They shut their lips to hold their breath,
And though you duck them ne'er so long,
Not one salt drop e'er wets their tongue;
'Tis hence they scandal have at will,
And that this member ne'er lyes still.]

THE STORY of CEPHISA.

In western climes where the bright God of day
Darts on the gladsome earth a warmer ray,
While smiling Spring led on the jocund hours,
And early months bestrew'd the fields with flow'rs,
In bloom of youth Cephisa, lovely maid,
Trac'd the wide lawns, and thro' the forests stray'd;
Not all the nymphs who swell Diana's train
From Cynthus' top, when issuing on the plain,
With hound and horn they raise the chearful cry,
And the rocks echo and the floods reply:

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Not all their train for beauty could compare
Their goddess' self scarce like Cephisa fair.—
Struck with the sight of such transcendant charms,
With gifts the shepherds woo'd her to their arms.
The am'rous toys no grace nor favour gain'd;
The gifts, and givers she alike disdain'd;
Resolv'd in happy solitude to rove
A sylvan huntress thro' the leafy grove.

But envious Fate the nymph no respite gives,
In ev'ry heart her lov'd idea lives:
E'en Pan himself, with ardent passion fir'd,
The God of woods, the woodland nymph desir'd;
Still as he views, he pants to clasp the maid,
And softly sighing to himself he said:
“O happy winds, which kiss that snowy breast,
“O happy garments, which those limbs invest,
“But, happier he who gains so rich a prize,
“Pants in those arms, and on that bosom dies!”

Thus he;—the Nymph far other loves employ,
The chace her glory, and the woods her joy;
Oft' as the God is present to her sight,
So oft' the nymph prepares for sudden flight,
Eludes his search, swift skimming o'er the lawn,
As from the beagle flies the bounding fawn.

A bow'r there was, a close sequester'd shade,
By poplar boughs and twining osiers made,
Fast by whose side a chrystal fountain flow'd,
(The banks with flow'rs of various colours glow'd;)
Here oft' at noon the weary fair reclin'd
To court the coolness of the gentle wind,
For here soft Zephyr with a grateful breeze,
Kiss'd the young plants, and whisper'd thro' the trees.

It chanc'd that Pan had mark'd the pebbled bed
Where the stream issu'd from its fountain-head,
Thence pouring on, through mossy windings roll'd,
O'er fertile tracks and sands that glow'd with gold;
Its course the God with curious search pursu'd,
Till pleas'd, at length, the fragrant bow'r he view'd;
But far more pleas'd the beauteous nymph survey'd,
Stretch'd at her ease beneath the cooling shade.
His near approach the pensive nymph alarms,
Who rises hasty, with disorder'd charms,
Springs from her covert like the tim'rous hare,
And, flying, fills with shrieks the ambient air.
With wings of love Pan urges on the course,
Fear lends her strength, while Love supplies his force.
Yet oft' the god, in the mid' chase, delays,
Stops short of conquest and submissive prays,

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“O thou,” he cries, “the loveliest of thy kind,
“Why fly'st thou thus, and leav'st thy love behind?
“No savage foe, no plunderer is near,
“Nor mountain-robber with his dreadful spear,
“Nor mean am I tho' woods my lineage claim,
“My sire immortal, and myself the same;
“Nor on the crook, nor plough do I depend,
“Nor on the mountain's top a scanty flock attend;—
“PAN is my name;—the herds on yonder plains,
“My herbage fattens and my care sustains;
“To me the woodland empire is decreed,
“I claim th' invention of the vocal reed;
“Yet vain these arts, these gifts in vain bestow'd,
“Great as I am, and worshipp'd as a God,
“If thou bright nymph with coyness and disdain,
“Repay thy lover, and deride his pain.”

Thus urg'd the sylvan God his am'rous pray'r,
But all his words were lost in empty air.
With double speed the nymph her course renew'd,
With double speed the ravisher pursu'd,
O'er hills and dales they hold the rapid race,
Till, spent at length, and weary'd with the chace,
With secret dread she views the sun descend,
And twilight o'er the earth her veil extend;
For now the swift pursuer nearer drew,
And almost touch'd her garments as she flew;
Wheel'd as she wheel'd, on ev'ry footstep gain'd,
And no relief nor glimpse of hope remain'd.
Fast by a stream, an ancient altar stood,
And close behind it rose a wavy wood,
Whose twining boughs exclude the parting light,
And dusky shades anticipate the night,
Thither, collecting all her force, she flies,
And, “Oh! whatever god (the damsel cries)
“Protects this altar, may that gen'rous pow'r
“Hear and relieve me in this dang'rous hour,
“Give me at least to save my spotless fame,
“And still in death preserve a virgin's name.”

While thus to unknown pow'rs Cephisa pray'd,
Victorious Pan o'ertook the fainting maid.
Around her waste his eager arms he throws,
With love and joy his throbbing bosom glows;
When, wonderful to tell, her form receives
A verdant cov'ring of expanded leaves;
Then shooting downward trembling to the ground
A fibrous root her slender ancles bound.
Strange to herself, as yet, aghast she stands,
And to high Heav'n she rears her spotless hands;

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These while she spreads them still in spires extend,
Till in small leaves her taper fingers end;
Her voice she tries; but utt'rance is deny'd,
The smother'd sounds in hollow murmurs dy'd;
At length, quite chang'd, the God with wonder view'd
A beauteous plant arising where she stood;
This from his touch with human sense inspir'd,
Indignant shrinking, of itself retir'd;
Yet Pan attends it with a lover's cares,
And fost'ring aid with tender hand prepares;
The new form'd plant reluctant seems to yield,
And lives the grace and glory of the field.
But still, as mindful of her former state,
The nymph's perfections on her change await,
And tho' transform'd, her virtue still remains,
No touch impure her sacred plant sustains,
From whence the name of Sensitive it gains.
This oft' the nymphs approach with secret dread,
While crimson blushes o'er their cheeks are spread;
Yet the true virgin has no cause for fear,
The test is equal if the maid's sincere.
This in thy walks O --- is found,
Thy walks for virgins fair and chaste renown'd.
This from the mild Hesperian clime convey'd,
Shall ever bloom, O W--- in thy shade;
Yet Western nymphs thy wondrous tree avoid,
Lest all their hopes be by a touch destroy'd.
Britannia's daughters no such terrors know,
With no lewd flames their spotless bosoms glow;
Tho' ev'ry shrub our cultur'd gardens boast,
And all of foreign stock, a countless host;
Should all at once the precious gift receive,
And ev'ry plant become a Sensitive,
Yet should their fame the dreadful trial stand,
And add new honours to their native land;
Honours their latest progeny shall share,
For ever virtuous, as for ever fair.

131

ECLOGUES.

THE BIRTH of the SQUIRE.

An ECLOGUE.

[_]

In Imitation of the Pollio of Virgil.

Ye sylvan Muses, loftier strains recite,
Not all in shades, and humble cotts delight.
Hark! the bells ring; along the distant grounds
The driving gales convey the swelling sounds;
Th' attentive swain, forgetful of his work,
With gaping wonder, leans upon his fork.
What sudden news alarms the waking morn?
To the glad Squire a hopeful heir is born.
Mourn, mourn, ye stags; and all ye beasts of chase,
This hour destruction brings on all your race:
See the pleas'd tenants duteous off'rings bear,
Turkeys and geese and grocer's sweetest ware;
With the new health the pond'rous tankard flows,
And old October reddens ev'ry nose.
Beagles and spaniels round his cradle stand,
Kiss his moist lip and gently lick his hand;
He joys to hear the shrill horn's ecchoing sounds,
And learns to lisp the names of all the hounds.
With frothy ale to make his cup o'er-flow,
Barley shall in paternal acres grow;
The bee shall sip the fragrant dew from flow'rs,
To give metheglin for his morning hours;
For him the clustring hop shall climb the poles,
And his own orchard sparkle in his bowles.

His Sire's exploits he now with wonder hears,
The monstrous tales indulge his greedy ears;

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How when youth strung his nerves and warm'd his veins,
He rode the mighty Nimrod of the plains:
He leads the staring infant through the hall,
Points out the horny spoils that grace the wall;
Tells, how this stag thro' three whole Countys fled,
What rivers swam, where bay'd, and where he bled.
Now he the wonders of the fox repeats,
Describes the desp'rate chase, and all his cheats;
How in one day beneath his furious speed,
He tir'd seven coursers of the fleetest breed;
How high the pale he leapt, how wide the ditch,
When the hound tore the haunches of the witch!
These stories which descend from son to son,
The forward boy shall one day make his own.

Ah, too fond mother, think the time draws nigh,
That calls the darling from thy tender eye;
How shall his spirit brook the rigid rules,
And the long tyranny of grammar schools?
Let younger brothers o'er dull authors plod,
Lash'd into Latin by the tingling rod;
No, let him never feel that smart disgrace:
Why should he wiser prove than all his race?

When rip'ning youth with down o'ershades his chin,
And ev'ry female eye incites to sin;
The milk-maid (thoughtless of her future shame)
With smacking lip shall raise his guilty flame;
The dairy, barn, the hay-loft and the grove
Shall oft' be conscious of their stolen love.
But think, Priscilla, on that dreadful time,
When pangs and watry qualms shall own thy crime;
How wilt thou tremble when thy nipple's prest,
To see the white drops bathe thy swelling breast!
Nine moons shall publickly divulge thy shame,
And the young Squire forestall a father's name.

When twice twelve times the reaper's sweeping hand
With levell'd harvests has bestrown the land,
On fam'd St. Hubert's feast, his winding horn
Shall cheer the joyful hound and wake the morn:
This memorable day his eager speed
Shall urge with bloody heel the rising steed.
O check the foamy bit, nor tempt thy fate,
Think on the murders of a five-bar gate!
Yet prodigal of life, the leap he tries,
Low in the dust his groveling honour lies,
Headlong he falls, and on the rugged stone
Distorts his neck, and cracks the collar bone;

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O ventr'ous youth, thy thirst of game allay,
Mayst thou survive the perils of this day!
He shall survive; and in late years be sent
To snore away Debates in Parliament.

The time shall come, when his more solid sense
With nod important shall the laws dispense;
A Justice with grave Justices shall sit,
He praise their wisdom, they admire his wit.
No greyhound shall attend the tenant's pace,
No rusty gun the farmer's chimney grace;
Salmons shall leave their covers void of fear,
Nor dread the thievish net or triple spear;
Poachers shall tremble at his awful name,
Whom vengeance now o'ertakes for murder'd game.

Assist me, Bacchus, and ye drunken Pow'rs,
To sing his friendships and his midnight hours!

Why dost thou glory in thy strength of beer,
Firm-cork'd, and mellow'd till the twentieth year;
Brew'd or when Phœbus warms the fleecy sign,
Or when his languid rays in Scorpio shine.
Think on the mischiefs which from hence have sprung!
It arms with curses dire the wrathful tongue;
Foul scandal to the lying lip affords,
And prompts the mem'ry with injurious words.
O where is wisdom, when by this o'erpower'd?
The State is censur'd, and the maid deflower'd!
And wilt thou still, O Squire, brew ale so strong?
Hear then the dictates of prophetic song.

Methinks I see him in his hall appear,
Where the long table floats in clammy beer,
'Midst mugs and glasses shatter'd o'er the floor,
Dead-drunk his servile crew supinely snore;
Triumphant, o'er the prostrate brutes he stands,
The mighty bumper trembles in his hands;
Boldly he drinks, and like his glorious Sires,
In copious gulps of potent ale expires.

The most common accident to sportsmen; to hunt a witch in the shape of a hare.

134

THE TOILETTE.

A Town ECLOGUE.

LYDIA.

Now twenty springs had cloath'd the Park with green,
Since Lydia knew the blossom of fifteen;
No lovers now her morning hours molest,
And catch her at her Toilette half undrest;
The thund'ring knocker wakes the street no more,
No chairs, no coaches croud her silent door;
Her midnights once at cards and Hazard fled,
Which now, alas! she dreams away in bed.
Around her wait Shocks, monkeys and mockaws,
To fill the place of Fops, and perjur'd Beaus;
In these she views the mimickry of man,
And smiles when grinning Pug gallants her fan;
When Poll repeats, the sounds deceive her ear,
For sounds, like his, once told her Damon's care.
With these alone her tedious mornings pass;
Or at the dumb devotion of her glass,

135

She smooths her brow, and frizles forth her hairs,
And fancys youthful dress gives youthful airs;
With crimson wooll she fixes ev'ry grace,
That not a blush can discompose her face.
Reclin'd upon her arm she pensive sate,
And curs'd th' inconstancy of youth too late.

O Youth! O spring of life! for ever lost!
No more my name shall reign the fav'rite Toast,
On glass no more the di'mond grave my name,
And rhymes mispell'd record a lover's flame:
Nor shall side-boxes watch my restless eyes,
And as they catch the glance in rows arise
With humble bows; nor white-glov'd Beaus encroach
In crouds behind, to guard me to my coach.
Ah hapless nymph! such conquests are no more,
For Chloe's now what Lydia was before!

'Tis true, this Chloe boasts the peach's bloom.
But does her nearer whisper breathe perfume?
I own her taper shape is form'd to please.
Yet if you saw her unconfin'd by stays!
She doubly to fifteen may make pretence,
Alike we read it in her face and sense.
Her reputation! but that never yet
Could check the freedoms of a young Coquet.
Why will ye then, vain Fops, her eyes believe?
Her eyes can, like your perjur'd tongues, deceive.

What shall I do? how spend the hateful day?
At chappel shall I wear the morn away?
Who there frequents at these unmodish hours,
But ancient matrons with their frizled tow'rs,
And gray religious maids? my presence there
Amid that sober train wou'd own despair;
Nor am I yet so old; nor is my glance
As yet fixt wholy to devotion's trance.

Strait then I'll dress, and take my wonted range
Through ev'ry Indian shop, through all the Change;
Where the tall jarr erects his costly pride,
With antic shapes in China's azure dy'd;
There careless lies the rich brocade unroll'd,
Here shines a cabinet with burnish'd gold;
But then remembrance will my grief renew,
'Twas there the raffling dice false Damon threw;

136

The raffling dice to him decide the prize.
'Twas there he first convers'd with Chloe's eyes;
Hence sprung th' ill-fated cause of all my smart,
To me the toy he gave, to her his heart.
But soon thy perj'ry in the gift was found,
The shiver'd China dropt upon the ground;
Sure omen that thy vows would faithless prove;
Frail was thy present, frailer is thy love.

O happy Poll, in wiry prison pent;
Thou ne'er hast known what love or rivals meant,
And Pug with pleasure can his fetters bear,
Who ne'er believ'd the vows that lovers swear
How am I curst! (unhappy and forlorn)
With perjury, with love, and rival's scorn!
False are the loose Coquet's inveigling airs,
False is the pompous grief of youthful heirs,
False is the cringing courtier's plighted word,
False are the dice when gamesters stamp the board,
False is the sprightly widow's publick tear;
Yet these to Damon's oaths are all sincere.

Fly from perfidious man, the sex disdain;
Let servile Chloe wear the nuptial chain.
Damon is practis'd in the modish life,
Can hate, and yet be civil to a wife.
He games; he swears; he drinks; he fights; he roves;
Yet Chloe can believe he fondly loves.
Mistress and wife can well supply his need,
A miss for pleasure, and a wife for breed.
But Chloe's air is unconfin'd and gay,
And can perhaps an injur'd bed repay;
Perhaps her patient temper can behold
The rival of her love adorn'd with gold,

137

Powder'd with di'monds; free from thought and care;
A husband's sullen humours she can bear.

Why are these sobs? and why these streaming eyes?
Is love the cause? no, I the sex despise;
I hate, I loath his base perfidious name.
Yet if he should but feign a rival flame?
But Chloe boasts and triumphs in my pains,
To her he's faithful, 'tis to me he feigns.

Thus love-sick Lydia rav'd. Her maid appears
A band-box in her steady hand she bears.
How well this ribband's gloss becomes your face,
She crys, in raptures! then, so sweet a lace!
How charmingly you look! so bright! so fair!
'Tis to your eyes the head-dress owes its air.
Strait Lydia smil'd; the comb adjusts her locks,
And at the Play-house Harry keeps her box.

138

THE TEA-TABLE.

A Town ECLOGUE.

DORIS and MELANTHE.

Saint James's noon-day bell for prayers had toll'd,
And coaches to the Patron's Levée roll'd,
When Doris rose. And now through all the room
From flow'ry Tea exhales a fragrant fume.
Cup after cup they sipt, and talk'd by fits,
For Doris here, and there Melanthe sits.
Doris was young, a laughter-loving dame,
Nice of her own alike and others fame;
Melanthe's tongue could well a tale advance,
And sooner gave than sunk a circumstance;
Lock'd in her mem'ry secrets never dy'd;
Doris begun, Melanthe thus reply'd.

DORIS.
Sylvia the vain fantastic Fop admires,
The Rake's loose gallantry her bosom fires;
Sylvia like that is vain, like this she roves,
In liking them she but her self approves.

MELANTHE.
Laura rails on at men, the sex reviles,
Their vice condemns, or at their folly smiles.
Why should her tongue in just resentment fail,
Since men at her with equal freedom rail?

DORIS.
Last Masquerade was Sylvia nymphlike seen,
Her hand a crook sustain'd, her dress was green;
An am'rous shepherd led her through the croud,
The nymph was innocent, the shepherd vow'd;
But nymphs their innocence with shepherds trust;
So both withdrew, as nymph and shepherd must.

MELANTHE.
Name but the licence of the modern stage,
Laura takes fire, and kindles into rage;

139

The whining Tragic love she scarce can bear,
But nauseous Comedy ne'er shock'd her ear:
Yet in the gall'ry mob'd, she sits secure,
And laughs at jests that turn the Box demure.

DORIS.
Trust not, ye Ladys, to your beauty's pow'r,
For beauty withers, like a shrivell'd flow'r;
Yet those fair flowers that Sylvia's temples bind,
Fade not with sudden blights or winter's wind;
Like those her face defys the rolling years,
For art her roses and her charms repairs.

MELANTHE.
Laura despises ev'ry outward grace,
The wanton sparkling eye, the blooming face
The beauties of the soul are all her pride,
For other beauties Nature has deny'd;
If affectation show a beauteous mind,
Lives there a man to Laura's merits blind?

DORIS.
Sylvia be sure defies the town's reproach,
Whose Deshabille is soil'd in hackney coach;
What though the sash was clos'd? must we conclude,
That she was yielding, when her Fop was rude?

MELANTHE.
Laura learnt caution at too dear a cost.
What Fair could e'er retrieve her honour lost?
Secret she loves; and who the nymph can blame,
Who durst not own a footman's vulgar flame?

DORIS.
Though Laura's homely taste descends so low;
Her footman well may vye with Sylvia's Beau.

MELANTHE.
Yet why should Laura think it a disgrace,
When proud Miranda's groom wears Flanders lace?

DORIS.
What, though for musick Cynthio boasts an ear?
Robin perhaps can hum an Opera air.
Cynthio can bow, takes snuff, and dances well,
Robin talks common sense, can write and spell;
Sylvia's vain fancy dress and shows admires,
But 'tis the man alone who Laura fires.

MELANTHE.
Plato's wise morals Laura's soul improve:
And this no doubt must be Platonic love!
Her soul to gen'rous acts was still inclin'd;
What shows more virtue than an humble mind?

140

DORIS.
What, though young Sylvia love the Park's cool shade,
And wander in the dusk the secret glade?
Masqu'd and alone (by chance) she met her Spark,
That innocence is weak which shuns the dark.

MELANTHE.
But Laura for her flame has no pretence
Her footman is a footman too in sense.
All Prudes I hate, and those are rightly curst
With scandal's double load, who censure first.

DORIS.
And what if Cynthio Sylvia's garter ty'd!
Who such a foot and such a leg would hide;
When crook-knee'd Phillis can expose to view
Her gold-clock'd stocking, and her tawdry shoe?

MELANTHE.
If pure Devotion center in the face,
If cens'ring others show intrinsick grace,
If guilt to publick freedoms be confin'd,
Prudes (all must own) are of the holy kind!

DORIS.
Sylvia disdains reserve, and flys constraint:
She neither is, nor would be thought a Saint.

MELANTHE.
Love is a trivial passion, Laura crys,
May I be blest with friendship's stricter tyes;
To such a breast all secrets we commend;
Sure the whole Drawing-room is Laura's friend.

DORIS.

At marriage Sylvia rails; who men would trust?
Yet husband's jealousies are sometimes just.
Her favours Sylvia shares among mankind,
Such gen'rous love should never be confin'd.

As thus alternate chat employ'd their tongue,
With thund'ring raps the brazen knocker rung.
Laura with Sylvia came; the nymphs arise:
This unexpected visit, Doris crys,
Is doubly kind! Melanthe Laura led,
Since I was last so blest, my dear, she said,
Sure 'tis an age! they sate; the hour was set
And all again that night at Ombre met.

141

THE FUNERAL.

A Town ECLOGUE.

SABINA. LUCY.

Twice had the moon perform'd her monthly race,
Since first the veil o'ercast Sabina's face.
Then dy'd the tender partner of her bed.
And lives Sabina when Fidelio's dead?
Fidelio's dead, and yet Sabina lives.
But see the tribute of her tears she gives;
Their absent Lord her rooms in sable mourn,
And all the day the glimmering tapers burn;
Stretch'd on the couch of state she pensive lies,
While oft' the snowy Cambric wipes her eyes.
Now enter'd Lucy, trusty Lucy knew
To roll a sleeve, or bear a Billet-doux;
Her ready tongue, in secret service try'd,
With equal fluency spoke truth or ly'd,
She well could flush, or humble a gallant,
And serve at once as maid and confidant;
A letter from her faithful stays she took:
Sabina snatch'd it with an angry look,
And thus in hasty words her grief confest,
While Lucy strove to sooth her troubled breast.

SABINA.
What, still Myrtillo's hand! his flame I scorn,
Give back his passion with the seal untorn.
To break our soft repose has man a right,
And are we doom'd to read whate'er they write?
Not all the sex my firm resolves shall move;
My life's a life of sorrow, not of love.
May Lydia's wrinkles all my forehead trace,
And Celia's paleness sicken o'er my face,
May Fops of mine, as Flavia's, favours boast,
And Coquets triumph in my honour lost;
May cards employ my nights, and never more
May these curst eyes behold a Matadore!
Break China, perish Shock, die Perroquet!
When I Fidelio's dearer love forget.
Fidelio's judgment scorn'd the foppish train,
His air was easy, and his dress was plain,

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His words sincere, respect his presence drew,
And on his lips sweet conversation grew.
Where's wit, where's beauty, where is virtue fled?
Alas! they're now no more; Fidelio's dead!

LUCY.
Yet when he liv'd, he wanted ev'ry grace;
That easy air was then an aukward pace:
Have not your sighs in whispers often said,
His dress was slovenly, his speech ill-bred?
Have not I heard you, with a secret tear,
Call that sweet converse sullen and severe?
Think not I come to take Myrtillo's part,
Let Chloe, Daphne, Doris share his heart.
Let Chloe's love in ev'ry ear express
His graceful person and genteel address.
All well may judge, what shaft has Daphne hit,
Who suffers silence to admire his wit.
His equipage and liv'ries Doris move,
But Chloe, Daphne, Doris fondly love.
Sooner shall Cits in fashions guide the Court,
And Beaus upon the busy Change resort;
Sooner the nation shall from snuff be freed,
And Fops apartments smoke with India's weed,
Sooner I'd wish and sigh through nunn'ry grates,
Than recommend the flame Sabina hates.

SABINA.
Because some widows are in haste subdued
Shall ev'ry Fop upon our tears intrude?
Can I forget my lov'd Fidelio's tongue,
Soft as the warbling of Italian song?
Did not his rosy lips breathe forth perfume,
Fragrant as steams from Tea's imperial bloom?

LUCY.
Yet once you thought that tongue a greater curse
Than squawles of children for an absent nurse.
Have you not fancy'd in his frequent kiss
Th' ungrateful leavings of a filthy Miss?

SABINA.
Love, I thy pow'r defie; no second flame
Shall ever raze my dear Fidelio's name.
Fannia without a tear might lose her Lord,
Who ne'er enjoy'd his presence but at board.
And why should sorrow sit on Lesbia's face?
Are there such comforts in a sot's embrace?
No friend, no lover is to Lesbia dead,
For Lesbia long had known a sep'rate bed.

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Gush forth, ye tears; waste, waste, ye sighs, my breast;
My days, my nights were by Fidelio blest!

LUCY.
You cannot sure forget how oft' you said
His teazing fondness jealousy betray'd!
When at the Play the neighb'ring box he took,
You thought you read suspicion in his look;
When cards and counters flew around the board,
Have you not wish'd the absence of your Lord?
His company was then a poor pretence,
To check the freedoms of a wife's expence!

SABINA.
But why should I Myrtillo's passion blame,
Since Love's a fierce involuntary flame?

LUCY.
Could he the sallys of his heart withstand,
Why should he not to Chloe give his hand?
For Chloe's handsome, yet he slights her flame;
Last night she fainted at Sabina's name.
Why, Daphne, dost thou blast Sabina's charms?
Sabina keeps no lover from thy arms.
At Crimp Myrtillo play'd, in kind regards
Doris dealt love; he only dealt the cards;
Doris was touch'd with spleen; her fan she rent,
Flew from the table and to tears gave vent.
Why, Doris, dost thou curse Sabina's eyes?
To her Myrtillo is a vulgar prize.

SABINA.

Yet say, I lov'd; how loud would censure rail!
So soon to quit the duties of the veil!
No, sooner Plays and Op'ras I'd forswear,
And change these China jars for Tunbridge ware
Or trust my mother as a Confidant,
Or fix a friendship with my maiden aunt;
Than till—tomorrow throw my Weeds away.
Yet let me see him, if he comes to-day!

[Hasty she snatch'd the letter, tore the seal;
She read, and blushes glow'd beneath the veil.]

144

THE ESPOUSAL.

A Sober ECLOGUE.

Between two of the People called Quakers.

CALEB. TABITHA.

Beneath the shadow of a beaver hat,
Meek Caleb at a silent meeting sate;
His eye-balls oft' forgot the holy trance,
While Tabitha demure, return'd the glance.
The Meeting ended, Caleb silence broke,
And Tabitha her inward yearnings spoke.

CALEB.
Beloved, see how all things follow love,
Lamb fondleth lamb, and dove disports with dove;
Yet fondled lambs their innocence secure,
And none can call the turtle's bill impure;
O fairest of our sisters, let me be
The billing dove, and fondling lamb to thee.

TABITHA.
But, Caleb, know that birds of gentle mind
Elect a mate among the sober kind,
Not the mockaws, all deck'd in scarlet pride,
Entice their mild and modest hearts aside;
But thou, vain man, beguil'd by Popish shows,
Dotest on ribbands, flounces, furbelows.
If thy false heart be fond of tawdry dyes,
Go, wed the painted arch in summer skies;
Such love will like the rainbow's hue decay,
Strong at the first, but passeth soon away.

CALEB.
Name not the frailtys of my youthful days,
When vice mis-led me through the harlot's ways;
When I with wanton look thy sex beheld,
And nature with each wanton look rebell'd;

145

Then parti-colour'd pride my heart might move
With lace; the net to catch unhallow'd love.
All such-like love is fading as the flower,
Springs in a day, and withereth in an hour:
But now I feel the spousal love within,
And spousal love no sister holds a sin.

TABITHA.
I know thou longest for the flaunting maid,
Thy falsehood own, and say I am betray'd;
The tongue of man is blister'd o'er with lies,
But truth is ever read in woman's eyes;
O that my lip obey'd a tongue like thine!
Or that thine eye bewray'd a love like mine!

CALEB.
How bitter are thy words! forbear to teaze,
I too might blame—but love delights to please.
Why should I tell thee, that when last the sun
Painted the downy peach of Newington,
Josiah led thee through the garden's walk,
And mingled melting kisses with his talk?
Ah Jealousy! turn, turn thine eyes aside,
How can I see that watch adorn thy side?
For verily no gift the sisters take
For lust of gain, but for the giver's sake.

TABITHA.
I own, Josiah gave the golden toy,
Which did the righteous hand of Quare employ;
When Caleb hath assign'd some happy day,
I look on this and chide the hour's delay:
And when Josiah would his love pursue,
On this I look and shun his wanton view.
Man but in vain with trinkets trys to move,
The only present love demands is love.

CALEB.
Ah Tabitha, to hear these words of thine,
My pulse beats high, as if inflam'd with wine!
When to the brethren first with fervent zeal
The spirit mov'd thy yearnings to reveal,
How did I joy thy trembling lip to see
Red as the cherry from the Kentish tree;
When Ecstasie had warm'd thy look so meek,
Gardens of roses blushed on thy cheek.
With what sweet transport didst thou roll thine eyes,
How did thy words provoke the brethren's sighs!
Words that with holy sighs might others move,
But, Tabitha, my sighs were sighs of love.

TABITHA.
Is Tabitha beyond her wishes blest?
Does no proud worldly dame divide thy breast?

146

Then hear me, Caleb, witness what I speak,
This solemn promise death alone can break;
Sooner I would bedeck my brow with lace,
And with immodest fav'rites shade my face,
Sooner like Babylon's lewd whore be drest
In flaring di'monds and a scarlet vest,
Or make a curtsie in Cathedral pew,
Than prove inconstant, while my Caleb's true.

CALEB.
When I prove false, and Tabitha forsake,
Teachers shall dance a jig at country wake;
Brethren unbeaver'd then shall bow their head,
And with prophane mince-pies our babes be fed.

TABITHA.
If that Josiah were with passion fir'd,
Warm as the zeal of youth when first inspir'd;
In steady love though he might persevere,
Unchanging as the decent garb we wear,
And thou wert fickle as the wind that blows,
Light as the feather on the head of Beaus;
Yet I for thee would all thy sex resign,
Sisters, take all the rest—be Caleb mine.

CALEB.
Though I had all that sinful love affords,
And all the concubines of all the Lords,
Whose couches creak with whoredom's sinful shame,
Whose velvet chairs are with adult'ry lame;
Ev'n in the harlot's hall, I would not sip
The dew of lewdness from her lying lip;
I'd shun her paths, upon thy mouth to dwell,
More sweet than powder which the merchants sell;
O solace me with kisses pure like thine!
Enjoy, ye Lords, the wanton concubine.
The spring now calls us forth; come, sister, come,
To see the primrose, and the daisie bloom.
Let ceremony bind the worldly pair,
Sisters esteem the brethren's words sincere.

TABITHA.

Espousals are but forms. O lead me hence,
For secret love can never give offence.

Then hand in hand the loving mates withdraw.
True love is nature unrestrain'd by law.
This tenet all the holy sect allows.
So Tabitha took earnest of a spouse.

147

EPISTLES ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

AN EPISTLE TO A LADY.

Occasion'd by the Arrival of Her Royal Highness.

Madam, to all your censures I submit,
And frankly own I should long since have writ:
You told me, silence would be thought a crime,
And kindly strove to teaze me into rhyme:
No more let trifling themes your Muse employ,
Nor lavish verse to paint a female toy;
No more on plains with rural damsels sport,
But sing the glories of the British court.

By your commands and inclination sway'd,
I call'd th' unwilling Muses to my aid;

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Resolved to write, the noble theme I chose,
And to the Princess thus the poem rose.

Aid me, bright Phœbus; aid, ye sacred Nine;
Exalt my Genius, and my verse refine.
My strains with Carolina's name I grace,
The lovely parent of our royal race.
Breathe soft, ye winds, ye waves in silence sleep;
Let prosp'rous breezes wanton o'er the deep,
Swell the white sails, and with the streamers play,
To waft her gently o'er the watry way.

Here I to Neptune form'd a pompous pray'r,
To rein the winds, and guard the royal Fair;
Bid the blue Tritons sound their twisted shells,
And call the Nereids from their pearly cells.

Thus my warm zeal had drawn the Muse along,
Yet knew no method to conduct her song:
I then resolv'd some model to pursue,
Perus'd French Criticks, and began anew.
Long open panegyrick drags at best,
And praise is only praise when well address'd.

Strait, Horace for some lucky Ode I sought:
And all along I trac'd him thought by thought:
This new performance to a friend I show'd;
For shame, says he, what, imitate an Ode!
I'd rather ballads write, and Grubstreet lays,
Than pillage Cæsar for my patron's praise:
One common fate all imitators share,
To save mince-pies, and cap the grocer's ware.
Vex'd at the charge, I to the flames commit
Rhymes, similies, Lords names, and ends of wit;
In blotted stanzas scraps of Odes expire,
And fustian mounts in Pyramids of fire.

Ladies, to you I next inscrib'd my lay,
And writ a letter in familiar way:
For still impatient till the Princess came,
You from description wish'd to know the dame.
Each day my pleasing labour larger grew,
For still new graces open'd to my view.
Twelve lines ran on to introduce the theme,
And then I thus pursu'd the growing scheme.

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Beauty and wit were sure by nature join'd,
And charms are emanations of the mind;
The soul transpiercing through the shining frame,
Forms all the graces of the Princely Dame:
Benevolence her conversation guides,
Smiles on her cheek, and in her eye resides.
Such harmony upon her tongue is found,
As softens English to Italian sound:
Yet in those sounds such sentiments appear,
As charm the Judgment, while they sooth the ear.

Religion's chearful flame her bosom warms,
Calms all her hours, and brightens all her charms.
Henceforth, ye Fair, at chappel mind your pray'rs,
Nor catch your lovers eyes with artful airs;
Restrain your looks, kneel more, and whisper less,
Nor most devoutly criticize on dress.

From her form all your characters of life,
The tender mother, and the faithful wife.
Oft have I seen her little infant train,
The lovely promise of a future reign;
Observ'd with pleasure ev'ry dawning grace,
And all the mother op'ning in their face:
The son shall add new honours to the line,
And early with paternal virtues shine;
When he the tale of Audenard repeats,
His little heart with emulation beats;
With conquests yet to come his bosom glows,
He dreams of triumphs and of vanquish'd foes.
Each year with arts shall store his rip'ning brain,
And from his Grandsire he shall learn to reign.

Thus far I'd gone: Propitious rising gales
Now bid the sailor hoist the swelling sails.
Fair Carolina lands; the cannons roar,
White Albion's cliffs resound from shore to shore,
Behold the bright original appear,
All praise is faint when Carolina's near.
Thus to the nation's joy, but Poet's cost,
The Princess came, and my new plan was lost.

150

Since all my schemes were baulk'd, my last resort,
I left the Muses to frequent the Court;
Pensive each night, from room to room I walk'd,
To one I bow'd, and with another talk'd;
Enquir'd what news, or such a Lady's name.
And did the next day, and the next, the same.
Places, I found, were daily giv'n away,
And yet no friendly Gazette mention'd Gay.
I ask'd a friend what method to pursue;
He cry'd, I want a place as well as you.
Another ask'd me, why I had not writ:
A Poet owes his fortune to his wit.
Strait I reply'd, With what a courtly grace
Flows easy verse from him that has a place!
Had Virgil ne'er at court improv'd his strains,
He still had sung of flocks and homely swains;
And had not Horace sweet preferment found,
The Roman lyre had never learnt to sound.

Once Ladies fair in homely guise I sung,
And with their names wild woods and mountains rung.
Oh, teach me now to strike a softer strain!
The Court refines the language of the plain.

You must, cries one, the Ministry rehearse,
And with each Patriot's name prolong your verse.
But sure this truth to Poets should be known,
That praising all alike, is praising none.

Another told me, if I wish'd success,
To some distinguish'd Lord I must address;
One whose high virtues speak his noble blood,
One always zealous for his country's good;
Where valour and strong eloquence unite,
In council cautious, resolute in fight;
Whose gen'rous temper prompts him to defend,
And patronize the man that wants a friend.
You have, 'tis true, the noble Patron shown,
But I, alas! am to Argyle unknown.

Still ev'ry one I met in this agreed,
That writing was my method to succeed;
But now preferments so possess'd my brain,
That scarce I could produce a single strain:
Indeed I sometimes hammer'd out a line,
Without connection as without design.
One morn upon the Princess this I writ,
An Epigram that boasts more truth than wit.

The pomp of titles easy faith might shake,
She scorn'd an empire for religion's sake:
For this, on earth, the British crown is giv'n,
And an immortal crown decreed in heav'n.

151

Again, while GEORGE's virtues raised my thought,
The following lines prophetick fancy wrought.

Methinks I see some Bard, whose heav'nly rage
Shall rise in song, and warm a future age;
Look back through time, and, rapt in wonder, trace
The glorious series of the Brunswick race.

From the first George these godlike kings descend,
A line which only with the world shall end.
The next a gen'rous Prince renown'd in arms,
And bless'd, long bless'd in Carolina's charms;
From these the rest. 'Tis thus secure in peace
We plow the fields, and reap the year's increase:
Now Commerce, wealthy Goddess, rears her head,
And bids Britannia's fleets their canvas spread;
Unnumber'd ships the peopled ocean hide,
And wealth returns with each revolving tide.

Here paus'd the sullen Muse, in haste I dress'd,
And through the croud of needy courtiers press'd
Though unsuccessful, happy whilst I see,
Those eyes that glad a nation, shine on me.

152

An EPISTLE to the Right Honourable the Earl of Burlington.

A Journey to Exeter.

While you, my Lord, bid stately piles ascend,
Or in your Chiswick bow'rs enjoy your friend;
Where Pope unloads the boughs within his reach,
Of purple vine, blue plumb, and blushing peach;
I journey far—You knew fat Bards might tire,
And, mounted, sent me forth your trusty Squire.

'Twas on the day that city dames repair
To take their weekly dose of Hide-Park air;
When forth we trot: no carts the road infest,
For still on Sundays country horses rest.
Thy gardens, Kensington, we leave unseen;
Through Hammersmith jog on to Turnham-green:
That Turnham-green, which dainty pidgeons fed,
But feeds no more: for Solomon is dead.
Three dusty miles reach Brandford's tedious town,
For dirty streets, and white-leg'd chickens known:

153

Thence o'er wide shrubby heaths, and furrow'd lanes,
We come, where Thames divides the meads of Stanes.
We ferry'd o'er; for late the winter's flood
Shook her frail bridge, and tore her piles of wood.
Prepar'd for war, now Bagshot-Heath we cross,
Where broken gamesters oft' repair their loss.
At Hartley-Row the foaming bit we prest,
While the fat landlord welcom'd ev'ry guest.
Supper was ended, healths the glasses crown'd,
Our host extoll'd his wine at ev'ry round,
Relates the Justices late meeting there,
How many bottles drank, and what their cheer;
What lords had been his guests in days of yore,
And prais'd their wisdom much, their drinking more.

Let travellers the morning vigils keep:
The morning rose; but we lay fast asleep.
Twelve tedious miles we bore the sultry sun,
And Popham-Lane was scarce in sight by one:
The straggling village harbour'd thieves of old,
'Twas here the stage-coach'd lass resign'd her gold;
That gold which had in London purchas'd gowns,
And sent her home a Belle to country towns.
But robbers haunt no more the neighbouring wood:
Here unown'd infants find their daily food;
For should the maiden mother nurse her son,
'Twould spoil her match when her good name is gone.
Our jolly hostess nineteen children bore,
Nor fail'd her breast to suckle nineteen more.
Be just, ye Prudes, wipe off the long arrear;
Be virgins still in town, but mothers here.

Sutton we pass, and leave her spacious down,
And with the setting sun reach Stockbridge town.
O'er our parch'd tongue the rich metheglin glides,
And the red dainty trout our knife divides.
Sad melancholy ev'ry visage wears;
What, no Election come in seven long years!
Of all our race of Mayors, shall Snow alone
Be by Sir Richard's dedication known?
Our streets no more with tides of ale shall float,
Nor coblers feast three years upon one vote.

Next morn, twelve miles led o'er th' unbounded plain,
Where the cloak'd shepherd guides his fleecy train.
No leafy bow'rs a noonday shelter lend,
Nor from the chilly dews at night defend;
With wondrous art he counts the straggling flock,
And by the sun informs you what's a clock.

154

How are our shepherds fall'n from ancient days!
No Amaryllis chaunts alternate lays;
From her no list'ning ecchos learn to sing,
Nor with his reed the jocund valleys ring.

Here sheep the pasture hide, there harvests bend,
See Sarum's steeple o'er yon hill ascend;
Our horses faintly trot beneath the heat,
And our keen stomachs know the hour to eat.
Who can forsake thy walls, and not admire
The proud Cathedral, and the lofty spire?
What sempstress has not prov'd thy scissars good?
From hence first came th' intriguing ridinghood.
Amid three boarding-schools well stock'd with misses,
Shall three knights errant starve for want of kisses?

O'er the green turf the miles slide swift away,
And Blandford ends the labours of the day.
The morning rose; the supper reck'ning paid,
And our due fees discharg'd to man and maid,
The ready ostler near the stirrup stands,
And as we mount, our half-pence load his hands.

Now the steep hill fair Dorchester o'erlooks,
Border'd by meads, and wash'd by silver brooks.
Here sleep my two companions eyes supprest,
And propt in elbow chairs they snoring rest:
I wakeful sit, and with my pencil trace
Their painful postures, and their eyeless face;
Then dedicate each glass to some fair name,
And on the sash the diamond scrawls my flame.
Now o'er true Roman way our horses sound,
Grævius would kneel, and kiss the sacred ground.
On either side low fertile valleys lye,
The distant prospects tire the trav'ling eye.
Through Bridport's stony lanes our rout we take,
And the proud steep descend to Morcombe's lake.
As herses pass'd, our landlord robb'd the pall,
And with the mournful scutcheon hung his hall.
On unadulterate wine we here regale,
And strip the lobster of his scarlet mail.

We climb'd the hills, when starry night arose,
And Axminster affords a kind repose.
The maid, subdued by fees, her trunk unlocks,
And gives the cleanly aid of dowlas smocks.
Mean time our shirts her busy fingers rub,
While the soap lathers o'er the foaming tub.
If women's geer such pleasing dreams incite,
Lend us your smocks, ye damsels, ev'ry night!

155

We rise; our beards demand the barber's art;
A female enters, and performs the part.
The weighty golden chain adorns her neck,
And three gold rings her skilful hand bedeck:
Smooth o'er our chin her easy fingers move,
Soft as when Venus stroak'd the beard of Jove.

Now from the steep, midst scatter'd farms and groves,
Our eye through Honiton's fair valley roves.
Behind us soon the busy town we leave,
Where finest lace industrious lasses weave.
Now swelling clouds roll'd on; the rainy load
Stream'd down our hats, and smoaked along the road;
When (O blest sight!) a friendly sign we spy'd,
Our spurs are slacken'd from the horses side;
For sure a civil host the house commands,
Upon whose sign this courteous motto stands.
This is the ancient hand, and eke the pen;
Here is for horses hay, and meat for men.
How rhyme would flourish, did each son of fame
Know his own genius, and direct his flame!
Then he, that could not Epic flights rehearse,
Might sweetly mourn in Elegiac verse.
But were his Muse for Elegy unfit,
Perhaps a Distich might not strain his wit;
If Epigram offend, his harmless lines
Might in gold letters swing on ale-house signs.
Then Hobbinol might propagate his bays,
And Tuttle-fields record his simple lays;
Where rhymes like these might lure the nurses eyes,
While gaping infants squawl for farthing pies.
Treat here, ye shepherds blithe, your damsels sweet,
For pies and cheesecakes are for damsels meet.
Then Maurus in his proper sphere might shine,
And these proud numbers grace great William's sign.
This is the man, this the Nassovian, whom
I nam'd the brave deliverer to come.
But now the driving gales suspend the rain,
We mount our steeds, and Devon's city gain.
Hail, happy native land!—but I forbear,
What other counties must with envy hear.

A man lately famous for feeding pidgeons at Turnham-green.

There are three boarding-schools in this town.

Prince Arthur, Book 5.

156

An EPISTLE To the Right Honourable WILLIAM PULTENEY, Esq

Pult'ney, methinks you blame my breach of word
What, cannot Paris one poor page afford?
Yes, I can sagely, when the times are past,
Laugh at those follys which I strove to taste,
And each amusement, which we shar'd, review,
Pleas'd with meer talking, since I talk to you.
But how shall I describe in humble prose,
Their Balls, Assemblies, Operas and Beaus?
In prose, you cry! Oh no, the Muse must aid,
And leave Parnassus for the Tuillerie's shade;
Shall he (who late Britannia's city trod,
And led the draggled Muse, with pattens shod,
Through dirty lanes, and alleys doubtful ways)
Refuse to write, when Paris asks his lays!

Well then, I'll try. Descend, ye beauteous Nine,
In all the colours of the rainbow shine,
Let sparkling stars your neck and ear adorn,
Lay on the blushes of the crimson morn,
So may ye Balls and gay Assemblies grace,
And at the Opera claim the foremost place.

Trav'lers should ever fit expression chuse,
Nor with low phrase the lofty theme abuse.
When they describe the state of eastern Lords,
Pomp and magnificence should swell their words;
And when they paint the serpent's scaly pride,
Their lines should hiss, their numbers smoothly slide;
But they, unmindful of Poetick rules,
Describe alike Mockaws, and great Moguls.
Dampier would thus, without ill-meaning satyr,
Dress forth in simple style the Petit-maitre.

In Paris, there's a race of animals,
(I've seen them at their Operas and Balls)
They stand erect, they dance when-e'er they walk,
Monkeys in action, perroquets in talk;

157

They're crown'd with feathers, like the cockatoo,
And, like camelions, daily change their hue;
From patches justly plac'd they borrow graces,
And with vermillion lacker o'er their faces,
This custom, as we visibly discern,
They, by frequenting Ladies toilettes, learn.
Thus might the trav'ler easy truth impart.
Into the subject let me nobly start!

How happy lives the man, how sure to charm,
Whose knot embroider'd flutters down his arm!
On him the Ladies cast the yielding glance,
Sigh in his songs, and languish in his dance;
While wretched is the Wit, contemn'd, forlorn,
Whose gummy hat no scarlet plumes adorn;
No broider'd flowers his worsted ankle grace,
Nor cane emboss'd with gold directs his pace;
No Lady's favour on his sword is hung.
What, though Apollo dictate from his tongue,
His wit is spiritless and void of grace,
Who wants th' assurance of brocade and lace.
While the gay fop genteely talks of weather,
The fair in raptures doat upon his feather;
Like a Court Lady though he write and spell,
His minuet step was fashion'd by Marcell;
He dresses, fences. What avails to know?
For women chuse their men, like silks, for show.
Is this the thing, you cry, that Paris boasts?
Is this the thing renown'd among our Toasts?
For such a flutt'ring sight we need not roam;
Our own Assemblys shine with these at home.

Let us into the field of Beauty start;
Beauty's a theme that ever warm'd my heart.
Think not, ye Fair, that I the Sex accuse:
How shall I spare you, prompted by the Muse?
(The Muses all are Prudes) she rails, she frets,
Amidst this sprightly nation of Coquettes;
Yet let not us their loose coquett'ry blame;
Women of ev'ry nation are the same.

You ask me, if Parisian dames, like ours,
With rattling dice prophane the Sunday's hours;
If they the gamester's pale-ey'd vigils keep,
And stake their honour while their husbands sleep.
Yes, Sir; like English Toasts, the dames of France
Will risque their income on a single chance.
Nannette last night at tricking Pharaon play'd,
The cards the Taillier's sliding hand obey'd,
To-day her neck no brilliant circle wears,
Nor the ray-darting pendant loads her ears.

158

Why does old Chloris an Assembly hold?
Chloris each night divides the sharper's gold.
Corinna's cheek with frequent losses burns,
And no bold Trente le va her fortune turns.
Ah, too rash virgin! where's thy virtue flown?
She pawns her person for the sharper's loan.
Yet who with justice can the fair upbraid,
Whose debts of honour are so duly paid?

But let me not forget the Toilette's cares,
Where art each morn the languid cheek repairs:
This red's too pale, nor gives a distant grace;
Madame to-day puts on her Opera face;
From this we scarce extract the milkmaid's bloom,
Bring the deep dye that warms across the room:
Now flames her cheek, so strong her charms prevail,
That on her gown the silken rose looks pale!
Not but that France some native beauty boasts,
Clermont and Charolois might grace our Toasts.

When the sweet-breathing spring unfolds the buds,
Love flys the dusty town for shady woods.
Then Totenham fields with roving beauty swarm,
And Hampstead Balls the city virgin warm;
Then Chelsea's meads o'erhear perfidious vows,
And the prest grass defrauds the grazing cows.
'Tis here the same; but in a higher sphere,
For ev'n Court Ladies sin in open air.
What Cit with a gallant would trust his spouse
Beneath the tempting shade of Greenwich boughs?
What Peer of France would let his Dutchess rove,
Where Boulogne's closest woods invite to love?
But here no wife can blast her husband's fame,
Cuckold is grown an honourable name.
Stretch'd on the grass the shepherd sighs his pain,
And on the grass what shepherd sighs in vain?
On Chloe's lap here Damon lay'd along,
Melts with the languish of her am'rous song;
There Iris flies Palæmon through the glade,
Nor trips by chance—'till in the thickest shade;
Here Celimene defends her lips and breast,
For kisses are by struggling closer prest;
Alexis there with eager flame grows bold,
Nor can the nymph his wanton fingers hold;
Be wise, Alexis; what, so near the road!
Hark, a coach rolls, and husbands are abroad!
Such were our pleasures in the days of yore,
When am'rous Charles Britannia's scepter bore;
The nightly scene of joy the Park was made,
And Love in couples peopled ev'ry shade.
But since at Court the rural taste is lost,
What mighty summs have velvet couches cost!

159

Sometimes the Tuillerie's gawdy walk I love,
Where I through crouds of rustling manteaus rove;
As here from side to side my eyes I cast,
And gaz'd on all the glitt'ring train that past,
Sudden a fop steps forth before the rest;
I knew the bold embroidery of his vest.
He thus accosts me with familiar air,
Parbleu! on a fait cet habit en Angleterre!
Quelle manche! ce galon est grossièrement rangé;
Voila quelque chose de fort beau et degagé!
This said: On his red heel he turns, and then
Hums a soft minuet, and proceeds agen:
Well; now you've Paris seen, you'll frankly own
Your boasted London seems a country town;
Has Christianity yet reach'd your nation?
Are churches built? Are Masquerades in fashion?
Do daily Soups your dinners introduce?
Are musick, snuff, and coaches yet in use?
Pardon me, Sir; we know the Paris mode,
And gather Politesse from Courts abroad.
Like you, our Courtiers keep a num'rous train
To load their coach; and tradesmen dun in vain.
Nor has Religion left us in the lurch,
And, as in France, our vulgar croud the Church;
Our Ladys too support the Masquerade,
The sex by nature love th' intriguing trade.
Strait the vain fop in ign'rant rapture crys,
Paris the barbarous world will civilize!
Pray, Sir, point out among the passing band
The present Beauties who the town command.
See yonder dame; strict virtue chills her breast,
Mark in her eye demure the Prude profest;
That frozen bosom native fire must want,
Which boasts of constancy to one Gallant!
This next the spoils of fifty lovers wears,
Rich Dandin's brilliant favours grace her ears;
The necklace Florio's gen'rous flame bestow'd,
Clitander's sparkling gems her finger load;
But now, her charms grown cheap by constant use,
She sins for scarfs, clock'd stockings, knots, and shoes.
This next, with sober gait and serious leer,
Wearies her knees with morn and ev'ning prayer;
She scorns th' ignoble love of feeble pages,
But with three Abbots in one night engages.
This with the Cardinal her nights employs,
Where holy sinews consecrate her joys.
Why have I promised things beyond my power!
Five assignations wait me at this hour,

160

The sprightly Countess first my visit claims,
To-morrow shall indulge inferior dames.
Pardon me, Sir, that thus I take my leave,
Gay Florimella slily twitch'd my sleeve.

Adieu, Monsieur—The Opera hour draws near.
Not see the Opera! all the world is there;
Where on the stage th'embroider'd youth of France
In bright array attract the female glance:
This languishes, this struts, to show his mien,
And not a gold-clock'd stocking moves unseen.

But hark! the full Orchestra strike the strings;
The Hero strutts, and the whole audience sings.

My jarring ear harsh grating murmurs wound,
Hoarse and confus'd, like Babel's mingled sound.
Hard chance had plac'd me near a noisie throat,
That in rough quavers bellow'd ev'ry note.
Pray Sir, says I, suspend a-while your song,
The Opera's drown'd; your lungs are wondrous strong;
I wish to hear your Roland's ranting strain,
While he with rooted forests strows the plain.
Sudden he shrugs surprize, and answers quick,
Monsieur apparemment n'aime pas la musique.
Then turning round, he join'd th'ungrateful noise;
And the loud Chorus thunder'd with his voice.

O sooth me with some soft Italian air,
Let harmony compose my tortured ear!
When Anastasia's voice commands the strain,
The melting warble thrills through ev'ry vein;
Thought stands suspense, and silence pleas'd attends,
While in her notes the heav'nly Choir descends.

But you'll imagine I'm a Frenchman grown,
Pleas'd and content with nothing but my own,
So strongly with this prejudice possest,
He thinks French musick and French painting best.
Mention the force of learn'd Corelli's notes,
Some scraping fidler of their Ball he quotes;
Talk of the spirit Raphael's pencil gives,
Yet warm with life whose speaking picture lives;
Yes Sir, says he, in colour and design,
Rigaud and Raphael are extreamly fine!

'Tis true, his country's love transports his breast
With warmer zeal, than your old Greeks profest.
Ulysses lov'd his Ithaca of yore,
Yet that sage trav'ler left his native shore;
What stronger vertue in the Frenchman shines!
He to dear Paris all his life confines.
I'm not so fond. There are, I must confess,
Things which might make me love my country less.
I should not think my Britain had such charms,
If lost to learning, if enslav'd by arms;

161

France has her Richlieus and her Colberts known,
And then, I grant it, France in science shone:
We too, I own, without such aids may chance
In ignorance and pride to rival France.

But let me not forget Corneille, Racine,
Boileau's strong sense, and Moliere's hum'rous Scene.
Let Cambray's name be sung above the rest,
Whose maxims, Pult'ney, warm thy patriot breast;
In Mentor's precepts wisdom strong and clear
Dictates sublime, and distant nations hear.
Hear all ye Princes, who the world controul,
What cares, what terrors haunt the tyrant's soul;
His constant train are anger, fear, distrust.
To be a King, is to be good and just;
His people he protects, their rights he saves,
And scorns to rule a wretched race of slaves.

Happy, thrice happy shall the monarch reign,
Where guardian laws despotic power restrain!
There shall the ploughshare break the stubborn land,
And bending harvests tire the peasant's hand:
There liberty her settled mansion boasts,
There commerce plenty brings from foreign coasts.
O Britain, guard thy laws, thy rights defend,
So shall these blessings to thy sons descend!

You'll think 'tis time some other theme to chuse,
And not with Beaus and Fops fatigue the Muse:
Should I let Satyr loose on English ground,
There fools of various character abound;
But here my verse is to one race confin'd,
All Frenchmen are of Petit-maitre kind.

A famous dancing-master.

An EPISTLE To the Right Honourable PAUL METHUEN Esq

That, 'tis encouragement makes Science spread,
Is rarely practis'd, though 'tis often said;
When learning droops and sickens in the land,
What Patron's found to lend a saving hand?
True gen'rous Spirits prosp'rous vice detest,
And love to cherish vertue when distrest:

162

But e'er our mighty Lords this scheme pursue,
Our mighty Lords must think and act like you.

Why must we climb the Alpine mountain's sides
To find the seat where Harmony resides?
Why touch we not so soft the silver lute,
The cheerful haut-boy, and the mellow flute?
'Tis not th'Italian clime improves the sound,
But there the Patrons of her sons are found.

Why flourish'd verse in great Augustus' reign?
He and Mecænas lov'd the Muse's strain.
But now that wight in poverty must mourn
Who was (O cruel stars!) a Poet born.
Yet there are ways for authors to be great;
Write ranc'rous libels to reform the State:
Or if you chuse more sure and ready ways,
Spatter a Minister with fulsome praise:
Launch out with freedom, flatter him enough;
Fear not, all men are dedication-proof.
Be bolder yet, you must go farther still,
Dip deep in gall thy mercenary quill.
He who his pen in party quarrels draws,
Lists an hir'd bravo to support the cause;
He must indulge his Patron's hate and spleen,
And stab the fame of those he ne'er has seen.
Why then should authors mourn their desp'rate case?
Be brave, do this, and then demand a place.
Why art thou poor? exert the gifts to rise,
And banish tim'rous vertue from thy eyes.

All this seems modern preface, where we're told
That wit is prais'd, but hungry lives and cold:
Against th'ungrateful age these authors roar,
And fancy learning starves because they're poor.
Yet why should learning hope success at Court?
Why should our Patriots vertue's cause support?
Why to true merit should they have regard?
They know that vertue is its own reward.
Yet let not me of grievances complain,
Who (though the meanest of the Muse's train)
Can boast subscriptions to my humble lays,
And mingle profit with my little praise.

Ask Painting, why she loves Hesperian air.
Go view, she crys, my glorious labours there;
There in rich palaces I reign in state,
And on the temple's lofty domes create.
The Nobles view my works with knowing eyes,
They love the science, and the painter prize.

Why didst thou, Kent, forgo thy native land,
To emulate in picture Raphael's hand?

163

Think'st thou for this to raise thy name at home?
Go back, adorn the palaces of Rome;
There on the walls let thy just labours shine,
And Raphael live again in thy design.
Yet stay awhile; call all thy genius forth,
For Burlington unbyass'd knows thy worth;
His judgment in thy master-strokes can trace
Titian's strong fire and Guido's softer grace;
But, oh consider, e'er thy works appear,
Canst thou unhurt the tongue of envy hear?
Censure will blame, her breath was ever spent
To blast the laurels of the Eminent.
While Burlington's proportion'd columns rise,
Does not he stand the gaze of envious eyes?
Doors, windows are condemn'd by passing fools,
Who know not that they damn Palladio's rules.
If Chandois with a lib'ral hand bestow,
Censure imputes it all to pomp and show;
When, if the motive right were understood,
His daily pleasure is in doing good.

Had Pope with groveling numbers fill'd his page,
Dennis had never kindled into rage.
'Tis the sublime that hurts the Critic's ease;
Write nonsense and he reads and sleeps in peace.
Were Prior, Congreve, Swift and Pope unknown,
Poor slander-selling Curll would be undone.
He who would free from malice pass his days,
Must live obscure, and never merit praise.
But let this tale to valiant virtue tell
The daily perils of deserving well.

A crow was strutting o'er the stubbled plain,
Just as a lark descending closed his strain.
The crow bespoke him thus with solemn grace,
Thou most accomplish'd of the feather'd race,
What force of lungs! how clear! how sweet you sing!
And no bird soars upon a stronger wing.
The lark, who scorn'd soft flatt'ry, thus replys,
True, I sing sweet, and on strong pinion rise;
Yet let me pass my life from envy free,
For what advantage are these gifts to me?
My song confines me to the wiry cage,
My flight provokes the faulcon's fatal rage.
But as you pass, I hear the fowlers say,
To shoot at crows is powder flung away.

164

MR. POPE's WELCOME FROM GREECE.

[_]

A Copy of Verses written by Mr. GAY, upon Mr. POPE's having finished his Translation of Homer's Iliad.

I

Long hast thou, friend! been absent from thy soil,
Like patient Ithacus at siege of Troy;
I have been witness of thy six years toil,
Thy daily labours, and thy night's annoy,
Lost to thy native land, with great turmoil,
On the wide sea, oft threat'ning to destroy:
Methinks with thee I've trod Sigæan ground,
And heard the shores of Hellespont resound.

II

Did I not see thee when thou first sett'st sail
To seek adventures fair in Homer's land?
Did I not see thy sinking spirits fail,
And wish thy bark had never left the strand?
Ev'n in mid ocean often didst thou quail,
And oft lift up thy holy eye and hand,
Praying the Virgin dear, and saintly choir,
Back to the port to bring thy bark entire.

III

Chear up, my friend, thy dangers now are o'er;
Methinks—nay, sure the rising coasts appear;
Hark how the guns salute from either shore,
As thy trim vessel cuts the Thames so fair:
Shouts answ'ring shouts, from Kent and Essex roar,
And bells break loud thro' ev'ry gust of air:
Bonfires do blaze, and bones and cleavers ring,
As at the coming of some mighty king.

165

IV

Now pass we Gravesend with a friendly wind,
And Tilbury's white fort, and long Blackwall;
Greenwich, where dwells the friend of human kind,
More visited than or her park or hall,
Withers the good, and (with him ever join'd)
Facetious Disney, greet thee first of all:
I see his chimney smoke, and hear him say,
Duke! that's the room for Pope, and that for Gay.

V

Come in, my friends, here shall ye dine and lie,
And here shall breakfast, and here dine again;
And sup, and breakfast on, (if ye comply)
For I have still some dozens of champaign:
His voice still lessens as the ship sails by;
He waves his hand to bring us back in vain;
For now I see, I see proud London's spires;
Greenwich is lost, and Deptford dock retires.

VI

Oh, what a concourse swarms on yonder key!
The sky re-echoes with new shouts of joy:
By all this show, I ween, 'tis Lord May'r's day;
I hear the voice of trumpet and hautboy:—
No, now I see them near—oh, these are they
Who come in crowds to welcome thee from Troy.
Hail to the bard whom long as lost we mourn'd,
From siege, from battle, and from storm return'd!

VII

Of goodly dames, and courteous knights, I view
The silken petticoat, and broider'd vest;
Yea Peers, and mighty Dukes, with ribbands blue,
(True blue, fair emblem of unstained breast.)
Others I see, as noble, and more true,
By no court-badge distinguish'd from the rest:
First see I Methuen, of sincerest mind,
As Arthur grave, as soft as woman-kind.

VIII

What lady's that, to whom he gently bends?
Who knows not her? ah! those are Wortley's eyes:
How art thou honour'd, number'd with her friends?
For she distinguishes the good and wise.
The sweet-tongu'd Murray near her side attends.
Now to my heart the glance of Howard flies;
Now Harvey, fair of face, I mark full well,
With thee, youth's youngest daughter, sweet Lepell.

166

IX

I see two lovely sisters, hand in hand,
The fair-hair'd Martha, and Teresa brown;
Madge Bellenden, the tallest of the land;
And smiling Mary, soft and fair as down.
Yonder I see the chearful Duchess stand,
For friendship, zeal, and blithsome humours known:
Whence that loud shout in such a hearty strain?
Why, all the Hamiltons are in her train.

X

See next the decent Scudamore advance,
With Winchelsea, still meditating song:
With her perhaps Miss Howe came there by chance,
Nor knows with whom, nor why she comes along.
Far off from these see Santlow, fam'd for dance;
And frolick Bicknell, and her sister young;
With other names, by me not to be nam'd,
Much lov'd in private, not in publick fam'd!

XI

But now behold the female band retire,
And the shrill musick of their voice is still'd!
Methinks I see fam'd Buckingham admire,
That in Troy's ruins thou hast not been kill'd;
Sheffield, who knows to strike the living lyre,
With hand judicious, like thy Homer skill'd.
Bathurst impetuous hastens to the coast,
Whom you and I strive who shall love the most.

XII

See generous Burlington, with goodly Bruce,
(But Bruce comes wafted in a soft sedan,)
Dan Prior next, belov'd by every muse,
And friendly Congreve, unreproachful man!
(Oxford by Cunningham hath sent excuse.)
See hearty Watkins come with cup and cann;
And Lewis, who has never friend forsaken;
And Laughton whisp'ring asks—Is Troy town taken?

XIII

Earl Warwick comes, of free and honest mind;
Bold, gen'rous Craggs, whose heart was ne'er disguis'd:
Ah why, sweet St. John, cannot I thee find?
St. John for ev'ry social virtue priz'd.—
Alas! to foreign climates he's confin'd,
Or else to see thee here I well surmiz'd:
Thou too, my Swift, dost breathe Bœotian air;
When wilt thou bring back wit and humour here?

167

XIV

Harcourt I see for eloquence renown'd,
The mouth of justice, oracle of law!
Another Simon is beside him found,
Another Simon, like as straw to straw.
How Lansdown smiles, with lasting laurel crown'd!
What mitred prelate there commands our awe?
See Rochester approving nods his head,
And ranks one modern with the mighty dead.

XV

Carlton and Chandois thy arrival grace;
Hanmer, whose eloquence th'unbiass'd sways;
Harley, whose goodness opens in his face,
And shews his heart the seat where virtue stays.
Ned Blount advances next, with busy pace,
In haste, but sauntring, hearty in his ways:
I see the friendly Carylls come by dozens,
Their wives, their uncles, daughters, sons, and cousins.

XVI

Arbuthnot there I see, in physicks art,
As Galen learn'd, or famed Hippocrate;
Whose company drives sorrow from the heart,
As all disease his med'cines dissipate:
Kneller amid the triumph bears his part,
Who could (were mankind lost) anew create:
What can th'extent of his vast soul confine?
A painter, critick, engineer, divine!

XVII

Thee Jervas hails, robust and debonair,
Now have [we] conquer'd Homer, friends, he cries:
Dartneuf, grave joker, joyous Ford is there,
And wond'ring Maine, so fat with laughing eyes:
(Gay, Maine, and Cheney, boon companions dear,
Gay fat, Maine fatter, Cheney huge of size,)
Yea Dennis, Gildon, (hearing thou hast riches,)
And honest, hatless Cromwell, with red breeches.

