Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

O! Let not, at your Lover's Cost,
O! Cloe, let not India boast,
That, with new Lustre, she can deck
The Native Beauties of your Neck:
Whate'er is pretty, may be seen
Underneath that gaudy Skreen;

Where the World, in Type, appears,
Lovely, Lucid Hemispheres,
The World! of all my Hopes and Fears;
Where Azure Lines a-cross do stray,
And wanton, in their Milky-way;
And where, my Eyes could, ever, rove,
And look, and long, and feed on Love.

Foolish India! send no more
Faint and languid Colours o'er;
Paintings! brighter, livelier, far,
Nature's Pencil, has drawn, here:
All the Glories of the East,
Crowded are, in Cloe's Breast.
Aurora, when we see her rise,
And streak, with Red, the dawning Skies,
Does a Blush, less beauteous, wear,
Than that Maiden-Colour, here;
Which oft, thro' Modesty, is seen,
Never from a Guilt within.

Whose rosy Colours ne'er return,
But I, with equal Ardour, burn.

In Pity, O! ye Stars, incline
To warm my Cloe's Breast, like mine.
But fly, thou dull and envious Cover,
And relieve the wishing Lover.
When my Eyes no more can trace
The dazling Lustre of her Face,
Her snowy Neck they may explore,
And safely range its Beauties o'er.

To BELINDA, Singing.

I

Charm'd with Belinda's Voice and Wit,
I ask'd Apollo's Aid,
That I might sing, in Numbers fit,
Th' Harmonious, Heav'nly Maid.

II

Unless, said He, She form the Song,
Unless She sing the Strain,
The Sense, the Music of her Tongue,
Must undescrib'd remain.

[Thus said Kingstone, When I die]

Amphora plena! mei Titulo res digna Sepulchri:
Hujus ero vivus, mortuus hujus ero.

Thus said Kingstone, When I die,
Write me a Liquid Elegy:
Write,
Here lies One, who thought no Harm in
A large, capacious Bellar-min:
But chose it for his Urn, to lie in;
Thirsty Living, Thirsty Dying.

On Mr. Welfted's presenting his Ode on the Duke of Marlborough's Apoplexy, to a Celebrated Toast.

If, thus, the Tuneful Bard his Voice can raise,
When England's Mars, expiring, damps his Lays,
How! could he sing, and in what rapturous Rhimes
Describe the Living Venus of our Times?

The ROVER Fix'd.

I

Cloe ! Your Sovereign Charms, I own;
I feel the fatal Smart;
The Glory, YOU can boast, alone,
To fix my wand'ring Heart.

II

Your beauteous Sex, with various Grace,
My Passions, oft, have mov'd;
And now a Shape, and then a Face,
As Fancy led, I lov'd.

III

So, does the Vagrant Bee explore
Each Sweet, that Nature yields;
Lightly, she skims from Flow'r, to Flo'wr,
And ranges all the Fields.

IV

But! You have found the cruel Art
To cure my Roving Mind:
Each Female Beauty You impart;
Your Sex, in One, combin'd.

V

My Eyes disclose my secret Pain;
My constant Sighs discover,
Tho' in deep Silence I remain,
That I am Cloe's Lover.

VI

Irksome, I pass the Hours away,
When banish'd from your Sight;
I languish all the live-long Day;
And all the wakeful Night.

VII

Tell me, ye Learn'd, who study much
The Nature of Mankind;
Why, if I think, or look, or touch,
If she be coy, or kind;

VIII

I feel my Bosom, strangely, move,
Quick Throbbings seize my Breast?
All, that I know, is, That I Love:
Do You explain the rest.

To Jacynta, Lamenting at Cloe's Small-Pox.

I

No more, no more, Jacynta, say,
That Cloe's former Face;
Each Heavenly Beauty did display,
And every pleasing Grace.

II

The Half of what remains to her,
Or, All, you say, is lost;

Thee, O Jacynta, would prefer
To be a First-rate Toast.

III

Then thy ill-natur'd Pity spare,
Nor Cloe's Fate regret;
For Cloe is divinely Fair,
And must be Envied yet.

IV

Were she an Angel heretofore,
As you'd be understood;
Yet, I'm contented, I'll be swore,
With this same Flesh and Blood.

Neptune to Æolus.

On the STORM in 1704.

Cease, angry God, your Noise and Fury cease,
And hush your Winds, in one eternal Peace:
Let 'em, in languid Murmurs, gently moan,
And be the Eccho of themselves alone.

And Thou, rude, boist'rous Deity, retire;
To Rocks and Desarts lead your blust'ring Choir;
There vent your Rage, there fret and rave in vain,
But never more presume to vex the Main.
Unless, in Quiet, I enjoy my Crown,
Your spongy Caverns, and your Court, I'll drown.

When Britain, Dear to me, sent forth her Fleet,
With swelling Sails, Iberia's King to meet,
I bid my Waves, in gentlest Motion, glide;
And Nymphs and Tritons, sporting, calm'd the Tide.
When, lo! your Winds, with maddest Fury hurl'd,
Ruffled the proudest Island of the World;
Half of my Realm, on which, I did bestow,
Anna! to Rule Above, and I Below.

Their well-built Ships, which bounding o'er the Tide,
In every distant Sea, could, safely, ride;
Untaught to Strike to any Foe, but You,
Yield to the Tempest, and Themselves subdue.
The valiant Chief, who on the Hostile Coast,
With Glorious Danger, had been, often, tost,
Grieves, in his Native Harbour, to be lost.
Grieves! tho' well anchor'd, in his fought-for Shore,
His Grave to find, which, was his Home, before.

O! you had heard the Cries, the moving Pray'rs,
Hadn't your own Noise stopt up your deafen'd Ears;
The wildest Savage I command, could say,
Hippotades more savage was than they;
For, as they eat, they soften'd with their Food,
And felt Compassion, while they fill'd with Blood.

My Waves, amaz'd, I saw transfus'd from Green,
To the deep Die, which cloath'd the Tyrian Queen;
While Albion's chalky Cliffs, confess'd, in Red,
Their Shame, and blush'd to see the mighty Dead.

Accursed Lewis! he has brib'd at Land,
And shall his Treachery at Sea command?

Begone, thou mercenary God, begone,
Retire, asham'd, repent the Ills you've done;
While I descend to my astonish'd Court,
Where Tritons, and where tuneful Nymphs resort;

Where, bath'd in Tears, on Coral Beds they sit,
And to the mournful Theme, their Numbers fit;
Prepar'd the Wrongs of Britain to relate,
And shew, how much the Winds and Thee they hate.

AN EPITAPH Upon His GRACE John Duke of Marlborough:

WHO Was Reported to have Died in Antwerp, July 19. 1714.

------Extinctus amabitur Idem.

In Hopes of an Happy Resurrection,
Here, lies the Body, of
JOHN,
DUKE of MARLBOROUGH,
An English-Man.

Whose Soul,
Above Mortality now,
Out of the Power of Envy,
Or
Ingratitude,
Enjoys the Happiest Stations of Elysium.
Where,
Alexander, Cæsar, Cato,
Admire,
Revere,
Adore,
The Bravest General, the Firmest Patriot.
Where,
Nor Cowardice, nor Treachery,
Vain Glory, Vain Ambition,
A sordid Thirst for Riches,
A restless Aim at Greatness,
Or studied Popularity and Noise:
Where,
No Base Betrayer of his Prince's Weakness,

No Sycophant,
No servile Courtier of th' inconstant Croud,
(Who, whom they raise, pull down;)
Where,
None that serves his Country's Enemy,
To build his Private Int'rest,
On that Country's Ruin;
Who trusts his Foe, deserts his Friend,
Dare shew his hated Head.

Stop, Traveller,
Here are the poor Remains
Of
GENERAL CHURCHILL:
His Country's Glory, and his Country's Shame!
Who,
Having inlarg'd her Credit, far Abroad,
In conquering Armies, and victorious Troops,
And having, well, secur'd her Peace, at Home,
Was, first, Rewarded;

Then,
Envy'd,
Injur'd,
Banish'd.

Happy Antwerp!
To whose antient Walls each Foreigner,
From both the Indies, and from either Pole,
In future Times will come,
To Read and Wonder:
To Learn,
How Changeable is every Mortal's Fate;
How certain Death.
Then value not Thy-self, vain Man!
Although possest
Of Youth or Beauty, Riches, Glory,
Since all that's Valuable could not save
Great Marlborough from Antwerp, and the Grave
And all thy Gifts,
Whether of Body, Fortune, or of Mind,

Will not continue thee Thy-self for Ever.
Whether thou'rt renown'd
For Military Feats,
In glorious Fields, in prosperous Campaigns;
For Troops Couragiously led on, and soon
Victoriously led off:
Whether thou'rt renown'd
For bravely storming, with a daring Hand,
The well-wall'd Citadel and Rampart
Of Flanders' strongest Towns:
Or, whether thou hast purchas'd Fame,
In distant Courts, and Camps, and Palaces,
For being skill'd in Counsel deep and dark,
And understanding well
The many mazy Wiles and Turns of State.
For,
Little it avails;
(Read Marlborough's Fate!)
Little,
To have known the diff'rent Interests

Of neighb'ring and of distant Nations:
Little, to have known
The truest Int'rest of our Native Land,
And to have fix'd it nearest to his Heart:
Little it avails
To have advanc'd most Glorious Terms of Peace
To have directed a most Glorious War;
T' have been the Darling of his Prince;
T' have had the Heart of every Fellow-Subject
Of mitred Flamens, and of well-rob'd Priests;
Of furr'd Patricians, and plain Senators;
Of plainer, poor Plebeians:
For Time and Chance,
Death and Disgrace,
Happens, alas! to All.
The Stout, the Coward, to the Wise, the Fool:
The Just, the Knave;
The Honest Lover of his Country;
The VILLAIN that betrays it.
But, oh! Heav'n, may that Man

Live curs'd and hated long;
Live, in unusual Disgrace,
With pungent Mind, and painful Body:
And if he rose in Haste, in Haste too may he fall.

Happy Antwerp!
Bless'd with the last Retirements of the Great,
The Glorious MARLBOROUGH:
More splendid, and more honourable Here,
Than when he shin'd in Ermin, or in Armour.
Who,
Having obtain'd a Name,
Amongst the most illustrious Mortals;
The antient Demi Gods, and present Heroes;
A Name!
Esteem'd where-ever Phœbus gilds the Day,
Thro' th'habitable Earth:
Having secur'd from French
And Popish Power
The happy Realms of Britain,

By British Arms, and those, of firm Allies:
Having,
By Glorious Marches, Sieges, Battles,
(Still Victorious)
Reliev'd the Empire, conquer'd France,
Made Flanders smile, Holland rejoice,
Tyrants tremble;
And,
A certain Ascititious Prince despair:
Full of Years,
With Honours loaden,
Withdrew into thy peaceful Walls, in Quiet
To contemplate
Th' Herculean Labours of his busie Life;
(Chiefly imploy'd for England's Good)
To contemplate
Such Glories, purchas'd by a single Man,
In few Years space,
As, a whole Race of Worthies might attempt,
With less Success, in many Ages.

Happy Antwerp!
Blest with the last Remains
Of that Great Man, who once protected Thee,
Secure from Tyranny.
Not all thy stately Buildings,
Not Temples (Antwerp's Pride)
Not
That happy Situation,
To which the Elements do All conspire
To make thee still frequented, ever lov'd;
Not all thy Riches, Plenty, Power,
Learning, Arts, and Sciences;
So true an Ornament to Thee do prove,
As MARLBOROUGH's Presence,
When Alive,
His Monument,
Now Dead.
Envy us, England!
And act, as often thou hast done,

Neglect thy Heroes, and thy Benefactors;
Disgrace Them,
But,
Lament and Honour them, when 'tis too late.

Speak Citizens,
What Shrines, what Arches,
What Mausoleum shall we raise
For Marlborough's Glory and our own?
The Graver's Art will perish,
The Painter's fade:
Time conquers Trophies,
And levels
Best rais'd Triumphal Pillars to the Ground.
'Tis the Poet,
The Muse, must make Him live;
For, She, that ne'er can die,
Alone, an Immortality can give.

Descend, Apollo, then,
And all ye Heav'nly Choir,
Which round Parnassus dwell;
Inspire,
Assist;
Whilst every Son of Art,
And Rev'rend Bard, who treads on Antwerp's Plains,
And walks, and sings, and loves, and rhimes,
And courts the Umbra of its Groves,
Along the Banks of many warbling Streams;
Summons all his Fire;
Strongest Judgment, brightest Wit,
Liveliest Fancy, justest Measure,
To eternize Themselves, their Verse,
And
MARLBOROUGH.
Methinks! I see a noble Iliad rise;
Virgil's invok'd, Statius and Lucan read,

And ev'ry Flandrian Muse aspires to be
A Steele! an Addison!

Strange!
How the lab'ring Genius works the Brain,
To rout the French on fam'd Ramillies Plain:
How! many Poets gain that glorious Day?
Here One,
With his All-conquering Pen,
Forces the Lines, by Stratagem; once pass'd,
Maintain'd by Courage,
And writes (as Marlborough fought) an Army down.
Tropes, Figures, Similes ingage the Troops,
Sweep all the Plain,
And level strongest Bulwarks to the Ground.
Another,
With Pegasæan Speed, from Flanders,
Denmark, Prussia, Thule's self,
Posts whole Battalia's, swift, to Germany.
How! does the Boian Prince

(Rewarded Rebel now)
Tremble in Verse Heroic? How! the Fate
Of the great Empire, dubious, nod;
'Till Marlborough gives the Word?
Then Baden marches, Eugene fights,
Schellenberg's pass'd, Hocstet won,
The Empire free, Tallard a Captive,
An ARMY PRISONERS.

Attend y' inspir'd Souls,
Who Numbers love, and the just Force of Verse;
Applaud, encourage;
And, in immortal Lines, employ
Your best Invention, Diction, Phrase,
In proud Heroic, humble Elegy,
In bold Alcaic, softer Saphic,
To sing the mighty, endless Deeds
Of
MARLBOROUGH.
What a noble Subject must HE choose,

Who takes him Infant first, into his Care,
Then writes him full grown Youth?
What Words, what Images,
Will this happy Poet find
T'express his beauteous Body, beauteous Mind?
(Strong Promises of future Greatness.)
See! in the Boy he reads the Man,
And, without Prophecy, foretels
The Politician, Patriot, General, yet to come.
Whose Genius, now, out-runs his Years,
And renders him the King's, the Court's Delight:
Their present Admiration, future Hope.
How greatly too, is HE employ'd,
Who, his maturer Years describes,
And finds the Hero in full Bloom?
Bending his Thoughts and Actions,
All, to his Country's Good.
Who leads him, with Success,
To many Prince's Favours;
With Him Great WILLIAM's Reign adorns;

With Him embellishes SIX Glorious Years
Of Greater ANN.
What Poet, now, is equal to the Task?
What single Genius dare attempt
The Praises, which are due to
MARLBOROUGH?
See! they divide the Theme.
One sings
His noble Race, Equestrian Family;
By War's Atchievements,
Ripen'd into Princely Titles, Honours, Riches.
Another sings his Princely Consort,
And a beautiful Descent,
Even of Goddesses, in Mortal Line.

