University of Virginia Library

I. VOL. I.

THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE

A Fable.

A lion who, o'er all the plain,
Was wont, like any king, to reign;
Who in his youth was fierce and bold,
Could head a mob, and fight and scold,
Was now grown crafty, weak, and old.
Active no more to hunt for prey,
Supine within his den he lay,
And there, by falsehood, tricks, and lies,
He try'd all travellers to surprise.
A Norfolk Calf pass'd by the first,
He lik'd him best, and used him worst;
He made the greatest rout about him,
And swore he cou'd not live without him;
He slobber'd, kiss'd, caress'd, cajol'd him,
Then to a neighb'ring butcher sold him;
A Bull in the same pasture bred,
Of dew-lap large, and high-toss'd head,
Came passing next with awful mien;
A nobler beast was never seen:
Him had the Lion long rever'd,
He knew his strength, his horns he fear'd;
He acted long a flattering farce,
He lick'd his hoofs, he kiss'd his a---;
But after all the court he'd paid him,
Join'd with his enemies, and betray'd him;
Got him within his power, and then
Dragg'd him, and eat him in his den.
There next appear'd an unbroke Horse,
Impetuous, fiery in his course,
Of too much mettle to be idle,
Impatient of a bit or bridle;
Who, seeing the Lion in that state,
Kick'd him, to show his scorn and hate:
The wretched beast, who lay half dead,
Call'd loudly for his brother's aid;
Who came, and with united force,
They fell upon th' incautious Horse,
And after they had maul'd and beat him,
Drew him into their cave and eat him.
A Spanish Mule came next in view,
Of slowest pace, and swarthiest hue;
(Who'd been, to serve the Lion's end,
Of old his fav'rite and his friend,
And who in battle once was seen,
To stand before him as a screen.)
He harmlessly approach'd the door,
But being now of use no more,
His former service is forgot;
He shares his predecessors lot.
A little Monkey, full of tricks,
More fam'd for puns than politics,
Came hopping from the Irish shore,
And knocking at the Lion's door,
Begg'd for admittance to his Grace,
And slid himself into a place;
And thence design'd, by wit and jests,
To govern all our English beasts;
But Leo hardly let him stay
To speak, before he seiz'd his prey;
And tho' it was not half his fill,
Swallow'd him, as you would a pill.
Next came a Poney, plump and round,
Whose neck with halter blue was bound,
And ambled to the Lion's den,
Who bow'd, and begg'd he would walk in;
And said he was the welcomest beast
That ever yet had been his guest;
Offer'd him all his oats, and swore
He now was fix'd, would change no more,
And from that hour to his life's end,
Would never have another friend:
The Pad too easily believ'd him,
And thought he durst not have deceiv'd him;
But when he came within his reach,
The Lion seiz'd him by the breech;
The Poney kick'd, and bit, and fought,
And curs'd, and damn'd him all to nought;
But all in vain, the weaker beast
Expires indignant with the rest;
But after this for many a day,
The Lion catch'd no other prey:
He soon grew hungry, fierce, and sour,
Jackal was scolded every hour,
And would himself have shared the fate,
Of all that were devour'd of late,
But such a scabby nasty beast,
No Lion's stomach could digest.
At length a well fed Fox came by,
And caught the Lion's sharpest eye
(They formerly had known each other;
The Fox had lov'd the Lion's brother,
But never lik'd the Lion much,
And always kept without his touch.)
'Twas chance that led the Fox that way,
He ne'er design'd to call or stay;
When thus began the royal beast:
“Whither so fast? I thought, at least,
“You might have stay'd, before you go,
“To see if I'm alive or no.
“I am alive, indeed, that's all;
“But soon, I fear, you'll see me fall.
“How am I bound to curse my fate,
“Alas, I'm in a wretched state!
“My Brother, your old friend, is dead,
“And here I'm stretch'd upon my bed,
“Mourning his loss with tears and groans,
“All bosoms feel that hear my moans;
“And yet, you know, as well as me,
“We Brothers never could agree;
“You know we quarrell'd every day,
“Our lives were one continued fray;
“His changeful conduct still perplex'd me,
“And his neglect of business vex'd me.
“Then his extravagance was worse,
“And daily drain'd my well-sav'd purse;
“How often did my courage save him—
“He had no friends, but those I gave him;
“And tho' I shed these tears about him,
“I shall be greater still without him;
“Especially if you, my friend,
“To take his place will condescend;
“Your pow'r and credit shall be more
“Than e'er my Brother's was before.
“Upon my word you may rely,
“A Lion's heart detests a lie;
“Give me your hand, then, for good luck,
“And let the bargain here be struck.”
“Softly,” quoth Reynard, “if you please,
“I'll not be dup'd with words like these;
“I spy the snare, I see the danger
“To others, Sir; go seek a stranger.
“Your Brother's loss I feel, and mourn,
“With tears, o'er his untimely urn;
“He was my friend, experience-try'd,
“The forest on his word rely'd;
“And all the beasts express their moan,
“That you are left, and he is gone.
“I have with pains for many a-year,
“Study'd your character with care:
“I know, and I will freely speak it,
“You make no promise, but to break it.
“Can pawn your honour to deceive,
“Are perjur'd to make fools believe;
“Can lie with such an easy grace,
“That few can see it in your face;
“Faithful to nought, but your own ends,
“The bitterest enemy to your friends;
“But to your fixt undaunted foe,
“Obsequious, base, complying, low.
“Cunning supplies thy want of parts,
“Treason and lies are all thy arts.
“But see, for I am on my guard,
“What scenes of blood are in your yard;
“What sculls and bones fill half the place:
“Besides, the footsteps that I trace
“Are all directed towards your den,
“I don't see one come back again;
“And tho' I hear you spare some few,
“To hunt about for prey for you,
“Yet, Sir, your service has undone 'em,
“All honest beasts, with caution, shun 'em:
“Whoe'er has once been in your cave,
“Went in a fool, came out a knave.
“For me whom no ambitious view
“Shall tempt to join in league with you;
“To whom all hopes of pow'r or gain,
“Thrown out by you, are thrown in vain;
“Your Rose with thorns is quite choak'd up,
“There's poison in your proffer'd cup.
“In every friendship knit with you,
“There's scandal, and there's danger too
“My life would be within your pow'r,
“And, which I value ten times more,
“My yet unspotted reputation
“Would sink at once with all the nation;
“So, notwithstanding your fine speech,
“I'll never come within your reach,
“Without I'm safe: thank heaven, your laws
“Extend no farther than your claws;
“Content, I stand undaunted here,
“My life's secure, my honour clear,
“Nor force, nor nails, nor teeth I fear:
“I dread no traps, no snare, no gin,
“But I'm undone, if I go in.”

