Mr. Cooke's Original Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Mr. Cooke's Original Poems

with Imitations and Translations of Several Select Passages of the Antients, In Four Parts: To which are added Proposals For perfecting the English Language

Cooke, Thomas (1703-1756)

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PART the First, CONTAINING ESSAYS, TALES, AND A RHAPSODY On Virtue and Pleasure.

AN ESSAY ON NOBILITY.

AN ESSAY ON THE Antient and Modern State of Great Britain, and on the Posture of Affairs in Europe in the Years 1734, and 1735.

THE KNIGHTS of the BATH, A TALE.

Philander and Cydippe, A TALE.

WILL. SOMERS, A TALE.

A RHAPSODY ON Virtue and Pleasure, TO JAMES REYNOLDS, Esq; Lord Chief Baron of the Exchequer.

PART the Second, CONTAINING EPISTLES, ODES, FABLES, SATIRES, LOVE-ELEGYS, PROLOGUES, EPILOGUES, and EPIGRAMS.

EPISTLES the First, TO Mrs. COLSTON, On the Death of her only Son.

EPISTLE the Second, TO Mr. LEONARD WELSTED, On the Death of his only Daughter.

EPISTLE the Third, To the right honourable Thomas Earl of Pembroke at Wilton.

EPISTLE the Fourth, To the honourable Lord George Johnston.

EPISTLE the Fifth, To the right honourable Thomas Earl of Pembroke, Occasioned by The Death of Dr. Samuel Clarke.

EPISTLE the Sixth, To the right reverend Dr. Benjamin Hoadley, On his being translated from the Bishoprick of Salisbury to Winchester.

EPISTLE the Seventh, To his Grace The Duke of Somerset at Petworth.

EPISTLE the Eighth, TO James Vernon Esq;

ODES.

ODE the First, TO Mr. John Mottley in the Country.

ODE the Second, To Phillis.

ODE the Third, To the Same.

ODE the Fourth, To the Same.

ODE the Fifth, To the Same.

ODE the Sixth, To the Same.

ODE the Seventh, To the Same.

ODE the Eighth, To the Same.

ODE the Ninth, To Celia.

10.

ODE the Tenth, To the Same.

11.

ODE the Eleventh, To Melissa.

12.

ODE the Twelfth, To the Same.

13.

ODE the Thirteenth. SYLVIA.

14.

ODE the Fourteenth. BELLAMIRA.

15.

ODE the Fifteenth. THALIA.

16.

ODE the Sixteenth. DINA.

17.

ODE the Seventeenth. LONDON.

18.

ODE the Eighteenth. ON THE Birth of Lord Herbert In the Year 1734.

19.

ODE the Nineteenth. A New Year's Ode, or Ballad, For the Year 1741.

[FABLES.]

FABLE the First. The Rose and the Lilly.

FABLE the Second. The Ass.

FABLE the Third. The Lark.

[SATIRES.]

SATIRE the First. Love and Old Age.

SATIRE the Second. Love and Old Age.

[ELEGIES.]

ELEGY the First. On Retirement.

ELEGY the Second. On the Same.

ELEGY the Third. On seeing Bellamira's Picture.

ELEGY the Fourth. To Bellamira.

[PROLOGUES.]

PROLOGUE the First. To Penelope, A Burlesque Opera, performed in the Year 1728.

PROLOGUE the Second. Spoke on opening the new Theatre in the Hay-market with Dryden's Spanish Friar.

PROLOGUE the Third. Spoke by Mr. Henry Giffard, on opening the new Theatre in Goodman's-Fields the 31st of October 1729.

PROLOGUE the Fourth. TO LOVE and REVENGE,

PROLOGUE the Fifth. To the Devil to pay,

PROLOGUE the Sixth. Spoke by Mr. Milward to the Country Wife.

[EPILOGUES.]

EPILOGUE the First. Spoke by Mrs. Younger in the Character of the Country Wife.

EPILOGUE the Second. To Penelope, Spoke by Minerva.

[EPIGRAMS.]

EPIGRAM the First. To Phillis.

EPIGRAM the Second. To the Same.

EPIGRAM the Third. To the Same.

PART the Third. THE BATTEL OF THE POETS, In Two CANTOS.

THE BATTEL of the POETS.

CANTO I.

II.

CANTO II.

PART the Fourth, CONTAINING PARAPHRASES, IMITATIONS, AND TRANSLATIONS, Of several Parts of the Antients.

THE Lamentation of David for Saul and Jonathan,

Psalm the 97th paraphrased.

Psalm the 137th paraphrased.

A HYMN, From Psalm the 145th.

Simonides on Human Life Paraphrased.

To a Friend, In Imitation of Horace to Martius Censorinus, Book IV, Ode VIII.

An Imitation of the same. To a Foe.

Ode the 4th of the Epodes, On Menas, Imitated.

THE EPISODE of Thersites, Translated From the second Book of the ILIAD of HOMER.

THERSITES, From the second Book of the Iliad.

TYRTÆUS on MARTIAL Virtue.

ANACREON. Ode the First.

ANACREON To the Grasshopper.

An EPIGRAM From the GREEK.

ACCIUS.

TRANSLATIONS From CATULLUS.

From the Epithalamium On the Nuptials of Thetis and Peleus.

Of ARRIUS.

[Translations from Virgil.]

A Description of Spring from the second Book of Virgil's Georgics.

The 6th Ode of the 1st Book of Horace. To Varius.

Of the Instability of Things.

MARTIAL.

Epistle the Ninth. TO Dr. Edward Milward,

Ode the Twentyeth. TO The honourable Master Robert Petre a Day old, 1741.

The Twenty-fourth Ode of the first Book of Horace imitated and paraphrased, on the Death of Sir William Windham Bart.

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2. PART the Second, CONTAINING EPISTLES, ODES, FABLES, SATIRES, LOVE-ELEGYS, PROLOGUES, EPILOGUES, and EPIGRAMS.

EPISTLES the First, TO Mrs. COLSTON, On the Death of her only Son.

Madam, if Mourning, if Excess of Grief,
To thee, or to the Sire, could bring Relief,
If a long Exile from the Face of Joy,
Could from the Dust redeem the lovely Boy,
My streaming Eyes should the sad Chorus join,
And I would make thy restless Anguish mine:
Or if my Verse the great Effect could have,
To charm relentless Fate, and bribe the Grave,
I would invoke the God, the Springs would drain,
Till I could bring him to your Arms again;
But since we know he shares the common Fate
Of all that's good, of all that's wise and great,
In vain her Vows to Heav'n the Parent pays;
In vain in Sorrows pass the tedious Days.

At the Demand of Nature all remove:
Death heeds not Beauty, nor the Crys of Love.
Old Age, experienc'd in a World of Woe,
Bent by the Weight of Years, is loth to go,
He always thinks, or hopes, his Race not ran;
But Death, tho long delay'd, confutes the Man.
In blooming Years e'en the dear darling Boy,
Who smil'd away thy Cares to instant Joy,
The Tyrant's early Summons must obey,
And for the darksome Tomb forsake the Day.
Behold the Flow'rs, which vernal Meads adorn,
Open the Bud, and blossom to the Morn;
Impending Tempests darken all the Sky,
Bleak Winds and Storms ensue, they droop, they dy.

Thus to a constant Course is Nature bound,
And takes, perhaps, her everlasting Round!
'Tis she beyond thy Sex has made thee fair;
From her thy Pleasure, and from her thy Care:
To her, whose Pow'r I feel, I make my Pray'r.

Parent, to whom our ev'ry Joy we owe,
From whom alone the Poet's Numbers flow,
The Charms of Verse, whatever Charms they be,
Like Charms of Beauty are deriv'd from thee.

You form for Conquest the angelic Face,
You mold each Feature, and you give each Grace;
You teach the Lover the belov'd to move,
And you alone compose the Bed of Love.
Great Parent hear my Vows, nor hear in vain,
For her the lovely'st of the lovely'st Train:
To her distracted Heart apply Relief;
Nor let her Soul complain of future Grief:
Let of their Pow'r no Tears her Eyes disarm;
Bright be the Luster of those Lamps to charm;
On her indulgent may the Seasons smile,
And a new Joy each rising Care beguile;
Unrival'd may she give her Consort Rest,
For ever blessing, and for ever bless'd.
Her Beautys when the Veil of Time shall shade,
Her Lillys wither and her Roses fade,
May she, to grace the Age, and charm Mankind,
Leave the sweet Image of herself behind.

Sept. 1725.

EPISTLE the Second, TO Mr. LEONARD WELSTED, On the Death of his only Daughter.

While on the winding Banks of Thames I rove,
Or chuse, for Silence more profound, the Grove,
Or in the flow'ry Vale inamour'd stray,
Where Innocence and Truth direct the Way,
While charm'd sublimely by the various Scene,
The Muse propitious, and the Mind serene,
What to a Mortal, so divinely bless'd,
Can strike so deeply as a Friend distress'd!
E'en now dejected I thy Lot deplore;
And the gay Prospect can delight no more.
In vain to me the gilded Landskips rise,
While the Tears fall from my Horatio's Eyes.

Well is my Soul for Friendship form'd, or Love;
In Consort to my Friend my Passions move.

E'en now the sov'reign Balm, that never fail'd,
That always o'er the heavy Heart prevail'd,
That ever charm'd me in the mournful Hour,
E'en thy own Lays, my Friend, have loss'd their Pow'r.