Behold!
Ierne, here, rejoicing drawn
At Marlborough's Arrival on its Shore;
Towns surrendring! Battles won!
The French, the Native Irish, forc'd to fly,

And Popery,
And Slav'ry banish'd from the happy Coast.

There!
Another Poet makes him shine
In WILLIAM's Council at Augusta;
And Another
In WILLIAM's Wars, in Flanders:
WILLIAM!
The Good Genius of the British Isles:
Assertor of our Liberty:
Defender of our Laws:
Protector of our Religion:
Restorer of them All.

WILLIAM! and Marlborough!
For ever, Both employ'd
Our Peace and Safety to secure,
And to transmit our Crown
To ANNA, glorious.

ANNA!
Though last, yet not least Fortunate
Of the fam'd STUART Line.

Another,
A melancholy Bard,
On NASSAU's Death,
Thus makes th' illustrious Monarch speak his last;
With earnest Eyes, and Force of Voice,
Impressing HANOVER
Upon his Royal Sister's Heart.

ANNA, my Sister, my Belov'd:
The Cause,
With which Heav'n warm'd my Breast:
For which I left my native Land,
To render This a Guardianship to That,
And That to This:
To join in strict Alliance, Friendship, Love,
The Dutch and British People:

Best! Security
'Gainst France's lawless Power;
'Gainst Popery and Slavery at Home.
That Good Cause, which thy Sire
Had made deplorable and wretched;
By introducing Politicks in State,
And Worship in Religion,
Foreign and destructive to our Isle;
Retriev'd by Me!
Fate has determin'd
By Thee to Finish.
Thou shalt rise,
In Glory high:
Victories strange!
Thy Reign shall grace:
France shall be humbled, Lewis seek for Peace.
But remember, remember well, my Sister:
Take CHURCHILL to thy Heart;
Let Him command thy Arms, Abroad;
Advise at Home;

'Tis He must draw my Sword:
No Subject, less than HE,
Shall e'er command the Belgian Troops,
And those of numerous Allies;
No, Briton, when He's gone.

I see! I see the Conqueror:
From Flanders, France, the Rhine, the Maes, the Scheld,
Victorious, to the very Ister.
To Audenard, to Mons, he makes his Way,
But, oh! Blaregnies is the greater Name.
Tournay surrenders, Lisle submits,
Doway yields, ev'n Bouchain's taken,
And Paris—With that his Spirit sunk,
Just able, with his latest Breath, to say,
Paris,—Pretender.

The Thames Frozen.

Where gentle Thames, in murmuring Streams did flow
Hills rise of Ice, and Mountains stand of Snow
The Nymph, who late, with Sculler, wafted o'er,
To Cupid's Arbours, and the am'rous Shore,
Ogling from Wave to Wave, from Coast to Coast
And proudly sailing, like a First-rate Toast:
Or she, who scattering Darts, around, commands
The Oars to make Spring-Garden's happy Lands;
Her Face her Fortune, and her Fare her Store,
Trusting to secret Arts to furnish more;
Now Scot-free roves, but would, to make her Way
In warmer Weather, double Taxes pay.

The bulky Vessel, whose large, convex Side,
Braves the sublimest Surges of the Tide,
Proud with its spreading Sails, and Length of Oar,
Stretching and heard, at once, from Shore to Shore,
Neglected lies, an useless Heap of Wood,
Where, once, in Beauty and Repute, it stood.

Here soft, balsamick Ale, there Rhenish flows;
Here Bohea-Tea, and there Tobacco grows:
In one Place you may meet good Cheshire Cheese;
And in another, Whitest Brentford Pease.
Here is King George's Picture, there Queen Ann's;
Now nut-brown Beer in Cups, and now in Cans.
One sells an Oxford-Dram, as good as can be,
Another offers General Pepper's Brandy.

The Sculler, who, not long since, pull'd for Life,
And tugg'd to merit or maintain a Wife;
His Boat a Booth; now fixes his Abode
In the proud Billow, where, so late, he row'd;

Content, with Cap in Hand, to beg and flatter;
He knows, the sawcy Freedoms of the Water,
In Icy Seasons are no Jesting Matter.

Lo! there a sleek Venetian Envoy walks,
And there an Alderman, more proudly, stalks;
There goes the French Ambassador; that's He:
And there is Honest 'Squire and Captain Lee.
Here's Rue St. Jaque, and yonder is the Strand;
In this Place Noyer plies; that's Lintott's Stand.

But who's here shining on the frigid Thames?
Stop, stop, ye amorous Souls, I'll tell their Name
The first is Sunderland, O matchless Face!
From Marlb'rough is deriv'd that blooming Grace,
With which she warms this happy, frozen Place.
The next is Balladine, like Lilies fair;
Lapelle the next, each youthful Lover's Care.

Thou! beauteous River Thames, whose standing Tide,
Equals the Glories of thy flowing Pride!
The City, yea, the World's transferr'd to Thee;
Fix'd as the Land, and richer than the Sea.
The various Metals Nature does produce,
Or Art improve, for Ornament, or Use,
From the Earth's deepest Bowels brought, are made
To shine on Thee, and carry on the Trade.
Guilleaum, renown'd for making Silver pass
Thro' various Forms, and Sparks, as fam'd for Brass;
And T---, 'tween God and Gold who ne'er stood Neuter,
And trusty Nicholson, who lives by Pewter;
Over their Doors, affix'd their well known Names,
And wrote, beneath, Remov'd into the Thames.
The wealthy Banker, who ne'er view'd the Sea,
To Ports most distant, dates his Bills from Thee:
While all the Silks and Sattens of the East,
Stream, gawdy, up and down thy frozen Waste.

But, Oh! remember, when a kinder Sun
Shall loose thee from thy Shore, and bid thee run,
To let each distant Stream and Nation know
The Blessings of the Land thro' which you flow.
Tell 'em, That all Things smile on George's Reign,
And Liberty her Temple rears again:
The Vertuous meet Reward, the Bad Disgrace;
And Joy and Triumph dwell in ev'ry Face.

A PROLOGUE

Design'd to have been sent to a certain AUTHOR last Winter.

In Days of Old, when Nonsense was not Wit;
E'er Poems pleas'd, tho' not by Poets writ:
E'er Rules Dramatic out of Fashion grew;
Whilst Truth and Nature still were kept in View:
In those Days, Prologues were like Bills of Fare,
And did for Elegance to come, prepare.
For well-chose Dainties they prepar'd the Guest;
And, often, were, Themselves, a Thorough Feast.

Those Days are over—All that I can say,
(Who am a Modern) is, That this same Play
Had ne'er been writ, but for the Vile South-Sea.
The Author bids me tell you, He was under
A dire Necessity to Write or Plunder:
And, upon Thought mature, he judg'd it fit
T' adjourn the Highway-man, and ply the Wit.

He says, The Pad doth oft, with Danger, fight
The Man, whom, safely, he to Death could write
Who, in the Box, when robb'd, accounts it Sport,
Though, on the Road, he'd kill, or hang you for't

Faith! this seems clinching Reasoning, and true:
In Pity, therefore, Gentlemen, should you,
Here (Two Nights hence) with Generous Intent,
Let the poor Poet plunder, by Consent;
And, since he cocks no Pistol at your Breast,
Come, and Deliver, if you love a Jest;

Applaud or not, he swears, He's in no Pain;
His greatest Euge, is a little Gain;
Let him have this—then damn—you damn in vain.

As to the Characters, he here doth chuse,
He says, He can th'Originals produce:
Take up the Cap who will, he stands the Strife;
He drew his Manners from the very Life.

And now, observe some Good in ev'ry Evil;
(Devotion's often owing to the Devil)
Directors, too, are good, this same Bad Way;
The Poet's pillag'd—The People have a PLAY.

The TORIES Overseen.

[_]

To the Tune of, To you, Fair Ladies, now at Land. 1715.

Ye silly Tories, now, give Ear,
To what, I shall advance;
Who, lately, without Wit, or Fear,
Your Measures took from France:
But who, might, now, have Happy been,
(Were you not Fools) in your own King;
With a fa, la, la.

The like was never seen, before,
Since the first Fall of Man;
That Jemmy was not hasten'd o'er,
Before the Fall of NAN;

Since She was, thoroughly, inclin'd,
And sick of Body, sick of Mind:
With a fa, la, la.

Your Schemes, I own, were, all, well laid,
You proper Measures took;
And all that could be done, or said,
Was done, by Hook or Crook:
But, tell me, with what Confidence,
Could you depend on Providence?
With a fa, la.

No doubt, we must conclude, on Sight,
And think, as you thought, then,
That God's Hereditary Right
Can never fail with Men:
But HE, you see, is well content
T' explain this Right, by Parliament;
With a fa, la.

And now, suppose, as you have done,
In all your Acts, of late,
That Providence was Neuter grown,
And left us, Tête a Tête;
Yet, I'll be hang'd, if mortal Men
E'er did, or will do thus, again;
With a fa, la.

For, when the Premises were laid,
With all your Main and Might;
Your-selves expos'd, your Friends betray'd,
And France in Heart and Plight:
THEN, not to hurry Perkin in;
O fie! the like was never seen;
With a fa, la.

And yet, to lay this deep-laid Scene,
Four Kingdoms, fam'd in Story,
Imploy'd their wisest, ablest Men,
Both Jacobite and Tory;

Great-Britain, France, and Ireland,
And Spain, too, all join'd Hand in Hand;
With a fa, la.

Nay, Robert Farley, he was there,
Fam'd both for Wit and Sense,
Endow'd with ev'ry tricking Air,
With Politicks and Pence;
And yet, as tho' it were not He,
The Plot it would not, could not Gee;
With a fa, la.

No, not tho' it was pushed on,
And, without any Thinking,
In Heat and Hurry by St. John,
Inflam'd with Love and Drinking;
Tho' these were for't, I say, 'tis clear,
That we have balk'd the Chevalier;
With a fa, la.

And now, to name some Men of God,
And many Men of Sin,
Who, all, ingag'd in Schemes, most odd,
To bring this Youngster in;
I think it vain; but can't but laugh,
That Ormond's Duke should prove an Oaf;
With a fa, la.

Then! God preserve our Brave King George,
And all his Royal Race;
And, may all those, who dare to forge
A Papist, for His Place;
O! may all Men, who have such Views,
O! may they die in Wooden Shooes;
With a fa, la.

The RAREE-SHOW;

Or, An Explication of the Oxford Almanack, 1716.

By Jeremiah Van Husen, a German Artist.

Masters! Behold, that pretty, little Boy,
Whom, early Pray'rs, for his Friends imploy;
He! who is plac'd, over-against those Scales,
Is, James the Third, Alias, The Prince of Wales.
For, say whate'er you will, about that Youth,
Believe me, Sirs, this is the Naked Truth.

That Figure, there, which leers on Master's Face,
And points to Oxford, Learn'd! and Loyal Place!
Has puzzled much the Wise, to know, if She,
His Cousin, Nurse, or else his Mother be;

But, in this Search, I think, they all have miss'd her;
Depend upon't, that's put there for his Sister.

That smiling Parson, next, in Camisado,
Is one, about whom, Men have made much a-do.
Some call him Chev'rel, and some call him Trapp;
But, I can tell you, howe'er that may hap,
Who those three Persons are, which stand behind him;
The First is Doctor Phipps, Gentlemen, mind him.
The next is, or, may my End be a Rope,
That little, High-Church Rhimer, Poet P---
Or, that I may guess, a little, nigher,
Hang me, but it may happen to be Pr---
The hindmost! you may know him by his Air,
It is the thirsty, dry Vice-Chancellor.
See! how they all do promise, That the Rules,
Taught, in that Theatre, and in those Schools,
Shall tend to strengthen His, their Sovereign's Right,
For whom, as they have studied, so they'll fight.

The Right and Center past, the Left beware on;
The First is Ormond, tho' some call him Aaron.
See! how he points, as tho' that he would say,
This self-same Loyal University,
Shall place this Crown, in Alma Mater's Hand,
Upon That Infant's Head, if I command.
Do'sn't the Scale, by Justice held, incline
T'wards him, to shew, that he has Right Divine?
And, what else means this circled Serpent's Tail,
But, that his Kingly Race shall never fail?
Thus Ormond spoke; but, you must know, they jest on
This Prophesie, since Carpenter took Preston;
And curse, in loudest Terms, since they've been crost here,
Their Bully Butler, and their General Forster.

Gentlemen! You're very Welcome; and, I hope, you're all well satisfy'd.

Smoke the DOCTOR;

Or, An Excellent New Ballad, called, The School-Master of Eton.

[_]

To the Tune of Packington's Pound.

I

My Masters, and Friends, and good People, give Ear,
I'll sing you a Song, most wonderful fine;
How the Church, when betray'd by a Spiritual Peer
Was, bravely, maintain'd by'n Inferior Divine;
Andrew Snape, it is he,
That Reverend D. D.
Such a Snip-Snap Respondent, you never did see
Oh! Sn---, thou deserv'st to be whipt and be beaten
By the dullest Boy, thou, e'er, whipp'dst at Eton

II

In the Name, first, of Nonsense, what cou'd thee possess;
'Gainst Bangor to write, without Capacity?
He, who, when but Presbyter, had such Success,
In pulling down one of the Hierarchy?
For, since thou'rt not He,
And the Bishop's not Thee,
The same Thing can't hap, in this Con-tro-ver-sy.
Oh! Sn---, then thou'st better to drudge at In-Speech,
Than a Rod to prepare, thus, for thine own Breech.

III

Your Modesty's great, but your Manners are small,
We allow, too, Scant-Reason cannot be prevailing:
But then you're inlighten'd with Rancour and Gall, Railing:
And, instead of good Reading, instruct us with
Nay, your Impotent Rage,
At a Poor Title-Page,
Is the very Priest-mark of this Priest-ridden Age;
Oh! Sn---, is't thy Fury and Rage, in each Line,
What proves thy Black-coat to be Jure-divine?

IV

You think that you see: But who sees that you think?
For I must needs tell you, you're stupidly blind
Nay, when you see most, you do no more than wink
For, the Truth, in the dark, you have still left behind
And Father Ben's Sects,
Of Equal Subjects,
Still, are Equal, for all, thou hast puzl'd the Texts
Oh! Sn---, we allow of good Protestant Rules,
But will not be impos'd on by High-flying Tools.

V

By his Lordship's own Tenets, you affirm you are Free,
To say what you please (even bad Names to call
But you've more regard to your proper Safety,
And to his high Character E-pis-co-pal:
Dear Doctor, well done,
Who would a Risque run,
Tho' the Bishop and all his Clerks cou'd be won?
Oh! Sn---, never meddle with Schism or Sin,
Unless you can safely sleep in a whole Skin.

VI

But, pray! read, once more, this most blundering Page,
Wherein you resolve to be free from all Harm;
Altho' it might hap that your Inner-ly Rage,
Might dictate, what, calls for the Secular Arm:
Well! we know, you don't dote,
Nor speak this by Rote;
For you're sure (by corrupting our Youth) of our Vote;
O! Sn---, then speak out, at thy natural Rate,
And reply to his Lordship in true Billingsgate.

