University of Virginia Library

I. VOL. I.

THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE

A Fable.

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

AN ODE TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLE,

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

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

ARGYLE'S DECAMPMENT,

(Written in June, 1740.)

A GRUB UPON BUB

(Written in December 1741.)

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

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

(Written in Jan. 1740-1.)

A Dialogue.

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PETER AND MY LORD QUIDAM:

A Satire.

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

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

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

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

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

PETER.
Then you will be poor.

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

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

A Political Eclogue

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

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

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

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

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

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

ISABELLA;

OR, THE MORNING

AN ODE TO THE HONOURABLE HENRY FOX,

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

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

In Answer to that celebrated Performance.

AN ODE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE STEPHEN POYNTZ, ESQ.

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

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

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

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

AN ODE ON MISS HARRIET HANBURY,

AT SIX YEARS OLD.

A SONG: ON MISS HARRIET HANBURY,

ADDRESSED TO THE REV. MR. BIRT.

ON THE DEATH OF LADY ABERGAVENNY:

BY A LADY.

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

ON LADY ABERGAVENNY:

BY CHARLES, DUKE OF DORSET.

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

SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS TO SIR HANS SLOANE,

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

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

(Written in February 1739-40.)

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

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

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

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

THE COUNTRY GIRL; AN ODE:

HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO THE EARL OF BATH.

A NEW ODE

TO A GREAT NUMBER OF GREAT MEN, NEWLY MADE.

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

THE STATESMAN.

A NEW ODE.

AN ODE, FROM THE EARL OF BATH TO AMBITION.

THE HEROES:

A NEW BALLAD.

SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS TO EDWARD HUSSEY, ESQ.

An Epigram.

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

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE EARL OF BATH AND HIS COUNTESS.

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

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

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

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

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

TO THE EARL OF BATH;

IMITATED FROM CATULLUS.

AN ODE TO THE HON. PHILIP YORKE:

IMITATED FROM HORACE. Ode xvi. Book ii.

THE CAPUCHIN:

A NEW BALLAD,

AN ODE TO LORD LIMERICK

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

April 1743.

TO THE EARL OF BATH,

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

TO THE EARL OF BATH,

(Written at Maddington, Sept. 1743.)

AN ODE FROM THE EARL OF BATH.

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

A NEWER ODE THAN THE LAST.

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

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

BRITANNIA'S GHOST TO THE EARL OF BATH.

AN ODE FROM FAME TO THE EARL OF BATH.

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

THE PATRIOT PARROT:

A Fable.

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

Who died to Fame, July 15th, 1742.

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

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

ADDRESSED TO WM. EARL OF BATH.

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

ON THE ARRIVAL OF GENERAL OGLETHORPE.

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

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

INSCRIBED TO THE EARL OF BATH.

WYNDHAM AND PULTNEY;

OR THE VISION AT BATH.

TO MR. GARNIER AND MR. PEARCE OF BATH.

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

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

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

A LAMENTABLE CASE.

SUBMITTED TO THE BATH PHYSICIANS.

A BALLAD:

(Written in June 1743.)

ON THE PRINCES GOING TO ST. JAMES'S

IN FEBRUARY 1741-2.

HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.

IMITATED IN AN ODE FROM PAUL FOLEY TO NICHOLAS FAZAKERLEY.

ORPHEUS AND HECATE,

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

LADY DOROTHY BOYLE ENAMOURED WITH LORD EUSTON.

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

SONG IN COMUS.

SONG.

II. VOL. II.

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

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

ON MRS. WOFFINGTON.

TO KITTY WALKER:

December 1742.

TO MRS. WOFFINGTON, 1740.

LOVELY PEGGY.

A NEW SONG.

TO MRS. WOFFINGTON.

(Written in July 1744.)

IN IMITATION OF

TO MRS. BINDON, AT BATH.

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

MRS. BINDON'S ANSWER.

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

SIR CHARLES'S REPLY.

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

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

ON CHARLES STANHOPE, ESQ. DRINKING TAR-WATER.

AN ODE TO SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.

AN ODE TO SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS;

OCCASIONED BY SEEING AN ODE INSCRIBED TO LORD CHESTERFIELD.

AN ODE TO LORD LINCOLN.

New Ballad.

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

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

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

May 1743.

A SIMILE: PRINTED IN GEOFFRY BROADBOTTOM'S JOURNAL;

April 1743.

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

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

Written in August, 1744.

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

A NEW BALLAD:

[_]

TO THE TUNE OF “YE COMMONS AND PEERS.”

Written in the beginning of May, 1743.

THE HIGHLANDERS FLIGHT;

A NEW GRUB-STREET BALLAD:

(Written in June, 1743.)

AN ODE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY PELHAM, ESQ.

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

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

Written in January 1743-4.

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

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

Written in 1742.

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

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

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

LINES OCCASIONED BY A LATE MOTION.

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

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

February 1742-3.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Epigram.

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

SANDYS AND JEKYLL;

A NEW BALLAD:

HERVEY AND JEKYLL.

PART II.

An Epistle TO THE RIGHT HON. HENRY FOX.

Written in August 1745.

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

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

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

A DUCHESS'S GHOST TO ORATOR HANOVER PITT.

THE UNEMBARRASS'D COUNTENANCE,

A NEW BALLAD:

SHORT VERSES, IN IMITATION OF LONG VERSES:

IN AN EPISTLE TO WILLIAM PITT, ESQ.