O! how I long to let our Sorrows flow,
And mingle in the tender Strife of Woe!
'Tis done; and lo! the Debt of Nature's pay'd:
Soft ly the Dust, and happy rest the Maid!
And now the last, the pious, Tear is shed,
The unavailing Tribute to the dead,
No longer let thy faithful Friends complain;
See, they demand thee to themselves again.
Petronius now allures thy Soul to Ease,
A happy Man, by Nature form'd to please;
Whose Virtues well may call Horatio Friend;
Whom Love, and Mirth dispelling Care, attend;
In him, to full Perfection met, we see
All that the wise and gay can wish to be;
In the sad Hour from him I find Relief,
With him forget that I have Cause for Grief.
Haste to enjoy the Hours I've hear'd you prize,
Those Hours known only to the good and wise;
To sacred Friendship be thy Days assign'd;
Be to thy-self, and thy Associates, kind:

Or if the Soul, all resolute in Woe,
Still bids the wakeful Eye of Sorrow flow,
Make Reason, the great Guide of Life, thine Aid:
Say, is the Phrenzy grateful to the Maid?
Or could the virgin Shade perceive thee mourn,
Would she embody'd to thy Arms return?
What-ever Cause my Friend concludes her Date,
The Course of Nature, or the Work of Fate,
Let this the Burden of thy Heart relieve,
'Tis Weakness, or Impiety, to grieve.
What tho her Charms might savage Rage compose,
And vy in Sweetness with the Syrian Rose,
What tho her Mind beseem'd her Angel's Face,
Where ev'ry Virtue met, and ev'ry Grace,
Yet think, my Friend, the heavy falling Show'r,
Without Distinction lays the lovely'st Flow'r.
Trace ev'ry Age, in ev'ry Age you find
A thousand weeping Fathers left behind;
The common Lot of all is fall'n to thee,
What was, what is, and what shall always be.
To Dust reduc'd shall thy Zelinda ly;
And know thy self, thy dearer self, shall dy:
Know this, and stop the Fountain of thine Eyes,
Excess of Sorrow ill becomes the wise.

August, 1726.

EPISTLE the Third, To the right honourable Thomas Earl of Pembroke at Wilton.

While in the Town I spend the tedious Day,
There waste the cheerful summer Suns away,
What distant Tracts the social Hour refuse!
Yet none impervious to the pow'rful Muse!
Far northward to the Humber some repair;
These on the Medway breathe the southern Air,
Where shady Mountains rise, and Vales subside,
Along whose Banks the liquid Mirrors glide:
While these, retiring to the rural Seat,
Seek on the peaceful Plains a bless'd Retreat,
To me the Hours move with a Sluggard's Pace,
For Time not flys, but seems to slack his Race.

While Wilton Shades receive my noble Friend,
What grateful Present can the Muses send?

Accept, the Language of my Heart, this Song;
No servile Flatt'ry shall thy Virtues wrong:
Fain by thy Virtues I my Name would raise,
And grow, my Lord, immortal in thy Praise.

Hail to those Shades where, in our golden Age,
The godlike Sidney pen'd the deathless Page;
Sidney to Mem'ry dear, and dear to Fame,
Of whom the learned Shades retain the Name .
Hail to those Shades where now my Genius roves,
Zealous to wait you thro the silent Groves:
I view you there with philosophic Eyes,
In your more boasted Titles, good and wise,
Searching thro Nature all her perfect Laws,
And tracing from th'Effect the secret Cause:
And here, great Man, another Subject trace,
The Glorys of your own immortal Race,
Worthys who, Ages pass'd, those Walks have trod,
Who, born in Greece, had each been stil'd a God.
Your great Forefathers Themes for Wonder give,
Renown'd for ev'ry Excellence they live.
In Council wise these prov'd their Sov'reign's Pride;
Those bravely stem'd of War the raging Tyde:

All human Greatness crouds thy glorious Line,
And ev'ry Virtue of thy Race is thine.
Would those cœlestial Guests one Look bestow
On Wilton's Fabric, their Retreat below,
They would confess their Joy encreas'd, to see
How fresh their Love of Arts still lives in thee:
There would they view, to beautyfy the Dome,
Proud Ornaments! the Arts of Greece and Rome:
There, Niobe, thy hapless Offsprings fall;
The Forest waves the Branches on the Wall;
Thick fly the Darts; the Mother makes her Moan,
And seems converted to a Stone in Stone;
How vain is Pride in the sad Tale behold,
And by the Sculptor's Hand the Story told.
Sav'd from the greedy Waste of Time, appears
The rev'rend Bust of near three thousand Years,
The Bard of Ascra, whose immortal Songs
Engag'd a Country to revenge his Wrongs.
There Terence stands, Prince of the comic Strain;
And Belles of former Days there charm again:
Poets and Heros there, of diff'rent Climes,
With Beautys meet, all Boasts of earlyer Times.
O! there, for which each Friend to Virtue prays,
Over thy Head smile many cheerful Days;
While there retir'd beneath the grateful Shade,
May no rude Care thy Soul divine invade:

Each Joy be thine that bounteous Nature yields,
And late thy Summons to the happyer Fields.

August, 1727.

At the Seat of the Earl of Pembroke at Wilton is a Walk now called by the Name of Sir Philip Sidney, who is sayed to have wrote most of his Arcadia there.

EPISTLE the Fourth, To the honourable Lord George Johnston.

To you, my Lord, whose unexperienc'd Days
Have yet preserv'd you safe from venal Praise,
This Verse is due. The moral Lay attend,
And in the Poet prize a useful Friend.

Say, noble Youth, while in a State of Ease
Your only Care is to be pleas'd and please,
What darling Subject now your Mind employs,
What Hopes you cherish of your future Joys?
Fortune, you say, has prov'd a bounteous Dame;
And pompous Titles shall adorn your Name;
Your Look 'e'relong shall overawe the proud,
And to your Levee throng the fawning Croud.

The Fair, and all your Appetites can crave,
You need but to desire, desire and have.
If to Delights like these your Heart's inclin'd,
Delights most obvious to the sensual Mind,
Know your Pursuit of Happyness is vain,
And all your Labour is to purchase Pain.
False Pride! that loves an humbled Slave to see,
That scorns, or hates you, while he bows the Knee;
And quickly fading is the Bliss we place,
And often fatal, in a lovely Face.

Nature your Form has to Perfection wrought,
And bless'd you with a happy Cast of Thought;
In all you speak the Love of Truth appears,
A Genius rising far above your Years:
To these, which truly are your own, we join
The long Descent of an illustrious Line.
O! Youth belov'd, on whom the kindest Ray
Has shed an Influence from your natal Day,
Exert the Virtues you disclose so soon,
Nor let your Morn of Life disgrace your Noon.
If, when arriv'd to a maturer Age,
Gay Scenes of Folly should your Soul engage,
To check the better Seeds, and sink your Mind
Beneath the Dignity of human Kind,

In vain you boast the Glorys of your Line,
In vain the Fair, who bore you, near divine:
The Honours which your great Forefathers won
Wipe not a Stain from the degen'rate Son.

Now is the Time your Knowledge to encrease,
From the rich Stores of antient Rome and Greece:
Should those immortal Works your Breast inspire,
With a resistless Heat, to reach their Fire,
Never be vicious in your Hours of Wit,
Avoid the Rock where Wilmot's Genius split;
Nor Innocence with scurril Jokes blaspheme,
Nor ever wanton with a sacred Theme:
Methods like those true Genius will despise;
Such Men of Wit are never deem'd the wise.

When form'd to Man be cautious whom you trust,
The Knave of Talents, nor the Fool tho just:
What from the Frankness of your Soul you say
The Fool may tattel, and the Knave betray.

In Judgement ripe and fit to aid the State,
To shine in Arms, or end the fierce Debate,
On bright Examples stedfast fix your Eyes,
And emulating them resolve to rise.

When Rome was great, and her Augustus young,
Mæcenas councel'd, and a Horace sung;
Not less thy Pow'r, nor, Britain, less thy Fame,
Who o'er thy Counsels boast as great a Name;
Like him my Lord, like Cav'ndish, nobly strive
New Arts to cherish, and the old revive.
Let Pembroke, foremost of the Sons of Truth,
To all that's worthy Praise direct your Youth;
His Life instructs you better far to live
Than all the Precepts Socrates could give.
Like Cart'ret, Glory to his native Isle,
Be all your Joy to make your Country smile;
If, fir'd by Worth like his, you gain a Name
On Merit founded, and the Pride of Fame,
When, be it late, among your Sires you sleep,
Virtue, and Learning, and the Muse, shall weep.

Nov. 1728.

Since Marquess of Annandale.

EPISTLE the Fifth, To the right honourable Thomas Earl of Pembroke, Occasioned by The Death of Dr. Samuel Clarke.

Point out the Man who, from the Bloom of Youth,
Has fear'd to wander from the Paths of Truth,
Who, with a Genius to his Labours kind,
Traces the Workings of th'eternal Mind,
Who, thro a Nassau's and a Stewart's Reign,
Pass'd the high Scenes of Life without a Stain,
Whom, for his Wisdom and his Worth renown'd,
The Sun beholds with Years and Honours crown'd:
To him the Bard directs his plaintive Lays,
Inspir'd by Sorrow with the Song of Praise.

Pembroke attend: thy Virtues be my Guide,
Great Man, whose Friendship is my foremost Pride:
To thee, whom all the learned Arts adorn,
To Fame thro Virtue more than Titles born,
This Verse I send: indulge the pious Strain;
Nor think the Off'rings of the Muses vain:
With just Distinction they the dead survey,
And cast a Luster round the great Man's Clay:
E'en now, all grateful for his sacred Page,
They wait obsequious on the dying Sage,
Watch with melodious Grief his latest Breath,
Then hail him to the Life he gains by Death.
Give me the Worth you priz'd on Earth to tell,
And deign, my Lord, to join the last Farewel.

When Men illustrious to the Grave descend,
Of whom the World may say we mourn our Friend,
Whose Search unweary'd, and whose fruitful Care,
The Suns can witness, and the Nights declare,
Who with a cheerful Heart could Toils despise,
To mend our Morals, and improve the wise,
When Men like Clarke rever'd forsake the Day,
The Muse laments, and in no vulgar Way.