VII

The Book's at an End (the Preface being o'er)
For no Mortal can find one Argument in't;
You Fret, you Harangue, you Scold, and you Rore;
And this is more fit for your Pulpit, than Print:
But you wou'd raise Fame,
From BANGOR's great Name,
Altho' you have paid very dear for the same;
O! Sn---, pray remember, then, Milo's sad End,
Work at Logs, ever after, thou art sure thou canst rend.

VIII

To conclude; With thy Betters, since thou'st been so free
Thou canst not take it ill, if I give thee Advice
Teach thy Boys Roman-Latin; but English Loyalty
And leave Church and State to People more Wise
Bid thy Friend Jonah, scrape
All these Books, in one Heap,
And burn them, for Love of his dear Andrew Snape
O! Sn---, there's no other way left to shun Shame
Unless You yourself increase your own Flame:
And then Men will cry,
Here a Doctor doth fry,
Who, in Flames, ever liv'd, and in Flames, too, did die
A Doctor! who, Dying, full well brought to Light,
He knew nothing, whilst Living, of what he did write.

AN ODE To the Right Honourable the Earl of CADOGAN.

Scriberis Vario Fortis & Hostium
Victor. ------
Hor.

I

Hero! sprung from Antient Blood!
CADOGAN, Valiant, Wise and Good!
What golden Lyre, what happy Muse,
To sing thy Praises, shall we chuse?

So great a Theme, so new a Song,
To Welsted only does belong,
Like Ovid soft is he, like Flaccus strong.

II

Vertues! that soar so high, demand
The Touches of a Master-Hand.
Love disdain'd; on Pindar's Wing,
Thee and Conquest he shall sing;
To Times, unborn, transmit thy Praise,
On thy Laurels graft his Bays,
And with thy Triumphs swell his polish'd Lays.

III

Whether, thy Deeds he, backward, trace,
With Atchievements past to grace
The numerous Ode, and bring anew
Fields, with Slaughter, stain'd, to view:
Part in Marlb'rough shalt thou claim,
Next to Marlb'rough rise in Fame;
The Strain resounds with each immortal Name.

IV

Whether, from a nearer Theme;
The tuneful Poet form his Scheme,
And court, with Skill, the ravish'd Ear,
The Glories, which we see, to hear;
Glories unrivall'd! fit alone
By Wit unrivall'd to be shown,
By Harmony inspir'd, and Numbers not his own!

V

If glorious War his Fancy charms,
Thy Courage and thy Skill in Arms,
Thy brandish'd Steel, and spreading Wreath,
Bold and sublime the Verse shall breath:
If thy social Life he show,
Soft, the gentler Strain shall flow,
And every Line with Truth and Friendship glow.

VI

Oh! Thou! whom even thy Foes approve,
Whom foreign Nations praise and love!
Darling of the British Court!
Thy Country's Boast, thy King's Support!
Distinguish'd Honours born to wear,
Fav'rite of the Bright and Fair,
The Soldiers Glory, and the Soldiers Care:

VII

Could I boast thy vigorous Mind,
Thy sprightly Wit and Judgment join'd;
Were all those Arts and Graces mine,
Which make thy finish'd Merit shine:
Then, wou'd I raise the sounding Strain,
Alarm, around, the list'ning Plain,
And with thy various Praise the Verse sustain.

VIII

I'd paint Thee then, with matchless Art;
The clearest Head, the bravest Heart;
Boldly honest to advise;
Blest Effect of being Wise!
Ever prompt thy Aid to lend:
Swift thy Country to defend:
And doom'd th' Impostor's blasted Hopes to end:

IX

But stay, fond Muse, th' Attempt refrain;
The Theme ill suits thy humble Strain;
Welsted, O! begin the Song!
Blooming Poet, bright and young!
Exert thy heav'nly Art anew,
In lofty Verse the Toil pursue,
In Verse to Glory, and CADOGAN due.

X

His past and present Actions sung,
Let thy Lyre again be strung;
Let thy sweet, prophetic, Lays,
Anticipate his coming Praise;
Place the Scene before our Eyes,
That wrapp'd in Clouds and Darkness lies,
The Scene ordain'd in distant Time to rise.

XI

Many Years the Hero give!
Lov'd and happy make him live!
Draw him at the Helm of State,
As in Arms, in Council, Great!
Let the God like Portrait shine!
So thou! (for Poets may divine)
Shalt share his Fame, and make his Triumphs thine.

THE Ode-Maker;

A BURLESQUE on the Dean of Killalla's Ode to the Right Honble the Earl of Cadogan.

Well! Smedley, since thou wilt expose
Thy self in Verse, as well as Prose,
And teize thy Friends, as well as Foes;
Be patient my Advice to hear:
Rave within thy proper Sphere;
Treat not of Subjects, so Sublime,
In gingling, empty, doggrel Rhime;

But hit thy Genius, suit thy Muse,
And Ballad-swelling Matter chuse;
Chuse something whimsical and odd,
But spare, besure, the Word of God.

Tell us what S---t is now a doing:
Or whineing Politicks or Wooing;
With Sentence grave, or Mirth uncommon,
Pois'ning the Clergy, and the Women;
Do! prithee, flutt'ring, smatt'ring Poet,
For thou, dear Dean, or none must do it.
Shew us, in sympathetic Strain,
The Twin-Conceit of Brother Dean:
He's always Odd, and always New,
Idle, and Humorous as You.

Is he at Ombre or at Tea?
Writing a Pamphlet or a Play?
Sneaking to Nuttly's, in a Chair?
Or riding on the Strand, for Air?

Or, is he lolling on his Elbow,
Thinking what, often, John and Nell do?
Shewing how well he can rehearse
The nastiest Thing in cleanest Verse?
Inventing Whims, preparing Rhimes
To bless the World, in better Times?

Or, is He casting Perkin's Doom,
And prophesying Things to come?
When staunch, old Tories shall take Place?
Or new Apostates yern with Grace?
When Bolingbroke shall be restor'd,
And he himself yclyp'd, My Lord?

Or, is He settling Schemes of Life?
Money, besure; besure, no Wife.
I'th' Morning fixing Water-Gruel,
Tea is damn'd dear, and will not do well.
At Noon no Dishes; No! a Chop
Stole in, by John, from Neighbouring Shop,

Where Diet ready-dress'd is Sold,
A Griskin hot, or Sliver cold;
And, for the Night, a Crust of Bread;
A Pint of Wine, and so to Bed.

Unless, when Winds have blown full East,
And Pacquets bring a Rebel-Guest,
Full-fraught with News; then ev'ry Door
Being shut, to chat their Treason o'er,
And o'er again; full Bowls go round,
With sprightly Mirth and Faction crown'd,
And John is bid to Cut; and Cut on,
Till a whole Yard of Neck of Mutton
He into Chops dissects, to cloy
Th' admiring Family, with Joy.

But, if no News-monger appears,
Or if h'advise from adverse Stars;
Thinly, at Home, the Dean is fed;
Or visits, for his daily Bread;

And John and Nell, with Whey-like Beer,
Brown-Loaf and Cheese, (most hearty Fare,)
Having indulg'd, may take their Ease,
Love, Snore or Sing, or what they please.

Something, like this, methinks, good Dean,
Were better than Heroic Strain:
Or, if your Reverence had thought fit
To shew your Scrub, half-witted Wit,
Amongst the Sword, the Robe, the Gown,
Who, envy'd, shine in Dublin Town,
You might pick out, as thick as Hops,
Poets, Punsters, Ladies, Fops,
Tart, and Bright, and very Dull,
With Paunch well stuff'd, and empty Scull;
And sing 'em making Bulls, and quaffing,
Chewing, Blundring, ever Laughing.

Or, if thou art for meaner Work,
Skim thy Thoughts away to Cork,

Describe thy Bishop, learn'd and wise,
Lab'ring at senseless Niceties:
Inventing Sins, creating Evil,
And making New Work for the Devil;
Whereas the Crimes already past, are
More than Flesh and Blood can master.
However, that thy wonted Care
Of Mother-Church may full appear,
Thy Bishop at his See, disgrace,
And drink THE MEMORY to his Face.

Tell him, The Cure of Souls, of late,
Is deem'd unbred for Priests of State;
That, as no Roof, or Sacred Wall,
Adorns thy Parish, none e'er shall;
And if thy Wish were truly known,
'Tis, That Killalla Church were down.

Or, lest thy Rhiming Vein should cool,
What if thy Friend Sir Richard's—Pool,
Thou didst describe, in Lines and Feet;
For that queer Nick-nack patt and meet;
Inform'd the Town, (this Freek being over)
He would proceed and soon discover,
An Art, long doom'd to deep Despair,
And Shew a Castle in the Air.

Instead of this, from Pindar's Wing,
You Goose-Quills draw; make Welsted sing
Smooth and sad Verses, not his own:
And yet they are, for He alone
Was born to sing the Hero's Doom,
Both past, and present, and to come.

Dear Doctor! 'tis a mournful Thing,
If you Hold-forth just as you sing;
So soft's your Song, so smooth's your Art,
You'll ne'er affect your People's Heart.

And yet, tho' Verses thick do flow,
From your swift Pen, as Winter's Snow,
You left your Work most crudely done,
And ended, just as you begun.

But this Friend Welsted must repair;
Welsted! Blooming, Young, and Fair;
To His Master-stroke, and Touch,
Belongs the Barrier and the Dutch.
Oh! had he done it, or that you
Wou'd, like your self, your Theme pursue.

Peter Browne, D. D.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE

To the Right Revd. Dr. HOADLEY, Lord Bishop of BANGOR.

(1720.)

Hoc erat (experto frustrà Varrone Atacino
Atque quibusdam aliis) meliùs quod scribere possem.
HOR.

Since Epic Strains no more are heard;
Nor Vertue, lately, has appear'd
In long-spun Fable: Since no God
Works Wonders now in Episod.
But Poets write (as Doctors Cure
By Chymic Skill) in Miniature.

Since Pages few of flowing Wit,
On merry Subjects, Archly writ,
Out-rival all the Tales, of Old,
By Strong-lung'd Greek or Latin told.
In short, my Lord, since Folio-Praise
Is thought unbred, in these our Days;
And since a little Ode or Letter
Is sooner penn'd, and, relish'd better:
Accept the humble Verse I chuse;
A Wakening to some sprightlier Muse:
Accept it from your faithful Friend;
The Love, which you create, I send.
I send you Health, I send you Praise;
And Length and Faustity of Days.
May every Year, may every Hour,
Honours and Blessings on you pour:
And when good Durham sleeps in Peace,
O! may you Bless the Diocese.

Knowledge Extensive, Useful, New:
A Head so Clear, a Heart so True:
Vertue embody'd! a Whole Life,
For LIBERTY, one glorious Strife:
Talents like These, let all Men know it,
Deserve a Better See, and Poet.

Whilst I, my Lord, deceive my Time
With Milton's Blank, or Welsted's Rhime:
Whilst I my Hours, at Will, employ,
And feel no Care, without a Joy:
Whilst deep in Lore and Learned Text,
I'm oft inlighten'd, oft perplex'd:
Whilst Clemens and his Friends, awhile,
In Facts I trace, or sift in Stile;
Plodding to Sleep my pensive Mind,
One Truth, in Hours, explain'd to find.
Or whilst I rouze to Life again,
With Horace, Lucan, or Montagne;

Or still give Gayer Pleasures Birth;
Court Music, Wit, and living Mirth:
And upon all of these refine
With Atticus and Generous Wine.

I say, with Negligence and Ease,
Whilst much I strive myself to please;
More Uniform and Rigid, You
Your unremitted Toils pursue;
Make Mankind's Good your Sole Delight;
Your Morning Thought; your Care at Night.

But, since, my Lord, our Holy War
Is ending, just as others are:
Or, since this War, (much like the Flemish)
ONE CAMPAIGN more, will, surely, Finish,
For which, in due Time, we shall look;
You'll not be Cashier'd, like the DUKE.

Since all your Foes, the Small, the Great One,
This of the Temple, That of Eton,
Quitting the Field, away have flown,
And, humbly, laid their Weapons down.
Since Those, who Scandal were imploy'd on,
From Carlisle Town, to that of Croydon;
That is to say, from South to North,
Their Rage, in vain, have bluster'd forth:
Since Wor'ster's Dean, who would be dabbling,
Has paid, full well, for Putney-babbling;
As Joseph Smith, and half a Score,
Like Atterbury heretofore,
Calamy, Blackhall, many more.

Since Figulus, if I can guess well,
Will ne'er repair his broken Vessel:
And is thought neither Wise nor Nice,
To print such Country, Stale Advice.
Since George's Schemes, with Power, o'erthrow
Each Lukewarm Friend, each Red-hot Foe;

And all is snug, and safe and quiet,
From Westminster, to Warsaw-Diet;
Nay, since the Church is far from Change, Sir,
And the Stage only was in Danger.

In Fine, my Lord, since The Craft fails,
And Truth and Liberty prevails;
Relieve your Mind, your Spirits spare:
Forget your Glory, and your Care:
Bethink: Your Foes are fled and gone;
Enjoy the Triumphs you have won.
Divide yourself amongst your Friends;
With which Advice my Letter ends:
Hoping we, speedily, shall meet,
Not without Clark, in Gerrard-Street.

OCCASIONED By An ODE TO Earl St---pe.

Well! T---ll, thou hast found it out;
Thy Hero is both Wise and Stout!
But! let me tell you, 'tis no more,
Than Politicians found before.

Why then this Stir, and mighty Do,
In Stanza's Four, Lines Thirty-two?

Why all this dire Poetic Rage?
Thy Sirname in the Title Page!
Bare Sirname! when you might add to it
'Squire, Secretary, Poet!
Only to say, Britannia's Boast
Will soon be seen on France's Coast:
And when He's hugg'd Monseigneur, then,
He'll come to London back again.

And, why, pray, must the Errand fail,
Unless the Ship from Windsor sail?
Why nothing said of the Intrigue
A Brother-Earl drives at the Hague?
Nor of the Mediators Work
Between the Emp'ror and the Turk?
But Twice three Rivers stopt, to look
At one Trip, o'er the Herring-Brook?

Methinks, thy Time were better spent,
If thou (from Europe's Fate, unbent)

Hadst sung, in Lines and Numbers new,
How Ad---n, thy Friend withdrew
From Cock-pit Cares, to Holland-House,
From State-Intrigues to cheer his Spouse;
To all things Elegant and Quiet,
His Chambers, Coun---ss, and his Diet.

Or, what if you'd inform the Town,
That Things, of wonderful Renown,
And Nature strange, are to be seen
In Bow-Street at the Pillars Green?
Told, where the Half-Man lives, who can do
More than compleatest Ferdinando?
Sung Winstanly, so fam'd for Water?
Or blaz'd abroad the Fire-Eater?

These had been Subjects, wondrous fit,
To suit thy Talents, and thy Wit:
But 'tis ill judg'd, in Four-Foot Rhime,
To handle Matters so Sublime.

What! He who came from Thames and Isis,
In singing St---pe, and his Crisis,
The Play and Plot, at once, to spoil,
By Dapper, Lean, Laconic Style!

