University of Virginia Library

II. VOL. II.

TO SIR THOMAS ROBINSON ON HIS BRINGING OVER WARD'S DROP IN 1731-2.

Say, knight, for learning most renown'd,
What is this wond'rous drop?
Which Friend ne'er knew, nor can be found,
In Grah'ms or Guerney's shop.
With Busts and Medals others come
Back to their native coast;
You, Sir, have brought a Jewel home,
Which Pitt could never boast.
'Tis said, as tho' by magic force,
This Med'cine were directed,
Like Mercury it takes its course
Unto the part affected.
If so, this drop so prais'd by you,
Should by yourself be ta'en;
If to th' affected part 'twill go,
You'll find it in your brain.
There may it all its pow'rs dispense,
And may th' effect be such;
As to dispel that little sense,
That troubles you so much.

ON MRS. WOFFINGTON.

TO KITTY WALKER:

December 1742.

TO MRS. WOFFINGTON, 1740.

LOVELY PEGGY.

A NEW SONG.

TO MRS. WOFFINGTON.

(Written in July 1744.)

IN IMITATION OF

TO MRS. BINDON, AT BATH.

APOLLO of old on Britannia did smile,
And Delphi forsook for the sake of this isle,
Around him he lavishly scatter'd his lays,
And in every wilderness planted his bays;
Then Chaucer and Spenser harmonious were heard,
Then Shakspeare, and Milton, and Waller appear'd,
And Dryden, whose brows by Apollo were crown'd,
As he sung in such strains as the God might have own'd:
But now, since the laurel is given of late,
To Cibber, to Eusden, to Shadwell and Tate,
Apollo hath quitted the isle he once lov'd,
And his harp and his bays to Hibernia remov'd;
He vows and he swears he'll inspire us no more,
And hath put out Pope's fires which he kindled before;
And further, he says, men no longer shall boast
A science their slight and ill-treatment hath lost;
But that women alone for the future shall write;
And who can resist, when they doubly delight?
And lest we should doubt what he said to be true,
Has begun by inspiring Sapphira and You.

MRS. BINDON'S ANSWER.

WHEN home I return'd from the dancing last night,
And, elate by your praises, attempted to write,
I familiarly call'd on Apollo for aid,
And told him how many fine things you had said.
He smil'd at my folly, and gave me to know,
Your wit, and not mine, by your writings you show;
“And then,” says the God, “still to make you more vain,
“He hath promis'd that I shall enlighten your brain;
“When he knows in his heart, if he speak but his mind,
“That no woman alive can now boast I am kind:
“Forsince Daphne to shun me grew into a laurel,
“With the sex I have sworn still to keep up the quarrel.”
I thought it a joke, 'till by writing to you,
I have prov'd his resentment, alas! but too true.

SIR CHARLES'S REPLY.

I'LL not believe that Phœbus did not smile:
Unhappily for you I know his style;
To strains like yours, of old his harp he strung,
And while he dictated, Orinda sung.
Did beauteous Daphne's scorn of proffer'd love
Against the sex his indignation move?
It rather made you his peculiar care,
Convinc'd from thence, ye were as good as fair.
As mortals who from dust receiv'd their birth,
Must when they die return to native earth;
So, too, the laurel, that your brow adorns,
Sprang from the fair, and to the fair returns.

TAR-WATER, A BALLAD: INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE PHILIP EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.

ON CHARLES STANHOPE, ESQ. DRINKING TAR-WATER.

AN ODE TO SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.

AN ODE TO SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS;

OCCASIONED BY SEEING AN ODE INSCRIBED TO LORD CHESTERFIELD.

AN ODE TO LORD LINCOLN.

New Ballad.

(On Lord Doneraile's altering his Chapel at the Grove, in Hertfordshire, into a Kitchen.)

A CONGRATULATORY ODE, MOST HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO THE STATESMAN ON HIS TRAVELS.

AN ODE: INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE VISCOUNT LONSDALE;

May 1743.

A SIMILE: PRINTED IN GEOFFRY BROADBOTTOM'S JOURNAL;

April 1743.

DEAR Geoffry, didst thou never meet
A beggar walking in the street,
Who, conscious of his want of sight,
Trusts others to direct him right?
Out of his doors he'll never stir,
Without his knowing faithful cur,
Well-skill'd each different way in finding,
Who knows all crossings, ev'ry winding;
By him thro' all the town is led,
And guided safely home to bed:
So fares it with our Treasury board,
Where dark and blind sits ev'ry lord
(From that grave thing that wears a ribbon,
Quite down to that grave nothing, Gibbon);
Whose eyes can't see, nor heads discern,
Too dull, their own dull forms to learn;
And, therefore, wisely they've provided,
A Cur by whom they all are guided;
No warrant sign till he inspects it,
No step dare take till he directs it;
But, conscious, to his judgment stoop,
And all their strings are tied to Scrope.

TO THE REV. SAMUEL HILL, CANON OF WELLS, &c. &c.

Written in August, 1744.