XVIII

O Wanley, whence com'st thou with shorten'd hair,
And visage from thy shelves with dust besprent?
“Forsooth (quoth he) from placing Homer there,
“For ancients to compyle is myne entente:
“Of ancients only hath Lord Harley care;

168

“But hither me hath my meeke lady sent:—
“In manuscript of Greeke rede we thilke same,
“But book yprint best plesyth myn gude dame.”

XIX

Yonder I see, among th'expecting croud,
Evans with laugh jocose, and tragick Young;
High-buskin'd Booth, grave Mawbert, wand'ring Frowd,
And Titcomb's belly waddles slow along.
See Digby faints at Southern talking loud,
Yea Steele and Tickell mingle in the throng;
Tickell whose skiff (in partnership they say)
Set forth for Greece, but founder'd in the way.

XX

Lo the two Doncastles in Berkshire known!
Lo Bickford, Fortescue, of Devon land!
Lo Tooker, Eckershall, Sykes, Rawlinson!
See hearty Morley takes thee by the hand!
Ayrs, Graham, Buckridge, joy thy voyage done;
But who can count the leaves, the stars, the sand?
Lo Stonor, Fenton, Caldwell, Ward and Broome!
Lo thousands more, but I want rhyme and room!

XXI

How lov'd! how honour'd thou! yet be not vain;
And sure thou art not, for I hear thee say,
All this, my friends, I owe to Homer's strain,
On whose strong pinions I exalt my lay.
What from contending cities did he gain;
And what rewards his grateful country pay?
None, none were paid—why then all this for me?
These honours, Homer, had been just to thee.

169

AN EPISTLE TO HER GRACE, HENRIETTA, Duthchess OF MARLBOROUGH.

Excuse me, Madam, if amidst your tears
A Muse intrudes, a Muse who feels your cares;
Numbers, like Musick, can ev'n Grief controul,
And lull to peace the tumults of the soul.

If Partners in our woes the mind relieve,
Consider for your Loss ten thousands grieve,
Th'Affliction burthens not your heart alone;
When Marlbro' dy'd a Nation gave a groan.

Could I recite the dang'rous toils he chose,
To bless his Country with a fixt repose,
Could I recount the Labours he o'ercame
To raise his Country to the pitch of fame,
His councils, sieges, his victorious fights,
To save his Country's Laws and native rights,
No father (ev'ry gen'rous heart must own)
Has stronger fondness to his darling shown.
Britannia's sighs a double loss deplore,
Her Father and her Hero is no more.

Does Britain only pay her debt of tears?
Yes. Holland sighs, and for her freedom fears.
When Gallia's Monarch pour'd his wasteful bands,
Like a wide deluge, o'er her level lands,
She saw her frontier tow'rs in ruin lie,
Ev'n Liberty had prun'd her wings to fly;
Then Marlbro' came, defeated Gallia fled,
And shatter'd Belgia rais'd her languid head,
In him secure, as in her strongest mound
That keeps the raging Sea within its bound.

O Germany, remember Hockstet's plain,
Where prostrate Gallia bled at every vein,

170

Think on the rescue of th'Imperial throne,
Then think on Marlbro's death without a groan!

Apollo kindly whispers me. ‘Be wise,
‘How to his glory shall thy numbers rise?
‘The force of verse another theme might raise,
‘But here the merit must transcend the praise.
‘Hast thou, presumptuous Bard, that godlike flame
‘Which with the Sun shall last, and Marlbro's fame?
‘Then sing the Man. But who can boast this fire?
‘Resign the task, and silently admire.

Yet, shall he not in worthy lays be read?
Raise Homer, call up Virgil from the dead.
But he requires not the strong glare of verse,
Let punctual History his deeds rehearse,
Let Truth in native purity appear,
You'll find Achilles and Æneas there.

Is this the comfort which the Muse bestows?
I but indulge and aggravate your woes.
A prudent friend, who seeks to give relief,
Ne'er touches on the spring that mov'd the grief.
Is it not barb'rous to the sighing maid
To mention broken vows and Nymphs betray'd?
Would you the ruin'd merchant's soul appease,
With talk of sands and rocks and stormy seas?
Ev'n while I strive on Marlbro's fame to rise,
I call up sorrow in a Daughter's eyes.

Think on the laurels that his temples shade,
Laurels that (spite of time) shall never fade;
Immortal Honour has enroll'd his name,
Detraction's dumb, and Envy put to shame;
Say, who can soar beyond his eagle flight?
Has he not reach'd to glory's utmost height?
What could he more, had Heaven prolong'd his date?
All human power is limited by Fate.

Forbear. 'Tis cruel further to commend;
I wake your sorrow, and again offend.
Yet sure your goodness must forgive a crime,
Which will be spread through ev'ry age and clime;
Though in your life ten thousand summers roll,
And though you compass earth from Pole to Pole,
Where-e'er men talk of war and martial fame,
They'll mention Marlborough's and Cæsar's name.

But vain are all the counsels of the Muse,
A Soul, like yours, cou'd not a tear refuse:
Could you your birth and filial love forego,
Still sighs must rise and gen'rous sorrow flow;
For when from earth such matchless worth removes,
A great Mind suffers. Virtue Virtue loves.

171

LESSER EPISTLES.

ON A Miscellany of Poems

TO BERNARD LINTOTT.

Ipsa varietate tentamus efficere ut alia aliis; quædam fortasse omnibus placeant. Plin. Epist.

As when some skilful cook, to please each guest,
Would in one mixture comprehend a feast,
With due proportion and judicious care
He fills each dish with diff'rent sorts of fare,
Fishes and fowl deliciously unite,
To feast at once the taste, the smell, and sight.

So, Bernard, must a miscellany be
Compounded of all kinds of poetry;
The muses O'lio, which all tastes may fit,
And treat each reader with his darling wit.

172

Wouldst thou for miscellanies raise thy fame;
And bravely rival Jacob's mighty name,
Let all the muses in the piece conspire,
The lyrick bard must strike th'harmonious lyre;
Heroick strains must here and there be found,
And nervous sense be sung in lofty sound;
Let elegy in moving numbers flow,
And fill some pages with melodious woe;
Let not your am'rous songs too num'rous prove,
Nor glut thy reader with abundant love;
Satyr must interfere, whose pointed rage
May lash the madness of a vicious age;
Satyr, the muse that never fails to hit,
For if there's scandal, to be sure there's wit.
Tire not our patience with pindarick lays,
Those swell the piece, but very rarely please:
Let short-breath'd epigram its force confine,
And strike at follies in a single line.
Translations should throughout the work be sown,
And Homer's godlike muse be made our own;
Horace in useful numbers should be sung,
And Virgil's thoughts adorn the British tongue;
Let Ovid tell Corinna's hard disdain,
And at her door in melting notes complain:
His tender accents pitying virgins move,
And charm the list'ning ear with tales of love.
Let ev'ry classick in the volume shine,
And each contribute to thy great design:
Through various subjects let the reader range,
And raise his fancy with a grateful change;
Variety's the source of joy below,
From whence still fresh revolving pleasures flow.
In books and love, the mind one end pursues,
And only change th'expiring flame renews.

Where Buckingham will condescend to give,
That honour'd piece to distant times must live;
When noble Sheffield strikes the trembling strings,
The little loves rejoyce, and clap their wings,
Anacreon lives, they cry, th'harmonious swain
Retunes the lyre, and tries his wonted strain,
'Tis he,—our lost Anacreon lives again.
But when th'illustrious poet soars above
The sportive revels of the god of love,
Like Maro's muse he takes a loftier flight,
And towres beyond the wond'ring Cupid's sight.

If thou wouldst have thy volume stand the test,
And of all others be reputed best,
Let Congreve teach the list'ning groves to mourn,
As when he wept o'er fair Pastora's urn.

Let Prior's muse with soft'ning accents move,
Soft as the strains of constant Emma's love:

173

Or let his fancy chuse some jovial theme,
As when he told Hans Carvel's jealous dream;
Prior th'admiring reader entertains,
With Chaucer's humour, and with Spencer's strains.

Waller in Granville lives; when Mira sings
With Waller's hand he strikes the sounding strings,
With sprightly turns his noble genius shines,
And manly sense adorns his easie lines.

On Addison's sweet lays attention waits,
And silence guards the place while he repeats;
His muse alike on ev'ry subject charms,
Whether she paints the god of love, or arms:
In him, pathetick Ovid sings again,
And Homer's Iliad shines in his Campaign.

Whenever Garth shall raise his sprightly song,
Sense flows in easie numbers from his tongue;
Great Phœbus in his learned son we see,
Alike in physick, as in poetry.

When Pope's harmonious muse with pleasure roves,
Amidst the plains, the murm'ring streams, and groves,
Attentive Eccho pleas'd to hear his songs,
Thro' the glad shade each warbling note prolongs;
His various numbers charm our ravish'd ears,
His steady judgment far out-shoots his years,
And early in the youth the God appears.

From these successful bards collect thy strains,
And praise with profit shall reward thy pains:
Then, while calves-leather binding bears the sway,
And sheep-skin to its sleeker gloss gives way;
While neat old Elzevir is reckon'd better
Than Pirate Hill's brown sheets, and scurvy letter;
While print-admirers careful Aldus chuse
Before John Morphew, or the weekly news:
So long shall live thy praise in books of fame,
And Tonson yield to Lintott's lofty name.

174

To my ingenious and worthy Friend W--- L--- Esq;

Author of that celebrated treatise in folio, called the Land-Tax Bill.

When Poets print their works, the scribbling crew
Stick the Bard o'er with Bays, like Christmas pew:
Can meagre Poetry such fame deserve?
Can Poetry; that only writes to starve?
And shall no laurel deck that famous head,
In which the Senate's annual law is bred?
That hoary head, which greater glory fires,
By nobler ways and means true fame acquires.
O had I Virgil's force to sing the man,
Whose learned lines can millions raise per ann.
Great L--- his praise should swell the trump of fame,
And Rapes and Wapentakes resound his name.

If the blind Poet gain'd a long renown
By singing ev'ry Grecian chief and town;
Sure L--- his prose much greater fame requires,
Which sweetly counts five thousand Knights and Squires,
Their seats, their citys, parishes and shires.

Thy copious Preamble so smoothly runs
Taxes no more appear like legal duns,
Lords, Knights, and Squires th'Assessor's power obey,
We read with pleasure, though with pain we pay.

Ah why did C--- thy works defame!
That author's long harangue betrays his name;
After his speeches can his pen succeed?
Though forc'd to hear, we're not oblig'd to read.

Under what science shall thy works be read?
All know thou wert not Poet born and bred;
Or dost thou boast th'Historian's lasting pen,
Whose annals are the Acts of worthy men?
No. Satyr is thy talent; and each lash
Makes the rich Miser tremble o'er his cash;
What on the Drunkard can be more severe,
Than direful taxes on his ale and beer?

Ev'n Button's Wits are nought compar'd to thee,
Who ne'er were known or prais'd but o'er his Tea,
While Thou through Britain's distant isle shalt spread,
In ev'ry Hundred and Division read.

175

Criticks in Classicks oft' interpolate,
But ev'ry word of thine is fix'd as Fate.
Some works come forth at morn, but die at night
In blazing fringes round a tallow light,
Some may perhaps to a whole week extend,
Like S--- (when unassisted by a friend,)
But thou shalt live a year in spite of fate:
And where's your author boasts a longer date?
Poets of old had such a wondrous power,
That with their verses they could raise a tower;
But in thy Prose a greater force is found;
What Poet ever rais'd ten thousand pound?
Cadmus, by sowing dragon's teeth, we read,
Rais'd a vast army from the poys'nous seed.
Thy labours, L---, can greater wonders do,
Thou raisest armys, and canst pay them too.
Truce with thy dreaded pen; thy Annals cease;
Why need we armys when the land's in peace?
Soldiers are pefect devils in their way,
When once they're rais'd, they're cursed hard to lay.

To A young Lady, with some Lampreys .

With lovers 'twas of old the fashion
By presents to convey their passion;
No matter what the gift they sent,
The Lady saw that love was meant.
Fair Atalanta, as a favour,
Took the boar's head her Hero gave her;
Nor could the bristly thing affront her,
'Twas a fit present from a hunter.
When Squires send woodcocks to the dame,
It serves to show their absent flame:
Some by a snip of woven hair,
In posied lockets bribe the fair;
How many mercenary matches
Have sprung from Di'mond-rings and watches!
But hold—a ring, a watch, a locket,
Would drain at once a Poet's pocket;
He should send songs that cost him nought,
Nor ev'n be prodigal of thought.

Why then send Lampreys? fye, for shame!
'Twill set a virgin's blood on flame.
This to fifteen a proper gift!
It might lend sixty five a lift.

I know your maiden Aunt will scold,

176

And think my present somewhat bold.
I see her lift her hands and eyes.

‘What eat it, Niece; eat Spanish flies!
‘Lamprey's a most immodest diet:
‘You'll neither wake nor sleep in quiet.
‘Should I to-night eat Sago cream,
‘'Twould make me blush to tell my dream;
‘If I eat Lobster, 'tis so warming,
‘That ev'ry man I see looks charming;
‘Wherefore had not the filthy fellow
‘Laid Rochester upon your pillow?
‘I vow and swear, I think the present
‘Had been as modest and as decent.

‘Who has her virtue in her power?
‘Each day has its unguarded hour;
‘Always in danger of undoing,
‘A prawn, a shrimp may prove our ruin!

‘The shepherdess, who lives on sallad,
‘To cool her youth, controuls her palate;
‘Should Dian's Maids turn liqu'rish livers,
‘And of huge lampreys rob the rivers,
‘Then all beside each glade and Visto,
‘You'd see Nymphs lying like Calisto.

‘The man who meant to heat your blood,
‘Needs not himself such vicious food—

In this, I own, your Aunt is clear,
I sent you what I well might spare:
For when I see you (without joking),
Your eyes, lips, breasts are so provoking,
They set my heart more cock-a-hoop,
Than could whole seas of craw-fish soupe.

177

A Panegyrical EPISTLE TO Mr. Thomas Snow.

Goldsmith, near Temple-Bar; Occasion'd by his Buying and Selling the Third South-Sea Subscriptions, taken in by the Directors at a Thousand per Cent.

Disdain not, Snow, my humble Verse to hear:
Stick thy black Pen awhile behind thy Ear.
Whether thy Compter shine with Sums untold,
And thy wide-grasping Hand grow black with Gold:
Whether thy Mien erect, and sable Locks,
In Crowds of Brokers over-awe the Stocks:
Suspend the worldly Business of the Day;
And to enrich thy Mind, attend my Lay.

O thou, whose penetrative Wisdom found
The South-Sea Rocks and Shelves where Thousands drown'd.

178

When Credit sunk, and Commerce gasping lay,
Thou stood'st: No Bill was sent unpaid away.
When not a Guinea chink'd on Martin's Boards,
And Atwill's self was drain'd of all his Hoards,
Thou stood'st; (an Indian King in Size and Hue)
Thy unexhausted Shop was our Peru.

Why did 'Change-Alley waste thy precious Hours,
Among the Fools who gap'd for golden Show'rs?
No wonder, if we found some Poets there,
Who live on Fancy, and can feed on Air;
No wonder, they were caught by South-Sea Schemes,
Who ne'er enjoy'd a Guinea, but in Dreams;
No wonder, they their Third Subscriptions sold,
For Millions of imaginary Gold:
No wonder, that their Fancies wild can frame
Strange Reasons, that a Thing is still the same,
Though chang'd throughout in Substance and in Name.
But you (whose Judgment scorns Poetick Flights)
With Contracts furnish Boys for Paper Kites.

Let Vulture H---ns stretch his rusty Throat,
Who ruins Thousands for a single Groat.
I know thou scorn'st his mean, his sordid Mind:
Nor, with Ideal Debts, would'st plague Mankind.
Madmen alone their empty Dreams pursue,
And still believe the fleeting Vision true;
They sell the Treasures which their Slumbers get,
Then wake, and fancy all the World in Debt.
If to instruct thee all my Reasons fail,
Yet be diverted by this Moral Tale.

Through fam'd Moor-Fields extends a spacious Seat,
Where Mortals of exalted Wit retreat;
Where wrapp'd in Contemplation and in Straw,
The wiser Few from the mad World withdraw.
There in full Opulence a Banker dwelt,
Who all the Joys and Pangs of Riches felt:
His Side-board glitter'd with imagin'd Plate;
And his proud Fancy held a vast Estate.

As, on a Time, he pass'd the vacant Hours
In raising Piles of Straw and twisted Bowers;

179

A Poet enter'd of the neighb'ring Cell,
And with fix'd Eye observ'd the Structure well.
A sharpen'd Skew'r cross his bare Shoulders bound
A tatter'd Rug, which dragg'd upon the Ground.

The banker cry'd, “Behold my Castle Walls,
“My Statues, Gardens, Fountains, and Canals;
“With Land of twenty thousand Acres round!
“All these I sell thee for ten thousand Pound.

The Bard with Wonder the cheap Purchase saw,
So sign'd the Contract (as ordains the Law.)

The Banker's Brain was cool'd, the Mist grew clear;
The Visionary Scene was lost in Air.
He now the vanish'd Prospect understood,
And fear'd the fancy'd Bargain was not good:
Yet loth the Sum entire should be destroy'd;
“Give me a Penny and thy Contract's void.

The startled Bard with Eye indignant frown'd.
“Shall I, ye Gods (he cries) my Debts compound!
So saying, from his Rug the Skew'r he takes,
And on the Stick Ten equal Notches makes:
With just Resentment flings it on the Ground;
“There, take my Tally of Ten Thousand Pound.

Names of eminent Goldsmiths.

TO A LADY ON HER PASSION FOR OLD CHINA.

What ecstasies her bosom fire!
How her eyes languish with desire!
How blest, how happy should I be,
Were that fond glance bestow'd on me!
New doubts and fears within me war:
What rival's near? a China Jar.

China's the passion of her soul;
A cup, a plate, a dish, a bowl
Can kindle wishes in her breast,
Inflame with joy, or break her rest.

Some gems collect; some medals prize,
And view the rust with lovers eyes;

180

Some court the stars at midnight hours;
Some doat on Nature's charms in flowers!
But ev'ry beauty I can trace
In Laura's mind, in Laura's face;
My stars are in this brighter sphere,
My lilly and my rose is here.

Philosophers more grave than wise
Hunt science down in Butterflies;
Or fondly poring on a Spider,
Stretch human contemplation wider;
Fossiles give joy to Galen's soul,
He digs for knowledge, like a Mole;
In shells so learn'd, that all agree
No fish that swims knows more than he!
In such pursuits if wisdom lies,
Who, Laura, shall thy taste despise?

When I some antique Jar behold,
Or white, or blue, or speck'd with gold,
Vessels so pure, and so refin'd
Appear the types of woman-kind:
Are they not valu'd for their beauty,
Too fair, too fine for household duty?
With flowers and gold and azure dy'd,
Of ev'ry house the grace and pride?
How white, how polish'd is their skin,
And valu'd most when only seen!
She who before was highest priz'd,
Is for a crack or flaw despis'd;
I grant they're frail, yet they're so rare,
The treasure cannot cost too dear!
But Man is made of courser stuff,
And serves convenience well enough;
He's a strong earthen vessel, made
For drudging, labour, toil and trade;
And when wives lose their other self,
With ease they bear the loss of Delf.

Husbands more covetous than sage
Condemn this China-buying rage;
They count that woman's prudence little,
Who sets her heart on things so brittle.
But are those wise-men's inclinations
Fixt on more strong, more sure foundations?
If all that's frail we must despise,
No human view or scheme is wise.
Are not Ambition's hopes as weak?
They swell like bubbles, shine and break.
A Courtier's promise is so slight,
'Tis made at noon, and broke at night.
What pleasure's sure? The Miss you keep
Breaks both your fortune and your sleep.
The man who loves a country life,
Breaks all the comforts of his wife;
And if he quit his farm and plough,
His wife in town may break her vow.
Love, Laura, love, while youth is warm,
For each new winter breaks a charm;
And woman's not like China sold,
But cheaper grows in growing old;
Then quickly chuse the prudent part,
Or else you break a faithful heart.

181

SONGS AND BALLADS.

Sweet WILLIAM's Farewell to Black-ey'd SUSAN.

A BALLAD.

I

All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,
The streamers waving in the wind,
When black-ey'd Susan came aboard.
Oh! where shall I my true love find!
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,
If my sweet William sails among the crew.

182

II

William, who high upon the yard,
Rock'd with the billow to and fro,
Soon as her well-known voice he heard,
He sigh'd and cast his eyes below:
The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,
And, (quick as lightning,) on the deck he stands.

III

So the sweet lark, high-pois'd in air,
Shuts close his pinions to his breast,
(If, chance, his mate's shrill call he hear)
And drops at once into her nest.
The noblest Captain in the British fleet,
Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet.

IV

O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,
My vows shall ever true remain;
Let me kiss off that falling tear,
We only part to meet again.
Change, as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be
The faithful compass that still points to thee.

V

Believe not what the landmen say,
Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind:
They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,
In ev'ry port a mistress find.
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

VI

If to far India's coast we sail,
Thy eyes are seen in di'monds bright,
Thy breath is Africk's spicy gale,
Thy skin is ivory, so white.
Thus ev'ry beauteous object that I view,
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

VII

Though battel call me from thy arms,
Let not my pretty Susan mourn;
Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms,
William shall to his Dear return.

183

Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.

VIII

The boatswain gave the dreadful word,
The sails their swelling bosom spread,
No longer must she stay aboard:
They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head;
Her less'ning boat, unwilling rows to land:
Adieu, she cries! and wav'd her lilly hand.

THE LADY's LAMENTATION.

A BALLAD.

I

PHYLLIDA, that lov'd to dream
In the grove, or by the stream;
Sigh'd on velvet pillow.
What, alas! should fill her head
But a fountain or a mead,
Water and a willow?

II

Love in citys never dwells,
He delights in rural cells
Which sweet wood-bine covers.
What are your Assemblys then?
There, 'tis true, we see more men;
But much fewer lovers.

III

Oh, how chang'd the prospect grows!
Flocks and herds to Fops and Beaus,
Coxcombs without number!
Moon and stars that shone so bright,
To the torch and waxen light,
And whole nights at Ombre.

IV

Pleasant as it is, to hear
Scandal tickling in our ear,
Ev'n of our own mothers;
In the chit-chat of the day,
To us is pay'd, when we're away,
What we lent to others.

V

Though the fav'rite Toast I reign;
Wine, they say, that prompts the vain,
Heightens defamation.
Must I live 'twixt spite and fear,
Ev'ry day grow handsomer,
And lose my reputation?

VI

Thus the Fair to sighs gave way,
Her empty purse beside her lay.
Nymph, ah cease thy sorrow.
Though curst fortune frown to-night;
This odious town can give delight
If you win to-morrow.

184

DAMON and CUPID.

A SONG.

I

The sun was now withdrawn,
The shepherds home were sped;
The moon wide o'er the lawn
Her silver mantle spread;
When Damon stay'd behind,
And saunter'd in the grove.
Will ne'er a nymph be kind,
And give me love for love?

II

Oh! those were golden hours,
When Love, devoid of cares,
In all Arcadia's bow'rs
Lodg'd swains and nymphs by pairs!
But now from wood and plain
Flys ev'ry sprightly lass,
No joys for me remain,
In shades, or on the grass.

III

The winged boy draws near,
And thus the swain reproves.
While beauty revell'd here,
My game lay in the groves;
At Court I never fail
To scatter round my arrows,
Men fall as thick as hail;
And maidens love like sparrows.

IV

Then, swain, if me you need,
Strait lay your sheep-hook down;
Throw by your oaten reed,
And haste away to town.
So well I'm known at Court,
None asks where Cupid dwells;
But readily resort
To B---n's or L---ll's.

DAPHNIS and CHLOE.

A SONG.

[I]

DAPHNIS stood pensive in the shade,
With arms a-cross, and head reclin'd;
Pale looks accus'd the cruel maid,
And sighs reliev'd his love-sick mind:
His tuneful pipe all broken lay,
Looks, sighs, and actions seem'd to say,
My Chloe is unkind.

185

II

Why ring the woods with warbling throats?
Ye larks, ye linnets, cease your strains:
I faintly hear in your sweet notes,
My Chloe's voice that wakes my pains:
Yet why should you your song forbear?
Your mates delight your song to hear,
But Chloe mine disdains.

III

As thus he melancholy stood,
Dejected as the lonely dove;
Sweet sounds broke gently through the wood.
I feel the sound; my heart-strings move.
'Twas not the nightingale that sung;
No. 'Tis my Chloe's sweeter tongue.
Hark, hark, what says my love!

IV

How foolish is the nymph (she crys)
Who trifles with her lover's pain!
Nature still speaks in woman's eyes,
Our artful lips were made to feign.
O Daphnis, Daphnis, 'twas my pride,
'Twas not my heart thy love deny'd.
Come back, dear youth, again.

V

As t'other day my hand he seiz'd,
My blood with thrilling motion flew;
Sudden I put on looks displeas'd,
And hasty from his hold withdrew.
'Twas fear alone, thou simple swain.
Then hadst thou prest my hand again,
My heart had yielded too!

VI

'Tis true, thy tuneful reed I blam'd,
That swell'd thy lip and rosie cheek;
Think not thy skill in song defam'd;
That lip should other pleasures seek:
Much, much thy musick I approve;
Yet break thy pipe, for more I love,
Much more, to hear thee speak.

VII

My heart forebodes that I'm betray'd,
Daphnis I fear is ever gone;
Last night with Delia's dog he play'd;
Love by such trifles first comes on.
Now, now, dear shepherd, come away,
My tongue would now my heart obey.
Ah Chloe, thou art won!

VIII

The youth step'd forth with hasty pace,
And found where wishing Chloe lay;
Shame sudden lighten'd in her face,
Confus'd, she knew not what to say.
At last in broken words, she cry'd;
To-morrow you in vain had try'd,
But I am lost to-day!

186

Newgate's Garland: BEING A NEW BALLAD.

SHEWING How Mr. Jonathan Wild's Throat was cut from Ear to Ear with a Penknife, by Mr. Blake, alias Blueskin, the bold Highwayman, as he stood at his Tryal in the Old-Bailey. 1725.

[_]

To the Tune of The Cut-purse.

I

Ye Gallants of Newgate, whose Fingers are nice,
In diving in Pockets, or cogging of Dice.
Ye Sharpers so rich, who can buy off the Noose,
Ye honester poor Rogues, who die in your Shoes,
Attend and draw near,
Good News ye shall hear,
How Jonathan's Throat was cut from Ear to Ear;
How Blueskin's sharp Penknife hath set you at Ease,
And every Man round me may rob, if he please,

187

II

When to the Old-Bailey this Blueskin was led,
He held up his Hand, his Indictment was read,
Loud rattled his Chains, near him Jonathan stood,
For full Forty Pounds was the Price of his Blood.
Then hopeless of Life,
He drew his Penknife,
And made a sad Widow of Jonathan's Wife.
But Forty Pounds paid her, her Grief shall appease,
And every Man round me may rob, if he please.

III

Some say there are Courtiers of highest Renown,
Who steal the King's Gold, and leave him but a Crown;
Some say there are Peers, and some Parliament Men,
Who meet once a Year to rob Courtiers agen:
Let them all take their Swing,
To pillage the King,
And get a Blue Ribbon instead of a String.
Now Blueskin's sharp Penknife hath set you at Ease,
And every Man round me may rob, if he please.

IV

Knaves of old, to hide Guilt by their cunning Inventions,
Call'd Briberies Grants, and plain Robberies Pensions;
Physicians and Lawyers (who take their Degrees
To be Learned Rogues) call'd their Pilfering, Fees;
Since this happy Day,
Now ev'ry Man may
Rob (as safe as in Office) upon the Highway.
For Blueskin's sharp Penknife hath set you at Ease,
And every Man round me may rob, if he please.

V

Some cheat in the Customs, some rob the Excise,
But he who robs both is esteemed most wise.
Church-Wardens, too prudent to hazard the Halter,
As yet only venture to steal from the Altar:
But now to get Gold,
They may be more bold,
And rob on the Highway, since Jonathan's cold.
For Blueskin's sharp Penknife hath set you at Ease,
And every man round me may rob, if he please.

188

VI

Some by publick Revenues, which pass'd through their Hands,
Have purchas'd clean Houses, and bought dirty Lands,
Some to steal from a Charity think it no Sin,
Which, at Home (says the Proverb) does always begin;
But, if ever you be
Assign'd a Trustee,
Treat not Orphans like Masters of the Chancery.
But take the Highway, and more honestly seise,
For every Man round me may rob, if he please.]

VII

What a Pother has here been with Wood and his Brass,
Who would modestly make a few Half-pennies pass!
The Patent is good, and the Precedent's old.
For Diomede changed his Copper for Gold:
But if Ireland despise
Thy new Half-pennies,
With more Safety to rob on the Road I advise.
For Blueskin's sharp Penknife hath set thee at Ease,
And every Man round me may rob, if he please.]

MOLLY MOG: OR, THE Fair Maid of the Inn.

A BALLAD.

190

I

Says my Uncle, I pray you discover
What hath been the Cause of your Woes,
Why you pine, and you whine, like a Lover?
I have seen Molly Mog of the Rose.

II

O Nephew! your Grief is but Folly,
In Town you may find better Prog;
Half a Crown there will get you a Molly,
A Molly much better than Mog.

III

I know that by Wits 'tis recited,
That Women at best are a Clog;
But I am not so easily frighted,
From loving of sweet Molly Mog.

IV

The School-Boy's desire is a Play-Day,
The School-Master's joy is to flog;
The Milk-Maid's delight is on May-Day,
But mine is on sweet Molly Mog.

V

Will-a-wisp leads the Trav'ler a gadding
Thro' Ditch, and thro' Quagmire and Bog;
But no Light can set me a madding,
Like the Eyes of my sweet Molly Mog.

VI

For Guineas in other Men's Breeches
Your Gamesters will palm and will cog;
But I envy them none of their Riches,
So I may win sweet Molly Mog.

191

VII

The Heart, when half-wounded, is changing,
It here and there leaps like a Frog;
But my Heart can never be ranging,
'Tis so fix'd upon sweet Molly Mog.

VIII

[Who follows all Ladies of Pleasure,
In Pleasure is thought but a Hog:
All the Sex cannot give so good measure
Of Joys, as my sweet Molly Mog.]

IX

I feel I'm in Love to Distraction,
My Senses all lost in a Fog;
And nothing can give Satisfaction
But thinking of sweet Molly Mog.

X

A Letter when I am inditing,
Comes Cupid and gives me a Jog,
And I fill all the Paper with writing
Of nothing but sweet Molly Mog.

XI

If I would not give up the three Graces
I wish I were hang'd like a Dog,
And at Court all the Drawing-Room Faces,
For a Glance of my sweet Molly Mog.

XII

Those Faces want Nature and Spirit,
And seem as cut out of a Log;
Juno, Venus, and Pallas's Merit
Unite in my sweet Molly Mog.

192

XIII

[Those who toast all the Family Royal,
In Bumpers of Hogan and Nog,
Have Hearts not more true or more loyal
Than mine to my sweet Molly Mog.]

XIV

Were Virgil alive with his Phillis,
And writing another Eclogue;
Both his Phillis and fair Amaryllis
He'd give up for sweet Molly Mog.

XV

When she smiles on each Guest, like her Liquor,
Then Jealousy sets me agog.
To be sure she's a Bit for the Vicar,
And so I shall lose Molly Mog.

The COQUET MOTHER and COQUET DAUGHTER.

A SONG.

I

At the close of the Day,
When the Bean-flow'r and Hay
Breath'd Odours in ev'ry Wind:
Love enliven'd the Veins
Of the Damsels and Swains;
Each glance and each action was kind.

II

Molly, wanton and free,
Kiss'd, and sat on each Knee,
Fond ecstasy swam in her Eyes.
See, thy Mother is near,
Hark! She calls thee to hear
What Age and Experience advise.

193

III

Hast thou seen the blithe Dove
Stretch her Neck to her Love,
All glossy with Purple and Gold?
If a Kiss he obtain,
She returns it again:
What follows, you need not be told.

IV

Look ye, Mother, she cry'd,
You instruct me in Pride,
And Men by Good-manners are won.
She who trifles with all
Is less likely to fall
Than she who but trifles with one.

V

Pr'ythee, Molly, be wise,
Lest by sudden surprize
Love should tingle in ev'ry Vein:
Take a Shepherd for Life,
And when once you're a Wife,
You safely may trifle again.

VI

Molly smiling reply'd,
Then I'll soon be a Bride;
Old Roger has Gold in his Chest.
But I thought all you Wives
Chose a Man for your Lives,
And trifled no more with the rest.

A BALLAD on ALE.

I

Whilst some in Epic strains delight,
Whilst others Pastorals invite,
As taste or whim prevail;
Assist me, all ye tuneful Nine,
Support me in the great design,
To sing of nappy Ale.

II

Some folks of Cyder make a rout,
And Cyder's well enough, no doubt,
When better liquors fail;
But Wine, that's richer, better still,
Ev'n Wine itself (deny't who will)
Must yield to nappy Ale.

III

Rum, Brandy, Gin with choicest smack
From Holland brought, Batavia Arrack,
All these will nought avail
To chear a truly British heart,
And lively spirits to impart,
Like humming, nappy Ale.

IV

Oh! whether thee I closely hug
In honest can, or nut-brown jug,
Or in the tankard hail;
In barrel, or in bottle pent,
I give the gen'rous spirit vent,
Still may I feast on Ale.

V

But chief, when to the chearful glass
From vessel pure thy streamlets pass
Then most thy charms prevail;
Then, then, I'll bett, and take odds,
That nectar, drink of heathen gods,
Was poor, compar'd to Ale.

VI

Give me a bumper, fill it up.
See how it sparkles in the cup,
O how shall I regale!
Can any taste this drink divine,
And then compare Rum, Brandy, Wine,
Or aught with nappy Ale?

194

VII

Inspir'd by thee, the warrior fights,
The lover wooes, the poet writes,
And pens the pleasing tale;
And still in Britain's isle confess'd
Nought animates the patriot's breast
Like gen'rous, nappy Ale.

VIII

High Church and Low oft raise a strife,
And oft endanger limb and life,
Each studious to prevail;
Yet Whig and Tory opposite
In all things else, do both unite
In praise of nappy Ale.

IX

Inspir'd by thee shall Crispin sing,
Or talk of freedom, church, and king,
And balance Europe's scale;
While his rich landlord lays out schemes
Of wealth, in golden South Sea dreams,
Th'effects of nappy Ale.

X

O blest potation! still by thee,
And thy companion Liberty,
Do health and mirth prevail;
Then let us crown the can, the glass,
And sportive bid the minutes pass
In quaffing nappy Ale.

XI

Ev'n while these stanzas I indite,
The bar-bell's grateful sounds invite
Where joy can never fail!
Adieu! my Muse, adieu! I haste
To gratify my longing taste
With copious draughts of Ale.

The DESPAIRING SHEPHERD.

I

The Sun was sunk beneath the Hill,
The Western Clouds were edg'd with Gold,
The Sky was clear, the Winds were still;
The Flocks were penn'd within the Fold,
When from the Silence of the Grove
Poor Damon thus despair'd of love;

195

II

Who seeks to pluck the fragrant Rose
From the bare Rock, or oozy Beach;
Who, from each barren Weed that grows,
Expects the Grape and blushing Peach;
With equal Faith may hope to find
The Truth of Love in Womankind.

III

I have no Flocks, nor Fleecy care,
No Fields that shine with golden Grain,
Nor Meadows green, nor Gardens fair,
Of Virgins venal Hearts to gain;
Then all in vain my Sighs must prove,
For I, alas! am nought but Love.

IV

How wretched is the faithful Youth,
Since Women's Hearts are bought and sold;
They ask not Vows of sacred Truth,
Whene'er they sigh, they sigh for Gold.
Gold can the Frowns of Scorn remove;
But I, alas! am nought but Love.

V

To buy the Gems of India's Coast,
What Wealth, what Riches can suffice?
But all their Fire can never boast
The living Lustre of her Eyes:
For there the World too cheap would prove,
But I, alas! am nought but Love.

196

VI

Oh, Sylvia, since nor Gems, nor Oar,
Can with thy brighter Charms compare,
Consider, that I proffer more,
(More seldom found) a Heart sincere.
Let Treasure meaner Beauties move;
Who pays thy Worth, must pay with Love.

197

MISCELLANIES.

PANTHEA.

An ELEGY.

Long had Panthea felt Love's secret smart,
And hope and fear alternate rul'd her heart;
Consenting glances had her flame confest.
(In woman's eyes her very soul's exprest.)
Perjur'd Alexis saw the blushing maid,
He saw, he swore, he conquer'd and betray'd:
Another love now calls him from her arms,
His fickle heart another beauty warms;
Those oaths oft' whisper'd in Panthea's ears,
He now again to Galatea swears.

198

Beneath a beech th'abandon'd virgin laid,
In grateful solitude enjoys the shade;
There with faint voice she breathed these moving strains,
While fighting Zephyrs shar'd her am'rous pains.

Pale settled sorrow hangs upon my brow,
Dead are my charms; Alexis breaks his vow!
Think, think, dear shepherd, on the days you knew,
When I was happy, when my swain was true;
Think how thy looks and tongue are form'd to move,
And think yet more—that all my fault was love.
Ah, could you view me in this wretched state!
You might not love me, but you could not hate.
Could you behold me in this conscious shade,
Where first thy vows, where first my love was paid,
Worn out with watching, sullen with despair,
And see each eye swell with a gushing tear?
Could you behold me on this mossy bed,
From my pale cheek the lively crimson fled,
Which in my softer hours you oft' have sworn,
With rosie beauty far out-blush'd the morn;
Could you untouch'd this wretched object bear,
And would not lost Panthea claim a tear?
You could not sure—tears from your eyes would steal,
And unawares thy tender soul reveal.
Ah, no!—thy soul with cruelty is fraught,
No tenderness disturbs thy savage thought;
Sooner shall tygers spare the trembling lambs,
And wolves with pity hear their bleating dams;
Sooner shall vultures from their quarry fly,
Than false Alexis for Panthea sigh.
Thy bosom ne'er a tender thought confest,
Sure stubborn flint has arm'd thy cruel breast;
But hardest flints are worn by frequent rains,
And the soft drops dissolve their solid veins;
While thy relentless heart more hard appears,
And is not soften'd by a flood of tears.

Ah, what is love! Panthea's joys are gone,
Her liberty, her peace, her reason flown!
And when I view me in the watry glass,
I find Panthea now, not what she was.
As northern winds the new-blown roses blast,
And on the ground their fading ruins cast;

199

As sudden blights corrupt the ripen'd grain,
And of its verdure spoil the mournful plain;
So hapless love on blooming features preys,
So hapless love destroys our peaceful days.

Come, gentle sleep, relieve these weary'd eyes,
All sorrow in thy soft embraces dies:
There, spite of all thy perjur'd vows, I find
Faithless Alexis languishingly kind;
Sometimes he leads me by the mazy stream,
And pleasingly deludes me in my dream;
Sometimes he guides me to the secret grove,
Where all our looks, and all our talk is love.
Oh, could I thus consume each tedious day,
And in sweet slumbers dream my life away;
But sleep, which now no more relieves these eyes,
To my sad soul the dear deceit denies.

Why does the sun dart forth its chearful rays?
Why do the woods resound with warbling lays?
Why does the rose her grateful fragrance yield,
And yellow cowslips paint the smiling field?
Why do the streams with murm'ring musick flow,
And why do groves their friendly shade bestow?
Let sable clouds the chearful sun deface,
Let mournful silence seize the feather'd race;
No more, ye roses, grateful fragrance yield,
Droop, droop, ye cowslips, in the blasted field;
No more, ye streams, with murm'ring music flow,
And let not groves a friendly shade bestow:
With sympathizing grief let nature mourn,
And never know the youthful spring's return:
And shall I never more Alexis see?
Then what is spring, or grove or stream to me?

Why sport the skipping lambs on yonder plain?
Why do the birds their tuneful voices strain?
Why frisk those heifers in the cooling grove?
Their happier life is ignorant of love.

Oh! lead me to some melancholy cave,
To lull my sorrows in a living grave;
From the dark rock where dashing waters fall,
And creeping ivy hangs the craggy wall,
Where I may waste in tears my hours away,
And never know the seasons or the day.
Dye, dye, Panthea—flie this hateful grove,
For what is life without the Swain I love?

200

ARAMINTA.

An ELEGY.

Now Phæbus rose; and with his early beams
Wak'd slumb'ring Delia from her pleasing dreams;
Her wishes by her fancy were supply'd,
And in her sleep the nuptial knot was ty'd.
With secret joy she saw the morning ray
Chequer the floor, and through the curtains play;
The happy morn that shall her bliss compleat,
And all her rivals envious hopes defeat.
In haste she rose; forgetful of her pray'rs,
Flew to the glass, and practis'd o'er her airs:
Her new-set jewels round her robe are plac'd,
Some in a brilliant buckle bind her waist;
Some round her neck a circling light display,
Some in her hair diffuse a trembling ray;
The silver knot o'erlooks the Mechlen lace,
And adds becoming beauties to her face:
Brocaded flow'rs o'er the gay manteau shine,
And the rich stays her taper shape confine;
Thus all her dress exerts a graceful pride,
And sporting Loves surround th'expecting bride,
For Daphnis now attends the blushing maid,
Before the Priest their solemn vows are paid;
This day which ends at once all Delia's cares,
Shall swell a thousand eyes with secret tears.
Cease, Araminta, 'tis in vain to grieve,
Canst thou from Hymen's bonds the youth retrieve?
Disdain his perj'ries, and no longer mourn:
Recall thy love, and find a sure return.

But still the wretched maid no comfort knows,
And with resentment cherishes her woes;

201

Alone she pines, and in these mournful strains,
Of Daphnis' vows, and her own fate complains.

Was it for this I sparkled at the Play,
And loiter'd in the Ring whole hours away?
When if thy chariot in the circle shone,
Our mutual passion by our looks was known:
Through the gay crowd my watchful glances flew,
Where-e'er I pass thy grateful eyes pursue.

Ah faithless youth! too well you saw my pain;
For eyes the language of the soul explain.

Think, Daphnis, think that scarce five days are fled,
Since (O false tongue!) those treach'rous things you said
How did you praise my shape and graceful air!
And woman thinks all compliments sincere.
Didst thou not then in rapture speak thy flame,
And in soft sighs breath Araminta's name?
Didst thou not then with oaths thy passion prove,
And with an awful trembling, say—I love?

Ah faithless youth! too well you saw my pain;
For eyes the language of the soul explain.

How could'st thou thus, ungrateful youth, deceive?
How could I thus, unguarded maid, believe?
Sure thou canst well recall that fatal night,
When subtle love first enter'd at my sight:
When in the dance I was thy partner chose,
Gods! what a rapture in my bosom rose!
My trembling hand my sudden joy confess'd,
My glowing cheeks a wounded heart express'd;
My looks spoke love; while you with answ'ring eyes,
In killing glances made as kind replies.
Think, Daphnis, think, what tender things you said,
Think what confusion all my soul betray'd;
You call'd my graceful presence Cynthia's air,
And when I sung, the Syrens charm'd your ear;
My flame blown up by flatt'ry stronger grew,
A gale of love in ev'ry whisper flew.

Ah faithless youth! too well you saw my pain;
For eyes the language of the soul explain.

Whene'er I dress'd, my maid, who knew my flame,
Cherish'd my passion with thy lovely name;
Thy picture in her talk so lively grew,
That thy dear image rose before my view;

202

She dwelt whole hours upon thy shape and mien,
And wounded Delia's fame to sooth my spleen:
When she beheld me at the name grow pale,
Strait to thy charms she chang'd her artful tale;
And when thy matchless charms were quite run o'er,
I bid her tell the pleasing tale once more.
Oh, Daphnis! from thy Araminta fled!
Oh, to my love for ever, ever dead!
Like death, his nuptials all my hope remove,
And ever part me from the man I love.

Ah faithless youth! too well you saw my pain
For eyes the language of the soul explain.

O might I by my cruel fate be thrown,
In some retreat far from this hateful town!
Vain dress and glaring equipage, adieu!
Let happier nymphs those empty shows pursue,
Me, let some melancholy shade surround,
Where not the print of human step is found.
In the gay dance my feet no more shall move,
But bear me faintly through the lonely grove;
No more these hands shall o'er the spinnet bound,
And from the sleeping strings call forth the sound;
Musick adieu, farewel Italian airs!
The croaking raven now shall sooth my cares.
On some old ruine lost in thought I rest,
And think how Araminta once was blest;
There o'er and o'er thy letters I peruse,
And all my grief in one kind sentence lose,
Some tender line by chance my woe beguiles,
And on my cheek a short-liv'd pleasure smiles;
Why is this dawn of joy? flow tears again;
Vain are these oaths, and all these vows are vain;
Daphnis, alas! the Gordian knot has ty'd,
Nor force nor cunning can the band divide.

Ah faithless youth! since eyes the soul explain,
Why knew I not that artful tongue could feign?

203

A CONTEMPLATION ON NIGHT.

Whether amid the gloom of night I stray,
Or my glad eyes enjoy revolving day,
Still Nature's various face informs my sense,
Of an all-wise, all pow'rful Providence.

When the gay sun first breaks the shades of night,
And strikes the distant eastern hills with light,
Colour returns, the plains their liv'ry wear,
And a bright verdure cloaths the smiling year;
The blooming flow'rs with op'ning beauties glow,
And grazing flocks their milky fleeces show,
The barren cliffs with chalky fronts arise,
And a pure azure arches o'er the skies.
But when the gloomy reign of night returns,
Stript of her fading pride all nature mourns:
The trees no more their wonted verdure boast,
But weep in dewy tears their beauty lost;
No distant landskips draw our curious eyes,
Wrapt in night's robe the whole creation lies.
Yet still, ev'n now, while darkness cloaths the land,
We view the traces of th'almighty hand;
Millions of stars in heav'n's wide vault appear,
And with new glories hang the boundless sphere:
The silver moon her western couch forsakes,
And o'er the skies her nightly circle makes,
Her solid globe beats back the sunny rays,
And to the world her borrow'd light repays.

Whether those stars that twinkling lustre send,
Are suns, and rolling worlds those suns attend,
Man may conjecture, and new schemes declare,
Yet all his systems but conjectures are;
But this we know, that heav'n's eternal King,
Who bid this universe from nothing spring,

204

Can at his Word bid num'rous worlds appear,
And rising worlds th'all-pow'rful Word shall hear.

When to the western main the sun descends,
To other lands a rising day he lends,
The spreading dawn another shepherd spies,
The wakeful flocks from their warm folds arise,
Refresh'd, the peasant seeks his early toil,
And bids the plough correct the fallow soil.
While we in sleep's embraces waste the night,
The climes oppos'd enjoy meridian light;
And when those lands the busie sun forsakes,
With us again the rosie morning wakes;
In lazy sleep the night rolls swift away,
And neither clime laments his absent ray.

When the pure soul is from the body flown,
No more shall night's alternate reign be known:
The sun no more shall rolling light bestow,
But from th'Almighty streams of glory flow.
Oh, may some nobler thought my soul employ,
Than empty, transient, sublunary joy!
The stars shall drop, the sun shall lose his flame,
But Thou, O God, for ever shine the same.

205

A THOUGHT ON ETERNITY.

[_]

[Editions: as of Panthea.]

E'er the foundations of the world were laid,
E'er kindling light th'Almighty word obey'd,
Thou wert; and when the subterraneous flame
Shall burst its prison, and devour this frame,
From angry heav'n when the keen lightning flies,
When fervent heat dissolves the melting skies,
Thou still shalt be; still, as thou wert before,
And know no change, when time shall be no more.
O endless thought! divine eternity!
Th'immortal soul shares but a part of thee;
For thou wert present when our life began,
When the warm dust shot up in breathing man.

Ah! what is life? with ills encompass'd round,
Amidst our hopes, Fate strikes the sudden wound:
To-day the statesman of new honour dreams,
To-morrow death destroys his airy schemes;
Is mouldy treasure in thy chest confin'd?
Think all that treasure thou must leave behind;
Thy heir with smiles shall view thy blazon'd herse,
And all thy hoards with lavish hand disperse.
Should certain fate th'impending blow delay,
Thy mirth will sicken and thy bloom decay;

206

Then feeble age will all thy nerves disarm,
No more thy blood its narrow channels warm.
Who then would wish to stretch this narrow span,
To suffer life beyond the date of man?

The virtuous soul pursues a nobler aim,
And life regards but as a fleeting dream:
She longs to wake, and wishes to get free,
To launch from earth into eternity.
For while the boundless theme extends our thought,
Ten thousand thousand rolling years are nought.

AN ELEGY on a LAP-DOG.

Shock 's fate I mourn; poor Shock is now no more,
Ye Muses mourn, ye chamber-maids deplore.
Unhappy Shock! yet more unhappy Fair,
Doom'd to survive thy joy and only care!
Thy wretched fingers now no more shall deck,
And tye the fav'rite ribband round his neck;
No more thy hand shall smooth his glossy hair,
And comb the wavings of his pendent ear.
Yet cease thy flowing grief, forsaken maid;
All mortal pleasures in a moment fade:
Our surest hope is in an hour destroy'd,
And love, best gift of heav'n, not long enjoy'd.

Methinks I see her frantick with despair,
Her streaming eyes, wrung hands, and flowing hair
Her Mechlen pinners rent the floor bestrow,
And her torn fan gives real signs of woe.
Hence Superstition, that tormenting guest,
That haunts with fancy'd fears the coward breast;
No dread events upon this fate attend,
Stream eyes no more, no more thy tresses rend.
Tho' certain omens oft forewarn a state,
And dying lyons show the monarch's fate;

207

Why should such fears bid Celia's sorrow rise?
For when a Lap-dog falls no lover dyes.

Cease, Celia, cease; restrain thy flowing tears,
Some warmer passion will dispell thy cares.
In man you'll find a more substantial bliss,
More grateful toying, and a sweeter kiss.

He's dead. Oh lay him gently in the ground!
And may his tomb be by this verse renown'd.
Here Shock, the pride, of all his kind, is laid;
Who fawn'd like man, but ne'er like man betray'd.

AN ELEGIAC EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

Written by Mr. Gay, when he laboured under a Dejection of Spirits.

I

Friend of my youth, shedd'st thou the pitying tear
O'er the sad relics of my happier days,
Of nature tender, as of soul sincere,
Pour'st thou for me the melancholy lays?

II

Oh! truly said!—the distant landscape bright,
Whose vivid colours glitter'd on the eye
Is faded now, and sunk in shades of night,
As, on some chilly eve, the closing flow'rets die.

III

Yet had I hop'd, when first, in happier times,
I trod the magic paths where Fancy led,
The Muse to foster in more friendly climes,
Where never Mis'ry rear'd its hated head.

208

IV

How vain the thought! Hope after hope expires!
Friend after friend, joy after joy is lost;
My dearest wishes feed the fun'ral fires,
And life is purchas'd at too dear a cost.

V

Yet, could my heart the selfish comfort know,
That not alone I murmur and complain;
Well might I find companions in my woe,
All born to Grief, the family of Pain!

VI

Full well I know, in life's uncertain road,
The thorns of mis'ry are profusely sown;
Full well I know, in this low vile abode,
Beneath the chast'ning rod what numbers groan.

VII

Born to a happier state, how many pine
Beneath th'oppressor's pow'r, or feel the smart
Of bitter want, or foreign evils join
To the sad symptoms of a broken heart!

VIII

How many, fated from their birth to view
Misfortunes growing with their rip'ning years;
The same sad track, through various scenes, pursue,
Still journeying onward through a vale of tears.

IX

To them, alas! what boots the light of heav'n,
While still new mis'ries mark their destin'd way,
Whether to their unhappy lot be giv'n
Death's long, sad night, or life's short busy day!

X

Me not such themes delight;—I more rejoice,
When chance some happier, better change I see,
Though no such change await my luckless choice,
And mountains rise between my hopes and me.

XI

For why should he who roves the dreary waste,
Still joy on ev'ry side to view the gloom,
Or when upon the couch of sickness plac'd,
Well pleas'd survey a hapless neighbour's tomb?

209

XII

If e'er a gleam of comfort glads my soul,
If e'er my brow to wonted smiles unbends,
'Tis when the fleeting minutes, as they roll,
Can add one gleam of pleasure to my friends.

XIII

Ev'n in these shades, the last retreat of grief,
Some transient blessings will that thought bestow;
To Melancholy's self yield some relief,
And ease the breast surcharg'd with mortal woe.

XIV

Long has my bark in rudest tempests toss'd,
Buffetted seas, and stemm'd life's hostile wave;
Suffice it now, in all my wishes cross'd,
To seek a peaceful harbour in the grave.

XV

And when that hour shall come, (as come it must,)
Ere many moons their waning horns increase,
When this frail frame shall mix with kindred dust,
And all its fond pursuits and troubles cease:

XVI

When those black gates that ever open stand,
Receive me on th'irremeable shore,
When Life's frail glass has run its latest sand,
And the dull jest repeated charms no more:

XVII

Then may my friend weep o'er the fun'ral hearse,
Then may his presence gild the awful gloom,
And his last tribute be some mournful verse,
To mark the spot that holds my silent tomb.—

XVIII

This—and no more:—the rest let Heav'n provide,
To which, resign'd, I trust my weal or woe,
Assur'd howe'er its justice shall decide,
To find nought worse than I have left below.

210

MINOR MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

To the Learned Ingenious Author of Licentia Poetica Discuss'd, &c.

The Vulgar Notion of Poetic fire,
Is, that laborious Art can ne'er aspire,
Nor Constant Studies the bright Bays acquire.
And that high Flights the unborn Bard receives,
And only Nature the due Laurel gives;
But You, with innate shining Flames endow'd,
To wide Castalian Springs point out the GOD.
Thro' your Perspective we can plainly see,
The New Discover'd Road of Poetry,
To steep Parnassus you direct the way
So smooth, that vent'rous Travellers cannot stray,
But with unerring steps, rough ways disdain,
And by you led, the beauteous Summit gain,
Where polish'd Lays shall raise their growing Fames,
And with their tuneful Guide, enrol their Honour'd Names

211

From MOHOCK and from HAWKUBITE.

From MOHOCK and from HAWKUBITE,
Good Lord deliver me,
Who wander through the Streets by Night,
Committing Cruelty.

They slash our Sons with bloody Knives,
And on our Daughters fall,
And if they ravish not our Wives,
We have good Luck withal.

Coaches and Chairs they overturn,
Nay Carts most easily,
Therefore from GOG and eke MAGOG,
Good Lord deliver me.

212

To the most Honourable the Earl of OXFORD, The Lord High Treasurer.

The Epigrammatical Petition of your Lordship's most humble servant, JOHN GAY.

I'm no more to converse with the swains,
But go where fine people resort;
One can live without money on plains,
But never without it at court.

Yet if when with swains I did gambol,
I array'd me in silver and blue,
When abroad and in courts I shall ramble,
Pray, my Lord, how much money will do?

My own EPITAPH.

Life is a jest; and all things show it.
I thought so once; but now I know it.

213

A Receipt for Stewing Veal.

Take a knuckle of veal;
You may buy it, or steal.
In a few pieces cut it:
In a stewing-pan put it.
Salt, pepper, and mace
Must season this knuckle;
Then what's join'd to a place;
With other herbs muckle;
That, which killed king Will :
And what never stands still.
Some sprigs of that bed
Where children are bred,
Which much you will mend, if
Both spinnage and endive,
And lettuce, and beet,
With marygold meet.
Put no water at all;
For it maketh things small.
Which, lest it should happen,
A close cover clap on.
Put this pot of Wood's mettle
In a hot boiling kettle,
And there let it be
(Mark the doctrine I teach)
About—let me see,—
Thrice as long as you preach :
So skimming the fat off,
Say grace with your hat off.
O, then! with what rapture
Will it fill dean and chapter!

Vulgo, salary.

Supposed sorril.

This is by Dr. Bentley thought to be time, or thyme.

Parsley. Vide Chamberlayne.

Copper.

‘Which we suppose to be near four hours.’

214

THE MAN-MOUNTAIN'S ANSWER TO THE LILLIPUTIAN VERSES

Little thing!
I would sing,
Lofty song,
Measure long;
But I fear,
That thine ear
Such a poem could not bear.
Therefore I
Mean to try
Humbler lays
Worthy praise,
If my strains,
Work'd thee pains,
'Tis not mine,
To divine,
Whether cost,
Labour lost,
May on Lilliput be toss'd.
Horse and foot
Would you put,
In the way,
Who could say,
I had blame,
If they came
Near my stride
And beside
My huge foot gigantic dy'd?
But, while here
I appear
Mountain-size,
To little eyes;
All that strain,
Seek in vain,
Whilst I climb,
Heights sublime,
To keep pace,
And to trace
My footsteps, as I move with martial grace.
Though; 'tis true,
Praise is due,
To your lay,
Yet I pray,
You'll attend,
To a friend.
On my hand,
Should you stand;
If those that soar,
Fall the low'r,
All Lilliput would yours deplore.
Humbly then,
With little men,
Take your stand,
On firm land,
Lest your place,
Bring disgrace:
High in air,
Great the care,
To be free
From jeopardy,
Careless found,
You might bound,
Little poet! to the ground.

215

A MOTTO for the opera of Mutius Scaevola.

Who here blames words, or verses, songs, or singers,
Like Mutius Scaevola will burn his fingers.

Presentation Inscription.

To Mr. Tommy Potter Jacky Gay sendeth Greeting, together with these his unworthy Performances.

Accept 'em Tommy as they're meant
And you make Jacky Gay content.
If Tommy like his Jacky's Quill,
Let Robin hate him if he will.

‘My dear Belladine.’

My Dear Belladine
O're a Glass of Wine
We send you this line.

On Purpose to tell
You Miss Lepell
We are all very well.

If news we should send you from Canterbury
That news to be sure you would think is a lye
And therefore we'll say what before you did know
That we are your Servants wherever we go.

Ann Pulteney.

Wm. Pulteney.

J. Gay.

Canterbury, Saturday.

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TRANSLATIONS from ARIOSTO.

The Story of Zerbin and Isabella.

[_]

From Ariosto. Canto 24th the 28th and 29th.

Zerbin, the brave Orlando's steps to find,
Left lawns, vales, mountains and long woods behind
And Isabella fair with equal speed
Spurr'd her fleet Palfrey by her Hero's steed.

At length afar they spy'd a glitt'ring ray
That from the plain threw back the dazling day;
But when they nearer to the lustre drew
Orlando's arms, and burnish'd helme they knew:
They saw his Horse, they saw the sword he wore,
Then sighing cry'd, Orlando is no more!

Now with swift strides advanc'd along the vale
Beside the stream, a Swain aghast and pale;
That very Swain who from the mountain's height,
Had seen the raging fury of the knight,
How far and wide his shining Arms he threw,
How tore, how rav'd, and how the Shepherds slew!

Zerbin demands. Whence are these arms? The Swain
Describ'd the frantick knight, the Shepherds slain.

The Story touch'd his soul. he sought around,
And gather'd up the spoils that strow'd the ground,
Then on a Pine in gracefull Order rais'd
Against the Sun the glorious Trophy blaz'd;
And on the bark he grav'd in letters fair,
THE PALADIN ORLANDO'S ARMS I BEAR.
Which thus defys. That bold presumptuous knight
Who takes these Arms shall with Orlando fight.

When lo! intrepid Mandricard drew nigh
And on the Trophy fixt his haughty eye.
Zerbin with tears Orlando's Story told.
Beware, proud Saracin, be not too bold!

This Menace nought dismay'd the Pagan Lord,
But to the Pine he sprung and snatch'd the Sword.

Lives there a man (he cryd) whose valour vain
Shall dare attempt this Armor to regain?
Throughout the world I seek that vent'rous knight,
Perpetual Conquest shall support my right.
Orlando fear'd the dangers of that day,
And in feign'd madness flung the spoils away;

217

As Cowardice, his Madness I despise
Reason and valour bid me seise the prize.

Zerbin incens'd replyd. Rash Prince, forbear
Nor think without dispute these arms to wear:
If you the Mail of Hector thus obtain'd
It was by fraud and not by reason gain'd.

So saying. Each pours on to meet his foe,
With equal might impends the desp'rate blow;
Now with a hundred strokes resounds the air,
The horrid prelude of the doubtfull war.
When Durindana fells with fatal aim;
Swift as keen lightning shoots its waving flame,
Zerbin avoids the stroke; and like the Doe,
Alert, his nimble steed bounds to and fro:
And it behov'd him well to turn the rein
For that enchanted sword neer smote invain,
One blow had sent his pale enamor'd Ghost,
A fleeting wand'rer to the Stygian Coast.
As the swift Dog amid a spacious plain
Upon the furious boar pours on amain
When near advanc'd stops short, then winds around,
While the tusk'd foe prepares one deadly wound.
Thus if the sword hung low, or wav'd on high
Zerbin each motion watch'd with cautious eye,
To save his fame and life at once he trys,
In the same instant stands, wheels, fights, and flys.
But when the Pagan monarch wav'd his blade
And in the whizzing Air bright circles made,
It seem'd, as when march winds with fury blow,
The lofty forrest nods his leafy brow
Proud Oaks to earth their stubborn bodys bend,
And whirl'd in Air the shatter'd boughs ascend.
Zerbin with watchfull guard each stroke defends
Till wing'd with rage a mighty blow descends,
Between his sword and shield it swiftly fell,
Nor Mail nor breast-plate could the wound repell,
The trenchant blade his steely vest divides
And to the saddle down his Cuirass glides,
Had not aslant the thirsty weapon past,
It, (like a reed) had cleft him to the waste
The shallow razing wound scarce gives him pain,
Rills of warm blood his burnish'd Armor stain.
So when the beauty who commands my heart
On some rich work employs her curious art
I've seen her iv'ry hand the needle guide,
And purple streaks the silver ground divide.

Nought in this combat Zerbin's arm prevail'd,
Here skill and strength and hardy prowess fail'd;

218

With greater force the Tartar's nerves were strung,
And on his keener blade enchantment hung,
The wound was slight, yet Isabella's heart
With icy shiv'rings felt the deepest smart.
Now Zerbin, (burning with despite and ire,
While from his eye-balls shot resentfull fire)
Rais'd with both hands his sword, his sword fell strong,
And on the fated Helme the fauchion rung,
The haughty Tartar felt the stunning blow,
And bow'd his helmet to the saddle-bow;
Had not enchanted fire the metal try'd
His cloven skull had fell on either side.
Now hung the Pagan's fauchion o'er his Crest,
And aim'd at once to cleave him to the breast;
Zerbin the threaten'd death with caution ey'd,
His Steed obey'd the rein and sprung aside
Yet fell not now the pond'rous sword invain,
But edg'd with fury, split the shield in twain
And pierc'd his Arm; thence glancing to his side
Drove through the steel, forth gush'd the sanguine tide.
But in no part could Zerbin's arm prevail
For not one dent imprest the Pagan's Mail
While many a gash had Zerbin's armor stain'd
His helme was split, no shield his arm sustain'd,
His less'ning strength pour'd forth at ev'ry wound,
And ebbing Life impurpled all the ground,
Though scarce his spirits could his limbs uphold,
In undiminish'd force his heart was bold.

The trembling Isabella pale & wan
Now wing'd with fear to Doralice ran,
Fair Doralice's love the Pagan rul'd,
And as she will'd his anger burn'd or cool'd;
The tim'rous Dame with tears her aid implor'd,
To part the fight and stay the hanging sword,
The courteous Doralice gave consent,
For she too trembled for the dread event;
Peace she commanded, & a peace was made
And Isabella sheath'd her hero's blade;
So Zerbin follow'd where she led the way,
And undetermin'd left the dang'rous fray.
No life-preserving cares employ'd his mind,
He burn'd for Durindana left behind,
Till time allayd the feaver of his heart;
Then of each wound he felt the bitter Smart
And each wound rack'd him with such raging pain
That scarce his limbs could feeble life sustain.
Weak, pale and fainting now the rein he stays,
And on the ground his drooping body lays
Near a cool fountain's side. O ruefull maid,
All Comfort's vain, invain you call for aid;

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Far many a league the busy city lyes,
Remote from human skill, forlorn he dyes;
No learn'd Physician shall his death retard,
Mov'd by kind pity, or more kind reward!
What shall she do? the tears a passage find
She curses fortune, calls the stars unkind.
‘When my toss'd ship (she crys) the storm obeyd
‘Why was I not beneath the billows laid?

Zerbin at this his languid head uprears,
His feeble eyes beheld her gushing tears,
And in those tears more tender pain he found,
Than in the torture of his deadly wound.

‘And will my Love her Zerbin's fate deplore
‘When these weak eyes shall see thy charms no more?
‘What's the last pang of death to that I prove
‘To leave without a Guardian her I love
‘Thus in these dang'rous wilds? my latest breath
‘I could resign in peace, and smile on death
‘Wert thou but safe; far from this savage place,
‘And dye with joy thus gazing on thy face.
‘But how can this severer fate be born,
‘To leave my Treasure thus expos'd, forlorn,
‘To leave thee thus? By those bright eyes I swear,
‘By those sweet lips, and by that gracefull hair
‘Which first engag'd my heart, o'erwhelm'd with woe
‘I sink into the dreary realms below,
‘Where when I think thee left to grief, to fear
‘Not Hell's worst pains will equal my despair.