AN ODE TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLE,

AS FROM MR. DODDINGTON, (Written in June 1740.)

LET loftier poets stretch the wing,
Pope should alone attempt to sing,
In the Mœonian style,
The vast renown that you have got,
For speeches made, and battles fought,
Brave, eloquent Argyle.
He shall with wond'rous art relate,
How you on either side debate
For and against a question;
Nor match'd by any mortal yet,
For well-judg'd turns, for useful wit,
For thought, and for digestion.
Then place you like the god of war,
Seated on a triumphant car,
In Flanders, or in Spain;
Or in your fertile native land,
When you, for once, had chief command,
And sing the fam'd Dunblain.
The conquering right wing shall there,
With all that martial fire appear
That made the foe retreat;
The Poem shall be like the fight,
Just as you fought the bard shall write,
And the left wing forget.
But such debates, and such campaigns,
Are far above my humble strains,
Nor suit my peaceful Lyrick;
And I will ne'er be tempted more,
Grown wise from what I've done before,
To write a panegyric.

ARGYLE'S DECAMPMENT,

(Written in June, 1740.)

A GRUB UPON BUB

(Written in December 1741.)

UNHAPPY England, still in forty-one,
By Scotland art thou doom'd to be undone;
But Scotland now, to strike alone afraid,
Calls in her worthy sister Cornwall's aid;
And these two common strumpets, hand in hand,
Go forth and preach up virtue through the land;
Start at corruption, at a bribe turn pale,
Shudder at pensions, and at placemen rail.
Peace! peace! ye wretched hypocrites, or rather,
With Job, say to Corruption, thou'rt our father;
But how can Walpole justify his fate,
He trusted Isla till it was too late.
Where were those parts, where was that piercing mind,
That knowledge, and that judgment of mankind.
To trust a traitor, whom he knew so well,
Strange truth betray'd, yet not deceiv'd he fell:
He knew his heart was, like his aspect, vile;
Knew him the tool and brother of Argyle.
Yet to his hands his power and hopes gave up,
And tho' he knew 'twas poison, drank the cup;
Trusted to one he never could think true,
And perish'd by a villain whom he knew.

GILES EARLE (OF MARLBOROUGH-STREET); AND GEO. BUBB DODDINGTON, Esqrs.

(Written in Jan. 1740-1.)

A Dialogue.

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PETER AND MY LORD QUIDAM:

A Satire.

LORD QUIDAM.
PETER, I've sign'd and seal'd; the work is done;
My goods, my lands, and tenements are gone!
I see my folly, and repent too late;
But since you're now possess'd of my estate,
And these few guineas all that now remain,
Teach me to thrive, and to be rich again:
To thee, the art of heaping endless stores
Is known, and Plutus opens all his doors.

PETER.
Already asking?—what! a fresh demand,
With those five hundred guineas in your hand,
Of which, had I insisted on my due,
One shilling never could have come to you?

LORD QUIDAM.
O you, who never but for interest lie,
Pity me in this ebb of poverty;
My spreading beeches and my oaks cut down,
My manors sold, and ev'ry acre gone;
Thus low reduc'd, what is my birth, my fame,
And all my virtue, but an empty name?