Not so, of late, thy Lyre was strung,
When, in Heroics high, you sung
A Man of God; who had the Grace
To Fire the World, by making Peace.

On His Excellency the Earl of Cadogan's Publick Entry at the Hague, May 28. 1718.

being His most Sacred Majesty King George's Birth-Day.

Facta Ducis vivent: Operosaq; Gloria Rerum.
Ovid.

Aurora! Goddess of the Purple Morn,
With Blushes gay, thy op'ning Light adorn;
And Thou, Great Phœbus, dart thy brightest Ray,
Shine all the God, and grace this Glorious Day.
For, lo! in pompous Embassage, we bring
The Greatest Hero, from the Greatest KING.

His Master! form'd alone to reconcile
Contending Monarchs, and make Europe smile.
None! like Himself, thro' long Experience wise,
To teach Success from growing Schemes to rise.
He! who, when new to Arms, to form the Man
Had William's Cause, and Conduct for his Plan:
Who, rip'ning thence to Glory, Year by Year,
Copy'd All Marlb'rough in his Arts of War
Immortal Marlb'rough! who alone can boast
His Sieges never Rais'd: His Battles never Lost.

Succeed Thy Sire, thou great adopted Son,
Witness to all the Glories he has won;
On his high Pedestal erect thy Name,
Rise on his Actions, and enjoy his Fame.
Thou! Thou! art He, whom Belgian Crowds to Day
With Joy behold, and lead thy splendid Way;
A Day! which gave (crown'd by th' auspicious Fates)
GEORGE to the World, Cadogan to the States.

CLOE to Mr. Tickell,

OCCASIONED By His Avignon-LETTER.

When, curious, you peruse this Female Strain,
And read my Letter o'er and o'er again;
Your various Judgment e'er you, hasty, make,
And point out this, and dwell on that Mistake;
In every Page, a Noun or Verb mis-plac'd,
And all the Rules, Grammarians teach, effac'd;
Remember, Sir, my Verses are your Crime,
'Twas he, who made me Loyal, made me Rhime.

E'er, yet, my Female Studies I declin'd,
And to the Priest and Post-boy turn'd my Mind;
When Tea, at Noon; the Ace of Hearts, at Night,
And Flattery often pleas'd, and often Spight;
My easy Minutes, undisturb'd with Care,
In Indolence I pass'd, 'twixt Play and Pray'r;
Content, with Skill, to patch, or flirt a Fan;
Heedless of News, and thoughtless, ev'n, of Man
But the broad Doctor, bellowing, from afar,
The spiritual Horrors of a Pulpit-War,
I listed Voluntier, and sought Success
By every Woman's Wile, by Look, by Dress;
I wrote, I read, I sung, I danc'd, I play'd,
And curs'd the Visit, which no Convert made;
In which a Whig I cou'd not, smiling, save,
Or frown a stiff Schismatick to his Grave.

Oh! had not Truth, by thy inchanting Tongue
Harmonious Poet! been, so sweetly, sung;

Still I had liv'd deceiv'd, inur'd to Lies,
And listen'd still to Priests and Prodigies.
Bless'd! be thy Verse; thy Verse! whose sacred Pow'r,
Alone, a Woman-Bigot cou'd restore;
May all my Sex proclaim thy just Applause!
And praise thy Wit, and aid thy glorious Cause!

How long shall Dulness, dreaming God! sustain,
In this fair Island, his inglorious Reign?
Behold! what Pranks he plays; behold him range,
The darling Deity, around the 'Change;
Where Pun-full Misers jest, and cheat, and cant,
And wallow in the Riches, which they want.
See! how his awful Godhead does dispence
At Child's, and Will's, his solid Influence!
How! willy-whisps P---e's Senses quite astray;
And sheds his whole collected Force on G---y!
How puzzles pert Ar---t's Learned Head;
Who, tho' to Recipe's and Pulses bred,

His former Studies, dozing, now reverses,
Writes Madrigals, Crack Puns, and Clubs for Farces.

With Grief! his far extended Power I view;
With Grief behold a fribbling, wittling Crew,
With borrow'd Ribaldry distress the Town,
And teize us, ev'n with Dulness, not their own;
With far-fetch'd Pun, and with Conundrum vile,
They blend the lofty Language of our Isle;
Invert, and strain, and torture harmless Words,
To form a Gibberish, worse, than Neeve's Records
Pumping for Grubstreet Jokes, in Council sit,
And blast their Mother-Tongue, for want of Mother-Wit

Rise, Ad---n, exert thy Muse's Charms,
Quit the soft Scenes of Love, and War---k's Arms
Convince the wondring World, that George's Reign
Is not condemn'd to Folly, and to Gain.
Thus each Alloy disclos'd, by thy pure Ore,
Bombast shall pass for Sterling Wit no more.

Nor David's Poetry, inspir'd, sublime,
Obscenely shock in barbarous, doggrel Rhime.

Let generous Garth relax his God-like Care;
Himself, while saving others, let him spare;
That, when good-natur'd Spleen disturbs his Mind,
He a Relief, from Poetry may find.

Let Philips too resume his Rural Strain,
And Congreve (silent long) fresh Laurels gain;
Once more let Vanbrugh write, and Welsted chuse
New Subjects, to inspire his Lyrick Muse.
And thou, O! favour'd Youth, whose tuneful Art
With Love of Verse, cou'd warm a Female Heart,
Urge the great Dictates, which thy Breast inflame,
Consult thy Country, and consult thy Fame.

TO Sir RICHARD STEELE,

On his new PLAY, call'd, The Conscious Lovers.

Nescio, quod certe est, quod me tibi temperat astrum.
Pers.

Vouchsafe, my Friend, this hasty, honest Praise,
Kind, to accept, tho' sent in humble Lays:
Long Love and Friendship warm my faithful Heart,
And Love and Friendship know no Rules of Art.

Much has the Stage bemoan'd the absent Muse;
His Aid the Delian God did long refuse.

No Plot (but at the Tower) is to be seen;
The Players from Act to Act, from Scene to Scene,
In senseless Guise, do hurry, talk and move,
Play idle Tricks, and make unmeaning Love:
Raise awkward Hopes, or shew ill-grounded Fears,
Or when they force a Smile, offend our Ears:
And, if in Buskin dread the Stage is trod,
While Princes Rave or Die, Spectators Nod.

But you, my Friend, auspicious to the Age,
Refine our Nations, and Reform the Stage.
Your Conscious Lovers to our View have brought,
Whatever Terence writ, or Horace taught;
So proper, so polite is All that's said:
What pleases seen, will please us more when read.

Oldfield and Wilks, the Hearing charm'd and Sight,
'Twas Steele the Understanding did delight.

True was the Conduct, easie was the Thread,
Which, thro' the Drama's winding Labyrinth led.

Let future Bards, from Thee, be taught the Rule,
To raise Five Acts, without a vicious Fool:
To blend with Virtue still their Comick Life,
To make the Lover True, and Chaste the Wife.

But oh! what Joy surrounds thy honest Heart,
To see so well approv'd each labour'd Part;
All the Fatigue of Writing, Wrack of Brain,
To Think, and then express the Thought again,
And the whole Stretch of Fancy, Judgment, Wit,
To make all new, and moving that is writ;
Reward, from this Reflection finds alone,
At once I've profited, and pleas'd the Town.

Thus Phydias with transported Eyes survey'd
The beauteous Virgin, which his Hands had made;
Surveying he forgot the Mallet's Blows,
And all the Toils, which from the Chisel rose;
Forgot the Labours of the Rough-hewn Stone,
And all the various Forms it had put on;
Ere the Embryo Marble, made Adult by Art,
Grew up, thro' just Degrees, from Part to Part,
To such Perfection, that another Stroke
Had given it Breath, and it had mov'd and spoke.
The Intenseness of his Mind he now laid by,
And all the watry Piercings of his Eye;
Pleased to behold the finish'd Piece, he said,
Hail! my New-born, my beauteous Heavenly Maid!
Thy Form shall please each keen and skilful Eye,
And no Beholder shall a Flaw descry;
But chiefly shalt thou please the finest Taste;
Venus is Fair, Diana Fair and Chaste.

On Martilla Weeping.

In others, Sorrow Beauty's Force disarms,
But gives new Lustre to Martilla's Charms.
When I behold her Eyes her Grief display,
And, thro' Affliction, Beauty work its Way;
My anxious Soul, alternate Passions move,
And my Heart melts with Pity and with Love;
The pleasing Ill, at once, I curse and bless,
At once, enjoy and feel the sad Distress.
Weep, lovely Virgin! weep awhile, and show
How many Graces to your Cares you owe.
Each common Nymph, may boast the Power to kill,
When prosperous Fortune aids her cruel Will;
But you, alone, tho' drown'd in Tears, destroy,
And prove your Grief victorious as your Joy.

ON A Masqu'd MISTRESS.

[_]

From BUCHANAN.

Well, then! my gentle, Night-piece Maid,
Must we still love, in Masquerade?
Is it ordain'd, by Fate, and Thee,
I ne'er that Magic Face shall see?
Unfit shall Noon, as Midnight, prove
To bring to Light the Nymph I love?
Still, of Relief, shall I despair,
And sigh before an absent Fair?

What! shall I kiss, embrace and toy,
Yet never know who gives the Joy?

A Fairy Maid! shall I caress,
Whom, I do not, and do, possess?

I'll not take Oldfield to my Arms,
Unless I view bright Oldfield's Charms:
No! better, fancy'd Beauties trace
In Margaretta's open Face.

Forlorn and wretched may she prove,
Who, in the Dark, disguises Love!

Now! by Thy-self, by every Grace,
Which shines in thy Authentic Face,
And by those Eyes, I Thee conjure;
Those Eyes! which mine to Love allure;
O! give my longing Sight to see,
Your real Self, whate'er you be.

Your very Self to see, I ask;
Your Self, my Love, and not your Mask.

Let me but know what 'tis I love,
A patient Lover I will prove
Of any Nymph; for I'm not nice;
But Vertue, Hid, is construed Vice.

If Miss but Licks, in Colours faint,
Men swear she's daub'd, all o'er, with paint;
And when she treats her Face, with Art,
They nauseate every other Part.
For Minds, with jealous Fears, accurst,
Brought to suspect, suspect the worst.

Your Features share not in the Foil,
Which shades the Nymphs on Afric's Soil;
You hung upon no tawny Breast;
No thick-lipp'd Black your Mother press'd:

Thy fresh Complexion, White and Red,
In Bucks, declare Thee born and bred.

But, what if (Black as polish'd Jet)
Thy Sire, Thee (Blacker) did beget;
Yet, black, you might some Passions move;
All Colours have their Friends in Love.
At least, a frank and honest Mind,
When Colour fails, will make Men kind.

With me, Simplicities alone,
For want of Fifty Charms, atone.
The native Ruby let me kiss;
To Priests I leave the painted Bliss.
Let Priests desire ungenuine Charms,
And court Delusion to their Arms;
They love Deceits, tho' ne'er so many,
And boast Religion, without any.

CLAUDIAN's Old Man of VERONA.

Blest! Husbandman, whose frugal Hands have till'd
(His Life's Imployment) his Paternal Field!
The Cottage and the Roof that did behold
His Infant Years, now see him very Old:
Propp'd on his Staff, he numbers o'er, intent,
The many Years within that Cottage spent.

With Fortune did he never wish to roam,
Nor ever wandered from his peaceful Home;

Nor fear'd Sea Storms, nor heard th' Alarms of War,
Nor the hoarse Wrangling of the noisy Bar.

Rude to the World, and Stranger to its Care,
He breathes, in open Skies, untainted Air.

By Seasons, only, he computes the Year,
Flowers shew the Spring, and Fruits the Autumn near.
In the same Field, at Work he do's survey
The rising Sun, and marks his setting Ray;
And his own Labour measures out the Day.

Tall sturdy Oaks, but slender Twigs, he knew;
He and the Forest Old together grew.

Near to his blest Abode Verona stands,
Yet distant, seems, to him, as India's Lands.
Benacus Lake, which glads his Neighbourhood,
He counts remoter than the Persic Flood.

Mean Time the Hale, old Sire delights to see
Of Grandsons a long vig'rous Progeny.

Who Rambles, only knows Fatigue and Noise;
At Home, who rests contented, Life enjoys.

EPITAPH ON Sir JOHN EDGAR

Not far from hence, lies Honest Dick;
Who dy'd Alive, was buried Quick.
No Turf he brought, no Stone he rear'd;
For on him the whole Duke lies hard.

Stop, Traveller, or lightly bound
Over th' Inchanted, Fairy Ground;
Nor with unhallow'd, witty Lashes
Disturb the angry Hero's Ashes:
Who as he liv'd, just so he dy'd,
Free from Fear, and full of Pride;
And off he went, in his own Strain,
Swearing, he'd soon return again.

HOR. Lib. III. Ode 16.

Dark, Night Intrigues had ne'er betray'd
Danae fair, imprison'd Maid,
Had not Venus, leagu'd with Jove,
Wak'd, with Showers of Gold, her Love:
The God Intire a Bribe became,
To win his Passage to the Dame.

Thus, undermin'd by powerful Gain,
Scrisius, trembling, watch'd in vain;
In vain, well chain'd his wakeful Guard,
And Gates and Towers of Brass prepar'd:

100

Towers, ev'n of Brass, defenceless prove,
Where Gold a Parley beats to Love:

Gold! forces thro' the strongest Guards,
And steals its way thro' closest Wards:
Gold penetrates the op'ning Rock,
Which stood the Thunder's piercing Shock.
Victims to Gold, and direful Gain,
The Augur, and his Race, were slain.
And Hostile Gates, themselves unbar,
In crafty Philip's Golden War:
By powerful Bribes, he tames his Foes,
By Bribes! his Rival Kings o'erthrows.

O'er rough Sea-Captains Gold prevails;
To Gold they yield, and strike their Sails.

Yet Care alloys the heap'd-up Ore,
Care! and endless Thirst of more!

101

Mecænas! bless'd with every Grace,
Glory of th' Equestrian Race;
Justly I dread, lest flattering Fate
Raise me high in Pomp and State.

Vain Equipage of Wealth! Adieu;
Farewel, ye Misers, famish'd Crew!
To honest Cynics I'll repair,
With whom, 'tis Vertue to forbear:
Who think it Greatness, to with-hold
Their Appetites from Love of Gold;
But think it Greater to expend
Whatever Life, a-while, may lend,
To make Life bless'd, and choose t' o'erlook
Increasing Debtor in their Book,
Rather than gain the South-Sea Store,
And hide it, gain'd, and still be Poor.

102

While a few Acres I possess,
Which purest Springs, and Riv'lets, bless;
While my due Crop the Seasons bring,
I envy not the Libyan King.

Tho' in my Casks Calabria's Wine,
And that which flows from Formia's Vine,
By Old Age are not Racy made;
And tho' in Wooll I drive no Trade;
Yet I am free from craving Want,
And more Mecænas, ask'd, would grant.

Thus, unexpensive, I can pay
Each diff'rent Tax without Delay;
More Happy, than if Phrygia's Crown,
And Lydia's too, were both my own;
Who covet Want. Thrice bless'd! where Heav'n,
Tho' Little, yet Enough has given.