These his fond words her heaving bosom stung,
With look enamour'd o'er her Lord she hung,
Then clasp'd him fainting to her throbbing breast,
And fervent kisses on his lips imprest,
Upon those lips where now no crimson glows,
All pale and faded like the gather'd rose,
The rose that never knew the Season's pride,
But sickned on his stalk and op'ning dy'd.

‘Think not, my Love, (she cryd) I here will stay
‘When my dear Zerbin's Spirit flits away
‘Fear not for me, with thee I'll take my flight
‘To the clear realms of day, or depths of Night.
‘Dart forth, my Soul; together let us soar
‘Together mount to Joys, to part no more!
‘Soon as thy closing eyes be barr'd from day,
‘My Life in gusts of grief will force its way;
‘If sorrow fail; this Sword my Soul shall free
‘To mingle in immortal Love with thee.
‘O may some pious stranger tread these plains,
‘And view with weeping eye our cold remains,
‘One grave perhaps these bodys shall confine
‘And ev'n my smallest dust be mixt with thine!

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So saying, o'er her dying Love she hangs,
Warms him with kisses in his latest pangs,
Upon his trembling lips in transport lyes,
And drinks his vital Spirit as it flys.

Collecting all at once his fault'ring breath,
Zerbin thus spoke before the gasp of Death.

‘O Let my Angell hear this last request;
‘By all the sacred vows you first profest
‘When for my sake you left your native land,
‘(Nay, I command you, if I may command)
‘That no rash insult to thy life be giv'n,
‘But with firm patience wait the will of Heav'n
‘And never, never from thy thought remove
‘Thy faithfull Zerbin, and his matchless Love.
‘Heav'n will protect thee.—Further speech he try'd
But on his tongue the broken accents dy'd.
As oer the wax-spent torch with doubtfull rays
The glimm'ring light now swells and now decays,
If some new taper touch the hov'ring fires
It kindles as the trembling flame expires.

How Isabella shall thy grief be told
When Zerbin lay extended, pale and cold
Lock'd in thy clasping arms? Herself she throws
On her dead Lord; a stream of sorrow flows
And baths the purple wounds; woods, hills & skys
Resound her bitter groans and piercing crys;
She beats her breast her glowing cheeks she tears,
Plucks up and scatters wide her golden hairs,
O Spare thy locks, thy savage hands restrain;
Nor fondly call thy Zerbin's name invain!

Now mad with grief she drew the pointed Sword,
In this one deed forgetfull of her Lord;
Deep in her bosom had the steel been drown'd,
Had not a holy hermit stay'd the wound;
Who at his wonted hour his thirst to slake,
Sought the refreshment of thy crystal lake.
She heard the doctrine of the reverend guide,
Heav'n with persuasive power his words supplyd,
Faith taught her patience and a soul resign'd,
And to celestial hope improv'd her mind
She saw the vanity of earthly joy,
A passing Shadow, and a fading toy,
And strait resolv'd (such faith, such hope was given)
To dedicate her lifes remains to Heaven.

But could she Zerbin from her heart remove?
Alive or dead, she could not quit her Love.
Wher'ere her lot is cast, she'll Zerbin bear,
And on his ashes drop a daily tear.

221

The holy Hermit lent his pious aid,
And the lank body cross the Palfrey laid;
Then march'd they on with solemn pace & slow
Through the long desart wood in silent woe.
The cautious Father turn'd not to his cell;
Such charms might make the coolest blood rebell;
He knew his power, who had his virtue try'd,
Nor dares in prudence nor in Age confide.

Where the brown mountains thymy odours breathe,
And overlook Marsilia's shores beneath
A stately Monast'ry its turret's rears
Where Dames devote their life to Priests & prayers
Thither they journey'd but through ways untrod
For with adventures swarm'd the common road.
At length advancing with full speed, from far
They spyd a furious knight that menac'd war,
Nearer and nearer still the Terror drew,
And now insulting Rhodomont they knew.
In pensive beauty when he saw the Dame,
Soften'd to love in courteous guise he came,
And in his gentlest voice address'd the Fair,
Enquir'd her State, and why that sad despair.
She told him how she past a life of cares,
And how she vow'd to heav'n her future years.

The haughty Pagan who all Faith defy'd
Thus with vain mock and scornfull smile reply'd.

‘With justice is the Miser sinfull found
‘Who hides his golden treasure in the ground
‘Not his own pleasures are from thence supplyd
‘And its just use to all mankind denyd.
‘In Dens are monsters bears and Lions pent
‘But why confine the Fair and innocent?

The pious Hermit trembled while he spoke
Lest his fair Novice should her Vow revoke
And like a Pilot kept her in the way;
Lest adverse tempests blow her faith astray
He places heavenly banquets in her sight,
The Joys of Angells and the realms of light.

The Pagan who despis'd his Christian Schemes
As idle legends and Monastic dreams
Attempts to still the Father's zealous tongue,
The Father prov'd his Lungs and zeal were strong,
Louder and louder the good end pursu'd,
'Till the proud Pagan's patience was subdu'd.

Now burn'd his fury, on the Priest he flew,
And by the beard his hoary reverence drew,
Rage gives him strength, he tuggs his silver hairs
And from his chin a grasp of wisdom tears.

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Then, close as pincers join, his throat he strains,
And lifts the sprawling Preacher from the Plains,
High oer his head in rapid wheel he's tost
And flung aloft in middle ocean lost.

The Priest remov'd, no more his Fury burn'd
With courteous eye he to the Lady turn'd
Who stood dismay'd and pale; he bow'd, address'd
And thus in Courtier's phrase his Love profess'd.

‘My Joy, my Hope, my Charmer, Angell fair,
‘Life of my life, and all my Soul holds dear!

Disdain and wonted pride his heart forsook,
And his eye languish'd with imploring look,
No ruffling Force shall discompose her charms.
Who meets a willing Beauty in his arms
Heightens his transport. Still with tender Art
He strove to gain on Isabella's heart.
When the chast Dame the horrid place survey'd
Desart and wild, remote from human aid
Not the young Lamb more dreadfull dangers awe,
When underneath the sportive Tyger's paw.
Lest brutal rape her spotless vertue stain
She casts her cautious eye around the plain
And meditates escape; resolv'd to dye
And never with his base desires comply.

O hapless Zerbin, couldst thou see her now,
Her Love sincere, her unrepented vow,
How would it glad thy soul? She'll force despise
And with unsully'd Virtue mount the skys

Now with desire the Pagan's Looks rebell,
How shall weak Woman stronger man repell!
He glows he burns her honour to destroy:
To grasp by violence the secret joy.
How shall she save her fame, what arts invent
What wile shall guard her from the foul intent?
Thus boldly resolute she sav'd her Fame,
And latest Ages shall adore her name.

Soon as his civil continence gave way
And his eye menac'd with enamour'd ray,
When looks and Actions spoke his inward fire,
And Force prepar'd to gratifye desire,
Thus spoke the pensive Dame. ‘My honour spare,
‘May my chast Vow no sudden insult fear,
‘So shall the Curtesie be doubly paid,
‘And lasting gratitude my guardian aid,
‘Resolve the transient moment to despise,
‘Protect me, and accept a solid prize;
‘Think, courteous knight, the world with Beauty swarms,
‘Think, thou mayst satiate Love with willing charms,
‘A thousand Eyes with keener radiance glow,
‘But I alone this secret can bestow.

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‘A Plant I know; I saw it in the vale
‘As I past by; with rue, & ivy pale
‘Let it be mingled; burn a Cypress brand,
‘And let it o'er the blaze fermenting stand,
‘Then let unblemish'd fingers press the juice.
‘Great are its virtues, wonderfull its use;
‘Who three times in it baths shall fire endure,
‘And from the sword his harden'd skin secure.
‘Let each revolving moon a Bath supply,
‘For in one moon its secret virtues dye:
‘May I this day the wondrous charm provide,
‘So shall the liquor and my faith be try'd,
‘Nor let my Lord the proffer'd boon despise,
‘For Europe's conquest is a meaner prize.
‘But in return, swear by thy Faith profest
‘Nor word nor deed my Honour shall molest.

He longs to brave unhurt the hottest wars
Like Cygnus and Achilles proof from scars;
Intent upon the Gift the Pagan swore
To keep with strictness all she ask'd & more,
And he with strictness will his passions rein,
And keep his Oath, 'till he the gift obtain,
But that obtain'd, no more his Oaths shall bind,
No conscience checks an unbeliever's mind;
A thousand times he promis'd, swore, and ly'd,
For he the saints and King of Heaven defy'd.

O'er the brown mountains and green vales they pass;
She culls with curious eye each tuft of grass
The Pagan followd close his lovely guide.
Her search with various roots and herbs supply'd,
Backward to seek the humble shed she fares,
And for the perils of the night prepares;
Around the boiling herbs the Cypress flame
Ascends, still Rhodomont observes the Dame.
To speed the hours, he calls his trusty Squires.
The heat, the steam, the smoke, the smoth'ring fires
Awake their thirst, they drink, they joke, they laugh,
And Grecian wine in mighty Goblets quaff.
(Two Casks his Squires had seiz'd as lawfull prey,
From certain Merchants trav'ling on the way)
Soon ev'ry object doubles to their eyes,
The reeling Cave in rapid circle flys
For by their Prophet Africk's Sons are taught
Never to taste the grape's inflaming draught.

Meanwhile with carefull hand the busy dame,
The boiling Cauldron lifts from off the flame,
‘Bespeaking thus the knight; Let proof ensue,
‘Let proof demonstrate that thy Servant's true
‘Let the strong virtues of the Charm appear
‘Nor let Suspicion banefull poyson fear,

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‘But lest my Lord in guilefull words confide,
‘May my anointed neck the test abide,
‘With this I bath me, lift thy sword on high,
‘I dare secure the heaviest blow defye.

So saying on her head the juice she throws,
The streaming liquor down her bosom flows.
She stretch'd her naked neck, as undismay'd;
The drunken Saracen the wine obey'd,
Wine that can render wit & wisdom vain,
And banish caution from the prudent brain.

High blaz'd his sword, swift fell the fatal wound,
The sever'd head dropt gasping on the ground,
That gracefull head, where Love & beauty reign'd
Lept from its bounding trunk with blood distain'd
Warm Life still gurgled in the rattling throat,
And Zerbin's name was her last dying note.
To meet her Lord thus fled she to the Skies,
The Pagan stood amaz'd in fixt surprise.

O spotless soul, who to support thy truth
Could life forgo, and all the spring of youth,
Go hence in peace, ascend to realms above,
Seize thy reward of everlasting love,
O may my verse thy virtuous deed record,
And be thy name in future times ador'd,
Go hence in peace, and ev'n in latest days
May emulating Dames thy virtue praise.

Orlando's sword so called.

The Story of Fiordispina.

Ricciardetto relates the Story to Ruggiero, who had sav'd him from being burnt: from the 25th Book of Ariosto.

As on a time my warlike Sister strayd
Pensive, along a neighb'ring forest's shade,
A Band of Saracens the wand'rer found,
And on her unarm'd head descends the wound.
To stanch the gushing blood the Surgeon's care
Clip short the tresses of her mantling hair.

Soon as the wound was heal'd; the Martial Maid
Her tender limbs in shining Mail array'd;
Then forth she rode, to brave the bold in fight,
And seek Adventures fair like hardy knight.
Sunk with labour of the sultry day
As by a fountain's side she takes her way,

225

The Shade's sweet cool, the stream, that murm'ring flows,
Invite her drooping soul to sweet repose;
No more the helmet's weight fatigues her head,
And in kind sleep she prints the grassy bed.

It chanc'd, a Princess of the blood of Spain,
Diana-like, with all her hunting train,
Pass'd near the slumb'ring Maid, in quest of Game,
(Fiordispina was her Royal Name).
When she the sleeping Bradamante spyd
With the broad sword depending at her side,
Her Limbs in steel encas'd; Her cheated Sight
Believ'd her, (what she wish'd) a youthfull knight.
O'er her fair face her eyes with pleasure rove,
Till in her breast she feels the dart of Love.
Rise, rise (she calls) the chase forbids delay.
(Yet if all Spys were gone, she fain would stay)
But she no more the Horn's shrill voice obey'd,
Intent on other Game, far off they strayd;
The distant Hunters crys were spent in air,
Close was the twilight wood, no witness near.
Soft Speeches, tender Actions spoke her flame,
And Looks that hinted what she fear'd to name
Her burning sighs, her eyes that glow'd with fire
Own'd how her heart consum'd with strong desire;
Now she look'd pale, then blushes warm'd her look,
And bold with Love a hasty kiss she took.

My Sister well devin'd the thing she meant.
But how shall Woman Woman's wish content?
Then thus she reason'd. 'Tis a gen'rous part
To show her the mistake to cure her heart
Tis better far be found a courteous Maid,
Than thought a coward Man, of Love afraid;
And well she might that wise conclusion draw.
For he's a coward, a meer man of Straw
Who, nigh his Lady ripe with nect'rous juice,
Insipid sits, forgetfull of her use;
And like the Cuckow, niggard of the Spring,
Talks his dull lesson o'er with dangling wing.

In courteous guise she strait the Fair addrest,
And to restrain her flame, her sex confest.
That, like Hippolita she fame acquir'd,
Or by Camilla's brave example fir'd,
By war she glory sought in foreign lands,
And pois'd the Shield and spear in infant hands;
Arzilla gave her Birth whose Towers command
The winding Seas that wash the Afric sand.
But nought avails this tale. Th'enamour'd Dame
Still in her bosom feels the former flame,

226

To deep Love's arrow pierc'd; my Sister's face
Lost not by this confession one sweet grace,
But still her Air and Mien new charms reveal.
No sudden cure the Wounds of Love can heal.
When she beheld her in that manly vest,
Imagination told her all the rest;
But when she thought her Woman, Sighs ensu'd,
Groans swell'd her breast, and tears her cheek bedew'd.
What harden'd heart could hear her thus complain
Whose pity had not wish'd to share her pain?

Was ever grief like mine! O wretched Maid!
All other Love can be with Love repay'd,
Whether a licenc'd, or a guilty flame,
All gain their ends with honour or with shame,
They know to crop the rose from off the Thorn;
Without reward my Torment must be born.
If at my happy State, O Love, you pin'd,
And to my heart some desp'rate ill design'd,
Whence is thy cruelty so furious grown.
To give me pangs to wretched Nymphs unknown?
It never among Man or Beast was found
That female e'er for female felt the Wound
Woman was never fair in Woman's Eyes
Ewes seek not Ewes, and Does sleek Does despise.
Am I alone, in earth, in Sea, or Air,
Destin'd the Wretch these burning pains to bear?
Or dost thou this unhappy flame foment,
To show thy Tyranny in full extent?
The wife of Ninus gain'd her impious Aim
Who with her son indulg'd th'incestuous flame
Myrrha her father's Love by stealth enjoy'd,
The Cretan Dame a dewlapt Bull employ'd;
They by disguises could their wish obtain.
My Love is Madness, for my Love is vain.
In a carv'd Cow Pasiphae hid her shame,
Others try'd diff'rent Arts, their end the same.
Though Skillfull Dædalus should hither fly
Not all his Power could this strong knot untye
By the more potent hand of nature wrought
And against Nature, human force is nought.

Thus wails the beauteous Dame, and in despair
Her bosom beats, and rends her flowing hair,
To see her grief, my Sister shares her pain
And trys to cool her rage, but trys invain
No tender speech her ardent heart relieves
The more she sooths, the more the Princess grieves.

Now glow'd the western sky with streaks of fire,
And falling Dews persuade them to retire.

227

Come then, Fair Maid, (she crys) not far away
My castle stands; there ease the Toils of Day.
Onward they past, 'till to those Gates they came
Where you preserv'd me from th'expecting flame.
They Enter, She to all presents her Guest,
And all with kind salute the Fair carest.
In female robes she strait her shape array'd
Lest other hearts might be, like hers, betray'd;
For since her Mien no real Joys could grant,
Who would chuse Scandal, and the Pleasure want?
And if a Man's disguise had rais'd the flame,
Perhaps her native dress might quench the same!
As Partner of her Bed, her Guest she chose,
But longing sighs, and Plaints deny'd repose
If a short slumber chance to close her Eyes,
Fancy awake her utmost wish supplys
She then experienc'd joys neer tryd before
And Bradamante seem'd a Man all oer.
Thus as in broken rest the sickman turns,
When on his tongue the droughty feaver burns
Imagination cools his thirsty dreams
With rills, brooks, rivers, and abundant Streams.
She wak'd, and soft her hand she gently laid,
But found it all a dream. Unhappy Maid!
How fervent were her prayers that tedious night
How did she call the Gods to do her right!
By Tokens palpable, O grant my Prayer
Into the better Sex convert the Fair.
Then soft she stretch'd her curious hand again
But found alas that all her Prayers were vain.

Thus past the Night, 'till Phœbus waken'd Day,
And rais'd his silver head above the Sea,
They rose. Who now her mighty griefs shall tell,
When the Fair Maid prepar'd to bid farewell?
Her ready Groom a prancing Gennet brought,
With Gold the furniture & trappings wrought,
A Garment which with richest art she wove,
All these she gave, as witness of her Love.
The Courteous Dame conducts her on the way,
Adieu, she cryd; yet prest her still to stay;
They part. Awhile she pensive stands & mourns
Then to her Palace wishfully returns.
My Sister Valleys, Hills & forests crost
Retiring Mountains in the clouds were lost
Thus her swift Palfrey, fleet as rapid wind
Reach'd Montalbano e'er the day declin'd.
What gladness in our mother's bosom sprung!
What shouts of joy through all the Castle rung!

228

Long in her absence we her Death deplor'd,
A Daughter, Sister, is to Life restor'd!
Her Helm unlac'd, we wonder to behold
Her shorten'd hair, which whilom round was roll'd
In ribband braided; some with curious eyes
Survey her robe enriched with foreign Dyes.
We learn with pleasure her adventures rare,
The desp'rate wound that caus'd her loss of Hair,
And how beside the murm'ring fountain laid,
Her martial Dress deceived the Royal Maid
How mid the secret wood they stray'd alone
And how the Princess made her passion known,
How when the Partner of her Bed she griev'd,
Tis pity such warm Love should be deceiv'd!

In Saragossa I the Dame had seen
And then her beauteous Eyes, her face, her mien,
With Joy with pleasure fill'd my captive mind,
But all Desire was not to sight confin'd,
He who his Love can without hopes foment
May with a dream or shadow be content
So strong her image in the tale was found
It reach'd my heart, & touch'd my former wound
With hopes at first Love fed the kindling fire,
And now again Hope waken'd with desire.
Desire now taught me to supply my want
To gain all I could ask & she could grant
How can Success on open minds attend?
'Tis well dissembling fraud that gains its end.
So like my Sister were my face, my make
The most discerning Eye might well mistake,
Why should th'enamour'd Dame more knowing prove?
O favour the disguise, kind God of Love!

Shall I or shall I not attempt her charms?
Fortune assists the Bold in Love & arms,
I ask'd no counsell, for I sought no aid
But the strong dictates of my soul obey'd.
Sudden in Bradamante's armour drest
Her well-known robe, her shining helme & crest,
Her steed I mounted, prick'd it oer the Lawn
Nor waited 'till the rosy morning's dawn.
Along the darksome night Love leads the way,
When Beauty calls a moment is delay.
Impatient to her Palace Gate I came
Eer in the Deep the Sun had quench'd his flame,
How did each servant fly the news to bear!
Who with it first shall greet the Royal fair?

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Who tells it first a due reward shall gain,
And grace & favour in her sight obtain.
They saw the self-same Steed the day before
They knew the Garment, & the Helme I wore
Like you deceiv'd, each hasty Servant spys
In my smooth feature Bradamante's eyes.

Fiordispina wing'd with pleasure came
Her sparkling Eye confest her inward flame.
In ev'ry action was her soul exprest:
How did she greet me! how my hand she prest
Then round my neck her eager arms she flings,
With sweet embrace, and to my Lips she clings.
Then, then Love's arrow took the surest aim,
Through ev'ry vein shot quick the tingling flame.
Now hand in hand she to my chamber leads,
Nor calls the Duty of officious maids,
Pleas'd with the Labour, she forgets her pride,
Disarms my Legs, & lays my helme aside.
From her own ward-robe a rich Gown was brought,
With all the cost of proud embroid'ry wrought,
With this she gave my Shape a female Air
And in a golden wreath confind my Hair.
My Eyes I turn'd with coy & modest Art
And ev'ry gesture play'd a woman's part;
My Voice (which had perhaps the fraud reveal'd)
Was in affected shriller tone conceal'd.
And now into the publick Hall we came
Where many a knight, & many a courteous Dame
Paid us all honours due to royal State,
The due Civilitys return'd; we sate.
The frequent glance of gallant knights I caught,
Whose Eye lascivious spoke their wanton thought
On me, alas! your glance is idly thrown
All is not, as ye wist, beneath the Gown.
The Night was far advanc'd; they clear'd the Board,
Which all the Daintys of the Season stor'd.
How joy'd I when the ready Dame propos'd,
What I with fear & trembling had disclos'd!
Come let's retire, with tender voice, she said
Once more repose the Partner of my Bed.
Her Ladys, Maids, & Pages now were gone
And I with all my wishes left alone,
Undrest, in bed; The Taper's blaz'd like day;
Wert thou prepar'd? why then this cold delay?
But lest Surprise (to find the Signs of Man)
With shrieks might wake the house, I thus began.

Wonder not, Princess at this sudden view,
That I who lately bid a long Adieu,

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So soon return. Had I the Power, the Art
To cure the love-sick feaver of thy heart
I ne'er had left these hospitable Towers
But to thy Joys devoted all my hours,
But when I found my presence give you pain,
I parted, ne'er to see these Walls again.
But chance or thought misled me as I past
Amidst a wood whose paths thick shrubs oercast,
A female scream from out the Thicket came.
With hasty stride I sprung to save the Dame.
Lo on a Bank a furious Fawn I spyd
Below clear waters form'd a spatious tide.
The Savage Fisherman a Naiad took
Who with smart anguish flounder'd on his hook
Near to the shore he drew the dying prize
And view'd the dainty feast with greedy eyes.
Thither I sped, & aim'd a fatal wound,
The Brutal Monster fell & bit the ground.
Freed from the snare, the Nymph with sudden glide
In the mid Lake arose, and thus she cry'd.
O valiant knight, this Deed shall be repay'd
Invain thou hast not lent the wretched aid.
Know then, the Nymph of all this Lake I reign,
Ask all thy wishes and thy will obtain.
Oer ev'ry Element my Power extends
And wond'ring Nature on my Nod attends,
With freedom make demand, I grant the Boon
From the pale Sky I'll draw the list'ning Moon
Fire freezes at my charms, the Sun I stay,
Air hardens, and the reeling Earth gives way.

I ask not mighty Nations to command,
Nor to grasp treasure in a Miser-hand,
I ask nor Strength, nor virtue, nor Renown,
From ev'ry war to bear the laurell Crown.
All obstacle, sayd I, Fair Nymph, remove
And teach me gratitude to her I Love;
I dare no farther my Desires explain
O may not now thy Skill, thy Power be vain;
I ask no more. The Nymph no answer gave,
But sudden dips beneath the crystal Wave
Then spirting oer my face th'enchanted stream
I found myself quite chang'd (as in a dream)
I see, I feel, invain my sex explore,
Signs gave me proof I Woman was no more.
And could I not even now the Truth produce,
I grant Suspicion might my words accuse.
As in the weaker Sex I felt the flame,
My duteous Zeal unchang'd, still burns the same.
This instant then my ready power employ
Give the sweet signal I obey with joy.

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Then oer my side her glowing hand she threw
And fully was convinc'd that all was true.
As one whose heart is check'd by strong despair
Of eer possessing what his soul holds dear
The more he sigh'd, and groan'd & wept, & pin'd,
If he by chance his utmost wishes find
Still more he grieves, he cannot Time regain;
For all his former life was spent invain.
Thus lay the Dame confus'd in deep suspense
Though often try'd, yet scarce believ'd her sense
And though her touch & sight the truth explore,
Dreams had deceiv'd her touch & sight before.
But still the Dame sincerer proof requir'd,
That all was real which her Soul desir'd.
If these be dreams, O God of Sleep, she crys,
From the dear vision may I never rise.
The Lady not too nice, her passion strong,
I know, like her; you think the story long.
Nor Drum nor Trumpet did the prelude play
To the warm onset of our am'rous fray,
But murm'ring kisses, like the billing Dove,
Mark'd ev'ry action in this field of Love.
If sighs and plaints last night her bed possest
'Twas now all joyous talk & pleasing jest;
Close as Acanthus leaves wreath'd Columns bind,
So arms with Arms & Legs with Legs entwin'd.

So secret were our joys, Moons roll'd away
And lost in pleasure ev'ry night we lay
At length our close intrigue was learnt by Fame
It spread, & to her royal Father came.
You whose strong Prowess made the croud retire,
And sav'd me from the rage of piles of fire,
Well know the rest. But let me never know
The dreadfull Torments she must undergo!

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FABLES.

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TO HIS HIGHNESS WILLIAM Duke of CUMBERLAND. THESE NEW Fables, INVENTED FOR HIS AMUSEMENT, Are humbly Dedicated, by HIS HIGHNESS's Most Faithful and Most Obedient Servant John Gay.

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First Series.

INTRODUCTION TO THE FABLES.

The Shepherd and the Philosopher.

Remote from citys liv'd a Swain,
Unvex'd with all the cares of gain,
His head was silver'd o'er with age,
And long experience made him sage;
In summer's heat and winter's cold
He fed his flock and pen'd the fold,
His hours in cheerful labour flew,
Nor envy nor ambition knew;
His wisdom and his honest fame
Through all the country rais'd his name.

A deep Philosopher (whose rules
Of moral life were drawn from schools)
The Shepherd's homely cottage sought,
And thus explor'd his reach of thought.

Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil
O'er books consum'd the midnight oil?
Hast thou old Greece and Rome survey'd,
And the vast sense of Plato weigh'd?
Hath Socrates thy soul refin'd,
And hast thou fathom'd Tully's mind?
Or, like the wise Ulysses thrown
By various fates on realms unknown,
Hast thou through many citys stray'd,
Their customs, laws and manners weigh'd?

The Shepherd modestly reply'd.
I ne'er the paths of learning try'd,
Nor have I roam'd in foreign parts
To read mankind, their laws and arts;
For man is practis'd in disguise,
He cheats the most discerning eyes:
Who by that search shall wiser grow,
When we ourselves can never know?
The little knowledge, I have gain'd,
Was all from simple nature drain'd;
Hence my life's maxims took their rise,
Hence grew my settled hate to vice.

The daily labours of the bee
Awake my soul to industry.

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Who can observe the careful ant,
And not provide for future want?
My dog (the trustiest of his kind)
With gratitude inflames my mind;
I mark his true, his faithful way,
And in my service copy Tray.
In constancy, and nuptial love
I learn my duty from the dove.
The hen, who from the chilly air
With pious wing protects her care,
And ev'ry fowl that flies at large
Instructs me in a parent's charge.

From nature too I take my rule
To shun contempt and ridicule.
I never with important air
In conversation overbear;
Can grave and formal pass for wise,
When men the solemn owl despise?
My tongue within my lips I rein,
For who talks much must talk in vain;
We from the wordy torrent fly:
Who listens to the chatt'ring pye?
Nor would I with felonious slight
By stealth invade my neighbour's right;
Rapacious animals we hate:
Kites, hawks and wolves deserve their fate.
Do not we just abhorrence find
Against the toad and serpent kind?
But envy, calumny and spite
Bear stronger venom in their bite.
Thus ev'ry object of creation
Can furnish hints to contemplation,
And from the most minute and mean
A virtuous mind can morals glean.

Thy fame is just, the Sage replys,
Thy virtue proves thee truly wise;
Pride often guides the author's pen,
Books as affected are as men,
But he who studys nature's laws
From certain truth his maxims draws,
And those, without our schools, suffice
To make men moral, good and wise.

FABLE I. The Lyon, the Tyger, and the Traveller .

TO HIS HIGHNESS William,Duke of Cumberland.

Accept, young Prince, the moral lay,
And in these tales mankind survey;
With early virtues plant your breast,
The specious arts of vice detest.
Princes, like Beautys, from their youth
Are strangers to the voice of truth:
Learn to contemn all praise betimes;
For flattery's the nurse of crimes;
Friendship by sweet reproof is shown,
(A virtue never near a throne;)
In courts such freedom must offend,
There none presumes to be a friend.
To those of your exalted station
Each courtier is a dedication;
Must I too flatter like the rest,
And turn my morals to a jest?
The muse disdains to steal from those,
Who thrive in courts by fulsome prose.

But shall I hide your real praise,
Or tell you what a nation says?
They in your infant bosom trace
The virtues of your Royal race,
In the fair dawning of your mind
Discern you gen'rous, mild and kind,
They see you grieve to hear distress,
And pant already to redress.

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Go on, the height of good attain,
Nor let a nation hope in vain.
For hence we justly may presage
The virtues of a riper age.
True courage shall your bosom fire,
And future actions own your Sire.
Cowards are cruel; but the brave
Love mercy, and delight to save.

A Tyger, roaming for his prey,
Sprung on a Trav'ler in the way;
The prostrate game a Lyon spys,
And on the greedy tyrant flys:
With mingled roar resounds the wood,
Their teeth, their claws distill with blood,
'Till, vanquish'd by the Lyon's strength,
The spotted foe extends his length.
The Man besought the shaggy lord,
And on his knees for life implor'd,
His life the gen'rous hero gave.
Together walking to his Cave,
The Lyon thus bespoke his guest.

What hardy beast shall dare contest
My matchless strength? You saw the fight,
And must attest my pow'r and right.
Forc'd to forego their native home
My starving slaves at distance roam,
Within these woods I reign alone,
The boundless forest is my own;
Bears, wolves, and all the savage brood
Have dy'd the regal den with blood;
These carcasses on either hand,
Those bones that whiten all the land
My former deeds and triumphs tell,
Beneath these jaws what numbers fell.

True, says the Man, the strength I saw
Might well the brutal nation awe;
But shall a monarch, brave like you,
Place glory in so false a view?
Robbers invade their neighbour's right.
Be lov'd. Let justice bound your might.
Mean are ambitious heroes boasts
Of wasted lands and slaughter'd hosts;
Pyrates their power by murders gain,
Wise kings by love and mercy reign;
To me your clemency hath shown
The virtue worthy of a throne;
Heav'n gives you power above the rest,
Like Heav'n to succour the distrest.

The case is plain, the Monarch said;
False glory hath my youth mis-led,
For beasts of prey, a servile train,
Have been the flatt'rers of my reign.
You reason well. Yet tell me, friend,
Did ever you in courts attend?
For all my fawning rogues agree
That human heroes rule like me.

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FABLE II. The Spaniel and the Cameleon .

A spaniel, bred with all the care
That waits upon a fav'rite heir,
Ne'er felt correction's rigid hand;
Indulg'd to disobey command,
In pamper'd ease his hours were spent;
He never knew what learning meant;
Such forward airs, so pert, so smart,
Were sure to win his lady's heart,
Each little mischief gain'd him praise;
How pretty were his fawning ways!

The wind was south, the morning fair,
He ventures forth to take the air;
He ranges all the meadow round,
And rolls upon the softest ground;
When near him a Cameleon seen
Was scarce distinguish'd from the green.

Dear emblem of the flatt'ring host,
What live with clowns, a genius lost!
To citys and the court repair,
A fortune cannot fail thee there;
Preferment shall thy talents crown.
Believe me, friend; I know the town.

Sir, says the sycophant, like you,
Of old, politer life I knew;
Like you, a courtier born and bred,
Kings lean'd their ear to what I said,
My whisper always met success,
The ladys prais'd me for address,
I knew to hit each courtier's passion,
And flatter'd ev'ry vice in fashion.
But Jove, who hates the lyar's ways,
At once cut short my prosp'rous days,
And, sentenc'd to retain my nature,
Transform'd me to this crawling creature;
Doom'd to a life obscure and mean,
I wander in the sylvan scene.
For Jove the heart alone regards,
He punishes what man rewards.
How diff'rent is thy case and mine!
With men at least you sup and dine,
While I, condemn'd to thinnest fare
Like those I flatter'd, feed on air.

FABLE III. The Mother, the Nurse, and the Fairy .

Give me a son. The blessing sent,
Were ever Parents more content?
How partial are their doating eyes!
No child is half so fair and wise.

Wak'd to the morning's pleasing care,
The Mother rose, and sought her heir;
She saw the Nurse, like one possest,
With wringing hands and sobbing breast.

Sure some disaster has befel,
Speak Nurse; I hope the boy is well.

Dear Madam, think not me to blame,
Invisible the Fairy came,
Your precious babe is hence convey'd,
And in the place a changeling laid;
Where are the father's mouth and nose,
The mother's eyes, as black as sloes?
See here, a shocking aukward creature,
That speaks a fool in ev'ry feature.

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The woman's blind, the Mother crys,
I see wit sparkle in his eyes.

Lord! Madam, what a squinting leer!
No doubt the Fairy hath been here.

Just as she spoke, a pigmy sprite
Pops through the key-hole, swift as light,
Perch'd on the cradle's top he stands,
And thus her folly reprimands.

Whence sprung the vain conceited lye
That we the world with fools supply?
What! give our sprightly race away,
For the dull helpless sons of clay!
Besides, by partial fondness shown,
Like you we doat upon our own.
Where yet was ever found a mother,
Who'd give her booby for another?
And should we change with human breed,
Well might we pass for fools indeed.

FABLE IV. The Eagle, and the Assembly of Animals .

As Jupiter's all-seeing eye
Survey'd the worlds beneath the sky,
From this small speck of earth were sent
Murmurs and sounds of discontent;
For ev'ry thing alive complain'd
That he the hardest life sustain'd.

Jove calls his Eagle. At the word
Before him stands the royal bird.
The Bird, obedient, from heav'n's height
Downward directs his rapid flight;
Then cited ev'ry living thing,
To hear the mandates of his king.

Ungrateful creatures, whence arise
These murmurs which offend the skies;
Why this disorder? say the cause:
For just are Jove's eternal Laws.
Let each his discontent reveal.
To yon sour dog I first appeal.

Hard is my lot, the hound replys.
On what fleet nerves the greyhound flys!
While I with weary step and slow
O'er plains and vales and mountains go;
The morning sees my chase begun,
Nor ends it 'till the setting sun.

When (says the greyhound) I pursue,
My game is lost, or caught in view,
Beyond my sight the prey's secure:
The hound is slow but always sure.
And, had I his sagacious scent,
Jove ne'er had heard my discontent.

The lyon crav'd the foxe's art;
The fox, the lyon's force and heart;
The cock implor'd the pidgeon's flight,
Whose wings were rapid, strong and light;
The pidgeon strength of wing despis'd,
And the cock's matchless valour priz'd:
The fishes wish'd to graze the plain,
The beasts to skim beneath the main.
Thus, envious of another's state,
Each blam'd the partial hand of Fate.

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The bird of heav'n then cry'd aloud.
Jove bids disperse the murm'ring croud:
The God rejects your idle prayers.
Would ye, rebellious mutineers,
Entirely change your name and nature,
And be the very envy'd creature?
What, silent all, and none consent!
Be happy then, and learn content.
Nor imitate the restless mind,
And proud ambition of mankind.

FABLE V. The Wild Boar and the Ram .

Against an elm a sheep was ty'd,
The butcher's knife in blood was dy'd;
The patient flock, in silent fright,
From far beheld the horrid sight;
A savage Boar, who near them stood,
Thus mock'd to scorn the fleecy brood.

All cowards should be serv'd like you.
See, see, your murd'rer is in view;
With purple hands and reeking knife
He strips the skin yet warm with life:
Your quarter'd sires, your bleeding dams,
The dying bleat of harmless lambs
Call for revenge. O stupid race!
The heart that wants revenge is base.

I grant, an ancient Ram replys,
We bear no terror in our eyes,
Yet think us not of soul so tame,
Which no repeated wrongs inflame;
Insensible of ev'ry ill,
Because we want thy tusks to kill.
Know, Those who violence pursue
Give to themselves the vengeance due,
For in these massacres they find
The two chief plagues that waste mankind.
Our skin supplys the wrangling bar,
It wakes their slumbring sons to war,
And well revenge may rest contented,
Since drums and parchment were invented.

FABLE VI. The Miser and Plutus .

The wind was high; the window shakes,
With sudden start the Miser wakes,
Along the silent room he stalks,
Looks back and trembles as he walks,
Each lock and ev'ry bolt he trys,
In ev'ry creek and corner prys,
Then opes the chest with treasure stor'd,
And stands in rapture o'er his hoard.
But now, with sudden qualms possest,
He wrings his hands, he beats his breast,
By conscience stung he wildly stares,
And thus his guilty soul declares.

Had the deep earth her stores confin'd,
This heart had known sweet peace of mind.
But virtue's sold. Good Gods, what price
Can recompense the pangs of vice!

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O bane of good! seducing cheat!
Can man, weak man, thy power defeat?
Gold banish'd honour from the mind,
And only left the name behind;
Gold sow'd the world with ev'ry ill;
Gold taught the murd'rer's sword to kill;
'Twas gold instructed coward hearts
In treach'ry's more pernicious arts:
Who can recount the mischiefs o'er?
Virtue resides on earth no more!

He spoke, and sigh'd. In angry mood
Plutus, his God, before him stood;
The Miser trembling lock'd his chest,
The Vision frown'd, and thus addrest.

Whence is this vile ungrateful rant?
Each sordid rascal's daily cant:
Did I, base wretch, corrupt mankind?
The fault's in thy rapacious mind.
Because my blessings are abus'd,
Must I be censur'd, curs't, accus'd?
Ev'n virtue's self by knaves is made
A cloak to carry on the trade,
And power (when lodg'd in their possession)
Grows tyranny, and rank oppression.
Thus when the villain crams his chest,
Gold is the canker of the breast;
'Tis av'rice, insolence, and pride,
And ev'ry shocking vice beside.
But when to virtuous hands 'tis given,
It blesses, like the dews of Heaven,
Like Heav'n, it hears the orphan's cries,
And wipes the tears from widows eyes.
Their crimes on gold shall misers lay,
Who pawn'd their sordid souls for pay?
Let bravos then (when blood is spilt)
Upbraid the passive sword with guilt.

FABLE VII. The Lyon, the Fox, and the Geese .

A Lyon, tir'd with State affairs,
Quite sick of pomp, and worn with cares,
Resolv'd (remote from noise and strife)
In peace to pass his latter life.

It was proclaim'd; the day was set;
Behold the gen'ral council met.
The Fox was Viceroy nam'd. The croud
To the new Regent humbly bow'd:
Wolves, bears and mighty tygers bend,
And strive who most shall condescend.
He strait assumes a solemn grace,
Collects his wisdom in his face,
The croud admire his wit, his sense:
Each word hath weight and consequence;
The flatt'rer all his art displays:
He who hath power is sure of praise.
A fox stept forth before the rest,
And thus the servile throng addrest.

How vast his talents, born to rule,
And train'd in virtue's honest school!
What clemency his temper sways!
How uncorrupt are all his ways!
Beneath his conduct and command
Rapine shall cease to waste the land;
His brain hath stratagem and art,
Prudence and mercy rule his heart.
What blessings must attend the nation
Under this good administration!

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He said. A Goose, who distant stood,
Harangu'd apart the cackling brood.
Whene'er I hear a knave commend,
He bids me shun his worthy friend.
What praise! what mighty commendation!
But 'twas a fox who spoke th'oration.
Foxes this government may prize
As gentle, plentiful and wise;
If they enjoy these sweets, 'tis plain,
We geese must feel a tyrant reign.
What havock now shall thin our race!
When ev'ry petty clerk in place,
To prove his taste, and seem polite,
Will feed on geese both noon and night.

FABLE VIII. The Lady and the Wasp .

What whispers must the Beauty bear!
What hourly nonsense haunts her ear!
Where-e'er her eyes dispense their charms
Impertinence around her swarms.
Did not the tender nonsense strike,
Contempt and scorn might look dislike,
Forbidding airs might thin the place,
The slightest flap a fly can chase.
But who can drive the num'rous breed?
Chase one, another will succeed.
Who knows a fool, must know his brother;
One fop will recommend another;
And with this plague she's rightly curst,
Because she listen'd to the first.

As Doris, at her toilette's duty,
Sate meditating on her beauty,
She now was pensive, now was gay,
And loll'd the sultry hours away.

As thus in indolence she lyes,
A giddy wasp around her flies,
He now advances, now retires,
Now to her neck and cheek aspires;
Her fan in vain defends her charms,
Swift he returns, again alarms,
For by repulse he bolder grew,
Perch'd on her lip and sipt the dew.

She frowns, she frets. Good Gods, she crys,
Protect me from these teazing flys!
Of all the plagues that heav'n hath sent
A wasp is most impertinent.

The hov'ring insect thus complain'd.
Am I then slighted, scorn'd, disdain'd?
Can such offence your anger wake?
'Twas beauty caus'd the bold mistake.
Those cherry lips that breathe perfume,
That cheek so ripe with youthful bloom
Made me with strong desire pursue
The fairest peach that ever grew.

Strike him not, Jenny, Doris crys,
Nor murder wasps, like vulgar flys,
For though he's free (to do him right)
The creature's civil and polite.

In ecstasies away he posts,
Where-e'er he came the favour boasts,
Brags how her sweetest tea he sips,
And shows the sugar on his lips.

The hint alarm'd the forward crew.
Sure of success, away they flew;
They share the daintys of the day,
Round her with airy musick play,
And now they flutter, now they rest,
Now soar again, and skim her breast,
Nor were they banish'd, 'till she found
That wasps have stings, and felt the wound.

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FABLE IX. The Bull and the Mastiff .

Seek you to train your fav'rite boy?
Each caution, ev'ry care employ,
And ere you venture to confide,
Let his preceptor's heart be try'd;
Weigh well his manners, life, and scope,
On these depends thy future hope.

As on a time, in peaceful reign,
A Bull enjoy'd the flow'ry plain,
A Mastiff pass'd; inflam'd with ire,
His eye-balls shot indignant fire,
He foam'd, he rag'd with thirst of blood.

Spurning the ground the monarch stood,
And roar'd aloud. Suspend the fight,
In a whole skin, go, sleep to-night;
Or tell me, ere the battel rage,
What wrongs provoke thee to engage?
Is it ambition fires thy breast,
Or avarice that ne'er can rest?
From these alone unjustly springs
The world-destroying wrath of Kings.

The surly Mastiff thus returns.
Within my bosom glory burns.
Like heroes of eternal name,
Whom poets sing, I fight for fame:
The butcher's spirit-stirring mind
To daily war my youth inclin'd,
He train'd me to heroic deed,
Taught me to conquer or to bleed.

Curst dog, the Bull reply'd, no more
I wonder at thy thirst of gore,
For thou (beneath a butcher train'd,
Whose hands with cruelty are stain'd,
His daily murders in thy view,)
Must, like thy tutor, blood pursue.
Take then thy fate. With goring wound
At once he lifts him from the ground,
Aloft the sprawling hero flys,
Mangled he falls, he howls, and dyes.

FABLE X. The Elephant and the Bookseller .

The man, who with undaunted toils
Sails unknown seas to unknown soils,
With various wonders feasts his sight:
What stranger wonders does he write!
We read, and in description view
Creatures which Adam never knew;
For, when we risque no contradiction,
It prompts the tongue to deal in fiction.
Those things that startle me or you,
I grant are strange; yet may be true.
Who doubts that elephants are found
For science and for sense renown'd?
Borri records their strength of parts,
Extent of thought, and skill in arts;
How they perform the law's decrees,
And save the state the hang-man's fees,
And how by travel understand
The language of another land.
Let those, who question this report,
To Pliny's ancient page resort.
How learn'd was that sagacious breed!
Who now (like them) the greek can read!

As one of these, in days of yore,
Rummag'd a shop of learning o'er,

244

Not like our modern dealers, minding
Only the margin's breadth and binding;
A book his curious eye detains,
Where, with exactest care and pains,
Were ev'ry beast and bird portray'd,
That e'er the search of man survey'd.
Their natures and their powers were writ
With all the pride of human wit;
The page he with attention spread,
And thus remark'd on what he read.

Man with strong reason is endow'd;
A Beast scarce is allow'd:
But let this author's worth be try'd,
'Tis plain that neither was his guide.
Can he discern the diffrent natures,
And weigh the pow'r of other creatures,
Who by the partial work hath shown
He knows so little of his own?
How falsely is the spaniel drawn!
Did Man from him first learn to fawn?
A dog proficient in the trade!
He, the chief flatt'rer nature made!
Go, man, the ways of courts discern,
You'll find a spaniel still might learn.
How can the foxe's theft and plunder
Provoke his censure, or his wonder?
From courtiers tricks, and lawyers arts
The fox might well improve his parts.
The lyon, wolf, and tyger's brood
He curses, for their thirst of blood;
But is not man to man a prey?
Beasts kill for hunger, men for pay.

The Bookseller, who heard him speak,
And saw him turn a page of Greek,
Thought, what a genius have I found!
Then thus addrest with bow profound.

Learn'd Sir, if you'd employ your pen
Against the senseless sons of men,
Or write the history of Siam,
No man is better pay than I am;
Or, since you're learn'd in Greek, let's see
Something against the Trinity.

When wrinkling with a sneer his trunk,
Friend, quoth the Elephant, you're drunk;
E'en keep your money, and be wise;
Leave man on man to criticise,
For that you ne'er can want a pen
Among the senseless sons of men,
They unprovok'd will court the fray,
Envy's a sharper spur than pay,
No author ever spar'd a brother,
Wits are game-cocks to one another.

FABLE XI. The Peacock, the Turkey, and the Goose .

In beauty faults conspicuous grow,
The smallest speck is seen on snow.

As near a barn, by hunger led,
A Peacock with the poultry fed;
All view'd him with an envious eye,
And mock'd his gaudy pageantry:
He, conscious of superior merit,
Contemns their base reviling spirit,
His state and dignity assumes,
And to the sun displays his plumes,
Which, like the heav'n's o'er-arching skies,
Are spangled with a thousand eyes;
The circling rays and varied light
At once confound their dazled sight,

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On ev'ry tongue detraction burns,
And malice prompts their spleen by turns.

Mark, with what insolence and pride
The creature takes his haughty stride,
The Turkey crys. Can spleen contain?
Sure never bird was half so vain!
But were intrinsic merit seen,
We turkeys have the whiter skin.

From tongue to tongue they caught abuse;
And next was heard the hissing Goose.
What hideous legs! what filthy claws!
I scorn to censure little flaws.
Then what a horrid squawling throat!
Ev'n owls are frighted at the note.

True. Those are faults, the Peacock crys,
My scream, my shanks you may despise:
But such blind critics rail in vain.
What, overlook my radiant train!
Know, did my legs (your scorn and sport)
The turkey or the goose support,
And did ye scream with harsher sound,
Those faults in you had ne'er been found;
To all apparent beautys blind,
Each blemish strikes an envious mind.

Thus in Assemblys have I seen
A nymph of brightest charms and mien
Wake envy in each ugly face;
And buzzing scandal fills the place.

FABLE XII. Cupid, Hymen, and Plutus .

As Cupid in Cythera's grove
Employ'd the lesser powers of love,
Some shape the bow, or fit the string,
Some give the taper shaft its wing,
Or turn the polish'd quiver's mold,
Or head the darts with temper'd gold.

Amidst their toil and various care,
Thus Hymen, with assuming air,
Addrest the God. Thou purblind chit,
Of aukward and ill-judging wit,
If matches are no better made,
At once I must forswear my trade.
You send me such ill-coupled folks,
That 'tis a shame to sell them yokes.
They squabble for a pin, a feather,
And wonder how they came together.
The husband's sullen, dogged, shy,
The wife grows flippant in reply;
He loves command and due restriction,
And she as well likes contradiction;
She never slavishly submits,
She'll have her will, or have her fits;
He this way tugs, she t'other draws,
The man grows jealous, and with cause,
Nothing can save him but divorce,
And here the wife complys of course.

When, says the Boy, had I to do
With either your affairs or you?
I never idly spend my darts;
You trade in mercenary hearts:
For settlements the lawyer's fee'd;
Is my hand witness to the Deed?
If they like cat and dog agree,
Go rail at Plutus, not at me.

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Plutus appear'd, and said; 'Tis true,
In marriage, gold is all their view;
They seek not beauty, wit or sense,
And love is seldom the pretence.
All offer incense at my shrine,
And I alone the bargain sign.
How can Belinda blame her fate?
She only ask'd a great estate.
Doris was rich enough, 'tis true,
Her Lord must give her title too;
And ev'ry man, or rich or poor,
A fortune asks, and asks no more.

Av'rice, whatever shape it bears,
Must still be coupled with its cares.

FABLE XIII. The tame Stag .

As a young Stag the thicket past,
The branches held his antlers fast,
A clown, who saw the captive hung,
Across the horns his halter flung.

Now, safely hamper'd in the cord,
He bore the present to his lord:
His lord was pleas'd: as was the clown,
When he was tipt with half-a-crown.
The Stag was brought before his wife,
The tender lady begg'd his life.
How sleek's the skin! how speck'd like ermine!
Sure never creature was so charming!

At first within the yard confin'd,
He flys and hides from all mankind;
Now bolder grown, with fixt amaze
And distant awe presumes to gaze,
Munches the linnen on the lines,
And on a hood or apron dines;
He steals my little master's bread,
Follows the servants to be fed,
Nearer and nearer now he stands,
To feel the praise of patting hands,
Examines ev'ry fist for meat,
And though repulsed disdains retreat,
Attacks again with levell'd horns,
And man, that was his terror, scorns.

Such is the country maiden's fright,
When first a red-coat is in sight,
Behind the door she hides her face,
Next time at distance eyes the lace,
She now can all his terrors stand,
Nor from his squeeze withdraws her hand;
She plays familiar in his arms,
And ev'ry soldier hath his charms;
From tent to tent she spreads her flame:
For custom conquers fear and shame.

FABLE XIV. The Monkey who had seen the World .

A Monkey, to reform the times,
Resolv'd to visit foreign climes;
For men in distant regions roam
To bring politer manners home:
So forth he fares, all toil defys;
Misfortune serves to make us wise.

At length the treach'rous snare was laid,
Poor Pug was caught, to town convey'd,
There sold; (How envy'd was his doom,

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Made captive in a lady's room!)
Proud as a lover of his chains,
He day by day her favour gains.
Whene'er the duty of the day,
The toilette calls; with mimic play
He twirles her knots, he cracks her fan,
Like any other gentleman.
In visits too his parts and wit,
When jests grew dull, were sure to hit.
Proud with applause, he thought his mind
In ev'ry courtly art refin'd,
Like Orpheus burnt with publick zeal,
To civilize the monkey weal;
So watch'd occasion, broke his chain,
And sought his native woods again.

The hairy sylvans round him press,
Astonish'd at his strut and dress,
Some praise his sleeve, and others glote
Upon his rich embroider'd coat,
His dapper perriwig commending
With the black tail behind depending,
His powder'd back, above, below,
Like hoary frosts, or fleecy snow;
But all, with envy and desire,
His flutt'ring shoulder-knot admire.

Hear and improve, he pertly crys,
I come to make a nation wise;
Weigh your own worth; support your place,
The next in rank to human race.
In citys long I pass'd my days,
Convers'd with men, and learnt their ways:
Their dress, their courtly manners see;
Reform your state, and copy me.
Seek ye to thrive? In flatt'ry deal,
Your scorn, your hate, with that conceal;
Seem only to regard your friends,
But use them for your private ends,
Stint not to truth the flow of wit,
Be prompt to lye, whene'er 'tis fit;
Bend all your force to spatter merit;
Scandal is conversation's spirit;
Boldly to ev'ry thing pretend,
And men your talents shall commend;
I knew the Great. Observe me right,
So shall you grow like man polite.

He spoke and bow'd. With mutt'ring jaws
The wondring circle grinn'd applause.

Now, warm with malice, envy, spite,
Their most obliging friends they bite,
And fond to copy human ways,
Practise new mischiefs all their days.

Thus the dull lad, too tall for school,
With travel finishes the fool,
Studious of ev'ry coxcomb's airs,
He drinks, games, dresses, whores and swears,
O'erlooks with scorn all virtuous arts,
For vice is fitted to his parts.

FABLE XV. The Philosopher and the Pheasant .

The Sage, awak'd at early day,
Through the deep forest took his way;
Drawn by the musick of the groves,
Along the winding gloom he roves;
From tree to tree, the warbling throats
Prolong the sweet alternate notes.
But where he past he terror threw,
The song broke short, the warblers flew,
The thrushes chatter'd with affright,
And nightingales abhorr'd his sight;
All animals before him ran
To shun the hateful sight of man.

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Whence is this dread of ev'ry creature?
Fly they our figure or our nature?

As thus he walk'd in musing thought,
His ear imperfect accents caught;
With cautious step he nearer drew,
By the thick shade conceal'd from view:
High on the branch a Pheasant stood,
Around her all her list'ning brood,
Proud of the blessings of her nest,
She thus a mother's care exprest.

No dangers here shall circumvent,
Within the woods enjoy content.
Sooner the hawk or vulture trust
Than man; of animals the worst;
In him ingratitude you find,
A vice peculiar to the kind.
The sheep, whose annual fleece is dy'd,
To guard his health, and serve his pride,
Forc'd from his fold and native plain,
Is in the cruel shambles slain.
The swarms, who, with industrious skill,
His hives with wax and honey fill,
In vain whole summer days employ'd,
Their stores are sold, the race destroy'd.
What tribute from the goose is paid!
Does not her wing all science aid?
Does it not lovers hearts explain,
And drudge to raise the merchant's gain?
What now rewards this general use?
He takes the quills and eats the goose.
Man then avoid, detest his ways,
So safely shall prolong your days.
When services are thus acquitted,
Be sure we pheasants must be spitted.

FABLE XVI. The Pin and the Needle .

A Pin who long had serv'd a Beauty,
Proficient in the toilette's duty,
Had form'd her sleeve, confin'd her hair,
Or giv'n her knot a smarter air,
Now nearest to her heart was plac'd,
Now in her manteau's tail disgrac'd;
But could she partial fortune blame,
Who saw her lovers serv'd the same?

At length from all her honours cast,
Through various turns of life she past;
Now glitter'd on a taylor's arm,
Now kept a beggar's infant warm,
Now, rang'd within a miser's coat,
Contributes to his yearly groat,
Now, rais'd again from low approach,
She visits in the doctor's coach;
Here, there, by various fortune tost,
At last in Gresham hall was lost.

Charm'd with the wonders of the show,
On ev'ry side, above, below,
She now of this or that enquires,
What least was understood admires;
'Tis plain, each thing so struck her mind,
Her head's of virtuoso kind.

And pray what's this and this, dear sir?
A needle, says th'interpreter.
She knew the name. And thus the fool
Addrest her as a taylor's tool.

A needle with that filthy stone,
Quite idle, all with rust o'ergrown!
You better might employ your parts,
And aid the sempstress in her arts.
But tell me how the friendship grew
Between that paultry flint and you?

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Friend, says the Needle, cease to blame;
I follow real worth and fame.
Know'st thou the loadstone's power and art,
That virtue virtues can impart?
Of all his talents I partake.
Who then can such a friend forsake?
'Tis I direct the pilot's hand
To shun the rocks and treach'rous sand;
By me the distant world is known,
And either India is our own.
Had I with milliners been bred,
What had I been? the guide of thread,
And drudg'd as vulgar needles do,
Of no more consequence than you.

FABLE XVII. The Shepherd's Dog and the Wolf .

A Wolf, with hunger fierce and bold,
Ravag'd the plains and thinn'd the fold:
Deep in the wood secure he lay,
The thefts of night regal'd the day;
In vain the shepherd's wakeful care
Had spread the toils and watch'd the snare,
In vain the dog pursu'd his pace,
The fleeter robber mock'd the chase.

As Lightfoot rang'd the forest round,
By chance his foe's retreat he found.

Let us awhile the war suspend,
And reason as from friend to friend.

A truce, replys the Wolf? 'Tis done.
The Dog the parley thus begun.

How can that strong intrepid mind
Attack a weak defenceless kind?
Those jaws should prey on nobler food,
And drink the boar's and lyon's blood;
Great souls with gen'rous pity melt,
Which coward tyrants never felt:
How harmless is our fleecy care!
Be brave, and let thy mercy spare.

Friend, says the Wolf, the matter weigh.
Nature design'd us beasts of prey,
As such, when hunger finds a treat,
'Tis necessary wolves should eat.
If mindful of the bleating weal,
Thy bosom burn with real zeal,
Hence, and thy tyrant lord beseech,
To him repeat the moving speech;
A wolf eats sheep but now and then,
Ten thousands are devour'd by men.
An open foe may prove a curse,
But a pretended friend is worse.

FABLE XVIII. The Painter who pleased No body and Every body.

Lest men suspect your tale untrue,
Keep probability in view.
The trav'ler leaping o'er those bounds,
The credit of his book confounds;
Who with his tongue hath armies routed
Makes ev'n his real courage doubted.
But flatt'ry never seems absurd,
The flatter'd always takes your word,
Impossibilities seem just,
They take the strongest praise on trust;
Hyperboles, though ne'er so great,
Will still come short of self-conceit.

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So very like a Painter drew,
That ev'ry eye the picture knew;
He hit complexion, feature, air,
So just, the life itself was there.
No flatt'ry, with his colours laid,
To bloom restor'd the faded maid,
He gave each muscle all its strength,
The mouth, the chin, the nose's length
His honest pencil touch'd with truth,
And mark'd the date of age and youth.

He lost his friends, his practice fail'd,
Truth should not always be reveal'd;
In dusty piles his pictures lay,
For no one sent the second pay.

Two bustos, fraught with ev'ry grace,
A Venus' and Apollo's face,
He plac'd in view; resol'vd to please,
Whoever sate, he drew from these,
From these corrected ev'ry feature,
And spirited each aukward creature.

All things were set; the hour was come,
His pallet ready o'er his thumb,
My lord appear'd, and seated right
In proper attitude and light,
The Painter look'd, he sketch'd the piece,
Then dipt his pencil, talk'd of Greece,
Of Titian's tints, of Guido's air;
Those eyes, my lord, the spirit there
Might well a Raphael's hand require,
To give them all the native fire;
The features fraught with sense and wit
You'll grant are very hard to hit,
But yet with patience you shall view
As much as paint and art can do.

Observe the work. My lord reply'd.
'Till now I thought my mouth was wide,
Besides, my nose is somewhat long,
Dear sir, for me, 'tis far too young.

Oh, pardon me, the artist cry'd,
In this we painters must decide.
The piece ev'n common eyes must strike,
I warrant it extreamly like.

My lord examin'd it anew;
No looking-glass seem'd half so true.

A lady came, with borrow'd grace
He from his Venus form'd her face
Her lover prais'd the painter's art
So like the picture in his heart!
To ev'ry age some charm he lent,
Ev'n Beautys were almost content.

Through all the town his art they prais'd,
His custom grew, his price was rais'd.
Had he the real likeness shown,
Would any man the picture own?
But when thus happily he wrought,
Each found the likeness in his thought.

FABLE XIX. The Lyon and the Cub .

How fond are men of rule and place,
Who court it from the mean and base!
These cannot bear an equal nigh,
But from superior merit fly;
They love the cellar's vulgar joke,
And lose their hours in ale and smoak;
There o'er some petty club preside,
So poor, so paultry is their pride!
Nay, ev'n with fools whole nights will sit,
In hopes to be supream in wit.
If these can read, to these I write,
To set their worth in truest light.

A Lyon-cub, of sordid mind,
Avoided all the lyon kind;

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Fond of applause, he sought the feasts
Of vulgar and ignoble beasts,
With asses all his time he spent,
Their club's perpetual president.
He caught their manners, looks and airs:
An ass in ev'ry thing, but ears!
If e'er his highness meant a joke,
They grinn'd applause before he spoke;
But at each word what shouts of praise!
Good Gods! how natural he brays!

Elate with flatt'ry and conceit,
He seeks his royal sire's retreat;
Forward, and fond to show his parts,
His highness brays, the Lyon starts.

Puppy, that curst vociferation
Betrays thy life and conversation;
Coxcombs, an ever-noisy race,
Are trumpets of their own disgrace.

Why so severe, the Cub replys?
Our senate always held me wise.

How weak is pride, returns the Sire,
All fools are vain, when fools admire!
But know, what stupid asses prize,
Lyons and noble beasts despise.

FABLE XX. The Old Hen and the Cock .

Restrain your child; you'll soon believe
The text, which says, we sprung from Eve.

As an old Hen led forth her train,
And seem'd to peck to show the grain;
She rak'd the chaff, she scratch'd the ground,
And glean'd the spacious yard around.
A giddy chick, to try her wings,
On the well's narrow margin springs,
And prone she drops. The mother's breast
All day with sorrow was possest.

A Cock she met; her son she knew;
And in her heart affection grew.

My son, says she, I grant your years
Have reach'd beyond a mother's cares;
I see you vig'rous, strong and bold,
I hear with joy your triumphs told;
'Tis not from cocks thy fate I dread:
But let thy ever-wary tread
Avoid yon well; that fatal place
Is sure perdition to our race.
Print this my counsel on thy breast;
To the just Gods I leave the rest.

He thank'd her care; yet day by day
His bosom burn'd to disobey,
And ev'ry time the well he saw
Scorn'd in his heart the foolish law;
Near and more near each day he drew,
And long'd to try the dang'rous view.

Why was this idle charge? he crys:
Let courage female fears despise.
Or did she doubt my heart was brave,
And therefore this injunction gave?
Or does her harvest store the place,
A treasure for her younger race?
And would she thus my search prevent?
I stand resolv'd, and dare th'event.

Thus said. He mounts the margin's round,
And prys into the depth profound.
He stretch'd his neck; and from below
With stretching neck advanc'd a foe;
With wrath his ruffled plumes he rears,
The foe with ruffled plumes appears;
Threat answer'd threat, his fury grew,
Headlong to meet the war he flew;
But when the watry death he found,
He thus lamented, as he drown'd.

I ne'er had been in this condition
But for my mother's prohibition.

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FABLE XXI. The Rat-catcher and Cats .

The rats by night such mischief did,
Betty was ev'ry morning chid:
They undermin'd whole sides of bacon,
Her cheese was sapp'd, her tarts were taken,
Her pastys, fenc'd with thickest paste,
Were all demolish'd and laid waste.
She curst the cat for want of duty,
Who left her foes a constant booty.

An Engineer, of noted skill,
Engag'd to stop the growing ill.

From room to room he now surveys
Their haunts, their works, their secret ways,
Finds where they 'scape an ambuscade,
And whence the nightly sally's made.

An envious Cat, from place to place,
Unseen, attends his silent pace,
She saw that, if his trade went on,
The purring race must be undone,
So, secretly removes his baits,
And ev'ry stratagem defeats.

Again he sets the poyson'd toils,
And puss again the labour foils.

What foe (to frustrate my designs)
My schemes thus nightly countermines?
Incens'd, he crys: this very hour
The wretch shall bleed beneath my power.

So said. A pond'rous trap he brought,
And in the fact poor puss was caught.

Smuggler, says he, thou shalt be made
A victim to our loss of trade.

The captive Cat with piteous mews
For pardon, life and freedom sues.
A sister of the science spare,
One int'rest is our common care.

What insolence! the man reply'd,
Shall cats with us the game divide?
Were all your interloping band
Extinguish'd, or expell'd the land,
We rat-catchers might raise our fees,
Sole guardians of a nation's cheese!

A Cat, who saw the lifted knife,
Thus spoke, and sav'd her sister's life.

In ev'ry age and clime we see,
Two of a trade can ne'er agree,
Each hates his neighbour for encroaching;
Squire stigmatizes squire for poaching;
Beautys with beautys are in arms,
And scandal pelts each other's charms;
Kings too their neighbour kings dethrone,
In hope to make the world their own.
But let us limit our desires,
Not war like beautys, kings and squires,
For though we both one prey pursue,
There's game enough for us and you.

FABLE XXII. The Goat without a Beard.

'Tis certain, that the modish passions
Descend among the croud, like fashions.
Excuse me, then; if pride, conceit,
(The manners of the fair and great)
I give to monkeys, asses, dogs,
Fleas, owls, goats, butterflys and hogs.
I say, that these are proud. What then?
I never said, they equal men.

A Goat (as vain as goat can be)
Affected singularity:
Whene'er a thymy bank he found,
He roll'd upon the fragrant ground,

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And then with fond attention stood,
Fix'd, o'er his image in the flood.

I hate my frowzy beard, he crys;
My youth is lost in this disguise.
Did not the females know my vigour,
Well might they loath this rev'rend figure.

Resolv'd to smooth his shaggy face,
He sought the barber of the place.
A flippant monkey, spruce and smart,
Hard by, profest the dapper art;
His pole with pewter basons hung,
Black rotten teeth in order strung,
Rang'd cups, that in the window stood,
Lin'd with red rags, to look like blood,
Did well his threefold trade explain,
Who shav'd, drew teeth, and breath'd a vein.