DEAR Muse, as you have nothing else to do,
Write to the Canon, just a line or two;
First wish him health, then wish him joy, and then
Wish that he may soon be preferr'd again.
That mark of grace is to the clergy giv'n,
Never to be content on this side heav'n;
From step to step, they labour still to rise,
Until they reach, what last they seek, the skies.
For when to pray'rs they're summon'd by the bells,
And Hill is seated in his stall at Wells;
To th' altar, at the creed, he turns about,
With eyes uplifted, and with look devout.
When, I believe in God, he chants aloud,
To act his part, and to deceive the crowd;
To Fortune, then, he offers up his pray'r,
Who makes the clergy her peculiar care,
And softly muttering his lips between,
“O, goddess, make thy votary a dean;
“Then I no more thro' Wells will take the air,
“Slow creeping in a chariot and a pair;
“But buy a coach, and add two horses more,
“And I and Molly'll troll about with four;
“Then shall these Canons tremble at my nod,
“And bow to me much lower than to God;
“Then shall I see them seated round my table,
“Flatt'ring as well as their poor wit is able;
“With beef I'll cram them, and with port I'll fill,
“But while I treat them well, I'll use them ill.
“My vanity they'll soothe, my pride they'll swell,
“And vouch for ev'ry story that I tell;
“Cry up my preaching, and my learning raise,
“My jokes they'll laugh at, and my wit they'll praise,
“And wonder what the ministry can mean,
“To leave so great a man, so long a dean.”
If he should ask you how, or what, I do,
Tell him, my Clio, that I live with you;
Attend your call, fulfil what you desire,
Speak as you prompt, and write as you inspire.
But when some friend or mistress calls, I fly
T' amuse their leisure, lay my studies by,
And sometimes please, because I always try.
Blest with an even temper, and a heart
That scorns all guilt, all falsehood, and all art;
With wit, a friend to please, a foe to hurt,
Humour to ridicule, or to divert,
If vex'd, my grief to others is unknown,
And if unhappy, only so alone;
No passion e'er disturbs my social hours,
Nor ranc'rous spleen, my happy time devours;
No gnawing envy e'er disturbs my breast—
Tho' Sands is made a peer, yet I'm at rest.
Contempt of wealth has ever been my crime,
But I grow covetous of health and time;
Stedfast in principle, and stiff in party,
To Pultney adverse still, to Walpole hearty.
Easy where'er I am, for I can stay
Six months in Wales, yet know no tedious day;
There regularly study, eat and sleep,
And sober meals, and early hours I keep;
But when th' inverted year wears winter's frown,
My coach is order'd, and I drive to town;
There dash into a stream of new delight,
Enjoy my friends by day, my nymph by night.
Till morn, sometimes, a social glass I take,
Not for my wine, but my companion's sake;
In short, broke loose from Wales to company,
There's nothing so irregular as I.
And when discourse, and claret fill my head,
I quite forget there's such a place as bed;
Such are the nights that I have seen of yore;
Such are the nights that I shall see no more.
When Winnington and Fox, with flow of soul,
With sense and wit, drove round the cheerful bowl;
Our hearts were open'd, and our converse free,
But now they both are lost, quite lost to me.
One to a mistress gives up all his life,
And one from me flies wisely to his wife;
There proves the highest joys that man can prove,
The joys of truth, and of alternate love.
Each happy in his diff'rent path go on,
Pleas'd and content; I, pensive and alone,
Rejoice at both your fates, but mourn my own.
No more of this, my Muse, lets turn to Hill,
I've something more to tell of parson Hill;
For Fame's posterior trumpet brays aloud,
That Canon Hill is grown excessive proud;
And minds no more (all that Fame says I'll prove),
The Lord of Redlynch than the Lord above;
Forgets old friends, and of his promise fails,
Ne'er shew'd Sir Charles his staring face in Wales.
For which, at Maddington he will so use him,
So joke upon, so teaze, and so abuse him;
Tell all he knows of him, both truth and slander,
Make ev'ry thing he says a double entendre.
To all the servants, as his constant trade is,
Expose him, make him blush before the ladies;
Always take care to shew where he's absurd,
Ask him the meaning of a Latin word;
And use him, since he is no more the same man,
As ill as, had he pow'r, he'd use a layman.
But, dearest Muse, advise him as a friend,
His pride to mod'rate, and his life to mend;
And this short lesson whisper in his ear,
As he his fortune bears, with him we'll bear.

A NEW BALLAD:

[_]

TO THE TUNE OF “YE COMMONS AND PEERS.”

Written in the beginning of May, 1743.

THE HIGHLANDERS FLIGHT;

A NEW GRUB-STREET BALLAD:

(Written in June, 1743.)

AN ODE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY PELHAM, ESQ.

On his being appointed first Commissioner of the Treasury; written and sent from Maddington, Sept. 1743.

AN ODE TO MR. POPE, ON TWO LATE PROMOTIONS.

Written in January 1743-4.

AN ODE HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THOMAS WINNINGTON, ESQ.

HOR. EPISTLE V. LIB. I. IMITATED AND INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THOMAS WINNINGTON, ESQ. FROM MR. HENRY HARRIS. COMMISSIONER OF THE WINE LICENCE:

Written in 1742.

IF you, great Winnington, can condescend,
To taste the dinner of a grateful friend;
Of kindness still to add another proof,
And with thy presence bless my humble roof.
Once more t' adorn thy servant's annual feast,
To-morrow I expect you for my guest;
Claret, the best my little vaults afford,
And well-sav'd hermitage shall grace my board.
My rooms shall all be clean, large fires be made,
My dinner ready, and my table spread;
To-morrow's dedicated to delight,
And wit and wine shall crown the happy night.
Do thou, unbent, this feast of Bacchus keep,
Let Love be silent and Ambition sleep;
For Clora, let thy breast no passion feel,
And Sands unenvy'd hug th' exchequer seal.
Since, dearest Patron, you've increas'd my store,
I will be happier, and I'll spend the more;
For I've no heirs to curse me in the grave,
No wife unjointur'd who persuades to save.
Bring bumpers, then, wine gives the weary rest,
Unlocks the crooked Politician's breast;
Relieves the wretched, makes the coward brave,
Gives riches to the poor, and frees the slave.
Inspir'd by potent bumpers all the night,
Rushout is eloquent, and Bootle bright;
Fazakerly grows candid, Waller clear,
And Lim'rick's face one smile of joy may wear.
Good wine I'll give you, and for all the rest,
If 'tis not fine, it shall be clean at least;
No dirty napkins shall offend your eye,
Nor greasy glasses make you pass them by.
And that our conversation may be free,
Let well-try'd friends compose the company;
Williams, with spirits and good-humour blest,
And Fox with ev'ry virtue in his breast.
If Yonge can quit his business, or his play,
Or from some doating fair one break away,
Let him be summon'd to the festal day;
And if these a'n't enough to eat my mutton,
I can find room for Gordon, Wight, and Sutton.
But still the guests, the number of them too,
And all that's mine, dear Patron's left to you;
Come, then, along, neglect affairs of state,
And let thy levee all unanswer'd wait.

