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

Exordium on the Prince. Invocation on Commerce. Her Effects. A Fleet fitted out. Bay of Biscay described. Compared with the Irish Sea. Voyage to the Atlantic, to Africa, to the Streights, the German Ocean, to Russia. Encomium on Peter the Great, Czar of Muscovy. Ditto on Queen Elizabeth. Effects of Persecution. Reflections on it. Description of the Royal Exchange. Character of the benevolent Merchant. Digression on Liberty and her Effects. Digression on Italy. Consequences of Bigotry and arbitrary Power. Digression on Spain. Effects of false Pride. Digression on France and Louis XIV. Application to Britain. ‘Digression on Holland, and the Effects of Commerce there. Reflection on Britain, and the British Fishery. The Muse's Prayer. Digression on Happiness. Encomium on the Prince and Princess. Application to Prince George.

127

While You, Great Sir, Britannia's rising Hope,
Great in Benevolence, superior far
To all the Trophies of the sanguine Field,
Pursue each Plan, each generous Design,
To bless Mankind, and Happiness dispense;
Thus sings the Muse—Not dazzl'd with the Glare
Of Glory, Pomp, or Acclamation loud;
The Aim of vulgar Minds—No slavish Bard
Now makes his Court by Adulation vile,
Or sings a Language foreign to his Heart:
Transcendent Merit prompts the willing Muse,
To blend thy Virtues with commercial Arts;
Arts which she loves—Arts which she boasts are thine.

Hail, Commerce! fruitful hail! exhaustless Source!
Of all that's great, magnificent, or good;

128

Of all that Voyager romantic tells
Of India's Wealth—or Virtuoso dreams
Of philosophic Stone—oft vainly search'd
In chymic Process, when the heated Brain
Of Alchymist boils o'er, and 'fore him rise
Mountains of Gold—blest visionary Shades!
O Commerce! thine's the Substance, thine the Art
To make the Treasure of each World thy own:
Great Emblem of the Sun! whose genial Rays
And Pow'rs prolific glad with rip'ning Stores
Redundant Nature—Thou too deal'st around
Beneficence complete, and all the World
Looks gay—Thy Sons with ruddy Vigour glow,
And Jollity betokens thou art there.

Albion! to Her thou ow'st thy present Fame,
Thy stately Buildings, and thy Villas grand,
Thy peopled Cities, and thy numerous Towns,
Which rise promiscuous, pleasing to the Sight,
Thick as the Shocks of Corn on Field new reap'd;
To Her th'unrivall'd Empire of the Main,
Whose lordly Waves with glad Submission crouch,
And lay their Treasures prostrate at thy Feet.

See! the gay Fleet to various Ports consign'd,
Various their Freight—rich Industry at Helm
Smiles on the jovial Crew, joyous they hold
The swelling Canvas to th'impelling Wind,
Traverse each Pole, and distant Worlds explore;
Nor Torrid Zone, nor Frigid, check their Course.

129

Dauntless they brave the wide Biscayan Bay,
Well known to Mariners for boist'rous Wave,
And swell of Surges vast—an horrid Vale!
The liquid Mountains rear their tow'ring Heads,
And bellow Anarchy in hideous Roar,
Swoln with Disdain, and proud contemptuous Scorn
Of Boundary firm set, they foam with Rage,
And threat the affrighten'd Land with bold Usurp:
Less fatal yet those Seas, than what confuse
The rocky Coasts of rough Hibernia's Shore;
Oft seen in vain—oft has the greedy Eye
Of Mariner devour'd thy Hill, O Hoth!
Ah! never shall he reach thy friendly Shore,
Ah! never tread thy hospitable Land:
See! every Plank convulsive Tremor feels,
In cruel Conflict with th'insulting Foe,
Till bulg'd, alas! there ends the dreadful Strife.