PETER.
Since, then, you're chang'd from what you were before,
And have a just disdain for all that's poor;
And since to think you wisely now begin,
That poverty's a crime, and want a sin;
That gold to ev'ry wish its object draws,
Can purchase honour, can command applause,
Can laugh at punishment, and mock the laws;
Attend, whilst I point out the certain way
To wealth, and all my golden rules display:—
Whene'er you find a person deep in years,
Loaded with wealth, but destitute of heirs,
There get acquaintance, there get intimate,
Bow to him, follow, court him, visit, treat;
For rarities beat all the town about,
The fresh Thames salmon, and the Fordwich trout;
The fattest ven'son and the plumpest quail,
The green-corn partridge, and delicious rail,
Procure and send him: ever in his sight
Be found; attend by day and watch by night.
What tho' descended from the lowest race,
A coward, liar, human kind's disgrace;
Not Hervey in a more avoided state,
Vieing with Pult'ney for contempt and hate;
With him in public still be fond t' appear,
Smile in his face, and whisper in his ear;
At park, at play, be ever at his side;
Walk when he walks, and in his chariot ride.

LORD QUIDAM.
What, Sir, be seen with Pult'ney in the Mall,
Or follow old detested Marlbro's call;
What blot in all my life has ever been,
To make you think that I could be so mean?
I'll keep my honour sacred as before,
I will not flatter.

PETER.
Then you will be poor.

LORD QUIDAM.
Well, be it so, then: I must bear my fate;
But tell me how you rais'd your vast estate.