The Goat he welcomes with an air,
And seats him in his wooden chair,
Mouth, nose and cheek the lather hides,
Light, smooth and swift the razor glides.

I hope your custom, Sir, says Pug.
Sure never face was half so smug!

The Goat, impatient for applause,
Swift to the neighb'ring hill withdraws
The shaggy people grinn'd and star'd.

Heighday! what's here? without a beard!
Say, brother, whence the dire disgrace?
What envious hand hath robb'd your face?

When thus the fop with smiles of scorn.
Are beards by civil nations worn?
Ev'n Muscovites have mow'd their chins.
Shall we, like formal Capucins,
Stubborn in pride, retain the mode,
And bear about the hairy load?
Whene'er we through the village stray,
Are we not mock'd along the way,
Insulted with loud shouts of scorn,
By boys our beards disgrac'd and torn?

Were you no more with goats to dwell,
Brother, I grant you reason well,
Replys a bearded chief. Beside,
If boys can mortify thy pride,
How wilt thou stand the ridicule
Of our whole flock? affected fool!
Coxcombs, distinguish'd from the rest,
To all but coxcombs are a jest.

FABLE XXIII. The Old Woman and her Cats .

Who friendship with a knave hath made
Is judg'd a partner in the trade.
The matron, who conducts abroad
A willing nymph, is thought a bawd;
And if a modest girl is seen
With one who cures a lover's spleen,
We guess her, not extreamly nice,
And only wish to know her price.
'Tis thus, that on the choice of friends
Our good or evil name depends.

A wrinkled hag, of wicked fame,
Beside a little smoaky flame
Sate hov'ring, pinch'd with age and frost;
Her shrivell'd hands, with veins embost,
Upon her knees her weight sustains,
While palsie shook her crazy brains;
She mumbles forth her backward prayers,
An untam'd scold of fourscore years.
About her swarm'd a num'rous brood
Of Cats, who lank with hunger mew'd.

Teaz'd with their crys her choler grew,

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And thus she sputter'd. Hence ye crew.
Fool that I was, to entertain
Such imps, such fiends, a hellish train!
Had ye been never hous'd and nurst,
I, for a witch, had ne'er been curst.
To you I owe, that crouds of boys
Worry me with eternal noise;
Straws laid across my pace retard,
The horse-shoe's nail'd (each threshold's guard;)
The stunted broom the wenches hide,
For fear that I should up and ride;
They stick with pins my bleeding seat,
And bid me show my secret teat.

To hear you prate would vex a saint,
Who hath most reason of complaint?
Replys a Cat. Let's come to proof.
Had we ne'er starv'd beneath your roof,
We had, like others of our race,
In credit liv'd, as beasts of chace.
'Tis infamy to serve a hag;
Cats are thought imps, her broom a nag;
And boys against our lives combine,
Because, 'tis said, your cats have nine.

FABLE XXIV. The Butterfly and the Snail .

All upstarts, insolent in place,
Remind us of their vulgar race.

As, in the sun-shine of the morn,
A Butterfly (but newly born)
Sate proudly perking on a rose;
With pert conceit his bosom glows,
His wings (all glorious to behold)
Bedropt with azure, jet and gold,
Wide he displays; the spangled dew
Reflects his eyes and various hue.

His now forgotten friend, a Snail,
Beneath his house, with slimy trail
Crawles o'er the grass; whom when he spys,
In wrath he to the gard'ner crys:

What means yon peasant's daily toil,
From choaking weeds to rid the soil?
Why wake you to the morning's care?
Why with new arts correct the year?
Why glows the peach with crimson hue?
And why the plum's inviting blue?
Were they to feast his taste design'd,
That vermine of voracious kind?
Crush then the slow, the pilfring race,
So purge thy garden from disgrace.

What arrogance! the Snail reply'd;
How insolent is upstart pride!
Hadst thou not thus, with insult vain,
Provok'd my patience to complain;
I had conceal'd thy meaner birth,
Nor trac'd thee to the scum of earth.
For scarce nine suns have wak'd the hours,
To swell the fruit and paint the flowers,
Since I thy humbler life survey'd,
In base, in sordid guise array'd;
A hideous insect, vile, unclean,
You dragg'd a slow and noisome train,
And from your spider bowels drew
Foul film, and spun the dirty clue.
I own my humble life, good friend;
Snail was I born, and snail shall end.
And what's a butterfly? At best,
He's but a caterpillar, drest:
And all thy race (a num'rous seed)
Shall prove of caterpillar breed.

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FABLE XXV. The Scold and the Parrot .

The husband thus reprov'd his wife.
Who deals in slander, lives in strife.
Art thou the herald of disgrace,
Denouncing war to all thy race?
Can nothing quell thy thunder's rage,
Which spares nor friend, nor sex, nor age?
That vixen tongue of yours, my dear,
Alarms our neighbours far and near;
Good Gods! 'tis like a rolling river,
That murm'ring flows, and flows for ever!
Ne'er tir'd, perpetual discord sowing!
Like fame, it gathers strength by going.

Heighday! the flippant tongue replys,
How solemn is the fool! how wise!
Is nature's choicest gift debarr'd?
Nay, frown not; for I will be heard.
Women of late are finely ridden,
A parrot's privilege forbidden!
You praise his talk, his squawling song,
But wives are always in the wrong.

Now reputations flew in pieces
Of mothers, daughters, aunts and nieces,
She ran the parrot's language o'er;
Bawd, hussy, drunkard, slattern, whore,
On all the sex she vents her fury,
Trys and condemns without a jury.

At once the torrent of her words
Alarm'd cat, monkey, dogs and birds;
All join their forces to confound her,
Puss spits, the monkey chatters round her,
The yelping cur her heels assaults,
The magpye blabs out all her faults;
Poll, in the uproar, from his cage,
With this rebuke out-scream'd her rage.

A parrot is for talking priz'd,
But prattling women are despis'd;
She, who attacks another's honour,
Draws ev'ry living thing upon her.
Think, madam, when you stretch your lungs,
That all your neighbours too have tongues;
One slander must ten thousand get,
The world with interest pays the debt.

FABLE XXVI. The Cur and the Mastiff .

A sneaking Cur, the master's spy,
Rewarded for his daily lye,
With secret jealousies and fears
Set all together by the ears.
Poor puss to-day was in disgrace,
Another cat supply'd her place;
The hound was beat, the mastiff chid,
The monkey was the room forbid,
Each to his dearest friend grew shy,
And none could tell the reason why.

A plan to rob the house was laid;
The thief with love seduc'd the maid,

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Cajol'd the Cur, and strok'd his head,
And bought his secresy with bread.
He next the Mastiff's honour try'd,
Whose honest jaws the bribe defy'd;
He stretch'd his hand to proffer more;
The surly dog his fingers tore.

Swift ran the Cur; with indignation
The master took his information.
Hang him, the villain's curst, he crys,
And round his neck the halter tyes.

The Dog his humble suit preferr'd
And begg'd in justice to be heard.
The master sat. On either hand
The cited dogs confronting stand;
The Cur the bloody tale relates,
And, like a lawyer, aggravates.

Judge not unheard, the Mastiff cry'd,
But weigh the cause of either side.
Think not that treach'ry can be just,
Take not informers words on trust;
They ope their hand to ev'ry pay;
And you and me by turns betray.

He spoke. And all the truth appear'd.
The Cur was hang'd, the Mastiff clear'd.

FABLE XXVII. The Sick Man and the Angel .

Is there no hope? the sick Man said.
The silent doctor shook his head,
And took his leave, with signs of sorrow,
Despairing of his fee to-morrow.

When thus the Man, with gasping breath.
I feel the chilling wound of death.
Since I must bid the world adieu;
Let me my former life review.
I grant, my bargains well were made,
But all men over-reach in trade;
'Tis self-defence in each profession,
Sure self-defence is no transgression.
The little portion in my hands,
By good security on lands,
Is well encreas'd. If, unawares,
My justice to my self and heirs
Hath let my debtor rot in jail,
For want of good sufficient bail;
If I by writ, or bond, or deed
Reduc'd a family to need,
My will hath made the world amends;
My hope on charity depends.
When I am number'd with the dead,
And all my pious gifts are read,
By heav'n and earth 'twill then be known
My charitys were amply shown.

An Angel came. Ah friend, he cry'd,
No more in flatt'ring hope confide.
Can thy good deeds in former times
Outweigh the ballance of thy crimes?
What widow or what orphan prays
To crown thy life with length of days?
A pious action's in thy power,
Embrace with joy the happy hour;
Now, while you draw the vital air,
Prove your intention is sincere:
This instant give a hundred pound;
Your neighbours want, and you abound.

But why such haste, the sick Man whines,
Who knows as yet what Heav'n designs?

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Perhaps I may recover still.
That sum and more are in my will.

Fool, says the Vision, now 'tis plain,
Your life, your soul, your heav'n was gain;
From ev'ry side, with all your might,
You scrap'd, and scrap'd beyond your right,
And after death would fain attone,
By giving what is not your own.

Where there is life, there's hope, he cry'd;
Then why such haste? so groan'd and dy'd.

FABLE XXVIII. The Persian, the Sun and the Cloud .

Is there a bard whom genius fires,
Whose ev'ry thought the God inspires?
When Envy reads the nervous lines,
She frets, she rails, she raves, she pines,
Her hissing snakes with venom swell,
She calls her venal train from hell,
The servile fiends her nod obey,
And all Curl's authors are in pay.
Fame calls up calumny and spite.
Thus shadow owes its birth to light.

As prostrate to the God of day
With heart devout a Persian lay;
His invocation thus begun.

Parent of light, all-seeing Sun,
Prolific beam, whose rays dispense
The various gifts of Providence,
Accept our praise, our daily prayer,
Smile on our fields and bless the year.

A Cloud, who mock'd his grateful tongue,
The day with sudden darkness hung,
With pride and envy swell'd, aloud
A voice thus thunder'd from the cloud.

Weak is this gawdy God of thine,
Whom I at will forbid to shine;
Shall I nor vows, nor incense know?
Where praise is due, the praise bestow.

With fervent zeal the Persian mov'd
Thus the proud calumny reprov'd.

It was that God, who claims my prayer,
Who gave thee birth and rais'd thee there:
When o'er his beams the veil is thrown
Thy substance is but plainer shown.
A passing gale, a puff of wind
Dispells thy thickest troops combin'd.

The gale arose; the vapor tost
(The sport of winds) in air was lost;
The glorious orb the day refines.
Thus Envy breaks, thus Merit shines.

FABLE XXIX. The Fox at the point of death.

A Fox, in life's extream decay,
Weak, sick and faint, expiring lay;
All appetite had left his maw,
And age disarm'd his mumbling jaw.
His num'rous race around him stand
To learn their dying sire's command;
He rais'd his head with whining moan,
And thus was heard the feeble tone.

Ah sons, from evil ways depart,
My crimes lye heavy on my heart.
See, see, the murder'd geese appear!
Why are those bleeding turkeys there?

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Why all around this cackling train,
Who haunt my ears for chicken slain?

The hungry foxes round them star'd,
And for the promis'd feast prepar'd.

Where, Sir, is all this dainty cheer?
Nor turkey, goose, nor hen is here:
These are the phantoms of your brain,
And your sons lick their lips in vain.

O gluttons, says the drooping sire,
Restrain inordinate desire;
Your liqu'rish taste you shall deplore,
When peace of conscience is no more.
Does not the hound betray our pace,
And gins and guns destroy our race?
Thieves dread the searching eye of power,
And never feel the quiet hour.
Old-age, (which few of us shall know,)
Now puts a period to my woe.
Would you true happiness attain,
Let honesty your passions rein;
So live in credit and esteem,
And, the good name you lost, redeem.

The counsel's good, a fox replies,
Could we perform what you advise.
Think, what our ancestors have done;
A line of thieves from son to son;
To us descends the long disgrace,
And infamy hath mark'd our race.
Though we, like harmless sheep, should feed,
Honest in thought, in word, and deed,
Whatever hen-roost is decreas'd,
We shall be thought to share the feast.
The change shall never be believ'd,
A lost good name is ne'er retriev'd.

Nay then, replys the feeble Fox,
(But, hark! I hear a hen that clocks)
Go, but be mod'rate in your food;
A chicken too might do me good.

FABLE XXX. The Setting-dog and the Partridge .

The ranging Dog the stubble tries,
And searches ev'ry breeze that flies;
The scent grows warm; with cautious fear
He creeps, and points the covey near.
The men in silence, far behind,
Conscious of game, the net unbind.

A Partridge, with experience wise,
The fraudful preparation spies,
She mocks their toils, alarms her brood,
The covey springs, and seeks the wood;
But ere her certain wing she tries,
Thus to the creeping spaniel cries.

Thou fawning slave to man's deceit,
Thou pimp of lux'ry, sneaking cheat,
Of thy whole species thou disgrace,
Dogs should disown thee of their race!
For if I judge their native parts,
They're born with honest open hearts,
And, ere they serv'd man's wicked ends,
Were gen'rous foes or real friends.

When thus the Dog with scornful smile.
Secure of wing, thou dar'st revile.
Clowns are to polish'd manners blind;
How ign'rant is the rustick mind!
My worth sagacious courtiers see,
And to preferment rise like me.
The thriving pimp, who beauty sets,
Hath oft' enhanced a nation's debts;
Friend sets his friend, without regard;
And ministers his skill reward.

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Thus train'd by man, I learnt his ways,
And growing favour feasts my days.

I might have guess'd, the Partridge said,
The place where you were train'd and fed;
Servants are apt, and in a trice
Ape to a hair their master's vice.
You came from court, you say. Adieu.
She said, and to the covey flew.

FABLE XXXI. The Universal Apparition .

A Rake, by ev'ry passion rul'd,
With ev'ry vice his youth had cool'd;
Disease his tainted blood assails,
His spirits droop, his vigor fails,
With secret ills at home he pines,
And, like infirm old-age, declines.

As, twing'd with pain, he pensive sits,
And raves, and prays, and swears by fits,
A ghastly phantome, lean and wan,
Before him rose, and thus began.

My name perhaps hath reach'd your ear;
Attend, and be advis'd by Care.
Nor love, nor honour, wealth nor power
Can give the heart a cheerful hour,
When health is lost. Be timely wise:
With health all taste of pleasure flies.

Thus said, the phantome disappears.
The wary counsel wak'd his fears;
He now from all excess abstains,
With physick purifies his veins;
And to procure a sober life
Resolves to venture on a wife.

But now again the sprite ascends,
Where'er he walks his ear attends,
Insinuates that beauty's frail,
That perseverance must prevail,
With jealousies his brain inflames,
And whispers all her lovers names;
In other hours she represents
His houshold charge, his annual rents,
Encreasing debts, perplexing duns,
And nothing for his younger sons.

Strait all his thought to gain he turns.
And with the thirst of lucre burns;
But when possest of fortune's store,
The spectre haunts him more and more,
Sets want and misery in view,
Bold thieves and all the murd'ring crew,
Alarms him with eternal frights,
Infests his dream, or wakes his nights.

How shall he chase this hideous guest?
Power may perhaps protect his rest;
To pow'r he rose. Again the sprite
Besets him morning, noon and night,
Talks of ambition's tott'ring seat,
How envy persecutes the great,
Of rival hate, of treach'rous friends,
And what disgrace his fall attends.

The court he quits to fly from Care,
And seeks the peace of rural air;
His groves, his fields amus'd his hours,
He prun'd his trees, he rais'd his flowers;
But Care again his steps pursues,
Warns him of blasts, of blighting dews,
Of plund'ring insects, snails and rains,
And droughts that starve the labour'd plains.
Abroad, at home, the spectre's there:
In vain we seek to fly from Care.

At length he thus the ghost addrest.
Since thou must be my constant guest,
Be kind, and follow me no more,
For Care by right should go before.

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FABLE XXXII. The two Owls and the Sparrow .

Two formal Owls together sate,
Conferring thus in solemn chat.

How is the modern taste decay'd!
Where's the respect to wisdom paid?
Our worth the Grecian sages knew,
They gave our sires the honour due,
They weigh'd the dignity of fowls,
And pry'd into the depth of owls.
Athens, the seat of learned fame,
With gen'ral voice rever'd our name;
On merit title was conferr'd,
And all ador'd th'Athenian bird.

Brother, you reason well, replies
The solemn mate, with half-shut eyes;
Right. Athens was the seat of learning,
And truly wisdom is discerning.
Besides, on Pallas' helm we sit,
The type and ornament of wit:
But now, alas, we're quite neglected,
And a pert sparrow's more respected.

A Sparrow, who was lodg'd beside,
O'erhears them sooth each other's pride,
And thus he nimbly vents his heat.

Who meets a fool must find conceit.
I grant, you were at Athens grac'd,
And on Minerva's helm were plac'd,
But ev'ry bird that wings the sky,
Except an owl, can tell you why.
From hence they taught their schools to know
How false we judge by outward show,
That we should never looks esteem,
Since fools as wise as you might seem.
Would ye contempt and scorn avoid,
Let your vain-glory be destroy'd;
Humble your arrogance of thought,
Pursue the ways by nature taught,
So shall ye find delicious fare,
And grateful farmers praise your care,
So shall sleek mice your chase reward,
And no keen cat find more regard.

FABLE XXXIII. The Courtier and Proteus .

Whene'er a courtier's out of place,
The country shelters his disgrace;
Where, doom'd to exercise and health,
His house and gardens own his wealth.
He builds new schemes, in hopes to gain
The plunder of another reign;
Like Philip's son would fain be doing,
And sighs for other realms to ruin.

As one of these (without his wand)
Pensive, along the winding strand
Employ'd the solitary hour
In projects to regain his power;
The waves in spreading circles ran,
Proteus arose, and thus began.

Came you from court? For in your mien
A self-important air is seen.

He frankly own'd his friends had trick'd him,
And how he fell his party's victim.

Know, says the God, by matchless skill
I change to ev'ry shape at will;
But yet, I'm told, at court you see
Those who presume to rival me.

Thus said. A snake, with hideous trail,
Proteus extends his scaly mail.

Know, says the Man, though proud in place,
All courtiers are of reptile race.

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Like you, they take that dreadful form,
Bask in the sun, and fly the storm;
With malice hiss, with envy glote,
And for convenience change their coat,
With new-got lustre rear their head,
Though on a dunghill born and bred.

Sudden the God a lyon stands,
He shakes his mane, he spurns the sands;
Now a fierce lynx, with fiery glare,
A wolf, an ass, a fox, a bear.

Had I ne'er lived at court, he cries,
Such transformation might surprise;
But there, in quest of daily game,
Each able courtier acts the same.
Wolves, lyons, lynxes, while in place,
Their friends and fellows are their chace;
They play the bear's and fox's part,
Now rob by force, now steal with art;
They sometimes in the senate bray;
Or, chang'd again to beasts of prey,
Down from the lyon to the ape,
Practise the frauds of ev'ry shape.

So said. Upon the God he flies,
In cords the struggling captive tyes.

Now, Proteus, now (to truth compell'd)
Speak, and confess thy art excell'd.
Use strength, surprise, or what you will,
The courtier finds evasion still;
Not to be bound by any tyes,
And never forc'd to leave his lyes.

FABLE XXXIV. The Mastiff .

Those, who in quarrels interpose,
Must often wipe a bloody nose.

A Mastiff, of true English blood,
Lov'd fighting better than his food,
When dogs were snarling for a bone,
He long'd to make the war his own,
And often found (when two contend)
To interpose obtain'd his end;
He glory'd in his limping pace,
The scars of honour seam'd his face,
In ev'ry limb a gash appears,
And frequent fights retrench'd his ears.

As, on a time, he heard from far
Two dogs engag'd in noisy war,
Away he scours and lays about him,
Resolv'd no fray should be without him.

Forth from his yard a tanner flies,
And to the bold intruder cries,

A cudgel shall correct your manners.
Whence sprung this cursed hate to tanners?
While on my dog you vent your spite;
Sirrah, 'tis me you dare not bite.

To see the battel thus perplext,
With equal rage a butcher vext,
Hoarse-screaming from the circled croud,
To the curst Mastiff cries aloud.

Both Hockley-hole and Mary-bone
The combats of my dog have known;
He ne'er, like bullies coward-hearted,
Attacks in publick, to be parted;
Think not, rash fool, to share his fame,
Be his the honour or the shame.

Thus said, they swore and rav'd like thunder,
They dragg'd their fasten'd dogs asunder,

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While clubs and kicks from ev'ry side
Rebounded from the Mastiff's hide.

All reeking now with sweat and blood
A while the parted warriors stood,
Then pour'd upon the meddling foe;
Who, worried, howl'd and sprawl'd below:
He rose; and limping from the fray,
By both sides mangled, sneak'd away.

FABLE XXXV. The Barley-mow and the Dunghill .

How many saucy airs we meet
From Temple-bar to Aldgate-street;
Proud rogues, who shar'd the Southsea prey,
And sprung like mushrooms in a day!
They think it mean, to condescend
To know a brother or a friend;
They blush to hear their mother's name,
And by their pride expose their shame.

As cross his yard, at early day,
A careful farmer took his way,
He stop'd, and leaning on his fork
Observ'd the flail's incessant work;
In thought he measur'd all his store,
His geese, his hogs he number'd o'er,
In fancy weigh'd the fleeces shorn,
And multiply'd the next year's corn.

A Barley-mow, which stood beside,
Thus to its musing master cry'd.

Say, good sir, is it fit or right
To treat me with neglect and slight?
Me, who contribute to your cheer,
And raise your mirth with ale and beer!
Why thus insulted, thus disgrac'd,
And that vile dunghill near me plac'd?
Are those poor sweepings of a groom,
That filthy sight, that nauseous fume
Meet objects here? Command it hence:
A thing so mean must give offence.

The humble Dunghill thus reply'd.
Thy master hears and mocks thy pride.
Insult not thus the meek and low,
In me thy benefactor know;
My warm assistance gave thee birth,
Or thou hadst perish'd low in earth;
But upstarts, to support their station,
Cancell at once all obligation.

FABLE XXXVI. Pythagoras and the Countryman .

Pythag'ras rose at early dawn.
By soaring meditation drawn,
To breathe the fragrance of the day,
Through flow'ry fields he took his way;
In musing contemplation warm,
His steps mis-led him to a farm,
Where, on the ladder's topmost round
A Peasant stood; the hammer's sound
Shook the weak barn. Say, friend, what care
Calls for thy honest labour there?

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The Clown with surly voice replies.
Vengeance aloud for justice cries:
This kite, by daily rapine fed,
My hen's annoy, my turkey's dread,
At length his forfeit life hath paid;
See, on the wall his wings display'd,
Here nail'd, a terror to his kind,
My fowls shall future safety find,
My yard the thriving poultry feed,
And my barn's refuse fat the breed.

Friend, says the Sage, the doom is wise,
For publick good the murd'rer dies;
But if these tyrants of the air
Demand a sentence so severe,
Think how the glutton man devours;
What bloody feasts regale his hours!
O impudence of power and might,
Thus to condemn a hawk or kite,
When thou perhaps, carniv-rous sinner,
Hadst pullets yesterday for dinner!

Hold, cry'd the Clown, with passion heated,
Shall kites and men alike be treated?
When Heav'n the world with creatures stor'd,
Man was ordain'd their sov'raign lord.

Thus tyrants boast, the Sage reply'd,
Whose murders spring from power and pride.
Own then this manlike kite is slain
Thy greater lux'ry to sustain;
For petty rogues submit to fate
That great ones may enjoy their state.

Garth's Dispensary.

FABLE XXXVII. The Farmer's Wife and the Raven .

Why are those tears? Why droops your head?
Is then your other husband dead?
Or does a worse disgrace betide?
Hath no one since his death apply'd?

Alas! you know the cause too well.
The salt is spilt, to me it fell.
Then to contribute to my loss,
My knife and fork were laid across,
On friday too! the day I dread!
Would I were safe at home in bed!
Last night (I vow to Heav'n 'tis true)
Bounce from the fire a coffin flew.
Next post some fatal news shall tell.
God send my Cornish friends be well!

Unhappy widow, cease thy tears,
Nor feel affliction in thy fears;
Let not thy stomach be suspended,
Eat now, and weep when dinner's ended,
And when the butler clears the table
For thy dissert I'll read my fable.

Betwixt her swagging pannier's load
A Farmer's wife to market rode,
And, jogging on, with thoughtful care
Summ'd up the profits of her ware;

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When, starting from her silver dream,
Thus far and wide was heard her scream.

That raven on yon left-hand oak
(Curse on his ill-betiding croak)
Bodes me no good. No more she said,
When poor blind Ball with stumbling tread
Fell prone; o'erturn'd the pannier lay,
And her mash'd eggs bestrow'd the way.

She, sprawling in the yellow road,
Rail'd, swore and curst. Thou croaking toad,
A murrain take thy whoreson throat!
I knew misfortune in the note.

Dame, quoth the Raven, spare your oaths,
Unclench your fist, and wipe your cloaths.
But why on me those curses thrown?
Goody, the fault was all your own;
For had you laid this brittle ware
On Dun, the old sure-footed mare,
Though all the ravens of the Hunderd
With croaking had your tongue out-thunder'd,
Sure-footed Dun had kept his legs,
And you, good woman, sav'd your eggs.

FABLE XXXVIII. The Turkey and the Ant .

In other men we faults can spy,
And blame the mote that dims their eye,
Each little speck and blemish find,
To our own stronger errors blind.

A Turkey, tir'd of common food,
Forsook the barn, and sought the wood,
Behind her ran her infant train,
Collecting here and there a grain.

Draw near, my birds, the mother cries,
This hill delicious fare supplies;
Behold, the busy Negro race,
See, millions blacken all the place!
Fear not. Like me, with freedom eat;
An ant is most delightful meat.
How blest, how envy'd were our life,
Could we but 'scape the poult'rer's knife!
But man, curst man on turkeys preys,
And Christmas shortens all our days;
Sometimes with oysters we combine,
Sometimes assist the sav'ry chine.
From the low peasant to the lord,
The turkey smoaks on ev'ry board.
Sure men for gluttony are curst,
Of the sev'n deadly sins the worst.

An Ant, who climb'd beyond his reach,
Thus answer'd from the neighb'ring beech.
Ere you remark another's sin.
Bid thy own conscience look within.
Controul thy more voracious bill,
Nor for a breakfast nations kill.

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FABLE XXXIX. The Father and Jupiter .

The Man to Jove his suit preferr'd;
He begg'd a wife; his prayer was heard.
Jove wonder'd at his bold addressing.
For how precarious is the blessing!

A wife he takes. And now for heirs
Again he worries heav'n with prayers.
Jove nods assent. Two hopeful boys
And a fine girle reward his joys.

Now more solicitous he grew,
And set their future lives in view;
He saw that all respect and duty
Were paid to wealth, to power, and beauty.

Once more, he cries, accept my prayer,
Make my lov'd progeny thy care:
Let my first hope, my fav'rite boy,
All fortune's richest gifts enjoy.
My next with strong ambition fire,
May favour teach him to aspire,
'Till he the step of power ascend,
And courtiers to their idol bend.
With ev'ry grace, with ev'ry charm
My daughter's perfect features arm.
If Heav'n approve, a father's blest.
Jove smiles, and grants his full request.

The first, a miser at the heart,
Studious of ev'ry griping art,
Heaps hoards on hoards with anxious pain,
And all his life devotes to gain.
He feels no joy, his cares encrease,
He neither wakes nor sleeps in peace,
In fancy'd want (a wretch compleat)
He starves, and yet he dares not eat.

The next to sudden honours grew,
The thriving art of courts he knew;
He reach'd the height of power and place,
Then fell, the victim of disgrace.

Beauty with early bloom supplies
His daughter's cheek, and points her eyes:
The vain coquette each suit disdains,
And glories in her lovers pains.
With age she fades, each lover flies,
Contemn'd, forlorn, she pines and dies.

When Jove the father's grief survey'd,
And heard him Heav'n and Fate upbraid,
Thus spoke the God. By outward show
Men judge of happiness and woe:
Shall ignorance of good and ill
Dare to direct th'eternal will?
Seek virtue; and of that possest,
To Providence resign the rest.

FABLE XL. The two Monkeys .

The learned, full of inward pride,
The fops of outward show deride;
The fop, with learning at defiance,
Scoffs at the pedant and the science:
The Don, a formal, solemn strutter,
Despises Monsieur's airs and flutter;
While Monsieur mocks the formal fool,
Who looks, and speaks, and walks by rule.
Britain, a medly of the twain,
As pert as France, as grave as Spain,

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In fancy wiser than the rest,
Laughs at them both, of both the jest.
Is not the poet's chiming close
Censur'd, by all the sons of prose?
While bards of quick imagination
Despise the sleepy prose narration.
Men laugh at apes, they men contemn;
For what are we, but apes to them?

Two Monkeys went to Southwark fair,
No criticks had a sourer air.
They forc'd their way through draggled folks,
Who gap'd to catch Jack-Pudding's jokes.
Then took their tickets for the show,
And got by chance the foremost row.

To see their grave observing face
Provok'd a laugh thro' all the place.

Brothers, says Pug, and turn'd his head,
The rabble's monstrously ill-bred.

Now through the booth loud hisses ran;
Nor ended 'till the Show began.

The tumbler whirles the flip-flap round,
With sommersets he shakes the ground;
The cord beneath the dancer springs;
Aloft in air the vaulter swings,
Distorted now, now prone depends,
Now through his twisted arms ascends;
The croud, in wonder and delight,
With clapping hands applaud the sight.

With smiles, quoth Pug; If pranks like these
The giant apes of reason please,
How would they wonder at our arts!
They must adore us for our parts.
High on the twig I've seen you cling,
Play, twist and turn in airy ring;
How can those clumsy things, like me,
Fly with a bound from tree to tree?
But yet, by this applause, we find
These emulators of our kind
Discern our worth, our parts regard,
Who our mean mimicks thus reward.

Brother, the grinning mate replies,
In this I grant that man is wise,
While good example they pursue,
We must allow some praise is due;
But when they strain beyond their guide,
I laugh to scorn the mimic pride.
For how fantastick is the sight,
To meet men always bolt upright,
Because we sometimes walk on two!
I hate the imitating crew.

FABLE XLI. The Owl and the Farmer .

An Owl of grave deport and mien,
Who (like the Turk) was seldom seen,
Within a barn had chose his station,
As fit for prey and contemplation:
Upon a beam aloft he sits,
And nods, and seems to think, by fits.
So have I seen a man of news
Or Post-boy, or Gazette peruse,
Smoak, nod, and talk with voice profound,
And fix the fate of Europe round.
Sheaves pil'd on sheaves hid all the floor:
At dawn of morn to view his store
The Farmer came. The hooting guest
His self-importance thus exprest.

Reason in man is meer pretence:
How weak, how shallow is his sense!
To treat with scorn the bird of night,
Declares his folly or his spite;

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Then too, how partial is his praise!
The lark's, the linnet's chirping lays
To his ill-judging ears are fine;
And nightingales are all divine.
But the more knowing feather'd race
See wisdom stampt upon my face.
Whene'er to visit light I deign,
What flocks of fowl compose my train!
Like slaves, they croud my flight behind,
And own me of superior kind.

The Farmer laugh'd, and thus reply'd.
Thou dull important lump of pride,
Dar'st thou with that harsh grating tongue
Depreciate birds of warbling song?
Indulge thy spleen. Know, men and fowl
Regard thee, as thou art, an owl.
Besides, proud blockhead, be not vain
Of what thou call'st thy slaves and train.
Few follow wisdom or her rules,
Fools in derision follow fools.

FABLE XLII. The Jugglers .

A Juggler long through all the town
Had rais'd his fortune and renown;
You'd think (so far his art transcends)
The devil at his fingers' ends.

Vice heard his fame, she read his bill;
Convinc'd of his inferior skill,
She sought his booth, and from the croud
Defy'd the man of art aloud.

Is this then he so famed for slight,
Can this slow bungler cheat your sight,
Dares he with me dispute the prize?
I leave it to impartial eyes.

Provok'd, the Juggler cry'd, 'tis done.
In science I submit to none.

Thus said. The cups and balls he play'd;
By turns, this here, that there, convey'd:
The cards, obedient to his words,
Are by a fillip turn'd to birds;
His little boxes change the grain,
Trick after trick deludes the train.
He shakes his bag, he shows all fair,
His fingers spread, and nothing there,
Then bids it rain with showers of gold,
And now his iv'ry eggs are told,
But when from thence the hen he draws,
Amaz'd spectators humm applause.

Vice now stept forth and took the place,
With all the forms of his grimace.

This magick looking-glass, she cries,
(There, hand it round) will charm your eyes:
Each eager eye the sight desir'd,
And ev'ry man himself admir'd.

Next, to a senator addressing;
See this Bank-note; observe the blessing:
Breathe on the bill. Heigh, pass! 'Tis gone.
Upon his lips a padlock shone.
A second puff the magick broke,
The padlock vanish'd, and he spoke.

Twelve bottles rang'd upon the board,
All full, with heady liquor stor'd,

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By clean conveyance disappear,
And now two bloody swords are there.

A purse she to a thief expos'd;
At once his ready fingers clos'd;
He opes his fist, the treasure's fled,
He sees a halter in its stead.

She bids Ambition hold a wand,
He grasps a hatchet in his hand.

A box of charity she shows:
Blow here; and a church-warden blows,
'Tis vanish'd with conveyance neat,
And on the table smoaks a treat.

She shakes the dice, the board she knocks,
And from all pockets fills her box.

She next a meagre rake addrest;
This picture see; her shape, her breast!
What youth, and what inviting eyes!
Hold her, and have her. With surprise,
His hand expos'd a box of pills;
And a loud laugh proclaim'd his ills.

A counter, in a miser's hand,
Grew twenty guineas at command;
She bids his heir the summ retain,
And 'tis a counter now again.

A guinea with her touch you see
Take ev'ry shape but Charity;
And not one thing, you saw, or drew,
But chang'd from what was first in view.

The Juggler now, in grief of heart,
With this submission own'd her art.
Can I such matchless slight withstand?
How practice hath improv'd your hand!
But now and then I cheat the throng:
You ev'ry day, and all day long.

FABLE XLIII. The Council of Horses .

Upon a time a neighing steed,
Who graz'd among a num'rous breed,
With mutiny had fir'd the train,
And spread dissention through the plain.
On matters that concern'd the State
The council met in grand debate.
A colt, whose eye-balls flam'd with ire,
Elate with strength and youthful fire,
In haste stept forth before the rest,
And thus the list'ning throng addrest.

Good Gods! how abject is our race,
Condemn'd to slav'ry and disgrace!
Shall we our servitude retain,
Because our sires have born the chain?
Consider, friends, your strength and might;
'Tis conquest to assert your right.
How cumb'rous is the gilded coach!
The pride of man is our reproach.
Were we design'd for daily toil,
To drag the plough-share through the soil,
To sweat in harness through the road,
To groan beneath the carrier's load?
How feeble are the two-legg'd kind!
What force is in our nerves combin'd!
Shall then our nobler jaws submit
To foam and champ the galling bit?
Shall haughty man my back bestride?
Shall the sharp spur provoke my side?
Forbid it Heav'ns! Reject the rein,
Your shame, your infamy disdain.
Let him the lyon first controul,
And still the tyger's famish'd growle:
Let us, like them, our freedom claim,
And make him tremble at our name.

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A general nod approv'd the cause,
And all the circle neigh'd applause.

When, lo, with grave and solemn pace
A steed advanc'd before the race,
With age and long experience wise,
Around he cast his thoughtful eyes,
And, to the murmurs of the train,
Thus spoke the Nestor of the plain.

When I had health and strength, like you,
The toils of servitude I knew;
Now grateful man rewards my pains,
And gives me all these wide domains;
At will I crop the year's encrease,
My latter life is rest and peace.
I grant to man we lend our pains,
And aid him to correct the plains;
But doth not he divide the care,
Through all the labours of the year?
How many thousand structures rise,
To fence us from inclement skies!
For us he bears the sultry day,
And stores up all our winter's hay;
He sows, he reaps the harvest's gain,
We share the toil and share the grain.
Since ev'ry creature was decreed
To aid each other's mutual need,
Appease your discontented mind,
And act the part by Heav'n assign'd.

The tumult ceas'd. The colt submitted,
And, like his ancestors, was bitted.

FABLE XLIV. The Hound and the Huntsman .

Impertinence at first is born
With heedless slight, or smiles of scorn;
Teaz'd into wrath, what patience bears
The noisy fool who perseveres?

The morning wakes, the huntsman sounds,
At once rush forth the joyful hounds;
They seek the wood with eager pace,
Through bush, through brier explore the chase;
Now scatter'd wide, they try the plain,
And snuff the dewy turf in vain.
What care, what industry, what pains!
What universal silence reigns!

Ringwood, a dog of little fame,
Young, pert, and ignorant of game,
At once displays his babbling throat;
The pack, regardless of the note,
Pursue the scent; with louder strain
He still persists to vex the train.

The Huntsman to the clamour flies,
The smacking lash he smartly plies;
His ribs all welk'd, with howling tone
The puppy thus exprest his moan.

I know the musick of my tongue
Long since the pack with envy stung;
What will not spite? These bitter smarts
I owe to my superior parts.

When puppies prate, the Huntsman cry'd,
They show both ignorance and pride,
Fools may our scorn, not envy raise,
For envy is a kind of praise.
Had not thy forward noisy tongue
Proclaim'd thee always in the wrong,
Thou might'st have mingled with the rest,
And ne'er thy foolish nose confest;
But fools, to talking ever prone,
Are sure to make their follies known.

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FABLE XLV. The Poet and the Rose .

I hate the man who builds his name
On ruins of another's fame.
Thus prudes by characters o'erthrown
Imagine that they raise their own;
Thus scriblers, covetous of praise,
Think slander can transplant the bays.
Beauties and bards have equal pride,
With both all rivals are decry'd.
Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature,
Must call her sister, aukward creature;
For the kind flatt'ry's sure to charm,
When we some other nymph disarm.

As in the cool of early day
A Poet sought the sweets of May,
The garden's fragrant breath ascends,
And ev'ry stalk with odour bends.
A rose he pluck'd, he gaz'd, admir'd,
Thus singing as the Muse inspir'd.

Go, Rose, my Chloe's bosom grace;
How happy should I prove,
Might I supply that envy'd place
With never-fading love!
There, Phenix-like, beneath her eye,
Involv'd in fragrance, burn and die!

Know, hapless flower, that thou shalt find
More fragrant roses there;
I see thy with'ring head reclin'd
With envy and despair!
One common fate we both must prove;
You die with envy, I with love.

Spare your comparisons, reply'd
An angry Rose, who grew beside;
Of all mankind you should not flout us;
What can a Poet do without us!
In ev'ry love-song roses bloom;
We lend you colour and perfume.
Does it to Chloe's charms conduce,
To found her praise on our abuse?
Must we, to flatter her, be made
To wither, envy, pine and fade?

FABLE XLVI. The Cur, the Horse, and the Shepherd's Dog .

The lad, of all-sufficient merit,
With modesty ne'er damps his spirit,
Presuming on his own deserts,
On all alike his tongue exerts;
His noisy jokes at random throws,
And pertly spatters friends and foes;
In wit and war the bully race
Contribute to their own disgrace:
Too late the forward youth shall find
That jokes are sometimes paid in kind,
Or if they canker in the breast,
He makes a foe who makes a jest.

A village-cur, of snappish race,
The pertest puppy of the place,
Imagin'd that his treble throat
Was blest with musick's sweetest note;

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In the mid road he basking lay,
The yelping nusance of the way;
For not a creature past along
But had a sample of his song.

Soon as the trotting steed he hears,
He starts, he cocks his dapper ears,
Away he scowers, assaults his hoof,
Now near him snarles, now barks aloof;
With shrill impertinence attends,
Nor leaves him 'till the village ends.

It chanc'd, upon his evil day,
A Pad came pacing down the way;
The Cur, with never-ceasing tongue,
Upon the passing trav'ler sprung,
The horse, from scorn provok'd to ire,
Flung backward; rolling in the mire,
The puppy howl'd, and bleeding lay;
The Pad in peace pursu'd his way.

A shepherd's Dog, who saw the deed,
Detesting the vexatious breed,
Bespoke him thus. When coxcombs prate,
They kindle wrath, contempt, or hate.
Thy teazing tongue had judgment ty'd,
Thou hadst not, like a puppy, dy'd.

FABLE XLVII. The Court of Death .

Death, on a solemn night of state,
In all his pomp of terrors sate:
Th'attendants of his gloomy reign,
Diseases dire, a ghastly train,
Croud the vast court. With hollow tone
A voice thus thunder'd from the throne.

This night our minister we name,
Let ev'ry servant speak his claim;
Merit shall bear this eban wand.
All, at the word, stretch'd forth their hand.

Feaver, with burning heat possest,
Advanc'd, and for the wand addrest.

I to the weekly bills appeal,
Let those express my fervent zeal,
On ev'ry slight occasion near,
With violence I persevere.

Next Gout appears with limping pace,
Pleads how he shifts from place to place,
From head to foot how swift he flies,
And ev'ry joint and sinew plys,
Still working when he seems supprest,
A most tenacious stubborn guest.

A haggard spectre from the crew
Crawls forth, and thus asserts his due.
'Tis I who taint the sweetest joy,
And in the shape of love destroy:
My shanks, sunk eyes, and noseless face
Prove my pretension to the place.

Stone urg'd his ever-growing force.
And, next, Consumption's meagre corse,
With feeble voice, that scarce was heard,
Broke with short coughs, his suit prefer'd.
Let none object my lingring way,
I gain, like Fabius, by delay,
Fatigue and weaken ev'ry foe
By long attack, secure though slow.

Plágue represents his rapid power,
Who thinn'd a nation in an hour.

All spoke their claim, and hop'd the wand.
Now expectation hush'd the band,

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When thus the monarch from the throne.

Merit was ever modest known.
What, no physician speak his right!
None here! But fees their toils requite.
Let then Intemp'rance take the wand,
Who fills with gold their zealous hand.
You, Feaver, Gout, and all the rest,
(Whom wary men, as foes, detest,)
Forgo your claim; no more pretend:
Intemp'rance is esteem'd a friend,
He shares their mirth, their social joys,
And, as a courted guest, destroys;
The charge on him must justly fall,
Who finds employment for you all.

FABLE XLVIII. The Gardener and the Hog .

A Gard'ner, of peculiar taste,
On a young Hog his favour plac'd,
Who fed not with the common herd,
His tray was to the hall prefer'd,
He wallow'd underneath the board,
Or in his master's chamber snor'd,
Who fondly stroak'd him ev'ry day,
And taught him all the puppy's play;
Where'er he went, the grunting friend
Ne'er fail'd his pleasure to attend.

As on a time, the loving pair
Walk'd forth to tend the garden's care,
The master thus addrest the swine.

My house, my garden, all is thine:
On turnips feast whene'er you please,
And riot in my beans and pease,
If the potatoe's taste delights,
Or the red carrot's sweet invites,
Indulge thy morn and evening hours,
But let due care regard my flowers;
My tulips are my garden's pride.
What vast expence those beds supply'd!

The Hog by chance one morning roam'd
Where with new ale the vessels foam'd;
He munches now the steaming grains,
Now with full swill the liquor drains;
Intoxicating fumes arise,
He reels, he rolls his winking eyes,
Then stagg'ring through the garden scowers,
And treads down painted ranks of flowers,
With delving snout he turns the soil,
And cools his palate with the spoil.

The Master came, the ruin spy'd.
Villain, suspend thy rage, he cry'd:
Hast thou, thou most ungrateful sot,
My charge, my only charge forgot?
What, all my flowers! No more he said,
But gaz'd, and sigh'd, and hung his head.

The Hog with stutt'ring speech returns.
Explain, Sir, why your anger burns;
See there, untouch'd your tulips strown,
For I devour'd the roots alone!

At this, the Gard'ner's passion grows;
From oaths and threats he fell to blows;
The stubborn brute the blows sustains,
Assaults his leg and tears the veins.

Ah, foolish swain, too late you find
That sties were for such friends design'd!

Homeward he limps with painful pace,
Reflecting thus on past disgrace;
Who cherishes a brutal mate
Shall mourn the folly soon or late.

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FABLE XLIX. The Man and the Flea .

Whether on earth, in air, or main,
Sure ev'ry thing alive is vain!

Does not the hawk all fowls survey,
As destin'd only for his prey?
And do not tyrants, prouder things,
Think men were born for slaves to kings?

When the crab views the pearly strands,
Or Tagus, bright with golden sands,
Or crawles beside the coral grove,
And hears the ocean roll above;
Nature is too profuse, says he,
Who gave all these to pleasure me!

When bord'ring pinks and roses bloom,
And ev'ry garden breathes perfume,
When peaches glow with sunny dyes,
Like Laura's cheek, when blushes rise;
When with huge figs the branches bend;
When clusters from the vine depend;
The snail looks round on flow'r and tree,
And cries, all these were made for me!

What dignity's in human nature,
Says Man, the most conceited creature,
As from a cliff he cast his eye,
And view'd the sea and arched sky!
The sun was sunk beneath the main,
The moon, and all the starry train
Hung the vast vault of heav'n. The Man
His contemplation thus began.

When I behold this glorious show,
And the wide watry world below,
The scaly people of the main,
The beasts that range the wood or plain,
The wing'd inhabitants of air,
The day, the night, the various year,
And know all these by heav'n design'd
As gifts to pleasure human kind,
I cannot raise my worth too high;
Of what vast consequence am I!

Not of th'importance you suppose,
Replies a Flea upon his nose:
Be humble, learn thyself to scan;
Know, pride was never made for man.
'Tis vanity that swells thy mind.
What, heav'n and earth for thee design'd!
For thee! made only for our need;
That more important Fleas might feed.

FABLE L. The Hare and many Friends .

Friendship, like love, is but a name,
Unless to one you stint the flame.
The child, whom many fathers share,
Hath seldom known a father's care;
'Tis thus in friendships; who depend
On many, rarely find a friend.

A Hare, who, in civil way,
Comply'd with ev'ry thing, like Gay,
Was known by all the bestial train,
Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain:
Her care was, never to offend,
And ev'ry creature was her friend.

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As forth she went at early dawn
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,
Behind she hears the hunter's cries,
And from the deep-mouth'd thunder flies;
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath,
She hears the near advance of death,
She doubles, to mis-lead the hound,
And measures back her mazy round;
'Till, fainting in the publick way,
Half dead with fear she gasping lay.

What transport in her bosom grew,
When first the horse appear'd in view!

Let me, says she, your back ascend,
And owe my safety to a friend,
You know my feet betray my flight,
To friendship ev'ry burthen's light.

The horse reply'd, poor honest puss,
It grieves my heart to see thee thus;
Be comforted, relief is near;
For all your friends are in the rear.

She next the stately bull implor'd;
And thus reply'd the mighty lord.
Since ev'ry beast alive can tell
That I sincerely wish you well,
I may, without offence, pretend
To take the freedom of a friend;
Love calls me hence; a fav'rite cow
Expects me near yon barley mow:
And when a lady's in the case,
You know, all other things give place.
To leave you thus might seem unkind;
But see, the goat is just behind.

The goat remark'd her pulse was high,
Her languid head, her heavy eye;
My back, says he, may do you harm;
The sheep's at hand, and wool is warm.

The sheep was feeble, and complain'd,
His sides a load of wool sustain'd,
Said he was slow, confest his fears;
For hounds eat sheep as well as hares.

She now the trotting calf addrest,
To save from death a friend distrest.

Shall I, says he, of tender age,
In this important care engage?
Older and abler past you by;
How strong are those! how weak am I!
Should I presume to bear you hence,
Those friends of mine may take offence.
Excuse me then. You know my heart.
But dearest friends, alas, must part!
How shall we all lament! Adieu.
For see the hounds are just in view.

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Second Series.

FABLE I. The Dog and the Fox .

To a LAWYER.

I know you Lawyers can, with ease,
Twist words and meanings as you please;
That language, by your skill made pliant,
Will bend to favour ev'ry client;
That 'tis the fee directs the sense
To make out either side's pretense.
When you peruse the clearest case,
You see it with a double face;
For scepticism's your profession;
You hold there's doubt in all expression.

Hence is the bar with fees supply'd,
Hence eloquence takes either side:
Your hand would have but paultry gleaning,
Could ev'ry man express his meaning.
Who dares presume to pen a deed,
Unless you previously are fee'd?
'Tis drawn; and, to augment the cost,
In dull prolixity engrost:
And now we're well secur'd by law,
'Till the next brother find a flaw.

Read o'er a will. Was't ever known,
But you could make the will your own?
For when you read, 'tis with intent
To find out meanings never meant.
Since things are thus, se defendendo,
I bar fallacious innuendo.

Sagacious Porta's skill could trace
Some beast or bird in ev'ry face;
The head, the eye, the nose's shape
Prov'd this an owl, and that an ape.
When, in the sketches thus design'd,
Resemblance brings some friend to mind;
You show the piece, and give the hint,
And find each feature in the print;
So monstrous like the portrait's found,
All know it and the laugh goes round.
Like him, I draw from gen'ral nature:
Is't I or you then fix the Satire?

So, Sir, I beg you spare your pains
In making comments on my strains:
All private slander I detest,
I judge not of my neighbour's breast;
Party and prejudice I hate,
And write no libels on the state.

Shall not my fable censure vice,
Because a knave is over-nice?
And, lest the guilty hear and dread,
Shall not the Decalogue be read?
If I lash vice in gen'ral fiction,
Is't I apply or self-conviction?

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Brutes are my theme. Am I to blame,
If men in morals are the same?
I no man call or ape or ass;
'Tis his own conscience holds the glass.
Thus void of all offence I write:
Who claims the fable, knows his right.

A shepherd's Dog, unskill'd in sports,
Pick'd up acquaintance of all sorts:
Among the rest a Fox he knew;
By frequent chat their friendship grew.

Says Renard, 'tis a cruel case,
That man should stigmatize our race.
No doubt, among us rogues you find,
As among dogs and human kind;
And yet (unknown to me and you)
There may be honest men and true.
Thus slander tries, whate'er it can,
To put us on the foot with man.
Let my own actions recommend;
No prejudice can blind a friend:
You know me free from all disguise;
My honour as my life I prize.

By talk like this from all mistrust
The Dog was cur'd, and thought him just.

As on a time the Fox held forth
On conscience, honesty, and worth,
Sudden he stopt; he cock'd his ear;
Low dropt his brushy tail with fear.

Bless us! the hunters are abroad.
What's all that clatter on the road?

Hold, says the Dog, we're safe from harm:
'Twas nothing but a false alarm.
At yonder town 'tis market-day;
Some farmer's wife is on the way:
'Tis so, (I know her pye-ball'd mare,)
Dame Dobbins, with her poultry-ware.

Renard grew huff. Says he, This sneer
From you I little thought to hear;
Your meaning in your looks I see.
Pray, what's dame Dobbins, friend, to me?
Did I e'er make her poultry thinner?
Prove that I owe the dame a dinner.

Friend, quoth the Cur, I meant no harm:
Then why so captious? Why so warm?
My words, in common acceptation,
Could never give this provocation.
No lamb (for ought I ever knew)
May be more innocent than you.

At this, gall'd Renard winc'd and swore
Such language ne'er was giv'n before.

What's lamb to me? This saucy hint
Shows me, base knave, which way you squint.
If t'other night your master lost
Three lambs; am I to pay the cost?
Your vile Reflections would imply
That I'm the thief. You dog, you lye.

Thou knave, thou fool, (the Dog reply'd,)
The name is just, take either side;
Thy guilt these applications speak:
Sirrah, 'tis conscience makes you squeak.

So saying, on the Fox he flies.
The self-convicted felon dies.

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FABLE II. The Vultur, the Sparrow, and other Birds.

To a Friend in the Country.

E'er I begin, I must premise
Our ministers are good and wise;
So, though malicious tongues apply,
Pray, what care they, or what care I?

If I am free with courts; be't known,
I ne'er presume to mean our own.
If general morals seem to joke
On ministers and such like folk,
A captious fool may take offence;
What then? He knows his own pretence.
I meddle with no state-affairs,
But spare my jest to save my ears.
Our present schemes are too profound
For Machiavel himself to sound:
To censure 'em I've no pretension;
I own they're past my comprehension.

You say your brother wants a place,
('Tis many a younger brother's case,)
And that he very soon intends
To ply the court and teaze his friends.
If there his merits chance to find
A patriot of an open mind,
Whose constant actions prove him just
To both a king's and people's trust,
May he, with gratitude, attend,
And owe his rise to such a friend.

You praise his parts for bus'ness fit,
His learning, probity, and wit;
But those alone will never do,
Unless his patron have 'em too.

I've heard of times, (pray God defend us,
We're not so good but he can mend us,)
When wicked ministers have trod
On kings and people, law and God;
With arrogance they girt the throne,
And knew no int'rest but their own.
Then virtue, from preferment barr'd,
Gets nothing but its own reward.
A gang of petty knaves attend 'em,
With proper parts to recommend 'em.
Then, if his patron burn with lust,
The first in favour's pimp the first.
His doors are never clos'd to spies,
Who chear his heart with double lyes;
They flatter him, his foes defame,
So lull the pangs of guilt and shame.
If schemes of lucre haunt his brain,
Projectors swell his greedy train;
Vile brokers ply his private ear
With jobs of plunder for the year.
All consciences must bend and ply,
You must vote on, and not know why;
Through thick and thin you must go on;
One scruple, and your place is gone.

Since plagues like these have curst a land,
And fav'rites cannot always stand,
Good courtiers should for change be ready,
And not have principles too steady;
For should a knave engross the power,
(God shield the realm from that sad hour,)
He must have rogues or slavish fools;
For what's a knave without his tools?

Wherever those a people drain,
And strut with infamy and gain,
I envy not their guilt and state,
And scorn to share the publick hate.

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Let their own servile creatures rise,
By screening fraud and venting lyes:
Give me, kind heav'n, a private station,
A mind serene for contemplation,
Title and profit I resign,
The post of honour shall be mine.
My fable read, their merits view,
Then herd who will with such a crew.

—When impious men bear sway,
The post of honour is a private station.

Addison.

In days of yore (my cautious rhimes
Always except the present times)
A greedy Vultur, skill'd in game,
Inur'd to guilt, unaw'd by shame,
Approach'd the throne in evil hour,
And step by step intrudes to power:
When at the royal Eagle's ear
He longs to ease the monarch's care:
The monarch grants. With pride elate,
Behold him minister of state!
Around him throng the feather'd rout;
Friends must be serv'd, and some must out.
Each thinks his own the best pretension;
This asks a place, and that a pension.

The Nightingale was set aside:
A forward Daw his room supply'd.

This bird, (says he,) for bus'ness fit,
Hath both sagacity and wit;
With all his turns and shifts and tricks,
He's docile, and at nothing sticks:
Then with his neighbours one so free
At all times will connive at me.

The Hawk had due distinction shown,
For parts and talents like his own.

Thousands of hireling Cocks attend him,
As blust'ring bullies, to defend him.

At once the Ravens were discarded,
And Magpies with their posts rewarded.

Those fowls of omen I detest,
That pry into another's nest:
State lyes must lose all good intent,
For they foresee and croak th'event.
My friends ne'er think, but talk by rote,
Speak what they're taught, and so too vote.

When rogues like these (a Sparrow cries)
To honours and employments rise,
I court no favour, ask no place;
From such, preferment is disgrace:
Within my thatch'd retreat I find
(What these ne'er feel) true peace of mind.

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FABLE III. The Baboon and the Poultry .

To a Levee-hunter.

We frequently misplace esteem
By judging men by what they seem.
To birth, wealth, power we should allow
Precedence and our lowest bow:
In that is due distinction shown:
Esteem is virtue's right alone.

With partial eye we're apt to see
The man of noble pedigree.
We're prepossest my lord inherits
In some degree his grandsire's merits;
For those we find upon record,
But find him nothing but my lord.

When we with superficial view
Gaze on the rich, we're dazled too:
We know that wealth, well understood,
Hath frequent power of doing good;
Then fancy that the thing is done,
As if the power and will were one.
Thus oft' the cheated croud adore
The thriving knaves that keep 'em poor.

The cringing train of power survey:
What creatures are so low as they!
With what obsequiousness they bend!
To what vile actions condescend!
Their rise is on their meanness built,
And flatt'ry is their smallest guilt.
What homage, rev'rence, adoration,
In ev'ry age, in ev'ry nation,
Have sycophants to power addrest!
No matter who the power possest.
Let ministers be what they will,
You find their levees always fill:
Ev'n those who have perplex'd a state,
Whose actions claim'd contempt and hate,
Had wretches to applaud their schemes,
Though more absurd than madmen's dreams.
When barb'rous Moloch was invok'd,
The blood of infants only smoak'd;
But here (unless all hist'ry lyes)
Whole realms have been a sacrifice.

Look through all courts: 'Tis power we find
The general idol of mankind;
There worshipp'd under ev'ry shape:
Alike the lyon, fox and ape
Are follow'd by time-serving slaves,
Rich prostitutes and needy knaves.

Who then shall glory in his post?
How frail his pride, how vain his boast!
The followers of his prosp'rous hour
Are as unstable as his power.
Power, by the breath of flatt'ry nurst,
The more it swells, is nearer burst:
The bubble breaks, the gewgaw ends,
And in a dirty tear descends.

Once on a time, an ancient maid,
By wishes and by time decay'd,
To cure the pangs of restless thought,
In birds and beasts amusement sought:
Dogs, parrots, apes her hours employ'd;
With these alone she talk'd and toy'd.

A huge Baboon her fancy took,
(Almost a man in size and look,)
He finger'd ev'ry thing he found,
And mimick'd all the servants round;

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Then too his parts and ready wit
Show'd him for ev'ry bus'ness fit.
With all these talents, 'twas but just
That Pug should hold a place of trust;
So to her fav'rite was assign'd
The charge of all her feather'd kind;
'Twas his to tend 'em eve and morn,
And portion out their daily corn.

Behold him now, with haughty stride,
Assume a ministerial pride.
The morning rose. In hope of picking,
Swans, turkeys, peacocks, ducks, and chicken,
Fowls of all ranks surround his hut,
To worship his important strut.
The minister appears. The croud
Now here, now there, obsequious bow'd.
This praised his parts, and that his face,
T'other his dignity in place:
From bill to bill the flatt'ry ran;
He hears and bears it like a man:
For, when we flatter self-conceit,
We but his sentiments repeat.

If we're too scrupulously just,
What profit's in a place of trust?
The common practice of the great
Is, to secure a snug retreat:
So Pug began to turn his brain
(Like other folks in place) on gain.

An apple-woman's stall was near,
Well stock'd with fruits through all the year:
Here ev'ry day he cramm'd his guts,
Hence were his hoards of pears and nuts;
For 'twas agreed (in way of trade)
His payments should in corn be made.

The stock of grain was quickly spent,
And no account which way it went;
Then too the poultry's starved condition
Caus'd speculations of suspicion.
The facts were prov'd beyond dispute:
Pug must refund his hoards of fruit;
And, though then minister in chief,
Was branded as a publick thief.
Disgrac'd, despis'd, confin'd to chains,
He nothing but his pride retains.

A Goose pass'd by; he knew the face,
Seen ev'ry levee while in place.

What, no respect! no rev'rence shown!
How saucy are these creatures grown!
Not two days since (says he) you bow'd
The lowest of my fawning croud.

Proud fool (replies the Goose) 'tis true,
Thy corn a flutt'ring levee drew;
For that I join'd the hungry train,
And sold thee flatt'ry for thy grain:
But then, as now, conceited Ape,
We saw thee in thy proper shape.

FABLE IV. The Ant in Office.

To a Friend.

You tell me that you apprehend
My verse may touchy folks offend.
In prudence too you think my rhimes
Should never squint at courtiers crimes;
For though nor this, nor that is meant,
Can we another's thoughts prevent?

You ask me if I ever knew
Court chaplains thus the lawn pursue.
I meddle not with gown or lawn:

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Poets, I grant, to rise must fawn.
They know great ears are over-nice,
And never shock their patron's vice.
But I this hackney path despise;
'Tis my ambition not to rise:
If I must prostitute the muse,
The base conditions I refuse.

I neither flatter nor defame;
Yet own I would bring guilt to shame.
If I corruption's hand expose,
I make corrupted men my foes.
What then? I hate the paultry tribe.
Be virtue mine: Be theirs the bribe.
I no man's property invade:
Corruption's yet no lawful trade;
Nor would it mighty ills produce,
Could I shame brib'ry out of use.
I know 'twould cramp most politicians,
Were they tied down to these conditions:
'Twould stint their power, their riches bound,
And make their parts seem less profound.
Were they deny'd their proper tools,
How could they lead their knaves and fools?
Were this the case, let's take a view,
What dreadful mischiefs would ensue.
Though it might aggrandize the state,
Could private lux'ry dine on plate?
Kings might indeed their friends reward,
But ministers find less regard.
Informers, sycophants and spies
Would not augment the year's supplies:
Perhaps too, take away this prop,
An annual job or two might drop.
Besides, if pensions were deny'd,
Could avarice support its pride?
It might ev'n ministers confound,
And yet the state be safe and sound.

I care not though 'tis understood;
I only mean my country's good:
And (let who will my freedom blame)
I wish all courtiers did the same.
Nay, though some folks the less might get,
I wish the nation out of debt.
I put no private man's ambition
With publick good in competition:
Rather than have our laws defac'd,
I'd vote a minister disgrac'd.

I strike at vice, be't where it will;
And what if great folks take it ill?
I hope, corruption, brib'ry, pension
One may with detestation mention:
Think you the law (let who will take it)
Can scandalum magnatum make it?

I vent no slander, owe no grudge,
Nor of another's conscience judge:
At him or him I take no aim,
Yet dare against all vice declaim.
Shall I not censure breach of trust,
Because knaves know themselves unjust?
That steward, whose account is clear,
Demands his honour may appear;
His actions never shun the light;
He is, and would be prov'd upright.

But then you think my fable bears
Allusion too to state affairs.

I grant it does: And who's so great,
That has the privilege to cheat?
If then in any future reign
(For ministers may thirst for gain)
Corrupted hands defraud the nation,
I bar no reader's application.

An Ant there was, whose forward prate
Controul'd all matters in debate;
Whether he knew the thing or no,
His tongue eternally would go;
For he had impudence at will,
And boasted universal skill.
Ambition was his point in view.
Thus by degrees to power he grew.
Behold him now his drift attain:
He's made chief treas'rer of the grain.

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But as their ancient laws are just,
And punish breach of publick trust,
'Tis order'd, (lest wrong application
Should starve that wise industrious nation,)
That all accounts be stated clear,
Their stock, and what defray'd the year;
That auditors shall these inspect,
And publick rapine thus be check'd.
For this the solemn day was set;
The auditors in council met.
The gran'ry-keeper must explain
And balance his account of grain.
He brought (since he could not refuse 'em)
Some scraps of paper to amuse 'em.

An honest Pismire, warm with zeal,
In justice to the publick weal,
Thus spoke. The nation's hoard is low.
From whence doth this profusion flow?
I know our annual fund's amount.
Why such expence, and where's th'account?

With wonted arrogance and pride,
The Ant in office thus reply'd.

Consider, Sirs, were secrets told,
How could the best-schem'd projects hold?
Should we state mysteries disclose,
'Twould lay us open to our foes.
My duty and my well-known zeal
Bid me our present schemes conceal:
But, on my honour, all th'expence
(Though vast) was for the swarm's defence.

They pass'd th'account, as fair and just,
And voted him implicit trust.

Next year again the gran'ry drain'd,
He thus his innocence maintain'd.

Think how our present matters stand,
What dangers threat from ev'ry hand;
What hosts of turkeys stroll for food;
No farmer's wife but hath her brood.
Consider, when invasion's near,
Intelligence must cost us dear;
And, in this ticklish situation,
A secret told betrays the nation.
But, on my honour, all th'expence
(Though vast) was for the swarm's defence.

Again, without examination,
They thank'd his sage administration.

The year revolves. Their treasure, spent,
Again, in secret service went.
His honour too again was pledg'd
To satisfy the charge alledg'd.

When thus, with panick shame possest,
An auditor his friends addrest.

What are we? ministerial tools.
We little knaves are greater fools.
At last this secret is explor'd;
'Tis our corruption thins the hoard.
For ev'ry grain we touch'd, at least
A thousand his own heaps encreas'd.
Then, for his kin and fav'rite spies,
A hundred hardly could suffice.
Thus, for a paultry sneaking bribe,
We cheat ourselves and all the tribe;
For all the magazine contains
Grows from our annual toil and pains.

They vote th'account shall be inspected;
The cunning plund'rer is detected:
The fraud is sentenc'd, and his hoard,
As due, to publick use restor'd.

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FABLE V. The Bear in a Boat.

To a Coxcomb.

That man must daily wiser grow,
Whose search is bent himself to know:
Impartially he weighs his scope,
And on firm reason founds his hope;
He tries his strength before the race,
And never seeks his own disgrace;
He knows the compass, sail and oar,
Or never launches from the shore;
Before he builds computes the cost,
And in no proud pursuit is lost:
He learns the bounds of human sense,
And safely walks within the fence:
Thus, conscious of his own defect,
Are pride and self-importance check'd.

If then, self-knowledge to pursue,
Direct our life in ev'ry view,
Of all the fools that pride can boast,
A coxcomb claims distinction most.