Some the Atlantic plough, serener far,
Tho' oft the loud tongu'd Waves contentious brawl,
In Uproar wild—Onward they steer their Course,
To Afric's parched Clime, whose sooty Sons,
Thro' Rage of civil Broils—hard Destiny!
Forc'd from their native Home to Western Ind,
In Slavery drag the galling Chain of Life:
Or past the Streights, they coast the Tuscan Shore

130

To sea-born Venice, or the proud Levant:
Delicious Range! there variegated Scenes
Strike the enchanted Mind with new Delight.

The German Ocean cross'd, where Boreas rough,
Bracing the Nerves with Strength, enures to Toil
The Nations of the North; and left the Sound,
O'er Baltic Seas, we visit Russia's Sons;
A rude, uncultivated, rugged Race,
Till smooth'd by Commerce, rear'd by Peter's Hand;
Great Peter! who forsook th'Imperial Throne
To teach his People Arts unknown before.
Commerce!—what is't to brave the World in Arms?
Like as did Alexander, Cæsar, Charles,
Mighty Destroyers! Ravagers at large!
Once heav'n-commission'd Scourges of Mankind!
'Gainst Thee in Truth's eternal Balance weigh'd,
How does the Scale fly up, and kick the Beam!
How light to Thee! who taught the social Arts,
And made Man tractable and kind to Man:
All hail! Thou foremost in the Work, great Czar!
Unequall'd Man! who tam'd the savage Mind,
Chipt off th'incrusted Diamond's rougher Coat,
New set its native Lustre full to View;
Who bad by Commerce Petersburgh arise,
Great Mistress of the North, whose brilliant Court
Rivals in Splendour Gallia's proud Versailles.

But whither would the Muse transport me?—far
O'er endless Tracks of congregated Snow—

131

Adieu! O! frozen Worlds—our native Clime
Accords my Sight—What sea-bleach'd Cliffs are those?
White as the Sheep new shorn—They're Dover thine;
And Albion! thence thy Name —How from the Beach
Tow'ring they rise majestic—Semblance fit
Of thy superior Sway, and Height of Rule!
What do I see!—what those aspiring Domes!
Hail! fair Augusta, Mistress of the World!
Thy Fav'rite, Commerce, here has fix'd her Throne,
Here holds her Reign supreme—long may She Reign!
Triumphantly, as erst when England's Queen,
Elizabeth! renown'd for Arts and Arms,
Britannia sway'd—both loving and belov'd—
A more than Match for thy Armada, Spain!
'Twas She receiv'd thee, Commerce, when bid fly
The Netherlands by D'Alva's Tyranny,
When vanquish'd Liberty on haughty Philip
Her Cause reveng'd, and quitting Belgia's Shore,
Brought with her here the welcome Golden Fleece;
A Mine of Wealth surpassing thine, Peru!
Effect most just of Persecution dire!

Thus may Oppression, Cruelty, and Lust
Of Pow'r, however couch'd in pious Terms
Of Inquisition Holy!—Acts of Faith!
Thus ever may they thrive—Good God! that e'er

132

Thy Creature rational should steel his Breast
'Gainst Nature's Voice!—thy Image thus invert!

Is there a Crime on Earth, which calls aloud
For Wrath uncommon, and severest Ire?
Tho' tardy Vengeance dozing seems to sleep,
Sure it is Cruelty (true Fiend of Hell!)
When awful cloath'd in mild Religion's Dress,
Feasting on Blood in horrid Massacre:
Tremble at this, ye Tyrants of the Earth!
Who thus insult your God—monstrous to Thought—
Quick! let us quit th'unhallow'd gloomy Scene.

Lo! Gresham's noble Structure, Dome august!
Resort of Merchants! venerable Mart!
Where various Nations of the peopl'd Earth
The Business drive of the commercial Globe:
Here the furr'd Russian, and the turban'd Turk,
The trowser'd Dutchman, and the buskin'd Swede;
The plain, rough German, and the Italian soft;
The slow, grave Spaniard, and the Frenchman gay;
A World in Miniature! most pleasing Sight!
Nothing articulate thro' the buzzing Crowd—
Babel of Melody! harmonious Discord!
Sweeter than Airs by Handel's Genius sung.