PETER.
Tell ye!
Be sedulous, nor time, nor labour spare,
To be some rich old childless dotard's heir;
And tho' you fail in one attempt, yet try
Again, nor let the scheme forgotten lie.
You seem to think the part is base and low:
Look round you, Sir; see what your betters do!
Consider Dorset, famous for more pride,
Than half the haughty English peers beside;
Yet this great man pursu'd this plan with care,
Besieging Wilmington for many a year;
To him his time, opinion, conscience gave,
Receiv'd his nod, and own'd himself his slave;
Flew at his call, and follow'd where he went,
His tool in Court, his vote in Parliament.
And tho' his gen'rous labour was not paid,
And by design, or chance, no will was made;
Does he give o'er, or from my scheme abstain,
Or miss his constant visits to Germain.
Would you have more examples to inspire
Such deeds, and kindle lucrative desire,
Ev'n worthless Sidney's praise, I must not grudge,
The assiduous dry-nurse of a wealthy judge;
His tea he made, his meat at table carv'd,
His words he echo'd, and his looks observ'd;
With him he went the circuit, to take care
His supper to bespeak, his sheets to air;
And tho' at last his hopes were here dismay'd,
He'd been before a gainer by the trade;
The sweets he'd tasted once he could not leave:
He got by Topham tho' he lost by Reeve.
For many a year, tho' now he's dead and gone,
Sir Richard liv'd the fairest mark in town;
A long disease foretold his certain fate;
No near relations, and a vast estate;
What numbers courted, who with eager eyes
Beheld and wish'd to gain the golden prize;
But far beyond the rest to gain his love,
Horace and Hambden diligently strove;
But Horace flatt'ry was too thick and coarse,
And Hambden's conversations ten times worse;
Thither did Horace ev'ry day repair,
While politics were but his second care;
To him, before the King, his court he made,
And left the council, tho' they sat on trade.
For him the dear Dutch mail for hours has laid,
Unop'd, and Fleury's letters been unread;
All care t' amuse, all pains to please him took,
And Pug and Whist and Europe he forsook.
In strict attendance Hambden did the same,
Arm'd with the strong pretensions of his name;
By ties of blood he claim'd the foremost place,
As the last branch of patriot Hambden's race.
His daily visits punctually he paid,
From morn till noon, from noon till night he stayd;
Still the same race of dull discourse was run,
Till by himself the blockhead was undone:
Poor in his nature, and untaught by art,
He strove, but vainly strove, to act his part.
But to a nobler object turn your eyes,
See Pult'ney loaded with a weighty prize:
He in these kingdoms once did foremost stand,
And balanc'd England with a doubtful hand;
Each party's idol then, tho' now their hate,
The arbiter of Whig and Tory fate;
Yet then neglecting place, the game of fools,
He wisely stuck to my unerring rules.
Muse let this tale in smoothest verse be sung,
While Pult'ney's praises flow from Peter's tongue:
False to his country, falser to his friends,
And true to nothing but his private ends;
Immensely rich, yet lab'ring still for more,
Flatters alike a Duchess or a whore;
And first old haughty Buckingham he tried,
To all her weaknesses his arts applied,
Flatter'd her vanity, and swell'd her pride;
Took care no loyal words should e'er offend her,
And pity'd the unfortunate Pretender.
But grown impatient, from my paths astray
He went, and thought he'd found a nearer way;
But was detected in the bare-fac'd cheat,
And lost at once her friendship and estate;
He saw his error, and devoutly swore
To keep my ways, and never wander more.
When old Lord Bradford died, besides his store
Of wealth, he left a bastard and a whore;
To these his chattels, jewels, goods, and plate,
He gave—to these bequeath'd his vast estate.
The bastard prov'd a fool, and by the way,
In Dalilah the whole reversion lay;
Here the quick-sighted Pult'ney fix'd his aim,
And in such words as these bespoke the dame:
“When first at our departed friend's we met,
“(The hour with pleasure I remember yet),
“In ev'ry word a care to please you show'd,
“And nat'ral grace from ev'ry motion flow'd.
“To your dear lord you paid such just regard,
“And such disinterested care appear'd:
“No fulsome fondness and no teasing love,
“By which all hypocrites their passion prove;
“But all so open, honest, I was charm'd,
“And quickly found my breast with friendship warm'd;
“And sure by sympathy we must agree,
“You hate all interested views, like me.
“Permit me friendship's sacred knot to tie
“So fast, that nought may loose it till we die:
“Your name and character shall be my care;
“Against the world your champion I'll appear;
“Support your virtue, and its foes run down,
“Nay, justify your usage of your son;
“Him I'll secure; he ne'er shall see your face,
“Nor propagate his disobedient race:
“I'll pass a bill for that, I'll make new laws,
“Or alter old ones, to advance your cause;
“And since the prudish world won't care t' appear,
“Or go with you in public anywhere,
“Because you ne'er were bound in nuptial bands,
“And no old drunken parson join'd your hands,
“Be that my consort's care, who, I may say,
“Pursues my gen'rous undesigning way:
“She'll carry you t' assemblies, to the play,
“To drawing-rooms by night, to park by day;
“She shall attend you to your country seat;
“With her you may do any thing but eat;
“For now our house is alt'ring, we're not able
“To entertain our friends, and keep a table:
“She for the waters to the Bath's gone down,
“And I'm at little Jeffreys's in town;
“But from this instant, madam, to our graves,
“Where'er we are, we're both your humble slaves;
“Letme then share your toils, and ease your cares,
“Inspect accounts, and manage your affairs:
“Servants still act for their own private end;
“In me you'll find the servant and the friend;
“Duty in me and inclination join,
“T'advance your cause, and make your interest mine;
“And on these matters since we now debate,
“Don't you intend to settle your estate?
“For tho' I hope your fatal hour's not nigh,
“Yet we're all mortal, madam, and must die;
“And your unhappy son behaves so ill,
“That you must think of alt'ring your old will;
“How well I lov'd him once yourself best knows,
“But all that disoblige you are my foes;
“And tho' 'twould be my utmost wish, I own,
“To see your tears of joy forgive your son,
“Yet of his actions I've so just a sense,
“I'll never say one word in his defence;
“Since, then, he's doom'd to languish in disgrace,
“Friendship may justly claim the second place;
“There to the foremost place I will pretend,
“To you, and to your friends alone a friend,
“Others, perhaps, may warmer zeal express,
“And clothe their low designs in friendship's dress;
“May falsely vow, and infamously swear,
“Your welfare's their concern, your ease their care;
“Believe them not, they've no regard for you,
“Your wealth's their aim, and your estate their view.
“I scorn the aid of guile, the help of art;
“I act the open, but the honest part,
“And my tongue speaks the language of my heart.”
He paus'd, and Dalilah, with smiles, complies
To fetch his trusty lawyer: Pult'ney flies;
He brings back Ord,—they make her will—she dies.
This woman thus this serpent did deceive,
An harder conquest than the Devil's o'er Eve;
The gen'rous Devil bad her take and live,
More greedy Pult'ney bad her die and give.
Are you not all on fire with what I've said,
And dost thou longer doubt these paths to tread?
More I could tell you, but 'tis twelve o'clock,
And hark, I hear my young Lord Booby knock.
An advantageous bargain I expect,
And that's such business as I ne'er neglect.
Go on, pursue, and merit my applause;
Farewell, I go, for pow'rful int'rest draws.

A Political Eclogue

LYTTLETON.
“When to conclude a tedious war's alarms,
“Ajax and godlike Hector met in arms,
“Before they shook their spears, or drew their swords,
“They paus'd, and talk'd in amicable words;
‘So let us twain, like those two generous foes,
“First parley hold, then, if we must, oppose.

LECHMERE.
“I never heard of Ajax, or of Hector;
“But you would speak to me, Sir, I conjecture:
“Then pray, Sir, let your tale be briefly told,
“For standing still may give my gelding cold.