An Epitaph ON THE LATE RIGHT HONOURABLE THOMAS WINNINGTON, ESQ.

NEAR his paternal seat, here buried lies,
The grave, the gay, the witty, and the wise.
Form'd for all parts, in all alike he shin'd,
Variously great! a genius unconfin'd!
In converse bright, judicious in debate,
In private amiable, in public great:
With all the statesman's knowledge, prudence, art,
With friendship's open, undesigning heart.
The friend and heir here join their duty: one
Erects the busto, one inscribes the stone.
Not that they hope from these his fame should live,
That claims a longer date than they can give;
False to their trusts, the mould'ring busts decay,
And, soon effac'd, inscriptions wear away:
But English annals shall their place supply;
And, while they live, his name can never die.

LINES OCCASIONED BY A LATE MOTION.

“TAXES run high,”—the Britons loud complain'd.
'Twas moved that luxury should be restrain'd;
To lace our breeches was a mortal sin,
And wear all gold without, and none within.
This meant the ministry, would they confess,
“The more we have ourselves, the king has less;”
For who could fear that luxury would last?
Excises, taxes, sinking funds, are spent,
And sure seven millions are a high rack-rent.
“The lace you may allow us,” quoth Sir John,
“We soon shall have no coats to put it on.”
The knight's remark most questionless was shrewd,
He who can pay no whore, must not be lewd.
A Briton once said to a Gaul alert,
“You found the ruffles, and we found the shirt.”
Without the last, few would the first promote,
And who will buy a lace that has no coat?

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN SAMUEL SANDYS, AND EDMUND WALLER, Esqrs.

February 1742-3.

Samuel Sandys.
“When you and I, o'er long accounts sat poring,
“And Rushout, by us, in his chair was snoring,
“My apprehension, Sir, and your explaining,
“Made conversation bright, and entertaining.”

Edmund Waller.
“When you and I together were combin'd,
“My matter to your elocution join'd;
“All I explain'd you were so quick in taking,
“No wonder all the house adored your speaking.”

Samuel Sandys.
“Now, on Lord Wilmington I often wait,
“Vers'd in affairs, methodically great;
“Business he loves, nor e'er the board does fail,
“True as the clock, tho' slower than a snail.”

Edmund Waller.
“Sometimes with Cotton for an hour I sit,
“But still our conversation's spoil'd by wit;
“To my plain narratives he won't attend,
“Gods, where can such an opposition end?

Samuel Sandys.
“Observe, dear Waller, how our fates agree,
“My worthy Countryman's the same to me:
“When on some question, I've a meeting gain'd,
“He cries, ‘He's master on't,’ ere'tis explain'd;
“And absent, when attention I require,
“Whisks round the room, and spits into the fire.”

Edmund Waller.
“There's Bub, who has the face of all this nation,
“By nature form'd the most for application;
“He, notwithstanding which, is damn'd provoking,
“Sometimes coughs out a laugh, and will be joking.”

Samuel Sandys.
“Hard are the cases that you talk about,
“Besides you have the curse of being out;
“Tho' I, like you, am plagu'd with witty friends,
“Yet, being in employment, makes amends;
“I in the Treasury comfortably feel,
“With double salary, and Exchequer seal.”

Edmund Waller.
“What? do'st thou triumph in thy shameful rise,
“The hire of perfidy, Corruption's price?
“But thou art much o'erpaid for thy disgrace,
“Thou never dared'st have hop'd for such a place,
“By thy own inabilities o'erawed;
“But Carteret pimp'd for it, and Bath was bawd.”

Samuel Sandys.
“What, Mr. Waller! I perceive you're hot,
“The place was mine, however it was got;
“And such a place was welcome, Sir, to me,
“Who did not share the spoils of the South-Sea.”

Edmund Waller.
“Do'st thou pretend to censure my behaviour
“After the steps you've ta'en to gain court-favour?
“Henceforward know me for thy foe, and war
“To thee and thine, I from this hour declare:
“And, Sir, to use your Earl of Bath's own word,
“Throw by the scabbard, when I draw the sword;
“Our party's to this resolution come,
“Not to have war abroad, but war at home.”

Samuel Sandys.
“Your passion, Sir, won't let you see things right,
“And of your reason gets the better quite;
“'Twas by long patience that we both grew wise,
“Here, then, I'll offer you a compromise:
“Sir Robert stood for twenty years, you know,
“In spite of all that we could say or do;
“So long let me hold my employment too,
“And if I'm tir'd on't, then I'll give it you.”

Edmund Waller.
“When for that place at court you made your bow,
“I was not half so shock'd as I am now;
“This is a turn, I thought you'd ne'er have chose,
“Can Samuel Sands attempt to be jocose.
“Pull from thy button-hole thy ink-horn then,
“And throw away thy once note-taking pen;
“On turnpike bills no more attendance pay,
“And ev'n from night Committees keep away:
“Make no more motions, from debating cease,
“On Hanoverian forces hold thy peace.
“But on the Treasury-bench securely sit,
“Crack jokes with Pelham till your sides are split,
“And try a wrest with Winnington at wit:
“Then by th' observing house it will be said,
“Sands with his principles has lost his head.”
Thus the two heroes spoke, and, which is worse,
I over-heard each word of their discourse;
And here my Lollius has it in this letter.
Now, which of these prevail'd, which got the better,
And which deserves to be a party leader—
I leave to thee, impartial candid reader.