THE OLD COACHMAN;

A NEW BALLAD:

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

VERSES

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

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

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

A NEW BALLAD:

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

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

ON THE COUNTESS OF YARMOUTH MAKING THE CAMPAIGN.

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

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

BRITANNIA'S LAMENTATION AND PETITION.

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

PUBLII OVIDII NASONIS AMORUM

Lib. i. Eleg. 9.

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

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

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

An Epigram, ON QUIN, THE COMEDIAN.

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

An Epigram ON LORD ANSON AND HIS LADY.

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

III. VOL. III.

ON BENEVOLENCE:

AN EPISTLE TO EUMENES.

THE WIFE AND THE NURSE:

A NEW BALLAD.

PLAIN THOUGHTS IN PLAIN LANGUAGE:

A NEW BALLAD.

1743.

PLACE-BOOK FOR THE YEAR 1745:

A NEW BALLAD.

OLD ENGLAND's TE DEUM.

WE complain of Thee, O King, we acknowledge Thee to be an Hanoverian.
All Hungary doth worship Thee, the Captain Everlasting.
To Thee all Placemen cry aloud, the House of Lords, and all the Courtiers therein.
To Thee Carteret and Bath continually do cry,
Warlike, warlike, warlike Captain General, of the Armies! Brunswick and Lunenburgh are full of the brightness of our coin.
The venal company of Peers praise Thee.
The goodly fellowship of Ministers praise Thee.
The noble Army of Hanoverians praise Thee.
The Holy Bench of Bishops throughout the land doth acknowledge Thee.
Thine honourable, true and steady Son.
Also my Lady Yarmouth the comforter.
Thou art a glorious Prince, O King!
Thou art the ever charming Son of the Father.
When thou tookest upon Thee to deliver this nation, thou didst not abhor thy Father's example.
When thou hadst overcome the sharpness of want, thou didst open the smiles of thy favour to all believers in a Court.
Thou sittest at the right hand of --- in the Treasury of the Father.
We believe that thou shalt come to be our scourge.
We therefore pray Thee provide for thy servants, whom thou hast fed with thy renown.
Make them to be numbered with thy slaves in livery everlasting.
O King, spare thy people of England.
And now squeeze thy people of Hanover.
Govern them as Thou hast done us.
And confine them to their turnips for ever.
Day by day we sing ballads unto Thee.
And we bawl against Hanover, ever world without end.
Vouchsafe O King, to keep us this year without thy Hanoverians.
The Lord have Mercy upon us; the Lord have Mercy upon us.
O King let thy Mercy lighten our taxes, as our Credit should be in Thee.
O King in Thee have I trusted, let me not be confounded.
Valour be to the Father, common sense to the Son, and a young bed-fellow to the Countess of Yarmouth; as was not in the beginning, is not now, nor is ever like to be, world without end:

THE MERRY CAMPAIGN;

OR THE WESTMINSTER AND GREEN-PARK SCUFFLE:

A NEW COURT BALLAD.

LABOUR IN VAIN.

A SONG, AN HUNDRED YEARS OLD.

THE EXPIRING SWAN,

ON LOSING HER MATE.

Written in 1741.

TO CHLOE:

A PERSUASIVE TO LOVE.

SINCE Nature ne'er acted in vain,
Say, Chloe, why are you so fair?
Was beauty designed to give pain,
And wit only meant for a snare?
No, no, you were form'd to delight,
And here all your business is love;
What Nature design'd must be right,
Her dictates we are bound to approve.
Haste, then, let us time now employ,
And ev'ry refinement improve;
Make life a full circle of joy,
Its centre immutable love.
In pleasure we'll sport ev'ry day,
And ne'er take account of our hours;
Let time fly as swift as he may,
The present must always be ours.

THE FAIR MORALIST.

AS late by Thames's verdant side,
With solitary pensive air,
Fair Chloe search'd the silver tide,
With pleasing hope and patient care:
Forth as she cast the silken fly,
And musing stroll'd the bank along;
She thought no list'ning ear was nigh,
While thus she tun'd her moral song:
“The poor unhappy thoughtless fair,
“Like the mute race are oft undone;
“These with a gilded fly we snare,
“With gilded flatt'ry those are won.
“Careless, like them, they frolic round,
“And sportive toss th'alluring bait;
“At length they feel the treach'rous wound,
“And struggle to be free too late.
“But, ah, fair fools! beneath this shew
“Of gaudy colours lurks a hook!
“Cautious the bearded mischief view,
“And ere you leap, be sure to look.”
More she'd have sung, when, from the shade
Rush'd forth gay Damon, brisk and young;
And, whatsoe'er he did, or said,
Poor Chloe quite forgot her song.

On Pope's having just published his Dunciad.

AT length Pope conquers; Hervey, Wortley, yield,
And nameless numbers cover all the field:
Just so of old, or Roman story lies,
Domitian triumph'd o'er a host of flies.

VERSES BY SIR C. HANBURY WILLIAMS,

ADDRESSED TO HIS DAUGHTER THE COUNTESS OF ESSEX.

VERSES,

Written by Sir C. H. Williams, on seeing a Man with a heavy Load on his Back and an Oak Leaf in his Hat on the 29th of May— Communicated by Wm. Coombes, Esq., Henley on Thames.