What glowing Transport fills his raptur'd Breast,
Who can survey this little World around,
With friendly Eye, and universal Love?
Whose open Face the Image of his Heart,

133

Stranger to dark and sinister Designs,
Can smile on all benevolently good,
And in each Man can read his Brother there;
Such is the Merchant, who with gen'rous Views
Nobly anticipates the Want of Thousands,
Extending Commerce but the more to bless:
Great Son of Liberty, rich Queen of Arts!

Fair Liberty! the Venus of this Isle!
Where painful Industry, when cheer'd by Thee,
Strains ev'ry Nerve, nor deems the Toil severe:
Absent—thy Daughter Commerce soon would droop,
And happiest Lands become a dreary Waste.

O Italy! delightful, beauteous Spot!
Couldst thou but boast her gentle Golden Reign,
How blest were Thou!—
Nature with lavish Hand exuberant,
On thee has pour'd her Sweets, profusely kind!
The Tiber, Liris, Arno, Silver Streams!
Glide gently thro' t'enrich the fertile Glebe;
Fertile, alas! in vain, while Papal Pow'r
And slavish Bigotry depress the Mind;
While lordly Sway, and arbitrary Rule,
Eat up the Labour of the hungry Hind,
Toiling in vain—well may'st thou mourn thy Lands
Uncultivated, and thy Fields forlorn:
In all this Happiness unblest—So Spain,
Curst with the Treasures of the Indian World,
Supine and slothful, thro' affected Pride,

134

Boasting Gentility, neglected Trade,
And all at length was splendid Poverty.

Such was Iberia, when Cervantes rose
To ridicule the Foible of his Age:
But now the Fetters of false Pride disdain'd,
They rouse to Arts, and Manufactures raise—
Fetters! which long oppress'd thee, France! while Lust
Of Monarchy brought low thy Grand Monarque—
Richlieu by Politics made thy Name rever'd,
Mighty in Arms, and dreaded thro' the World;
But Fleury 'twas, great Minister, and good!
Who sav'd Thee, almost sunk by wily Schemes;
By Commerce rais'd Thee to an envied Height:
Thy Sons soon caught the Flame, and now their Ships,
Extending wide their Traffick o'er the Deep,
Bid fair to conquer the European World.

Britain! the World's in Arms—more dreadful Arms,
Than hostile Sword, or the loud Cannon's Roar;
Pacific Arms! which levell'd at thy Trade,
Thy Basis shake—'tis Time to take th'Alarm,
By Industry superior to arise;
By honest Councils, and true Patriot Zeal,
To cherish Commerce, and extend her Sway.

Commerce! most sov'reign Pow'r! Batavia tell
How She of old retriv'd thy State distrest;
Strong, incontested Proof that She can raise
The lowest States 'bove Kingdoms of the Earth:
Well is it known how thy Petition ran,

135

Address'd to great Eliza, Albion's Queen;
Eliza heard—
Britons! still view Her with a friendly Eye,
But dread supplanting by her artful Hand:
Remember oft your Mother's drooping Years
Demand no less your pious Care—she mourns
Her Northern Coasts, environ'd all around
When alien Busses, and a spurious Brood:
What Means this Indolence? this Lethargy?
Thus to neglect the Treasure of the Seas—

If aught avails the Muse's humble Pray'r,
Greatly solicitous for her Country's Good—
Hear me, propitious Heav'n! Britannia guard,
Direct her Councils, and extend her Trade;
Save her alike from ministerial Pow'r,
And Patriotism false—give to her Nobles
Zeal to assert her Rights—her Sons inspire
With Love of Industry and nervous Toil;
Assist her fav'rite Infant at its Birth,
The British Fishery—oh! rear it up
With Hand benign, bring it to Growth mature,
So in return shall Thousands bless thy Name.