An Epigram.

DEEP, deep, in Sandys blundering head,
The new Gin project sunk;
“O, happy project,” sage, he cried,
“Let all the realm be drunk.
“'Gainst universal hate and scorn,
“This scheme my sole defence is,
“For when I've beggar'd half the realm,
“'Tis time to drown their senses.”

SANDYS AND JEKYLL;

A NEW BALLAD:

HERVEY AND JEKYLL.

PART II.

An Epistle TO THE RIGHT HON. HENRY FOX.

Written in August 1745.

RARE, and more rare, my verses still appear,
I scarce produce a poem in a year.
Yet blame not, Fox, or hear me e'er you blame;
My genius droops, my spirit's not the same.
My verse comes harder, and the little fire
I once possess'd, I daily feel expire;
Not as when urg'd by your desire I strung
My willing lyre, and bolder numbers sung;
Daring the patriot's treach'ry to rehearse,
Till statesmen trembled at th' impending verse.
To speak and charm in public, friend, is thine:
The silent arts of poetry are mine:
And when some striking thought affects my mind,
I rest not till to paper 'tis consign'd.
Then with a parent's fondness I behold
My child escap'd from memory's treach'rous hold;
And smooth'd in verse, and harmoniz'd in rhyme,
I dream 'tis plac'd beyond the reach of time.
The torrent bears, my genius points the way,
I feel the impulse, and with joy obey.
Yet Vanity did ne'er allure to Fame,
I had no fondness for an author's name;
My works, like bastards, dropt about the town,
No author claim'd, no bookseller would own.
Ambition had no beauty in my eyes;
Verses like mine would hardly make me rise,
For ev'ry statesman hates poetic blows,
Tho' heavy on the shoulders of their foes;
And doubtful where the Satire may point next,
They laugh, they fear, like, hate, are pleas'd and vex'd.
'Twas your desire (perhaps your flattery too)—
My verse, my fame, if any, springs from you;
And here I pay my tribute where 'tis due.
Your smiles were all my vanity requir'd,
Your nod was all the fame that I desir'd;
All my ambition was, to gain your praise,
And all my pleasure, you alone to please.
Yet PRUDENCE will be whispering in my ear,
(A croaking voice that I detest and hear;
Whom anxious thoughts preceding still we find,
And Plenty with a niggard horn behind.)
“Why will you write,” she cries, “forsake the Muse,
“Despise her gifts, her influence refuse;
“To me in all thy life, for once attend,
“Prudence to parts, would prove a useful friend.
“I know your wants, and offer you my aid;
“Which still you shun contemptuous and afraid;
“Pleas'd with the praise, some partial few may give,
“The hate and envy of the rest, you live:
“Write rashly on, regardless whom you hit,
“And yield to Satire, when impell'd by wit.”
“Cease Goddess, cease,” I cry, “I'll hear no more,
“I've ever been a rebel to thy power;
“Your caution's right, your arguments are true,
“Th' advice is good, but 'tis unpleasant too.
“Vain are your toils, and fruitless is your aid,
“Whene'er you strive to change what nature made;
“Turn to your altars, on your vot'ries shine,
“See Pelham ever kneeling at thy shrine.
“Thro' you at first, by slow degrees he rose,
“To you the zenith of his power he owes;
“You taught him in your middle-way to steer,
“Impartial, mod'rate, candid, to appear.
“Fearful of enmity, to friendship cold,
“Cautiously frank, and timorously bold;
“And so observant never to offend
“A foe, he quite forgets to fix a friend.
“Long vers'd in politics, but poor in parts,
“The Courtier's tricks, but not the Statesman's arts;
“His smile obedient to his purpose still,
“Some dirty compromise his utmost skill.
“In vain his own penurious soil he till'd,
“In vain he glean'd from Walpole's plenteous field;
“In vain the exchequer robes around him flow,
“The mantle does not make the prophet now.
“Behind him close, behold Newcastle's Grace,
“Haste in his step, and absence in his face;
“Who daily suppliant to thy temple goes,
“And courts the Goddess, as he courts his foes.
“Yet, spite of all thy influence, all thy care,
“His prudence always deviates into fear;
“His natural gifts so low, he strives in vain
“To climb a height, that Dulness can attain;
“Which Rushout reach'd, with long-opposing tir'd,
“On which thy fav'rite, Wilmington, expir'd;
“Where pliant Dorset sits, and long has sat,
“Secure from changes, and the storms of state.”
But arbitrary Fortune (who derides,
Whate'er Experience frames, or Wisdom guides;
Without whose smiles, all honour, virtue, worth,
Still plead in vain) presided at his birth
Newcastle, then (and yet a child), she blest,
And rapt'rous these prophetic truths exprest;
“Tho' void of honesty, of sense, of art,
“A foolish head, and a perfidious heart.
“Yet riches, honours, pow'r, he shall enjoy,
“Parties shall follow, monarch shall employ;
“Great Britain's seal be to his hand consign'd,
“The Ducal coronet his temples bind.
“He shall betray and lye, but all in vain,
“Spite of himself, his posts he shall maintain;
“No changes shall involve my fav'rite's fall,
“He'll join the current, and be all to all.
“Let him but keep his outside show of power,
“He'll act with Orford, Granville, Bath, or Gower:”
“Prudence, howe'er you smile, howe'er are kind,
“Thy vot'ries ne'er are leaders of mankind;
“Unfit to govern England's restive realm,
“She asks a genius to conduct her helm,
“That dares forsake thy paths, offend thy law,
“Unaw'd by all the fantoms that you draw.
“Thy fav'rites should to Switzerland repair,
“And gently rule some peaceful Canton there;
“Or in the neutral, Adriatic state,
“With her inactive senators debate:
“Think how thy Pelham would in Lucca shine,
“And Sands be in Marino styl'd divine.
“There let'em shine, but Britain's reins demand
“An Orford's, or, at least, a Granville's hand.
“Hence, Goddess, to such supplicants repair,
“Who make thy narrow rules their only care;
“Whose utmost aim is, barely to do well,
“Taught by thy precepts never to excel:
“Here I renounce thee, fly thy out-stretch'd arms,
“And own the Muse's more prevailing charms.”
And why not own them? can't her pow'r remove
The curse of poverty, the pangs of love?
Blunt th' edge of pain, unload the weight of care,
Hush loud distress, and mitigate despair?
Have not her smiles, when sunk in private grief,
Turn'd my disorder'd mind, and brought relief;
Bid agonizing thought at distance wait,
Nor dare approach the Muse's sacred seat?
Nor can she only give Affliction ease,
Pleasure is her's, and her's the power to please;
She can amuse a friend's unbended hour,
And ev'ry fair one owns the Muse's pow'r.
Have not my lays made Ilchester attend,
Berkeley approve, and Harrington commend?
Has not my verse o'er Cælia's frown prevail'd?
The poet triumph'd where the lover fail'd.
But farther still her wide command is shown,
Immortal Fame attends on her alone;
In vain, without her cares, without her smiles,
The Hero conquers, and the Statesman toils:
Their names would soon in dark oblivion lie,
But that the Muse forbids the good to die.
She bids them live—and from the silent tomb,
Draws forth examples for the times to come.
'Tis by her influence, too, her sons survive,
And more than share the vast renown they give;
Still round the Goddess diff'rent laurels grow,
To crown the Hero, and the Poet too.
And while posterity with rapture reads,
Æneas' labours, and Achilles' deeds;
Beyond all piety or feats of arms,
'Tis Virgil pleases and 'tis Homer charms.
Tho' more inclin'd to give desert its praise,
Yet keenest Satire waits upon her lays;
Virtue and Vice are both within her view,
She can reward—but she can punish too:
And from her just revenge, and slighted power,
No abject state can hide, no height secure.
She from the kennel rakes up Chartres' shame;
She plucks down Bath's exalted dirty name;
Her arrows fly thro' every rank of men:
Pelham read this, and dread the lifted pen.
The chosen few whose praise I strive to gain,
Still urge my songs, and still approve the strain.
I dread their censure, but th' applause they give
I feel, for they can judge, but not deceive.
Has my young Walpole, blest with truest taste,
Adorn'd with learning, with politeness grac'd,
When I repeated, thought the moments long,
Friend to the Poet partial to his song?
When Winnington fatigued with public cares,
With me the social hours of friendship shares;
He too awakes the Muse, and bids me write,
Points out the quarry, and directs my flight:
But while I mention him, all flattery hence,
'Twould wrong our friendship, and 't would wrong his sense.
In him we find unite, what rarely meet,
Parts join'd with application, sense with wit;
A piercing eye, a countenance erect,
Quick to invent, judicious to correct;
Warm to attack, but warmer to defend,
The fairest foe, and the sincerest friend;
Above th' intrigues, and windings of a court,
Acknowledg'd merit has his sure support.
His converse new and just delight affords,
Rich in the brightest thoughts and aptest words;
Whene'er he speaks, his audience is charm'd,
Taught by his sense, and by his spirit warm'd.
“But Orford's self, I've seen whilst I have read,
Laugh the heart's laugh, and nod th' approving
“Pardon, great Shade, if, duteous, on thy herse
“I hang my grateful tributary verse:
“If I who follow'd thro' thy various day,
“Thy glorious zenith and thy bright decay,
“Now strew thy tomb with flow'rs, 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 thirst 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 flatt'ry, 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 that held them in disdain.
Open to friends, but ev'n 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 ev'ry state,
In private amiable—in public great:
Gentle in pow'r—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.
Here then I rest, and since it is decreed
The pleasing paths of poetry to tread;
Hear me, O Muse! receive one poet more,
Consenting bend, and pour down all thy store:
No longer constant round Parnassus rove,
But change the scene, and smile on Coldbrook's Grove.
Here too are limpid streams, here oaks their shade
O'er mossy turf more soft than slumber spread;
Expression, thought, and numbers, bring along,
But, above all, let truth attend my song:
So shall my verse still please the men I love,
Make Winnington commend, and my own Fox approve.