103

EPIGRAM.

Betty! you're Pretty, 'tis allow'd;
Betty! your Shape is wond'rous good:
Your MANNER is not reckon'd ill:
You're Vertuous, Rich; you've Wit at Will.

Yet, Pretty Bess, I must say for you,
Most Folk dislike, and some abhor you:
Now! how this comes to pass, dear Bess,
The Devil's in't if you can't guess.

104

AN EPITAPH ON Isaac Bickerstaff's CAT.

Under This Stone poor Puskin sleeps;
The Mice rejoice, the Master weeps:
Freakish he was, and full of Play;
Prey'd all the Night; Purr'd all the Day.

Stop, Traveller! a sad Disaster
Is Puskin's Death to's loving Master;
But, I must say no more of That,
Lest Grief should kill Him, for his Cat.
Howe'er, to give them Both their Due,
Since Whittington, the World ne'er knew,
Cat e'er so Kind, Master so True.

105

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE

To His Excellency Charles Earl of Sunderland, ONE OF THE Lords-Justices of England.

------ In publica Commoda peccem,
Si, longo Sermone, morer tua Tempora ------
Hor.

Loaded, my Lord, with Cares of State;
Press'd by the Wealthy and the Great;
Fatigu'd for George and Britain's Good;
Crown'd with Success, tho' much withstood:

106

Post-pone your Toil: Deign to peruse
The little Levities, a Muse,
Not over-gay, at present sends,
To make You smile, and please Your Friends.
'Tis no New Thing for Bards, with Letters,
In Metre, to address their Betters,
Without being thought Unbred or Rude:
Verse must be very bad t' intrude.
This was the constant Trade of Horace,
And others (whom you've read) before us.

But stop, adventurous Muse, thy Flight;
Consider well, before you write.
Important are his Lordship's Hours;
Not Vuide and Humorous, like yours:
The Fate of Empires is His Care;
A Glorious Peace! or Lawful War!

Besides you must not write in Haste;
His Judgment's good; refin'd his Taste.

107

Politest Learning; brightest Wit;
Whatever with Applause, is Writ;
(Whether recorded be the Lore
In Ancient Archives dusty Store;
Or, whether to the Height are brought
Sciences by Modern Thought)
These are His Favourites; and, of Course,
His Conversations can't be worse.

Think I, these Thoughts are Just and True;
A Letter from Kinsale won't do:
Cloudy's the Climate, Poor the Land;
Verse thrives not on the barren Sand:
Forc'd! too from Town; nay, banish'd quite;
It is impossible to write!

But, if I write, what shall I say?
An Irish Tale!—Once on a Day, &c.
No, No! Be wise, sink, for this Time,
Thy Love for Sunderland and Rhime.

108

What is't to Him, that at Kinsale
Our Claret's bad, and Worse our Ale?
Or, that our Rum and Brandy's Good,
As e'er was tipp'd, or fir'd Mens Blood?
And that there is no cheaper Thing
Sold in this Town?—God bless the King!

It must for certain, be amiss,
To send such trifling Stuff as this:
To tell him, That the Folk in Town,
For want of War, are quite undone;
That they have no Estates in Lands;
And that their Time hangs on their Hands:
How Haddock snarls at Griffy Beven;
How Jerry laughs from Six t' Eleven;
How most Men live at Six and Seven.
In short, The Humours of this Town,
In Piccadilly will not down:
Neither the Billingsgate of Scilly;
Nor the dry Jokes of Bowler Billy.

109

And if I steer Killalla-Course,
That Journal will be worse and worse.

Think then I must, before I write:
And so bethinking what t'indite;
I found, in this corrected Age,
Our Diction Chaste, and Just our Rage;
I found the Wits were strictly taught
Propriety of Stile and Thought:
And straight on choicest Modern Rhime,
Imploy'd my curious, well-spent Time!
For, truly, of the Classick-kind,
Little in our Old Bards, I find,

To Addison I first apply'd;
Poet, and Orator beside!
Much his Great Name to Justness owes:
When highest swell'd, he ne'er o'erflows;
And when the dangerous Deep he shuns,
Tho' Low, yet Clear and Sweet he runs:

110

Cool Judgment tempers Hottest Fire:
Art guides, what Genius does inspire.

While Garth, with Labour, strives to please,
Pope versifies with perfect Ease:
While Pope, in Female Softness, shines,
Garth languishes in Manlier Lines.
Both have their Beauties; Both excell
In Thinking, and in Writing well.

Philip's I've read: He's Pure, he's Terse;
Sound is his Sense, and smooth his Verse.
Ah! would he court the Groves again;
And charm, anew, th' admiring Swain!
Again, frequent the Muses Throng,
And finish Thule's Heav'nly Song!

I've read too (not without Delight)
What Tickell, and what Welsted write;

111

Nature's own Beauties they pursue;
Their Stile Correct, their Manner New,

This when I'd done, with strictest Care,
I stopt my own vain, fond Career;
And said, None, but the First-rate Wit,
To sing my Spencer can be fit:
The Noble Blood let such Men show,
Which, thro' His Purple Veins, does flow;
Those Honours, which He does inherit;
Or Those, which GEORGE bestows on Merit.
How (good as Guardian Angels are)
He reconcil'd the ROYAL PAIR!
How Faction sick, nay, dead's become,
While He administers at Home!
And, How all Europe's more at Peace,
Than, ever yet, in Former Days!

Yes! certainly, it must be so:
For these High Themes, my Rhime's too Low.

112

I cannot, must not, on them dwell:
For though, in Metre, I might tell,
(And Metre good) how I withdraw
To Ireland, there to go to Law;
Yet, surely, this will ne'er suffice
To sing the Statesman Learn'd and Wise;
Nor make my Verse swell, to the End,
With GEORGE's Favourite and Friend:
And so I'm in a bad Condition!—
Well: Since I can't Rhime, I'll Petition.
My Lord then, that I may conclude,
(For, being Tedious, is being Rude)
Make me (to fill my earnest Wish up)
An English Dean, or Irish Bishop,
And Your Petitioner will Ever Pray.

J.S.

113

CHESTER TOWN:

OR THE Archers Delight A BALLAD.

[_]

To the Tune of Packington's Pound.

I

Good Neighbours, and Friends, pray think it no low Thing,
To hear me descant, now, in Praise, of our Club;
May He, who's averse to't, be Hang'd, in my Bow-string,
Or be damn'd, all his Life-time, to Small-Beer and Bub:
For, tho' some, of late,
At Push-pin, do meet,
And whipping a Top, be the Game of the Great;

Yet, this is the best Club, that ever was seen,
Since Robin Hood's Days, and since little John Green.

114

II

First, then, from the Gods, we derive down our Trade;
(And, truly, the Exercise is most Divine,
For Iris's Bow, 's the First Bow, that was made,
Whose Mettle, and Use, and whose Colours, are fine;
When Rain spoils our Sport,
Then fair Iris we court,
Who shoots Arrows at Clouds, to keep us from Dirt;

O the Gallantest Club that, &c.

III

The first Archer I'll name, is a jolly red Blyth-one,
And ought not, I'm sure, to go unregarded;
'Tis He, as you're told, who murther'd great Python,
And stuck him with Arrows, like a Fowl Larded;
And this the bold Sun,
When, in Wrath, he had done,
He eat him all up, as sure as a Gun;

O the Gallantest, &c.

115

IV

An Archer, moreo'er, was the Son of Juno;
But I'll not say much of the Rough God of War,
For the Son of Venus, the God of Love, you know,
Will please the proud Cestrians better by far;
Who, tho' they do snub,
Sometimes, the Young Cub,
Yet he's the Blind Side, of this Amorous Club,

O the Gallantest, &c.

V

And now, last of all, a Cælestial Dame,
Shall end the Archers, which I quote, from Above;
Who, like mortal Ladies, much loved the Game;
But knew more of the Long-bow, than Courting, or Love:
Diana, I mean,
Who near breath'd a Vein,
But liv'd an Old Maid, sore against the Grain.

O the Gallantest, &c.

116

VI

The Gods then being o'er, let Mortals come in,
For some Gods upon Earth, were Archers, I trow;
Thus blind Hannibal at Cannæ did win,
And Great Alexander, where Granic do's flow;
Thus Cressy was won,
Where Monsieur did run,
Being beat with the Bow; and He's been by the Gun.

O the Gallantest, &c.

VII

Since these, then, were Archers, and Thousands besides,
Who for the Profession wou'd not declare?
Which not only is Antient, but Useful beside,
As, most safely, to you, aver now I dare;
For Bow, well as Physic,
Can cure the Phthisic,
And the String of the same, him, who for, Love is Sick,

O the Gallantest, &c.

117

VIII

If you are for Dose of Med'cine Gymnastic,
And exercising all the Body at once;
Can't you walk with a Bow, as well as with a Stick,
And then you imploy Nerves, Veins, Muscles, and Bones?
But no more I'll produce,
For my Bow, or its Use,
But the Beaux of the Club will speak on to chuse,

O the Gallantest, &c.

IX

The May'r of the Town, the First Archer is He,
And Famous he is, for his Sight and his Size;
Who, it's thought, very soon, a meer Cupid will be;
For sh***ng, or shooting, he winks with both Eyes;
He draws to the Head,
Hems, when He shoots Dead;
But when He shoots ill, there's much more to be said;

O the Gallantest, &c.

118

X

The next Man to Him, is his bulky Recorder,
Who can draw a Bill, better much than a Bow;
But he must come in, to keep up our Order;
For we have more Archers, who shoot but so, so;
Yet, when that is done,
To's Pipe let him run,
He's the best of the Club, at a Pot and a Pun

O the Gallantest, &c.

XI

An Archer, moreover, is Alderman Price;
Who steers, by his Cards, to Ardmail in the Dark;
A Solicitor, too, he is, wonderful Wise,
Tho' some Authors affirm, he was ne'er bred a Clerk
Who, winning at Whisk, Sir
Is jolly and brisk, Sir,
But otherwise frets, hanging Ears, just like his Cur

Ye Players at Whisk, observe well the same,
Picking Nose, pulling Wig, signifies a Bad Game.

119

XII

And now, 'mongst the Clergy, after the Red Gown,
(Whose Inside is bright, tho' their Outside be dark)
The General Vicar, his Tackling has laid down,
Having shot all this while, but ne'er hit the Mark;
But, as for the Sport,
Tho' he be not for't,
Yet, 'tis well for the Club, they've a Friend, in the Court;

O the Gallantest, &c.

XIII

Make Room for the Chanter, he's just come from Cappah,
You may know, by his Haste, he suits on the Wing;
So that as for the White, He cou'd ne'er give't a Slap-a,
And to shoot at a Black, you'll say, 's an odd thing:
Howe'er, for Tit-Bit,
From Pot, or from Spit,
There's none, like the Chanter, the Club that can hit,

O the Gallantest, &c.

120

XIV

Parson Piper, who looks so like an Old Sinner,
By Practice in Shooting, the much worse is grown
So that as for the Widow, there's no Hopes he'll win her
For his Point, more he shoots, the more it hang down
But, O! let him fill
His Pipe, and sit still;
All he'll say to the Club, 's, They may say what they will

O the Gallantest, &c.

XV

But, lastly, have at the jolly School-master,
For a goodly and graceful Member is He;
Who first whips a Boy, and then whips a Tester;
Who Mah's at the Mark, but Hits an old Tree
Now, tho' She of York,
Did not like his Work,
Yet his Point it flies up, it is of the High Kirk;

O the Gallantest Club, Sir, that ever was seen,
Since Robin Hood's Days, and since Little John Green

121

ON The Death of a Lap-Dog.

Erigone , Celestial Maid!
Kindly impart thy Virgin Aid:
And Mæra, Star! so burning bright!
(Her Favourite once, her Lap-delight)
To Dony due, accept the Verse,
And help to grace my Dony's Hearse.
Let Dony, like your Mæra, shine
An Orb above, ye Pow'rs Divine!
She kept Erigone from Harms;
He grac'd and guarded Chloe's Charms.
If Mæra Gone's Love did boast,
Dony was Chloe's Favourite Toast:

122

To him her softest Things she'd say:
Oft on her downy Breast he lay;
And oft he took a gentle Nap,
Upon her Sleep-inticing Lap.
Most beauteous own'd the Dogs among:
His Eyes so large: His Ears so long!
His Manner Beau; and Belle his Air:
Mottled and curl'd his lovely Hair.
Ne'er bark'd awake; nor snor'd, reclin'd;
Ne'er prov'd indecent from Behind:
Bred Tip-Top: free from odious Flea;
Cou'd take a Pinch; or relish Tea:
Lov'd Chick; but then so nice was grown,
The Liver only cou'd go down.
Courteous, yet Chaste, h'address'd the Dames;
Strutting the Ladies into Flames;
But, Cupid-like (I mean not Blind)
He kill'd, ne'er cur'd the Female Kind.

123

Your Censures, ye Profane, forbear;
Dony deserves my saltest Tear:
My Constancy, my Truth's approv'd,
While I lament the Dog I lov'd.
Ah Dony, Dony, did you know
The Grief, the Pain, I undergo;
Dony you'd soon again return,
Nor let your faithful Mistress mourn:
You'd soon obey this pious Call;
Dear, Melitæan Animal.

124

A Certain PREFACE, put into Rhyme.

Since Verses, Reader, must ensue,
'Tis necessary, first, that you
Should know the Reasons why I writ,
From Hampsted-Town, this Piece of Wit:
Trifles, just proving Bad or Good,
As th' are, or are not, understood;
And as for mine, they have this Virtue,
That, either way, they will divert you.

Ti---ll and Yo---g, resolv'd to spend
An Evening, gay, with me their Friend;
Their Mirth to raise, and Wit refine,
With mutual Love and sprightly Wine;

125

Chose Beamy Th---ll for the Fourth;
Painter! proud, and Man of Worth.

Swift the joyous Hours go round,
(With Th---ll's Praises, chiefly crown'd;
Upon whose Plans, much Time being spent;
At last, I ask'd them What they meant?
—They hop'd (t' oblige the World, so wide,
And raise his Native Country's Pride)
Th---ll his Genius, far, wou'd stretch;
Of noble Paintings, form the Sketch;
Shew labour'd Strokes, well-wrought Designs;
—Such as glare in these my Lines;
Shew something (not in Touches faint)
Far exceeding Greenwich Paint;
Far! as what I here indite
Surpasses all I've wrote, or e'er shall write.

As for this Poem, now before you,
'Tis partl' Epistle, partly Story.

126

To grace the Fable or the Fiction,
If Garth's good Sense, or Pope's good Diction,
Be wanting, sure you a'n't so blind,
As not to see, this was design'd;
Their Beauties shine in their own way,
And Ovid speaks, in all They say.
Since, therefore, I've long toil'd in vain,
To trace this sweet Nasonian Strain;
I'll not descend (let all Men know it)
To copy from a Copying Poet.

And now the Publick must excuse
A Thing wrote only to amuse:
Brought forth, one Morning, this Hot Season;
And Printed without Rhyme or Reason;
So Dull, I'm sure, it can't offend;
Deserves no Foe; can have no Friend.