Lo! Britain's Genius rising to her Aid,
Frederick vouchsafes to lead the glorious Van
Of brave Advent'rers in the grand Attempt:

136

Patron of Arts! You ever foremost stand,
In each Design to benefit Mankind;
Teach us, great Prince! to prize commercial Arts,
Teach us Benevolence, so shall we be blest,
So learn wherein true Happiness consists.
For what is Happiness? 'tis not to wear
The ermin'd Robe, the Mitre, or the Crown;
All these have many wore, alass! how wretched!
It is Benevolence—Offspring of Heav'n!
With this compar'd all Qualities are Dross,
Mere tinkling Cymbols, and an empty Sound.

It is the Quality, illustrious Sir!
The Character you so eminently fill:
How shall I paint the Condescension great?
When Princely Dignity vouchsaf'd to stoop
The callous Palm of Artisan to greet;
When thro' your Western Tour, with lib'ral Hand,
In Pleasure's Cup, Humanity You mixt,
And serv'd it round—All was tumultuous Joy!
When blest Corinium hail'd You as You past.

London! how great thy Triumph! truly great,
(More than when Charles his pompous Entry made,
By Monk attended thro' the crowded Streets—)
When on that gladsome Morn thy Fautor Frederick

137

Late deign'd to visit thy remotest Parts;
To raise the poor Mechanic's drooping Heart
By free Access—and Princely Converse mixt
With friendly Talk of Looms and Warps and Woofs,
Arts worthy of a Prince, the Friend of Trade!
Nor less, Augusta, did thy Presence charm!

Hail! gen'rous Frederick and Augusta mild!
In whom the social Virtues all unite,
To deal out Blessings to the human Race;
Long may ye live t'instruct your eldest Hope,
To add new Glories to the Brunswick Line.

This Piece had the Honour of the Approbation of his late Royal Highness, and attended with this singular Circumstance, that his Highness died on the Day the Author was to have been introduced to him.

a Hill well known at the Entrance of the Bar of Dublin.

'Tis supposed to be called Albion, ab Alpis Rupibus.

London so called.

Vessels used in the Herring Fishery.

Elected Governor of the British Fishery.

Alluding to the Prince's Journey in the Summer 1750.

Cirencester in Gloucestershire.

Alluding to the Prince and Princess going to Spitalfields.

139

DISTRESS.

A POETICAL ESSAY.

To the Right Honourable JOHN Earl of Radnor.

Per varios casus per tot discrimina rerum
Tendimus ------

Virg.

140

This Essay was wrote soon after the late Earthquake happened, as alluded to, Page 2. It has gone through several Editions. The Author imputes no Merit to the Performance as a Poem; perhaps its being wrote ad Hominem, is its greatest; few or none being so happy, as to be totally exempt from the Evils of Life; the Design of the Author being to recommend to the Great, Beneficence—and to the Unhappy, the bearing the Ills of Life with Decency.

141

Where Thames profuse, and lavish of his Charms,
In winding Progress, softly glides along;
So softly glides, he lingering seems to stay,
Full fond his favourite Twickenham to embrace;
Beneath the Shade, imbower'd as I lay,
The awful Gloom inspir'd the solemn Song,
Distress the Theme, and Radnor deigns to hear.

Aid me, Melpomene! thou pensive Maid,
But not of plunder'd Provinces to sing;
Nor the dread Horrors of the imbattled Plain,
When fierce Bellona pours her Thunders round,
And all is Ruin—Desolation all—
Nor the tremendous Horrors of Distress,
That roar in Tempest, and Confusion dire,
Extending wide o'er all the troubled Deep;
Nor that Distress so late conspicuous seen,
In the pale Face of those who greatly fear'd
The Earth's Concussion, nor would trust their God;

142

But vainly thought the Purpose of his Will,
T'evade by dastard Flight—ah! how in vain
Omnipotence to fly?—not these the Cause;
It is domestic Woe that now compells,
The sympathetic Muse to paint the Ravage
Private Distress makes on the Sons of Men;
That fell Distress which robb'd me of my Friend,
The gay, the good, benevolent Alphonso,
Who from the splendent Height of Affluence fell,
To Penury's drear Abyss—stupendious Shock!
Dread Separation!—so th'afflicted Soul,
Struggling to quit the cumberous Load of Flesh,
Would wing its Passage to the Realms of Light.