On the Earl of Islay altering his Gardens at Whitton, near Hounslow-Heath.

OLD Islay, to shew a most elegant taste,
In improving his grounds, purloin'd from the waste;
And order'd the gard'ner to open his views,
By cutting a couple of grand avenues.
With secret delight, he saw the first view end,
In his fav'rite prospect, a church that is ruined;
But, what should the next to his Lordship exhibit,
'Twas the terrible sight of a rogue and a gibbet.
A view so ungraceful, then taught him to muse on
Full many a Campbell who'd died with his shoes on;
All amazed, and aghast, at this ominous scene,
He order'd it straight, to be shut up again,
With a clump of Scotch firs by way of a screen.

A DUCHESS'S GHOST TO ORATOR HANOVER PITT.

THE UNEMBARRASS'D COUNTENANCE,

A NEW BALLAD:

SHORT VERSES, IN IMITATION OF LONG VERSES:

IN AN EPISTLE TO WILLIAM PITT, ESQ.

THE OLD COACHMAN;

A NEW BALLAD:

OR THE TRAVELS OF MR. PULTNEY AND LORD CARTERET TO CLERMONT.

VERSES

Occasioned by a quarrel between Mr. Fielding and Mrs. Clive, on his intending for her the part of the Bawd in his own Play called the “Wedding Day.”