Your Fate, ye vain, your Fate, Ambition, know;
Behold the wise, the learned, Head lys low:

Hence be your Joy, hence be your boasted Pride,
To live like him, without a Fear who dy'd,
The just Asserter of th'almighty Cause,
Who trac'd thro Nature God's unering Laws:
How bless'd the Doctrine that the Sage has taught,
That passive Matter can produce no Thought!
Thence may the reas'ning Mind disclose a Ray
(How fair the Prospect!) of eternal Day.

Hence let my ravish'd Soul those Realms explore
Where Pains torment, and Doubts perplex no more:
Let Fancy paint the ever pleasing Scene,
For fading Verdure an immortal Green,
Where all Things lovely to the Sight arise,
Beneath the boundless and unclouded Skys:
From Bliss, to Bliss, enamour'd now we rove,
Soft thro th'enamel'd Mead, or vocal Grove:
There Sweets are wafted from the distant Coasts,
Sweets far beyond what either India boasts:
There blooms perpetual the cœlestial Flow'r,
More rich than ever deck'd a Syrian Bow'r.
Thro Worlds of Fragrance, Worlds of Light, we fly,
Beneath, O God! thine ever-watchful Eye:

Enhanc'd our Pleasures, and improv'd our Pow'rs,
The happy there shall never number Hours.
Aray'd with Glory shall the just endure
In unmolested Joys, and ever pure.

E'en now perhaps the venerable Shade
Retires with Angels to some heav'nly Glade:
See thy own Locke, my Lord, the converse join,
Newton profound, and Tillotson divine:
Revolving in their Breasts the Turns of Fate,
What anxious Moments in the human State,
Him the most bless'd they deem who early'st dy'd,
And pity Monarchs in their purple Pride.

In the bright Realms of everlasting Rest,
Where Clarke illustrious shines among the bless'd,
Superior Merit shall obtain the Prize,
The Man who look'd on all with friendly Eyes,
Who sought for Truth thro Virtue more than Fame:
Such late was Shaftesb'ry, never dying Name!

Heroic Souls, the Sons of Empire, there
Who view'd their Kingdoms with paternal Care,
Who made their Wills subservient to the Law,
Such our first Brunswick was, and such Nassau,

Shall meet, while Earth preserves their just Renown,
For transient Pomp an ever-during Crown:
And there the Champions who for Freedom stood,
Of Danger fearless for the public Good,
Men who, untaught to tyrant Pow'r to yield,
Pursu'd fair Honour thro the martial Field,
Like Marlb'ro' who sustain'd the glorious Strife,
And who like Ca'ndish grac'd a private Life,
Whose mortal Parts among his Fathers sleep,
While Virtue, Learning, and Augustus, weep.

Hail Shades triumphant! Hail Examples bright
Of worth exalted to those Worlds of Light!
Where the great Statesman shall securely rise,
Beyond the poys'nous Ken of envious Eyes,
To whom no Merit e'er apply'd in vain,
Of whom the worthless can alone complain,
Who ne'er deceiv'd his Friend, nor broke his Vow:
Godolphin such: such Chesterfield is now.

In ever-smiling Scenes the pious Train,
Priests who like Hoadley sacred Truths maintain,
Who strive by Reason to convince their Foes,
Who with a Christian Meekness Rage oppose,

Shall breathe the Sweetness of eternal Spring,
Where laugh the Mountains, and the Valleys sing,
Where Joys on Joys arise, where all is gay,
Enliven'd by the never-closing Day.

Far hence away are cast the impious Race,
Rebels to Virtue, and the World's Disgrace:
No Tyrant, whose Delight was Blood, is there,
Nor he who look'd unmov'd on human Care:
Nor views Hypocrisy the Face of God,
Nor Persecution with her iron Rod:
Alike excluded the cœlestial Plain
Are the detracting and the flatt'ring Train:
Nor to the Bow'rs of Paradise are led
The Nymphs unfaithful to the nuptial Bed;
Nor the false Swain is there, whose treach'rous Part
Was to seduce, then break, the tender Heart.
Far shall they wander from the Lawns of Joy
Who for their own another's Peace destroy:
Aray'd with Brightness shall they shine above
Who look on all Mankind with Eyes of Love.

May Heav'n, O! Pembroke, all our Vows regard,
And long detain thee from thy last Reward,

'E're the great Souls of Paradise you join,
Before those Arborets of Bliss are thine.
How oft' attentive have I pass'd the Day,
Led on, O! Wisdom, in thy flow'ry Way,
While on the classic Page thy Son refin'd,
Or with eternal Truths enrich'd my Mind:
Roll on, ye Suns, your annual Courses keep
Long 'e're the great Man leaves the World to weep.

Nov. 1729.

EPISTLE the Sixth, To the right reverend Dr. Benjamin Hoadley, On his being translated from the Bishoprick of Salisbury to Winchester.

Amidst the Honours which your Virtue prove,
The Smiles of Princes, and your Country's Love,
Do not, illustrious Sage, regardless view
The Muse's Tribute, to your Virtue due.
While here unfix'd from Stage to Stage you go,
Sowing the Seeds of heav'nly Truth below,
Where-e'er you come fair Charity appears,
And the loud Voice of Joy invades your Ears;
Gladness at your Approach prepares the Way,
And Discontent's a Stranger where you stay.
While here you sow with an unsparing Hand,
Your Harvest-home is in a distant Land;

Where Clarke, from Envy and from Hate remov'd,
Reaps the rich Produce of the Truth he lov'd:
There may your Friend adorn th'æthereal Plain
Long 'e're you join the venerable Train.

Dec. 1734.

EPISTLE the Seventh, To his Grace The Duke of Somerset at Petworth.

From Town retir'd, where Vice and Folly reign,
The Parents of Confusion and of Pain,
To the fair Scenes where Flora, richly dress'd,
Wears her green Mantle, and her purple Vest,
To whose Attire each Flow'r a Tribute brings,
For whom the Rose, the Queen of Fragrance, springs,
And where Pomona, with a lavish Hand,
Thick loads the Boughs, and Ceres cloaths the Land,
Where rise the Hills, and where the Valley leads
To the wide stretching Wood that skirts the Meads,
Amidst them all fix'd is my humble Cell,
Where Innocence and Meditation dwell:

Here the sweet Breath of Morn, and Ev'ning fair,
And solemn Stilness of the noontide Air,
Prove or to sacred Contemplation kind,
Or to the Field of Fancy wake the Mind.

While round the wide Expanse the Muse surveys
What first to sing, and where begin her Praise,
Southward to Petworth's Bow'rs she turns her Eyes,
And of her Song beholds the Subjects rise.
Here might I wanton in Description bold
Of Architrave and Roofs of freted Gold,
Point out the Cornice elegant and Freeze,
And shew that Order never fails to please:
There Sculpture charms, the Hero or the Saint;
And there surprises the projecting Paint:
The Grove, the Gardens, there the Muse might range,
And feast her Fancy with Delight of Change:
But these she passes now unheeded by,
Studious to feed the Mind, and not the Eye:
Unsung she leaves the Temple, to declare
What Virtues are enshrin'd in Person there:
She the great Master views to Titles born,
But to more Virtues, which his Rank adorn:

His Soul's encompass'd with a heav'n-born Flame,
The Source of noble Deeds, and Foe to Shame,
That from the Breast all Vice, all Meanness, flings,
That pitys weak, and scorns inactive, Kings,
The godlike Pride, all selfish Views above,
That Admiration gains, and endless Love:
Unruly Riot never stains his Floor,
Yet open stands the hospitable Door:
As like to like inclines, his Judgement led
Fair Charity in Person to his Bed;
Whose Pleasure is to ease the Cares of Need,
To cloath the naked, and the hungry feed;
Whose Virtues, as they're exercis'd, afford
Joy to herself, and equal to her Lord:
Behold the Blessings of the good and wise!
See from their Loves angelic Offsprings rise!

Happy are they, thrice happy they, who find
Wisdom, the richest Jewel of the Mind.
Could we each precious Stone, known and unknown,
And ev'ry Gum, and Metal, call our own,
Of the wide Earth could we the Surface sweep,
And ransac ev'ry Corner of the Deep,
Compar'd with Wisdom, yet their Price is small;
In Worth intrinsic she exceeds them all:

In her right Hand is a long Length of Days,
And in her left Wealth and eternal Praise:
These are of Wisdom, these, the Gifts divine;
And these, illustrious Seymour, all are thine.

Thro Ages yet may England's Nobles see
From you, my Lord, what Nobles ought to be:
Long may you live the Grace of Petworth's Bow'rs;
And may your Consort share those happy Hours:
Their Sex's Glory may your Offsprings rise,
And bless with Angels, like themselves, your Eyes.

These the first Fruits of her Retreat, your Due,
The Muse an Off'ring sends, my Lord, to you,
To you beneath whose Smiles she plumes her Wings,
And thus retires, and in Retirement sings.

August, 1739.

EPISTLE the Eighth, TO James Vernon Esq;

Occasioned by Admiral Vernon's Conquests in the West-Indys.

Wedded to Virtue and to letter'd Ease,
In Science read and in the Art to please,
Counting the Days well-spent the happyest Days,
Ever deserving and avoiding Praise,
Yet deign an Ear, a willing Ear, to lend
To a lov'd Brother's Fame recorded by a Friend.

Long had our Swords been sheath'd, our Sails been furl'd,
And long had Spain her proud Defyance hurl'd,

Till from a Night of Indolence and Rest,
A Lethargy that Britain's Isle possess'd,
Vernon arose to bless a George's Reign,
And spread his Glory o'er the Land and Main:
O'er distant Seas he now asserts his Sway,
In the new World, beneath the burning Day:
He toils unweary'd for his Country's Peace,
To make her Honour and her Wealth encrease.
He rescued from Disgrace the English Name,
Where Hosier languish'd to his Country's Shame;
Where dy'd the brave by too intense a Heat,
By Climes unwholesome and unwholesome Meat.
On Man and Beasts alike the Plague began;
Thro their hot Veins the fev'rish Current ran;
Chain'd to a ling'ring Death, their Drought encreas'd;
Parch'd was the Palate, and Digestion ceas'd:
While the Sun shot his pestilential Beams,
The valiant Hearts by thousands fed the Streams.
So did Apollo's vengeful Shafts destroy
The mighty Greeks before the Walls of Troy:
So, as the noblest Greecian Poet sings,
The People perish'd, and the Fault the King's.