LYTTLETON.
“Then briefly thus: in vain, why should we toil?
“All culture's fruitless in a barren soil;
“What can be hoped, when friends from friends divide,
“And weaken fatally the weaker side?
“Our party by itself is overcome,
“By Roman arms thus perished fated Rome.
“Unhappy strife, what can we wish to get?
“Vict'ry's a loss, and conquest a defeat.
“No triumph shall attend the victor's care,
“No laurel-crown the conqueror shall wear;
“The sheriff shall with tears the cause decide,
“And joyless in their chairs the elected ride.
“Don't we in all things act and vote the same;
“And both on one foundation build our fame,
“Equally hating Walpole's noxious name?
“What good from such contentions can redound?
“Whene'er we strike the party feels the wound.
“Whoe'er of all us four obtain their ends,
“The party still must lose two zealous friends;
“Expenses and fatigue I can't support,
“Bad is my health, and small my place at Court.
“I for reversions with impatience wait,
“Heir to a better place, and an estate;
“Hear, then, why I should quietly be chose,
“Why you ought to assist, and not oppose.
“Think of the high employment that I bear,
“I write in verse, and have my Prince's ear.
“The glorious talent to declaim is mine;
“In Council and in Parliament I shine.
“Have you not heard me? yes, you must have heard,
“When Tully's spirit in each word appear'd;
“When the still senate on each accent hung,
“And oratory dwelt upon my tongue;
“When I, great Liberty, thy standard bore,
“And Walpole pale sat trembling on the floor;
“When all th' applauding patriot band allow'd
“That I myself appear'd their leading god.
“Why wouldst thou, then, my being chose prevent,
“Why spoil me of my seat in Parliament?
“Why wouldst thou cross my warm pursuit of praise,
“Why cloud the glorious sunshine of my days?
“Why wouldst thou clip the wings on which I soar,
“Destroy my hopes of ministerial pow'r,
“And stop me in my full pursuit of glory?

LECHMERE.
“Because, Sir, you're a Whig, and I'm a Tory.
“Howe'er with us you the same schemes pursue,
“You follow those who ne'er will follow you;
“My principles to you I'll freely state,
“I love the church, and Whiggism I hate;
“And tho', with you, Sir Robert I abhor,
“His Whiggish heart is what I hate him for;
“And if a Whig the minister must be,
“Pult'ney and Walpole are alike to me.

LYTTLETON.
“To what remote, to what more friendly sky,
“Deserted Patriotism wilt thou fly?
“The Torys scorn thee and the Whigs deny.
“Oh! my poor country, I thy fate deplore,
“Still rent by faction, and by party tore.
“Has all-accomplish'd St. John, first of men,
“That demi-god, then, vainly drawn his pen?
“Were all his learned lectures fruitless read,
“Are all his works forgot, his writings dead?
“Where fell the seeds thrown from his plastic hand,
“On what ungrateful, on what barren sand,
“That promis'd ten-fold product to the soil,
“To cheer the tiller, and reward his toil?
“And canst thou to the sacred name pretend
“Of being Liberty's and England's friend,
“Who wish that faction in this realm may thrive,
“And party's odious names be kept alive?
“Is this thy wretched plea to merit?—No!
“This proves thee Liberty's and England's foe.
“Divide and govern—ministers maintain
“That fatal rule, which patriots should disdain.
“When Solomon the harlot's quarrel try'd,
“Nature prevail'd, and the true mother cry'd,
“‘Oh! let me lose my child, but don't divide!’
“The minister, who well his interest knows,
“Amongst us strife, distinctions, variance sows;
“A general coalition is too wide,
“Too large a basis for that wretch's pride.
“His pow'r, his wealth, rais'd on the narrow plan
“Of a small sub-divided party clan;
“But now, thank Heaven, his basis proves too small,
“The killing frost is come, and he must fall,
“Like Lucifer, never to hope again:
“This England's enemy, this Freedom's bane,
“Shall be cut off by Patriotism's hand,
“And Liberty shall re-assume the land.

LECHMERE.
“Well, Sir, with patience I have heard your speech,
“Tho' half you said was much above my reach;
“But does not one thing stare you in the face?
“All the whole country knows you have a place;
“And, I assure you, think it the same thing,
“Whether you have it from the Prince or King.
“Go to the farmers, fine orations speak,
“To wives talk Latin, to their husbands Greek.
“I in plain English will the country rand,
“And shake each good freeholder by the hand,
“And drink the church, as long as I can stand.
“What tho' my words are not, like your's, refin'd,
“Rough tho' they are, they always speak my mind.
“Freeholders with such language well dispense,
“And before all the flow'rs of eloquence,
“Prefer an honest heart, and common sense;
“Therefore, be wise, go home, and rand no more,
“But give up, as your father did before.”

ISABELLA;

OR, THE MORNING

AN ODE TO THE HONOURABLE HENRY FOX,

On the Marriage of the Duchess of Manchester to Edward Hussey, Esq. afterwards Lord Beaulieu.

AN ODE, ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF “THE CONQUER'D DUCHESS:”

In Answer to that celebrated Performance.

AN ODE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE STEPHEN POYNTZ, ESQ.

AN ODE ON THE DEATH OF MATZEL, A FAVOURITE BULL-FINCH:

Addressed to Philip Stanhope, Esq. to whom the Author had given the Reversion of it when he left Dresden.

A BALLAD: IN IMITATION OF MARTIAL, Lib. 6, Ep. 34.

ON LADY ILCHESTER ASKING LORD ILCHESTER HOW MANY KISSES HE WOULD HAVE.

AN ODE ON MISS HARRIET HANBURY,

AT SIX YEARS OLD.

A SONG: ON MISS HARRIET HANBURY,

ADDRESSED TO THE REV. MR. BIRT.