Coxcombs are of all ranks and kind,
They're not to sex or age confin'd,
Or rich, or poor, or great, or small;
And vanity besots 'em all.
By ignorance is pride increas'd;
Those most assume who know the least;
Their own false balance gives 'em weight,
But ev'ry other finds 'em light.

Not that all coxcombs follies strike,
And draw our ridicule alike;
To diff'rent merits each pretends:
This in love-vanity transcends;
That, smitten with his face and shape,
By dress distinguishes the ape;
T'other with learning cramms his shelf,
Knows books and all things but himself.

All these are fools of low condition,
Compared with coxcombs of ambition;
For those, puff'd up with flatt'ry, dare
Assume a nation's various care:
They ne'er the grossest praise mistrust,
Their sycophants seem hardly just;
For these, in part alone, attest
The flatt'ry their own thoughts suggest.
In this wide sphere a coxcomb's shown
In other realms beside his own:
The self-deem'd Machiavel at large
By turns controuls in ev'ry charge.
Does commerce suffer in her rights?
'Tis he directs the naval flights.
What sailor dares dispute his skill?
He'll be an adm'ral when he will.
Now, meddling in the soldier's trade,
Troops must be hir'd, and levies made.
He gives embassadors their cue
His cobbled treaties to renew,
And annual taxes must suffice
The current blunders to disguise.
When his crude schemes in air are lost,
And millions scarce defray the cost,
His arrogance (nought undismay'd)
Trusting in self-sufficient aid,
On other rocks misguides the realm,
And thinks a pilot at the helm.
He ne'er suspects his want of skill,
But blunders on from ill to ill;
And, when he fails of all intent,
Blames only unforeseen event.
Lest you mistake the application,
The fable calls me to relation.

A Bear of shagg and manners rough,
At climbing trees expert enough,

286

For dextrously, and safe from harm,
Year after year he robb'd the swarm.
Thus, thriving on industrious toil,
He glory'd in his pilfer'd spoil.

This trick so swell'd him with conceit,
He thought no enterprise too great.
Alike in sciences and arts,
He boasted universal parts;
Pragmatick, busy, bustling, bold,
His arrogance was uncontroul'd:
And thus he made his party good,
And grew dictator of the wood.

The beasts, with admiration, stare,
And think him a prodigious Bear.
Were any common booty got,
'Twas his each portion to allot;
For why, he found there might be picking,
Ev'n in the carving of a chicken.
Intruding thus, he by degrees
Claim'd too the butcher's larger fees.
And now his over-weening pride
In ev'ry province will preside.
No task too difficult was found.
His blund'ring nose misleads the hound:
In stratagem and subtile arts,
He over-rules the fox's parts.

It chanc'd, as on a certain day,
Along the bank he took his way,
A boat, with rudder, sail and oar,
At anchor floated near the shore.
He stopt, and turning to his train,
Thus pertly vents his vaunting strain.

What blund'ring puppies are mankind,
In ev'ry science always blind!
I mock the pedantry of schools:
What are their compasses and rules?
From me that helm shall conduct learn,
And man his ignorance discern.

So saying, with audacious pride
He gains the boat and climbs the side:
The beasts astonish'd line the strand.
The anchor's weigh'd, he drives from land:
The slack sail shifts from side to side,
The boat untrimm'd admits the tide.
Born down, adrift, at random tost,
His oar breaks short, the rudder's lost.
The Bear, presuming in his skill,
Is here and there officious still;
'Till, striking on the dang'rous sands,
Aground the shatter'd vessel stands.

To see the bungler thus distrest
The very fishes sneer and jest;
Ev'n gudgeons join in ridicule,
To mortify the meddling fool.
The clam'rous watermen appear,
Threats, curses, oaths insult his ear;
Seiz'd, thresh'd and chain'd, he's dragg'd to land.
Derision shouts along the strand.

FABLE VI. The Squire and his Cur .

To a Country-Gentleman.

The man of pure and simple heart
Through life disdains a double part;
He never needs the screen of lyes
His inward bosom to disguise.
In vain malicious tongues assail;
Let envy snarl, let slander rail,
From virtue's shield (secure from wound)
Their blunted venom'd shafts rebound.
So shines his light before mankind,
His actions prove his honest mind.

287

If in his country's cause he rise,
Debating senates to advise,
Unbrib'd, unaw'd, he dares impart
The honest dictates of his heart;
No ministerial frown he fears,
But in his virtue perseveres.

But would you play the politician,
Whose heart's averse to intuition,
Your lips at all times, nay, your reason
Must be controul'd by place and season.
What statesman could his power support,
Were lying tongues forbid the court?
Did princely ears to truth attend,
What minister could gain his end?
How could he raise his tools to place,
And how his honest foes disgrace?

That politician tops his part,
Who readily can lye with art;
The man's proficient in his trade,
His power is strong, his fortune's made.
By that the int'rest of the throne
Is made subservient to his own:
By that have kings of old, deluded,
All their own friends for his excluded:
By that, his selfish schemes pursuing,
He thrives upon the publick ruin.

Antiochus with hardy pace
Provok'd the dangers of the chace;
And, lost from all his menial train,
Travers'd the wood and pathless plain:
A cottage lodg'd the royal guest.
The Parthian clown brought forth his best:
The king unknown his feast enjoy'd,
And various chat the hours employ'd.
From wine what sudden friendship springs!
Frankly they talk'd of courts and kings.

We country-folk (the clown replies)
Could ope our gracious monarch's eyes:
The king, (as all our neighbours say,)
Might he (God bless him!) have his way,
Is sound at heart, and means our good,
And he would do it, if he cou'd.
If truth in courts were not forbid,
Nor kings nor subjects would be rid.
Were he in power, we need not doubt him;
But that transferr'd to those about him,
On them he throws the regal cares:
And what mind they? their own affairs.
If such rapacious hands he trust,
The best of men may seem unjust:
From kings to coblers 'tis the same:
Bad servants wound their masters fame.
In this our neighbours all agree:
Would the king knew as much as we.
Here he stopt short. Repose they sought:
The peasant slept, the monarch thought.

The courtiers learnt, at early dawn,
Where their lost sov'reign was withdrawn.
The guard's approach our host alarms,
With gaudy coats the cottage swarms;
The crown and purple robes they bring,
And prostrate fall before the king.
The clown was call'd; the royal guest
By due reward his thanks exprest.
The king then, turning to the croud,
Who fawningly before him bow'd,
Thus spoke. Since, bent on private gain,
Your counsels first misled my reign,

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Taught and inform'd by you alone,
No truth the royal ear hath known
'Till here conversing. Hence, ye crew,
For now I know myself and you.

Whene'er the royal ear's engrost,
State lyes but little genius cost.
The fav'rite then securely robs,
And gleans a nation by his jobs.
Franker and bolder grown in ill,
He daily poisons dares instill;
And, as his present views suggest,
Inflames or sooths the royal breast.
Thus wicked ministers oppress,
When oft' the monarch means redress.

Would kings their private subjects hear,
A minister must talk with fear.
If honesty oppos'd his views,
He dar'd not innocence accuse;
'Twould keep him in such narrow bound,
He could not right and wrong confound.
Happy were kings, could they disclose
Their real friends and real foes!
Were both themselves and subjects known,
A monarch's will might be his own:
Had he the use of ears and eyes,
Knaves would no more be counted wise.
But then a minister might lose
(Hard case!) his own ambitious views.
When such as these have vex'd a state,
Pursu'd by universal hate,
Their false support at once hath fail'd,
And persevering truth prevail'd:
Expos'd, their train of fraud is seen.
Truth will at last remove the screen.

Plutarch.

A country Squire, by whim directed,
The true, stanch dogs of chace neglected:
Beneath his board no hound was fed;
His hand ne'er stroak'd the spaniel's head:
A snappish cur, alone carest,
By lyes had banish'd all the rest:
Yap had his ear; and defamation
Gave him full scope of conversation.
His sycophants must be preferr'd;
Room must be made for all his herd:
Wherefore, to bring his schemes about
Old faithful servants all must out.

The Cur on ev'ry creature flew,
(As other great men's puppies do,)
Unless due court to him were shown,
And both their face and bus'ness known.
No honest tongue an audience found,
He worried all the tenants round,
For why, he lived in constant fear,
Lest truth by chance should interfere.
If any stranger dar'd intrude,
The noisy Cur his heels pursu'd;
Now fierce with rage, now struck with dread,
At once he snarled, bit and fled:
Aloof he bays, with bristling hair,
And thus in secret growls his fear.
Who knows but truth, in this disguise,
May frustrate my best guarded lyes?
Should she (thus mask'd) admittance find,
That very hour my ruin's sign'd.

Now in his howl's continu'd sound
Their words were lost, the voice was drown'd:
Ever in awe of honest tongues,
Thus ev'ry day he strain'd his lungs.

It happen'd, in ill-omen'd hour,
That Yap, unmindful of his power,
Forsook his post, to love inclin'd;
A fav'rite bitch was in the wind;
By her seduc'd, in am'rous play
They frisk'd the joyous hours away.
Thus by untimely love pursuing,
Like Antony, he sought his ruin.

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For now the Squire, unvex'd with noise,
An honest neighbour's chat enjoys.
Be free, (says he,) your mind impart;
I love a friendly open heart.
Methinks my tenants shun my gate:
Why such a stranger grown of late?
Pray tell me what offence they find.
'Tis plain, they're not so well inclin'd.

Turn off your Cur, (the farmer cries,)
Who feeds your ear with daily lyes;
His snarling insolence offends;
'Tis he that keeps you from your friends.
Were but that saucy puppy checkt,
You'd find again the same respect.
Hear only him, he'll swear it too,
That all our hatred is to you:
But learn from us your true estate;
'Tis that curst Cur alone we hate.

The Squire heard truth. Now Yap rush'd in;
The wide hall ecchoes with his din:
Yet truth prevail'd; and, with disgrace,
The dog was cudgell'd out of place.

FABLE VII. The Countryman and Jupiter

To Myself.

Have you a friend (look round and spy)
So fond, so prepossess'd as I?
Your faults, so obvious to mankind,
My partial eyes could never find.
When, by the breath of fortune blown,
Your airy castles were o'erthrown,
Have I been over prone to blame,
Or mortified your hours with shame?
Was I e'er known to damp your spirit,
Or twit you with the want of merit?

'Tis not so strange that fortune's frown
Still perseveres to keep you down.
Look round, and see what others do.
Would you be rich and honest too?
Have you (like those she rais'd to place)
Been opportunely mean and base?
Have you (as times requir'd) resign'd
Truth, honour, virtue, peace of mind?
If these are scruples, give her o'er;
Write, practice morals, and be poor.

The gifts of fortune truly rate;
Then tell me what would mend your state.
If happiness on wealth were built,
Rich rogues might comfort find in guilt.
As grows the miser's hoarded store,
His fears, his wants encrease the more.

Think, Gay, (what ne'er may be the case,)
Should fortune take you into grace,
Would that your happiness augment?
What can she give beyond content?

Suppose yourself a wealthy heir,
With a vast annual income clear;
In all the affluence you possess
You might not feel one care the less:
Might you not then (like others) find,
With change of fortune, change of mind?
Perhaps, profuse beyond all rule,
You might start out a glaring fool;
Your luxury might break all bounds;
Plate, table, horses, stewards, hounds,
Might swell your debts: Then lust of play
No regal income can defray.
Sunk is all credit, writs assail,
And doom your future life to jail.

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Or were you dignified with power,
Would that avert one pensive hour?
You might give avarice its swing,
Defraud a nation, blind a king:
Then, from the hirelings in your cause
Though daily fed with false applause,
Could it a real joy impart?
Great guilt knew never joy at heart.

Is happiness your point in view?
(I mean th'intrinsick and the true.)
She nor in camps or courts resides,
Nor in the humble cottage hides;
Yet found alike in ev'ry sphere;
Who finds content, will find her there.

O'erspent with toil, beneath the shade
A Peasant rested on his spade.

Good Gods, he cries, 'tis hard to bear
This load of life from year to year!
Soon as the morning streaks the skies,
Industrious labour bids me rise;
With sweat I earn my homely fare,
And ev'ry day renews my care.

Jove heard the discontented strain,
And thus rebuk'd the murm'ring swain.

Speak out your wants then, honest friend:
Unjust complaints the Gods offend.
If you repine at partial fate,
Instruct me what could mend your state.
Mankind in ev'ry station see.
What wish you? tell me what you'd be.

So said, upborn upon a cloud,
The clown survey'd the anxious croud.

Yon face of care, says Jove, behold;
His bulky bags are fill'd with gold.
See with what joy he counts it o'er!
That sum to-day hath swell'd his store.

Were I that man, (the Peasant cry'd),
What blessing could I ask beside?

Hold, says the god; first learn to know
True happiness from outward show.
This optick glass of intuition—
Here, take it, view his true condition.

He look'd, and saw the miser's breast,
A troubled ocean, ne'er at rest;
Want ever stares him in the face,
And fear anticipates disgrace:
With conscious guilt he saw him start;
Extortion gnaws his throbbing heart,
And never, or in thought or dream,
His breast admits one happy gleam.

May Jove, he cries, reject my prayer
And guard my life from guilt and care;
My soul abhors that wretch's fate.
O keep me in my humble state!
But see, amidst a gaudy croud,
Yon minister so gay and proud,
On him what happiness attends,
Who thus rewards his grateful friends!
First take the glass, the god replies,
Man views the world with partial eyes.

Good gods, exclaims the startled wight,
Defend me from this hideous sight!
Corruption, with corrosive smart,
Lies cank'ring on his guilty heart;
I see him, with polluted hand,
Spread the contagion o'er the land.
Now av'rice with insatiate jaws,
Now rapine with her harpy claws,
His bosom tears. His conscious breast
Groans with a load of crimes opprest.
I see him, mad and drunk with power,
Stand tott'ring on ambition's tower:
Sometimes, in speeches vain and proud,
His boasts insult the nether croud;
Now, seiz'd with giddiness and fear,
He trembles lest his fall is near.

Was ever wretch like this, he cries?
Such misery in such disguise!

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The change, O Jove, I disavow.
Still be my lot the spade and plough.

He next, confirm'd by speculation,
Rejects the lawyer's occupation;
For he the statesman seem'd in part,
And bore similitude of heart.
Nor did the soldier's trade inflame
His hopes with thirst of spoil and fame:
The miseries of war he mourn'd,
Whole nations into desarts turn'd.

By these have laws and rights been brav'd;
By these was free-born man inslav'd:
When battles and invasion cease,
Why swarm they in the lands of peace?
Such change (says he) may I decline;
The scythe and civil arms be mine!

Thus, weighing life in each condition,
The clown withdrew his rash petition.

When thus the god. How mortals err!
If you true happiness prefer,
'Tis to no rank of life confin'd,
But dwells in ev'ry honest mind.
Be justice then your sole pursuit.
Plant virtue, and content's the fruit.

So Jove, to gratify the clown,
Where first he found him set him down.

FABLE VIII. The Man, the Cat, the Dog, and the Fly .

To my Native Country.

Hail happy land, whose fertile grounds
The liquid fence of Neptune bounds;
By bounteous nature set apart,
The seat of industry and art.
O Britain, chosen port of trade,
May lux'ry ne'er thy sons invade;
May never minister (intent
His private treasures to augment)
Corrupt thy state. If jealous foes
Thy rights of commerce dare oppose,
Shall not thy fleets their rapine awe?
Who is't prescribes the ocean law?

Whenever neighb'ring states contend,
'Tis thine to be the general friend.
What is't, who rules in other lands?
On trade alone thy glory stands.
That benefit is unconfin'd,
Diffusing good among mankind:
That first gave lustre to thy reigns,
And scatter'd plenty o'er thy plains:
'Tis that alone thy wealth supplies,
And draws all Europe's envious eyes
Be commerce then thy sole design;
Keep that, and all the world is thine.

When naval traffick ploughs the main,
Who shares not in the merchant's gain?
'Tis that supports the regal state,
And makes the farmer's heart elate;
The num'rous flocks, that cloath the land,
Can scarce supply the loom's demand;
Prolifick culture glads the fields,
And the bare heath a harvest yields.

Nature expects mankind should share
The duties of the publick care.
Who's born for sloth? To some we find
The plough-share's annual toil assign'd;
Some at the sounding anvil glow;
Some the swift-sliding shuttle throw;

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Some, studious of the wind and tide,
From pole to pole our commerce guide;
Some (taught by industry) impart
With hands and feet the works of art;
While some, of genius more refin'd,
With head and tongue assist mankind:
Each, aiming at one common end,
Proves to the whole a needful friend.
Thus, born each other's useful aid,
By turns are obligations paid.

The monarch, when his table's spread,
Is to the clown oblig'd for bread;
And, when in all his glory drest,
Owes to the loom his royal vest:
Do not the mason's toil and care
Protect him from th'inclement air?
Does not the cutler's art supply
The ornament that guards his thigh?
All there, in duty, to the throne
Their common obligations own.
'Tis he (his own and people's cause)
Protects their properties and laws:
Thus they their honest toil employ,
And with content the fruits enjoy.
In ev'ry rank, or great or small,
'Tis industry supports us all.

Barrow.

The animals, by want opprest,
To Man their services addrest:
While each pursu'd their selfish good,
They hunger'd for precarious food;
Their hours with anxious cares were vext;
One day they fed, and starv'd the next.
They saw that plenty, sure and rife,
Was found alone in social life;
That mutual industry profest
The various wants of Man redrest.

The Cat, half-famish'd, lean and weak,
Demands the privilege to speak.

Well, Puss, (says Man) and what can you
To benefit the publick do?

The Cat replies; These teeth, these claws,
With vigilance shall serve the cause.
The mouse, destroy'd by my pursuit,
No longer shall your feasts pollute;
Nor rats, from nightly ambuscade,
With wasteful teeth your stores invade.

I grant, says Man, to general use
Your parts and talents may conduce;
For rats and mice purloin our grain,
And threshers whirl the flail in vain:
Thus shall the Cat, a foe to spoil,
Protect the farmer's honest toil.

Then turning to the Dog, he cry'd,
Well, Sir; be next your merits try'd.

Sir, says the Dog, by self-applause
We seem to own a friendless cause.
Ask those who know me, if distrust
E'er found me treach'rous or unjust.
Did I e'er faith or friendship break?
Ask all those creatures; let them speak.
My vigilance and trusty zeal
Perhaps might serve the publick weal.
Might not your flocks in safety feed,
Were I to guard the fleecy breed?
Did I the nightly watches keep,
Could thieves invade you while you sleep?

The Man replies, 'Tis just and right,
Rewards such service should requite.
So rare, in property, we find
Trust uncorrupt among mankind,
That, taken in a publick view,
The first distinction is your due.
Such merits all reward transcend;
Be then my comrade and my friend.

Addressing now the Fly. From you
What publick service can accrue?

From me! the flutt'ring insect said;
I thought you knew me better bred.
Sir, I'm a gentleman. Is't fit
That I to industry submit?
Let mean mechanicks, to be fed,
By bus'ness earn ignoble bread:

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Lost in excess of daily joys,
No thought, no care my life annoys.
At noon (the lady's matin hour)
I sip the tea's delicious flower:
On cates luxuriously I dine,
And drink the fragrance of the vine.
Studious of elegance and ease,
Myself alone I seek to please.

The Man his pert conceit derides,
And thus the useless coxcomb chides.

Hence, from that peach, that downy seat;
No idle fool deserves to eat.
Could you have sapp'd the blushing rind,
And on that pulp ambrosial din'd,
Had not some hand, with skill and toil,
To raise the tree, prepar'd the soil?
Consider, sot, what would ensue,
Were all such worthless things as you:
You'd soon be forc'd (by hunger stung)
To make your dirty meals on dung,
On which such despicable need,
Unpitied, is reduc'd to feed.
Besides, vain selfish insect, learn,
(If you can right and wrong discern,)
That he who with industrious zeal
Contributes to the publick weal,
By adding to the common good,
His own hath rightly understood.

So saying, with a sudden blow
He laid the noxious vagrant low:
Crush'd in his luxury and pride,
The spunger on the publick died.

FABLE IX. The Jackal, Leopard, and other Beasts.

To a Modern Politician.

I grant corruption sways mankind,
That int'rest too perverts the mind,
That bribes have blinded common sense,
Foil'd reason, truth and eloquence;
I grant you too, our present crimes
Can equal those of former times.
Against plain facts shall I engage,
To vindicate our righteous age?
I know, that in a modern fist
Bribes in full energy subsist:
Since then these arguments prevail,
And itching palms are still so frail,
Hence politicians, you suggest,
Should drive the nail that goes the best;
That it shows parts and penetration,
To ply men with the right temptation.

To this, I humbly must dissent,
Premising, no reflection's meant.

Does justice, or the client's sense,
Teach lawyers either side's defence?
The fee gives eloquence its spirit;
That only is the client's merit.
Does art, wit, wisdom, or address
Obtain the prostitute's caress?
The guinea (as in other trades)
From ev'ry hand alike persuades.
Man, scripture says, is prone to evil;
But does that vindicate the devil?
Besides, the more mankind are prone,
The less the devil's parts are shown.
Corruption's not of modern date;
It hath been try'd in ev'ry state:
Great knaves of old their power have fenc'd
By places, pensions, bribes, dispens'd;
By these they glory'd in success,
And impudently dar'd oppress;
By these despotickly they sway'd,

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And slaves extoll'd the hand that pay'd;
Nor parts nor genius were employ'd,
By these alone were realms destroy'd.

Now see these wretches in disgrace,
Stript of their treasures, power and place;
View 'em abandon'd and forlorn,
Expos'd to just reproach and scorn.
What now is all your pride, your boast?
Where are your slaves, your flatt'ring host?
What tongues now feed you with applause?
Where are the champions of your cause?
Now ev'n that very fawning train,
Which shar'd the gleanings of your gain,
Press foremost who shall first accuse
Your selfish jobs, your paultry views,
Your narrow schemes, your breach of trust,
And want of talents to be just.

What fools were these amidst their power!
How thoughtless of their adverse hour!
What friends were made? A hireling herd,
For temporary votes preferr'd.
Was it, these sycophants to get,
Your bounty swell'd a nation's debt?
You're bit. For these, like Swiss, attend;
No longer pay, no longer friend.

The Lyon is (beyond dispute)
Allow'd the most majestick brute;
His valour and his gen'rous mind
Prove him superior of his kind.
Yet to Jackalls (as 'tis averr'd)
Some lyons have their power transferr'd;
As if the parts of pimps and spies
To govern forests could suffice.

Once, studious of his private good,
A proud Jackall opprest the wood;
To cramm his own insatiate jaws,
Invaded property and laws:
The forest groans with discontent,
Fresh wrongs the general hate foment.
The spreading murmurs reach'd his ear;
His secret hours were vex'd with fear:
Night after night he weighs the case,
And feels the terrors of disgrace.

By friends (says he) I'll guard my seat,
By those malicious tongues defeat;
I'll strengthen power by new allies,
And all my clam'rous foes despise.

To make the gen'rous beasts his friends,
He cringes, fawns and condescends;
But those repuls'd his abject court,
And scorn'd oppression to support.
Friends must be had. He can't subsist.
Bribes shall new proselytes enlist.
But these nought weigh'd in honest paws;
For bribes confess a wicked cause:
Yet think not ev'ry paw withstands
What had prevail'd in human hands.

A tempting turnip's silver skin
Drew a base hog through thick and thin:
Bought with a stag's delicious haunch,
The mercenary wolf was stanch;
The convert fox grew warm and hearty,
A pullet gain'd him to the party:
The golden pippin in his fist,
A chatt'ring monkey join'd the list.

But soon, expos'd to publick hate,
The fav'rite's fall redress'd the state.
The Leopard, vindicating right,
Had brought his secret frauds to light.
As rats, before the mansion falls,
Desert late hospitable walls,

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In shoals the servile creatures run,
To blow before the rising sun.

The hog with warmth exprest his zeal,
And was for hanging those that steal;
But hop'd, though low, the publick hoard
Might half a turnip still afford.
Since saving measures were profest,
A lamb's head was the wolf's request.
The fox submitted, if to touch
A goslin would be deem'd too much.
The monkey thought his grin and chatter
Might ask a nut or some such matter.

Ye hirelings, hence, the Leopard cries,
Your venal conscience I despise:
He, who the publick good intends,
By bribes needs never purchase friends;
Who acts this just, this open part,
Is propt by ev'ry honest heart.
Corruption now too late hath show'd,
That bribes are always ill-bestow'd:
By you your bubbled master's taught,
Time-serving tools, not friends, are bought.

FABLE X. The Degenerate Bees .

To the Reverend Dr. Swift, Dean of St. Patrick's.

Though courts the practice disallow,
A friend at all times I'll avow.
In politicks I know 'tis wrong;
A friendship may be kept too long;
And what they call the prudent part,
Is to wear int'rest next the heart.
As the times take a diff'rent face,
Old friendships should to new give place.

I know too you have many foes,
That owning you is sharing those;
That ev'ry knave in ev'ry station,
Of high and low denomination,
For what you speak and what you write,
Dread you at once and bear you spite.
Such freedoms in your works are shown,
They can't enjoy what's not their own.
All dunces too in church and state
In frothy nonsense show their hate,
With all the petty scribbling crew,
(And those pert sots are not a few,)
'Gainst you and Pope their envy spurt.
The booksellers alone are hurt.

Good Gods! by what a powerful race
(For blockheads may have power and place)
Are scandals rais'd, and libels writ,
To prove your honesty and wit!
Think with yourself: Those worthy men
You know have suffer'd by your pen;
From them you've nothing but your due.
From hence, 'tis plain, your friends are few:
Except myself, I know of none,
Besides the wise and good alone.
To set the case in fairer light,
My fable shall the rest recite;
Which (tho' unlike our present state)
I for the moral's sake relate.

A Bee, of cunning, not of parts,
Luxurious, negligent of arts,
Rapacious, arrogant and vain,
Greedy of power, but more of gain,

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Corruption sow'd throughout the hive.
By petty rogues the great ones thrive.

As power and wealth his views supply'd,
'Twas seen in overbearing pride;
With him loud impudence had merit,
The Bee of conscience wanted spirit;
And those who follow'd honour's rules
Were laugh'd to scorn for squeamish fools:
Wealth claim'd distinction, favour, grace,
And poverty alone was base;
He treated industry with slight,
Unless he found his profit by't;
Rights, laws, and liberties give way,
To bring his selfish schemes in play:
The swarm forgot the common toil,
To share the gleanings of his spoil.

While vulgar souls, of narrow parts,
Waste life in low mechanick arts,
Let us, (says he,) to genius born,
The drudg'ry of our fathers scorn.
The wasp and drone, you must agree,
Live with more elegance than we;
Like gentlemen they sport and play,
No bus'ness interrupts the day;
Their hours to luxury they give,
And nobly on their neighbours live.

A stubborn Bee among the swarm,
With honest indignation warm,
Thus from his cell with zeal replied.

I slight thy frowns, and hate thy pride.
The laws our native rights protect;
Offending thee, I those respect.
Shall luxury corrupt the hive,
And none against the torrent strive?
Exert the honour of your race;
He builds his rise on your disgrace.
'Tis industry our state maintains:
'Twas honest toil and honest gains
That rais'd our sires to power and fame.
Be virtuous; save yourselves from shame:
Know, that in selfish ends pursuing
You scramble for the publick ruin.

He spoke; and, from his cell dismiss'd,
Was insolently scoff'd and hiss'd.
With him a friend or two resign'd,
Disdaining the degen'rate kind.

These drones, (says he,) these insects vile,
(I treat 'em in their proper stile,)
May for a time oppress the state.
They own our virtue by their hate;
By that our merits they reveal,
And recommend our publick zeal;
Disgrac'd by this corrupted crew,
We're honour'd by the virtuous few.

FABLE XI. The Pack-horse and the Carrier .

To a Young Nobleman.

Begin, my lord, in early youth
To suffer, nay, encourage truth;
And blame me not for disrespect,
If I the flatt'rer's stile reject;
With that, by menial tongues supply'd,
You're daily cocker'd up in pride.

The tree's distinguish'd by the fruit.
Be virtue then your first pursuit:
Set your great ancestors in view,
Like them deserve the title too;

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Like them ignoble actions scorn:
Let virtue prove you greatly born.

Though with less plate their sideboard shone,
Their conscience always was their own;
They ne'er at levees meanly fawn'd,
Nor was their honour yearly pawn'd;
Their hands, by no corruption stain'd,
The ministerial bribe disdain'd;
They serv'd the crown with loyal zeal,
Yet jealous of the publick weal
They stood the bulwark of our laws,
And wore at heart their country's cause;
By neither place or pension bought,
They spoke and voted as they thought.
Thus did your sires adorn their seat;
And such alone are truly great.

If you the paths of learning slight,
You're but a dunce in stronger light:
In foremost rank, the coward, plac'd,
Is more conspicuously disgrac'd.
If you, to serve a paultry end,
To knavish jobs can condescend,
We pay you the contempt that's due;
In that you have precedence too.

Whence had you this illustrious name?
From virtue and unblemish'd fame.
By birth the name alone descends;
Your honour on yourself depends.
Think not your coronet can hide
Assuming ignorance and pride:
Learning by study must be won,
'Twas ne'er entail'd from son to son.
Superior worth your rank requires,
For that mankind reveres your sires:
If you degen'rate from your race,
Their merits heighten your disgrace.

A Carrier ev'ry night and morn
Would see his horses eat their corn:
This sunk the hostler's vails, 'tis true;
But then his horses had their due.
Were we so cautious in all cases,
Small gain would rise from greater places.

The manger now had all its measure,
He heard the grinding teeth with pleasure;
When all at once confusion rung,
They snorted, jostled, bit and flung.
A Pack-horse turn'd his head aside,
Foaming, his eye-balls swell'd with pride.

Good Gods! (says he) how hard's my lot!
Is then my high descent forgot?
Reduc'd to drudg'ry and disgrace,
(A life unworthy of my race,)
Must I too bear the vile attacks
Of ragged scrubs and vulgar hacks?
See scurvy Roan, that brute ill-bred,
Dares from the manger thrust my head!
Shall I, who boast a noble line,
On offals of these creatures dine?
Kick'd by old Ball! so mean a foe!
My honour suffers by the blow.
Newmarket speaks my grandsire's fame,
All jockeys still revere his name:
There yearly are his triumphs told,
There all his massy plates enroll'd.
Whene'er led forth upon the plain,
You saw him with a liv'ry train;
Returning too, with laurels crown'd,
You heard the drums and trumpets sound.
Let it then, Sir, be understood,
Respect's my due; for I have blood.

Vain-glorious fool, (the Carrier cry'd,)
Respect was never paid to pride.
Know 'twas thy giddy, wilful heart
Reduc'd thee to this slavish part.

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Did not thy headstrong youth disdain
To learn the conduct of the rein?
Thus coxcombs, blind to real merit,
In vicious frolicks fancy spirit.
What is't to me by whom begot?
Thou restif, pert, conceited sot.
Your sires I rev'rence; 'tis their due:
But, worthless fool, what's that to you?
Ask all the carriers on the road,
They'll say thy keeping's ill-bestow'd.
Then vaunt no more thy noble race,
That neither mends thy strength or pace.
What profits me thy boast of blood?
An ass hath more intrinsick good.
By outward show let's not be cheated:
An ass should like an ass be treated.

FABLE XII Pan and Fortune .

To a Young Heir.

Soon as your father's death was known,
(As if th'estate had been their own,)
The gamesters outwardly exprest
The decent joy within your breast.
So lavish in your praise they grew,
As spoke their certain hopes in you.

One counts your income of the year,
How much in ready money clear.
No house, says he, is more compleat,
The garden's elegant and great.
How fine the park around it lies!
The timber's of a noble size.
Then count his jewels and his plate.
Besides, 'tis no entail'd estate.
If cash run low, his lands in fee
Are or for sale or mortgage free.

Thus they, before you threw the main,
Seem'd to anticipate their gain.

Would you, when thieves are known abroad,
Bring forth your treasures in the road?
Would not the fool abett the stealth,
Who rashly thus expos'd his wealth?
Yet this you do, whene'er you play
Among the gentlemen of prey.

Could fools to keep their own contrive,
On what, on whom could gamesters thrive?
Is it in charity you game,
To save your worthy gang from shame?
Unless you furnish'd daily bread,
Which way could idleness be fed?
Could these professors of deceit
Within the law no longer cheat,
They must run bolder risques for prey,
And strip the trav'ler on the way.
Thus in your annual rents they share,
And 'scape the noose from year to year.

Consider, e'er you make the bett,
That sum might cross your taylor's debt.
When you the pilf'ring rattle shake,
Is not your honour too at stake?
Must you not by mean lyes evade
To-morrow's duns from ev'ry trade?
By promises so often paid,
Is yet your taylor's bill defray'd?

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Must you not pitifully fawn,
To have your butcher's writ withdrawn?
This must be done. In debts of play
Your honour suffers no delay;
And not this year's and next year's rent
The sons of rapine can content.

Look round. The wrecks of play behold,
Estates dismember'd, mortgag'd, sold!
Their owners, now to jails confin'd,
Show equal poverty of mind.
Some, who the spoil of knaves were made,
Too late attempt to learn their trade.
Some, for the folly of one hour,
Become the dirty tools of power,
And, with the mercenary list,
Upon court-charity subsist.

You'll find at last this maxim true,
Fools are the game which knaves pursue.

The forest (a whole cent'ry's shade)
Must be one wasteful ruin made:
No mercy's shown to age or kind,
The general massacre is sign'd;
The park too shares the dreadful fate,
For duns grow louder at the gate.
Stern clowns, obedient to the squire,
(What will not barb'rous hands for hire?)
With brawny arms repeat the stroke;
Fall'n are the elm and rev'rend oak;
Through the long wood loud axes sound,
And eccho groans with ev'ry wound.

To see the desolation spread,
Pan drops a tear, and hangs his head:
His bosom now with fury burns,
Beneath his hoof the dice he spurns;
Cards too, in peevish passion torn,
The sport of whirling winds are born.

To snails invet'rate hate I bear,
Who spoil the verdure of the year;
The caterpillar I detest,
The blooming spring's voracious pest;
The locust too, whose rav'nous band
Spreads sudden famine o'er the land.
But what are these? The dice's throw
At once hath laid a forest low:
The cards are dealt, the bett is made,
And the wide park hath lost its shade.
Thus is my kingdom's pride defac'd,
And all its antient glories waste.
All this (he cries) is Fortune's doing,
'Tis thus she meditates my ruin:
By Fortune, that false, fickle jade,
More havock in one hour is made,
Than all the hungry insect race,
Combin'd, can in an age deface.

Fortune, by chance, who near him past,
O'erheard the vile aspersion cast.

Why, Pan, (says she,) what's all this rant?
'Tis ev'ry country bubble's cant.
Am I the patroness of vice?
Is't I who cog or palm the dice?
Did I the shuffling art reveal,
To mark the cards, or range the deal?
In all th'employments men pursue,
I mind the least what gamesters do.
There may (if computation's just)
One now and then my conduct trust:
I blame the fool; for what can I,
When ninety-nine my power defy?
These trust alone their fingers ends,
And not one stake on me depends.
Whene'er the gaming board is set,
Two classes of mankind are met;
But if we count the greedy race,
The knaves fill up the greater space.
'Tis a gross error, held in schools,
That Fortune always favours fools:
In play it never bears dispute;
That doctrine these fell'd oaks confute.
Then why to me such rancour show?
'Tis Folly, Pan, that is thy foe.
By me his late estate he won,
But he by Folly was undone.

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FABLE XIII. Plutus, Cupid, and Time .

Of all the burthens man must bear,
Time seems most galling and severe;
Beneath this grievous load opprest
We daily meet some friend distrest.

What can one do? I rose at nine.
'Tis full six hours before we dine:
Six hours! no earthly thing to do!
Would I had doz'd in bed 'till two.

A pamphlet is before him spread,
And almost half a page is read;
Tir'd with the study of the day,
The flutt'ring sheets are tost away.
He opes his snuff-box, hums an air,
Then yawns and stretches in his chair.

Not twenty, by the minute-hand!
Good Gods, says he, my watch must stand!
How muddling 'tis on books to pore!
I thought I'd read an hour or more.
The morning, of all hours, I hate.
One can't contrive to rise too late.

To make the minutes faster run,
Then too his tiresome self to shun,
To the next coffee-house he speeds,
Takes up the news, some scraps he reads.
Saunt'ring, from chair to chair he trails,
Now drinks his tea, now bites his nails:
He spies a partner of his woe;
By chat afflictions lighter grow;
Each other's grievances they share,
And thus their dreadful hours compare.

Says Tom, since all men must confess
That time lies heavy more or less;
Why should it be so hard to get,
'Till two, a party at piquet?
Play might relieve the lagging morn:
By cards long wintry nights are born.
Does not quadrille amuse the fair,
Night after night, throughout the year?
Vapours and spleen forgot, at play
They cheat uncounted hours away.

My case, says Will, then must be hard,
By want of skill from play debarr'd.
Courtiers kill time by various ways;
Dependence wears out half their days.
How happy these, whose time ne'er stands!
Attendance takes it off their hands.
Were it not for this cursed shower,
The park had whil'd away an hour.
At court, without or place or view,
I daily lose an hour or two:
It fully answers my design,
When I have pick'd up friends to dine.
The tavern makes our burthen light;
Wine puts our time and care to flight.
At six (hard case!) they call to pay.
Where can one go? I hate the play.
From six till ten! Unless in sleep,
One cannot spend the hours so cheap.
The comedy's no sooner done,
But some assembly is begun.
Loit'ring from room to room I stray,
Converse, but nothing hear or say;
Quite tir'd, from fair to fair I roam.
So soon! I dread the thoughts of home.
From thence, to quicken slow-pac'd night,
Again my tavern friends invite;
Here too our early mornings pass,
'Till drowsy sleep retards the glass.

Thus they their wretched life bemoan,
And make each other's case their own.

Consider, friends, no hour rolls on,
But something of your grief is gone.
Were you to schemes of bus'ness bred,
Did you the paths of learning tread,

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Your hours, your days would fly too fast;
You 'd then regret the minute past.
Time's fugitive and light as wind;
'Tis indolence that clogs your mind:
That load from off your spirits shake,
You 'll own, and grieve for your mistake.
A while your thoughtless spleen suspend,
Then read; and (if you can) attend.

As Plutus, to divert his care,
Walk'd forth one morn to take the air,
Cupid o'ertook his strutting pace.
Each star'd upon the stranger's face,
'Till recollection set 'em right;
For each knew t'other but by sight.
After some complimental talk,
Time met 'em, bow'd, and join'd their walk.
Their chat on various subjects ran,
But most, what each had done for man.
Plutus assumes a haughty air,
Just like our purse-proud fellows here.

Let kings, (says he,) let coblers tell,
Whose gifts among mankind excell.
Consider courts: What draws their train?
Think you 'tis loyalty or gain?
That statesman hath the strongest hold
Whose tool of politicks is gold:
By that, in former reigns, 'tis said,
The knave in power hath senates led:
By that alone he sway'd debates,
Enrich'd himself, and beggar'd states.
Forgo your boast. You must conclude,
That's most esteem'd that's most pursu'd.
Think too, in what a woful plight
That wretch must live whose pocket's light:
Are not his hours by want deprest?
Penurious care corrodes his breast:
Without respect, or love, or friends,
His solitary day descends.

You might, says Cupid, doubt my parts,
My knowledge too in human hearts,
Should I the power of gold dispute,
Which great examples might confute.
I know, when nothing else prevails,
Persuasive money seldom fails;
That beauty too (like other wares)
Its price, as well as conscience, bears.
Then marriage (as of late profest)
Is but a money-job at best:
Consent, compliance may be sold;
But love's beyond the price of gold.
Smugglers there are, who, by retale,
Expose what they call love to sale:
Such bargains are an arrant cheat;
You purchase flatt'ry and deceit.
Those who true love have ever try'd,
(The common cares of life supply'd,)
No wants endure, no wishes make,
But ev'ry real joy partake;
All comfort on themselves depends,
They want nor power, nor wealth, nor friends:
Love then hath ev'ry bliss in store;
'Tis friendship, and 'tis something more:
Each other ev'ry wish they give.
Not to know love, is not to live.

Or love, or money, (Time reply'd,)
Were men the question to decide,
Would bear the prize: on both intent
My boon's neglected or mispent.
'Tis I who measure vital space,
And deal out years to human race:
Though little priz'd and seldom sought,
Without me love and gold are nought.
How does the miser time employ?
Did I e'er see him life enjoy?
By me forsook, the hoards he won
Are scatter'd by his lavish son.
By me all useful arts are gain'd,
Wealth, learning, wisdom is attain'd.
Who then would think (since such my power)

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That e'er I knew an idle hour?
So subtile and so swift I fly,
Love's not more fugitive than I.
Who hath not heard coquettes complain
Of days, months, years, mispent in vain?
For time misus'd they pine and waste,
And love's sweet pleasures never taste.
Those who direct their time aright,
If love or wealth their hopes excite,
In each pursuit fit hours employ'd,
And both by time have been enjoy'd.
How heedless then are mortals grown!
How little is their int'rest known!
In ev'ry view they ought to mind me,
For when once lost they never find me.

He spoke. The gods no more contest,
And his superior gift confest;
That Time (when truly understood)
Is the most precious earthly good.

FABLE XIV. The Owl, the Swan, the Cock, the Spider, the Ass, and the Farmer .

To a Mother.

Conversing with your sprightly boys,
Your eyes have spoke the mother's joys.
With what delight I've heard you quote
Their sayings in imperfect note!

I grant, in body and in mind,
Nature appears profusely kind.
Trust not to that. Act you your part;
Imprint just morals on their heart;
Impartially their talents scan:
Just education forms the man.

Perhaps (their genius yet unknown)
Each lot of life's already thrown;
That this shall plead, the next shall fight,
The last assert the church's right.
I censure not the fond intent;
But how precarious is th'event!
By talents misapplied and crost,
Consider, all your sons are lost.

One day (the tale's by Martial penn'd)
A father thus address'd his friend.
To train my boy and call forth sense,
You know I've stuck at no expence;
I've try'd him in the sev'ral arts,
(The lad, no doubt, hath latent parts,)
Yet trying all he nothing knows;
But crablike rather backward goes.
Teach me what yet remains undone;
'Tis your advice shall fix my son.
Sir, says the friend, I've weigh'd the matter;
Excuse me, for I scorn to flatter;
Make him (nor think his genius checkt)
A herald or an architect.

Perhaps (as commonly 'tis known,
He heard th'advice and took his own.

The boy wants wit; he's sent to school,
Where learning but improves the fool:
The college next must give him parts,
And cram him with the lib'ral arts.
Whether he blunders at the bar,
Or owes his infamy to war,

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Or if by licence or degree
The sexton share the doctor's fee,
Or from the pulpit by the hour
He weekly floods of nonsense pour,
We find (th'intent of nature foil'd)
A taylor or a butcher spoil'd.

Thus ministers have royal boons
Conferr'd on blockheads and buffoons:
In spite of nature, merit, wit,
Their friends for ev'ry post were fit.

But now let ev'ry muse confess
That merit finds its due success:
Th'examples of our days regard;
Where's virtue seen without reward?
Distinguish'd and in place you find
Desert and worth of ev'ry kind.
Survey the rev'rend bench, and see
Religion, learning, piety:
The patron, e'er he recommends,
Sees his own image in his friends.
Is honesty disgrac'd and poor?
What is't to us what was before?

We all of times corrupt have heard,
When paultry minions were preferr'd;
When all great offices, by dozens,
Were fill'd by brothers, sons, and cozens.
What matter ignorance and pride?
The man was happily ally'd.
Provided that his clerk was good,
What though he nothing understood?
In church and state, the sorry race
Grew more conspicuous fools in place.
Such heads, as then a treaty made,
Had bungled in the cobler's trade.

Consider, patrons, that such elves
Expose your folly with themselves.
'Tis yours, as 'tis the parent's care,
To fix each genius in its sphere.
Your partial hand can wealth dispense,
But never give a blockhead sense.

An Owl of magisterial air,
Of solemn voice, of brow austere,
Assum'd the pride of human race,
And bore his wisdom in his face.
Not to depreciate learned eyes,
I've seen a pedant look as wise.

Within a barn, from noise retir'd,
He scorn'd the world, himself admir'd,
And, like an ancient sage, conceal'd
The follies publick life reveal'd.

Philosophers of old, he read,
Their country's youth to science bred,
Their manners form'd for ev'ry station,
And destin'd each his occupation.
When Xenophon, by numbers brav'd,
Retreated, and a people sav'd,
That laurel was not all his own;
The plant by Socrates was sown.
To Aristotle's greater name
The Macedonian ow'd his fame.

Th'Athenian bird, with pride replete,
Their talents equall'd in conceit;
And, copying the Socratick rule,
Set up for master of a school.
Dogmatick jargon learnt by heart,
Trite sentences, hard terms of art,
To vulgar ears seem'd so profound,
They fancy'd learning in the sound.

The school had fame: the crouded place
With pupils swarm'd of ev'ry race.
With these the Swan's maternal care
Had sent her scarce-fledg'd cygnet heir:
The Hen (though fond and loth to part)
Here lodg'd the darling of her heart:
The Spider, of mechanick kind,
Aspir'd to science more refin'd:
The Ass learnt metaphors and tropes,
But most on musick fix'd his hopes.

The pupils now, advanc'd in age,
Were call'd to tread life's busy stage;
And to the master 'twas submitted,
That each might to his part be fitted.

The Swan, says he, in arms shall shine:
The soldier's glorious toil be thine.

The Cock shall mighty wealth attain:

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Go, seek it on the stormy main;

The court shall be the Spider's sphere:
Power, fortune shall reward him there.

In musick's art the Ass's fame
Shall emulate Corelli's name.

Each took the part that he advis'd,
And all were equally despis'd.
A Farmer, at his folly mov'd,
The dull preceptor thus reprov'd.

Blockhead, says he, by what you've done,
One would have thought 'em each your son;
For parents, to their offspring blind,
Consult nor parts nor turn of mind;
But ev'n in infancy decree
What this, what t'other son shall be.
Had you with judgment weigh'd the case,
Their genius thus had fix'd their place:
The Swan had learnt the sailor's art;
The Cock had play'd the soldier's part;
The Spider in the weaver's trade
With credit had a fortune made;
But for the fole, in ev'ry class
The blockhead had appear'd an Ass.

FABLE XV. The Cook-maid, the Turnspit, and the Ox .

To a Poor Man.

Consider man in ev'ry sphere;
Then tell me, is your lot severe?
'Tis murmur, discontent, distrust,
That makes you wretched. God is just.

I grant that hunger must be fed,
That toil too earns thy daily bread.
What then! thy wants are seen and known;
But ev'ry mortal feels his own.
We're born a restless needy crew:
Show me the happier man than you.

Adam, though blest above his kind,
For want of social woman pin'd:
Eve's wants the subtile serpent saw,
Her fickle taste transgress'd the law:
Thus fell our sire; and their disgrace
The curse entail'd on human race.

When Philip's son, by glory led,
Had o'er the globe his empire spread;
When altars to his name were drest,
That he was man his tears confest.

The hopes of avarice are checkt:
The proud man always wants respect.
What various wants on power attend!
Ambition never gains its end.
Who hath not heard the rich complain
Of surfeits and corporeal pain?
He, barr'd from ev'ry use of wealth,
Envies the plowman's strength and health;
Another in a beauteous wife
Finds all the miseries of life;
Domestick jars and jealous fear
Embitter all his days with care.
This wants an heir; the line is lost:
Why was that vain entail engrost?
Canst thou discern another's mind?
What is't you envy? Envy's blind.

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Tell envy, when she would annoy,
That thousands want what you enjoy.

The dinner must be dish'd at one.
Where's this vexatious Turnspit gone?
Unless the skulking cur is caught,
The sir-loin's spoil'd and I'm in fault.
Thus said; (for sure you'll think it fit
That I the Cook-maid's oaths omit)
With all the fury of a cook,
Her cooler kitchin Nan forsook;
The broomstick o'er her head she waves,
She sweats, she stamps, she puffs, she raves;
The sneaking cur before her flies,
She whistles, calls, fair speech she tries,
These nought avail; her choler burns,
The fist and cudgel threat by turns.
With hasty stride she presses near,
He slinks aloof, and howls with fear.

Was ever cur so curs'd, he cry'd,
What star did at my birth preside!
Am I for life by compact bound
To tread the wheel's eternal round?
Inglorious task! Of all our race
No slave is half so mean and base.
Had fate a kinder lot assign'd,
And form'd me of the lap-dog kind,
I then, in higher life employ'd,
Had indolence and ease enjoy'd,
And, like a gentleman carest,
Had been the lady's fav'rite guest.
Or were I sprung from spaniel line,
Was his sagacious nostril mine,
By me, their never erring guide,
From wood and plain their feasts supply'd,
Knights, squires, attendant on my pace,
Had shar'd the pleasures of the chace.
Endu'd with native strength and fire,
Why call'd I not the lyon sire?
A lyon! such mean views I scorn.
Why was I not of woman born?
Who dares with reason's power contend?
On man we brutal slaves depend;
To him all creatures tribute pay,
And luxury employs his day.

An Ox by chance o'erheard his moan,
And thus rebuk'd the lazy drone.

Dare you at partial fate repine?
How kind's your lot compared with mine!
Decreed to toil, the barb'rous knife
Hath sever'd me from social life;
Urg'd by the stimulating goad,
I drag the cumbrous waggon's load;
'Tis mine to tame the stubborn plain,
Break the stiff soil, and house the grain;
Yet I without a murmur bear
The various labours of the year.
But then consider that one day
(Perhaps the hour's not far away)
You, by the duties of your post,
Shall turn the spit when I'm the roast;
And for reward shall share the feast,
I mean, shall pick my bones at least.

'Till now, th'astonish'd Cur replies,
I look'd on all with envious eyes;
How false we judge by what appears!
All creatures feel their sev'ral cares.
If thus yon mighty beast complains,
Perhaps man knows superior pains.
Let envy then no more torment.
Think on the Ox, and learn content.

Thus said; close-following at her heel,
With chearful heart he mounts the wheel.

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FABLE XVI. The Ravens, the Sexton, and the Earth-worm .

To Laura.

Laura, methinks you're over nice.
True. Flatt'ry is a shocking vice;
Yet sure, whene'er the praise is just,
One may commend without disgust.
Am I a privilege deny'd,
Indulg'd by ev'ry tongue beside?
How singular are all your ways;
A woman, and averse to praise!
If 'tis offence such truths to tell,
Why do your merits thus excell?

Since then I dare not speak my mind,
A truth conspicuous to mankind;
Though in full lustre ev'ry grace
Distinguish your celestial face,
Though beauties of inferior ray
(Like stars before the orb of day)
Turn pale and fade: I check my lays,
Admiring what I dare not praise.

If you the tribute due disdain,
The muse's mortifying strain
Shall, like a woman, in meer spight
Set beauty in a moral light.

Though such revenge might shock the ear
Of many a celebrated fair;
I mean that superficial race
Whose thoughts ne'er reach beyond their face,
What's that to you? I but displease
Such ever-girlish ears as these.
Virtue can brook the thoughts of age,
That lasts the same through ev'ry stage.
Though you by time must suffer more
Than ever woman lost before,
To age is such indiff'rence shown,
As if your face were not your own.

Were you by Antoninus taught,
Or is it native strength of thought,
That thus, without concern or fright,
You view yourself by reason's light?

Those eyes of so divine a ray,
What are they? mould'ring, mortal clay.
Those features, cast in heav'nly mould,
Shall, like my coarser earth, grow old;
Like common grass, the fairest flower
Must feel the hoary season's power.

How weak, how vain is human pride!
Dares man upon himself confide?
The wretch, who glories in his gain,
Amasses heaps on heaps in vain.
Why lose we life in anxious cares
To lay in hoards for future years?
Can those (when tortur'd by disease)
Chear our sick heart, or purchase ease?
Can those prolong one gasp of breath,
Or calm the troubled hour of death?

What's beauty? Call ye that your own,
A flower that fades as soon as blown?
What's man in all his boast of sway?
Perhaps the tyrant of a day.

Alike the laws of life take place
Through ev'ry branch of human race:
The monarch of long regal line
Was rais'd from dust as frail as mine:
Can he pour health into his veins,
Or cool the fever's restless pains?
Can he (worn down in nature's course)
New-brace his feeble nerves with force?
Can he (how vain is mortal pow'r!)
Stretch life beyond the destin'd hour?

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Consider, man; weigh well thy frame;
The king, the beggar is the same.
Dust form'd us all. Each breathes his day,
Then sinks into his native clay.

Beneath a venerable yew
That in the lonely church-yard grew,
Two Ravens sate. In solemn croak
Thus one his hungry friend bespoke.

Methinks I scent some rich repast;
The savour strengthens with the blast,
Snuff then; the promis'd feast inhale,
I taste the carcase in the gale.
Near yonder trees, the farmer's steed,
From toil and daily drudg'ry freed,
Hath groan'd his last. A dainty treat!
To birds of taste delicious meat.

A Sexton, busy at his trade,
To hear their chat suspends his spade:
Death struck him with no farther thought,
Than meerly as the fees he brought.
Was ever two such blund'ring fowls,
In brains and manners less than owls!
Blockheads, says he, learn more respect.
Know ye on whom ye thus reflect?
In this same grave (who does me right,
Must own the work is strong and tight)
The squire that yon fair hall possest,
To-night shall lay his bones at rest.
Whence could the gross mistake proceed?
The squire was somewhat fat indeed
What then? The meanest bird of prey
Such want of sense could ne'er betray,
For sure some diff'rence must be found
(Suppose the smelling organ sound)
In carcases, (say what we can,)
Or where's the dignity of man?

With due respect to human race,
The Ravens undertook the case.
In such similitude of scent,
Man ne'er could think reflection meant.
As Epicures extol a treat,
And seem their sav'ry words to eat,
They prais'd dead horse, luxurious food,
The ven'son of the prescient brood.

The Sexton's indignation mov'd,
The mean comparison reprov'd;
Their undiscerning palate blam'd,
Which two-legg'd carrion thus defam'd.

Reproachful speech from either side
The want of argument supply'd.
They rail, revile: As often ends
The contest of disputing friends.

Hold, says the fowl; since human pride
With confutation ne'er comply'd,
Let's state the case, and then refer
The knotty point: For taste may err.

As thus he spoke, from out the mould
An Earth-worm, huge of size, unroll'd
His monstrous length. They strait agree
To chuse him as their referee.
So to th'experience of his jaws
Each states the merits of the cause.

He paus'd, and with a solemn tone
Thus made his sage opinion known.

On carcases of ev'ry kind
This maw hath elegantly din'd;
Provok'd by luxury or need,
On beast or fowl or man I feed:
Such small distinction's in the savour,
By turns I chuse the fancy'd flavour;
Yet I must own (that human beast)
A glutton is the rankest feast.
Man, cease this boast; for human pride
Hath various tracts to range beside.

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The prince who kept the world in awe,
The judge whose dictate fix'd the law,
The rich, the poor, the great, the small,
Are levell'd. Death confounds 'em all.
Then think not that we reptiles share
Such cates, such elegance of fare;
The only true and real good
Of man was never vermine's food.
'Tis seated in th'immortal mind;
Virtue distinguishes mankind,
And that (as yet ne'er harbour'd here)
Mounts with the soul we know not where.
So good-man Sexton, since the case
Appears with such a dubious face,
To neither I the cause determine,
For diff'rent tastes please diff'rent vermine.

367

DIONE. A Pastoral Tragedy

------ Sunt numina amanti,
Sævit et injustâ lege relicta Venus.
Tibull. Eleg. 5. Lib. 1.

368

PROLOGUE.

Design'd for the Pastoral Tragedy of Dione.

There was a time (Oh were those days renew'd!)
Ere tyrant laws had woman's will subdu'd;
Then nature rul'd, and love, devoid of art,
Spoke the consenting language of the heart.
Love uncontroul'd! insipid, poor delight!
'Tis the restraint that whets our appetite.
Behold the beasts who range the forests free,
Behold the birds who fly from tree to tree;
In their amours see nature's power appear!
And do they love? Yes—One month in the year.
Were these the pleasures of the golden reign?
And did free nature thus instruct the swain?
I envy not, ye nymphs, your am'rous bowers:
Such harmless swains!—I'm ev'n content with ours.
But yet there's something in these sylvan scenes
That tells our fancy what the lover means;
Name but the mossy bank, and moon-light grove,
Is there a heart that does not beat with love?

To-night we treat you with such country fare,
Then for your lover's sake our author spare.
He draws no Hemskirk boors, or home-bred clowns,
But the soft shepherds of Arcadia's downs.

When Paris on the three his judgment past;
I hope, you'll own the shepherd show'd his taste:
And Jove, all know, was a good judge of beauty,
Who made the nymph Calisto break her duty;
Then was the country nymph no awkward thing.
See what strange revolutions time can bring!

Yet still methinks our author's fate I dread.
Were it not safer beaten paths to tread
Of Tragedy; than o'er wide heaths to stray,
And seeking strange adventures lose his way?
No trumpet's clangor makes his Heroine start,
And tears the soldier from her bleeding heart;
He, foolish bard! nor pomp nor show regards.
Without the witness of a hundred guards
His Lovers sigh their vows.—If sleep should take ye,
He has no battel, no loud drum to wake ye.
What, no such shifts? there's danger in't, 'tis true;
Yet spare him, as he gives you something new.

369

Dramatis Personæ.

MEN.

Evander under the name of Lycidas.
Cleanthes.
Shepherds.

WOMEN.

Dione under the name of Alexis.
Parthenia.
Laura.

Scene ARCADIA.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A Plain, at the foot of a steep craggy mountain.
DIONE. LAURA.
LAURA.
Why dost thou fly me? stay, unhappy fair,
Seek not these horrid caverns of despair;
To trace thy steps the midnight air I bore,
Trod the brown desart, and unshelter'd moor:
Three times the lark has sung his matin lay,
And rose on dewy wing to meet the day,
Since first I found thee, stretch'd in pensive mood,
Where laurels border Ladon's silver flood.

DIONE.
O let my soul with grateful thanks o'erflow!
'Tis to thy hand my daily life I owe.
Like the weak lamb you rais'd me from the plain,
Too faint to bear bleak winds and beating rain;
Each day I share thy bowl and clean repast,
Each night thy roof defends the chilly blast.
But vain is all thy friendship, vain thy care:
Forget a wretch abandon'd to despair.

370

LAURA.
Despair will fly thee, when thou shalt impart
The fatal secret that torments thy heart;
Disclose thy sorrows to my faithful ear,
Instruct these eyes to give thee tear for tear.
Love, love's the cause; our forests speak thy flame,
The rocks have learnt to sigh Evander's name.
If faultring shame thy bashful tongue restrain,
If thou hast look'd, and blush'd, and sigh'd in vain;
Say, in what grove thy lovely shepherd strays,
Tell me what mountains warble with his lays;
Thither I'll speed me, and with moving art
Draw soft confessions from his melting heart.

DIONE.
Thy gen'rous care has touch'd my secret woe.
Love bids these scalding tears incessant flow,
Ill-fated love! O, say, ye sylvan maids,
Who range wide forests and sequester'd shades,
Say where Evander bled, point out the ground
That yet is purple with the savage wound.
Yonder he lies; I hear the bird of prey;
High o'er those cliffs the raven wings his way;
Hark how he croaks! he scents the murder near.
O may no greedy beak his visage tear!
Shield him, ye Cupids; strip the Paphian grove,
And strow unfading myrtle o'er my love!
Down, heaving heart.

LAURA.
The mournful tale disclose.

DIONE.
Let not my tears intrude on thy repose.
Yet if thy friendship still the cause request;
I'll speak; though sorrow rend my lab'ring breast.
Know then, fair shepherdess; no honest swain
Taught me the duties of the peaceful plain;
Unus'd to sweet content, no flocks I keep,
Nor browzing goats that overhang the steep.
Born where Orchomenos' proud turrets shine,
I trace my birth from long illustrious line.
Why was I train'd amidst Arcadia's Court?
Love ever revells in that gay resort.
Whene'er Evander past, my smitten heart
Heav'd frequent sighs, and felt unusual smart.
Ah! hadst thou seen with what sweet grace he mov'd!
Yet why that wish? for Laura then had lov'd.

371

LAURA.
Distrust me not; thy secret wrongs impart.

DIONE.
Forgive the sallies of a breaking heart.
Evander's sighs his mutual flame confest,
The growing passion labour'd in his breast;
To me he came; my heart with rapture sprung,
To see the blushes, when his faultring tongue
First said, I love. My eyes consent reveal,
And plighted vows our faithful passion seal.
Where's now the lovely youth? he's lost, he's slain,
And the pale corse lies breathless on the plain!

LAURA.
Are thus the hopes of constant lovers paid?
If thus—ye Powers, from love defend the maid!

DIONE.
Now have twelve mornings warm'd the purple east,
Since my dear hunter rous'd the tusky beast;
Swift flew the foaming monster through the wood,
Swift as the wind, his eager steps pursu'd:
'Twas then the savage turn'd; then fell the youth,
And his dear blood distain'd the barb'rous tooth.

LAURA.
Was there none near? no ready succour found?
Nor healing herb to stanch the spouting wound?

DIONE.
In vain through pathless woods the hunters crost,
And sought with anxious eye their master lost;
In vain their frequent hollows eccho'd shrill,
And his lov'd name was sent from hill to hill;
Evander hears you not. He's lost, he's slain,
And the pale corse lies breathless on the plain.

LAURA.
Has yet no clown (who, wandring from the way,
Beats ev'ry bush to raise the lamb astray)
Observ'd the fatal spot?

DIONE.
O, if ye pass
Where purple murder dies the wither'd grass,
With pious finger gently close his eyes,
And let his grave with decent verdure rise.

[Weeps.
LAURA.
Behold the turtle who has lost her mate;
Awhile with drooping wing she mourns his fate,

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Sullen, awhile she seeks the darkest grove,
And cooing meditates the murder'd dove;
But time the rueful image wears away,
Again she's chear'd, again she seeks the day.
Spare then thy beauty, and no longer pine.

DIONE.

Yet sure some turtle's love has equall'd mine,
Who, when the hawk has snatch'd her mate away,
Hath never known the glad return of day.

When my fond father saw my faded eye,
And on my livid cheek the roses dye;
When catching sighs my wasted bosom mov'd,
My looks, my sighs confirm'd him that I lov'd.
He knew not that Evander was my flame,
Evander dead! my passion still the same!
He came, he threaten'd; with paternal sway
Cleanthes nam'd, and fix'd the nuptial day:
O cruel kindness! too severely prest!
I scorn his honours, and his wealth detest.

LAURA.
How vain is force! Love ne'er can be compell'd.

DIONE.
Though bound by duty, yet my heart rebell'd.
One night, when sleep had hush'd all busy spys,
And the pale moon had journey'd half the skies;
Softly I rose and drest; with silent tread,
Unbarr'd the gates; and to these mountains fled.
Here let me sooth the melancholy hours!
Close me, ye woods, within your twilight bowr's!
Where my calm soul may settled sorrow know,
And no Cleanthes interrupt my woe [Melancholy musick is heard at a distance.

With importuning love.—On yonder plain
Advances slow a melancholy train;
Black Cypress boughs their drooping heads adorn.

LAURA.
Alas! Menalcas to his grave is born.
Behold the victim of Parthenia's pride!
He saw, he sigh'd, he lov'd, was scorn'd and dy'd.

DIONE.
Where dwells this beauteous tyrant of the plains?
Where may I see her?

373

LAURA.
Ask the sighing swains.
They best can speak the conquests of her eyes,
Whoever sees her, loves; who loves her, dies.

DIONE.
Perhaps untimely fate her flame hath crost,
And she, like me, hath her Evander lost.
How my soul pitys her!

LAURA.
If pity move
Your generous bosom, pity those who love.
There late arriv'd among our sylvan race
A stranger shepherd, who with lonely pace
Visits those mountain pines at dawn of day,
Where oft' Parthenia takes her early way
To rouse the chace; mad with his am'rous pain,
He stops and raves; then sullen walks again.
Parthenia's name is born by passing gales,
And talking hills repeat it to the dales.
Come, let us from this vale of sorrow go,
Nor let the mournful scene prolong thy woe.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Shepherds and Shepherdesses, (crown'd with garlands of Cypress and Yew) bearing the body of Menalcas.
1 SHEPHERD.
Here gently rest the corse.—With faultring breath
Thus spake Menalcas on the verge of death.
‘Belov'd Palemon, hear a dying friend;
‘See, where yon hills with craggy brows ascend,
‘Low in the valley where the mountain grows,
‘There first I saw her, there began my woes.
‘When I am cold, may there this clay be laid;
‘There often strays the dear the cruel maid,
‘There as she walks, perhaps you'll hear her say,
‘(While a kind gushing tear shall force its way)
‘How could my stubborn heart relentless prove?
‘Ah poor Menalcas—all thy fault was love!

2 SHEPHERD.
When pitying lions o'er a carcase groan,
And hungry tygers bleeding kids bemoan;

374

When the lean wolf laments the mangled sheep;
Then shall Parthenia o'er Menalcas weep.