And yet so sowr, so sharp, 's Mankind,
Some Critic, Bigot, Fop, may find

127

Strange Things, of wicked, dire Intent;
Tho', Heaven knows, I nothing meant,
But innocent, poor, harmless Lays:
At least, no Envy, if no Praise.

The POEM Transvers'd.

Th---ll! what Miracles can You,
By Force of Magic Pencil, do?
What Dead-Men, on your Canvas, tell,
Rise into Life, Majestical?
And then ne'er die, but live t' adorn
The Rooms of People yet unborn.

Or, is your Mind ingag'd in Flights,
And guided, as the Maggot bites?
Here's a fine Piece begun, I trow,
And there is one in Embryo:

128

If't thus be, Th---ll, pray excuse
The Pertness of a Sister Muse;
Who must pretend to greater Skill,
And can work Miracles at Will:
Witness this Legend, which I send
To thee, my Covent-Garden Friend;
About a Beauteous, sickly Saint,
Which when you've read, you'll know what's in't
Thus, Th---ll, I (Elate, proud Elf)
Am pleas'd (if you're pleas'd) with My-self;
And must be so, till better Weather,
And Fortune bring us both together.
Then I'll out-do whate'er I've writ
Of Learning, Politicks, or Wit;
And we will club our fertile Brains,
To puzzle out high, Tragic Strains;
Such as, you know, we can produce
For Poor, but Honest, Rich's Use.
Happy! if Ti---ll can but steal
A Minute from the Common-weal;

129

Than whom, no Soul can be Welcomer,
At Craggs'! not trembling nor at Homer!
And, if Yo---g should clasp his Gradus,
And, with ready Wit, invade us;
Would he but let th' Ægyptians rest,
And crack, in English plain, a Jest;
Bless me! the the Town would all adore us!
Nor Pope, nor Philips, stand before us.
Such Friends! Clear Souls! without Disguise,
Not over-gay, not over-wise,
Would make the Hours, with Joy, rowl on,
From Thirsty Nine, to Moister One.

130

On a Norfolk PARSON.

I Sing the Man of Norfolk Clergy,
Who every Night, snores, loud his Dirge;
Whose last Address to God Alm---ty,
Is the Jews A-men, so Good Night t'ye.

His Flesh is willing, but his Spirit
Submits to That of good red Claret.

Tobacco is his only Incense,
And drinking Healths, is Pray'r, in his Sense.
Tobacco! in his Mouth, that Censer,
So daily offer'd, makes Amends, Sir,
For all his Faults; as Want of Thinking,
And Throat untuneful, dry with Drinking,

131

And many more, which, not for Want on
A Rhyme, we do not now descant on;
But 'cause it is our Will and Pleasure,
To name 'em at some other Leisure.

On a Big-belly'd Lady, who fell above the Middle in the Water.

Take Courage! Madam, 'tis an old thing,
When Ladies Tongues are given to Scolding;
Or, when t'other End o'th' Dame,
Burns, with too petulant a Flame,
In Water, deep, the Parts to cover
And duck the Termagant, all over.

But you have met that Fate by Chance,
To which their Merits them advance.

132

The Happy! Infant, that you bear,
Shall prove, more than her Mother, Fair;
O! more than mortal Fair shall be,
So early rising from the Sea:
Like Beauty's Goddess, who did come
From the same cold and watry Womb.

Or, if't be Male, the Case more plain is,
Some Admiral, or Duke of Venice:
Or, Fat State-holder ('tis no matter)
He'll be, and ever love Strong-Water.

The Sun, who, when his Course is sped,
I'th' Ocean, nightly, steeps his Head,
Had Fortune ow'd him so good Hap,
As, in Kinsale, that Night to Nap,
Refusing, more abroad to peep,
With you had, ever wish'd to sleep.

133

AN EPISTLE

TO An Irish Parson, of a small Benefice, resolved to live in London.

Heu! fuge crudeles terras, et littus avarum.
Virg.

Since you're resolv'd, Dear Sir, t'abandon,
Our South-West Coast, and live in London;
There, in your Coach, to make a Figure,
(Your Purse and Belly ne'er the bigger)
Consider, well, th' important Step,
And Look, I pray, before you Leap.

134

Supposing, then, Remitted clear
Three hundred Pounds, my Friend, a Year,
(A pretty! Income, near the Fort,
To make one easie, and thank God for't)
But, if I am not ill-instructed,
Exchange, on Bills, being first deducted;
The Proctor next, then Curate paid,
There is not so much to be had.
Deduct, too, Tyth of Pigs and Geese;
Some Fish some Eggs: and Things like these;
Which (with Book-Dues) I dare aver it,
Would pay your Annual Charge of Claret;

Suppose, again, then, which is true,
Instead of Three, but Hundreds Two:
Are you, so much, Sir, in the Dark yet,
To think this Sum will go to Market,
Twelve, Months; without your being undone,
Where every Thing's so dear, in London?

135

Where, it confounds the Deepest Sages,
To pay House-Rent and Servants Wages:
To lay in Coals, both small and great,
Which keep you warm, and dress your Meat:
Where great Estates away are swept,
By running in the Tradesmens Debt.

Believe me, Sir, 'twill never do there:
Consider Baker first, then Brewer;
Pickles and Sawce, whene'er you Dine;
A Dram, and Glass or Two of Wine!
With thousand Taxes, they Amerce one,
To Starve the Poor, and Glut the Parson.

Besides! your Friends make constant Sport on
Five-thousand Pounds! your English Fortune!
And say, in short, you're fairly Bit;
Had better ta'en an Irish Tit,
With half Five hundred; and staid here
To wake and sleep, secure; and cheer

136

Your Heart with cheap or unbought Food;
And save your Soul, By doing Good.

Behold! the Pleasures of Kinsale!
French Claret! neat. Pure Irish Ale!
Fresh Fish! accounted so inviting!
From largest Cod, to smallest Whiteing.
And Turbot boil'd! Delicious Food!
And Turbot sous'd! so wondrous Good!
(Whence Mary will immortal be,
Whilst Turbots can be brought from Sea!)
Or Pilcher, in fresh Butter drest;
Or Pilcher dry'd; it-self a Feast!
Or freshest Eggs, with saltest Ling;
To pass by many other Thing;

And so I'll end my Irish Story,
Both Cases being laid before ye.

137

To Mrs. A. B.

What! Genius can describe Fair Anna's Mind?
What! Pencil Paint, to Anna's Beauty join'd?
Her Eyes are lovely, as the Rays of Light;
We look Enamour'd, and we court the Sight.
Nature her Lips adorn'd, with choicest Care,
And painted every Balmy Sweetness there.
How clean her Shape! how delicate her Waste!
They court our Arms, and sue to be embrac'd.

Behold her move! behold the graceful Mien,
Like that of Venus, by Æneas seen.

138

Dancing! she courts your Eye, and makes you swear,
It is the Goddess, by that Heavenly Air.

Yet! all these Charms, An unexhausted Store!
These rare, unrivall'd Charms, which all adore,
Compare not with Her Soul; That nobler Part!
Her Cherub Soul, Her large extended Heart.

How fair her Mind! her Mind excels her Eyes;
And to her Sense, her Beauty yields the Prize!
The shining Casket our Applause may win;
But the rich Treasure is preserv'd Within.

Severest Judgment her Chaste Manners guides,
And o'er her Actions Prudence, still, presides.
Her Looks, her Gestures, and her Thoughts are gay,
But govern'd are by Reason's temp'rate Sway;
No wanton Follies, which light Minds imploy,
Taint her pure Mirth, or mingle with her Joy.

139

Her Conduct Uniform and Just, we see,
Alike from Levity, or Stiffness free.
Nor with Censorious Malice is alloy'd;
Her Vertue, nor her Beauty, stain'd with Pride.

The Tunbridge Beauty. 1715.

Fair Village! Pride of Kent! Regret no more,
Thy Dearth of Beauty, and thy Triumphs o'er;
No longer to thy Rocks and Hills proclaim
Thy faded Honours, and thy lessen'd Fame;
New Glories are reserv'd to grace thy Plains,
New Visions to alarm thy wondring Swains:
Uplift thy Head, salute the youthful Year,
And smile, to see the promis'd Blessing near;
The op'ning Blossoms, and the growing Spring,
Fair Cloe, to thy happy Walks, shall bring:

140

Fair Cloe, to thy happy Walks and Thee,
What Venus to her Cyprus was, shall be.
Again renown'd in Fame, shall Tunbridge prove
The Seat of Beauty, and the Land of Love.
Behold! in every Face a glad Surprize!
See! Love Re-lights his Torches from her Eyes!
Soft melting Cares her new-seen Charms impart,
And kindle Flames, in each Beholder's Heart.
Each Day! shall she extend her fatal Power,
And swell her Conquests, each triumphant Hour.
All Tunbridge shall, at length, in Love expire,
Like Magazines, which, from one Spark, take Fire.

141

The Mournful Shepherdess.

A PASTORAL.

Since Death! whose Shafts, at Random, still destroy,
Has robb'd my Breast, of all its promis'd Joy,
Since Damon's Eyes are clos'd in endless Night,
And never more shall bless my ravish'd Sight;
Let me! on this green Turf, reclin'd, complain,
And feed with constant Sighs my pensive Pain.
Here, let my Eyes, with Tears incessant, flow,
And pay their Debt of everlasting Woe.
My Soul to Sorrow, here, I will subdue,
And make my Wounds, each Moment, bleed anew.

142

O Damon! O! the Sun shall witness be,
With what a stedfast Grief I mourn for Thee:
Each Silver Star, that twinkles in the Sky,
Shall see me weep, each Grove shall hear me sigh.
My wearied Powers, in Sleep, if Nature bind,
Yet shall not sleep the Anguish of my Mind;
My throbbing Cares, shall faithful Dreams revive,
And keep each Image of Distress alive:
Yes! Damon, I will grieve myself to sleep,
But, as I sleeping lie, for Damon weep.
An Heart, with Troubles, sharp, as mine, opprest,
No Freedom finds from Pain, no Aid from Rest.

Whilst thou didst live, new Joys still cheer'd my Heart,
Now thou art dead, it still afresh shall smart;
Unalter'd was thy Flame, and I will prove
My Sorrows constant, as my Shepherd's Love.

143

Ye! Trees, your branching Arms, so wide that throw,
Ye! Groves, that give Solemnity to Woe!
Receive, within your melancholy Shade,
A most afflicted, once an happy Maid;
Your silent Gloom is to the Wretched kind,
And spreads a welcome Horror o'er the Mind;
Your dark Recesses, hid from human Sight,
Sooth the sick Heart, and to sad Thoughts invite.

O! Damon, I no more, shall see thee smile;
No more, with Thee, in pleasing Talk beguile
The Live-long Day; nor hear thy rural Song,
And Voice, so wont to charm the listning Throng;
On thy kind Bosom I shall rest no more,
And act my little fond Endearments o'er;
No more upon thy lovely Eyes shall gaze,
And practise all my Female, winning Ways.

Ceas'd are those Beauties, which my Soul admir'd,
Which the Swains envy'd, and the Nymphs desir'd;

144

The faithful Smile, the Soul sincere as Truth,
His Angel Form, and, Purple Bloom of Youth;
Those Charms, on which I doated, all, are fled,
All that is lovely, is with Damon dead!

Th' impending Threats of Death, I might have fear'd,
From many Signs, if I had Signs rever'd;
Unmindful me! the Hare, that cross'd my Way,
Too plainly did presage this rueful Day;
And I a Thunder-stricken Oak did see,
But heeded not the ill fore-boding Tree;
Alas! unlucky Portents were not rare,
Nor Omens few, had Omens been my Care.
My heavy Heart proclaim'd Disasters nigh,
My Spirits droop'd and sank, I knew not why.
Methought! the mournful Lambs all lifeless stood,
Unmindful of their Sport, nor call'd for Food.
Still were the Groves, nor Chirp'd the feather'd Throng,
Nor did the Nightingal renew her Song;

145

Involv'd in Clouds and Horrors was the Night,
The conscious Moon withheld her chearful Light;
The Stars to shed their wonted Beams forbore;
A dreary, sullen Aspect Nature wore;
And when the affrighting Sound was heard, He Dies!
Heav'n wept, and pour'd down Rain from all its Eyes.

O! never will return the Golden Hours,
When Damon us'd to cull the choicest Flowers,
To deck my Bosom; or, with curious Care,
Did Garlands weave of Jess'min, for my Hair.
Or else, disclos'd some choice, some secret Nest;
Or brought me Garden-Fruits, a Rural Feast!
Or search'd me out among the Willow Green,
Hiding my self, but, wishing to be seen.

O! never shall those Golden Hours return!
Hopeless! I still must weep o'er Damon's Urn:
Yet, shall those Golden Hours record my Joy,
Pure, while it lasted, and without Alloy.

146

Record! a Passion, which no Limits knew,
A Passion! which to doating Fondness grew.

The Nymphs and Swains did, at our Bliss, repine
What Nymph, would not have chang'd her Fate for mine
The Nymphs and Swains to envy, all, were prone
What Swain, but wish'd my Damon's Fate his own
The Suns, with looking on, did weary prove;
But say, ye Gods! if I was tir'd with Love?
One Day pass'd by, and saw my faithful Flame,
Another rose, and it was still the same;
With downy Feet the Minutes danc'd away,
Each Day I saw my Love, and all the Day;
And every Day was, still, like that before,
So eager was I still to see him more!

But! what do all my fond Complaints avail?
O! will not Life, at length, thro' Sorrow, fail?
Am I reserv'd, by Fate, in vain, to mourn,
And bear the Ills, that cannot, yet, be born?

147

Will not my stubborn Spirit yield, at length?
Nor bitter'st Pangs subdue my wasting Strength?
Ye Gracious Powers, O! listen to my Pray'r,
And take a Wretch, most wretched, to your Care!
In Pity, urge my Fate, inforce my Grief;
When Life is Sorrow, Death's a kind Relief!

148

CUPID in Love.

As Cupid, from his Cruel Sport,
Return'd, to Grace his Mother's Court,
In Triumph leading Bleeding Hearts,
Throbbing with Love, transfix'd with Darts;
Himself untouch'd! the Hunter stray'd
Into a Cooling, Myrtle Shade,
And saw a Lonely, Lovely Maid.

No sooner did young Master spy
The Virgin's soft, refulgent Eye,
Than did his Opening Breast receive
A Wound, like Those, He, often, gave;

149

And, down his Arms and Hearts He threw,
And languishing, full, in her View,
'Tis done! He said, See! Mars, see! Jove,
See! all ye Gods; See Cupid's Love!

To Venus when, at last, he came,
Without his Tackle, or his Game;
Without his Bow, without a Dart;
Without his own, or any Heart;
The Goddess cry'd, Alas! My Son,
Where hast thou been? What hast thou done?
He sigh'd and answer'd, with a Groan,
She stole my Hearts, she stole my Own.

The matchless Beauties of her Face;
The Wonders that her Person grace;
The Charm, in all she does, or says;
Her killing Smiles, her winning Ways;
Her Wit, her Coyness, All agree,
In Spight of Fate, to vanquish me.