ON THE DEATH OF LADY ABERGAVENNY:

BY A LADY.

YE Muses all, and pitying virgins, come
And pour your tears on poor Calista's tomb.
In the cold mansions of the silent grave,
May her remains a sanctuary have
From the malignant blasts of sland'rous tongues,
Who have pursu'd her name with cruel wrongs;
May all her faults for ever be forgot,
And let not calumny her mem'ry blot.
Unhappy nymph! let none her crime upbraid,
By love and too much gentleness betray'd;
And, oh! for ever may his name be curst,
Of spotted villains be he rank'd the first,
Who, with a base revenge and malice fir'd,
Fierce jealousy in her stern Lord inspir'd.
Inhuman wretch! Sure now thy woes begin,
And thou already hast thy hell within.
While pitying Heaven, with mercy, sees her fate,
And kindly takes her to a happier state,
Pardons the fault she so sincerely mourn'd,
And joys to see a penitent return'd.
But, oh! ye railers, ye abandon'd few,
How ill your Master's precepts ye pursue:
Reflect, when God himself was here below,
What mercy he did to a sinner show,
And bade the guiltless only throw a stone;
Straight all retir'd, and left her there alone:
With majesty he rais'd his awful head,
And mildly to the tender creature said,
“Again thy life and freedom I restore;
“Now, go thy way, and look thou sin no more.”
Th' accusing Jews were juster far than you,
By conscience self-condemn'd, they all withdrew;
But amongst those who mangle thus her fame,
How many's crimes, tho' not their fates the same!
Henceforth for ever cease her name to tax,
Nor with foul calumny abuse her sex.

ON LADY ABERGAVENNY:

BY CHARLES, DUKE OF DORSET.

YOUNG, thoughtless, gay, unfortunately fair,
Her pride to please, and pleasure all her care;
With too much kindness and too little art,
Prone to indulge the dictates of the heart;
Flatter'd by all, solicited, admir'd,
By women envied, and by men desir'd:
At once from full prosperity she's torn,
By friends deserted, of defence forlorn,
Expos'd to talk, to insults, want, and scorn;
By every idle tongue her story told,
The novel of the young, the lecture of the old;
But let the scoffer or the prude relate,
With rigour's utmost force her hapless fate;
Good nature still to soft compassion wrought,
Shall weep her ruin, while it owns her fault.
For if her conduct, in some steps betray'd,
To virtue's rule too little reverence paid,
Yet, dying, still she show'd, so dear her fame,
She could survive her guilt, but not her shame:
Her honour dearer than her life she prov'd,
And dearer far than both, the man she lov'd.

SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS TO SIR HANS SLOANE,

WHO SAVED HIS LIFE, AND DESIRED HIM TO SEND OVER ALL THE RARITIES HE COULD FIND IN HIS TRAVELS.

I've got a ray of Phœbus' shine,
Found in the bottom of a mine;
A lawyer's conscience, large and fair,
Fit for a judge himself to wear.
I've a choice nostrum, fit to make
An oath a Catholic will take;
In a thumb-vial you shall see,
Close cork'd, some drops of honesty,
Which, after searching kingdoms round,
At last, were in a cottage found;
An antidote, if such there be,
Against the charms of flattery.
I ha'nt collected any care,
Of that there's plenty ev'ry where;
But after wond'rous labours spent,
I've got one grain of rich content.
This my wish, it is my glory,
To furnish your nicknackatory;
I only beg that when you show 'em,
You'll tell your friends to whom you owe 'em,
Which may your other patients teach
To do, as has done your's, C. H.

(Written in February 1739-40.)

Winnington.
FOR that short time that I alone was blest,
Singly admitted to that lovely breast,
There was no happier fellow in this town,
Not Essex, Bludworth, or the vig'rous Brown.

Ethelreda.
Whilst me you lov'd, beyond each earthly thing,
Nor Ethelreda was postpon'd to Bing;
I shone the foremost character in life,
Nor envy'd Walmod, or Lord Archi's wife.
For Teddy Bing a passion now I feel,
Who both a Pichen and my heart could steal;
To save whose life I'd stand all Hambden's fury,
Bully the witnesses, and bribe the jury.

Winnington.
I have as odd a passion for my Kitty
(The motley breed of quality and city).
Had I as many lives as twenty cats,
I'd give them all for one dear game at---
What if to nature I again return,
And for thy beauteous form once more should burn!
Should I quit Bing, would you take back your Winny,
And love again as if the devil was in ye?
Tho' Kitty's full of sentiments refin'd,
Thou rough as seas, and fickle as the wind;
Tho' when I melt in tender Kitty's lap,
I fear no children, and I dread no---

Ethelreda.
With thee I'd choose to live, tho' sure to breed,
And take my Lord to bed, in case of need.

THE COUNTRY GIRL; AN ODE:

HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO THE EARL OF BATH.

A NEW ODE

TO A GREAT NUMBER OF GREAT MEN, NEWLY MADE.

AN ODE, HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE WILLIAM EARL OF BATH

THE STATESMAN.

A NEW ODE.