“A BAWD! a bawd!—where is the scoundrel poet?
“Fine work, indeed, by G---d the town shall know it.”
Fielding, who heard and saw her passion rise,
Thus answer'd calmly, “Prithee Clive be wise,
“The part will fit your humour, taste, and size.”—
“Ye lie, ye lie! ungrateful as thou art,
“My matchless talent claims the lady's part;
“And all who judge, by Jesus G—d agree,
“None ever played the gay coquet like me.”
Thus said, and swore, this celebrated Nell,
Now judge her genius—is she Bawd or Belle?

SQUIRE SANDYS'S BUDGET OPEN'D, OR DRINK AND BE D---D;

A NEW BALLAD:

THE INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE RIGHT HON. HENRY PELHAM AND WILLIAM, EARL OF BATH.

THE story goes, as Fame will tattle still,
Once on a time 'squire Harry met Lord Will;
Says this to that “If you'll the story hear,
“I'll tell you, Hal, a secret worth your ear.
“The Old Man's gone where God knows what's his case,
“And I've declared that I'll accept his place.”—
“And is it so! why let me tell you, brother,
“(Sure one good turn, they say, deserves another)
“I, too, for once, a secret will reveal,
“Which long, indeed, I cannot well conceal:
“Our master, who you know ne'er breaks his word,
“Promis'd I should succeed him at the board—
“Full low bow'd I, as love and duty taught.”
Will star'd, and cock'd, and cock'd and star'd again;
Pleased Harry blush'd to see his rival's pain.

ON THE COUNTESS OF YARMOUTH MAKING THE CAMPAIGN.

WITH George, what hero can compare,
Or who like him a sword can wield;
That dares protect his fav'rite fair,
Amid'st the thunder of the field?
The god of war out done we see;
In action Venus he dismiss'd,
Till he had made his foe to flee,
Then slyly after battle kiss'd.
But George, to love and war allied,
Both deities at once admires;
And swelling big with Martial pride,
By Love allays his glowing fires.

A Poetical Epistle, FROM A GREAT MAN IN THE ARMY, AFTER THE BATTLE OF DETTINGEN.

BRITANNIA'S LAMENTATION AND PETITION.

IN hostile fields, why lives my lord,
Now furrow'd his fair front appears;
Ah! 'tis too late to wield that sword
That sheath'd hath been near forty years.
The damps and colds, and endless toils,
That ever wait on martial deeds;
Are they to be repaid with spoils,
Or Fame that fond Ambition breeds?
Return and bless my longing arms,
And let the German strumpet languish;
Oh, flee from dangers and alarms,
And ease my wasted inbred anguish.
Thou, too, my lovely, darling lad,
With plumpy cheeks and sides so round;
Put up thy courage with thy dad,
Nor longer lie on the hard ground.
One wound's enough so well receiv'd,
Not in the heel, nor yet in trenches;
By men thy bravery's believed,
Thou hast the heart of all the wenches.
My tears are streaming for ye both,
Return, while yet my heart is tender;
Let Stair go back, send Argyle over,
'Tis sure too much for poor Hanover.
To counsel all and act her part;
With foreign chiefs, no artful dress
Can lead the Britons on to Fame,
They love their country to excess,
And place it second to no name.

PUBLII OVIDII NASONIS AMORUM

Lib. i. Eleg. 9.

LOVE has its camps (believe my artless strains,
Dear Harry) ev'ry lover makes campaigns;
And all that in his soldiers Mars approves,
Venus would wish to grace the man she loves.
Youth in his troops, th' experienc'd chief requires,
Youth in her lover, the fond maid desires;
'Tis youth attacks the fair—attacks the foe,
Old age in both is infamously slow.
Each makes the ground his bed, or stands before,
The general's tent, or cruel fair one's door;
Painful and tedious toil the soldier bears,
Painful and tedious are the lover's cares.
With resolution each pursues his prey,
Nor angry seas, nor mountains stop their way;
O'er Summer's heat and Winter's cold prevail,
They fly o'er lands, and o'er the ocean sail.
Soldiers and lovers watch and ne'er complain
Of chilling frost and snows, and piercing rain.
One on his angry foes is placed a spy,
One on his rival keeps a jealous eye.
One storms a town, and one a house attacks,
This bursts a door, and this a barrier breaks;
The soldier oft invades his sleeping foes,
And deals on unarm'd hosts his fatal blows.
So Rhœsus fell, with wine and sleep opprest,
And pass'd from mortal to immortal rest;
So, too, the lovers midnight watches keep,
And profit of the drowsy husband's sleep.
Courage thro' swords and spears oppos'd will pass,
Love forces bars of steel, and walls of brass;
In love like war events are doubtful all,
The vanquish'd rally and the victors fall.
Love's not an easy, or a trifling care,
You must not lose yourself to gain the fair;
Achilles sinks in fair Briseis' charms,
Now Troy attacks, the Greeks repel their arms.
When Hector flys impatient to the field,
His wife must fix his helmet and his shield.
At mad Cassandra's feet Atrides lies,
Yields to dishevell'd locks and frantic eyes.
How foolish Mars was caught in Vulcan's net,
There's not a God but knows and laughs at yet;
Myself was once the idlest rake in town,
And with a common whore have snored till noon.
Till Sally, charming girl, my joy and plague,
Taught me the sweet and bitter of intrigue;
To look on easy conquests with disdain,
And value only what with toil we gain.
Hence I'm that prudent, active, lover grown,
Who hunt my prey, thro' ev'ry street in Town;
Who spare no pains, where pain itself is joy,
And wisely all my time in love employ.
Thus I by diligence successful prove—
The surest cure for idleness is Love.

THE SEQUEL: CONTAINING WHAT WAS OMITTED IN THE TRIUMVIRADE, OR BROAD-BOTTOMRY, AT THE ASTERISKS.