No longer now exults the Spanish Pride,
By Vernon's Prowess bury'd in the Tyde:

What 'tis, he taught the proud Insulters then,
To rouse the Lion from his peaceful Den:
He greatly proves himself, with British Fire,
A Son well worthy his illustrious Sire.

Thus has the Muse, true to her Country's Cause,
Pursued her Hero with deserv'd Applause:
With Eyes of Joy she views his fair Renown,
And binds his Temples with the naval Crown.

While on the Wings of Fame your Brother flys,
Beneath the torrid and the frozen Skys,
Long in your lov'd Retirement may you live,
Possess'd of all that Virtue here can give,
Long here the Tenor of your Life pursue,
And in yourself prove your own Maxim true,
Who well has liv'd conceal'd, not seeking Praise,
Well has he liv'd, well has he wore his Days.

March, 1741.

ODES.

ODE the First, TO Mr. John Mottley in the Country.

I

Strongly, dear Friend, paint in thy Mind,
A Wretch, the Remnant of a Wreck,
In Sight of Land, yet, Fate unkind!
By cruel Waves still driven back.

II

So, in his Schemes, the Poet cross'd,
When Chance, or Envy, blasts the Bays,
He, to his tasteless Patron loss'd,
Despairs of Profit, or of Praise.

III

What mighty Plans thy Friend has lay'd,
What golden Indias had in View,
Thou know'st, and how his Toils are pay'd;
Yet still he dares his Flight renew.

IV

While thus the Muse is held in Scorn,
No Suns of Joy to me are known;
But few observe the Bard forlorn:
My Griefs I only make my own.

V

Does Heav'n no joyous Minutes send?
No Balm to all thy Sorrows give?
Yes, I have Hours of Bliss, my Friend,
In which I more than seem to live.

VI

The Hours to Friendship set apart,
In which the Wretch his Comfort finds,
Relieve the Burden of the Heart:
True Source of Joy to noble Minds!

VII

But, like th'ecstatic Dreams of Love,
Too swift those happy Moments flow:
Then, in my Round, again I rove
Thro a long Interval of Woe.

VIII

While thus I grapple with my Fate,
These tender Thoughts of Friendship please:
Methinks I view thee in a State,
Where Nothing interrupts thine Ease.

IX

Or wand'ring in the woodland Glade,
Or by the painted Meadow's Stream,
Or lay'd beneath the cooling Shade,
You make the tender Nymph your Theme.

X

Indulge, my Friend, thy modest Vein,
While all the Joys of May inspire;
Prospects, gay smiling, aid the Strain,
Scenes all propitious to the Lyre!

100

XI

Enjoy, my Friend, thy happy Lot,
The Monarch of a peaceful Mind;
And I am bless'd, my Cares forgot,
While thou art true, and Nanny kind.

May, 1725.

101

ODE the Second, To Phillis.

O! behold in yonder Bow'r
Of the Flow'rs the sweetest Flow'r!
Slumb'ring sits the heav'nly Maid,
In her virgin White aray'd:
See the Hope of ev'ry Swain,
Rose and Lilly of the Plain.
'E're she wakes the Danger fly;
Phillis murders with her Eye:
Who could backward turn his Feet?
Who from Paradise retreat?
Where shall I her Praise begin?
With the softly dimpled Chin,
With the Bows her Eyes above,
Or her Breast the Throne of Love,
Or her Lips? Those Lips I meet:
Heart, was ever Kiss so sweet!
Lo the gentle Slumber's fled;
And the Nymph uprears her Head.

102

Fairest, of my Heart the Queen,
Let thy Smiles improve the Scene.
Phillis, oft' I've beg'd in vain
At thy Feet to sigh my Pain;
Slight no more the tender Vow;
Hear me, Virgin, hear me now.
Lowly thus to thee I fall;
Take my Heart, O! take me all!
Bless'd the Hand, thrice bless'd the Fair,
Who has rais'd me from Despair!
On thy Bosom let me rest,
Take me, Phillis, to thy Breast:
Take, O! George, the Land and Main;
Here alone I wish to reign.
Thus Anacreon, ever gay,
Lov'd, and pass'd his Life away;
To the Fair his Lyre he strung;
Thus he lov'd, but sweeter sung.

103

ODE the Third, To the Same.

See the Lilly hang her Head;
See the rich Carnation dead;
Turn, and see thy much lov'd Rose
Drop to ev'ry Gale that blows;
See their leaffy Honours round
Unregarded strew the Ground.
Does my lovely Phillis sigh?
Hangs the Pearl upon her Eye?
Thus my Charmer must thou be
When thou'st left the Day and me.
With the Bays my Temples cover;
Crown thy fond romantic Lover:
Hither come beneath the Shade
Of the Leaves which never fade.
Swim thine Eyes, and heaves thy Breast?
Phillis is inclin'd to Rest.

104

ODE the Fourth, To the Same.

O'er the Lawn my Phillis flys
Where her panting Lover lys;
Hither fair one haste away;
Let me chide thy Minute's Stay.
Lay thee, Phillis, by my Side;
Give me what the Gods provide.
Hear the billing Turtles coo;
Like the Turtles let us woo.
Does my lovely Phillis tremble?
Now in vain thou may'st dissemble;
From the Kiss is all thy Anguish,
See me, Phillis, see, I languish;
Let us kiss, and kiss again;
Great the Pleasure from the Pain!
Phillis, O! the Shade befriends us!
And here Love himself attends us!
Nymph no longer close thine Eyes;
Gentle Phillis let us rise.

105

ODE the Fifth, To the Same.

Bear the flowing Bowl away;
Break the Lyre; and cease the Lay;
My belov'd is gone astray.
Shew me to the happyer Swain,
That Revenge may ease my Pain:
Thence in vain I seek Redress;
What could Youth and Passion less?
He that dares oppose her Eyes
Either vanquishes or dys;
Therefore who the Youth can blame?
I myself had done the same.
Cruel Phillis I accuse,
Once my Love, and once my Muse.
Call to Mind the Vows you made,
On the Bank beneath the Shade!
When you swore by ev'ry Pow'r
In the fond ecstatic Hour.

106

What can Oaths of Women bind,
Phillis, fickle as the Wind?
Phillis thou art free to range,
Free to love, and free to change.
I before had thee betray'd,
Had I found a fairer Maid.

107

ODE the Sixth, To the Same.

Raving now I seek my Bed,
Whence Content and Rest are fled;
If by chance I close my Eyes,
Phillis still before me flys.
See in Dalliance soft they play;
From his Arms she breaks away:
See the faithless Dame pursued,
Willing soon to be subdued;
See, she acts the well known Part,
Gives her Hand, and then her Heart:
Poyson to my Sight! she flings
At my Breast a thousand Stings.
Flys the Dream that caus'd my Pains;
But the Torture still remains.

108

ODE the Seventh, To the Same.

Phillis from this Hour adieu,
Fair no more, no longer true;
I my wand'ring Heart recall;
Take thy Vows I quit them all:
Henceforth thou no more shalt be
Than a vulgar Maid to me.
Phillis from this Hour adieu,
Fair no more, no longer true.
Why should I, presumptuous Swain,
Dare to cherish Hopes so vain,
That the Heav'ns would hear my Pray'r
For a Love as chast as fair.
Phillis thou hast prov'd no more
Than a thousand Belles before
Have to Men who them believ'd,
Plighted Vows, and then deceiv'd.
Such was Delia to Tibullus,
Lesbia such to fond Catullus.

109

Horace, sacred Bard, complains
Of the Sex, and slighted Pains.
Phillis thou art free to rove
As the Natives of the Grove:
From this Moment, Nymph, adieu,
Fair no more, no longer true.

110

ODE the Eighth, To the Same.

I

While, Phillis, on thy Charms I gaze,
My Soul is all Desire;
Who can oppose so bright a Blaze,
Secure his Heart from Fire!

II

While thoughtful of the perjur'd Maid,
Fair Phillis I despise,
Nor longer fear, by her betray'd,
The Tyrants in her Eyes:

III

But when I meet the faithless Dame
My Soul is all Desire;
So weak my Vows, I catch the Flame,
And in a Blaze expire.

111

ODE the Ninth, To Celia.

I

Celia , boasted Child of Beauty,
Ambitious of a spotless Name,
Mindful of her humble Duty,
Avoids the common Road to Fame.

II

Florio, of his Apparel vain,
Labours to charm th'unwary Eye;
While Celia views him with Disdain,
For her a Croud of Florios dy.

III

Fond Dapperwit, to win the Fair,
Attempts the Pow'r of Love to sing,
While she condemns to long Despair
The flutt'ring and the rhyming Thing.

112

IV

Alike offensive to the wise,
The empty Fop, the barren Lays,
With Justice, Celia, you despise;
When they accuse you most they praise.

113

ODE the Tenth, To the Same.

In the Month from Julius nam'd,
In the Grove for Music fam'd,
Where the Belles of Britain's Isle,
Where the Loves and Graces smile,
Where to many a manly Heart
Cupid throws th'unerring Dart,
While the sweet enliv'ning Sound
Fills with Harmony the Ground,
Damon thus in Rapture cry'd,
Celia sighing by his Side,
“How the Soul receives Surprise,
“At our Ears, and at our Eyes!
“Soon, too soon, a fatal Hour
“Strips the Grove of all its Pow'r;

114

“Thro the Trees the dying Note
“Here no longer then shall float:
“Nymphs, to charm by Nature made,
“Leave the unfrequented Shade.
“Haste, O! haste, great Eye of Day!
“Bring the sweet Return of May!