AN ODE, FROM THE EARL OF BATH TO AMBITION.

THE HEROES:

A NEW BALLAD.

SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS TO EDWARD HUSSEY, ESQ.

An Epigram.

SIR Thomas, of Wentworth, inflexibly good,
Had long Ministerial power withstood;
At length through ambition an Earl he was made,
So first lost his friends, and then lost his head;
So Pultney consider like his thy condition,
How great and how glorious thy long Opposition;
Thou art now made an Earl, have a care of thy head,
Our Pyms and our Hambdens are not all yet dead.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE EARL OF BATH AND HIS COUNTESS.

E.
TO the Earl said the Countess, what makes you so dull?

C.
Because for your Ladyship I've played the fool.

E.
For me? do you say, Sir; your Lordship I mean—

C.
Ay, curse that damn'd title, 'tis that gives me spleen.

E.
You have no sense of honour, no notions of glory—
Yours are, Polly Walpole should not rank before ye;
For, more honour'd, we had been happier still,
Had you been plain Madam, and I been plain Will.

TO THE EARL OF BATH;

IMITATED FROM CATULLUS.

AN ODE TO THE HON. PHILIP YORKE:

IMITATED FROM HORACE. Ode xvi. Book ii.

THE CAPUCHIN:

A NEW BALLAD,

AN ODE TO LORD LIMERICK

AN ODE, HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE WILLIAM EARL OF BATH:

April 1743.

TO THE EARL OF BATH,

OCCASIONED BY A LATE PAMPHLET, INTITULED “FACTION DETECTED.”

TO THE EARL OF BATH,

(Written at Maddington, Sept. 1743.)

AN ODE FROM THE EARL OF BATH.

SHALL these mad efforts of indignant foes,
My name to blacken, break my mind's repose;
What's the base murmuring of the people's breath,
To the high sounds of Lord and Earl of Bath:
At their first patriot they roar and rave,
And call me Hypocrite, and call me knave;
For I who Pultney was, am Pultney still,
In form tho' varying, fixt in principle;
The principle from which I ne'er did swerve,
Has ever urged me my dear self to serve;
With titles honour'd, and large wealth increas'd,
My pride I pamper and my avarice feast:
Let patriots for themselves unskill'd to crave,
For sake of virtue, sake of justice starve;
High joy'd I smile when they frown at my ways,
And while they hiss me, clap to my own praise.

A NEWER ODE THAN THE LAST.

[BUT Orford's self I've seen, whilst I have read]

BUT Orford's self I've seen, whilst I have read,
Laugh the heart's laugh, and nod th' approving head.
Pardon, great Shade! if, duteous, on thy hearse
I hang my grateful tributary verse:
If I, who followed through thy various day,
Thy glorious zenith, and thy bright decay,
Now strew thy tomb with flowers, and o'er thy urn,
With England, Liberty, and Envy, mourn.
His soul was great and dar'd not but do well,
His noble pride still urg'd him to excel;
Above the search of gold, if in his heart
Ambition govern'd, Av'rice had no part.
A genius to explore untrodden ways,
Where prudence sees no track nor ever strays;
Which books and schools, in vain attempt to teach,
And which laborious art can never reach.
Falsehood and flattery, and the tricks of Court,
He left to Statesmen of a meaner sort;
Their cloaks and smiles were offer'd him in vain,
His acts were justice, which he dar'd maintain,
His words were truth, and held them in disdain.
Open to friends, and e'en to foes sincere,
Alike remote from jealousy and fear;
Tho' Envy's howl, tho' Faction's hiss, he heard,
Tho' senates frown'd, tho' death itself appear'd;
Calmly he view'd them, conscious that his ends
Were right, and Truth and Innocence his friends.
Thus was he form'd to govern and to please;
Familiar greatness, dignity with ease,
Compos'd his frame; admir'd in every state,
In private amiable, in public great,
Gentle in power, but daring in disgrace,
His love was liberty, his wish was peace.
Such was the man that smil'd upon my lays:
And what can heighten thought, or genius raise,
Like praise from him whom all mankind must praise;
Whose knowledge, courage, temper, all surpris'd,
Whom many lov'd, few hated, none despis'd.

BRITANNIA'S GHOST TO THE EARL OF BATH.

AN ODE FROM FAME TO THE EARL OF BATH.

HE is grown old; he is abhorr'd,
Whom falsely once all men ador'd;
I thank you, gods, for so you ought
To stamp the man who merits nought.
And yet to bribe the goddess Fame,
No art by him is left untry'd;
So great is Bubo's want of shame,
His drunkenness and pride.
But know 'tis P---t that goddess seeks,
His shining virtues claim her choice;
For him alone her trumpet speaks,
For him alone is heard her voice.
For streams more crystal than her skies,
The goddess flies from dirty Bath;
Oh, Bubo, thou art fill'd with lies,
O, Virtue, he has left thy path!
Nor title can nor strings of blue,
Nor wealth immense thy fame restore;
Nor heav'nly peace of mind renew—
What Time has buried is no more!
Where is the man who next to Wyndham shone
The Nation's column and the Senate's pride?
Where is the Patriot the Camillus gone?
Of true applause where now the levelling tide?
But Wyndham dy'd while credit bloom'd,
Cursed, O Bubo, is thy fate;
An aged raven thou art doom'd,
The world's contempt—not worth its hate.