1 SHEPHERD.
When famish'd panthers seek their morning food,
And monsters roar along the desart wood;
When hissing vipers rustle through the brake,
Or in the path-way rears the speckled snake;
The wary swain th'approaching peril spys,
And through some distant road securely flys.
Fly then, ye swains, from beauty's surer wound.
Such was the fate our poor Menalcas found!

2 SHEPHERD.
What shepherd does not mourn Menalcas slain?
Kill'd by a barbarous woman's proud disdain!
Whoe'er attempts to bend her scornful mind,
Crys to the desarts, and pursues the wind.

1 SHEPHERD.
With ev'ry grace Menalcas was endow'd,
His merits dazled all the sylvan croud.
If you would know his pipe's melodious sound,
Ask all the ecchoes of these hills around,
For they have learnt his strains; who shall rehearse
The strength, the cadence of his tuneful verse?
Go, read those lofty poplars; there you'll find
Some tender sonnet grow on ev'ry rind.

2 SHEPHERD.
Yet what avails his skill? Parthenia flies.
Can merit hope success in woman's eyes?

1 SHEPHERD.
Why was Parthenia form'd of softest mould?
Why does her heart such savage nature hold?
O ye kind gods! or all her charms efface,
Or tame her heart.—So spare the shepherd race.

2 SHEPHERD.
As fade the flowers which on the grave I cast;
So may Parthenia's transient beauty waste!

1 SHEPHERD.
What woman ever counts the fleeting years,
Or sees the wrinkle which her forehead wears?
Thinking her feature never shall decay,
This swain she scorns, from that she turns away.
But know, as when the rose her bud unfolds,
Awhile each breast the short-liv'd fragrance holds;

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When the dry stalk lets drop her shrivell'd pride,
The lovely ruin's ever thrown aside.
So shall Parthenia be.

2 SHEPHERD.
See, she appears,
To boast her spoils, and triumph in our tears.

This and the following Scene are form'd upon the novel of Marcella in Don Quixote.

SCENE III.

Parthenia appears from the mountain.
PARTHENIA. SHEPHERDS.
1 SHEPHERD.
Why this way dost thou turn thy baneful eyes,
Pernicious Basilisk? Lo! there he lies,
There lies the youth thy cursed beauty slew;
See, at thy presence, how he bleeds anew!
Look down, enjoy thy murder.

PARTHENIA.
Spare my fame;
I come to clear a virgin's injur'd name.
If I'm a Basilisk, the danger fly,
Shun the swift glances of my venom'd eye:
If I'm a murd'rer, why approach ye near,
And to the dagger lay your bosom bare?

1 SHEPHERD.
What heart is proof against that face divine?
Love is not in our power.

PARTHENIA.
Is love in mine?
If e'er I trifled with a shepherd's pain,
Or with false hope his passion strove to gain;
Then might you justly curse my savage mind,
Then might you rank me with the serpent kind:
But I ne'er trifled with a shepherd's pain,
Nor with false hope his passion strove to gain:
'Tis to his rash pursuit he owes his fate,
I was not cruel; he was obstinate.

1 SHEPHERD.
Hear this, ye sighing shepherds, and despair.
Unhappy Lycidas, thy hour is near!
Since the same barb'rous hand hath sign'd thy doom,
We'll lay thee in our lov'd Menalcas' tomb.

376

PARTHENIA.
Why will intruding man my peace destroy?
Let me content, and solitude enjoy;
Free was I born, my freedom to maintain,
Early I sought the unambitious plain.
Most women's weak resolves, like reeds, will ply,
Shake with each breath, and bend with ev'ry sigh;
Mine, like an oak, whose firm roots deep descend,
No breath of love can shake, no sigh can bend.
If ye unhappy Lycidas would save;
Go seek him, lead him to Menalcas' grave;
Forbid his eyes with flowing grief to rain,
Like him Menalcas wept, but wept in vain;
Bid him his heart-consuming groans give o'er:
Tell him, I heard such piercing groans before,
And heard unmov'd. O Lycidas, be wise,
Prevent thy fate.—Lo! there Menalcas lies.

1 SHEPHERD.
Now all the melancholy rites are paid,
And o'er his grave the weeping marble laid;
Let's seek our charge; the flocks dispersing wide,
Whiten with moving fleece the mountain's side.
Trust not, ye swains, the lightning of her eye,
Lest ye like him, should love, despair, and dye.

[Exeunt Shepherds, &c. Parthenia remains in a melancholy posture looking on the grave of Menalcas. Enter Lycidas.

SCENE IV.

LYCIDAS. PARTHENIA.
LYCIDAS.

When shall my steps have rest? through all the wood,
And by the winding banks of Ladon's flood
I sought my love. O say, ye skipping fawns,
(Who range entangled shades and daisy'd lawns)
If ye have seen her! say, ye warbling race,
(Who measure on swift wing th'aerial space,
And view below hills, dales, and distant shores)
Where shall I find her whom my soul adores!

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SCENE V.

LYCIDAS. PARTHENIA. DIONE. LAURA.
[Dione and Laura at a distance.
LYCIDAS.
What do I see? no. Fancy mocks my eyes,
And bids the dear deluding vision rise.
'Tis she. My springing heart her presence feels.
See, prostrate Lycidas before thee kneels. [Kneeling to Parthenia.

Why will Parthenia turn her face away?

PARTHENIA.
Who calls Parthenia? hah!

[She starts from her melancholy; and seeing Lycidas, flys into the wood.
LYCIDAS.
Stay, virgin, stay.
O wing my feet, kind Love. See, see, she bounds,
Fleet as the mountain roe, when prest by hounds.

[He pursues her. Dione faints in the arms of Laura.
LAURA.
What means this trembling? all her colour flies,
And life is quite unstrung. Ah! lift thy eyes,
And answer me; speak, speak, 'tis Laura calls.
Speech has forsook her lips.—She faints, she falls.
Fan her, ye Zephyrs, with your balmy breath,
And bring her quickly from the shades of death:
Blow, ye cool gales. See, see, the forest shakes
With coming winds! she breaths, she moves, she wakes.

DIONE.
Ah false Evander!

LAURA.
Calm thy sobbing breast.
Say, what new sorrow has thy heart opprest.

DIONE.
Didst thou not hear his sighs and suppliant tone?
Didst thou not hear the pitying mountain groan?
Didst thou not see him bend his suppliant knee?
Thus in my happy days he knelt to me,
And pour'd forth all his soul! see how he strains,
And lessens to the sight o'er yonder plains
To keep the fair in view! run, virgin, run,
Hear not his vows; I heard, and was undone!

378

LAURA.
Let not imaginary terrors fright.
Some dark delusion swims before thy sight.
I saw Parthenia from the mountain's brow,
And Lycidas with prostrate duty bow;
Swift, as on faulcon's wing, I saw her fly,
And heard the cavern to his groans reply.
Why stream thy tears for sorrows not thy own?

DIONE.
Oh! Where are honour, faith, and justice flown?
Perjur'd Evander!

LAURA.
Death has laid him low.
Touch not the mournful string that wakes thy woe.

DIONE.
That am'rous swain, whom Lycidas you name,
(Whose faithless bosom feels another flame)
Is my once kind Evander—yes—'twas he.
He lives—but lives, alas! no more for me.

LAURA.
Let not thy frantick words confess despair.

DIONE.
What, know I not his voice, his mien, his air?
Yes, I that treach'rous voice with joy believ'd,
That voice, that mien, that air my soul deceiv'd.
If my dear shepherd love the lawns and glades,
With him I'll range the lawns and seek the shades,
With him through solitary desarts rove.
But could he leave me for another love?
O base ingratitude!

LAURA.
Suspend thy grief,
And let my friendly counsel bring relief
To thy desponding soul. Parthenia's ear
Is barr'd for ever to the lover's prayer;
Evander courts disdain, he follows scorn,
And in the passing winds his vows are born.
Soon will he find that all in vain he strove
To tame her bosom; then his former love
Shall wake his soul, then, will he sighing blame
His heart inconstant and his perjur'd flame:
Then shall he at Dione's feet implore,
Lament his broken faith, and change no more.

DIONE.
Perhaps this cruel nymph well knows to feign
Forbidding speech, coy looks, and cold disdain,

379

To raise his passion. Such are female arts,
To hold in safer snares inconstant hearts!

LAURA.
Parthenia's breast is steel'd with real scorn.

DIONE.
And dost thou think Evander will return?

LAURA.
Forgo thy sex, lay all thy robes aside,
Strip off these ornaments of female pride;
The shepherd's vest must hide thy graceful air,
With the bold manly step a swain appear;
Then with Evander may'st thou rove unknown,
Then let thy tender eloquence be shown;
Then the new fury of his heart controul,
And with Dione's sufferings touch his soul.

DIONE.
Sweet as refreshing dews, or summer showers
To the long parching thirst of drooping flowers;
Grateful as fanning gales to fainting swains,
And soft as trickling balm to bleeding pains,
Such are thy words. The sex shall be resign'd,
No more shall breaded gold these tresses bind;
The shepherd's garb the woman shall disguise.
If he has lost all love, may friendship's tyes
Unite me to his heart!

LAURA.
Go, prosp'rous maid,
May smiling love thy faithful wishes aid.
Be now Alexis call'd. With thee I'll rove,
And watch thy wand'rer through the mazy grove;
Let me be honour'd with a sister's name;
For thee, I feel a more than sister's flame.

DIONE.
Perhaps my shepherd has outstript her haste.
Think'st thou, when out of sight, she flew so fast?

380

One sudden glance might turn her savage mind;
May she like Daphne fly, nor look behind,
Maintain her scorn, his eager flame despise,
Nor view Evander with Dione's eyes!

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Lycidas lying on the grave of Menalcas.
LYCIDAS.

When shall these scalding fountains cease to flow?
How long will life sustain this load of woe?
Why glows the morn? roll back, thou source of light,
And feed my sorrows with eternal night.
Come, sable Death! give, give the welcome stroke;
The raven calls thee from yon' blasted oak.
What pious care my ghastful lid shall close?
What decent hand my frozen limbs compose?
O happy shepherd, free from anxious pains,
Who now art wandring in the sighing plains
Of blest Elysium; where in myrtle groves
Enamour'd ghosts bemoan their former loves.
Open, thou silent grave; for lo! I come
To meet Menalcas in the fragrant gloom;
There shall my bosom burn with friendship's flame,
The same our passion, and our fate the same;
There, like two nightingales on neighb'ring boughs,
Alternate strains shall mourn our frustrate vows.
But if cold Death should close Parthenia's eye,
And should her beauteous form come gliding by;
Friendship would soon in jealous fear be lost,
And kindling hate pursue thy rival ghost.

SCENE II.

LYCIDAS. DIONE in a shepherd's habit.
LYCIDAS.
Hah! who comes here? turn hence, be timely wise;
Trust not thy safety to Parthenia's eyes.
As from the bearing faulcon flies the dove,
So, wing'd with fear, Parthenia flies from love.

DIONE.
If in these vales the fatal beauty stray,
From the cold marble rise; let's haste away.
Why lye you panting, like the smitten deer?
Trust not the dangers which you bid me fear.

381

LYCIDAS.
Bid the lur'd lark, whom tangling nets surprise,
On soaring pinion rove the spacious skies;
Bid the cag'd linnet range the leafy grove;
Then bid my captive heart get loose from love.
The snares of death are o'er me. Hence; beware;
Lest you should see her, and like me despair.

DIONE.
No. Let her come; and seek this vale's recess,
In all the beauteous negligence of dress;
Though Cupid send a shaft in ev'ry glance,
Though all the Graces in her step advance,
My heart can stand it all. Be firm, my breast;
Th'ensnaring oath, the broken vow detest:
That flame, which other charms have power to move,
O give it not the sacred name of love!
'Tis perj'ry, fraud, and meditated lies.
Love's seated in the soul, and never dies.
What then avail her charms? my constant heart
Shall gaze secure, and mock a second dart.

LYCIDAS.
But you perhaps a happier fate have found,
And the same hand that gave, now heals the wound;
Or art thou left abandon'd and forlorn,
A wretch, like me, the sport of pride and scorn?

DIONE.
O tell me, shepherd, hath thy faithless maid
False to her vow thy flatter'd hope betray'd?
Did her smooth speech engage thee to believe?
Did she protest and swear, and then deceive?
Such are the pangs I feel!

LYCIDAS.
The haughty fair
Contemns my suff'rings, and disdains to hear.
Let meaner Beauties learn'd in female snares
Entice the swain with half-consenting airs;
Such vulgar arts ne'er aid her conqu'ring eyes,
And yet, where-e'er she turns, a lover sighs.
Vain is the steady constancy you boast;
All other love at sight of her is lost.

DIONE.
True constancy no time no power can move.
He that hath known to change, ne'er knew to love.
Though the dear author of my hapless flame
Pursue another; still my heart's the same.

382

Am I for ever left? (excuse these tears)
May your kind friendship soften all my cares!

LYCIDAS.
What comfort can a wretch, like me, bestow?

DIONE.
He best can pity who hath felt the woe.

LYCIDAS.
Since diff'rent objects have our souls possest,
No rival fears our friendship shall molest.

DIONE.
Come, let us leave the shade of these brown hills,
And drive our flocks beside the steaming rills.
Should the fair tyrant to these vales return,
How would thy breast with double fury burn!
Go hence, and seek thy peace.

SCENE III.

LYCIDAS. DIONE. LAURA.
LAURA.
Fly, fly this place;
Beware of love; the proudest of her race
This way approaches: from among the pines,
Where from the steep the winding path declines,
I saw the nymph descend.

LYCIDAS.
She comes, she comes;
From her the passing Zephyrs steal perfumes,
As from the vi'let's bank; with odours sweet
Breaths ev'ry gale; spring blooms beneath her feet.
Yes, 'tis my fairest; here she's wont to rove.

LAURA.
Say, by what signs I might have known thy Love?

LYCIDAS.
My Love is fairer than the snowy breast
Of the tall swan, whose proudly-swelling chest
Divides the wave; her tresses loose behind,
Play on her neck, and wanton in the wind;
The rising blushes, which her cheek o'erspread,
Are op'ning roses in the lilly's bed.
Know'st thou Parthenia?

383

LAURA.
Wretched is the slave
Who serves such pride! behold Menalcas' grave!
Yet if Alexis and this sighing swain
Wish to behold the Tyrant of the plain,
Let us behind these myrtle's twining arms
Retire unseen; from thence survey her charms.
Wild as the chaunting thrush upon the spray,
At man's approach she swiftly flies away.
Like the young hare, I've seen the panting maid
Stop, listen, run; of ev'ry wind afraid.

LYCIDAS.
And wilt thou never from thy vows depart?
Shepherd, beware—now fortifie thy heart.

[To Dione.
[Lycidas, Dione, and Laura retire behind the boughs.

SCENE IV.

PARTHENIA. LYCIDAS. DIONE. LAURA.
PARTHENIA.
This melancholy scene demands a groan.
Hah! what inscription marks the weeping stone?
O pow'r of beauty! here Menalcas lies.
Gaze not, ye shepherds, on Parthenia's eyes.
Why did heav'n form me with such polish'd care?
Why cast my features in a mold so fair?
If blooming beauty was a blessing meant,
Why are my sighing hours deny'd content?
The downy peach, that glows with sunny dyes,
Feeds the black snail, and lures voracious flies;
The juicy pear invites the feather'd kind,
And pecking finches scoop the golden rind;
But beauty suffers more pernicious wrongs,
Blasted by envy, and censorious tongues.
How happy lives the nymph, whose comely face
And pleasing glances boast sufficient grace
To wound the swain she loves! no jealous fears
Shall vex her nuptial state with nightly tears,
Nor am'rous youths, to push their foul pretence,
Infest her days with dull impertinence.
But why talk I of love? my guarded heart
Disowns his power, and turns aside the dart.
Hark! from his hollow tomb Menalcas crys,
Gaze not, ye shepherds, on Parthenia's eyes.
Come, Lycidas, the mournful lay peruse,
Lest thou, like him, Parthenia's eyes accuse.

[She stands in a melancholy posture, looking on the tomb.

384

LYCIDAS.
Call'd she not Lycidas?—I come, my fair;
See, gen'rous pity melts into a tear,
And her heart softens. Now's the tender hour,
Assist me, Love, exert thy sov'raign power
To tame the scornful maid.

DIONE.
Rash swain, be wise:
'Tis not from thee or him, from love she flies.
Leave her, forget her.

[They hold Lycidas.
LAURA.
Why this furious haste?

LYCIDAS.
Unhand me; loose me.

DIONE.
Sister, hold him fast.
To follow her, is, to prolong despair.
Shepherd, you must not go.

LYCIDAS.
Bold youth, forbear.
Hear me, Parthenia.

PARTHENIA.
From behind the shade
Methought a voice some list'ning spy betray'd.
Yes, I'm observ'd.

[She runs out.
LYCIDAS.
Stay, nymph; thy flight suspend.
She hears me not—when will my sorrows end!
As over-spent with toil, my heaving breast
Beats quick. 'Tis death alone can give me rest.

[He remains in a fixt melancholy.

SCENE V.

LYCIDAS. DIONE. LAURA.
LAURA.
Recall thy scatter'd sense, bid reason wake,
Subdue thy passion.

LYCIDAS.
Shall I never speak?
She's gone, she's gone.—Kind shepherd, let me rest
My troubled head upon thy friendly breast.

385

The forest seems to move.—O cursed state!
I doom'd to love, and she condemn'd to hate!
Tell me, Alexis, art thou still the same?
Did not her brighter eyes put out the flame
Of thy first love? did not thy flutt'ring heart,
Whene'er she rais'd her look, confess the dart?

DIONE.
I own the nymph is fairest of her race,
Yet I unmov'd can on this beauty gaze,
Mindful of former promise; all that's dear,
My thoughts, my dreams; my ev'ry wish is there.
Since then our hopes are lost; let friendship's tye
Calm our distress, and slighted love supply;
Let us together drive our fleecy store,
And of ungrateful woman think no more.

LYCIDAS.
'Tis death alone can rase her from my breast.

LAURA.
Why shines thy Love so far above the rest?
Nature, 'tis true, in ev'ry outward grace,
Her nicest hand employ'd; her lovely face
With beauteous feature stampt; with rosy dyes
Warm'd her fair cheek; with lightning arm'd her eyes;
But if thou search the secrets of her mind,
Where shall thy cheated soul a virtue find?
Sure hell with cruelty her breast supply'd.
How did she glory when Menalcas dy'd!
Pride in her bosom reigns; she's false, she's vain;
She first entices, then insults the swain;
Shall female cunning lead thy heart astray?
Shepherd, be free; and scorn for scorn repay.

LYCIDAS.
How woman talks of woman!

DIONE.
Hence depart;
Let a long absence cure thy love-sick heart.
To some far grove retire, her sight disclaim,
Nor with her charms awake the dying flame.
Let not an hour thy happy flight suspend;
But go not, Lycidas, without thy friend.

386

Together let us seek the chearful plains,
And lead the dance among the sportive swains,
Devoid of care.

LAURA.
Or else the groves disdain
Nor with the sylvan walk indulge thy pain.
Haste to the town; there (I have oft' been told)
The courtly nymph her tresses binds with gold,
To captivate the youths; the youths appear
In fine array; in ringlets waves their hair
Rich with ambrosial scents, the fair to move,
And all the business of the day is love.
There from the gawdy train select a dame,
Her willing glance shall catch an equal flame.

LYCIDAS.
Name not the Court.—The thought my soul confounds,
And with Dione's wrongs my bosom wounds.
Heav'n justly vindicates the faithful maid;
And now are all my broken vows repaid.
Perhaps she now laments my fancy'd death
With tears unfeign'd; and thinks my gasping breath
Sigh'd forth her name. O guilt, no more upbraid!
Yes. I fond innocence and truth betray'd.

[A side. Dione and Laura apart.
DIONE.
Hark! how reflection wakes his conscious heart.
From my pale lids the trickling sorrows start;
How shall my breast the swelling sighs confine!

LAURA.
O smooth thy brow, conceal our just design:
Be yet awhile unknown. If grief arise,
And force a passage through thy gushing eyes,
Quickly retire, thy sorrows to compose;
Or with a look serene disguise thy woes.

[Dione is going out. Laura walks at a distance.
LYCIDAS.
Canst thou, Alexis, leave me thus distrest?
Where's now the boasted friendship of thy breast?
Hast thou not oft' survey'd the dappled deer
In social herds o'er-spread the pastures fair,
When op'ning hounds the warmer scent pursue,
And force the destin'd victim from the crew,
Oft' he returns, and fain would join the band,
While all their horns the panting wretch withstand?
Such is thy friendship; thus might I confide.

387

DIONE.
Why wilt thou censure what thou ne'er hast try'd?
Sooner shall swallows leave their callow brood,
Who with their plaintive chirpings cry for food;
Sooner shall hens expose their infant care,
When the spread kite sails wheeling in the air,
Than I forsake thee when by danger prest;
Wrong not by jealous fears a faithful breast.

LYCIDAS.
If thy fair-spoken tongue thy bosom shows,
There let the secrets of my soul repose.

DIONE.
Far be suspicion; in my truth confide.
O let my heart thy load of cares divide!

LYCIDAS.
Know then, Alexis, that in vain I strove
To break her chain, and free my soul from love;
On the lim'd twig thus finches beat their wings,
Still more entangled in the clammy strings.
The slow-pac'd days have witness'd my despair,
Upon my weary couch sits wakeful care;
Down my flush'd cheek the flowing sorrows run,
As dews descend to weep the absent sun.
O lost Parthenia!

DIONE.
These wild thoughts suspend;
And in thy kind commands instruct thy friend.

LYCIDAS.
Whene'er my faultring tongue would urge my cause,
Deaf is her ear, and sullen she withdraws.
Go then, Alexis; seek the scornful maid,
In tender eloquence my suff'rings plead;
Of slighted passion you the pangs have known;
O judge my secret anguish by your own!

DIONE.
Had I the skill inconstant hearts to move,
My longing soul had never lost my Love.

388

My feeble tongue, in these soft arts untry'd,
Can ill support the thunder of her pride;
When she shall bid me to thy bower repair,
How shall my trembling lips her threats declare!
How shall I tell thee, that she could behold,
With brow serene, thy corse all pale and cold
Beat on the dashing billow? shouldst thou go
Where the tall hill o'er-hangs the rocks below,
Near thee thy tyrant could unpitying stand,
Nor call thee back, not stretch a saving hand.
Wilt thou then still persist to tempt thy fate,
To feed her pride and gratifie her hate?

LYCIDAS.
Know, unexperienc'd youth, that woman's mind
Oft' shifts her passions, like th'inconstant wind;
Sudden she rages, like the troubled main,
Now sinks the storm, and all is calm again.
Watch the kind moment, then my wrongs impart,
And the soft tale shall glide into her heart.

DIONE.
No. Let her wander in the lonely grove,
And never hear the tender voice of love.
Let her awhile, neglected by the swain,
Pass by, nor sighs molest the cheerful plain;
Thus shall the fury of her pride be laid;
Thus humble into love the haughty maid.

LYCIDAS.
Vain are attempts my passion to controul.
Is this the balm to cure my fainting soul?

DIONE.
Deep then among the green-wood shades I'll rove,
And seek with weary'd pace thy wander'd Love;
Prostrate I'll fall, and with incessant prayers
Hang on her knees, and bath her feet with tears;
If sighs of pity can her ear incline,
(O Lycidas, my life is wrapt in thine!) [Aside.

I'll charge her from thy voice to hear the tale,
Thy voice more sweet than notes along the vale
Breath'd from the warbling pipe: the moving strain
Shall stay her flight, and conquer her disdain.
Yet if she hear; should love the message speed,
Then dies all hope;—then must Dione bleed.

[Aside.
LYCIDAS.
Haste then, dear faithful swain. Beneath those yews
Whose sable arms the brownest shade diffuse,

389

Where all around, to shun the fervent skie,
The panting flocks in ferny thickets lye;
There with impatience shall I wait my friend,
O'er the wide prospect frequent glances send
To spy thy wish'd return. As thou shalt find
A tender welcome, may thy Love be kind!

[Ex. Lycidas.

SCENE VI.

DIONE. LAURA.
DIONE.
Methinks I'm now surrounded by despair,
And all my with'ring hopes are lost in air.
Thus the young linnet on the rocking bough
Hears through long woods autumnal tempests blow,
With hollow blasts the clashing branches bend,
And yellow show'rs of rustling leaves descend;
She sees the friendly shelter from her fly,
Nor dare her little pinions trust the sky;
But on the naked spray in wintry air,
All shiv'ring, hopeless, mourns the dying year.
What have I promis'd? rash, unthinking maid!
By thy own tongue thy wishes are betray'd!

[Laura advances.
LAURA.
Why walk'st thou thus disturb'd with frantick air?
Why roll thy eyes with madness and despair?

[Musing.
DIONE.
How wilt thou bear to see her pride give way?
When thus the yielding nymph shall bid thee say,
‘Let not the shepherd seek the silent grave,
‘Say, that I bid him live.—if hope can save.

LAURA.
Hath he discern'd thee through the swain's disguise,
And now alike thy love and friendship flys?

DIONE.
Yes. Firm and faithful to the promise made,
I'll range each sunny hill, each lawn and glade.

LAURA.
'Tis Laura speaks. O calm your troubled mind.

390

DIONE.
Where shall my search this envy'd Beauty find?
I'll go, my faithless shepherd's cause to plead,
And with my tears accuse the rival maid.
Yet, should her soften'd heart to love incline!

LAURA.
If those are all thy fears; Evander's thine.

DIONE.
Why should we both in sorrow waste our days?
If love unfeign'd my constant bosom sways,
His happiness alone is all I prize,
And that is center'd in Parthenia's eyes.
Haste then, with earnest zeal her love implore,
To bless his hours;—when thou shalt breathe no more.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Dione lying on the ground by the side of a Fountain.
DIONE.
Here let me rest: and in the liquid glass
View with impartial look my fading face.
Why are Parthenia's striking beauties priz'd?
And why Dione's weaker glance despis'd?
Nature in various molds has beauty cast,
And form'd the feature for each different taste:
This sighs for golden locks and azure eyes;
That, for the gloss of sable tresses, dyes.
Let all mankind these locks, these eyes detest,
So I were lovely in Evander's breast!
When o'er the garden's knot we cast our view,
While summer paints the ground with various hue;
Some praise the gaudy tulip's streaky red,
And some the silver lilly's bending head;
Some the junquil in shining yellow drest,
And some the fring'd carnation's varied vest;
Some love the sober vi'let's purple dyes.
Thus beauty fares in diff'rent lovers eyes.
But bright Parthenia like the rose appears,
She in all eyes superior lustre bears.

391

SCENE II.

DIONE. LAURA.
LAURA.
Why thus beneath the silver willow laid,
Weeps fair Dione in the pensive shade?
Hast thou yet found the over-arching bower,
Which guards Parthenia from the sultry hour?

DIONE.
With weary step in paths unknown I stray'd,
And sought in vain the solitary maid.

LAURA.
Seest thou the waving tops of yonder woods,
Whose aged arms imbrown the cooling floods?
The cooling floods o'er breaking pebbles flow,
And wash the soil from the big roots below;
From the tall rock the dashing waters bound.
Hark, o'er the fields the rushing billows sound!
There, lost in thought, and leaning on her crook,
Stood the sad nymph, nor rais'd her pensive look;
With settled eye the bubbling waves survey'd,
And watch'd the whirling eddys, as they play'd.

DIONE.
Thither to know my certain doom I speed,
For by this sentence life or death's decreed.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

LAURA. CLEANTHES.
LAURA.
But see! some hasty stranger bends his way;
His broider'd vest reflects the sunny ray:
Now through the thinner boughs I mark his mien,
Now veil'd, in thicker shades he moves unseen
Hither he turns; I hear a mutt'ring sound;
Behind this rev'rend oak with ivie bound
Quick I'll retire; with busy thought possest,
His tongue betrays the secrets of his breast.

[She hides her self.

392

CLEANTHES.
The skillful hunter with experienc'd care
Traces the doubles of the circling hare;
The subtle fox (who breaths the weary hound
O'er hills and plains) in distant brakes is found;
With ease we track swift hinds and skipping roes.
But who th'inconstant ways of woman knows?
They say, she wanders with the sylvan train,
And courts the native freedoms of the plain;
Shepherds explain their wish without offence,
Nor blush the nymphs;—for Love is innocence.
O lead me where the rural youth retreat,
Where the slope hills the warbling voice repeat.
Perhaps on daisy'd turf reclines the maid,
And near her side some rival clown is laid.
Yet, yet I love her.—O lost nymph return,
Let not thy fire with tears incessant mourn;
Return, lost nymph; bid sorrow cease to flow
And let Dione glad the house of woe.

LAURA.
Call'd he not lost Dione? hence I'll start,
Cross his slow steps, and sift his op'ning heart.

[Aside.
CLEANTHES.
Tell me, fair nymph, direct my wandring way;
Where, in close bowers, to shun the sultry ray,
Repose the swains; whose flocks with bleating fill
The bord'ring forest and the thymy hill.
But if thou frequent join those sylvan bands,
Thy self can answer what my soul demands.

LAURA.
Seven years I trod these fields, these bowers, and glades,
And by the less'ning and the length'ning shades
Have mark'd the hours; what time my flock to lead
To sunny mountains, or the watry mead:
Train'd in the labours of the sylvan crew,
Their sports, retreats, their cares and loves I knew.

CLEANTHES.
Instruct me then, if late among your race,
A stranger nymph is found, of noble grace,
In rural arts unskill'd, no charge she tends;
Nor when the morn and ev'ning dew descends
Milks the big-udder'd ewe. Her mien and dress
The polish'd manners of the Court confess.

LAURA.
Each day arrive the neighb'ring nymphs and swains
To share the pastime of our jovial plains;

393

How can I there thy roving beauty trace,
Where not one nymph is bred of vulgar race?

CLEANTHES.
If yet she breath, what tortures must she find!
The curse of disobedience tears her mind.
If e'er your breast with filial duty burn'd,
If e'er you sorrow'd when a parent mourn'd;
Tell her, I charge you, with incessant groans
Her drooping sire his absent child bemoans.

LAURA.
Unhappy man!

CLEANTHES.
With storms of passion tost,
When first he learnt his vagrant child was lost,
On the cold floor his trembling limbs he flung,
And with thick blows his hollow bosom rung;
Then up he started, and with fixt surprise,
Upon her picture threw his frantick eyes,
While thus he cry'd. ‘In her my life was bound,
‘Warm in each feature is her mother found!
‘Perhaps despair has been her fatal guide,
‘And now she floats upon the weeping tide;
‘Or on the willow hung, with head reclin'd,
‘All pale and cold she wavers in the wind.
‘Did I not force her hence by harsh commands?
‘Did not her soul abhor the nuptial bands?

LAURA.
Teach not, ye fires, your daughters to rebell,
By counsel rein their wills, but ne'er compel.

CLEANTHES.
Ye duteous daughters, trust these tender guides;
Nor think a parent's breast the tyrant hides.

LAURA.
From either lid the scalding sorrows roll;
The moving tale runs thrilling to my soul.

CLEANTHES.
Perhaps she wanders in the lonely woods,
Or on the sedgy borders of the floods;
Thou know'st each cottage, forest, hill and vale,
And pebbled brook that winds along the dale.
Search each sequester'd dell to find the fair;
And just reward shall gratifie thy care,

LAURA.
O ye kind boughs protect the virgin's flight,
And guard Dione from his prying sight!

[Aside.

394

CLEANTHES.
Mean while I'll seek the shepherd's cool abodes,
Point me, fair nymph, along these doubtful roads.

LAURA.
Seest thou yon' mountain rear his shaggy brow?
In the green valley graze the flocks below:
There ev'ry gale with warbling musick floats,
Shade answers shade, and breaths alternate notes. [Ex. Cleanthes.

He's gone; and to the distant vales is sent,
Nor shall his force Dione's love prevent.
But see, she comes again with hasty pace,
And conscious pleasure dimples on her face.

SCENE IV.

LAURA. DIONE.
DIONE.
I found her laid beside the crystal brook,
Nor rais'd she from the stream her settled look,
Till near her side I stood; her head she rears,
Starts sudden, and her shrieks confess her fears.

LAURA.
Did not thy words her thoughtful soul surprise,
And kindle sparkling anger in her eyes?

DIONE.
Thus she reply'd, with rage and scorn possest.
‘Will importuning love ne'er give me rest?
‘Why am I thus in desarts wild pursu'd,
‘Like guilty consciences when stain'd with blood?
‘Sure boding ravens, from the blasted oak,
‘Shall learn the name of Lycidas to croak,
‘To sound it in my ears! As swains pass by,
‘With look askance, they shake their heads and cry,
‘Lo! this is she for whom the shepherd dy'd!
‘Soon Lycidas, a victim to her pride,
‘Shall seek the grave; and in the glimm'ring glade,
‘With look all pale, shall glide the restless shade
‘Of the poor swain; while we with haggard eye
‘And bristled hair the fleeting phantom fly.
‘Still let their curses innocence upbraid:
‘Heav'n never will forsake the virtuous maid.

395

LAURA.
Didst thou persist to touch her haughty breast?

DIONE.
She still the more disdain'd, the more I prest.

LAURA.
When you were gone, these walks a stranger crost,
He turn'd through ev'ry path, and wander'd lost;
To me he came; with courteous speech demands
Beneath what bowers repos'd the shepherd bands;
Then further asks me, if among that race
A shepherdess was found of courtly grace;
With proffer'd bribes my faithful tongue essays;
But for no bribe the faithful tongue betrays.
In me Dione's safe. Far hence he speeds,
Where other hills resound with other reeds.

DIONE.
Should he come back; Suspicion's jealous eyes
Might trace my feature through the swain's disguise.
Now ev'ry noise and whistling wind I dread,
And in each sound approaches human tread.

LAURA.
He said, he left your house involv'd in cares,
Sighs swell'd each breast, each eye o'erflow'd with tears;
For his lost child thy pensive father mourns,
And sunk in sorrow to the dust returns.
Go back, obedient daughter; hence depart,
And still the sighs that tear his anxious heart.
Soon shall Evander, wearied with disdain,
Forgo these fields, and seek the town again.

DIONE.
Think, Laura, what thy hasty thoughts persuade.
If I return, to Love a victim made,
My wrathful Sire will force his harsh command,
And with Cleanthes join my trembling hand.

LAURA.
Trust a fond father; raise him from despair.

DIONE.
I fly not him; I fly a life of care.
On the high nuptials of the Court look round;
Where shall, alas, one happy pair be found!
There, marriage is for servile int'rest sought:
Is love for wealth or power or title bought?

396

'Tis hence domestick jars their peace destroy,
And loose adult'ry steals the shameful joy.
But search we wide o'er all the blissful plains,
Where love alone, devoid of int'rest, reigns.
What concord in each happy pair appears!
How fondness strengthens with the rolling years!
Superior power ne'er thwarts their soft delights,
Nor jealous accusations wake their nights.

LAURA.
May all those blessings on Dione fall.

DIONE.
Grant me Evander, and I share them all.
Shall a fond parent give perpetual strife,
And doom his child to be a wretch for life?
Though he bequeath'd me all these woods and plains,
And all the flocks the russet down contains;
With all the golden harvests of the year,
Far as where yonder purple mountains rear;
Can these the broils of nuptial life prevent?
Can these, without Evander, give content?
But see, he comes.

LAURA.
I'll to the vales repair,
Where wanders by the stream my fleecy care.
Mayst thou the rage of this new flame controul,
And wake Dione in his tender soul!

[Ex. Laura.

SCENE V.

DIONE. LYCIDAS.
LYCIDAS.
Say, my Alexis, can thy words impart
Kind rays of hope to cheer a doubtful heart?
How didst thou first my pangs of love disclose?
Did her disdainful brow confirm my woes?
Or did soft pity in her bosom rise,
Heave on her breast, and languish in her eyes?

DIONE.
How shall my tongue the fault'ring tale explain!
My heart drops blood to give the shepherd pain.

LYCIDAS.
Pronounce her utmost scorn; I come prepar'd
To meet my doom. Say, is my death declar'd?

397

DIONE.
Why should thy fate depend on woman's will?
Forget this tyrant, and be happy still.

LYCIDAS.
Didst thou beseech her not to speed her flight,
Nor shun with wrathful glance my hated sight?
Will she consent my sighing plaint to hear,
Nor let my piercing crys be lost in air?

DIONE.
Can mariners appease the tossing storm,
When foaming waves the yawning deep deform?
When o'er the sable cloud the thunder flies,
Say, who shall calm the terror of the skies?
Who shall the lion's famish'd roar asswage?
And can we still proud woman's stronger rage?
Soon as my faithful tongue pronounc'd thy name,
Sudden her glances shot resentful flame:
Be dumb, she crys, this whining love give o'er,
And vex me with the teazing theme no more.

LYCIDAS.
'Tis pride alone that keeps alive her scorn.
Can the mean swain in humble cottage born,
Can Poverty that haughty heart obtain,
Where avarice and strong ambition reign?
If Poverty pass by in tatter'd coat,
Curs vex his heels and stretch their barking throat;
If chance he mingle in the female croud,
Pride tosses high her head, Scorn laughs aloud;
Each nymph turns from him to her gay gallant,
And wonders at the impudence of Want.
'Tis vanity that rules all woman-kind,
Love is the weakest passion of their mind.

DIONE.
Though one is by those servile views possest,
O Lycidas, condemn not all the rest.

LYCIDAS.
Though I were bent beneath a load of years,
And seventy winters thin'd my hoary hairs;
Yet if my olive branches dropt with oil,
And crooked shares were brighten'd in my soil
If lowing herds my fat'ning meads possest,
And my white fleece the tawny mountain drest;
Then would she lure me with love-darting glance,
Then with fond mercenary smiles advance.
Though hell with ev'ry vice my soul had stain'd,
And froward anger in my bosom reign'd,

398

Though avarice my coffers cloath'd in rust,
And my joints trembled with enfeebled lust;
Yet were my ancient name with titles great,
How would she languish for the gawdy bait!
If to her love all-tempting wealth pretend,
What virtuous woman can her heart defend!

DIONE.
Conquests, thus meanly bought, men soon despise,
And justly slight the mercenary prize.

LYCIDAS.
I know these frailties in her breast reside,
Direct her glance and ev'ry action guide.
Still let Alexis' faithful friendship aid,
Once more attempt to bend the stubborn maid.
Tell her, no base-born swain provokes her scorn,
No clown, beneath the sedgy cottage born;
Tell her, for her this sylvan dress I took,
For her my name and pomp of Courts forsook;
My lofty roofs with golden sculpture shine,
And my high birth descends from ancient line.

DIONE.
Love is a sacred voluntary fire,
Gold never bought that pure, that chast desire,
Who thinks true love for lucre to possess,
Shall grasp false flatt'ry and the feign'd caress;
Can we believe that mean, that servile wife,
Who vilely sells her dear-bought love for life,
Would not her virtue for an hour resign,
If in her sight the proffer'd treasure shine.

LYCIDAS.
Can reason (when by winds swift fires are born
O'er waving harvests of autumnal corn)
The driving fury of the flame reprove?
Who then shall reason with a heart in love!

DIONE.
Yet let me speak; O may my words persuade
The noble youth to quit this sylvan maid!
Resign thy crook, no more to plains resort,
Look round on all the beauties of the Court;
There shall thy merit find a worthy flame,
Some nymph of equal wealth and equal name.
Think, if these offers should thy wish obtain,
And should the rustick beauty stoop to gain:
Thy heart could ne'er prolong th'unequal fire,
The sudden blaze would in one year expire;

399

Then thy rash folly thou too late shalt chide,
To Poverty and base-born blood ally'd;
Her vulgar tongue shall animate the strife,
And hourly discord vex thy future life.

LYCIDAS.
Such is the force thy faithful words impart,
That like the galling goad they pierce my heart!
You think fair virtue in my breast resides,
That honest truth my lips and actions guides;
Deluded shepherd, could you view my soul,
You'd see it with deceit and treach'ry foul;
I'm base, perfidious. E'er from Court I came,
Love singled from the train a beauteous dame;
The tender maid my fervent vows believ'd,
My fervent vows the tender maid deceiv'd.
Why dost thou tremble?—why thus heave thy sighs?
Why steal the silent sorrows from thy eyes?

DIONE.
Sure the soft lamb hides rage within his breast,
And cooing turtles are with hate possest;
When from so sweet a tongue flow fraud and lies,
And those meek looks a perjur'd heart disguise.
Ah! who shall now on faithless man depend?
The treach'rous lover proves as false a friend.

LYCIDAS.
When with Dione's love my bosom glow'd,
Firm constancy and truth sincere I vow'd;
But since Parthenia's brighter charms were known,
My love, my constancy and truth are flown.

DIONE.
Are not thy hours with conscious anguish stung?
Swift vengeance must o'ertake the perjur'd tongue.
The Gods the cause of injur'd love assert,
And arm with stubborn pride Parthenia's heart.

LYCIDAS.
Go, try her; tempt her with my birth and state,
Stronger ambition will subdue her hate.

DIONE.
O rather turn thy thoughts on that lost maid,
Whose hourly sighs thy faithless oaths upbraid!
Think you behold her at the dead of night,
Plac'd by the glimm'ring taper's paly light,

400

With all your letters spread before her view,
While trickling tears the tender lines bedew;
Sobbing she reads the perj'rys o'er and o'er,
And her long nights know peaceful sleep no more.

LYCIDAS.
Let me forget her.

DIONE.
O false youth, relent;
Think should Parthenia to thy hopes consent;
When Hymen joins your hands, and musick's voice
Makes the glad ecchoes of thy domes rejoyce,
Then shall Dione force the crouded hall,
Kneel at thy feet and loud for justice call:
Could you behold her weltring on the ground,
The purple dagger reeking from the wound?
Could you unmov'd this dreadful sight survey?
Such fatal scenes shall stain thy bridal day.

LYCIDAS.
The horrid thought sinks deep into my soul,
And down my cheek unwilling sorrows roll.

DIONE.
From this new flame you may as yet recede.
Or have you doom'd that guiltless maid shall bleed?

LYCIDAS.
Name her no more.—Haste, seek the sylvan Fair.

DIONE.
Should the rich proffer tempt her list'ning ear,
Bid all your peace adieu. O barb'rous youth,
Can you forgo your honour, love and truth?
Yet should Parthenia wealth and title slight,
Would justice then restore Dione's right?
Would you then dry her ever-falling tears;
And bless with honest love your future years?

LYCIDAS.
I'll in yon' shade thy wish'd return attend;
Come, quickly come, and cheer thy sighing friend.

[Exit Lycidas.
DIONE.
Should her proud soul resist the tempting bait,
Should she contemn his proffer'd wealth and state,
Then I once more his perjur'd heart may move,
And in his bosom wake the dying love.

401

As the pale wretch involv'd in doubts and fears,
All trembling in the judgment-hall appears;
So shall I stand before Parthenia's eyes,
For as she dooms, Dione lives or dies.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

LYCIDAS. PARTHENIA asleep in a bower.
LYCIDAS.
May no rude wind the rustling branches move;
Breathe soft, ye silent gales, nor wake my Love.
Ye shepherds, piping homeward on the way,
Let not the distant ecchoes learn your lay;
Strain not, ye nightingales, your warbling throat,
May no loud shake prolong the shriller note,
Lest she awake; O sleep, secure her eyes,
That I may gaze; for if she wake, she flies.
While easy dreams compose her peaceful soul,
What anxious cares within my bosom roll!
If tir'd with sighs beneath the beech I lye,
And languid slumber close my weeping eye,
Her lovely vision rises to my view,
Swift flys the nymph, and swift would I pursue;
I strive to call, my tongue has lost its sound;
Like rooted oaks, my feet benumm'd are bound;
Struggling I wake. Again my sorrows flow,
And not one flatt'ring dream deludes my woe.
What innocence! how meek is ev'ry grace!
How sweet the smile that dimples on her face,
Calm as the sleeping seas! but should my sighs
Too rudely breathe, what angry storms would rise!
Though the fair rose with beauteous blush is crown'd,
Beneath her fragrant leaves the thorn is found;
The peach, that with inviting crimson blooms,
Deep at the heart the cank'ring worm consumes;
'Tis thus, alas! those lovely features hide
Disdain and anger and resentful pride.

SCENE II.

LYCIDAS. DIONE. PARTHENIA.
LYCIDAS.
Hath proffer'd greatness yet o'ercome her hate?
And does she languish for the glitt'ring bait?
Against the swain she might her pride support.
Can she subdue her sex, and scorn a Court?

402

Perhaps in dreams the shining vision charms,
And the rich bracelet sparkles on her arms;
In fancy'd heaps the golden treasure glows:
Parthenia wake; all this thy swain bestows.

DIONE.
Sleeps she in these close bowers?

LYCIDAS.
Lo! there she lies.

DIONE.
O may no startling sound unseal her eyes,
And drive her hence away. 'Till now, in vain
I trod the winding wood and weary plain.
Hence, Lycidas; beyond those shades repose,
While I thy fortune and thy birth disclose.

LYCIDAS.
May I Parthenia to thy friendship owe!

DIONE.
O rather think on lost Dione's woe!
Must she thy broken faith for ever mourn,
And will that juster passion ne'er return?

LYCIDAS.
Upbraid me not; but go. Her slumbers chase;
And in her view the bright temptation place.

[Ex. Lycidas.

SCENE III.

DIONE. PARTHENIA.
DIONE.
Now flames the western skie with golden beams,
And the ray kindles on the quiv'ring streams;
Long flights of crows, high-croaking from their food,
Now seek the nightly covert of the wood;
The tender grass with dewy crystal bends,
And gath'ring vapour from the heath ascends.

403

Shake off this downy rest; wake, gentle maid,
Trust not thy charms beneath the noxious shade.
Parthenia, rise.

PARTHENIA.
What voice alarms my ear?
Away. Approach not. Hah! Alexis there!
Let us together to the vales descend,
And to the folds our bleating charge attend;
But let me hear no more that shepherd's name,
Vex not my quiet with his hateful flame.

DIONE.
Can I behold him gasping on the ground,
And seek no healing herb to stanch the wound?
For thee continual sighs consume his heart,
'Tis you alone can cure the bleeding smart.
Once more I come the moving cause to plead,
If still his suff'rings cannot intercede,
Yet let my friendship do his passion right,
And show thy lover in his native light.

PARTHENIA.
Why in dark myst'ry are thy words involv'd?
If Lycidas you mean; know, I'm resolv'd.

DIONE.
Let not thy kindling rage my words restrain.
Know then; Parthenia slights no vulgar swain.
For thee he bears the scrip and sylvan crook,
For thee the glories of a Court forsook.
May not thy heart the wealthy flame decline!
His honours, his possessions, all are thine.

PARTHENIA.
If he's a Courtier, O ye Nymphs, beware;
Those who most promise are the least sincere.
The quick-ey'd hawk shoots headlong from above,
And in his pounces bears the trembling dove;
The pilf'ring wolf o'er-leaps the fold's defence.
But the false Courtier preys on innocence.
If he's a Courtier; O ye Nymphs, beware:
Those who most promise are the least sincere.

DIONE.
Alas! thou ne'er hast prov'd the sweets of State,
Nor known that female pleasure, to be great.
'Tis for the town ripe clusters load the poles,
And all our Autumn crowns the Courtier's bowles;
For him our woods the red-ey'd pheasant breed,
And annual coveys in our harvest feed;

404

For him with fruit the bending branch is stor'd,
Plenty pours all her blessings on his board.
If (when the market to the city calls)
We chance to pass beside his palace walls,
Does not his hall with musick's voice resound,
And the floor tremble with the dancer's bound?
Such are the pleasures Lycidas shall give,
When thy relenting bosom bids him live.

PARTHENIA.
See yon gay goldfinch hop from spray to spray,
Who sings a farewell to the parting day;
At large he flies o'er hill and dale and down;
Is not each bush, each spreading tree his own?
And canst thou think he'll quit his native brier,
For the bright cage o'er-arch'd with golden wire?
What then are honours, pomp and gold to me?
Are those a price to purchase liberty!

DIONE.
Think, when the Hymeneal torch shall blaze,
And on the solemn rites the virgins gaze;
When thy fair locks with glitt'ring gems are grac'd,
And the bright zone shall sparkle round thy waste,
How will their hearts with envious sorrow pine,
When Lycidas shall join his hand to thine!

PARTHENIA.
And yet, Alexis, all that pomp and show
Are oft' the varnish of internal woe.
When the chast lamb is from her sisters led,
And interwoven garlands paint her head;
The gazing flock, all envious of her pride,
Behold her skipping by the Priestess' side;
Each hopes the flow'ry wreath with longing eyes;
While she, alas! is led to sacrifice!
Thus walks the bride in all her state array'd,
The gaze and envy of each thoughtless maid.

DIONE.
As yet her tongue resists the tempting snare,
And guards my panting bosom from despair. [Aside.

Can thy strong soul this noble flame forgo?
Must such a lover waste his life in woe?

PARTHENIA.
Tell him, his gifts I scorn; not all his art,
Not all his flattery shall seduce my heart.
Courtiers, I know, are disciplin'd to cheat,
Their infant lips are taught to lisp deceit;

405

To prey on easy nymphs they range the shade,
And vainly boast of innocence betray'd;
Chast hearts, unlearn'd in falsehood, they assail,
And think our ear will drink the grateful tale:
No. Lycidas shall ne'er my peace destroy,
I'll guard my virtue, and content enjoy.

DIONE.
So strong a passion in my bosom burns,
Whene'er his soul is griev'd, Alexis mourns!
Canst thou this importuning ardor blame?
Would not thy tongue for friendship urge the same?

PARTHENIA.
Yes, blooming swain. You show an honest mind;
I see it, with the purest flame refin'd.
Who shall compare love's mean and gross desire
To the chast zeal of friendship's sacred fire?
By whining love our weakness is confest;
But stronger friendship shows a virtuous breast.
In Folly's heart the short-liv'd blaze may glow,
Wisdom alone can purer friendship know.
Love is a sudden blaze which soon decays,
Friendship is like the sun's eternal rays;
Not daily benefits exhaust the flame,
It still is giving, and still burns the same;
And could Alexis from his soul remove
All the low images of grosser love;
Such mild, such gentle looks thy heart declare,
Fain would my breast thy faithful friendship share.

DIONE.
How dare you in the diff'rent sex confide?
And seek a friendship which you ne'er have try'd?

PARTHENIA.
Yes, I to thee could give up all my heart.
From thy chast eye no wanton glances dart;
Thy modest lips convey no thought impure,
With thee may strictest virtue walk secure.

DIONE.
Yet can I safely on the nymph depend,
Whose unrelenting scorn can kill my friend!

PARTHENIA.
Accuse me not, who act a generous part;
Had I, like city maids, a fraudful heart,
Then had his proffers taught my soul to feign
Then had I vilely stoopt to sordid gain,

406

Then had I sigh'd for honours, pomp and gold,
And for unhappy chains my freedom sold.
If you would save him, bid him leave the plain,
And to his native city turn again;
There, shall his passion find a ready cure,
There, not one dame resists the glitt'ring lure.

DIONE.
All this I frequent urg'd, but urg'd in vain.
Alas! thou only canst asswage his pain!

SCENE IV.

DIONE. PARTHENIA. LYCIDAS,
[listening.
LYCIDAS.
Why stays Alexis?! can my bosom bear
Thus long alternate storms of hope and fear?
Yonder they walk; no frowns her brow disguise,
But love consenting sparkles in her eyes;
Here will I listen, here, impatient wait.
Spare me, Parthenia, and resign thy hate.

[Aside.
PARTHENIA.
When Lycidas shall to the Court repair,
Still let Alexis love his fleecy care;
Still let him chuse cool grots and sylvan bowers,
And let Parthenia share his peaceful hours.

LYCIDAS.
What do I hear? my friendship is betray'd;
The treach'rous rival has seduc'd the maid.

[Aside.
PARTHENIA.
With thee, where bearded goats descend the steep,
Or where, like winter's snow, the nibbling sheep
Cloath the slope hills; I'll pass the cheerful day,
And from thy reed my voice shall catch the lay.
But see, still Ev'ning spreads her dusky wings,
The flocks, slow-moving from the misty springs,
Now seek their fold. Come, shepherd, let's away,
To close the latest labours of the day.

[Exeunt hand in hand.

407

SCENE V.

LYCIDAS.
My troubled heart what dire disasters rend!
A scornful mistress, and a treach'rous friend!
Would ye be cozen'd, more than woman can;
Unlock your bosom to perfidious man.
One faithful woman have these eyes beheld,
And against her this perjur'd heart rebell'd:
But search as far as earth's wide bounds extend,
Where shall the wretched find one faithful friend?

SCENE VI.

LYCIDAS. DIONE.
LYCIDAS.
Why starts the swain? why turn his eyes away,
As if amidst his path the viper lay?
Did I not to thy charge my heart confide?
Did I not trust thee near Parthenia's side,
As here she slept?

DIONE.
She strait my call obey'd,
And downy slumber left the lovely maid;
As in the morn awakes the folded rose,
And all around her breathing odour throws;
So wak'd Parthenia.

LYCIDAS.
Could thy guarded heart,
When her full beauty glow'd, put by the dart?
Yet on Alexis let my soul depend.
'Tis most ungen'rous to suspect a friend.
And thou, I hope, hast well that name profest.

DIONE.
O could thy piercing eye discern my breast!
Could'st thou the secrets of my bosom see,
There ev'ry thought is fill'd with cares for thee.

LYCIDAS.
Is there, against hypocrisie, defence,
Who cloaths her words and looks with innocence! [Aside.

Say, shepherd, when you proffer'd wealth and state,
Did not her scorn and suppled pride abate?

408

DIONE.
As sparkling di'monds to the feather'd train,
Who scrape the winnow'd chaff in search of grain;
Such to the shepherdess the Court appears:
Content she seeks, and spurns those glitt'ring cares.

LYCIDAS.
'Tis not in woman grandeur to despise,
'Tis not from Courts, from me alone she flies.
Did not my passion suffer like disgrace,
While she believ'd me born of sylvan race?
Dost thou not think, this proudest of her kind
Has to some rival swain her heart resign'd?

DIONE.
No rival shepherd her disdain can move;
Her frozen bosom is averse to love.

LYCIDAS.
Say, art thou sure, that this ungrateful fair
Scorns all alike, bids all alike despair?

DIONE.
How can I know the secrets of her heart!

LYCIDAS.
Answer sincere, nor from the question start.
Say, in her glance was never love confest,
And is no swain distinguish'd from the rest?

DIONE.
O Lycidas, bid all thy troubles cease;
Let not a thought on her disturb thy peace.
May justice bid thy former passion wake;
Think how Dione suffers for thy sake:
Let not a broken oath thy honour stain,
Recall thy vows, and seek the town again.

LYCIDAS.
What means Alexis? where's thy friendship flown?
Why am I banish'd to the hateful town?
Hath some new shepherd warm'd Parthenia's breast?
And does my love his am'rous hours molest?
Is it for this thou bid'st me quit the plain?
Yes, yes, thou fondly lov'st this rival swain.
When first my cheated soul thy friendship woo'd,
To my warm heart I took the vip'rous brood.
O false Alexis!

409

DIONE.
Why am I accus'd?
Thy jealous mind is by weak fears abus'd.

LYCIDAS.
Was not thy bosom fraught with false design?
Didst thou not plead his cause, and give up mine?
Let not thy tongue evasive answer seek;
The conscious crimson rises on thy cheek:
Thy coward conscience, by thy guilt dismaid,
Shakes in each joint, and owns that I'm betray'd.

DIONE.
How my poor heart is wrong'd! O spare thy friend!

LYCIDAS.
Seek not detected falsehood to defend.

DIONE.
Beware; lest blind suspicion rashly blame.

LYCIDAS.
Own thy self then the rival of my flame.
If this be she for whom Alexis pin'd,
She now no more is to thy vows unkind.
Behind the thicket's twisted verdure laid,
I witness'd ev'ry tender thing she said;
I saw bright pleasure kindle in her eyes,
Love warm'd each feature at thy soft replys.

DIONE.
Yet hear me speak.

LYCIDAS.
In vain is all defence.
Did not thy treach'rous hand conduct her hence?
Haste, from my sight. Rage burns in ev'ry vein;
Never approach my just revenge again.

DIONE.
O search my heart; there injur'd truth thou'lt find.

LYCIDAS.
Talk not of Truth; long since she left mankind.
So smooth a tongue! and yet so false a heart!
Sure Courts first taught thee fawning friendship's art!
No. Thou art false by nature.

DIONE.
Let me clear
This heavy charge, and prove my trust sincere.

410

LYCIDAS.
Boast then her favours; say, what happy hour
Next calls to meet her in th'appointed bower;
Say, when and where you met.

DIONE.
Be rage supprest.
In stabbing mine, you wound Parthenia's breast.
She said, she still defy'd Love's keenest dart;
Yet purer friendship might divide her heart,
Friendship's sincerer bands she wish'd to prove.

LYCIDAS.
A woman's friendship ever ends in love.
Think not these foolish tales my faith command;
Did not I see thee press her snowy hand?
O may her passion like thy friendship last!
May she betray thee e'er a day be past!
Hence then. Away. Thou'rt hateful to my sight,
And thus I spurn the fawning hypocrite.

[Ex. Lycidas.

SCENE VII.

DIONE.
Was ever grief like mine! O wretched maid!
My friendship wrong'd! my constant love betray'd!
Misfortune haunts my steps where-e'er I go,
And all my days are over-cast with woe.
Long have I strove th'encreasing load to bear,
Now faints my soul, and sinks into despair.
O lead me to the hanging mountain's cell,
In whose brown cliffs the fowls of darkness dwell;
Where waters, trickling down the rifted wall,
Shall lull my sorrows with the tinkling fall.
There, seek thy grave. How canst thou bear the light,
When banish'd ever from Evander's sight!

SCENE VIII.

DIONE. LAURA.
LAURA.
Why hangs a cloud of grief upon thy brows?
Does the proud nymph accept Evander's vows?

DIONE.
Can I bear life with these new pangs opprest!
Again he tears me from his faithless breast:

411

A perjur'd Lover first he sought these plains,
And now my friendship like my love disdains.
As I new offers to Parthenia made,
Conceal'd he stood behind the woodbine shade.
He says, my treach'rous tongue his heart betray'd,
That my false speeches have mis-led the maid;
With groundless fear he thus his soul deceives;
What frenzy dictates, jealousy believes.

LAURA.
Resign thy crook, put off this manly vest,
And let the wrong'd Dione stand confest;
When he shall learn what sorrows thou hast born,
And find that nought relents Parthenia's scorn,
Sure he will pity thee.

DIONE.
No, Laura, no.
Should I, alas! the sylvan dress forgo,
Then might he think that I her pride foment,
That injur'd love instructs me to resent;
Our secret enterprize might fatal prove:
Man flys the plague of persecuting love.

LAURA.
Avoid Parthenia; lest his rage grow warm,
And jealousie resolve some fatal harm.

DIONE.
O Laura, if thou chance the youth to find,
Tell him what torments vex my anxious mind;
Should I once more his awful presence seek,
The silent tears would bathe my glowing cheek;
By rising sighs my fault'ring voice be stay'd,
And trembling fear too soon confess the maid.
Haste, Laura, then; his vengeful soul asswage,
Tell him, I'm guiltless; cool his blinded rage;
Tell him that truth sincere my friendship brought,
Let him not cherish one suspicious thought.
Then to convince him, his distrust was vain,
I'll never, never see that nymph again.
This way he went.

LAURA.
See, at the call of night,
The star of ev'ning sheds his silver light
High o'er yon western hill: the cooling gales
Fresh odours breathe along the winding dales;
Far from their home as yet our shepherds stray,
To close with cheerful walk the sultry day.

412

Methinks from far I hear the piping swain;
Hark, in the breeze now swells, now sinks the strain!
Thither I'll seek him.

DIONE.
While this length of glade
Shall lead me pensive through the sable shade;
Where on the branches murmur rushing winds,
Grateful as falling floods to love-sick minds.
O may this path to Death's dark vale descend!
There only, can the wretched hope a friend.

[Ex. severally.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

A Wood.
DIONE. CLEANTHES, (who lies wounded in a distant part of the stage.)
DIONE.
The Moon serene now climbs th'aerial way;
See, at her sight ten thousand stars decay:
With trembling gleam she tips the silent grove,
While all beneath the checquer'd shadows move.
Turn back thy silver axles, downward roll,
Darkness best fits the horrors of my soul.
Rise, rise, ye clouds; the face of heav'n deform,
Veil the bright Goddess in a sable storm:
O look not down upon a wretched maid!
Let thy bright torch the happy lover aid,
And light his wandring footsteps to the bower,
Where the kind nymph attends th'appointed hour.
Yet thou hast seen unhappy love, like mine;
Did not thy lamp in Heav'n's blue forehead shine,
When Thisbe sought her Love along the glade?
Didst thou not then behold the gleaming blade,
And gild the fatal point that stabb'd her breast?
Soon I, like her, shall seek the realms of rest.
Let groves of mournful yew a wretch surround!
O sooth my ear with melancholy sound!
The village curs now stretch their yelling throat,
And dogs from distant cotts return the note;
The rav'nous wolf along the valley prowls,
And with his famish'd crys the mountain howls.
But hark! what sudden noise advances near?
Repeated groans alarm my frighted ear!

413

CLEANTHES.
Shepherd, approach; ah! fly not through the glade.
A wretch all dy'd with wounds invokes thy aid.

DIONE.
Say then, unhappy stranger, how you bled;
Collect thy spirits, raise thy drooping head. [Cleanthes raises himself on his arm.

O horrid sight! Cleanthes gasping lies;
And Death's black shadows float before his eyes.
Unknown in this disguise, I'll check my woe,
And learn what bloody hand has struck the blow. [Aside.

Say, youth, ere Fate thy feeble voice confounds,
What led thee hither? whence these purple wounds?

CLEANTHES.
Stay, fleeting life; may strength a-while prevail,
Lest my clos'd lips confine th'imperfect tale.
Ere the streak'd East grew warm with amber ray,
I from the city took my doubtful way,
Far o'er the plains I sought a beauteous maid,
Who from the Court, in these wide forests stray'd,
Wanders unknown; as I, with weary pain,
Try'd ev'ry path, and op'ning glade in vain;
A band of thieves, forth-rushing from the wood,
Unsheath'd their daggers warm with daily blood;
Deep in my breast the barb'rous steel is dy'd,
And purple hands the golden prey divide.
Hence are these mangling wounds. Say, gentle swain,
If thou hast known among the sylvan train
The vagrant nymph I seek?

DIONE.
What mov'd thy care,
Thus, in these pathless wilds to search the fair?

CLEANTHES.
I charge you, O ye daughters of the grove,
Ye Naiads, who the mossy fountains love,
Ye happy swains, who range the pastures wide,
Ye tender nymphs, who feed your flocks beside;
If my last gasping breath can pity move,
If e'er ye knew the pangs of slighted love,
Show her, I charge you, where Cleanthes dy'd;
The grass yet reeking with the sanguine tide.
A father's power to me the virgin gave,
But she disdain'd to live a nuptial slave;
So fled her native home.

414

DIONE.
'Tis then from thee
Springs the foul source of all her misery.
Could'st thou, thy selfish appetite to please,
Condemn to endless woes another's peace?

CLEANTHES.
O spare me; nor my hapless love upbraid,
While on my heart Death's frozen hand is laid!
Go, seek her, guide her where Cleanthes bled;
When she surveys her lover pale and dead,
Tell her, that since she fled my hateful sight,
Without remorse I sought the realms of night.
Methinks I see her view these poor remains,
And on her cheek indecent gladness reigns!
Full in her presence cold Cleanthes lies,
And not one tear stands trembling in her eyes!
O let a sigh my hapless fate deplore!
Cleanthes now controuls thy love no more.

DIONE.
How shall my lids confine these rising woes?

[Aside.
CLEANTHES.
O might I see her, ere Death's finger close
These eyes for ever! might her soften'd breast
Forgive my love with too much ardor prest!
Then I with peace could yield my latest breath.

DIONE.
Shall I not calm the sable hour of death,
And show my self before him!—Hah! he dies.
See, from his trembling lip the spirit flies! [Aside.

Stay yet awhile. Dione stands confest.
He knows me not. He faints, he sinks to rest.

CLEANTHES.
Tell her, since all my hopes in her were lost,
That death was welcome—

[Dies.
DIONE.
What sudden gusts of grief my bosom rend!
A parent's curses o'er my head impend
For disobedient vows; O wretched maid,
Those very vows Evander hath betray'd.
See, at thy feet Cleanthes bath'd in blood!
For love of thee he trod this lonely wood;
Thou art the cruel authress of his fate;
He falls by thine, thou, by Evander's hate.

415

When shall my soul know rest? Cleanthes slain
No longer sighs and weeps for thy disdain.
Thou still art curst with love. Bleed, virgin, bleed.
How shall a wretch from anxious life be freed!
My troubled brain with sudden frenzy burns,
And shatter'd thought now this now that way turns.
What do I see thus glitt'ring on the plains?
Hah! the dread sword yet warm with crimson stains!

[Takes up the dagger.

SCENE II.

DIONE. PARTHENIA.
PARTHENIA.
Sweet is the walk when night has cool'd the hour.
This path directs me to my sylvan bower.

[Aside.
DIONE.
Why is my soul with sudden fear dismay'd!
Why drops my trembling hand the pointed blade?
O string my arm with force!