Spring Gardens at Vauxhall.

The Entertainment of Spring-Gardens generally ends about the Middle of August.

Spring-Gardens always open on or before the first of May.

115

ODE the Eleventh, To Melissa.

As on a Bank where Vi'lets blow,
The Shade above, a Stream below,
The Stream below, the Shade above,
Soft murm'ring to a Dream of Love,
I lay, a Nymph of heav'nly Mien,
With Voice divine, and Look serene,
Began: is this the Way to Fame,
And think you thus to raise a Name,
While here in lazy Easy you ly,
The Muses all neglected by?
No longer keep the Lyre unstrung,
Nor let Melissa live unsung:
Melissa, Glory of the Plains,
The envy'd Charmer of the Swains,
All spotless as the falling Snows,
Whose Breath is sweeter than the Rose;
Let chast Melissa fill your Lays,
Become immortal in her Praise!

116

But if the Fair you never saw,
Fancy her here; begin and draw.
She spoke, and, by her Air and Mien,
Confess'd herself the Cyprian Queen.

117

ODE the Twelfth, To the Same.

I

Tho now with Eyes of Love I gaze,
And on thy Charms refine,
Not of thy Beauty all the Blaze
Can ever fix me thine.

II

Tho now I hear, with Transport hear,
The Music of thy Voice,
'Tis not th'enchanting Tongue, my dear,
Can make me bless my Choice.

III

Let Honour, of thy Sex the Pride,
Spotless preserve thy Mind,
To all chast as the Nymph untry'd,
Or, lo! my Vows are Wind.

118

ODE the Thirteenth. SYLVIA.

I

I Sylvia priz'd as Lillys fair,
All fragrant as the morning Air,
And sweeter than the Lark her Voice.
With Ease she could my Cares beguile;
A Word, a tender Look, or Smile,
Would make the gloomy Soul rejoice.

II

When on her Breasts, expanded white,
Heaving luxuriant with Delight,
I fondly lay'd my lovesick Head,
The Roses shed their Sweets around,
And Vi'lets breathing from the Ground
Compos'd the aromatic Bed.

119

III

Beneath the grateful Shade I ly,
Hid almost from the Sun's great Eye;
Protect me all ye Pow'rs above!
O! keep me, ever fix me, here,
Where Nothing can create a Fear,
Where all is Softness, all is Love!

IV

Thus in the Ecstacy of Bliss,
Just from the heart-dissolving Kiss,
I pray'd, alas! a heedless Swain;
For to that joyous fatal Hour,
(Was Poyson in so sweet a Flow'r?)
Succeeded Days on Days of Pain.

V

The Sailor so, with gladsome Eye,
Th'unruffel'd Main, and azure Sky,
Views, while the Winds propitious blow:
Forward he steers, with Look serene,
Till, bulging on a Rock unseen,
Appears a sudden Face of Woe.

120

VI

Henceforth, unwary Youth, beware,
Nor make such fleeting Joys your Care;
Let Virtue ever be your Guard.
Pleasures adieu, whose Fruits are Pain,
For Sages have not taught in vain,
That Virtue is her own Reward.

121

ODE the Fourteenth. BELLAMIRA.

I

When Bellamira was my Theme,
I pluck'd the Vi'let and the Rose,
And, fondly raptur'd with the Dream,
Sought ev'ry Flow'r that sweetly blows;
And, as I deck'd her Breast and Hair,
They breath'd new Fragrance from the Fair.

II

When I her Mind or Person prais'd,
To Bow'rs of Bliss beyond the Skys
The God of Love my Genius rais'd,
Where Beautys more than earthly rise,
With those her Beautys to compare;
The fairest she among the fair.

III

Vi'lets and Roses cease to blow,
Each Flow'r of Fragrance droop your Head;
The Nymph, forgetful of her Vow,
Is from her Love, from Honour, fled:

122

No longer deck her Breast and Hair;
For she is false as she is fair.

IV

To Bow'rs of Bliss beyond the Skys
The God of Love no more shall raise,
Where Beautys more than earthly rise,
My Genius to exalt her Praise,
No more with Angels shall compare
The Nymph as false as she is fair.

123

ODE the Fifteenth. THALIA.

The Trav'ler o'er the desart Plain,
Thro Darkness in the Wind and Rain,
Forlornly lab'ring for his Way,
With Joy descrys the Dawn of Day.
From Wave to Wave the Sailor toss'd,
While in Despair and Midnight loss'd,
The Tempest less'ning by Degrees,
The polar Star with Transport sees.
Haste, haste, Thalia, to my Aid,
Thou lovely, grief-expelling, Maid:
To me thou'rt more delightful far,
Than is the Sun or polar Star.

124

ODE the Sixteenth. DINA.

I

Dina , while I view thy Beauty,
To thy Charms I am a Slave;
To obey thee is my Duty;
Say what more would Dina have?

II

This Advice regard, my Treasure,
Banish from thee far away
Those to whom thou'st breath'd our Pleasure:
Confidants too oft' betray.

III

Dina, such in Love and Fighting
Are, in the Event, the same,
Both alike, my Fair, delighting
To prevent the growing Flame.

125

IV

What will make our Love the Story
Of detractive Folly shun;
Let my Life, (how great the Glory!)
Prudence keep what Beauty won.

V

Vows to Heaven and the Lover
All the false and vain reveal;
Which we should alone discover
To the Objects of our Zeal.

126

ODE the Seventeenth. LONDON.

First Printed in the Year 1730.

I

Let antient Greece, for Arts and Arms renown'd,
Her Athens boast, whose Sons, preserv'd by Fame,
Still triumph over Time with Glory crown'd,
Proud City! once tremendous in her Name!
While mighty Towns of former Days,
Now levell'd with the Dust, remain
Recorded for their letter'd Praise,
Or for the Numbers of their slain,
London of the fairest Isle
The Ornament and Honour stands;
Lo! her Streets with Plenty smile,
Diffusing Blessings thro her Lands!
Lo! her floating Castles ride,
Bringing Wealth with ev'ry Tide:

127

On the Tagus, and the Rhine,
Fruitful bleeds for her the Vine:
For her the Sons of India toil
Beneath the burning Eye of Day;
They strip the aromatic Soil,
And send to her their Sweets away.
The distant Sun for London shines;
For London teem the golden Mines;
She thro the Land her Wealth bestows,
Which to her Bosom dayly flows:
Nor does she rob the foreign Fields,
But grateful sends what Britain yields.
Hail happyest City on the Ball,
Enriching, and enrich'd by, all!

II

While the sam'd City on th'Italian Coast,
By Zealots now, to Reason blind, ador'd,
Makes her pass'd Glorys all her present Boast,
For conq'ring Nations with the barb'rous Sword,
Great Britain does her armed Bands,
Collected from her Island, send,
In Time of Need, to neighb'ring Lands,
Not to invade, but to defend:

128

Witness, Blenheim, and the Wood,
With the rich purple Current stain'd,
Where the brave undaunted stood,
And never-fading Wreaths were gain'd.
Seas to Greece and Rome unknown
She may justly call her own;
When on them her Cannons roar,
Rebel Lands rebel no more,
With them she bold Intruders awes,
And rules herself by wholesome Laws.
Like to the Heart, the Reservoir
Of all our Blood, and Spring of Joy,
Is London to the British Plains:
That fills with Blood the craving Veins;
This pours her Wealth thro ev'ry Part,
Which runs again into the Heart.
Distinguish'd may the City stand,
Example fair to ev'ry Land.
Hail happyest City on the Ball,
Enriching, and enrich'd by, all!

129

ODE the Eighteenth. ON THE Birth of Lord Herbert In the Year 1734.

Born of Heros, and of Sages,
Glorys all of all their Ages,
What illustrious Blood has run,
Rolling pure from Sire to Son,
Which with Time fresh Honour gains,
To enrich thy little Veins?
Worthys near to Kings ally'd,
Props of Kingdoms and their Pride,
Men the first in Man's Esteem,
Of the Muse the Friends and Theme,
Such as thou perhaps may'st be,
Hasten'd on to live in thee.

130

From the Lion's princely Dam
Never sprung the fearful Lamb:
From the tow'ring Eagle's Love
Never rose the tim'rous Dove:
May'st thou, with Encrease of Days,
Merit all thy House's Praise,
Judge in what their Virtues ly
With an emulating Eye:
Early may'st thou then inherit
All thy Father's manly Spirit.
When to nuptial Bands inclin'd,
May'st thou, like thy Father, find
One to crown with Joy thy Youth,
Deck'd with Beauty, Love, and Truth,
Whose majestic Form and Grace
May improve the noble Race.

131

ODE the Nineteenth. A New Year's Ode, or Ballad, For the Year 1741.

Come my Countrymen all, and, like Englishmen bold,
Let us hail the new Year, nor speak well of the old:
Let us strive with our Might, let us pray, let us fast,
That the new may be better by much than the last.
Let us beg that a Parliament new may be giv'n;
Let us pray for the good Number three and not sev'n:
May our Fleets which so wantonly ride o'er the Main,
Which so gayly have rode it and rode it again,

132

Make our Enemys tremble, and make them but few:
With Conquest and Glory to return will be new.
May our Armys be useful at Home or abroad,
In subduing our Foes, or in mending the Road;
And, tho some are wrong-headed, may none be so wrong
As to quarrel with me, because of my new Song.
May our Bishops, (God bless them!) of Learning the Chief,
With the new Year, some of them, turn o'er a new Leaf!
May the State, if it wants it, be chang'd in each Thing;
Ev'ry Person be new there, except a new King:
And, that all who deserve it may have what is new,
May this Year give the Devil and Tyburn their Due.