150

Less angry Venus at her Son,
Than to find Herself out-done,
Cry'd, Who's the Nymph that, thus, prevails?
Ah, Dear Mamma, 'Tis Fanny Hales.

A Hint from Propertius.

Quæritis unde mihi toties scribantur Amores?
Prop.

Ask ye, why I, so often, write of Love?
And why my Thoughts, in amorous Numbers, move?
My Flowing Measures, and Poetic Fires,
Nor Phœbus nor Calliope inspires:
Cecil I saw: Cecil to Verse invites;
Who sees Her Loves; and every Lover Writes.

She is my Theme; All other Nymphs, Adieu;
In Cecil every Female Charm I view.

151

So! The Bless'd Apple, on Barbado's Coast,
Alone, can various Elegancies Boast;
From the same Source, the different Tastes arise,
And the Same Fruit A whole Dessert supplies.

The Fox and Goat.

A FABLE.

I

Old Reynard, once, with Thirst opprest,
Feasted a Goat, which nigh did dwell,
But wanting Liquids for his Guest,
He led him to a Neighbouring Well.

II

Manners being past, they Bumpers drink,
Health to Themselves and Friends, go round;

152

'Till, sated, they began to think
Amidst their Cups, they may be drown'd.

III

Sir Crafty, put to his Wit's End;
Bids Grey-beard stand, erected, up,
Promising to help his Friend,
Whose Horns wou'd favour his Escape.

IV

But, when, secure, He reach'd the Brink,
His Neighbour perishing beneath;
Th'ungrateful Whelp cry'd, Die, or Drink,
'Tis all alike to Reynard, Faith!

V

Thus I, who, long, have propp'd the Great,
Am dropp'd, where I have been most kind;
Mine is, exactly, Grey-beard's Fate,
They're up, and I am left behind.

153

VI

And yet, to screen these Men, in Power,
I wrote The Conduct of Th' Allies;
And what can mortal Man do more,
Than stretch his Wit, to vent his Lies?

VII

Nay! I did swear I was for Brunswick,
With Conscience scrupulous and tender;
But Wrote and Rode, 'till I was Bum-sick,
In hopes to forward the Pretender.

VIII

I wrong'd, moreo'er, the Nation Scotch:
In Rhime and Prose was very smart on
The Injur'd Catalan and Dutch,
Brave Marlbro', and my Friend Tom Wharton.

154

IX

Remember then, my Dear Dick Steele,
Who hazarded your very Throat;
Who never turn'd'st with Fortune's Wheel;
Remember well, The Fox and Goat.

Fix'd on a Church Door.

I

Today, this Temple gets a Dean,
Of Parts and Fame, uncommon;
Us'd, both to Pray, and to Prophane,
To serve both God and Mammon.

II

When Wharton reign'd, a Whig he was;
When Pembroke, that's dispute, Sir:

155

In Oxford's Time, what Oxford pleased;
Non-Con, or Jack, or Neuter.

III

This Place He got by Wit and Rhime,
And many Ways most odd;
And might a Bishop be, in Time,
Did he believe in God.

IV

For High-Churchmen and Policy
He swears he prays, most hearty;
But wou'd pray back again, wou'd be
A Dean of any Party.

V

Four Lessons! Dean, all, in one Day,
Faith! it is hard, that's certain:
'Twere better hear thy'own Peter say,
G---d d---n thee Jack and Martin.

156

VI

Hard! to be plagu'd with Bible, still,
And Prayer-Book before thee;
Hadst thou not Wit, to think, at Will,
On some diverting Story?

VII

Look down, St. Patrick, look, we pray,
On thine own Church and Steeple;
Convert thy Dean, on this Great Day;
Or else God help the People!

VIII

And now, whene'er his Deanship dies,
Upon his Tomb be 'Graven;
A Man of God, here, buried lies,
Who never thought of Heaven.

157

HORACE, Epod. II.

Blest! Country-man, who, free from Care,
As Men, in the First Ages, were;
With his own Oxen Tills the Plains;
A Stranger! to Usurious Gains.
Who fears, from angry Seas, no Harm,
Nor dreads the Trumpet's hoarse Alarm;
Nor plies the Bar; nor needs to wait
At the proud Levees of the Great.

His pleasing Care is, then, to twine
The lofty Poplar with the Vine;

158

Or wither'd Boughs, that, useless, lie,
With healthful Cyons to supply.
Or, in a Valley, at his Ease,
Reclin'd, the lowing Herd he sees;
Or stores up Honey, fit to keep
In Vessels pure; Or sheers his Sheep:
Or, when mild Autumn rears his Head
Around, with ripen'd Fruit o'erspread,
He gathers, then, delightful Care!
The purple Grape, and grafted Pear;
With their due Offerings, to address
The Gods, who Fields and Gardens bless.

Now, stretch'd beneath the Shade, he lies,
Now, on the Grass, in open Skies:
Mean Time the Birds renew their Song;
The slow, deep Current creeps along:
While the soft Noise of purling Streams
Invites to Sleep, and pleasing Dreams.

159

But! when the Snows and Rains appear;
The Stormy Season of the Year!
The Boar into the Toil he drives!
The Boar! in vain, intangled, strives:
Or Nets he spreads upon the Bush;
A Snare for the Voracious Thrush!
Or takes the Crane, or timorous Hare;
Fit! Prizes of a Sports-Man's Care.
Who, with these Manly Pleasures blest,
Drives not Love's Torments from his Breast?

Let but a Chaste, tho' Homely Spouse,
Careful of Children and the House,
Like some plain Dame, with Sun-burnt Face,
Of Sabine, or Apulian Race,
Prepare, at my Return, a good
And chearful Fire of dry, old Wood;
Let her but milk the gladsome Kine,
Bring unbought Food, and new-press'd Wine;

160

The Lucrine Oyster I'd o'erlook;
Nor, for the Turbot, bait my Hook;
Or Scarus (of it-self a Feast!)
In Tempests driven from the East.
I would despise the Asian Pheasant,
And the Ionian Snipe, more pleasant
Than Olives, gather'd fresh, that grow,
Luxuriant, on the richest Bough!
Or Wood-sorrel, or Marsh-Mallows,
Which makes us Hale and Lusty Fellows;
Or the fattest Lamb, that e'er
Priest for the Altar did prepare;
Or fattest Kid, the watchful Swain,
From the fierce Wolf, did e'er regain.

Thus! while we feast, with what Delight,
See! we the Sheep return, at Night?
See! we the tardy Oxen come,
Lugging th'unwieldy Plow-share Home!

161

And Labourers round the Fire-side;
The Farmer's Splendor, Wealth, and Pride.

Thus Damer talk'd, and said, That He
Thenceforth a Country-man wou'd be.
Yet! now, His Interest he demands,
To put it out, upon new Bonds.

ON A Concert of MUSIC.

The various Concert is begun! attend;
Hark! how the rising Sounds the Thoughts unbend.

Now! Slow Adagio dwells upon the Strings,
And lengthens out the solemn Joy it brings.
Now! Brisk Allegro's livelier Notes controul
The Hurried Spirits, and ingage the Soul.

162

O! Heavenly Art; whose Magic Force inspires
Such gentle Raptures! and such soft Desires!
A Thousand Pleasures round our Bosoms move,
Of all those Pleasures, far, the sweetest Love!

But! stop the Notes, nor touch the trembling Strings.
Let the whole Concert fall; Belinda Sings.
Art frames, in vain, the Chords, in vain the Bow
The Life of Music we to Nature owe.

Yet play again; or This Inchanting Sound,
Which sooths my Ear, my Heart, too deep, will wound.

163

TO An Ugly OLD MAID.

I

Balda! Thou art of Woman-kind,
That lives, the oddest Creature;
With Wisdom you have Folly join'd;
Perverseness with good Nature.

II

Or Silent, or in Mirth too Loud,
Still various you appear;
Humble To-Day, To-Morrow Proud;
Now Gentle, now Severe.

164

III

Rashly you Love, as rashly Hate,
And make, at Sight, each Person,
(Such Miracles can Pride create)
Your Favourite or Aversion.

IV

Now, Balda! since your Merit's clear;
What needs there more be said?
Withdraw betimes; and say your Prayer;
And then go, straight, to Bed.

165

On the Death of Ranter.

A MOCK-POEM.

In Imitation of a Certain Modern Elegy On the Death of ------

Neget quis Carmina?
Virg.

Mourn! all ye Fields, and change your Native Green;
Spring Rosemary, where Roses, once, were seen.
Mourn! all ye Woods; mourn every shady Grove;
Grief be your Scene, as, once, your Scene was Love.
Hist! noisy Birds! Ye rougher Blasts, too, cease,
And only fan the melancholy Place.
Hist! Eccho; or else gentlest Murmurs learn,
And in soft Breezes, smoothest Sighs return.

166

Let every Tree bow down his drooping Head;
Ranter! alas! your dearest Ranter,'s Dead!

No more you'll hear the Dog's delicious Cry!
No more you'll eccho 't thro' the gladden'd Sky.
No more the Chace, so swiftly, run you'll see;
No more you'll sport in seeing Ranter flee;
He's gone! the Joy of every Stream and Tree!
He's, gone —
Where-e'er he ran, beloved of the Place;
He's gone! of all the Pack the only Grace!

Ceas'd are his Notes; th' attentive Huntsman's Care;
Ceas'd is that Mouth Diana's Self might hear,
With new Delight, were every Part an Ear.
Oh! how he foam'd, when, eager of his Prey,
His tender Nose bid his fleet Heels away;
With Joy He made it off; for Puss's Death
Drew on, as Ranter drew his skilful Breath.

167

He held out stoutly, as He first began;
And grac'd the springing Flowers, as He Ran.
The Fox and Hare may sport, and play secure,
For, whene'er Ranter Cry'd it, Death was sure;
Ne'er At a Loss: His Loss who can endure?

Like as some Hero, who, with many a Scar,
Fought out a Life, successfully in War,
Fearing, lest Age should do, what War did not,
Runs boldly on, and dies upon the Spot.
So Ranter dy'd. In Chace, in View of Prey,
Thro' roughest Ways He made undaunted Way;
Boldly He sprang into th' impetuous Tyde,
He seiz'd his Game, and, as He seiz'd, He dy'd.

168

FANCY;

A MADRIGAL.

'Twas Fancy, first, made Cœlia Fair:
'Twas Fancy gave her Shape and Air.
It robb'd the Sun, stripp'd every Star
Of Beauties, to bestow on Her.
And, when it had the Goddess made,
Down it Fell, and Worshipped.
Creator, first, and then a Creature!
Narcissus! and a Pail of Water!

169

HOR. Lib. III. Ode IX.

Horace.
While I, alone, your Faith approv'd,
Nor any Rival, more belov'd,
In your soft, folding Arms did lie,
Than Persia's King more bless'd was I.

Lydia.
While only me your Verse adorn'd,
Nor Lydia was for Cloe scorn'd,
High, in Renown, was Lydia's Name;
Not Ilia had a greater Fame.

170

Horace.
Cloe does now my Bosom fire,
Charm'd with Her warbling Voice and Lyre,
For her I'd die, and die resign'd,
Might the Dear Nymph remain behind.

Lydia.
My Captive Breast for Calais burns,
Who, kindly, Love for Love returns;
For him I twice cou'd yield my Breath,
If Fate wou'd save the Youth from Death.

Horace.
If Love unites our Hearts again,
And binds us in a Faster Chain;
If golden Cloe I despise,
And doat again on Lydia's Eyes.

171

Lydia.
Tho' he outshine the brightest Star;
Though thou than Cork art lighter far,
And Angrier than the fretful Sea,
I'd choose to Live, to Die with Thee.

172

HOR. Lib. I. Ode XXVI.

With the Muses Favour blest,
Grief approaches not my Breast:
Every Fear, and every Pain,
To the boisterous Cretan Main,
Far away, the Winds shall blow:
Nought imports it me to know,
What Barbarian's direful Sway
The frozen Scythian Realms obey;
Nor from whence the Terrors spring,
Which alarm Armenia's King.

173

Goddess! of th' Arcadian Grove,
Who the limpid Streams dost love,
Cull the Flowers, in open Fields,
Cull the Sweets the Garden yields;
And thy fairest Wreath be twin'd,
Hunter's learned Brow to bind.

Unless You your Aid impart,
Vain will be my feeble Art;
Bid thy Heavenly Sister-Train
Join with thine their various Strain;
Bid 'em touch anew the Lyre,
And call forth the Lesbian Fire,
To record, in Deathless Lays,
All the Godlike Hero's Praise.

174

HOR. Lib. IV. Ode XII.

Refreshing, Western Winds (that bring
An Earnest of the gladsome Spring,
And calm the Seas) with gentle Gales,
Now, softly, swell the spreading Sails.

Nor white, with Frost, the Meadows show;
Nor Rivers swell with Wintry Snow;
The mournful Swallow builds her Nest,
With never-ceasing Grief opprest;
Basely, in dire Revenge, she dy'd
Her cruel Hands with Parricide.

175

Reclining, in the Grassy Meads,
The Shepherds tune their Waxen Reeds;
Great Pan, with Pleasure, hears their Strains;
Pan! loves Arcadian Flocks and Swains!

Mean time, the Season Thirst excites:
Then, Virgil! if thy Soul delights;
(Virgil! for Wit, and Mirth, and Truth,
Favourite of each Royal Youth!)
If thou desir'st a choice Repast,
And neat Calenian Wine to taste,
Perfume of Spikenard be thy Care;
And Wine, in Plenty, I'll prepare.

On this Condition, shall be thine
A Choice, Old Cask of Racy Wine:
Wine! that new Spirits can impart,
And banish Sorrow from the Heart.

176

If this frank Offer be imbrac'd,
To meet my Friendly Joys, make haste;
Your Unguent bring: I cannot boast,
Dear Virgil! at my single Cost,
With cheering Cups, thy Cares to lull,
Like the Rich Man, whose Vaults are full.

Come then, without Delay, and be
From Love of Verse and Lucre, free.
In Folly lose thy Cares a-while;
Think of thy hast'ning Funeral Pile!
Sweet are the Pleasures, which arise
From being, a Propos, Unwise.

177

IMITATED

From Claudian.

To my Lord CADOGAN

Joy! to Mæcenas; The rough Sound of War,
And every martial Care, is banish'd far;
No Fleets at Sea, no standing Force at Land,
The Subjects Prowess, or their Wealth demand:
Rebellion's hideous Voice is calmly hush'd,
Church Quarrels ended, Civil Faction crush'd:

178

No Naval Power disturbs our Trade at Sea,
Our Merchants, safely, to our Isle convey
The precious Products of benigner Skies,
And each rare Growth, which this cool Clime denies.

The loaded Thames, with spicy Wealth o'erflows,
Which on fair Indus Banks and Ganges grows;
In Threads, the Country Nymph, soft, silky, shines,
Which the bright Insect near th' Horizon twines;
And Eastern Treasures Town and Court display,
The solemn Ruby and the Atlas gay;
Not to omit the lov'd Nicotian Weed,
Nor Spirits drawn from Rice, and th' Indian Reed.