THE PATRIOT PARROT:

A Fable.

AN EPITAPH ON THE POLITICAL MEMORY OF WILLIAM PULTNEY, EARL OF BATH;

Who died to Fame, July 15th, 1742.

PULTNEY, no friend to truth, in fraud sincere,
In act unfaithful, and from honour clear;
Who broke his promise, served his private ends,
Who gain'd a title, and who lost all friends;
Dishonour'd by himself, by none approv'd,
Curs'd, scorn'd, and hated, e'en by those he lov'd.

A BALLAD: IN IMITATION OF “WILLIAM AND MARGARET,”

ADDRESSED TO WM. EARL OF BATH.

'TWAS in the hour when guiltless care
Is lull'd in soft repose;
When nothing wakes, save fell despair,
Beset with cureless woes.
Inviting sleep, lo, William lay,
The down he vainly prest;
Honour, alas! had soar'd away,
And shame had poisoned rest.
Britannia, with that stern regard
That conscious worth puts on,
Before his frantic eye appear'd,
And pierc'd him with a groan.
Her cheek had lost its rosy bloom,
And languid roll'd her eye;
This once could brighten midnight gloom,
That shame the Tyrian dye.
The laurel wreath, by glory's hand
Twin'd round her awful brow,
As what her grief and rage disdain'd,
She rent in fury now.
Away she hurl'd her boasted shield,
Away her useless spear;
What joys to slaves, can trophies yield,
What pride the pomp of war.
“Behold the dire effects,” she cried,
“Of William's perjured truth!
“Behold the Orphan, who relied
“On a false guardian's oath.
“How couldst thou with a lover's zeal,
“My widow'd cause espouse,
“Yet quit that cause, you serv'd so well,
“In scorn of all thy vows?
“How couldst thou swear, wealth, titles, power,
“Thy candour would disclaim;
“Yet barter, in an evil hour,
“That candour for a name?
“How couldst thou win my easy heart,
“A patriot to believe?
“How could I know, but by the smart,
“A patriot would deceive?
“Bethink thee of thy broken trust,
“Thy vows to me unpaid;
“Thy honour humbled in the dust,
“Thy country's weal betrayed.
“For this may all my vengeance fall
“On thy devoted head;
“Living be thou the scorn of all,
“The curse of all when dead.”
This said, while thunder round her broke,
She vanished into air;
And William's horror while she spoke,
Was followed by despair.

ON THE ARRIVAL OF GENERAL OGLETHORPE.

ARRIVE in safety all ye Heroes brave,
That from America survive the grave;
Let Fame cry fraud, ill-conduct, or neglect,
No Inquisition Britons now expect.
Since Orford loaded with an age of crimes,
Escapes insulting, these degenerate times:
Since Bath, that great Paladium, till of late,
Defends each vice in Ministers of State:
Well may these Ministers remit the scores
Of Generals, Admirals, and Commodores.

HOR. LIB. II. ODE XVI.—Otium Divos, &c. IMITATED:

INSCRIBED TO THE EARL OF BATH.

WYNDHAM AND PULTNEY;

OR THE VISION AT BATH.

TO MR. GARNIER AND MR. PEARCE OF BATH.

A GRATEFUL ODE, In return for the extraordinary kindness and humanity they shewed to me and my eldest daughter, now Lady Essex, 1753.

HOR. LIB. I. ODE XXX.—O Venus! Regina, Cnida Paphosq. &c.

PARAPHRASED BY SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS, AS GENERAL CHURCHILL'S ADDRESS TO VENUS.

A LAMENTABLE CASE.

SUBMITTED TO THE BATH PHYSICIANS.

A BALLAD:

(Written in June 1743.)

ON THE PRINCES GOING TO ST. JAMES'S

IN FEBRUARY 1741-2.

HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.

IMITATED IN AN ODE FROM PAUL FOLEY TO NICHOLAS FAZAKERLEY.

ORPHEUS AND HECATE,

An Ode; INSCRIBED TO THE PATRONESS OF THE ITALIAN OPERA LADY BINGLEY.

LADY DOROTHY BOYLE ENAMOURED WITH LORD EUSTON.

BEHOLD, one moment, Dorothea's fate!
In fortune opulent by lineage great;
In manners gentle, rich in ev'ry grace,
And youth sat blooming in her heav'nly face.
By Nature docile, and by Art improv'd,
Nay, more, she lov'd, with tenderness she lov'd,
The faithless Polydore, yet all these charms
Could not one night confine him to her arms;
But left in all the hell of love and grief,
From death, alone, she hop'd to find relief;
The milder tyrant, death, corrects her fate,
Receives her at his ever-open gate:
There dries her tears, and bids her sigh no more,
And shuts out life, and love and Polydore.

SONG IN COMUS.

SONG.