133

[FABLES.]

FABLE the First. The Rose and the Lilly.

On Thames, where some fair Eden blows,
Betwixt the Lilly and the Rose
Thus the Dispute, from Pride, began,
Which blooms the lovely'st Flow'r to Man.

Vain Rose, the Lilly cry'd, forbear
With mine your Beautys to compare.
The Poet, in his am'rous Strain,
To render his Melissa vain,
Calls her the Lilly of the Vale
More fragrant than an eastern Gale;
The Tears, with which her Eyelids swell,
Are Dewdrops on the Lillybell.
Princes, in their Attire, must yield
To the fair Lilly of the Field;
They shine by Art in Purple dress'd,
I in my native candid Vest:

134

Therefore, presuming Rose, forbear
With mine your Beautys to compare.

The Rose exerted thus her Pow'r,
In Answer to th'insulting Flow'r.

All you have say'd I grant is true,
Now hear what to the Rose is due.
What Poet in the Verse of Praise,
To grace his Mistress, and his Lays,
(Look o'er the Bards of Greece and Rome,)
Bids on the Cheek no Roses bloom?
While Zephyr unregarded blows,
She breathes the Sweetness of the Rose.
The vernal Gales, which round me play,
Fly loaded with my Sweets away.
When were your Leaves, proud Lilly, lay'd
In the soft Bosom of the Maid?
Hence know my Worth, and hence forbear
With mine your Beautys to compare.

Th'enliv'ning Sun his Beams withdrew;
The Rose and Lilly chang'd their Hue:
Fast fell the fatal heavy Show'r,
And lay'd in Dust each haughty Flow'r.

135

Hence lovely Maid, dear Celia, learn,
And Cloe hence this Truth discern;
Ye are but what the Fable shows,
The Lilly one, and one the Rose.
What Beautys in Oblivion ly,
Who charm'd like you the wond'ring Eye!
Helen, a fav'rite Child of Fame,
And Lucreece chast, is but a Name.
Dear Charmers hence your Fate ye see:
Such Celia such must Cloe be.

136

FABLE the Second. The Ass.

One Holyday, as Æsop says,
For Asses have their Holydays,
A worthless Creature of his Kind,
With all the Vices of the Mind,
A peevish, kicking, idle, Elf,
That hated all above himself,
Who by his Master well was fed,
Yet grudg'd his fellow Slaves their Bread,
Was saunt'ring by the woodland Side,
And found by Chance a Lion's Hyde:
The Shadow of the kingly Beast
Renew'd the Envy of his Breast;
And, when from Head to Tail survey'd,
Thus, pricking up his Ears, he say'd,
For once, it ne'er may be again,
An Ass shall lord it o'er the Plain.
Then soon, elate with aukward Pride,
He cas'd him in the shaggy Hyde.

137

A-while he round the Forest stray'd,
And there a-while the Tyrant play'd.
The humble Wretches of his Reign
All saw, and trembled at, his Mane.
The Fox, allow'd a subtle Creature,
Well view'd him o'er in ev'ry Feature.
Suspecting, as he prov'd indeed,
He was not of the royal Breed;
Where'er he goes he closely steals,
A dang'rous Spy, behind his Heels.
Once on a Day, a luckless Day,
As on the Watch sly Reynard lay,
His Majesty himself betray'd,
Who striv'd to roar, and only bray'd:
Ha! ha! quoth he, my Liege, thus low
I pay the Homage that I owe;
Your Subjects all shall do the same.
At this Alarm of Reynard came,
Some Foes before, united there,
The Bull, the Tyger, and the Bear;
The Prince, once Object of their Dread,
They make their Jest from Tail to Head.
They seiz'd him by his Ass's Ears,
And rid the Nation of their Fears,
Shamefully driv'd him from the Plain,
And ended thus his Assship's Reign.

138

FABLE the Third. The Lark.

The gaudy Peacock, and the glossy Dove,
The Bird of Juno, and the Queen of Love,
Met in that Season, at the Dawn of Day,
When Nature smiles, and all the Fields are gay.
Sure, says Sir Plume, you'll never strive again
To vy with me, when you behold my Train;
When you the Beautys of my Person see,
Envy, but never more contend with me.
What but my Charms procur'd me the Esteem
Of aweful Juno, of her Sex supreme?
Shall it be say'd, that Turturrellus strove
With me, Attendant on the Wife of Jove?
Hence, says the Bird of Venus, Boaster fly;
And with thy Fool's Coat charm th'ill-judging Eye.
Me Men, and Gods, with Admiration view,
Plain, unaffected, with my glossy Hue.
No screaming Voice is mine; my gentle Coo
Instructs the faithful Lover how to woo.

139

These are the Merits of the courtly Dove,
Of me, Attendant on the Queen of Love.
Just as Sir Plume began his sharp Reply,
They both receiv'd a Summons from the Sky.
The Goddesses, prepar'd to journey far,
Each call'd her Birds to harness to the Car.
Not one his Flight a Moment dares delay,
But to his Office each directs his Way.
Just by a Lark, couch'd in his humble Nest,
Betwixt the Courtiers hear'd the fierce Contest:
O! Gods, he cry'd, on what was this Debate,
But who is first among the Slaves of State?
Here be my Dwelling on this native Sod,
Free from Subjection to a Tyrant's Nod.
Here to the Sons of Pride I live unknown,
Lord of myself, and all these Fields my own.
Dayly I strive to make my Friends rejoice,
And cheer my Neighbours with my grateful Voice;
And ev'ry Morn my Tribute first I pay
To whom I owe my all, the God of Day.
He ended here, and from his Nest begun,
With his best Note, to greet the rising Sun.

Thrice happy is the Man whose envy'd State
From Pride secludes him, and the Fool's Debate;

140

Contented he enjoys what Nature yields,
And inambitious plows his native Fields;
Just to the rich, and gen'rous to the poor,
He open keeps his hospitable Door;
Whose well pass'd Days, without a Fear, defy
The Hate or Malice of the sharpest Eye.

141

[SATIRES.]

SATIRE the First. Love and Old Age.

No more, Melissa, 'tis too much to see.
What, not a Blush, and this Reproof from me?
O! where is all our antient Virtue fled!
What, at it still? Not mind a Word I've say'd!
These wanton Airs shall not uncensur'd pass:
Bear hence the Idol, or I'll break the Glass.

Thus rav'd Canidia, as the lovely Fair
Made the Position of a Patch her Care.
No sooner had the Nymph just step'd aside,
But from the Box, her Magazine of Pride,
A thousand Implements the Table spread,
Teeth, Eyes, the Perfume, and the liquid Red.
With paralytic Hands she pulls the Caul
From Head as naked as the Billiard-ball:
But see the Metamorphose of an Hour:
Her Forehead rises in a nutbrown Tow'r;

142

Her Cheeks are flush'd with a vermilion Dy;
And her Teeth shine of polish'd Ivory.
To whom, or what, is this Devotion pay'd?
All to the Lust of Youth, and Masquerade.
Behold Canidia with Melissa strive,
Soft tripping in the Bloom of Sixty-five;
Some unexperienc'd Fool her Eyes explore,
Just come to practice what he'd hear'd before;
Raw to the Town, and weary of his Wife,
He seeks the Pleasures of a rakish Life;
Him, by a forc'd Coquettry, she decoys
To be the Partner of her private Joys,
And the next Day, the virtuous Maid reproves,
For reading Acon's and Lavinia's Loves .

Pleas'd Gallus smil'd, hearing the Story told,
Gallus himself both impotent and old:
The Pride of Courts he shin'd in former Days,
Know'd well to give, and know'd to merit, Praise,
The Depths of Senates and Intrigues could scan;
And him the Women call'd a Woman's Man:
But why will Gallus against Nature strive
To keep the Flame, without the Pow'r, alive?

143

Have you not seen upon a burning Plain
Some glowing Embers of a Fire remain,
Which, without Matter, must inactive be?
Believe me, Gallus, 'tis the same with thee:
Think therefore when you jeer the wanton Dame,
As feeble is thy Pow'r, alike thy Flame.

A Tale by Mr. Welsted.

144

SATIRE the Second. Love and Old Age.

When youthful Passion first assumes the Rein,
And grows predominant in ev'ry Vein,
Our dayly Fancys, and our nightly Dreams,
Are full of shady Groves and purling Streams;
Various Ideas all our Thoughts employ;
And first we revel in romantic Joy.
Nature grows fiercer as the Blood boils high,
Then on to more substantial Bliss we fly;
From Fair to Fair in Search of Prey we range,
Constant to Nothing but the Lust of Change:
Thus on we rove, while our Desires are strong,
Till sad Experience tells us we are wrong.
How weak the Efforts of our Reason prove,
When all the Soul is but a Flame of Love!
But what Allurements can the Soul betray
When the Blood only serves to warm the Clay?

145

Why will, in vain, the hoary Matron strive
To vy in Dress with Belles of twenty-five?
When sev'nty Years have furrow'd o'er her Face,
With all the Symptoms of a finish'd Race,
In vain with White she would confound the Grey;
Death will not be deceiv'd, nor give a Day.
Why all these Pains the wrinkled Brow to hide?
We thro the Mask can see the needless Pride.
No more frequent the Mall, the Box, the Ball,
Thou art memento mori to them all.

146

[ELEGIES.]

ELEGY the First. On Retirement.