Thus whilst no Cares or Fears our Minds oppress,
But Wealth and Peace, and Joy the Nations bless,
Whilst George the Just does o'er the State preside,
And faithful Ministers his Councils guide:

179

Great Sir, relax your Thoughts and condescend,
Humbly, the Muses humble Lyre t' attend.

On Ida Jove, on Thracian Mountains Mars,
The Care of Peace reliev'd, and Toil of Wars;
Augustus thus, and Scipio thus, we find,
With Wit and Verse amus'd a State-sick Mind.

You're our Mæcenas. Freely, Sir, converse
With the lov'd Votaries of the God of Verse.
Raise a Lyceum, a Palatian Dome,
Like the fam'd Patron of the Wits of Rome;
Which to Apollo's Temple join'd, did stand,
And there do you the learned Tribe command.
When her Mæcenas Britain's Isle shall boast,
The Mantuan Swans will sing along her Coast;
And whene'er Pollio does a Muse require,
Some Flaccus will arise to touch the Lyre.

180

The Ecclesiastical Don Quixote:

An excellent old Ballad.

Written by an Oxford Scholar, in Harry the 7th's Time, on the Abbot of Westminster's assaulting the Governour of Hull, on Perkin Warbeck's Account.

[_]

To the Tune of, When good King Henry rul'd this Land.

Tantæné animis Cælestibus Iræ?
Virg.

1

Attend my Song, which shall declare
The valiant Acts full well
Of Abbot Frank, in Westminster,
Who, not long since, did dwell.

181

2

But now, alas! for Reasons wise,
Within four Walls is pent,
There to bewail, in dismal Guise,
And, if he can, repent.

3

With burning Zeal, in Lawn when drest,
Oft has he fir'd the Town,
Nor can his flaming Temper rest,
In Stone-Doublet, or Gown.

4

A Churchman stanch himself to shew
He Wrangle might, and Huff;
But 'twas not Orthodox, I trow,
To Wrestle, Kick and Cuff.

182

5

Strange, that an Abbot Reverend Right,
Shou'd be so prone to Ire;
That one, so us'd to pray, shou'd fight,
And shou'd so soon take Fire.

6

O! say Machaon, whence proceeds
This furious, warlike Vein;
What Diet so much Nitre breeds,
And Sulphur in his Brain.

7

And name the Drink, whose Spirits hot,
Cou'd Prelate-Blood ferment,
Like Cyder, when the Cork is shot,
And to the Cieling sent.

183

8

For, monstrous 'twas so see and hear,
As all Men will confess,
The Holy Man of God to swear,
And fight with Arm of Flesh:

9

And 'gainst a Warrior bold to stand,
And madly to attack,
Who had great Guns at his Command,
And Hussars at his Back.

10

Tell, if these Particles (so us'd
To fire this Prelate's Soul,
When good King Harry was abus'd,
And Perkin crown'd the Bowl;

184

11

Or when from Church to Church he'd roam,
With Face of Scarlet Hue,
And for High-Mass at Mouth wou'd foam,
And damn the Wickliff-Crew;

12

When Perkin's Right was stil'd Divine,
The chosen Race of God,
Tho' Wisemen thought that Perkin's Line
Excentrick was and odd:)

13

Tell if these fiery Seeds, I say,
Like Gun-powder that's pent,
Broke out this strange Romantick way,
For want of usual Vent.

185

14

Sir Governour, the Abbot said,
A Crow I'll pluck with you;
Advance and stand close by this Bed,
And ye, my Servants two.

15

The Courteous Governour reply'd,
Your Mind, Lord Abbot, say;
But let your Servants twain, he cry'd,
Be order'd first away.

16

By James, reply'd the Abbot keen,
They shant: off Heretick;
Nor stirr my Slaves, for well I ween,
Some vile, deceitful Trick.

186

17

You WICKLIFF Dog! with that he flew,
And seiz'd him by the Collar,
The Cornish Hug full well he knew,
Whilom an Oxford Scholar.

18

So on his Back the Governour
Lay meekly, tho' a Fighter;
And only said, Consider, Sir,
Does this become a MITRE?

19

If I the Scriptures; know, belike,
You are no true Divine;
There Abbots are forbid to strike,
Or to be drunk with Wine.

187

20

In vain you boast your straight Descent,
From Peter down is come;
Unless by Peter here be meant
The bloody Pope of Rome.

21

An Hero in this Fort doth bide
With Hand of Rigid Steel;
Your Hand and pious Heart beside
Are harder, as I feel.

22

The Abbot, in religious Mood,
As there the Victim lay,
Was tempted for the Church's Good
This Sacrifice to slay.

188

23

And his Breath surely then had ceas'd,
Had th' Abbot had the Power,
Were he the Prisoner, and the Priest
Commander of Hull Tower.

24

But as the Abbot sat astride
Upon his prostrate Foe,
Nor cou'd 'twixt Rage and Fear decide
What he had best to do;

25

The Guard approaching to the Door,
He quits, in haste, his Prey;
Up rose the patient Governour,
And mildly went away.

189

26

Now upon London-Tower-Hill,
Shou'd Frank pay for his Frolick,
God send the Abbot's Place to fill
Some Priest more Apostolick,

Lord N---th and G---y

190

Blew-Ey'd NANCY;

OR The Disappointed Lovers.

An excellent New BALLAD.

[_]

To the Tune of Fair Rosamond.

I

All, in Soho, there liv'd a Toast,
Her Name was Blue-ey'd Nan,
More Charms, did Virgin never boast,
To win the Heart of Man.

II

Of Liberal Parents she was born;
Well nurtur'd too was she;
Her Manners did her Birth adorn,
And eke her Modesty.

191

III

Two Eyes she had, both lovely bright,
Where Cupid, oft, was found
To lurk, and thence to take his Flight,
Poor mortal Hearts to wound.

IV

One Day the Roguish Imp, unseen,
Behind a SPECK withdrew;
A Present! from the Cyprian Queen,
T' embellish Nancy's BLUE.

V

Long it remain'd in her Fair Eye,
A beauteous Speck! indeed;
Who saw it, straight, of Love did die,
To think on't makes me bleed.

192

VI

Now, here, as He lay in the Lurch,
He drew a deadly Dart,
When she gaz'd up to Heaven at Church,
And shot TAR through the Heart,

VII

And then he wrench'd it out, again,
As there it reeking lay;
And plung'd it into her Heart's Vein,
While she her Prayers did say.

VIII

To Woods and Lawns, away she hies,
And wanders all-around;
The Air she perfumes by her Sighs;
Her Tears refresh the Ground.

193

IX

To Shores relentless, and to Rocks,
Inflam'd, does he complain;
Then Thetis and her Nymphs invokes,
To ease him of his Pain.

X

Upon the Sand he writes her Name;
And she carves his on Trees;
She Dryads prays to cool her Flame;
He, Naiads, to quench his.

XI

Far dearer Nancy is to Tar,
More Brilliant in his Eyes,
Than polish'd Gold or Diamonds are,
Or Sol, that gilds the Skies.

194

XII

In Tar, again, to Nancy's Mind,
More Beauties do abound,
Than midst the Spicy Shrubs we find,
Or on the Flow'ry Ground.

XIII

Ah! Hymen hasten, why dost thou
Thy Silken Knot forbear?
Thy Blessings thou canst ne'er bestow
On a more Goodly Pair.

XIV

But Fate had ty'd up Hymen's Hands;
For, fair the Winds do prove;
Honour to India Tar commands,
Honour! that Foe to Love.

195

XV

Three Times his Steeds had Phœbus drove
Through the bent Zodiac's Bow,
And by his rapid Course, Above,
Made Three long Years Below.

XVI

No Pleasure Wealth or Conquest yields
To Tar's distracted Mind!
No Joy, in Courts or Verdant Fields,
Can absent Nancy find.

XVII

When, lo! the Gods, who Lovers aid,
And gently fan their Flames,
To Nancy's Ears the News convey'd,
That Tar had reach'd the Thames,

196

XVIII

To Whitehall Stairs, all in great haste,
The Nymph her Course does bend;
Greenwich and Woolwich, soon, are past,
She meets him at Gravesend.

XIX

But stop, my Muse! forbear to tell
The Meeting of them Twain;
My Eyes o'erflow, my Breast does swell;
They meet, to part again.

XX

Hymen appear'd, when first, he saw
Bright Nancy at the Door;
But Pluto rising, cry'd, Withdraw,
Your Tar shall be no more.

197

XXI

With that the Fury Febris came,
(Her Eye-balls darting Fire)
And put Tar's Blood all into Flame,
Of which he did expire.

XXII

Then, just as she her Lover lost,
Enrag'd, she snatch'd a Knife,
And, Stabbing, said, I'll not be cross'd;
My Ghost shall be his Wife.

198

The TORY PLOT Unravel'd.

An excellent New BALLAD.

[_]

To the Tune of Which no Body can deny.

1

To dethrone good King George, who the first of that Name,
To govern Great-Britain, from Hanover came,
The Tories did Plot, but paid dear for the same.
Which no Body can deny.

2

They caroused and consulted, they wrote and they rode,
Their Time, and their Pains, nay their Money be stow'd,
They hir'd Ships and Men; yet deny'd all, by G-d.
Which no Body can deny.

199

3

Arms, full forty Thousand, they hid under Ground,
Swore that there were none, tho' some of them were found,
As they all wou'd ha'been, hadn't Neyno been drown'd,
Which no Body can deny.

4

The fam'd Mr. Fawks half so dextrous at Tricks,
Never was as a Tory at Hieroglyphicks,
Who swears and forswears, and at nothing who sticks,
Which no Body can deny.

5

Shew his Hand-writing to him, as plain as the Nose
That is on his Face, yet he swears and he vows,
It was wrote by his Fingers, no more than his Toes,
Which no Body can deny.

200

6

Produce his own Signet, most clean and most neat,
May I perish, he'll say, if this ben't Counterfeit,
How cou'd you contrive, Mr. Whig, such a Cheat?
Which no Body can deny.

7

His Treason in Cyphers, he declares a Welsh Song;
The Key to't's a Cronaun in the Irish Tongue;
For he's not one of those, who his Country wou'd wrong,
Which no Body can deny.

8

Confront him with one, who was of his own Gang,
With whom he both plotted, whor'd, tippled and sang,
Yet, if he ever saw him, he'll wish he may hang,
Which no Body can deny.

201

9

Thus, till the Report and Appendix were shown;
They sneer'd and they laugh'd at the Plot, thro' the Town;
But, now, in the Mouth they are damnably down,
Which no Body can deny.

10

The Plot then being visible, as is the Sun
At Noon-day, what think you now more will be done?
Why, you'll swing for't, dear Tory, as sure as a Gun,
Which no Body can deny.

202

The Second Part.

Being an Answer to a scandalous Song handed about to affront the H. of C---s and the Committee.

[_]

To the same Tune.

1

A Physician and Parson together, once, got,
With a tatter'd-coat Poet, an old rhiming Sot,
In a Song, to disprove and to laugh off the Plot,
Which no Body can deny.

2

But most dearly they paid for their Frolick, I think,
And much better they'd done, t'have done nothing but Drink,
For the Plot, more they stirr'd, the much more it did stink,
Which no Body can deny.

203

3

Having crambo'd all Night, on a few Rhimes they hit,
But without any Truth, any Meaning, or Wit;
For the Plotters and Poets are equally bit.
Which no Body can deny.

4

By this Time they repent of their Mirth, I believe,
And despair of Frank's Pardon, and Layer's Reprieve;
And if they laugh now, it is but in their Sleeve,
Which no Body can deny.

5

The Report a most masterly Piece is allow'd;
The Appendix of Witnesses is a great Cloud;
And with Power and Justice the Lords are endow'd,
Which no Body can deny.

204

6

To convict these vile Plotters, Proofs open and plain,
For a long Time, before both the Houses have lain,
And the Poets were Puppies to name Harlequin
Which no Body can deny.

7

For the Dog prov'd Frank Guilty, tho' nought he cou'd say
And when Plotters, for plotting, are punished; pray
Remember, that every Dog has his Day.
Which no Body can deny.

8

Men, Women and Children; the Living, the Dead,
Things heard, and Things seen, and Things numberless read,
All make the Plot out; so no more to be said.
Which no Body can deny.

205

9

To conclude; no more Witnesses need, yet, be found;
For four Plotters imprison'd, Two Hang'd (I'll be bound)
And Two banish'd will be: And One, you know's drown'd.
Which no Body can deny.

10

The good Plot, I can tell you, besides, daily opes,
So that by next Session, we have greatest Hopes,
That many more of ye will meet Goals and Ropes,
At which the true Whigs will rejoice, rejoice.
At which the true Whigs will rejoice.

206

A Triumphant SONG

[_]

To the Tune of, Fill every Glass, &c.

I

Rejoice Britannia.
For, full many a
Monster, thy darling Knight has slain.
Purg'd is the Venom of their Brain;
Damp'd is their drivling, scribling Strain;
Rejoice Britannia,
For, full many a
Monster, thy darling Knight has slain.

207

II

Bolder and Bolder
Grew the Freeholder,
Till, bravely, Sir James, quite cut him down.
Cato then, next perplex'd the Town;
Cato! whilom of Fair Renown!
But then the Fierce Knight
Soon put him to Flight;
And kill'd him, and his Epitaph did write.

III

Last came the Dragon,
Papist and Pagan,
The vilest of the many-headed Crew:
But the Chevalier at him flew,
And his Heart's blood he fairly drew;
And felling down Mist,
Upon him he pi---t,
And gave him the parting-Blow with his Fist.

208

ON A MICROSCOPE.

Wondrous Machine! which can by magick Light,
Mature an embryo Atome to the Sight.
Full to our View which can, in unform'd Clay,
An Insect, working into Form, display;
And thro' whose mystick Power, a Gyant Size
Or does, or seems, from Miniature to rise
See! Ripe in Mirrour, see! the Egg-Worm sleep,
And, e'er his Shell is broke, proportion'd creep.
Parts, yet imperfect, now appear compleat;
Tho' mix'd, yet sever'd; tho' minute, yet, great.

209

Hail mighty Crystal! whose most powerful Light,
To Order Chaos turns; to Day the Night.

Consult the Glass, and see yon puny Flea;
Disturber Cynthia of thy Dreams and Thee!
See! with what monstrous Port and stately Pride,
The Pigmy swells, and tempts an awker'd Stride;
See his Proboscis! see his well-hing'd Thigh;
His Lobster-Legs; and see his Eagle-Eye.

O Microscopia! Goddess heavenly bright,
Which to an Angel's Ken has stretch'd my Sight,
Stop not thy Bounty, but be still more kind,
Enlarge the Purlieu of my narrow Mind:
In Colours, plain, expose to Reason's Eye,
What, yet, to Reason Nature does deny:
What 'tis to think, teach my amazed Thought;
And let, O! let me, whence I came, be taught;

210

Be taught, what am I? Where, at Death, I go?
What Spirits do above, what Shades, below?
Open of future Scenes the hidden Doom;
Explain the present and the Things to come;
And then, in pious Hymns and grateful Lays
O Goddess! I'll enshrine thy deathless Praise.