THEN struck up a Smart with a soldierly air,
But with less of rough Mars than of Venus the fair;
A kind of commander, I ween, in the war,
Yet with limbs safe and sound and his skin without scar;
And who should it be? why no less than an Earl;
Adds my life! the stout warrior, Mynheer Albemarle!
Quoth he, “in regard to my ancestor's merit,
“Who came over to England crown gifts to inherit,
“Which imbitter'd the great Revolution so much
“As to give an e'erlasting dislike to the Dutch,
“(Confound 'em a self-interested, odd people!
“O'erwhelm'd with Corruption and practis'd in Quibble)
“I was put in command of a very good troop,
“E're yet on my palfrey I well could mount up,
“My nice regulations were quickly made known,
“At th' expense of some families ruin'd, in town:
“All under-siz'd fellows I caus'd to sell out
“At half they got in, so to pocket the boot.
“I match'd them so equal in rank and in size,
“That the tips of their noses, their chins, and their eyes
“Form'd three as strait lines, as an artist could strike;
“Their shoulders, their elbows, and bums did the like.
“When Marlb'rough resign'd in resentment and pique,
“Of which he repented, perhaps, in a week;
“I apply'd, and his station was promis'd to me,
“As fittest t'eclipse such a warrior as he.
“The council infernal confirm it as done,
“And the more as 'twas kept in suspense by Great John.”
“As nor good, nor great harm, you can do to the state,
“And that 'tis expedient an Earl should eat,
“We confirm, by the strength of our new assum'd pow'rs,”
(Quoth the Three) “little Lordling, the regiment as yours.”
Here they thought to have clos'd—'Till a Wight, bold as ever
Cock'd up, without colour of merit, his beaver;
Too assumingly frank, under front most audacious,
Yet cunningly knowing his int'rest, and cautious;
A convenient acquaintance, tho' apt to deceive,
Slipt up thro' the hole, without orders or leave;
Feign'd he came from the devil; and truly so said,
State-pack-horse, he meant, with mechanical head;
The munificent patron of wit and politeness!
(Attend all ye authors of Britain and witness)
Tho' his brother had all the great qualities, art
Combining with nature, to man could impart;
Yet pack-horse excell'd him, distinguishing loon!
So belov'd thro' our nation, and eke thro' his own.
Attentively mark him! contemplate him well!
How noble his aspect! his air how genteel!
The prettiest fine gentleman sure in the court,
And so Christian withal, of a saint little short!
But his toad-eater-agent thus set forth his case:
“By my country and birth I'm of Ap Shenkin race;
“First preferr'd in the Customs t' a Six-penny Seat
“In the common Long-room, which scarce made me eat.
“Next, this for a martial Baudrier I chang'd,
“So a kind of a captain thro' Drury I rang'd:
“At least was so call'd, as you know at the worse,
“Whoever wears red is a captain of course.
“I gam'd and I whor'd, play'd Levant and such tricks,
“I sometimes got money, but frequently kicks,
“Then married a good ancient dame for my wife,
“And sent her to board to the country for life.
“Was a Westminster justice soon afterwards made,
“And drove on a while, like Sir Thomas, the trade;
“Or Tow'r-Hamlet Sir Clifford, whom erst I have seen
“Sole Groom of the Stole to the Steeds at an inn:
“So had frequent occasion to serve well my betters—
“The affair of Sir Redstring I manag'd by setters.
“'Twas I that set on, and procur'd, the divorce,
“And broke the Church charm of ‘for better for worse.’
“'Twas I set the Colonel to honour his head,
“And contriv'd the next mcrning to catch him in bed.
“The knight became grateful and got me a place,
“And sent me to Scotland, by means of his Grace.
“But was heavily quarter'd, however, upon,
“Yet refus'd to tell tales to have Orford undone.
“Or seem'd so to such, who admir'd at my 'scape
“From the fate of poor Paxton, so wond'rously cheap.
“For, in fact, I was sent by the late great—
“To demur as I did, to give room for a bill;
“Since what I'd to say, cou'd but little avail
“To take off the E—l, or cast him in jail.
“But my roguery in seeming t'evade all their questions,
“Did, with Paxton's fidelity, furnish suggestions.
“Now the Baronet's dead I put in for his place,
“State-Pack-horse will vouch for the truth of my case.
“You may half, if you please, but not quarter my score
“With some Yea and Nay Member, pimp, bawd, or some whore.
“As, without it, I know one must ne'er think to rise;
“'Tis so in the Customs and so in th' Excise,
“With all Out-house Placemen the same, who can't say,
“In a Ministry's service, nor Yea nor the Nay.
The Triumvirate balanc'd—howe'er to be quiet,
And get rid of the creature, they granted the fiat.
“If to place be preferr'd such a parasite shaver,
“A brace of good authors may surely meet favour,”
Was heard in the hole, as if spoke by a couple;
When something bolts up, not unlike a man double.
Twas two clench'd together, side to side, ne'er to quit,
Like a brace of good rabbits truss'd up for the spit.
One half-side like Tonus, tall, meagre, and lank,
Balanc'd up on each side by a thin spindle shank,
Inhos'd all in white, their proportion to show,
Like the legs of a doll, and e'en jointed so too.
In the cast-offs of Tonus, beau'd out for his grace,
Ah! cou'd he but get to his cast-off old place.
A visage far north, a bold front did impart,
Yet blushing, as conscious how vain was the heart.
An huge rod of birch, quite as big as some brooms,
As tho' he'd been Deputy Flogger of bums,
He display'd in his hand, magisterially great!
To flog ev'ry Statesman, who'd not make him eat.
T'other moiety-side, as short, did ill pair,
As with art did his own dear octangular square.
By Principle Swiss, as he fought for his pay,
Who for Paxton wrote erst is for Wallo to-day:
For this side, and t'other, and both he resolves,
While Ralph howls to Cynthia be silent ye wolves.
One a maker of pamphlets, and t'other of matter
To fill them withal, and for Coffee house chatter.
This a draggle-tail muse in his bosom does nourish,
And that writes the Hist'ry of England in flourish.
Lo! there, what I've heard my old grannam oft say,
The boys were all drown'd, and the rest ran away.
Independent Electors of Westminster both!
Without property, vote, house, maxim, or troth.
One cloak cover'd both, ill compos'd of raffriffry,
Old England, or Broadbottom Journal, by Jeff'ry:
With letters initial and dashes all ran over,
Hanover, Hanover, Hanover, Hanover:
Till the nauseated reader, no longer cou'd brook
The hoarse cuckow note, all bestain'd them with puke.
Then a couple of more Independent Electors,
Broadbottom Mæcenases both and protectors
Appear'd; one, forsooth, an Esquire by his name,
O! Ye buboes and shankers retire at his fame!
A medley of surgeon, of nurse, and physician,
Mock doctor, mock mason, and mock politician.
His worthy associate as smart as a carrot,
As pert as a magpy, and loud as a parrot;
The Orator's genuine little game cock,
As good as e'er crow'd, or as strutted, or struck.
Inclos'd, as it were, in an odd masquerade,
Expressive, I deem, of his new-fashion'd trade;
Capuchin'd were his shoulders, his head in the cowl,
While a Broadbottom hoop went below round the whole.
“I am” (for to speak he'd a wonderful itch,
And as nimble his tongue as his fingers to stitch)
Quoth he, “an hoop-petticoat maker for fo'ks,
“Smock-under-coats too, capuchins and short cloaks,
“Fine masquerade dresses shap'd out with an air;
“Egad! I cou'd fit you all three to an hair.
“Now to harlequin characters, what wou'd you say?
“To dance Bobbin Joan in, or figure the haye,
“Made of Jeff'ry's state pamphlets, and Ralph's Gazetteers
“His Champions, his Craftsmen, and all their Picqueers!
“What a contrast they'd form, with their pro and their con?
“Here for Bluestring a patch, there against him and John.
“For Hanover this, and for old England that,
“Plain Abuse on the King, and some hints for the State.
“And yet is your masque, as you are, much more true,
“For who will expect to find Statesmen in you?
“Tho' I vary in spelling my name now and then,
“Sometimes without u and sometimes without n.
“Tho' I can't write myself, save in making a bill,
“Which indeed I can do in a very good stile.
“Yet my little fine boy has a third in the paper,
“(God love it! how much like the sire and how dapper!)
“'Tis I pay the reck'ning, whenever we meet,
“For to treat is my province, and theirs is to write.
Then, turning about on their honours his breech,
To the Placemen address'd both his face and his speech,
Shook hands with them 'round, and familiarly
“We have knock'd, at the last, this great man on the head.
“We shall do very well, as our matters now fall-in,
“Believe, my good friends, little Broadbottom Palmerston.
“We shall now see our fleet even Paris attack,
“And a Vernon flag'd out for old foul-weatherjack.
“Our Army recall'd, quite disbanded and broke,
“For where there's a Navy, an Army's a joke.
“The septennial revers'd, and enquiries set up,
“All Placemen expell'd, and for Robin a rope.
“Rare times! as the speech-makers all of the House
“Are in posts, and none left to say, boh to a goose.
“Your custom, is all that I ask, for my wife,
“Her commodity's wond'rously good, on my life.
“She's to all Independent Electors genteel,
“Her friends, e'er they buy, are all welcome to feel.”
Then Esquire, less renown'd for his plaisterbox trade,
Than for annual custom of mock cavalcade,
Who, as tir'd of his forceps, his lancet and probe,
His syringe, his pharmacy, bandage and daub;
Had apply'd to spread out a good plaister of State,
To cure ev'ry ail in a Minister's pate.
Declar'd, he wou'd lay all his surg'ry aside
And to Greenwich row down for a place with the tide.
Quoth Ralph, “To the Cofferer's office I'll fly.”
Quoth the third, “To the old Cotton library I,”
For the long promis'd patent, so usefully earn'd
By my eminent self, so well known 'mong the learn'd!
If they grant it, my pen and my country I'll drop;
If not, they shall know I a'n't easy to stop.
And, quoth little state Palmerston, “I'll home to my shop.”