Happy the Man who, with a Mind serene,
Enjoys the Calmness of the Sylvan Scene,
From Courts remov'd, which honest Worth deride,
Where Flatt'ry triumphs and unmeaning Pride,
Far from the Tumults of the Town, and far
From the vexatious Wranglings of the Bar,
Who from the Baits of ev'ry Vice retires,
And governs by his Reason his Desires!
Bless'd State of Innocence, and State of Health,
More precious far than Crowns, or India's Wealth!
Serv'd up by Nature's Hand here Pleasures rise,
Pleasures to charm the Ear, and feast the Eyes:
Here sings the Thrush, and here's the Linnet's Strain;
Nor warbles here the Blackbird wild in vain:
The Nightingales their ev'ning Notes prolong;
Here chants the Finch; and here's the Woodlark's Song:

147

Here Flora smiles, in various Habits gay;
And here the Meads are redolent of May.
Come, Bellamira, come, and crown the Spring;
For thee the Flow'rs shall rise, the Birds shall sing:
I'll minister to thee the Day's Delight,
And make thee wish for the Return of Night.

148

ELEGY the Second. On the Same.

Place me, O! place me soon, ye guardian Pow'rs,
Amid the Meads, cool Springs, and sylvan Bow'rs,
Healthful my Body, and my Mind serene,
A willing Pris'ner to the rural Scene,
From servile Flatt'ry, from Detraction, far,
And party Rage, that dire domestic War!
Where no unhallow'd Bard grows madly proud
Of the false Praises of a tasteless Croud.

Free from the Eye of Malice let me rove
Thoughtful from Wild to Wild, from Grove to Grove.
Now on the mossy Bank, beneath the Shade,
For Hours of Love, or Meditation, made,
To the soft Passion I my Heart resign,
And make the long obdurate Maiden mine:

149

Hence ye prophane, be gone, far hence remove,
Nor listen, Cens'rers, to the Voice of Love!
Arise, my Fair, all cheerful as the Morn,
And let the myrtle Wreath thy Brows adorn!

Now in my Breast I feel poetic Fires,
And chant mellifluous what the God inspires,
Or into Nature for her Secrets pry,
And trace her Workings with a curious Eye.

To mend my Virtues, and exalt my Thought,
What the bright Sons of Greece and Rome have wrote
O'er Day and Night I turn: in them we find
A rich Repast for the luxurious Mind.

To crown the Blessings, now in Thought possess'd,
There with a faithful Friend I would be bless'd,
What Converse can, to give Relief inclin'd,
When the dull Blood works Sadness to the Mind.
O! what is Life, or what of Wealth the Pow'r,
Without the Comforts of the social Hour!

If, while in this delightful Calm I'm lay'd,
The groaning Nation should demand my Aid,

150

Should Tyranny provoke to War again,
And Justice call me to th'embattel'd Plain,
Farewel ye craggy Mountains, fragrant Flow'rs,
Ye painted Meads, cool Springs, and sylvan Bow'rs;
Far hence I go to horrid Scenes of Blood,
Where not Ambition calls, but public Good;
Whence if my Stars a kind Return deny,
Without Reluctance in the Field I dy:
But should the wise Disposer, to compleat
My Wish, refix me in the bless'd Retreat,
There with my Friend I would resign my Breath,
And close my Eyes, without a Fear, in Death.

151

ELEGY the Third. On seeing Bellamira's Picture.

As when the curious Eye admiring roves
O'er Lely's Portraits, or Albano's Groves,
As when Carac's majestic Forms we view,
Or what the Master Hand of Rubens drew,
Beautys on Beautys to the Sight arise,
And as we longer gaze they more surprise,
We doubt where first to praise the Painter's Art,
Which merits our Applause in ev'ry Part:
So, Bellamira, we with Wonder trace
The various Charms of thine angelic Face.

See by a Master Hand the Canvass spread,
Like Chaos, 'e're the Birth of Nature, dead;
Beneath the Pencil see the Goddess rise;
The Form divine with Wonder strikes our Eyes.
Thro many Cent'rys may the Portrait last,
And charm each Age succeeding like the pass'd:

152

But O! that Hour will come, (thy Fate before
Apelles!) when Vandyke shall please no more,
When Raphael's Draughts shall be no longer seen,
And Kneller's Beautys as they'd never been.
Painting and Poetry have, to create,
Alike the Pow'r, but how unlike their Fate!
The monumental Marble shall decay,
Kings be forgot, and Ages rowl away;
Castles and Towns may fall the Prey of Flames;
And Nations in the Deep may lose their Names;
Yet shall Corinna live in Ovid's Page,
And Lesbia triumph o'er the Waste of Age,
Till Earth herself is from her Axis hurl'd,
Or in one Conflagration burns the World.

153

ELEGY the Fourth. To Bellamira.

What Language can I chuse, what pow'rful Strains,
To the false Fair, when injur'd Love complains!
While my fond Heart forbids the vengeful Lay,
Honour recalls the Heart that pants to stray.

O! Bellamira, once my fairest Flow'r,
Whose Love was all I ask'd, was all thy Dow'r,
Call to Remembrance thy repeated Vow,
In this black Moment of thy Falsehood, now.
How many Days are conscious of our Flame!
What Nights have witness'd to the perjur'd Dame!
How oft' in gentle Murm'rings hast thou cry'd,
No Time, no Fortune, shall our Loves divide,
The Eye of Day shall be disrob'd of Light,
And all to come be one eternal Night,
The Face of Beauty shall no longer be,
'E're I, be Witness Heav'n, am false to thee.

154

Fall from your Throne of Light, great Prince of Day,
And all ye glitt'ring Orbs dissolve away;
Give to the faithless Nymph, just Heav'n, her Due,
To Bellamira, now no longer true.

O! Bellamira, how my Heart complains
Of broken Vows, and unregarded Pains!
When on thy panting Breast I pass'd the Day,
The Hours were joyful all, and all was gay;
But now thy Absence, perjur'd Charmer, gives
Thy Lover Cause to curse, because he lives.

E'en now what Numbers can express the Smart,
What the dire Anguish of my bleeding Heart!
E'en now I see, the Source of all my Pain,
On thy soft Bosom lay'd the happyer Swain!
I see him now, in Joys too fierce to last,
Ranging the Paths of Love which I have pass'd:
With glowing Kisses he salutes thine Eyes,
Thence to thy Breast descends where Lillys rise;
Thence wand'ring to thy Cheek, with Blushes spread,
He on thy Rose imprints a deeper Red:
On thy dear Lips he feasts, where Cupids play,
And where transporting breathes the Breath of May:
Behold he revels o'er thy panting Breast!
How my Soul sickens when I paint the Rest!

155

This Praise, this Censure, to the Nymph is due,
To Bellamira, now no longer true.

Say, dear Deceiver, what ill-fated Youth
Like me prefers his ardent Vows of Truth?
Say for what Wretch you practice, to beguile,
The Look alluring, and attractive Smile,
Who, while he sees thy fair angelic Form,
Blesses the Calm, and never dreads a Storm?
Unhappy Youth, if into Fate I see,
What Hours of Sorrow are reserv'd for thee,
When the false Nymph, now in Appearance true,
With cold Indiff'rence shall thy Presence view!
How will you curse the Change, how curse the Day
In which you gaz'd your lovesick Heart away!
I know what Tortures shall 'e'relong be thine;
For well I weigh them by the Weight of mine.

O! Bellamira, tho no Tongue can tell
What Pains I suffer when I say farewel,
Yet, since thy Falsehood tells me we must part,
Farewel, tho with that Word I tend my Heart.
The Muse no more shall search the Meads and Fields,
And rifle ev'ry Flow'r the Garden yields,
To the rich Tree that blooms in Java's Grove,
To Syrian Pow'rs of Bliss, no more shall rove,

156

No more shall ransack ev'ry Flow'r and Tree,
And sum up all their Sweets, false Fair, in thee.
O! Love adieu, adieu, delusive Dream,
Farewel my morning and my ev'ning Theme:
My once belov'd, my now belov'd, adieu,
O! Bellamira, now no longer true.

157

[PROLOGUES.]

PROLOGUE the First. To Penelope, A Burlesque Opera, performed in the Year 1728.

If Eyes which from a pious Sorrow flow,
If Virtue struggling thro a Length of Woe,
Are Objects to demand a gen'rous Tear,
Who, Britons, shall deny the Tribute here?

This Night our Bard on Homer builds his Fame;
Who is not aw'd at that immortal Name!
Our Scenes, in all the Pomp of Grief, disclose
A Matron chast, a Man of wond'rous Woes,
A Hero doom'd to change, when scarcely wed,
For the rough Trade of War the bridal Bed,
Thro various Lands, and Men unknown, to roam,
Far from his sole Delight, and native Home,
From Perils great, hard Lot! to greater toss'd,
Twenty long Years by adverse Fortune cross'd;

158

Yet see him great above Afflictions rise,
The Admiration of the brave and wise!

O! ye bright Stars of Love, ye virtuous Fair,
When ye behold our widow'd Wife despair,
When you behold her charming in Distress,
All beauteous in her Negligence of Dress,
Let a soft Tear a-down your Roses steal,
To shew us what by Sympathy ye feel.

The Time was once, the Poet's happyer Days,
When ev'ry Breast in Sighs confess'd his Praise.
We want not living Chronicles to tell,
When Belvedira dy'd, and Jaffeir fell,
How Hearts of Heros melted with Applause,
And softest Bosoms heav'd in Jaffeir's Cause.
The present Taste for Farce we would controul,
And to kind Pity mould the gen'rous Soul.

When, Picture of Distress, our Dame appears,
Her Tresses loose, her Eyes bedew'd with Tears,
Learn, O! ye Fair, learn from our virtuous Wife,
How to support with Fame a widow'd Life.

159

PROLOGUE the Second. Spoke on opening the new Theatre in the Hay-market with Dryden's Spanish Friar.

Studious to please, but with a conscious Fear,
A Rev'rence due to the bright Circle here,
From long successful Farce we dare to stray,
And open to politer Scenes the Way.

Young to the Stage, by Emulation fir'd,
What can we not if by your Smiles inspir'd?
Here youthful Ammon shall command the Ball,
And mighty Julius here lamented fall;
Vanoc shall rage, and, crown'd with your Applause,
Cato prescribe his little Senate Laws.
Monimia wrong'd the tender Soul shall move,
And Anthony well lose the World for Love.
In lighter Scenes the comic Muse shall play,
With drolling Falstaffe, and Sir Fopling gay.