[Aside.
PARTHENIA.
Methought a noise
Broke through the silent air, like human voice.

[Aside.
DIONE.
One well-aim'd blow shall all my pangs remove,
Grasp firm the fatal steel, and cease to love.

[Aside.
PARTHENIA.
Sure 'twas Alexis. Hah! a sword display'd!
The streaming lustre darts a-cross the shade.

[Aside.
DIONE.
May Heav'n new vigour to my soul impart,
And guide the desp'rate weapon to my heart!

[Aside.
PARTHENIA.
May I the meditated death arrest! [Holds Dione's hand.

Strike not, rash shepherd; spare thy guiltless breast.
O give me strength to stay the threaten'd harm,
And wrench the dagger from his lifted arm!

DIONE.
What cruel hand with-holds the welcome blow?
In giving life, you but prolong my woe.

416

O may not thus th'expected stroke impend!
Unloose thy grasp, and let swift death descend.
But if yon' murder thy red hands hath dy'd;
Here. Pierce me deep; let forth the vital tide.

[Dione quits the dagger.
PARTHENIA.
Wait not thy fate; but this way turn thy eyes:
My virgin hand no purple murder dyes.
Turn then, Alexis; and Parthenia know,
'Tis she protects thee from the fatal blow.

DIONE.
Must the night-watches by my sighs be told?
And must these eyes another morn behold
Through dazling floods of tears? ungen'rous maid,
The friendly stroke is by thy hand delay'd;
Call it not mercy to prolong my breath;
'Tis but to torture me with lingring death.

PARTHENIA.
What moves thy hand to act this bloody part?
Whence are these gnawing pangs that tear thy heart?
Is that thy friend who lies before thee slain?
Is it his wound that reeks upon the plain?
Is't Lycidas?

DIONE.
No. I the stranger found,
E'er chilly death his frozen tongue had bound.
He said; as at the rosy dawn of day,
He from the city took his vagrant way,
A murd'ring band pour'd on him from the wood,
First seiz'd his gold, then bath'd their swords in blood.

PARTHENIA.
You, whose ambition labours to be great,
Think on the perils which on riches wait.
Safe are the shepherd's paths; when sober Even
Streaks with pale light the bending arch of heaven,
From danger free, through desarts wild he hies,
The rising smoak far o'er the mountain spies,
Which marks his distant cottage; on he fares,
For him no murd'rers lay their nightly snares;
They pass him by, they turn their steps away:
Safe Poverty was ne'er the villain's prey.
At home he lies secure in easy sleep,
No bars his ivie-mantled cottage keep;
No thieves in dreams the fancy'd dagger hold,
And drag him to detect the buried gold;

417

Nor starts he from his couch aghast and pale
When the door murmurs with the hollow gale,
While he, whose iron coffers rust with wealth,
Harbours beneath his roof Deceit and Stealth;
Treach'ry with lurking pace frequents his walks,
And close behind him horrid Murder stalks.
'Tis tempting lucre makes the villain bold.
There lies a bleeding sacrifice to gold.

DIONE.
To live, is but to wake to daily cares,
And journey through a tedious vale of tears.
Had you not rush'd between, my life had flown;
And I, like him, no more had sorrow known.

PARTHENIA.
When anguish in the gloomy bosom dwells,
The counsel of a friend the cloud dispells.
Give thy breast vent, the secret grief impart,
And say what woe lies heavy at thy heart.
To save thy life kind Heav'n has succour sent,
The Gods by me thy threaten'd fate prevent.

DIONE.
No. To prevent it, is beyond thy power;
Thou only canst defer the welcome hour.
When you the lifted dagger turn'd aside,
Only one road to death thy force deny'd;
Still fate is in my reach. From mountains high,
Deep in whose shadow craggy ruines lie,
Can I not headlong fling this weight of woe,
And dash out life against the flints below?
Are there not streams, and lakes, and rivers wide,
Where my last breath may bubble on the tide?
No. Life shall never flatter me again,
Nor shall to-morrow bring new sighs and pain.

PARTHENIA.
Can I this burthen of thy soul relieve,
And calm thy grief?

DIONE.
If thou wilt comfort give;
Plight me thy word, and to that word be just;
When poor Alexis shall be laid in dust,
That pride no longer shall command thy mind,
That thou wilt spare the friend I leave behind.
I know his virtue worthy of thy breast.
Long in thy love may Lycidas be blest!

PARTHENIA.
That swain (who would my liberty controul,
To please some short-liv'd transport of his soul)

418

Shows, while his importuning flame he moves,
That 'tis not me, himself alone he loves.
O live, nor leave him by misfortune prest;
'Tis shameful to desert a friend distrest.

DIONE.
Alas! a wretch like me no loss would prove,
Would kind Parthenia listen to his love.

PARTHENIA.
Why hides thy bosom this mysterious grief?
Ease thy o'erburthen'd heart, and hope relief.

DIONE.
What profits it to touch thy tender breast,
With wrongs, like mine, which ne'er can be redrest?
Let in my heart the fatal secret dye,
Nor call up sorrow in another's eye!

SCENE III.

DIONE. PARTHENIA. LYCIDAS.
LYCIDAS.
If Laura right direct the darksome ways,
Along these paths the pensive shepherd strays.

[Aside.
DIONE.
Let not a tear for me roll down thy cheek.
O would my throbbing sighs my heart-strings break!
Why was my breast the lifted stroke deny'd?
Must then again the deathful deed be try'd?
Yes. 'Tis resolv'd.

[Snatches the dagger from Parthenia.
PARTHENIA.
Ah, hold; forbear, forbear!

LYCIDAS.
Methought Distress with shrieks alarm'd my ear!

PARTHENIA.
Strike not. Ye Gods, defend him from the wound!

LYCIDAS.
Yes. 'Tis Parthenia's voice, I know the sound.
Some sylvan ravisher would force the maid,
And Laura sent me to her virtue's aid.
Die, villain, die; and seek the shades below.

[Lycidas snatches the dagger from Dione, and stabs her.

419

DIONE.
Whoe'er thou art, I bless thee for the blow.

LYCIDAS.
Since Heav'n ordain'd this arm thy life should guard,
O hear my vows! be love the just reward.

PARTHENIA.
Rather let vengeance, with her swiftest speed
O'ertake thy flight, and recompence the deed!
Why stays the thunder in the upper skie?
Gather, ye clouds; ye forky lightnings, fly:
On thee may all the wrath of heav'n descend,
Whose barb'rous hand hath slain a faithful friend.
Behold Alexis!

LYCIDAS.
Would that treach'rous boy
Have forc'd thy virtue to his brutal joy?
What rous'd his passion to this bold advance?
Did e'er thy eyes confess one willing glance?
I know, the faithless youth his trust betray'd;
And well the dagger hath my wrongs repay'd.

DIONE,
[raising herself on her arm.
Breaks not Evander's voice along the glade?
Hah! is it he who holds the reeking blade!
There needed not or poyson, sword, or dart;
Thy faithless vows, alas! had broke my heart.

[Aside.
PARTHENIA.
O tremble, shepherd, for thy rash offence,
The sword is dy'd with murder'd innocence!
His gentle soul no brutal passion seiz'd,
Nor at my bosom was the dagger rais'd;
Self-murder was his aim; the youth I found
Whelm'd in despair, and stay'd the falling wound.

DIONE.
Into what mischiefs is the lover led,
Who calls down vengeance on his perjur'd head!
O may he ne'er bewail this desperate deed,
And may, unknown, unwept, Dione bleed!

[Aside.
LYCIDAS.
What horrors on the guilty mind attend!
His conscience had reveng'd an injur'd friend,
Hadst thou not held the stroke. In death he sought
To lose the heart-consuming pain of thought.
Did not the smooth-tongu'd boy perfidious prove,
Plead his own passion, and betray my love?

420

DIONE.
O let him ne'er this bleeding victim know;
Lest his rash transport, to revenge the blow,
Should in his dearer heart the dagger stain!
That wound would pierce my soul with double pain.

[Aside.
PARTHENIA.
How did his faithful lips (now pale and cold)
With moving eloquence thy griefs unfold!

LYCIDAS.
Was he thus faithful? thus, to friendship true?
Then I'm a wretch. All peace of mind, adieu!
If ebbing life yet beat within thy vein,
Alexis, speak; unclose those lids again. [Flings himself on the ground near Dione.

See at thy feet the barb'rous villain kneel!
'Tis Lycidas who grasps the bloody steel,
Thy once lov'd friend.—Yet e'er I cease to live,
Canst thou a wretched penitent forgive?

DIONE.
When low beneath the sable mould I rest,
May a sincerer friendship share thy breast!
Why are those heaving groans? (ah! cease to weep!)
May my lost name in dark oblivion sleep;
Let this sad tale no speaking stone declare,
From future eyes to draw a pitying tear.
Let o'er my grave the lev'ling plough-share pass,
Mark not the spot; forget that e'er I was.
Then may'st thou with Parthenia's love be blest,
And not one thought on me thy joys molest!
My swimming eyes are over-power'd with light,
And darkning shadows fleet before my sight.
May'st thou be happy! ah! my soul is free.

[Dies.
LYCIDAS.
O cruel shepherdess, for love of thee [To Parthenia.

This fatal deed was done.

SCENE the last.

LYCIDAS. PARTHENIA. LAURA.
LAURA.
Alexis slain!

LYCIDAS.
Yes. 'Twas I did it. See this crimson stain!
My hands with blood of innocence are dy'd.
O may the Moon her silver beauty hide
In rolling clouds! my soul abhors the light;
Shade, shade the murd'rer in eternal night!

421

LAURA.
No rival shepherd is before thee laid;
There bled the chastest, the sincerest maid
That ever sigh'd for love. On her pale face,
Cannot thy weeping eyes the feature trace
Of thy once dear Dione? with wan care
Sunk are those eyes, and livid with despair!

LYCIDAS.
Dione!

LAURA.
There pure Constancy lies dead!

LYCIDAS.
May Heav'n shower vengeance on this perjur'd head!
As the dry branch that withers on the ground,
So, blasted be the hand that gave the wound!
Off; hold me not. This heart deserves the stroke;
'Tis black with treach'ry. Yes: the vows are broke [Stabs himself.

Which I so often swore. Vain world, adieu!
Though I was false in life, in death I'm true.

[Dies.
LAURA.
To morrow shall the funeral rites be paid,
And these Love victims in one grave be laid.

PARTHENIA.
There shall the yew her sable branches spread,
And mournful cypress rear her fringed head.

LAURA.
From thence shall thyme and myrtle send perfume,
And laurel ever-green o'ershade the tomb.

PARTHENIA.
Come, Laura; let us leave this horrid wood,
Where streams the purple grass with lovers blood;
Come to my bower. And as we sorrowing go,
Let poor Dione's story feed my woe
With heart-relieving tears.—

LAURA,
[pointing to Dione.
Unhappy maid,
Hadst thou a Parent's just command obey'd,
Thou yet had'st liv'd.—But who shall Love advise?
Love scorns command, and breaks all other tyes.
Henceforth, ye swains, be true to vows profest;
For certain vengeance strikes the perjur'd breast.

483

[AIRS FROM THE BEGGAR'S OPERA.]

------ Nos haec novimus esse nihil.
Mart.

488

AIR I. An old woman cloathed in gray.

THROUGH all the employments of life
Each neighbour abuses his brother;
Whore and Rogue they call Husband and Wife:
All professions be-rogue one another.
The Priest calls the Lawyer a cheat,
The Lawyer be-knaves the Divine;
And the Statesman, because he's so great,
Thinks his trade as honest as mine.

489

AIR II. The bonny gray-ey'd morn, &c.

Tis woman that seduces all mankind,
By her we first were taught the wheedling arts;
Her very eyes can cheat; when most she's kind,
She tricks us of our money with our hearts.
For her, like Wolves by night we roam for prey,
And practise ev'ry fraud to bribe her charms;
For suits of love, like law, are won by pay,
And Beauty must be fee'd into our arms.

490

AIR III. Cold and raw, &c.

If any wench Venus's girdle wear,
Though she be never so ugly,
Lillies and roses will quickly appear,
And her face look wond'rous smuggly.
Beneath the left ear, so fit but a cord,
(A rope so charming a Zone is!)
The youth in his cart hath the air of a lord,
And we cry, There dies an Adonis!

491

AIR IV. Why is your faithful slave disdain'd?

If love the virgin's heart invade,
How, like a Moth, the simple maid
Still plays about the flame!
If soon she be not made a wife,
Her honour's sing'd, and then for life,
She's—what I dare not name.

492

AIR V. Of all the simple things we do, &c.

A Maid is like the golden oar,
Which hath guineas intrinsical in't,
Whose worth is never known, before
It is try'd and imprest in the mint.
A Wife's like a guinea in gold,
Stampt with the name of her spouse;
Now here, now there; is bought, or is sold;
And is current in every house.

493

AIR VI. What shall I do to show how much I love her?

Virgins are like the fair flower in its lustre,
Which in the garden enamels the ground;
Near it the Bees in play flutter and cluster,
And gaudy Butterflies frolick around.
But, when once pluck'd, 'tis no longer alluring,
To Covent-garden 'tis sent, (as yet sweet,)
There fades, and shrinks, and grows past all enduring,
Rots, stinks, and dies, and is trod under feet.

494

AIR VII. Oh London is a fine Town.

Our Polly is a sad slut! nor heeds what we have taught her.
I wonder any man alive will ever rear a daughter!
For she must have both hoods and gowns, and hoops to swell her pride,
With scarfs and stays, and gloves and lace; and she will have men beside;
And when she's drest with care and cost, all-tempting, fine and gay,
As men should serve a Cowcumber, she flings herself away.

495

AIR VIII. Grim King of the Ghosts, &c.

Can Love be controul'd by advice?
Will Cupid our mothers obey?
Though my heart were as frozen as Ice,
At his flame 'twould have melted away.
When he kist me so closely he prest,
'Twas so sweet, that I must have comply'd:
So I thought it both safest and best
To marry, for fear you should chide.

AIR IX. O Jenny, O Jenny, where hast thou been.

O Polly, you might have toy'd and kist.
By keeping men off, you keep them on.
But he so teaz'd me,
And he so pleas'd me,
What I did, you must have done.

496

AIR X. Thomas, I cannot, &c.

I, like a ship in storms, was tost:
Yet afraid to put into Land;
For seiz'd in the port the vessel's lost,
Whose treasure is contreband.
The waves are laid,
My duty's paid.
O joy beyond expression!
Thus, safe a-shore,
I ask no more,
My all is in my possession.

AIR XI. A Soldier and a Sailor.

A Fox may steal your hens, sir,
A whore your health and pence, sir,
Your daughter rob your chest, sir,
Your wife may steal your rest, sir,
A thief your goods and plate.

497

But this is all but picking,
With rest, pence, chest and chicken;
It ever was decreed, sir,
If Lawyer's hand is fee'd, sir,
He steals your whole estate.

498

AIR XII. Now ponder well, ye parents dear.

Oh, ponder well! be not severe;
So save a wretched wife!
For on the rope that hangs my dear
Depends poor Polly's life.

AIR XIII. Le printemps rappelle aux armes.

The Turtle thus with plaintive crying,
Her lover dying,
The turtle thus with plaintive crying
Laments her Dove.
Down she drops quite spent with sighing,
Pair'd in death, as pair'd in love.

499

AIR XIV. Pretty Parrot, say, &c.

Pretty Polly, say,
When I was away,
Did your fancy never stray
To some newer lover?
Without disguise,
Heaving sighs,
Doating eyes,
My constant heart discover.
Fondly let me loll!
O pretty, pretty Poll.

500

AIR XV. Pray, fair one, be kind.

My heart was so free,
It rov'd like the Bee,
'Till Polly my passion requited;
I sipt each flower,
I chang'd ev'ry hour,
But here ev'ry flower is united.

AIR XVI. Over the hills and far away.

Were I laid on Greenland's coast,
And in my arms embrac'd my lass;
Warm amidst eternal frost,
Too soon the half year's night would pass.
Were I sold on Indian soil.
Soon as the burning day was clos'd,
I could mock the sultry toil,
When on my charmer's breast repos'd.
And I would love you all the day,
Every night would kiss and play,
If with me you'd fondly stray
Over the hills and far away.

AIR XVII. Gin thou wert mine awn thing.

O what pain it is to part!
Can I leave thee, can I leave thee?
O what pain it is to part!
Can thy Polly ever leave thee?
But lest death my love should thwart,
And bring thee to the fatal cart,
Thus I tear thee from my bleeding heart!
Fly hence, and let me leave thee.

501

AIR XVIII. O the broom, &c.

The Miser thus a shilling sees,
Which he's oblig'd to pay,
With sighs resigns it by degrees.
And fears 'tis gone for aye.
The Boy thus, when his Sparrow's flown,
The bird in silence eyes;
But soon as out of sight 'tis gone,
Whines, whimpers, sobs and cries.

502

AIR XIX. Fill ev'ry glass, &c.

Fill ev'ry glass, for wine inspires us,
And fires us
With courage, love and joy.
Women and wine should life employ.
Is there ought else on earth desirous?
Fill ev'ry glass, &c.

503

AIR XX. March in Rinaldo, with Drums and Trumpets.

Let us take the road.
Hark! I hear the sound of coaches!
The hour of attack approaches,
To your arms, brave boys, and load.
See the ball I hold!
Let the Chymists toil like asses,
Our fire their fire surpasses,
And turns all our lead to gold.

AIR XXI. Would you have a young Virgin, &c.

If the heart of a man is deprest with cares,
The mist is dispell'd when a woman appears;
Like the notes of a fiddle, she sweetly, sweetly
Raises the spirits, and charms our ears.
Roses and lillies her cheeks disclose,
But her ripe lips are more sweet than those.

504

Press her,
Caress her,
With blisses,
Her kisses
Dissolve us in pleasure, and soft repose.

AIR XXII. Cotillon.

Youth's the season made for joys,
Love is then our duty;
She alone who that employs,
Well deserves her beauty.

505

Let's be gay,
While we may,
Beauty's a flower despis'd in decay.
Youth's the season, &c.

Let us drink and sport to-day,
Ours is not to-morrow.
Love with youth flies swift away,
Age is nought but sorrow.
Dance and sing,
Time's on the wing,
Life never knows the return of spring.
Let us drink, &c.

AIR XXIII. All in a misty morning.

Before the barn-door crowing,
The Cock by Hens attended,
His eyes around him throwing,
Stands for a while suspended:

506

Then one he singles from the crew,
And cheers the happy Hen;
With how do you do, and how do you do,
And how do you do again.

AIR XXIV. When once I lay with another man's wife.

The Gamesters and Lawyers are jugglers alike,
If they meddle your all is in danger:
Like Gypsies, if once they can finger a souse,
Your pockets they pick, and they pilfer your house,
And give your estate to a stranger.

507

AIR XXV. When first I laid siege to my Chloris.

At the Tree I shall suffer with pleasure,
At the Tree I shall suffer with pleasure,
Let me go where I will,
In all kinds of ill,
I shall find no such Furies as these are.

508

AIR XXVI. Courtiers, courtiers think it no harm.

Man may escape from rope and gun;
Nay, some have out-liv'd the Doctor's pill:
Who takes a woman must be undone,
That Basilisk is sure to kill.
The Fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets,
So he that tastes woman, woman, woman,
He that tastes woman, ruin meets.

509

AIR XXVII. A lovely Lass to a Friar came.

Thus when a good huswife sees a Rat
In her trap in the morning taken,
With pleasure her heart goes pit a pat,
In revenge for her loss of bacon.
Then she throws him
To the Dog or Cat,
To be worried, crush'd and shaken.

AIR XXVIII. 'Twas when the Sea was roaring.

How cruel are the traytors,
Who lye and swear in jest,
To cheat unguarded creatures
Of virtue, fame, and rest!
Whoever steals a shilling,
Thro' shame the guilt conceals:
In love the perjur'd villain
With boasts the theft reveals.

510

AIR XXIX. The Sun had loos'd his weary teams.

The first time at the looking-glass
The mother sets her daughter,
The Image strikes the smiling lass
With self-love ever after.
Each time she looks, she, fonder grown,
Thinks ev'ry charm grows stronger:
But alas, vain maid, all eyes but your own
Can see you are not younger.

511

AIR XXX. How happy are we, &c.

When you censure the age,
Be cautious and sage,
Lest the Courtiers offended should be:
If you mention vice or bribe,
'Tis so pat to all the tribe;
Each cries—That was levell'd at me.

512

AIR XXXI. Of a noble Race was Shenkin.

Is then his fate decreed, Sir,
Such a man can I think of quitting?
When first we met, so moves me yet,
O see how my heart is splitting!

AIR XXXII.

[You'll think, e'er many days ensue]

You'll think, e'er many days ensue,
This sentence not severe;
I hang your husband, child, 'tis true,
But with him hang your care.
Twang dang dillo dee.

513

AIR XXXIII. London Ladies.

If you at an Office solicit your due,
And would not have matters neglected;
You must quicken the Clerk with the perquisite too,
To do what his duty directed.
Or would you the frowns of a lady prevent,
She too has this palpable failing,
The perquisite softens her into consent;
That reason with all is prevailing.

AIR XXXIV. All in the Downs, &c.

Thus when the Swallow, seeking prey,
Within the sash is closely pent,
His consort with bemoaning lay,
Without sits pining for th'event.
Her chatt'ring lovers all around her skim;
She heeds them not (poor bird) her soul's with him.

514

AIR XXXV. Have you heard of a frolicksome ditty.

How happy could I be with either,
Were t'other dear charmer away!
But while you thus teaze me together,
To neither a word will I say;
But tol de rol, &c.

AIR XXXVI. Irish Trot.

I'm bubbled.
I'm bubbled.
Oh how I am troubled!
Bambouzled, and bit!
My distresses are doubled.
When you come to the Tree, should the Hangman refuse,
These fingers, with pleasure, could fasten the noose.
I'm bubbled, &c.

AIR XXXVII.

[Cease your funning]

Cease your funning;
Force or cunning
Never shall my heart trapan.
All these sallies
Are but malice
To seduce my constant man.
'Tis most certain,
By their flirting
Women oft have envy shown:

515

Pleas'd, to ruin
Others wooing;
Never happy in their own!

AIR XXXVIII. Good-morrow, Gossip Joan.

Why how now, madam Flirt?
If you thus must chatter,
And are for flinging dirt,
Let's try who best can spatter;
Madam Flirt!

Why how now, saucy Jade;
Sure the wench is tipsy!
How can you see me made
The scoff of such a Gipsy?
Saucy Jade!

AIR XXXIX. Irish Howl.

No power on earth can e'er divide
The knot that sacred Love hath ty'd.
When parents draw against our mind,
The true-love's knot they faster bind.
Oh, oh ray, oh Amborah—oh, oh, &c.

516

AIR XL. The Lass of Patie's Mill.

I like the Fox shall grieve,
Whose mate hath left her side,
Whom Hounds, from morn to eve,
Chase o'er the country wide.
Where can my lover hide?
Where cheat the wary pack?
If Love be not his guide,
He never will come back!

517

AIR XLI. If Love's a sweet passion, &c.

When young at the bar you first taught me to score,
And bid me be free with my lips, and no more;
I was kiss'd by the Parson, the Squire, and the Sot:
When the guest was departed, the kiss was forgot.
But his kiss was so sweet, and so closely he prest,
That I languish'd and pin'd 'till I granted the rest.

518

AIR XLII. South-Sea Ballad.

My love is all madness and folly,
Alone I lye,
Toss, tumble, and cry,
What a happy creature is Polly!
Was e'er such a wretch as I!
With rage I redden like scarlet,
That my dear inconstant Varlet,
Stark blind to my charms,
Is lost in the arms
Of that Jilt, that inveigling Harlot!
Stark blind to my charms,
Is lost in the arms
Of that Jilt, that inveigling Harlot!
This, this my resentment alarms.

AIR XLIII. Packington's Pound.

Thus Gamesters united in friendship are found,
Though they know that their industry all is a cheat;
They flock to their prey at the Dice-box's sound,
And join to promote one another's deceit.

519

But if by mishap
They fail of a chap,
To keep in their hands, they each other entrap.
Like Pikes, lank with hunger, who miss of their ends,
They bite their companions, and prey on their friends.

520

AIR XLIV. Lillibulero.

The modes of the Court so common are grown,
That a true friend can hardly be met;
Friendship for interest is but a loan,
Which they let out for what they can get.
'Tis true, you find
Some friends so kind,
Who will give you good counsel themselves to defend.
In sorrowful ditty,
They promise, they pity,
But shift you for money, from friend to friend.

521

AIR XLV. Down in the North Country.

What Gudgeons are we men!
Ev'ry woman's easy prey.
Though we have felt the hook, agen
We bite, and they betray.

The bird that hath been trapt,
When he hears his calling mate,
To her he flies, again he's clapt
Within the wiry grate.

522

AIR XLVI. A Shepherd kept sheep, &c.

In the days of my youth I could bill like a Dove, fa, la, la, &c.
Like a Sparrow at all times was ready for love, fa, la, la, &c.
The life of all mortals in kissing should pass,
Lip to lip while we're young—then the lip to the glass, fa, la, &c.

523

AIR XLVII. One evening having lost my way.

I'm like a skiff on the Ocean tost,
Now high, now low, with each billow born,
With her rudder broke, and her anchor lost,
Deserted and all forlorn.
While thus I lie rolling and tossing all night,
That Polly lyes sporting on seas of delight!
Revenge, revenge, revenge.
Shall appease my restless sprite.

524

AIR XLVIII. Now Roger, I'll tell thee, because thou'rt my son.

When a wife's in her pout,
(As she's sometimes, no doubt)
The good husband as meek as a lamb,
Her vapours to still,
First grants her her will,
And the quieting draught is a dram.
Poor man! And the quieting draught is a dram.

AIR XLIX. O Bessy Bell, &c.

A curse attends that woman's love,
Who always would be pleasing.
The pertness of the billing Dove,
Like tickling, is but teazing.

525

What then in love can woman do?
If we grow fond they shun us.
And when we fly them, they pursue:
But leave us when they've won us.

AIR L. Wou'd Fate to me Belinda give.

Among the men, Coquets we find,
Who court by turns all woman-kind;
And we grant all their hearts desir'd,
When they are flatter'd and admir'd.

AIR LI. Come, sweet lass.

Come, sweet lass,
Let's banish sorrow
'Till to-morrow;
Come sweet lass,
Let's take a chirping glass.
Wine can clear
The vapours of despair;
And make us light as air;
Then drink, and banish care.

526

AIR LII. The last time I went o'er the Moor.

Hither, dear husband, turn your eyes.
Bestow one glance to cheer me.
Think with that look, thy Polly dyes.
O shun we not,—but hear me.
'Tis Polly sues.
'Tis Lucy speaks.
Is thus true love requited?
My heart is bursting.
Mine too breaks.
Must I,
Must I be slighted?

527

AIR LIII. Tom Tinker's my true love, &c.

Which way shall I turn me—how can I decide?
Wives, the day of our death, are as fond as a bride.
One wife is too much for most husbands to hear,
But two at a time there's no mortal can bear.
This way, and that way, and which way I will,
What would comfort the one, t'other wife would take ill.

AIR LIV. I am a poor Shepherd undone.

When my Hero in court appears,
And stands arraign'd for his life,
Then think of poor Polly's tears;
For ah! poor Polly's his wife.
Like the Sailor he holds up his hand,
Distrest on the dashing wave.
To die a dry death at land,
Is as bad as a watry grave.
And alas, poor Polly!
Alack, and well-a-day!
Before I was in love,
Oh! every month was May.

AIR LV. Ianthe the lovely, &c.

When he holds up his hand arraign'd for his life,
O think of your daughter, and think I'm his wife!
What are cannons, or bombs, or clashing of swords?
For death is more certain by witnesses words.
Then nail up their lips; that dread thunder allay;
And each month of my life will hereafter be May.

AIR LVI. A Cobler there was, &c.

Our selves, like the Great, to secure a retreat,
When matters require it, must give up our gang:
And good reason why,
Or, instead of the fry,
Ev'n Peachum and I,
Like poor petty rascals, might hang, hang;
Like poor petty rascals, might hang.

528

AIR LVII. Bonny Dundee.

The charge is prepar'd; the Lawyers are met;
The Judges all rang'd (a terrible show!)
I go, undismay'd.—For death is a debt,
A debt on demand.—So, take what I owe.
Then, farewell, my love—dear charmers, adieu.
Contented I die—'tis the better for you.
Here ends all dispute the rest of our lives,
For this way at once I please all my wives.

AIR LVIII. Happy Groves.

O cruel, cruel, cruel case!
Must I suffer this disgrace?

AIR LIX. Of all the girls that are so smart.

Of all the friends in time of grief,
When threat'ning Death looks grimmer,
Not one so sure can bring relief,
As this best friend a brimmer.

529

AIR LX. Britons strike home.

Since I must swing,—I scorn, I scorn to wince or whine.

AIR LXI. Chevy Chase.

But now again my spirits sink;
I'll raise them high with wine.

AIR LXII. To old Sir Simon the King.

But valour the stronger grows,
The stronger liquor we're drinking.
And how can we feel our woes,
When we've lost the trouble of thinking?

AIR LXIII. Joy to great Caesar.

If thus—A man can die
Much bolder with brandy.

AIR LXIV. There was an old woman, &c.

So I drink off this bumper—And now I can stand the test,
And my Comrades shall see, that I die as brave as the best.

AIR LXV. Did you ever hear of a gallant sailor.

But can I leave my pretty hussies,
Without one tear, or tender sigh?

AIR LXVI. Why are mine eyes still flowing.

Their eyes, their lips, their busses
Recall my love—Ah must I die!

AIR LXVII. Green sleeves.

Since laws were made for ev'ry degree,
To curb vice in others, as well as me,
I wonder we han't better company
Upon Tyburn tree!
But gold from law can take out the sting;
And if rich men like us were to swing,
'Twould thin the land, such numbers to string
Upon Tyburn tree!

530

AIR LXVIII. All you that must take a leap, &c.

Wou'd I might be hang'd!
And I would so too!
To be hang'd with you,
My dear, with you.
O leave me to thought! I fear! I doubt!
I tremble! I droop!—See my courage is out.
No token of love?
See my courage is out.
No token of love?
Adieu.
Farewell.
But hark! I hear the toll of the bell.

531

Tol de rol lol, &c.

532

AIR LXIX. Lumps of Pudding, &c.

Thus I stand like a Turk, with his doxies around;
From all sides their glances his passion confound;
For black, brown, and fair, his inconstancy burns,
And the different beauties subdue him by turns:
Each calls forth her charms, to provoke his desires:
Though willing to all; with but one he retires.
But think of this maxim, and put off your sorrow,
The wretch of to-day, may be happy to morrow.
But think of this maxim, &c.

533

[AIRS FROM POLLY: AN OPERA.]

539

Air I. The disappointed Widow.

The manners of the Great affect;
Stint not your pleasure:
If conscience had their genius checkt,
How got they treasure?

540

The more in debt, run in debt the more,
Careless who is undone;
Morals and honesty leave to the poor,
As they do at London.

541

Air II. The Irish grouna.

Bass.

What can wealth
When we're old?
Youth and health
Are not sold.

Treble.

When love in the pulse beats low,
(As haply it may with you)
A girl can fresh youth bestow,
And kindle desire anew.
Thus, numm'd in the brake,
Without motion, the snake
Sleeps cold winter away;
But in every vein
Life quickens again
On the bosom of May.

542

Air III. Noel Hills .

He that weds a beauty
Soon will find her cloy;
When pleasure grows a duty,
Farewell love and joy:
He that weds for treasure
(Though he hath a wife)
Hath chose one lasting pleasure
In a married life.

543

Air IV. Sweetheart, think upon me.

My conscience is of courtly mold,
Fit for highest station.
Where's the hand, when touch'd with gold,
Proof against temptation?

Air V. 'Twas within a furlong.

In pimps and politicians
The genius is the same;
Both raise their own conditions
On others guilt and shame:
With a tongue well-tipt with lyes
Each the want of parts supplies,
And with a heart that's all disguise
Keeps his schemes unknown.
Seducing as the devil,
They play the tempter's part,
And have, when most they're civil,
Most mischief in their heart.
Each a secret commerce drives,
First corrupts and then connives,
And by his neighbours vices thrives,
For they are all his own.

544

Air VI. Sortez des vos retraites.

She who hath felt a real pain
By Cupid's dart,
Finds that all absence is in vain
To cure her heart.
Though from my lover cast
Far as from Pole to Pole,
Still the pure flame must last,
For love is in the Soul.

545

Air VII. O Waly, Waly, up the bank.

Farewell, farewell, all hope of bliss!
For Polly always must be thine.
Shall then my heart be never his,
Which never can again be mine?
O Love, you play a cruel part,
Thy shaft still festers in the wound;
You should reward a constant heart,
Since 'tis, alas, so seldom found!

546

Air VIII. O Jenny come tye me.

Despair is all folly;
Hence, melancholy,
Fortune attends you while youth is in flower.
By beauty's possession
Us'd with discretion,
Woman at all times hath joy in her power.

547

Air IX. Red House.

I will have my humours, I'll please all my senses,
I will not be stinted—in love or expences.
I'll dress with profusion, I'll game without measure;
You shall have the business, I will have the pleasure:
Thus every day I'll pass my life,
My home shall be my least resort;
For sure 'tis fitting that your wife
Shou'd copy ladies of the court.

548

Air X. Old Orpheus tickl'd, &c.

When billows come breaking on the strand,
The rocks are deaf and unshaken stand:
Old oaks can defy the thunder's roar,
And I can stand woman's tongue—that's more,
With a twinkum, twankum, &c.

Air XI. Christ-Church Bells.

When a woman jealous grows,
Farewell all peace of life!
But e'er man roves, he should pay what he owes.
And with her due content his wife.
'Tis man's the weaker sex to sway.
We too, whene'er we list, obey.
'Tis just and fit
You should submit.
But sweet kind husband—not to day.
Let your clack be still.
Not till I have my will.
If thus you reason slight,
There's never an hour
While breath has power,
But I will assert my right.

549

Air XII. Cheshire-rounds.

When kings by their huffing
Have blown up a squabble,
All the charge and cuffing
Light upon the rabble.
Thus when Man and Wife
By their mutual snubbing,
Kindle civil strife,
Servants get the drubbing.

550

Air XIII. The bush a boon traquair.

The crow or daw thro' all the year
No fowler seeks to ruin;
But birds of voice or feather rare
He's all day long persuing.
Beware, fair maids; so scape the net
That other beauties fell in;
For sure at heart was never yet
So great a wretch as Helen!

551

Air XIV. Bury Fair.

How can you be so teazing?
Love will excuse my fault.
How can you be so pleasing!
I vow I'll not be naught.
All maids I know at first resist.
A master may command.
You're monstrous rude; I'll not be kiss'd:
Nay, fye, let go my hand.
'Tis foolish pride—

'Tis vile, 'tis base
Poor innocence to wrong;
I'll force you,

Guard me from disgrace.
You find that vertue's strong.

Air XV. Bobbing Joan.

Maids like courtiers must be woo'd,
Most by flattery are subdu'd;
Some capricious, coy or nice
Out of pride protract the vice;
But they fall,
One and all,
When we bid up to their price.

552

Air XVI. A Swain long tortur'd with Disdain.

Can I or toil or hunger fear?
For love's a pain that's more severe.
The slave, with vertue in his breast,
Can wake in peace, and sweetly rest.

553

Air XVII. March in Scipio .

Brave boys prepare.
Ah! Cease, fond Wife to cry.
For when the danger's near,
We've time enough to fly.
How can you be disgrac'd!
For wealth secures your fame.
The rich are always plac'd
Above the sense of shame.
Let honour spur the slave,
To fight for fighting's sake:
But even the rich are brave
When money is at stake.

554

Air XVIII. Jig-it-o'Foot.

Better to doubt
All that's doing,
Than to find out
Proofs of ruin.
What servants hear and see
Should they tattle,
Marriage all day would be
Feuds and battle.

555

Air XIX. Trumpet Minuet.

Abroad after misses most husbands will roam,
Tho' sure they find woman sufficient at home.
To be nos'd by a strumpet! Hence, hussy you'd best.
Would he give me my due, I wou'd give her the rest.

Air XX. Polwart on the Green.

Love now is nought but art,
'Tis who can juggle best;
To all men seem to give your heart,
But keep it in your breast.
What gain and pleasure do we find,
Who change whene'er we list!
The mill that turns with every wind
Must bring the owner grist.

557

Air XXI. St. Martin's Lane.

As pilgrims thro' devotion
To some shrine pursue their way,
They tempt the raging ocean,
And thro' desarts stray.
With zeal their hope desiring,
The saint their breast inspiring
With cheerful air,
Devoid of fear,
They every danger bear.
Thus equal zeal possessing,
I seek my only blessing.
O love, my honest vow regard!
My truth protect,
My steps direct,
His flight detect,
A faithful wife reward.

Air XXII. La Villanella.

Why did you spare him,
O'er seas to bear him,
Far from his home, and constant bride?
When Papa 'peach'd him,
If death had reach'd him,
I then had only sigh'd, wept, and dy'd!

558

Air XXIII. Dead March in Coriolanus .

Sleep, O sleep,
With thy rod of incantation,
Charm my imagination.
Then, only then, I cease to weep.
By thy power,
The virgin, by time o'ertaken,
For years forlorn, forsaken,
Enjoys the happy hour.
What's to sleep?
'Tis a visionary blessing;
A dream that's past expressing;
Our utmost wish possessing;
So may I always keep.

Air XXIV. Three Sheep-skins.

Of all the sins that are money-supplying;
Consider the world, 'tis past all denying,
With all sorts,
In towns or courts
The richest sin is lying.

559

Air XXV. Rigadoon.

By women won
We're all undone,
Each wench hath a Syren's charms.
The lover's deeds
Are good or ill,
As whim succeeds
In woman's will:
Resolution is lull'd in her arms.

Air XXVI. Ton humeur est Catharine.

Woman's like the flatt'ring ocean,
Who her pathless ways can find?
Every blast directs her motion
Now she's angry, now she's kind.

560

What a fool's the vent'rous lover,
Whirl'd and toss'd by every wind!
Can the bark the port recover
When the silly Pilot's blind?

Air XXVII. Ye nymphes and sylvan gods.

I hate those coward tribes,
Who by mean sneaking bribes,
By tricks and disguise,
By flattery and lies,
To power and grandeur rise.
Like heroes of old
You are greatly bold,

561

The sword your cause supports.
Untaught to fawn,
You ne'er were drawn
Your truth to pawn,
Among the spawn,
Who practise the frauds of courts.

Air XXVIII. Minuet.

Cheer up my lads, let us push on the fray.
For battles, like women, are lost by delay.
Let us seize victory while in our power;
Alike war and love have their critical hour.
Our hearts bold and steady
Should always be ready,
So, think war a widow, a kingdom the dower.

Air XXIX. Mirleton.

When I'm great, and flush of treasure,
Check'd by neither fear or shame,
You shall tread a round of pleasure,
Morning, noon, and night the same.
With a Mirleton, &c.

562

Like a city wife or beauty
You shall flutter life away;
And shall know no other duty,
But to dress, eat, drink, and play.
With a Mirleton, &c.

Air XXX. Sawny was tall, and of noble race.

Shall I not be bold when honour calls?
You've a heart that would upbraid me then.
But, ah, I fear, if my hero falls,
Thy Jenny shall ne'er know pleasure again.
To deck their wives fond tradesmen cheat;
I conquer but to make thee great.
But if my hero falls,—ah then
Thy Jenny shall ne'er know pleasure again!

563

Air XXXI. Northern Nancy .

How many men have found the skill
Of power and wealth acquiring?
But sure there's a time to stint the will
And the judgment is in retiring.
For to be displac'd,
For to be disgrac'd,
Is the end of too high aspiring.

Air XXXII. Amante fuggite cadente belta.

Fine women are devils, compleat in their way,
They always are roving and cruising for prey.
When we flounce on their hook, their views they obtain,
Like those too their pleasure is giving us pain.

564

Air XXXIII. Since all the world's turn'd upside down.

Tho' different passions rage by turns,
Within my breast fermenting;
Now blazes love, now honour burns,
I'm here, I'm there consenting.
I'll each obey, so keep my oath,
That oath by which I won her:
With truth and steddiness in both,
I'll act like a man of honour.

565

Air XXXIV. Hunt the Squirrel.

The world is always jarring;
This is pursuing
T'other man's ruin,
Friends with friends are warring,
In a false cowardly way.
Spurr'd on by emulations,
Tongues are engaging,
Calumny, raging
Murthers reputations,
Envy keeps up the fray.
Thus, with burning hate,
Each, returning hate,
Wounds and robs his friends.
In civil life,
Even man and wife
Squabble for selfish ends.

566

Air XXXV. Young Damon once the loveliest swain.

In love and life the present use.
One hour we grant, the next refuse;
Who then would risque a nay?
Were lovers wise they would be kind,
And in our eyes the moment find;
For only then they may.

Air XXXVI. Catharine Ogye.

We never blame the forward swain,
Who puts us to the tryal.
I know you first would give me pain,
Then baulk me with denial.
What mean we then by being try'd?
With scorn and slight to use us.
Most beauties, to indulge their pride,
Seem kind but to refuse us.

567

Air XXXVII. Roger a Coverly.

My heart is by love forsaken,
I feel the tempest growing.
A fury the place hath taken,
I rage, I burn, I'm glowing.
Tho' Cupid's arrows are erring,
Or indifference may secure ye,
When woman's revenge is stirring,
You cannot escape that fury.

Air XXXVIII. Bacchus m'a dit.

By halves no friend
Now seeks to do you pleasure.
Their help they lend
In every part of life;
If husbands part,
The friend hath always leisure;
Then all his heart
Is bent to please the wife.

568

Air XXXIX. Health to Betty .

If husbands sit unsteady,
Most wives for freaks are ready.
Neglect the rein
The steed again
Grows skittish, wild and heady.

569

Air XL. Cappe de bonne Esperance.

The body of the brave may be taken,
If chance bring on our adverse hour;
But the noble soul is unshaken,
For that still is in our power:
'Tis a rock whose firm foundation
Mocks the waves of perturbation;
'Tis a never-dying ray,
Brighter in our evil Day.

570

Air XLI. When bright Aurelia tripp'd the plain.

For gold you sacrifice your fame,
Your honour, life and friend:
You war, you fawn, you lie, you game,
And plunder without fear or shame;
Can madness this transcend?

Air XLII. Peggy's Mill.

When gold is in hand,
It gives us command;
It makes us lov'd and respected.
'Tis now, as of yore,
Wit and sense, when poor,
Are scorn'd, o'erlook'd and neglected.
Tho' peevish and old,
If women have gold.
They have youth, good-humour and beauty!
Among all mankind
Without it we find
Nor love, nor favour nor duty.

571

Air XLIII. Excuse me.

Honour calls me from thy arms,
With glory my bosom is beating.
Victory summons to arms: then to arms
Let us haste, for we're sure of defeating.
One look more—and then—
Oh, I am lost again!
What a Power has beauty!
But honour calls, and I must away.
But love forbids, and I must obey.
You grow too bold;
Hence, loose your hold,
For love claims all my duty.

572

Air XLIV. Ruben.

Honour plays a bubble's part,
Ever bilk'd and cheated;
Never in ambition's heart,
Int'rest there is seated.
Honour was in use of yore,
Tho' by want attended:
Since 'twas talk'd of, and no more;
Lord, how times are mended!

Air XLV. Troy Town.

When ambition's ten years toils
Have heap'd up mighty hoards of gold;
Amid the harvest of the spoils,
Acquir'd by fraud and rapin bold,
Comes justice. The great scheme is crost,
At once wealth, life, and fame, are lost.

573

Air XLVI. We've cheated the Parson.

Despair leads to battle, no courage so great.
They must conquer or die who've no retreat.
No retreat.
No retreat.
They must conquer or die who've no retreat.

574

Air XLVII. T'amo tanto.

Virtue's treasure
Is a pleasure,
Cheerful even amid distress;
Nor pain nor crosses,
Nor grief nor losses,
Nor death itself can make it less:
Here relying,
Suff'ring, dying,
Honest souls find all redress.

Virtue's treasure
Is a pleasure,
Cheerful even amid distress;
Nor pain nor crosses,
Nor grief nor losses,
Nor death itself can make it less.
Here relying,
Suff'ring, dying,
Honest souls find all redress.

575

Air XLVIII. Down in a meadow.

The sportsmen keep hawks, and their quarry they gain;
Thus the woodcock, the partridge, the pheasant is slain.
What care and expence for their hounds are employ'd!
Thus the fox, and the hare, and the stag are destroy'd.
The spaniel they cherish, whose flattering way
Can as well as their masters cringe, fawn and betray.
Thus stanch politicians, look all the world round,
Love the men who can serve as hawk, spaniel or hound.

576

Air XLIX. There was an old man, and he liv'd.

What man can on virtue or courage repose,
Or guess if the touch 'twill abide?
Like gold, if intrinsick sure no body knows,
Till weigh'd in the ballance and try'd.

577

Air L. Iris la plus charmante.

Love with beauty is flying,
At once 'tis blooming and dying,
But all seasons defying,
Friendship lasts on the year.
Love is by long enjoying,
Cloying;
Friendship, enjoy'd the longer,
Stronger.
O may the flame divine
Burn in your breast like mine!

578

Air LI. There was a Jovial Beggar.

When horns, with cheerful sound,
Proclaim the active day;
Impatience warms the hound,
He burns to chase the prey.
Thus to battle we will go, &c.

How charms the trumpet's breath!
The brave, with hope possess'd,
Forgetting wounds and death,
Feel conquest in their breast.
Thus to battle, &c.

580

Air LII. To you fair ladies.

By bolder steps we win the race.
Let's haste where danger calls.
Unless ambition mend its pace,
It totters, nods and falls.
We must advance or be undone.
Think thus, and then the battle's won.
With a fa la la, &c.

Air LIII. Prince Eugene's march.

When the tyger roams
And the timorous flock is in his view,
Fury foams,
He thirsts for the blood of the crew.
His greedy eyes he throws,
Thirst with their number grows,
On he pours, with a wide waste pursuing,
Spreading the plain with a general ruin,
Thus let us charge, and our foes o'erturn:
Let us on one and all!
How they fly, how they fall!
For the war, for the prize I burn.

Air LIV. The marlborough.

We the sword of justice drawing,
Terror cast in guilty eyes;
In its beam false courage dies;
'Tis like lightning keen and awing.
Charge the foe,
Lay them low,
On then and strike the blow.

581

Hark, victory calls us. See, guilt is dismay'd:
The villain is of his own conscience afraid.
In your hands are your lives and your liberties held.
The courage of virtue was never repell'd.

Art thou, Morano, that fell man of prey?
That foe to justice?
Tremble and obey.
Art thou great Pohetohee styl'd?
the same.
I dare avow my actions and my name.

Air LV. Les rats.

Know then, war's my pleasure.
Am I thus controll'd?
Both thy heart and treasure
I'll at once unfold.
You, like a miser, scraping, hiding,
Rob all the world; you're but mines of gold.
Rage my breast alarms:
War is by kings held right-deciding;
Then to arms, to arms;
With this sword I'll force your hold.

582

Air LVI. Mad Robin.

How faultless does the nymph appear,
When her own hand the picture draws!
But all others only smear
Her wrinckles, cracks and flaws.
Self-flattery is our claim and right,
Let men say what they will;
Sure we may set our good in sight,
When neighbours set our ill.

Air LVII. Thro' the wood laddy.

As sits the sad turtle alone on the spray;
His heart sorely beating,
Sad murmur repeating,
Indulging his grief for his consort astray;
For force or death only could keep her away.
Now he thinks of the fowler, and every snare;
If guns have not slain her,
The net must detain her,
Thus he'll rise in my thoughts, every hour with a tear,
If safe from the battle he do not appear.

583

Air LVIII. Clasp'd in my dear Melinda's arms.

Victory is ours.
My fond heart is at rest.
Friendship thus receives its guest.
O what transport fills my breast!
Conquest is compleat,
Now the triumph's great.
In your life is a nation blest.
In your life I'm of all possess'd.

584

Air LIX. Parson upon Dorothy.

The soldiers, who by trade must dare
The deadly cannon's sounds;
You may be sure, betimes prepare
For fatal blood and wounds.
The men, who with adventrous dance,
Bound from the cord on high,
Must own they have the frequent chance
By broken bones to die.
Since rarely then
Ambitious men
Like others lose their breath;
Like these, I hope,
They know a rope
Is but their natural death.

585

Air LX. The collier has a daughter.

When right or wrong's decided
In war or civil causes,
We by success are guided
To blame or give applauses.
Thus men exalt ambition,
In power by all commended,
But when it falls from high condition,
Tyburn is well attended.

Air LXI. Mad Moll.

All crimes are judg'd like fornication;
While rich we are honest no doubt.
Fine ladies can keep reputation,
Poor lasses alone are found out.
If justice had piercing eyes,
Like ourselves to look within,
She'd find power and wealth a disguise
That shelter the worst of our kin.

Air LXII. Prince George.

All friendship is a mutual debt,
The contract's inclination:
We never can that bond forget
Of sweet retaliation.

586

All day, and every day the same
We are paying and still owing;
By turns we grant by turns we claim
The pleasure of bestowing.
By turns we grant, &c.

Air LXIII. Blithe Jockey young and gay.

Can words the pain express
Which absent lovers know?
He only mine can guess
Whose heart hath felt the woe.
'Tis doubt, suspicion, fear,
Seldom hope, oft' despair;
'Tis jealousy, 'tis rage, in brief
'Tis every pang and grief.

Air LXIV. In the fields in frost and snow.

The modest lilly, like the maid,
Its pure bloom defending,
Is of noxious dews afraid,
Soon as even's descending.

587

Clos'd all night,
Free from blight,
It preserves the native white
But at morn unfolds its leaves,
And the vital sun receives.

Air LXV. Whilst I gaze on Chloe.

Whilst I gaze in fond desiring,
Every former thought is lost.
Sighing, wishing and admiring,
How my troubled soul is tost!
Hot and cold my blood is flowing,
How it thrills in every vein!
Liberty and life are going,
Hope can ne'er relieve my pain.

588

Air LXVI. The Jamaica.

The sex, we find,
Like men inclin'd
To guard against reproaches;
And none neglect
To pay respect
To rogues who keep their coaches.

589

Air LXVII. Tweed Side.

The stag, when chas'd all the long day
O'er the lawn, thro' the forest and brake;
Now panting for breath and at bay,
Now stemming the river or lake;
When the treacherous scent is all cold,
And at eve he returns to his hind,
Can her joy, can her pleasure be told?
Such joy and such pleasure I find.

Air LXVIII. One Evening as I lay.

My Heart forebodes he's dead,
That thought how can I bear?
He's gone, for ever fled,
My soul is all despair!
I see him pale and cold,
The noose hath stop'd his breath,
Just as my dream foretold,
Oh had that sleep been death!

590

Air LXIX. Buff-coat.

Why that languish!
Oh he's dead! O he's lost for ever!
Cease your anguish, and forget your grief.
Ah, never!
What air, grace and stature!
How false in his nature!
To virtue my love might have won him.
How base and deceiving!
But love is believing.
Vice, at length, as 'tis meet, hath undone him.

Air LXX. An Italian Ballad.

Frail is ambition, how weak the foundation!
Riches have wings as inconstant as wind;
My heart is proof against either temptation,
Virtue, without them, contentment can find.

591

Air LXXI. The temple.

Justice long forbearing,
Power or riches never fearing,
Slow, yet persevering,
Hunts the villain's pace.

Justice long, &c.

What tongues then defend him?
Or what hand will succour lend him?
Even his friends attend him,
To foment the chace.

Justice long, &c.

Virtue, subduing,
Humbles in ruin
All the proud wicked race.
Truth, never-failing,
Must be prevailing,
Falsehood shall find disgrace.

637

THE REHEARSAL AT GOATHAM

Fragments

Scene IX. Scene the Last.

Pickle
(speaks the Prologue to the Puppet-Shew)
Courteous Spectators, see with your own Eyes,
Hear with your Ears; and there's an end of Lies.

Pickle
(beginning the Shew)
At Tables, Don! was ever such a Sot!
His Money squander'd, and his Wife forgot!
Haste, rise, reclaim thy poor distressed Beauty:
This Cudgel else shall ding thee into Duty.

Thus clad in Steel I go to risk my Life.

To bring home Peace, Sir?

To bring home my Wife.

The next Figure, Ladies, is his Cousin Roldan, who offers to assist him, and in these Words encourages him to the Undertaking:

Do, Cousin, what all worthy Knights should do;
Pride, Av'rice, Rapine, every Vice subdue.

Peter
(speaks)
The Drift of Plays, by Aristotle's Rules,
Is, what you've seen—Exposing Knaves and Fools:

End of Play.

638

APPENDIX I. POEMS OF DOUBTFUL AUTHENTICITY

Horace, Epod. IV. IMITATED By Sir James Baker, Kt.

TO Lord Cad---n.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

As tender Lambs with Wolves agree,
Or as thy Holland-Spouse with thee,
(Which is but ill they tell us);
So, Baron, does it raise my Spleen
To see thy bloated Pride and Mien;
We Quality are Jealous.
Thou dar'st not surely plead thy Blood,
It runs thro' such Plebeian Mud,
No Titles can refine it:
It had, my Friend, been much more wise,
To wear thy coarse paternal Frize,
Than thus in Robes to shine it.

639

Thy modest kindred can aspire
In their ambitious Thoughts no higher,
Than to thy Footman's Wages:
St. Andrew's doubly Crucify'd,
Dangling inglorious by thy Side,
Whilst they wear Parish-badges.

Now, when conspicuous from afar,
Thy Diamond, Cockade and Star,
Set all Pall-Mall a Staring:
Thy Chariot new, and nothing yet
(Except thy Arms and Coronet)
A jot the worse for Wearing.

How swift, they cry, the Noble runs
Escap'd from uncompounding Duns,
Swift as a Hare new Started:
His dear Mamma's not far behind,
But Justice, Oh! is now stark Blind;
Ah, Sirs, she ne'er was Carted!

Slaves think thee an important Lord,
In Senate and at Council-Board,
In Camps a Son of Thunder;
But sure, as I'm a valiant Knight,
If Marlb'rough taught thee not to Fight,
He taught thee how to Plunder.

Tho' fierce in Scarlet Sash and Plume,
Yet shou'd the needy Clans presume
To re-unite their Forces:
They yet might see their KING restor'd
Without much Blood: The Baron's Sword
Is best at cutting Purses.

AN EPISTLE To the most Learned Doctor Wd**d.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

------ Jam, quæ
Fœmina nuper eras, puer es ------
Ovid. Metam.

The latent Parts at length reveal'd, began
To shoot, and spread, and burnish into Man:
The Maid becomes a Youth ------
Dryden.

O Son of Galen, lend your friendly Aid,
To veil the Blushes of an undone Maid;
A Maid!—alas!—whilst I your Help implore,
I downwards look—and sigh!—a Maid no more!

640

Your Patients Lives for some few Moments save,
And let my Griefs reprieve 'em from the Grave:
A while let all your curious Fossils rest;
Each scaly Fish, and each four-footed Beast:
On Nature's wond'rous Trifles do not dwell,
The beauteous Butterfly, or shining Shell;
Your pretious Time, oh! throw not now away,
The various Dyes of Feathers to display;
Let not old Egypt's Monarchs plague your Head,
For what's a Mummy to a Modern Maid?
Since Animals amphibious you pursue,
A doubtful Sex to fix, belongs to you:
If searching into Nature can prevail,
O Heav'n!—such Secrets!—but attend my Tale.

Last Saturday,—oh fatal Op'ra Night!
What has thy horrid Darkness brought to Light?
Malicious Planets! oh, why did you join?
What had the Stars to do with Me or Mine?
Alas! too late I to my Sorrow find
That these Astrologers ar'n't always blind;
What Depths they search? What Mysteries unfold?
Annus Mirabilis—this Change foretold:
I read it thrice—and cry'd—there's nothing in't,
Grubstreet all o'er—the Paper—Stile—and Print.

For this Conjunction's Influence prepar'd,
To lulling Crispo I that Night repair'd:
Just to the Time the fatal Song is sung,
And the whole House, with—Se vedete—rung;
The Aire scarce ended, with Surprize, we view'd
Chast Senesino turn'd into a Prude:
Poor Innocent!—what hast thou felt before?
Sure Nature's self can change thee now no more.

With this prepost'rous turn whilst I'm amaz'd,
Prodigious Laughter the whole Audience seiz'd;
Which I suppress'd—scarce breath'd I all the while,—
For Prudes—(the thing I was)—do never smile:
Those airy Particles in Hippo' pent,
Try'd ev'ry Hole, resolv'd to find a Vent;
Their Exit I forbid;—a rumbling Sound
From Vapours thus confin'd began it's hollow Round,
In restless Torments I the Op'ra pass'd,
Dreading some frightful Squeak or horrid Blast:
My guarded Tongue its Silence did not break,
Lest in undecent Terms the Wind shou'd speak.

My Chairmen trotted home;—poor I Half dead,
With equal Speed undress'd, am put to Bed:

641

The Vapours (that I fear'd before wou'd stray)
Nor upwards now, nor downwards take their Way;
Restless they roll and bounce—that, tho' a Maid,
Of matrimonial Pangs I seem'd afraid;
Till all at once they burst with dreadful Roar,
And force out something—I ne'er felt before.

Thus when an Earthquake shakes the trembling Ground,
First, from below, strange bellowing Noises sound;
Inward Convulsions torture Mother Earth,
She seems prepar'd to give some Monster Birth;
All Nature's sick—but whilst she lab'ring heaves,
A gaping hideous Chasm her Bosom cleaves;
Some Mountain she thrusts forth, to ease her Pain,
Which sprouts at once, and tow'rs it o'er the Plain.

Have I for this so long the Wonder stood
Of either Sex?—in rigid Virtue proud,
I wag'd immortal Wars with half the Town,
And few escap'd my Censure or my Frown:
Love to my Breast durst never yet intrude;
But in my Nurse's Arms to Man most rude,
I e'en in leading-Strings commenc'd a Prude:
On Footmen's Backs I ne'er wou'd get astride,
Or on my Brother's Hobby-Horses ride:
No Romps cou'd on my Conduct e'er prevail,
Nor cou'd I bear a Baby, if a Male;
The Sight of Breeches shook my very Frame,
And sooner wou'd I starve, than Cod-fish name:
E'en now my poor Heart pants—do what I can,
Convulsions sieze me at the Thoughts of Man;
Yet I'm that odious Thing—which I abhor—
What cou'd the Malice of my Stars do more?

Where shall I run? Where shall I Comfort find?
I cannot leave one Inch of Woe behind;
No!—let me travel Earth, or Seas, or Sky,
I cannot drop the Cause for which I fly.

Some truant School-boy thus, in Mischief wise,
To a poor Mastiffs Tail a Bottle ties:
The frighten'd Cur his alter'd State does wail,
And mourning wonders at his length'ned Tail;
Now runs, now stops, now turns, but still he views
His Foe fast clung; his Fear his Flight renews;
But all in vain he flies; the Bottle still pursues.

Haste to my Aid, thou Esculapian Sage,
By Physick's mystick Arts my Pains asswage;
From filthy Fame my Reputation save,
And in return I'll give—oh!—All I have.

642

In Nature's Secrets you're her eldest Son;
Tell me but what I am, or what is done:
Whilst both Hands I employ to screen my Face,
Put on your Spectacles,—and view my Case:
Your Judgment so profound, can best decide,
If I in Love must Bridegroom prove or Bride:
I dare not view this Guest, so new, so strange,
I scarce have Courage yet to feel the Change;
Somewhat there is—(a Badge of my Disgrace)—
Impertinently perks up in my Face:
By Female Dress it's Boldness I oppose,
In Petticoats the Monster bolder grows,
And bears aloft my Hoop—'spite of my Nose—

These horrid Pangs no longer I'll endure,
Oh! cut it off—or bring some other Cure;
Till when—(as undetermin'd what I am)
I venture to subscribe my Maiden Name—

PRUDENTIA.

BALLAD.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Of all the Girls that e'er were seen,
There's none so fine as Nelly,
For charming Face, and Shape, and Mien,
And what's not fit to tell ye:
Oh! the turn'd Neck, and smooth white Skin
Of lovely dearest Nelly!
For many a Swain it well had been
Had she ne'er past by Calai—.

For when as Nelly came to France,
(Invited by her Cosins)
Across the Tuilleries each Glance
Kill'd Frenchmen by whole Dozens.
The King, as he at Dinner sate,
Did beckon to his Hussar,
And bid him bring his Tabby Cat,
For charming Nell to buss her.

The Ladies were with Rage provok'd,
To see her so respected;
The Men look'd arch, as Nelly strok'd,
And Puss her Tail erected.
But not a Man did Look imploy,
Except on pretty Nelly;
Then said the Duke de Villeroy,
Ah! qu'elle est bien jolie!

But who's that grave Philosopher,
That carefully looks a'ter?
By his Concern it should appear,
The Fair One is his Daughter.
Ma foy! (quoth then a Courtier sly,)
He on his Child does leer too:
I wish he has no Mind to try
What some Papa's will here do.

643

The Courtiers all, with one Accord,
Broke out in Nelly's Praises,
Admir'd her Rose, and Lys sans farde,
(Which are your Termes Françoises).
Then might you see a painted Ring
Of Dames that stood by Nelly;
She like the Pride of all the Spring,
And they, like Fleurs du Palais.

In Marli's Gardens, and St. Clou,
I saw this charming Nelly,
Where shameless Nymphs, expos'd to view,
Stand naked in each Allee:
But Venus had a Brazen Face
Both at Versailles and Meudon,
Or else she had resign'd her Place,
And left the Stone she stood on.

Were Nelly's Figure mounted there,
'Twould put down all th'Italian:
Lord! how those Foreigners would stare!
But I shou'd turn Pygmalion:
For spite of Lips, and Eyes, and Mien,
Me, nothing can delight so,
As does that Part that lies between
Her Left Toe, and her Right Toe.

A BALLAD ON QUADRILLE.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

I

When as Corruption hence did go,
And left the Nation free;
When Ay said Ay, and No said No,
Without or Place or Fee;
Then Satan, thinking Things went ill,
Sent forth his Spirit call'd Quadrille.
Quadrille, Quadrille, &c.

II

Kings, Queens and Knaves, made up his Pack,
And four fair Sutes he wore;
His Troops they were with red and black
All blotch'd and spotted o're;
And ev'ry House, go where you will,
Is haunted by this Imp Quadrille, &c.

III

Sure Cards he has for ev'ry Thing,
Which well Court-cards they name,
And Statesman-like, calls in the King,
To help out a bad Game;
But if the Parties manage ill,
The King is forc'd to lose Codille, &c.

644

IV

When two and two were met of old,
Tho' they ne'er meant to marry,
They were in Cupid's Books enroll'd,
And call'd a Party Quarree;
But now, meet when and where you will,
A Party Quarree is Quadrille, &c.

V

The Commoner, the Knight, and Peer,
Men of all Ranks and Fame,
Leave to their Wives the only Care
To propagate their Name;
And well that Duty they fulfil,
When the good Husband's at Quadrille, &c.

VI

When Patients lie in piteous Case,
In comes the Apothecary;
And to the Doctor cries, Alas!
Non debes Quadrillare:
The patient dies without a Pill,
For why? the Doctor's at Quadrille, &c.

VII

Should France and Spain again grow loud,
The Muscovite grow louder;
Britain to curb her Neighbours proud,
Would want both Ball and Powder;
Must want both Sword and Gun to kill;
For why? The General's at Quadrille, &c.

VIII

The King of late drew forth his Sword,
(Thank God 'twas not in Wrath)
And made, of many a Squire and Lord,
An unwash'd Knight of Bath:
What are their Feats of Arms and Skill?
They're but nine Parties at Quadrille, &c.

IX

A Party late at Cambray met,
Which drew all Europe's Eyes
'Twas call'd in Post-Boy and Gazette
The Quadruple Allies;
But some-body took something ill,
So broke this Party at Quadrille, &c.

X

And now, God save this noble Realm,
And God save eke Hanover;
And God save those who hold the Helm,
When as the King goes over;
But let the King go where he will,
His Subjects must play at Quadrille.
Quadrille, Quadrille, &c.

645

A NEW SONG OF NEW SIMILIES.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

My Passion is as Mustard strong;
I sit, all sober sad;
Drunk as a Piper all day long,
Or like a March-Hare mad.

Round as a Hoop the Bumpers flow;
I drink, yet can't forget her;
For tho' as drunk as David's Sow,
I love her still the better.

Pert as a Pear-Monger I'd be,
If Molly were but kind;
Cool as a Cucumber could see
The rest of Womankind.

Like a stuck Pig I gaping stare,
And eye her o'er and o'er;
Lean as a Rake with Sighs and Care,
Sleek as a Mouse before.

Plump as a Partridge was I known,
And soft as Silk my Skin,
My Cheeks as fat as Butter grown;
But as a Groat now thin!

I melancholy, as a Cat,
Am kept awake to weep;
But she insensible of that,
Sound as a Top can sleep.

Hard is her Heart as Flint or Stone,
She laughs to see me pale,
And merry as a Grig is grown,
And brisk as Bottled-Ale.

The God of Love at her Approach
Is busy as a Bee,
Hearts sound as any Bell or Roach,
Are smit and sigh like me.