An Epigram, ON QUIN, THE COMEDIAN.

WHEN Quin, of all grace, and all dignity void,
Murdered Cato the censor, and Brutus destroy'd;
He strutted, he mouthed, you no passion could trace
To his action, deliv'ry, or plumb-pudding face.
When he massacred Comus, the gay god of mirth,
He was suffer'd, because we of actors had dearth;
But, when Foote, with strong judgment, and genuine wit,
Upon all his peculiar absurdities hit;
When Garrick arose with those talents and fire,
Which nature and all the nine Muses inspire;
Poor Guts was neglected, or laugh'd off the stage,
So bursting with envy, and tortur'd with rage:
He damn'd the whole town in a fury, and fled,
Little boys an extinguisher clapp'd on his head.
Yet we never shall Falstaff behold so well done,
With such character, humour, such spirit, such fun;
So great that we knew not which most to admire,
Glutton, parasite, pander, pimp, letcher, or liar;
He felt as he spoke, Nature's dictates are true,
When he acted the part, his own picture he drew.

An Epigram ON LORD ANSON AND HIS LADY.

AS Anson, his voyage to my Lady was reading,
And recounting his dangers, (thank God, she's not breeding)
He came to the passage, where, like the old Roman,
He stoutly withstood the temptation of Woman;
The Baroness smiled when, continuing, he said,
“Think what terror must there fill the poor lover's head!”
“Alack,” quoth my Lady, “he had nothing to fear,
“Were that Scipio as harmless as you are, my dear.”