160

Gomez shall curse his irksome Hours of Life,
Plagu'd with a Soldier, Friar, and a Wife.

Britons once more resume the Taste ye boast,
Nor vex with cold Neglect great Dryden's Ghost.
Take us, O! take us, to your fost'ring Care,
Our Pride shall be to please the brave and fair.

161

PROLOGUE the Third. Spoke by Mr. Henry Giffard, on opening the new Theatre in Goodman's-Fields the 31st of October 1729.

As antient Greece and Rome their Conquests spread,
Each Sister Art uprais'd her learned Head;
In brightest Annals still those Nations shine,
Who look'd propitious on the Virgin Nine:
This, Britain, is thy Boast, and this thy Gain,
And one bright Glory of Eliza's Reign:
Each Age shall raise her Monuments of Fame;
And Blessings ever shall attend her Name.
The Progress hence of Sciences we trace,
Still blooming fair beneath a Brunswick's Race:
Long may they bloom beneath a George's Sway,
As Flow'rs are cherish'd by the Eye of Day:
Beneath his Care unhurt may Commerce stand,
The great Support, the Goddess, of our Land:

162

To our dread Fleet may proud Insulters bend,
And Peace at home her Olive-bough extend.

Where Plenty smiles the Muses now repair,
And for Protection sue without Despair;
Not vainly conscious of our Worth we sue,
But hope Indulgence from the gen'rous few.

Ambitious of your Praise, we'll strive to please,
And raise the Mind to Virtue by Degrees.
The tragic Muse shall, by Example, prove
The dire Effects of Pride, and lawless Love,
Shall all her Charms, her ev'ry Pow'r, employ
To shew how Virtue is the Source of Joy.
The Sister Muse shall, in her comic Strain,
Expose the leud, the Coward, and the vain,
Thro ev'ry Frailty of weak Man shall run,
Shew what we shou'd embrace, and what to shun.

For this we toil, for this we tread the Stage,
And, as the Muse inspires, instruct the Age:
To the base Aids of Vice we'll ne'er descend,
Studious to please, and cautious to offend.

163

PROLOGUE the Fourth. TO LOVE and REVENGE,

OR THE VINTNER Outwitted, A Ballad-Opera performed in the Year 1729.

As routed Squadrons quit the hostile Field,
O'erpow'r'd by Numbers, yet too brave to yield,
Their Troops they rally, and their Loss supply,
Once more resolv'd the Fate of War to try,
So from successless Toils our Heads we raise,
Studious to please, and proud to aim at Praise:
Your Smiles alone can animate the Stage,
Inspire with comic Mirth or tragic Rage:

164

New Life we breathe, when crown'd with your Applause,
And glory to pursue so just a Cause:
Honour commands, and we obey the Call;
And, if we fall, 'tis no Disgrace to fall:
In great Attempts alone true Merit lys;
He well deserves, in Fight who bravely dys.

No envious Motives shall our Labours stain;
By no mean Arts we wou'd our Glory gain:
Unenvy'd we behold each rival Stage,
And wish them happy in a grateful Age:
Where'e'r the Muse and her Attendants dwell,
Still may they flourish as they merit well.

From Scenes of old our present Tale we draw,
And make with Joy your Taste alone our Law;
We dare not on the comic Scene rely,
Till to the sprightly Song for Aid we fly:
Henceforth we may, if thus we gain your Praise,
Improve your Pleasures, and our Merits raise.

The first Play that was wrote on this Plan was by one Marston: it was altered by Christopher Bullock, a Comedian, almost an hundred Years after: and on the same Plan it was put into the Form in which it now is.

165

PROLOGUE the Fifth. To the Devil to pay,

OR The Wives Metamorphosed, A BALLAD-OPERA. Spoke by Mr. Cibber.

In antient Greece the comic Muse appear'd,
Sworn Foe to Vice, by Virtue's Friends rever'd:
Impartial she indulg'd her noble Rage;
For Satire was the Bus'ness of the Stage:
No reigning Ill was from her Censure free,
No Sex, no Age of Man, and no Degree:
Whoe'er by Passion was, or Folly, led,
The laurel'd Chief, or sacerdotal Head,
The pedant Sophist, or imperious Dame,
She lash'd the Evil, nor conceal'd the Name.

166

How hard the Fate of Wives in those sad Times,
When saucy Poets would chastise their Crimes!
When each cornuting Mate, each rampant Jilt,
Had her Name branded on the Stage with Guilt!
Each Fair may now the comic Muse endure,
And join the Laugh, tho at herself, secure.

Link'd to a patient Lord, this Night behold
A wilful, headstrong, Termagant, and Scold;
Whom, tho her Husband did what Man cou'd do,
The Devil only cou'd relaim like you,
Like you, whose Virtues bright embellish Life,
And add a Blessing to the Name of Wife.

A merry Wag, to mend vexatious Brides,
These Scenes begun, which shak'd your Father's Sides;
And we, obsequious to your Taste, prolong
Your Mirth, by courting the Supplys of Song:
If you approve, we our Desires obtain,
And from your Pleasure shall compute our Gain.

This Farce was first writ by Jevon the Comedian, under the Title of the Devil of a Wife.

167

PROLOGUE the Sixth. Spoke by Mr. Milward to the Country Wife.

Censure, Detraction, and the Critic's Rage,
Are Mulcts on all who labour for the Stage;
These once our Author bore, and bore with Ease,
As they are chiefly lay'd on such as please.

The Curse of Fools was mighty Dryden's Lot;
Nor while he lives, will they be quite forgot:
To blast his Worth a Bigot Milbourne rose,
A Collier, Blackmore, and a Herd of Foes:
His Fame still blooms, and gathers Strength with Time;
And they're remember'd—as the Pests of Rhyme.

Detractive Envy, when her Object's fled,
Tho she the living haunts, should spare the dead:

168

If Manly too morosely fills the Scene,
His honest Satire shou'd excuse his Spleen:
Unhurt, untouch'd, remain the virtuous Fair,
When Horner shews what wanton Women are:
Tho black the Jet we call, and black the Crow,
White is the Ermine still, and white the Snow.
Be Faults, if few, from vulgar Eyes conceal'd,
Like Spots scarce heeded on the burnish'd Shield.
Beautys with Errors in the Ballance weigh;
And, where the first are heavyest, crown the Lay.

169

[EPILOGUES.]

EPILOGUE the First. Spoke by Mrs. Younger in the Character of the Country Wife.

Here, as your Faces in a Glass, ye see,
On this small Stage, the World's Epitome.

Whatever Women or the Men pretend
Of Virtue, Honour,—Pleasure is their End:
For this the Statesmen jar, whate'er they feign:
What one enjoys another strives to gain:
To them the Lure's Authority and Treasure,
They nourish Strife, and are the Source of Pleasure
The pamper'd Priest, who loud for Temp'rance crys,
With Boniface's Phiz, and Falstaffe's Size,
While he blames Factions, sets the World on Fire,
And preaches even Charity for Hire:
Nothing unpay'd the Oracle reveals,
But, pleas'd with Tribute, soon his Lips unseals:

170

The Poet too, pleas'd when he pleases all,
Makes Virtue rise, like Stocks, and sometimes fall:
Some Chambermaid he chuses, hang the Jokor,
To deal with Beauty, like an Alley-Broker.
If such wise Heads as these at Pleasure aim,
Why shou'd poor Woman bear such Loads of Shame?
Whom ye pretend a Priv'lege to controul,
A Sex which some divest of Sense and Soul;
Yet can this senseless Thing, which ye despise,
Rob ye of all your Senses thro your Eyes,
Can, from the lowest Peasant to the Crown,
Pull, in a Moment, all your Courage down.

171

EPILOGUE the Second. To Penelope, Spoke by Minerva.

Well, I suppose, good Folks, ye're all a-gogue,
To hear a Goddess speak an Epilogue.
My Bus'ness now is to defend the Poet;
But I can scarce persuade myself to do it:
Defend him? Why? Because he brought me here,
To rant, to swagger, and to call for Beer?
It is a Trick the Puppy learn'd at School,
To make us shew our Shapes, and play the Fool;
But, as I scorn, I can forgive, the Chit;
Poor Thing, he did it but to shew his Wit;
On such like Errands oft' we've been before,
From Homer, Virgil, and a Dozen more;
For when the Muse, forsooth, begins to jade,
Whip, snap, a Goddess is her Waiting-Maid;
And, when we've done the Bus'ness of the Day,
We take a Cloud for Heav'n, and post away.

172

[EPIGRAMS.]

EPIGRAM the First. To Phillis.

How have I prais'd thy Cheeks where Roses blow!
How dwell'd with Wonder on thy sable Bow!
How have I, well thou know'st, fatigu'd my Eyes
On the dear Lips where Coral seem'd to rise!
What Sighs I gave thee at the parting Look,
And fond the Work of Art for Nature took!
The Charm is ended: I my Heart command,
And when I praise thee next shall praise thy Hand.

173

EPIGRAM the Second. To the Same.

Phillis no longer ask me with Surprise,
Why now I view thee with indiff'rent Eyes.
False Worship long with Rapture have I pay'd,
And idoliz'd thee in a painted Maid;
But I no more prefer of Love the Vow,
Nor to the Idol of an Idol bow.

174

EPIGRAM the Third. To the Same.

To You, while in your native Charms you shin'd,
I first the Title of my Heart resign'd;
But you, more strongly to confirm your Pow'r,
Sought Help from Art in an illfated Hour.
You the fair Cheek with Roses forc'd to vy,
And stain'd the Eyebrow with a sabler Dy.
That Moment, Phillis, thy Deceit was known,
You loss'd, by Art, what Nature made your own.