Ay me, as thick as Hops or Hail,
The fine Men crowd about her;
But soon as dead as a Door-Nail
Shall I be if without her.

Strait as my Leg her Shape appears;
O were we join'd together!
My Heart would be scot-free from Cares,
And lighter than a Feather.

As fine as Five-pence is her Mien,
No Drum was ever tighter;
Her Glance is as the Razor keen,
And not the Sun is brighter.

As soft as Pap her Kisses are,
Methinks I taste them yet.
Brown as a Berry is her Hair,
Her Eyes as black as Jet;

As smooth as Glass, as white as Curds,
Her pretty Hand invites;
Sharp as a Needle are her Words,
Her Wit, like Pepper, bites:

Brisk as a Body-Louse she trips,
Clean as a Penny drest;
Sweet as a Rose her Breath and Lips,
Round as the Globe her Breast.

646

Full as an Egg was I with Glee;
And happy as a King.
Good Lord! how all Men envy'd me!
She lov'd like any thing.

But false as Hell, she, like the Wind,
Chang'd, as her Sex must do.
Tho' seeming as the Turtle kind,
And like the Gospel true;

If I and Molly could agree,
Let who would take Peru!
Great as an Emp'ror should I be,
And richer than a Jew;

Till you grow tender as a Chick,
I'm dull as any Post;
Let us, like Burs, together stick,
And warm as any Toast.

You'll know me truer than a Dye,
And wish me better sped;
Flat as a Flounder when I lie,
And as a Herring dead.

Sure as a Gun, she'll drop a Tear
And sigh perhaps, and wish,
When I am rotten as a Pear,
And mute as any fish.

AY and NO: A FABLE.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

In Fable all things hold Discourse;
Then Words, no doubt, must talk of course.
Once on a Time, near Channel-Row,
Two hostile Adverbs, Ay and No,
Were hast'ning to the Field of Fight,
And Front to Front stood opposite.
Before each Gen'ral join'd the Van,
Ay, the more courteous Knight, began.
Stop, peevish Particle, beware!
I'm told you are not such a Bear,
But sometimes yield, when offer'd fair.
Suffer yon' Folks awhile to tattle;
'Tis We who must decide the Battle.
Whene'er we war on yonder Stage,
With various Fate, and equal Rage,
The Nation trembles at each Blow
That No gives Ay, and Ay gives No;
Yet in expensive long Contention,
We gain nor Office, Grant, or Pension.
Why then shou'd Kinsfolks quarrel thus?
(For, Two of You make One of Us.)
To some wise Statesman let us go,
Where each his proper Use may know.
He may admit two such Commanders,
And make those wait, who serv'd in Flanders.
Let's quarter on a Great-Man's Tongue,
A Treas'ry Lord, not Maister Y---g.
Obsequious at his high Command,
Ay shall march forth to Tax the Land:

647

Impeachments, No can best resist,
And Ay support the Civil List:
Ay! quick as Caesar, wins the Day;
And No, like Fabius, by Delay.
Sometimes, in mutual sly Disguise,
Let Ay's seem No's, and No's seem Ay's;
Ay's be in Courts Denials meant,
And No's in Bishops give Consent.
Thus Ay propos'd—And for Reply,
No, for the first time, answer'd Ay.
They parted with a Thousand Kisses,
And fight e'er since, for Pay, like Swisses.

THE QUIDNUNCKI'S:

A TALE.

Occasion'd by the DEATH of the Duke Regent of France.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

How vain are Mortal Man's Endeavours!
(Said, at Dame Elliot's, Master Tr---s)
Good Orleans dead! in Truth 'tis hard:
Oh! may all Statesmen die prepar'd!
I do foresee (and for Fore-seeing
He equals any Man in being)
The Army ne'er can be disbanded.
—I wish the King were safely landed.
Ah Friends! great Changes threat the Land!
All France and England at a stand!

648

There's Meroweis—mark! strange Work!
And there's the Czar, and there's the Turk—
The Pope—An India-Merchant by,
Cut short the Speech with this Reply.
All at a Stand? You see great Changes?
Ah, Sir! you never saw the Ganges.
There dwells the Nations of Quidnuncki's
(So Monomotapa calls Monkies:)
On either Bank, from Bough to Bough,
They meet and chat (as we may now.)
Whispers go round, they grin, they shrug,
They bow, they snarl, they scratch, they hug;
And, just as Chance, or Whim provoke them,
They either bite their Friends, or stroke them.
There have I seen some active Prig,
To shew his Parts, bestride a Twig:
Lord! how the chatt'ring Tribe admire,
Not that he's wiser, but he's higher:
All long to try the vent'rous thing,
(For Pow'r is but to have one's Swing.)
From Side to Side he springs, he spurns,
And bangs his Foes and Friends by turns.
Thus, as in giddy Freaks, he bounces,
Crack goes the Twig, and in he flounces!
Down the swift Stream the Wretch is born;
Never, ah never, to return!
Z---ds! What a Fall had our dear Brother?
Morblêu! cries one, and Damme, t'other.
The Nations give a gen'ral Screech,
None cocks his Tail, none claws his Breech;
Each trembles for the publick Weal,
And, for a while, forgets to steal.
A while all Eyes, intent and steddy,
Pursue him, whirling down the Eddy.
But out of Mind when out of View,
Some other mounts the Twig anew;
And Business, on each Monkey Shore,
Runs the same Track it went before.

A Coffee-House near St. James's.

649

THE BANISH'D BEAUTY.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Let jarring Realms, and Europe's doubtful State,
Of Politicians be the dull Debate,
Stocks, languish'd Trade, let such, their Subject make,
And plead, and bellow for their Country's Sake;
A more important Theme demands the Muse,
A Theme, She neither can, nor dares refuse,

A Theme, from whence her fairest Lawrels spring,
Which first inspir'd, and taught her first to sing;
'Tis Beauty calls her; and in Beauty's Cause,
Her Lays are ready, and her Pen she draws;
Yet think Clarissa! what her Pangs must be,
To Sing in Sorrow, when she sings of Thee.

In matchless Lustre lately did'st thou shine,
Nor knew the Court a brighter Name than Thine?
Of Wit and Beauty had'st thou ev'ry Grace?
(Thy Mind the only Rival of thy Face;)
O'er thy own Sex triumphant did'st thou reign,
And bid them put forth all their Charms in vain?
Was this thy Empire, till Lorenzo's Ire,
Mean and inglorious, did thy Fall conspire?
To his dread Liege thy keen Rebukes convey'd,
And gave thy weak despairing Sex his Aid?
If so he thinks, His Triumph let it be,
And still new Cause of just Contempt from Thee;
Thy wrongs, bright Exile! like thy self endure,
And let the Muse thy injur'd Beauty cure;

650

The Muse with faithful Service shall attend,
And be, at all Events, Clarissa's Friend,
With joyful Pains Thy ev'ry Merit trace,
And shew Thee even bright'ned by Disgrace.

Nor think thy Beauty claims her Lays alone,
She has a Debt of Gratitude to own,
Since in her Cause, you wag'd a generous War,
And urg'd your Stout Antagonist so far,
That, thy superior Arguments to close,
He vengeful, made the Court and Beauty, Foes.

The Task be thine, at large, much envied G---y?
Thy own, and ev'ry Muse's Debt to pay,
Nor let the Fair, who rose in the Defence
Of Wit, just Satyr, Truth, and common Sense,
In These her Moments of Dishonour, find,
Thy pointed Numbers, like the C--- unkind.

From bold MACHEATH awhile thy Rage withdraw,
And let him, still uncensur'd, brave the Law,
Attack, Despoil, with a rapacious Hand,
And deal to Tools the Plunder of a Land;
Give him, kind Bard! the Grace of thy Reprieve,
And to his own dark Breast the Robber leave;
He'll find, when trembling late with Guilt and Fear,
No Stings, no Satire are excluded There.
Lorenzo be thy Satire's present View;
'Tis a Resentment to Clarissa due:
Ask him, what Warmth could urge him to despise
The brightest Judgment, and the brightest Eyes;
Could it arraign his Prudence, to submit,
When Beauty soft'ned the Attacks of Wit?
Or could it taint his Honour, to be meek,
And, unresenting, hear a Lady speak?

When Greece and Troy, as say Great Homer's Strains,
With fierce embatt'led Numbers throng'd the Plains,
And when their clashing Arms, and Martial Rage
Did in their Contests all the Gods engage;
Unaw'd, in Slaughter did Tydides move,
And wound with daring Arm the Queen of Love?
Rough was He form'd, unfashion'd for a Court,
War was his Feast, and Cruelty his Sport:
From him, Lorenzo, would'st Thou Pattern take?
In Courage, first, Thyself an equal make:
But 'twas Thy Merit to be train'd Polite,
And rather taught the Art to Wooe, than Fight.
At Beauty's Altar daily did'st thou vow;
Then, whence a Carriage quite so diff'rent, now?

651

Could'st Thou not use, for once, the Courtier's Guile,
Caress thy Foe, and tho' offended, Smile?

Rallied by Woman, think it no Disgrace?
And let her Tongue be pardon'd, for her Face?
Such is the Conduct should Lorenzo boast;
Were not Lorenzo in the Statesman lost.
Repent of lovely Woman thy Disdain,
And to thy former Self return again:
Make Thy Submission to the Banish'd Fair,
Confess her Beauty, and her Wrongs repair.

No, no, Lorenzo is too proud to yield,
And when he once has gain'd, to quit the Field;
The Sanction of his Dignity and Post,
With Insolence unparallell'd, He'll boast,
Facts charg'd upon him, nor deny, nor own,
But poorly fly for Shelter to the ---

What! by Lorenzo is That ------ abus'd,
At which, his ROYAL MASTER stood accus'd?
Fresh Charges does he still presume to bring,
And in the injur'd PRINCE, to court the KING?
Whilst frantick Humours in his Brain prevail,
Trots He industrious on each Gossip's Tale?
Does He at Empire, and at Beauty strike?
And wound his SOVEREIGN, and the Fair alike?

Once more, disdain, Clarissa! to repine,
And let the Muse assure the Conquest Thine;
The Lustre of the Court impair'd we see,
(Impair'd indeed, ------ because depriv'd of Thee;)
In thy Disgrace the First does more than Share;
The Banishment is Thine; the Loss is There.

652

VERSES To be placed under the Picture of England's Arch-Poet: Containing a Compleat Catalogue of his Works.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

See who ne'er was or will be half read!
Who first sung Arthur, then sung Alfred,
Prais'd great Eliza in God's anger,
Till all true Englishmen cry'd, hang her!
Made William's Virtues wipe the bare A—
And hang'd up Marlborough in Arras:
Then hiss'd from Earth, grew Heav'nly quite;
Made ev'ry Reader curse the Light;
Maul'd human Wit in one thick Satyr,
Next in three Books, sunk human Nature,
Un-did Creation at a Jerk,
And of Redemption made damn'd Work.

Then took his Muse at once, and dipt her
Full in the Middle of the Scripture.
What Wonders there the Man grown old, did?
Sternhold himself he out-Sternholded,
Made David seem so mad and freakish,
All thought him just what thought king Achiz.
No mortal read his Salomon,
But judg'd Roboam his own Son.

653

Moses he serv'd as Moses Pharaoh,
And Deborah, as She Sise-rah:
Made Jeremy full sore to cry,
And Job himself curse God and die.

What Punishment all this must follow?
Shall Arthur use him like king Tollo,
Shall David as Uriah slay him,
Or dex'trous Deb'rah Sisera-him?
Or shall Eliza lay a Plot,
To treat him like her sister Scot,
Shall William dub his better End,
Or Marlb'rough serve him like a Friend?
No, none of these—Heav'n spare his Life!
But send him, honest Job, thy Wife.

Epitaph [of By-Words]

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Here lies a round Woman, who thought mighty odd
Every Word she e'er heard in this Church about God.
To convince her of God the good Dean did indeavour,
But still in her Heart she held Nature more clever.
Tho' he talk'd much of Virtue, her Head always run
Upon something or other, she found better Fun.
For the Dame, by her Skill in Affairs Astronomical,
Imagin'd, to live in the Clouds was but comical.
In this World, she despis'd ev'ry Soul she met here,
And now she's in t'other, she thinks it but Queer.

AN ODE FOR THE NEW YEAR: Written by Colley Cibber Esq. Poet Laureate.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

God prosper long our gracious King,
Now sitting on the throne;
Who leads this nation in a String,
And governs all but One.

This is the day when right or wrong,
I Colley Bays, Esquire,
Must for my sack indite a song,
And thrum my venal lyre.

Not he who ruled great Judah's realm,
Y-clyped Solomon,
Was wiser than Our's at the helm,
Or had a wiser Son.

He raked up wealth to glut his till,
In drinking, w---s, and houses;
Which wiser G---e can save to fill
His pocket, and his spouse's.

654

His head with wisdom deep is fraught,
His breast with courage glows;
Alas, how mournful is the thought
He ever should want foes!

For, in his heart he loves a drum,
As children love a rattle;
If not in field, in drawing-room,
He daily sounds to battle.

The Q---n, I also pray, God save!
His consort plump and dear;
Who, just as he is wise and brave,
Is pious and sincere.

She's courteous, good, and charms all folks,
Loves one as well as t'other;
Of Arian and of Orthodox
Alike the nursing-mother.

Oh! may she always meet success
In every scheme and job;
And still continue to caress
That honest statesman, Bob.

God send the P---, that babe of grace,
A little w--- and horse;
A little meaning in his face,
And money in his purse.

Heaven spread o'er all his family
That broad illustrious glare;
Which shines so flat in ev'ry eye,
And makes them all so stare.

All many gratis, boy and miss,
And still increase their store;
As in beginning was, now is,
And shall be ever more.

But oh! ev'n Kings must die, of course,
And to their heirs be civil;
We poets, too, on winged-horse,
Must soon post to the devil:

Then, since I have a son, like you,
May he Parnassus rule;
So shall the Crown and Laurel, too,
Descend from F---l to F---l!

655

APPENDIX II. Rural Sports: first version (1713).

RURAL SPORTS..

A POEM To Mr. POPE

You, who the Sweets of Rural Life have known,
Despise th'ungrateful Hurry of the Town;
'Midst Windsor Groves your easie Hours employ,
And, undisturb'd, your self and Muse enjoy.
Soft flowing Thames his mazy Course retains,
And in suspence admires thy charming Strains;
The River-Gods and Nymphs about thee throng,
To hear the Syrens warble in thy Song.
But I, who ne'er was bless'd from Fortune's Hand,
Nor brighten'd Plough-shares in Paternal Land,
Have long been in the noisie Town immur'd,
Respir'd it's Smoak, and all it's Toils endur'd,
Have courted Bus'ness with successless Pain,
And in Attendance wasted Years in vain;
Where News and Politicks amuse Mankind,
And Schemes of State involve th'uneasie Mind;
Faction embroils the World; and ev'ry Tongue
Is fraught with Malice, and with Scandal hung:
Friendship, for Sylvan Shades, does Courts despise,
Where all must yield to Int'rest's dearer Ties;
Each Rival Machiavel with Envy burns,
And Honesty forsakes them All by turns;
Whilst Calumny upon each Party's thrown,
Which Both abhor, and Both alike disown.
Thus have I, 'midst the Brawls of factious Strife,
Long undergone the Drudgery of Life;

656

On Courtiers Promises I founded Schemes,
Which still deluded me, like golden Dreams;
Expectance wore the tedious Hours away,
And glimm'ring Hope roll'd on each lazy Day.
Resolv'd at last no more Fatigues to bear,
At once I both forsook the Town and Care;
At a kind Friend's a calm Asylum chose,
And bless'd my harass'd Mind with sweet Repose,
Where Fields and Shades, and the refreshing Clime,
Inspire the Sylvan Song, and prompt my Rhime.
My Muse shall rove through flow'ry Meads and Plains,
And Rural Sports adorn these homely Strains,
And the same Road ambitiously pursue,
Frequented by the Mantuan Swain, and You.

Now did the Spring her Native Sweets diffuse,
And feed the chearful Plains with wholesome Dews;
A kindly Warmth th'approaching Sun bestows,
And o'er the Year a verdant Mantle throws;
The jocund Fields their gaudiest Liv'ry wear,
And breath fresh Odours through the wanton Air;
The gladsome Birds begin their various Lays,
And fill with warbling Songs the blooming Sprays;
No swelling Inundation hides the Grounds,
But crystal Currents glide within their Bounds;
The sporting Fish their wonted Haunts forsake,
And in the Rivers wide Excursions take;
They range with frequent Leaps the shallow Streams,
And their bright Scales reflect the daz'ling Beams,
The Fisherman does now his Toils prepare,
And Arms himself with ev'ry watry Snare,
He meditates new Methods to betray,
Threat'ning Destruction to the finny Prey.

When floating Clouds their spongy Fleeces drain,
Troubling the Streams with swift-descending Rain,
And Waters, tumbling down the Mountain's Side,
Bear the loose Soil into the swelling Tide;
Then, soon as Vernal Gales begin to rise,
And drive the liquid Burthen through the Skies,
The Fisher strait his Taper Rod prepares,
And to the Neighb'ring Stream in haste repairs;
Upon a rising Border of the Brook
He sits him down, and ties the treach'rous Hook;
A twining Earth-worm he draws on with Care,
With which he neatly hides the pointed Snare.
Now Expectation chears his eager Thought,
His Bosom glows with Treasures yet uncaught,
Before his Eyes a Banquet seems to stand,
The kind Effects of his industrious Hand.

Into the Stream the twisted Hair he throws,
Which gently down the murm'ring Current flows;

657

When if or Chance or Hunger's pow'rful Sway
Directs a ranging Trout this fatal way,
He greedily sucks in the tortur'd Bait,
And shoots away with the fallacious Meat.
The trembling Rod the joyful Angler eyes,
And the strait Line assures him of the Prize;
With a quick Hand the nibbled Hook he draws,
And strikes the barbed Steel within his Jaws;
The Fish now flounces with the startling Pain,
And, plunging, strives to free himself, in vain:
Into the thinner Element he 's cast,
And on the verdant Margin gasps his Last.

He must not ev'ry Worm promiscuous use,
Judgment will tell him proper Bait to chuse;
The Worm that draws a long immod'rate Size
The Trout abhors, and the rank Morsel flies;
But if too small, the naked Fraud's in sight,
And Fear forbids, while Hunger does invite.
Their shining Tails when a deep Yellow stains,
That Bait will well reward the Fisher's Pains:
Cleanse them from Filth, to give a tempting Gloss,
Cherish the sully'd Animals with Moss;
Where they rejoice, wreathing around in Play,
And from their Bodies wipe their native Clay.

But when the Sun displays his glorious Beams,
And falling Rivers flow with Silver Streams,
When no moist Clouds the radiant Air invest,
And Flora in her richest State is drest,
Then the disporting Fish the Cheat survey,
Bask in the Sun, and look into the Day.
You now a more delusive Art must try,
And tempt their Hunger with the Curious Fly;
Your wary Steps must not advance too near,
Whilst all your Hope hangs on a single Hair;
Upon the curling Surface let it glide,
With Nat'ral Motion from thy Hand supply'd,
Against the Stream now let it gently play,
Now in the rapid Eddy roll away;
The sporting Fish leaps at the floating Bait,
And in the dainty Morsel seeks his Fate.
Thus the nice Epicure, whom Lux'ry sways,
Who ev'ry Craving of his Taste obeys,
Makes his false Appetite his only Care,
In poignant Sauce disguises all his Fare;
And whilst he would his vicious Palate please,
In ev'ry Bit sucks in a new Disease;
The Cook destroys with his compounding Art,
And dextrously performs the Doctor's Part.

To frame the little Animal, provide
All the gay Hues that wait on Female Pride,

658

Let Nature guide thee; sometimes Golden Wire
The glitt'ring Bellies of the Fly require;
The Peacock's Plumes thy Tackle must not fail,
Nor the dear Purchase of the Sable's Tail.
Each gaudy Bird some slender Tribute brings,
And lends the growing Insect proper Wings,
Silks of all Colours must their Aid impart,
And ev'ry Fur promote the Fisher's Art.
So the gay Lady, with Expensive Care,
Borrows the Pride of Land, of Sea, and Air,
Furs, Pearls, and Plumes, the painted Thing displays,
Dazles our Eyes, and easie Hearts betrays.

Mark well the various Seasons of the Year,
How the succeeding Insect Race appear;
In this revolving Moon one Colour reigns,
Which in the next the fickle Trout disdains.
Oft' have I seen a skillful Angler try
The various Colours of the treach'rous Fly;
When he with fruitless Pain hath skim'd the Brook,
And the coy Fish rejects the skipping Hook,
He shakes the Boughs that on the Margin grow,
Which o'er the Streams a waving Forrest throw;
When if an Insect falls, (his certain Guide)
He gently takes him from the whirling Tide;
Examines well his Form with curious Eyes,
His gaudy Colours, Wings, his Horns and Size,
Then round his Hook a proper Fur he winds,
And on the Back a speckled Feather binds,
So just the Properties in ev'ry part,
That even Nature's Hand revives in Art.
His new-form'd Creature on the Water moves,
The roving Trout th'inviting Snare approves,
Upon his Skill successful Sport attends,
The Rod, with the succeeding Burthen, bends;
The Fishes sail along, and in Surprize
Behold their Fellows drawn into the Skies;
When soon they rashly seize the deadly Bait,
And Lux'ry draws them to their Fellow's Fate.

When a brisk Gale against the Current blows,
And all the watry Plain in Wrinkles flows,
Then let the Fisherman his Art repeat,
Where bubbling Eddys favour the Deceit.
If an huge scaly Salmon chance to spy
The wanton Errors of the swimming Fly,
He lifts his Silver Gills above the Flood,
And greedily sucks in th'unfaithful Food;
Then plunges down with the deceitful Prey,
And bears with Joy the little Spoils away.
Soon in smart Pains he feels the dire Mistake,
Lashes the Waves, and beats the foamy Lake,

659

With sudden Rage he now aloft appears.
And in his Look convulsive Anguish bears;
And now again, impatient of the Wound,
He rolls and wreathes his shining Body round;
Then headlong shoots himself into the Tide,
And trembling Fins the boiling Waves divide;
Now Hope and Fear the Fisher's Heart employ,
His smiling Looks glow with depending Joy,
He views the tumbling Fish with eager Eyes,
While his Line stretches with th'unwieldly Prize;
Each Motion humours with his steady Hands,
And a slight Hair the mighty Bulk commands;
Till tir'd at last, despoil'd of all his Strength,
The Fish athwart the Streams unfolds his Length.
He now, with Pleasure, views the gasping Prize
Gnash his sharp Teeth, and roll his Blood-shot Eyes,
Then draws him t'wards the Shore, with gentle Care,
And holds his Nostrils in the sick'ning Air:
Upon the burthen'd Stream he floating lies,
Stretches his quiv'ring Fins, and Panting dies.
So the Coquet th'unhappy Youth ensnares,
With artful Glances and affected Airs,
Baits him with Frowns, now lures him on with Smiles,
And in Disport employs her practis'd Wiles;
The Boy at last, betray'd by borrow'd Charms,
A Victim falls in her enslaving Arms.

If you'd preserve a num'rous finny Race,
Let your fierce Dogs the Rav'nous Otter chase;
Th'amphibious Creature ranges all the Shores,
Shoots through the Waves, and ev'ry Haunt explores:
Or let the Gin his roving Steps betray,
And save from hostile Jaws the scaly Prey.

Now, sporting Muse, draw in the flowing Reins,
Leave the clear Streams a-while for sunny Plains.
Should you the various Arms and Toils rehearse,
And all the Fisherman adorn thy Verse;
Should you the wide encircling Net display,
And in it's spacious Arch enclose the Sea,
Then haul the plunging Load upon the Land,
And with the Soale and Turbet hide the Sand;
It would extend the growing Theme too long,
And tire the Reader with the watry Song.

Nor do such vacant Sports alone invite,
But all the grateful Country breaths Delight;
Here blooming Health exerts her gentle Reign,
And strings the Sinews of th'industrious Swain.
Soon as the Morning Lark proclaims the Day,
Into the Fields I take my frequent Way,
Where I behold the Farmer's early Care,
In the revolving Labours of the Year.

660

When high Luxuriant Grass o'erspreads the Ground,
And the fresh Spring in all her State is Crown'd.
The Lab'rer with the bending Scythe is seen,
Shaving the Surface of the waving Green;
Of all her Native Pride disrobes the Land,
And Meads lays waste before his sweeping Hand:
While with the mounting Sun the Meadows glows,
The fading Herbage round he loosely throws;
From rip'ning Hay diffusive Odours rise,
Which breathing Zephyrs bear throughout the Skies:
But if some Sign portend a lasting Show'r,
Th'observing Swain foresees th'approaching Hour;
He strait in haste the scatt'ring Fork forsakes
And cleanly Damsels ply the saving Rakes;
In rising Hills the fragrant Harvest grows,
And spreads throughout the Plain in equal Rows.

What Happiness the Rural Maid, attends,
In chearful Labour while each Day she spends!
She gratefully receives what Heav'n has sent,
And, rich in Poverty, enjoys Content:
Upon her Cheek a pure Vermilion glows,
And all her Beauty she to Nature owes;
(Such Happiness, and such a constant Frame,
Ne'er glads the Bosom of the Courtly Dame.)
She never feels the Spleen's imagin'd Pains,
Nor Melancholy stagnates in her Veins;
She never loses Life in thoughtless Ease,
Nor on a downy Couch invites Disease;
Her Dress in a clean simple Neatness lies,
No glaring Equipage excites her Sighs;
Her Reputation, which she values most,
Is ne'er in a Malicious Visit lost:
No Midnight Masquerade her Beauty wears,
And Health, not Paint, the fading Bloom repairs.
If Love's soft Passions in her Bosom reign,
She meets Returns in an obliging Swain;
Domestick Broils do ne'er her Peace controul,
Nor watchful Jealousie torments her Soul;
With secret Joy she sees her little Race
Hang on her Breast, and her small Cottage grace;
Thus flow her peaceful Hours, unknown to Strife,
'Till Age exhausts the latest Thread of Life.

But when th'Ascent of Heav'n bright Phoebus gains
And scorches with fierce Rays the thirsty Plains;
When sleeping Snakes bask in the sultry Sky,
And Swains with fainting Hand their Labours ply,
With naked Breast they court each welcome Breeze,
Nor know the Shelter of the shady Trees:
Then to some secret Covert I retreat,
To shun the Pressure of th'uneasie Heat;

661

Where the tall Oak his spreading Arms entwines,
And with the Beech a mutual Shade combines;
Here on the Mossy Couch my Limbs I lay,
And taste an Ev'ning at the Noon of Day:
Beneath, a shallow Rivulet runs by,
Whose Silver Streams o'er the smooth Pebbles fly,
With gentle Falls it wanders through the Grounds,
And all the Wood the murm'ring Noise resounds.
In such a Shade was fair Calisto laid,
When am'rous Jove th'unwary Nymph betray'd:
The God, disguis'd in Cynthia's borrow'd Charms,
Her Lips with more than Virgin Kisses Warms;
While she, surpriz'd, lay melting in his Arms.

Here I with Virgil's Muse refresh my Mind,
And in his Numbers all the Country find;
I wander o'er the various Rural Toil,
And learn the Nature of each diff'rent Soil;
This fertile Field groans with a Load of Corn,
That spreading Trees with blushing Fruit adorn.
Here I survey the Purple Vintage grow,
Climb round the Poles, and rise in graceful Row,
Whilst Bacchanalian Bowls with the rich Nectar flow.
Here I behold the Steed curvet and bound,
And paw with restless Hoof the smoaking Ground.
The Dewlap'd Bull now scow'rs throughout the Plains,
While burning Love shoots through his raging Veins,
His well-arm'd Front against his Rival aims,
And by the Dint of War his Mistress claims.
His tuneful Muse the industrious Bee recites,
His Wars, his Government, and toilsome Flights;
The careful Insect 'midst his Works I view,
Now from the Flow'rs exhaust the fragrant Dew;
With golden Treasures load his little Thighs,
And steer his airy Journey through the Skies;
With liquid Sweets the waxen Cells distend,
While some 'gainst Hostile Drones their Cave defend;
Each in the Toil a proper Station bears,
And in the little Bulk a mighty Soul appears.
The Country all her native Charms displays,
And various Landschapes flourish in his Lays.

Or when the Lab'rer leaves the Task of Day,
And trudging homewards whistles on the Way;
When the big udder'd Cows with Patience stand,
Waiting the Stroakings of the Damsel's Hand
No Warbling chears the Woods; the Feather'd Choir
To court kind Slumbers, to their Sprays retire;
When no rude Gale disturbs the sleeping Trees,
Nor Aspen Leaves confess the gentlest Breeze;
I sooth my Mind with an indulgent Walk,
And shun a-while the tiresome Noise of Talk,

662

Engag'd in Thought, to Neptune's Bounds I stray,
To take my Farewel of the parting Day;
The blushing Skies glow with the sinking Beams,
And a bright Glory mingles with the Streams:
A Golden Light upon the Surface plays,
And the wide Ocean smiles with trembling Rays;
Here Pensive I behold the fading Light,
And in the distant Billows lose my Sight.

Now Night in silent State begins to rise,
And twinkling Orbs bestrow th'uncloudy Skies;
Her borrow'd Lustre growing Cynthia lends,
And o'er the Main a glitt'ring Path extends;
Millions of Worlds hang in the spacious Air,
Which round their Suns their Annual Circles steer.
Sweet Contemplation elevates my Sense,
While I survey the Works of Providence.
Oh, could my Muse in loftier Strains rehearse
The Glorious Author of this Universe,
Who reins the Winds, gives the vast Ocean Bounds,
And circumscribes the floating Worlds their Rounds!
My Soul should overflow in Songs of Praise,
And my Creator's Name inspire my Lays.

Now Ceres pours out Plenty from her Horn,
And cloaths the Fields with golden Ears of Corn;
Let the keen Hunter from the Chase refrain,
Nor render all the Plowman's Labour vain.
The Reapers to their sweating Task repair,
To save the Product of the bounteous Year:
To the wide-gathering Hook long Furrows yield,
And rising Sheaves extend through all the Field.

Oh happy Plains! remote from War's Alarms,
And all the Ravages of Hostile Arms;
And happy Shepherds who secure from Fear
On open Downs preserve your fleecy Care!
Where no rude Soldier, bent on cruel Spoil,
Spreads Desolation o'er the fertile Soil;
No trampling Steed lays waste the rip'ning Grain,
Nor crackling Flames devour the promis'd Gain;
No flaming Beacons cast their Blaze afar,
The dreadful Signal of invasive War;
No Trumpet's Clangor wounds the Mother's Ear,
Nor calls the Lover from his swooning Fair;
But the fill'd Barns groan with th'encreasing Store,
And whirling Flails disjoint the cracking Floor:
Let Anna then adorn your Rural Lays,
And ev'ry Wood resound with grateful Praise;
Anna, who binds the Tyrant War in Chains,
And Peace diffuses o'er the chearful Plains;
In whom again the bright Astrea Reigns.

As in successive Toil the Seasons roll,
So various Pleasures recreate the Soul;

663

The setting Dog, instructed to betray,
Rewards the Fowler with the Feather'd Prey.
Soon as the lab'ring Horse with swelling Veins,
Hath safely hous'd the Farmer's doubtful Gains,
To sweet Repast th'unwary Partridge flies,
At Ease amidst the scatter'd Harvest lies,
Wandring in Plenty, Danger he forgets,
Nor dreads the Slav'ry of entangling Nets.
The subtle Dog now with sagacious Nose
Scowres through the Field, and snuffs each Breeze that blows,
Against the Wind he takes his prudent way,
While the strong Gale directs him to the Prey;
Now the warm Scent assures the Covey near,
He treads with Caution, and he points with Fear;
Then least some Sentry Fowl his Fraud descry,
And bid his Fellows from the Danger fly,
Close to the Ground in Expectation lies,
Till in the Snare the flutt'ring Covey rise.
Thus the sly Sharper sets the thoughtless 'Squire,
Who to the Town does aukwardly aspire:
Trick'd of his Gold, he Mortgages his Land,
And falls a Captive to the Bailiff's Hand.
Soon as the blushing Light begins to spread,
And rising Phoebus gilds the Mountain's Head,
His early Flight th'ill-fated Partridge takes,
And quits the friendly Shelter of the Brakes:
Or when the Sun casts a declining Ray,
And drives his Chariot down the Western way,
Let your obsequious Ranger search around,
Where the dry Stubble withers on the Ground:
Nor will the roving Spy direct in vain,
But num'rous Coveys gratifie thy Pain.
When the Meridian Sun contracts the Shade,
And frisking Heifers seek the cooling Glade;
Or when the Country floats with sudden Rains,
Or driving Mists deface the moist'ned Plains;
In vain his Toils th'unskillful Fowler tries,
Whilst in thick Woods the feeding Partridge lies,

Nor must the sporting Verse the Gun forbear,
But what's the Fowler's be the Muse's Care;
The Birds that in the Thicket seek their Food,
Who love the Covert, and frequent the Wood,
Despise the Net: But still can never shun
The momentary Lightning of the Gun.
The Spaniel ranges all the Forrest round,
And with discerning Nostril snuffs the Ground
Now rusling on, with barking Noise alarms,
And bids his watchful Lord prepare to Arms;
The dreadful Sound the springing Pheasant hears,
Leaves his close Haunt, and to some Tree repairs:
The Dog, aloft the painted Fowl, surveys,

664

Observes his Motions, and at distance Bays.
His noisie Foe the stooping Pheasant eyes,
Fear binds his Feet, and useless Pinions ties,
Till the sure Fowler, with a sudden Aim,
From the tall Bough precipitates the Game.
So the Pale Coward from the Battel flies,
Soon as a Rout the Victor Army cries;
With clashing Weapons Fancy fills his Ear,
And Bullets whistle round his bristled Hair;
Now from all Sides th'imagin'd Foe draws nigh,
He trembling stands, nor knows which Way to fly;
'Till Fate behind aims a disgraceful Wound,
And throws his gasping Carcass to the Ground.
But if the Bird, to shun the dreadful Snare,
With quiv'ring Pinions cuts the liquid Air;
The scatt'ring Lead pursues th'unerring Sight,
And Death in Thunder overtakes his flight.

The tow'ring Hawk let future Poets sing,
Who Terror bears upon his soaring Wing:
Let him on high the frighted Horn survey,
And lofty Numbers paint their Airy Fray.
Nor shall the mounting Lark the Muse detain,
That greets the Morning with his early Strain;
How, 'midst his Song, by the false Glass betray'd,
(That fatal Snare to the fantastick Maid,)
Pride lures the little Warbler from the Skies,
Where folding Nets the Captive Bird surprize.

The Greyhound now pursues the tim'rous Hare,
And shoots along the Plain with swift Career;
While the sly Game escapes beneath his Paws,
He snaps deceitful Air with empty Jaws;
Enrag'd, upon his Foe he quickly gains,
And with wide Stretches measures o'er the Plains;
Again the cunning Creature winds around,
While the fleet Dog o'ershoots, and loses ground;
Now Speed he doubles to regain the Way,
And crushes in his Jaws the screaming Prey.
Thus does the Country various Sports afford,
And unbought Dainties heap the wholesome Board.

But still the Chase, a pleasing Task, remains;
The Hound must open in these rural Strains.
Soon as Aurora drives away the Night,
And edges Eastern Clouds with rosie Light,
The wakeful Huntsman, with the chearful Horn,
Summons the Dogs, and greets the rising Morn:
Th'enliven'd Hounds the welcome Accent hear,
Start from their Sleep, and for the Chase prepare.
Now o'er the Field a diff'rent Route they take,
Search ev'ry Bush, and force the thorny Brake
No bounding Hedge obstructs their eager Way,
While their sure Nostril leads them to the Prey;

665

Now they with Joy th'encreasing Scent pursue,
And trace the Game along the tainted Dew;
A sudden Clamour rings throughout the Plain,
And calls the Straglers from their fruitless Pain,
All swiftly to the welcome Sound repair,
And join their Force against the skulking Hare.
Thus when the Drum an idle Camp alarms,
And summons all the scatt'ring Troops to Arms;
The Soldiers the commanding Thunder know,
And in one Body meet th'approaching Foe.
The tuneful Noise the sprightly Courser hears,
He paws the Turf, and pricks his rising Ears:
The list'ning Hare, unsafe in longer Stay,
With wary Caution steals unseen away;
But soon his treach'rous Feet his Flight betray.
The distant Mountains eccho from afar,
And neighb'ring Woods resound the flying War;
The slackned Rein admits the Horse's Speed,
And the swift Ground flies back beneath the Steed.
Now at a Fault the Dogs confus'dly stray,
And strive t'unravel his perplexing Way;
They trace his artful Doubles o'er and o'er,
Smell ev'ry Shrub, and all the Plain explore,
'Till some stanch Hound summons the baffled Crew,
And strikes away his wily Steps anew.
Along the Fields they scow'r with jocund Voice,
The frighted Hare starts at the distant Noise;
New Stratagems and various Shifts he tries,
Oft' he looks back, and dreads a close Surprise;
Th'advancing Dogs still haunt his list'ning Ear,
And ev'ry Breeze augments his growing Fear:
'Till tir'd at last, he pants, and heaves for Breath;
Then lays him down, and waits approaching Death.
Nor should the Fox shun the pursuing Hound,
Nor the tall Stag with branching Antlers crown'd;
But each revolving Sport the Year employ,
And fortifie the Mind with healthful Joy.

Oh happy Fields, unknown to Noise and Strife,
The kind Rewarders of industrious Life;
Ye shady Woods, where once I us'd to rove,
Alike indulgent to the Muse and Love;
Ye murm'ring Streams that in Maeanders roll,
The sweet Composers of the peaceful Soul,
Farewel.—Now Business calls me from the Plains,
Confines my Fancy, and my Song restrains.

666

APPENDIX III.

To Charles Ford Esqr to be left at Sr Richard Chantillon's Banker in Paris

Sir.

Not that I'll wander from my native home,
And tempting Dangers foreign Citys roam,
Let Paris be the Theme of Gallia's Muse,
Where Slav'ry treads the Streets in wooden shoes;
Nor will I sing of Belgia's frozen Clime,
And teach the clumsy Boor to skate in Rhime;
Where, if the warmer Clouds in Rain descend
No miry Ways industrious Steps offend,
The rushing Flood from sloping Pavements pours
And blackens the Canals with dirty show'rs.
Let others Naples' smoother Streets rehearse
Or with proud Roman Structures grace their Verse,
Where frequent Murders wake the Night with Groans,
And Blood in purple Torrents dyes the Stones.
Nor shall the Muse through narrow Venice stray,
Where Gondalas their painted Oars display.
Oh happy Streets, to rumbling wheels unknown,
No Carts or Coaches shake the floating Town.

Thus was of old Britannia's City blest
E'er Pride and Luxury her Sons possest;
Coaches and chariots yet unfashion'd lay
Nor late invented chairs perplex'd the Way. &c.

That &c signifies near 300 Lines. so much for Poetry; you may easily imagine by this progress, that I have not been interrupted by any Places at Court. Mr. Domville told me how to direct to you a day or two since as I accidentally met him in the Park. I have not heard any thing of Parnell or the Dean since you left England; Pope has been in the Country, near (torn) but I expect him in Town this Week to forward the Printing of his Homer, which is already begun to be printed off; he will publish his Temple of Fame as soon as he comes to Town; Rowe hath finish'd his Play, and Lintot told me just now, that he was made Clerk of the Council to the Prince. There was a Ball at Somerset House last Tuesday, where I saw the Dutchess; the Prince and Princess were there, and danc'd our English Country Dances. I have been studying these two or three Minutes for something (------) to write to you, but I find myself at a Loss, and can't say any thing but that I am

London Decemr. 30. 1714.

Sir Your most obedient Humble Servt J. Gay

667

APPENDIX IV.

Alexander Pope his safe return from TROY

a Congratulatory Poem on the compleating his Translation of Homer's Ilias: in the manner of the beginning of the last Canto of Ariosto.

1

Long hast thou, Friend been absent from thy soil
Like patient Ithacus at siege of Troy
I have been witness of thy six years toil
Thy daily Labours and thy night's annoy,
Lost to thy native land; with great turmoil
on the wide Sea, oft threatning to destroy.
Methinks with thee, I've trod Sigæan ground,
And heard hoarse Hellespontic shores resound.

2

Did I not see thee when thou first setst sail
To seek Adventures fair in Grecian Land
Did I not see thy sinking Spirits fail
And wish thy Bark had never left the Strand?
Ev'n in mid Ocean often didst thou quail,
And oft' lift up thy holy eye & hand,
Praying thy Virgin dear, and Saintly Choir
Back to the Port to speed thy Bark entire.

668

3

Chear up, my friend; thy dangers now are oer;
Methinks, nay sure the rising Coasts appear,
Hark how the Guns salute from either shore
As thy trim Vessell cuts the Thames so fair;
Shouts answ'ring Shouts from Kent & Essex roar
And Bells break loud through ev'ry gust of Air:
Bonefires do blaze, and bones & Cleavers ring,
As at the coming of some mighty King.

4

Now pass we Gravesend with a prosp'rous wind,
And Tilbury's white Fort, & long Blackwall;
Greenwich, where dwells the friend of Humankind
More visited than or her Park or Hall,
Withers the good, and with him ever-join'd
Facetious Disney greet thee first of all.
I see his Chimney smoak, & hear him say,
Duke, that's the room for Pope, & that for Gay.

5

Come in, my Friends, here shall ye dine & lye,
And here shall breakfast & here dine again,
And sup and breakfast on, if ye comply,
For I have still one dozen of Champaigne.
His Voice still lessens, as the Ship saild by,
He waves his hand to bring us back invain.
For now methinks I see proud London's spires,
Greenwich is lost, and Deptford Dock retires.

6

O what a Concourse swarm on yonder Kay!
The Sky re-ecchoes with new shouts of joy,
By all this Show, I ween, 'tis Lord Mayor's day,
I hear the Voice of Trumpet & Haut-boy:
But now I see them near, Oh! these are they
Who come in Crouds to welcome thee from Troy:
Hail to the Bard, whom long as lost we mourn'd,
Safe from the Fights of Ten years War return'd!

669

7

Of Goodly Dames and Courteous Knights I view
The silken Petticoat, & broider'd Vest,
Yea Peers and mighty Dukes with ribbands blue,
True blue, fair emblem of unstained breast,
Others I see as noble and as true
By no Court badge distinguish'd from the rest
There See I Pulteney, generous good & kind
And gallant Methuen of sincerest mind

8

What Lady's that to whom he gently bends?
Who knows not her? ah those are Howard's Eyes.
How art thou honour'd, number'd with her friends!
For She distinguishes the good & wise.
Harmonious Cowper near her side attends
Now to my heart the glance of Howard flies;
Now Pult'ney's gracefull air I mark full well
With thee, Youth's youngest daughter sweet Lepell.

9

I see two lovely sisters hand in hand,
The fair-hair'd Martha and Teresa brown,
One Bellenden, the bonniest of the Land
And blue-ey'd Mary, soft & fair as Down;
Yonder I see the cheerfull Dutchess stand
For friendly Zeal & blithsome humour known,
Whence that loud Shout in such a hearty strain?
Why, all the Hamiltons are in her train.

10

See, see, the decent Scudamore advance
With Winchelsea, still-meditating song
And Sophy How demure came there by chance
Nor knows with whom, nor why she goes along;
Far off from these fair Santlow fam'd for dance
With frolick Bicknell & her Sister Young
With other names by me not to be named
Much lov'd in private, not in publick famed.

670

11

But lo aloof the female Band retire;
Now the shrill musick of their Voice is still'd.
Methinks I see fam'd Buckingham admire
That in Troys ruine thou hadst not been kill'd;
Sheffield who knows to strike the living Lyre
With hand judicious, like thy Homer skill'd,
Bathurst impetuous hastens to the Coast,
Whom you & I strive who shall love the most.

14

Harcourt I see, for eloquence renown'd,
The mouth of Justice, Oracle of Law
Another Simon is beside him found
Another Simon like as Straw to Straw.
There Lansdown smiles whom ev'ry Muse has crown'd.
What miter'd Prelate there commands our awe?
See Rochester approving nods his head
And ranks one modern with the mighty dead.

See there two Brothers greet thee wth applause
Both for prevailing Eloquence renown'd
Argyll the brave and Islay learn'd in Laws
Than whom no truer friends were ever found.
Tom had been nigh you zealous in your Cause
But Tom alas, dear friend is underground
There see I Colman blithe as bird in May
In vast Surprize to see this happy day.

671

APPENDIX V.

“THE POEMS FROM GAY'S CHAIR”

676

CHOICE READING.

In sweet poetic chime
From Milton I learnt rhyme;
From Pope I got blank verse;
And could many a line rehearse,
With sprightly comic glee,
From Otway, Rowe and Lee!
While the tragic style I caught
From Gay and Congreve's thought!

THE LITTLE OLD WOMAN CUT SHORTER.

A Comic Song.

[_]

Sung at the Theatres London, &c.

When I was a maid I was bashful and shy,
To all rudeness I made much resistance;
If a youth caught a glance, then I cast down my eye,
'Twas—“I beg, sir, you'll keep at a distance!”
Tho' not very tall, yet I held myself high;
For my beauty made all their mouths water,
And now, as I pass, the folks titter and cry
“There's the little old woman cut shorter!”

Six husbands I've had, but, poor souls! they are gone;
I shall soon wed a seventh, my cozen;
Egad, if at this rate, I keep going on,
Ere I die, I shall make up the dozen!
I cared not a pin for their humours and airs;
At a scolding I never gave quarter;
If they kick'd up a dust, why I kick'd 'em down stairs,
Tho' “a little old woman grown shorter!”

Three husbands I lost by the palsy and gout,
I had two shovell'd off by a dropsy;
My sixth was a tippler, for ever was out—
And turn'd my affairs turvy topsy!
So I'll marry again, just to set all things right;
For I've match'd both my son and my daughter!
At their weddings I danced—at my own dance to-night—
Like “a little old woman cut shorter!”

REVENGE: OR FATHERLY KINDNESS.

A vixen wife, who felt the horsewhip's smart,
Ran to her Father—begg'd he'd take her part.
“What was your fault? (said he) Come, state the case.”
“I threw some coffee in my husband's face,
“For which he beat me!”—“Beat you, did he?—'S'life
“He beat my Daughter!—then I'll beat his Wife!

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“If for such faults, he gives my dear Child pain,
“Come but his Wife, I'll flog her home again!”
This said, most amply he revenged his daughter,
And stopt domestic squabbles ever after!

From THE FOP AND ECHO.

When cits on horseback take the air,
And wits to Rotten Row repair,
Saddles to mules compared have been,
As placed a horse and ass between;
And others think the Fribble no man,
But something man between and woman.
Abroad Sir Fopling chanced to stray . .
Within a grove, unseen, unheard
Except by Echo, who each word
Promptly received, and then for sport
Return'd the same with sham retort.
Oft as he sigh'd “Sweet Venus! Cupid!”
Echo replied . . . Between us—stupid!
Now on a fish-pond's bank he stood,
His image viewing in the flood,
A while he look'd, the silly elf
Pretended not to know himself:
“That beauteous face (said he) and shape,
To whom can they belong?”
Echo
------An Ape!

(and so forth.)

684

THE LADIES' PETITION to the HONORABLE THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

SIRS!

We, the Maids of Exon City,
The Maids! good lack, the more's the pity!
Do humbly offer this petition,
To represent our sad condition;
Which once made known, our hope and trust is,
Your honored House will do us justice.
But lest our tender sense of wrong,
And volubility of tongue,
Should make us trespass on your leisure,
And speechify it out of measure,
To save our breath, and eke your time,
We clog our fluent speech with rhyme.

First you shall hear—But cann't you guess
The reason of our sad distress?—
(Plague on the Widows that compel us
Thus to petition 'bout young fellows!)
But we were saying—you must know,
Tho' blushing we declare our woe,
A maiden was designed by nature
A weakly and imperfect creature,
So liable to err or stray,
Her wants require a guide, a stay;
And then so timorous of sprites,
She dreads to be alone at nights!
Say what she will, do what she can,
Her heart still gravitates to man;
From whence 'tis evident as light
That marriage is a woman's right;
And therefore 'tis prodigious hard
To be of such a right debarred:
Yet we, poor souls, cann't have the freedom
To get good husbands, tho' we need 'em!
The Widows, Sirs!—Their art denotes
Them Machiavels in petticoats!

These plagues, with heads on mischief running,
Exceed by far the fox in cunning!
They cut us out, are still before us,
And leave no lovers to adore us!
‘Adore us!’ nay, 'tis ten times worse,
Deuce take 'em! (but we should not curse)
For tho' our number is not small,
There's hardly one amongst us all,
Scarce one—'tis true as G---'s in Glo'ster,
Can get a Strephon to accost her!
No single creature e'er is seen
With bearded chin and manly mien,
But what they have him in a minute!
Well! sure there is some witchcraft in it;
And all the elves are magic pimps
To aid and succour widow imps!
For when, by force of all our wits,
Kind looks, kind words, and fainting fits,
We've brought our beaus just to the lure,
And think the captives are secure—
When the ring glitters in our eye,
The lawyer called, the parson nigh,
Up starts a widow in the way,
And disappoints us of the prey;
By some curst hocus pocus trick
The lover leaves us in the nick,
And our confusion to confound,
He's led directly to Lob's pound.
Besides, what makes it more provoking,
The dames oft wound us by their joking,
Tho' they've a thousand times been told
They need not be so pert and bold;
For could we have the chance to try,
We would be wives, or else know why!
And having welcomed wedlock's boon,
We might be widows, too, and soon!
Thank heaven, we want nor will nor breath
To plague or talk a man to death!
But then the spiteful troop upbraids,
Calling us, sneeringly, old maids!

685

(The major part of us they mean.)
You well may think it moves our spleen,
When we must suffer such disgraces,
Or, what is worse, display our faces:
The fair and timid sex esteem'd,
We should about fifteen be deem'd;
Timid and fair are signs of youth;
The widows cann't deny this truth.
If still they urge we are not young,
However glib or loud the tongue,
'Till we afford 'em more conviction,
E'en let them talk sans contradiction!

‘Old maids indeed!’ for goodness sake
Could they no likelier scandal make?
When time's so much at our devotion,
They could not think to spread the notion.
In spite of registers and nurses,
(Whose blunders well deserve our curses)
Obsequious to a maiden's will,
Old Time turns backward or stands still.
However strange the thing appears,
Some have been twenty, twenty years!
And some that reckon just a score,
Were thirty, ten years since, or more!

Need any person now be told
That single ladies cann't grow old!
We should despise such taunting carriage,
Did we not quite despair of marriage;
Nor about husbands make this fuss,
Were there enough for them and us.
But, tis the truth we represent t'ye,
Men are so scarce, and maids so plenty,
That were each man a maid to wed,
Not one in fifty would be led
To Hymen's shrine, or, during life,
Become that envied thing—a wife.

While thus the widows interlope,
How can we maidens live in hope?
Your honored House will then debate
On our most lamentable state,
And after hearing this as fact,
Will guard our rights by legal act:
For if the widows be allowed
To taunt us thus, and be so proud,
We maidens must embrace the pillow,
Or cut a caper from a willow!

But lest your honors should surmise,
That we, more resolute than wise,
Make 'gainst the widows an invective,
When 'tis ourselves are most defective,
We state, (and thus for favor sue)
That all that can be done, we do;
We plot, devise, try every plan,
To win the fickle creature man;
Contriving, or pursuing schemes,
Not more when waking than in dreams;
At every moment, every place,
Our lures we're throwing with a grace,
In curtsying, smiling, nodding, talking,
In laughing, singing, dancing, walking,
In romping, frowning, ogling, dressing,
And fifty things that want expressing;
At home, abroad, by night, by day,
We various stratagems display.

But sure the most becoming airs
Are those we practise at our prayers!
And therefore nothing can be fitter
Than frequent visits to St. Peter!
Which every maid more duly pays
Than Canons on refection days.

Ah! Sirs, 'twould do you good to know
The nice demeanour there we show:
And sure such visits are enchanting—
Good company is never wanting!
The forms too, and the ordinances,
So suited to young ladies' fancies;
For meekness grac'd by pure contrition,
To female beauty gives addition.
While turning round, to crave a blessing,
The figure's seen, and taste in dressing!
There one may sit, the eye not idle,
Tho' our discretion hold the bridle,
And archly view, behind a fan,
Which is the smartest gentleman;
And while we are his worth attesting,
He soon becomes more interesting,
Claims more respect, more notice shares,
And renders more devout our prayers!

If ever, as 'twill sometimes happen,
One cannot get one's hood or cap on,
So early as to be at church,
We never leave it in the lurch,
But with all possible regard
Wait in the consecrated yard:
Hindered by no profane pretences,
There we discharge our consci-ences!
Away we sail—if rough the weather,
It more directly drives us thither.
What tho' the wind disturb our clothes,
Why should the widows harm suppose?
Surely there can be nothing shocking
In a neat ankle and silk stocking!
If coxcombs pry, and make a fuss,
The blame must lie with them, not us.

So far we trust we do our duty,
In setting off our wit and beauty.
But more, if Nature, on her part,
Leaves us the smallest room for art,
We say, and to our praise 'tis known,
We show more graces than our own;
With stiffened stays, or iron boddices,
We are as finely shaped as goddesses.
If native colours are too faint,
It surely cann't be wrong to paint:

686

If too reveal'd the lily shows,
What harm to imitate the rose?
A patch that hides a freckled place
May add a beauty to the face;
Then as to faults—admit we've one,
It's name we change—the fault is gone:
For instance, if Miss looks awry,
Ha! Miss has got an ogling eye!
Or if a lengthened heel she want,
Her step's genteel, 'tis elegant!

Yet, Sirs, in spite of all our cares,
Our melting eyes and plaintive airs,
We must allow, when pressed thus far,
Just where we were at first, we are;
All means have failed—all tricks miscarried,
And we, alas! are still unmarried!

Since, then, 'tis not our fault, but fortune,
We take the freedom to importune
Your House will let it be enacted,
That not one widow be contracted,
Or, that it henceforth may be reckon'd,
“She killed the first who weds a second,”
'Till every maid is in the way
Of wedlock's treat, as well as they.

And yet in case (but heaven avert it!)
A luckless fair should be deserted,
She from that very hour may claim
A widow's privilege and name.
But since we plainly can foresee
The task will not more easy be
To keep the widow's host from marrying,
Than 'tis to keep the crows from carrion,
We think 'twill be extremely proper,
With all despatch to send a troop here
Of bold gallants to prop our cause,
Our rights maintain, and aid the laws!
But if you find it hard to muster
Of such like beaus sufficient cluster,
Rather than leave a single creature
Of our complacent, modest nature,
To bear the taunts of widow elves,
Take us, we pray you, to yourselves;
For we imagine, and don't flatter,
You will not start at such a matter;
For if 'tis rightly understood,
Our private weal is public good,
And public good, the wise ones say,
All real patriots should sway.
Then if you are not dead to beauty,
And know your parliamentary duty,
The question put—divide—and so,
When you say ay, we'll not say no!

Come—make election—pick and choose,
Welcome to take; but not refuse:
Here all your fancies may be suited,
With real maids and maids reputed.

From these proposals we expect
The best your judgment can effect.
Aid then our wishes—grant the boon,
And, we beseech you, grant it soon.

Old proverbs state, strike while you may,
All men lose something by delay,
And maids in sunshine should make hay:
Grant then this suit, Exonian Spinsters say,
And your petitioners will ever pray.

This proverb will remind the reader of another—“Sure as the D---l's in London!” Ed.

“Crowdero, whom, in irons bound,
“Thou basely threw'st into Lob's pound.”

Hudibras.

'Tis evident that in this couplet of Butler's, the stocks or some mean prison is referred to; but in the present text, Lob's pound probably alludes to a bondage more dignified. Ed.

Alluding to the fashion of wearing hoods or veils. Ed.

The cathedral at Exeter is dedicated to this saint. Ed.

TO MISS JANE SCOT.

The Welch girl is pretty,
The English girl fair,
The Irish deem'd witty,
The French debonnaire;
Tho' all may invite me,
I'd value them not;
The charms that delight me
I find in a Scot.

PREDICTION.

Dame Doleful, as old stories say,
Foresaw th'events of every day,
And tho' to Satan no relation,
Dealt largely in prognostication:
Whatever accident befel,
She plainly could the cause foretell;
A hundred reasons she could show,
And finish with—“I told you so!”

One day her son (a waggish youth)
Put on the serious face of truth,
And feigning sorrow, to her ran—
He thus his wond'rous tale began:
‘Oh mother!—mother!—What d'ye think?
‘Letting old Dobbin out to drink,
‘Poor beast, he neigh'd, and shook his mane,
‘And had such megrims in his brain,
‘That I did fear.’—Dame stopp'd him short
Before half finished his report:
“Ay, ay; thy mother all forsees—
“Dobbin hath fall'n and broke his knees
“I knew how 'twas;—I told you so.”
In vain her son replied, ‘No, no;
‘Good mother, listen, hear me out—
‘As Dobbin, hungry, smelt about,’—
“Boy, I foresee what thou would'st say,
“Dobbin hath eat—the rick of hay!”
‘O worse than that!—He paw'd the ground,
‘And snorted, kick'd, and gallop'd round,

687

‘Then, wildly staring, ran to find
‘The stone on which our scythes we grind;
‘And knaw'd—and knaw'd—ah, woe betide!
‘He ope'd his hungry chops so wide,
‘And look'd so ravenous, d'ye see,
‘I was afraid he'd swallow me!—
‘At last’—“Ay, ay, I'm not surprised,
“'Tis what I all along surmised,—
“I knew 'twould be—I heard him groan—
“Dobbin hath eat—the grinding-stone!”

COMPARISONS.

A Lamb and a Lion—a Fox and an Ass,
Resemble Mankind, as it were in a glass;
Males are harmless as lambs 'till they're fourteen years old,
And 'till they are forty, as lions are bold;
As foxes they're cunning 'till three-score and ten,
Then, silly as asses, no longer are men.

A Dove and a Sparrow—a Parrot and Crow,
The life of a Woman most aptly will show;
Girls innocent doves are 'till fourteen years old,
And chirrup like sparrows, till forty are told;
Like parrots they'll prate 'till they're three-score and ten,
And as crows often croak, so do most old wo-men!

ABSENCE.

Augustus, frowning, gave command,
And Ovid left his native land;
From Julia, as an exile sent,
He long with barbarous Goths was pent.

So Fortune frown'd on me, and I was driven
From friends, from home, from Jane, and happy Devon!
And Jane sore grieved when from me torn away;—
I loved her sorrow, tho' I wish'd her—Gay!

FABLE.

A Milk-white Swan, in Aesop's time,
Had got the knack of making rhyme;
All other birds he did excel;
Wrote verses,—yes,—and wrote them well:
Praised was his genius, and his parts—
All wondered how he reached the arts:
Except some Geese, in neighbouring brook;
Yet even they admired his look,
And grudged each feather in his wing;
But, envious, hiss'd whene'er he'd sing!
His sonnets they denounced as satire,
His lyric pleasantries, ill-nature!

One day these Geese most pertly squall'd,
“Cygnet!”—for so the Swan was call'd—
“Cygnet,—why will you thus abuse
“Our patience with your doggerel muse?
“Not only you offend our ears,
“But you assail our characters!
“Blush, and no longer do amiss.”
The critics ended with a hiss.

Erect the Cygnet raised his crest,
And thus the silly Geese address'd:
‘I know not any of your tribe—
‘Why, then, d'ye feel my jest or gibe?
‘Fools ever—('tis a certain rule)
‘Think they're the butts of ridicule;
‘As if they so important were,
‘No other theme the muse could cheer.
‘Begone! you but yourselves expose,
‘When thus your folly you disclose:
‘Know this, and then your gabbling cease—
‘Swans like my verse; but you are—Geese!’

CONGRATULATION TO A NEWLY MARRIED PAIR.

While artful dames and gay coquettes
Catch fops and fools in cobweb nets;
While giddy girls wed hoary swains,
And barter happiness for gains;
While misers, anxious to be great,
With fortunes take the wives they hate;
Your wiser plan has proved 'tis right
The heart should with the hand unite;

688

And those who would their joys improve,
Must build their hopes on mutual love.
Whoe'er attend to Reason's voice;
Will thus with prudence make their choice;
On this hinge hangs the chance in life,
Of peace, or war, 'twixt man and wife;
And such as disregard this caution,
May shipwreck'd be on wedlock's ocean.

A DEVONSHIRE HILL.

Oft have shepherds enamoured, in pastoral lays,
Sweetly sung of the grove, grot, or fountain,
No scene that is rural, but loudly it's praise
They have echoed from mountain to mountain.
Some delighted have been with a meadow or vale,
But with these my taste never could tally;
The meadow is pleasant, enchanting the dale,
But a hill I prefer to a valley.

For prospect extended, and landscape most rare,
With health-breathing breezes inviting,
No daisy-pied mead with a hill can compare,
No garden yield sweets more delighting;
As a mole-heap's excell'd by a mound that's rais'd high,
As a street may exceed a small alley,
Even so to my mind, when these objects are nigh,
Is the hill I prefer to a valley.

But the hill of all hills, the most pleasing to me,
Is famed Cotton, the pride of North Devon;
When it's summit I climb, O, I then seem to be
Just as if I approached nearer heaven!
When with troubles depress'd, to this hill I repair,
My spirits then instantly rally;
It was near this bless'd spot I first drew vital air,
So—a hill I prefer to a valley.

Cotton Hill, near Barnstaple.

LETTER TO A YOUNG LADY.

Dear Madam,

I your mercy crave
For my poor namesake John, your slave,
Behold him abject at your feet;
Now is your triumph most complete:
A helpless victim see he lies,
Half slain by your all-conquering eyes!
Those eyes which like the mid-day sun,
None can with safety look upon.

To you (oh! take it in good part)
He gave the maid-hood of his heart,
Untouched by any former love;
Sure some compassion this might move;
His heart, which ne'er before was sway'd,
You like a cullender have made,
And 'less your power and mercy's equal,
Indeed, dear ma'am, I dread the sequel;
For love, beyond all other ills,
Despises juleps, drops, and pills.

If wedlock may be deemed a pleasure,
You cann't too soon possess the treasure!
Consider then the loss of time,
And snatch the roses in their prime;
Teaze not the man who'll grace your house,
As a young cat torments a mouse:
Seeming regardless of the prize,
Puss slily turns aside her eyes;
But should he run—'tis all in vain,
For, snap! she brings him back again!
Again the panting wretch she mumbles,
Again she tosses him, and tumbles!—

But have you, madam, never seen,
When in the wall a hole hath been,
The pris'ner seize a lucky minute,
And in a trice hath slipp'd within it,
Leaving behind the tyrant puss,
To purr and claw and make a fuss?

Pardon, I pray, the facts I state,
Nor think I mean t'insinuate
Your captive mouse will run away,
And you the part of puss must play!
O, no such thing! what I fear most,
Is, that the mouse, thus plagued and tost,

689

Should by such usage be quite wasted,
Before one morsel has been tasted;
For what are all such tricks at last,
But schemes to heighten the repast?
Or what avails it thus to treat,
And take him when there's nought to eat?
Rather than hazard such mishap,
Entice him kindly to the trap:
You won't, I trust, the thought disparage,
I mean, dear ma'am, the trap of marriage!
A trap, I'm sure he cann't withstand,
If you but lay the bait—your hand!

As I've his welfare much at heart,
Don't blame me that I take his part;
He my companion was, and chearful,
And not of any female fearful,
He joked at love, or seemed to doubt it,
And laughed at those who talk'd about it:
But hear him as a child now mutter;
Like one that's lost its bread and butter!
Since thoughts of you first filled his head,
His heart as heavy is as lead,
And if, dear ma'am, you do'nt befriend him,
Love's fatal power will surely end him.

But fearing this may be intrusion,
I'll bring my subject to conclusion,
Begging you will not mock his sighing,
And keep him thus whole years a dying!
‘Whole years!’—Excuse my freely speaking,
Such torture, why a month—a week in?
Caress, or kill him quite in one day,
Obliging thus your servant,

JOHN GAY.

TO MY CHAIR.

Thou faithful vassal to my wayward will.
Thou patient midwife to my labouring skill!
My pen and ink's choice cell! my paper's pillow!
Thou steady friend, e'en were thy master mellow!
My seat!—I visit not the proud St. Stephen;
St. Stephen knows not me—so we are even.
A seat, obtained not by a threat or bribe;
But free, uninfluenced by an influenced tribe:
Thou'rt my inheritance—I boast no other;
My throne, unique! for thou hast not a brother.

Surrounded by my friends, secure from foes,
By thee upheld, I calmly seek repose.
Soothed by thy comfort, my ideas spread—
Aerial forms assemble round my head!
Titles and honours court me—in the air!
A proof that I've been building castles there!

Days, months, and years I've musing sat in thee,
And when grown pettish, thou ne'er answered'st me;
A quality this is, so rarely seen,
'Twould be a jewel might adorn a queen.

My study thou!—my favorite resting place!
My tabernacle where I pray for grace!
My spouse! for in thy arms I oft recline,
And hope, tho' pleased with progeny of thine,
That no base offspring ever may be mine!