The well-fill'd Table now no more attracts
The jocund Eye, nor smiling Plenty now
O'er the rich Feast presides; but meagre Want,
With harpy Talon, drives her from the Board:
Nor does the joyous Bowl now sparkling glow,
Flush'd with rich Juice of Grape nectareous,
But pale, depriv'd of all the rosy Hue,
Its Loss bevails in Tears of limpid Streams;
Nor Song, nor Dance, nor Music's soothing Voice,
Is heard—alas! They fly the windflaw'd Roof,
And leave poor Melancholy here alone;
For here she dwells, here counts the snailpac'd Hours,

143

Whose drauling Course protract a wearied Life;
With Head reclin'd upon her shrivell'd Hand,
But ill supported by her beating Knee,
She sits biting her Nails—her beamless Eye
Sans Motion fixt, or on the Ground, or Wall,
Or lonely Hearth—where her sick Fancy broods,
O'er Fears immense, and sees all Hell arise.

These Ills preponderate, and o'erpoise the Man,
Yet rich Content would bring the Balance ev'n.

But then to lose the Quintessence of Life,
Shut out from Commerce of the social Kind,
Where sprightly Wit, and Elegance of Manners,
Raise high the Fancy, and refine the Soul;
(For sure he's more than Man, or somewhat less,
Who takes no Pleasure in Society)
Or driven to Solitude, or forc'd to bear
The noisy Jargon of Plebeian Tongues,
Converse indelicate! avert it Heav'n!

Ah! who can tell the agonizing Pain,
Which pierceth to the Heart when in our Walk
Fortuitous, we meet a former Friend;
Conscious of Poverty, the down-cast Eye
Would fain the Meeting shun;—but not so oft
As insolent Contempt avoids our Path,
Fleering with Eye askance—ah! dire Reverse;
It was not thus, when happier Fortunes smil'd,
And circling Friends re-eccho'd our Applause;
When the glad Welcome hail'd the obsequious Guest,
And the full Goblet crown'd the genial Day.

144

Oh! 'tis a Task requires his utmost Art,
To stem the Torrent of Adversity;
To work the Vessel thro' a Sea of Woes,
And bravely head her against proud Disdain.

This must be done—nay more—he must submit
His every Action to be canvass'd o'er,
The Ridicule of every low Buffoon:
What tho' his Eloquence should far exceed
The Ciceronian Stile, should Judgment sound,
Persuasion clear on every Accent hang,
Yet he's not heard, but pass'd unheeded by,
And every Fool can comment on his Words:
What boots it him? that kindly Nature gave,
What Science has improv'd, a Soul full-fraught
With noblest Purposes, and grand Designs;
Yet is he still depress'd—his Views confin'd,
Each rising Act by Disappointment cramp'd;
While keen Reflection preys upon the Sense,
Yet laudable Ambition prompts him on;
But ah! in vain his tow'ring Thoughts repuls'd,
A thousand Schemes distract his tortur'd Brain,
A thousand Passions agitate the Soul,
And all the Man is Chaos and Misrule.

See! black Despondence, with her gloomy Train
Of grisly Horrors hovers o'er the Soul,
Distraction, Frenzy, seizing the sick Heart,
Consign her over to the Fiend Despair,
Which often ends in Dereliction dire,

145

And sad Distrust of Providential Care;
Prompting to Suicide—inevitable!
Had not thy Goodness, O! all-wise Creator!
Hedg'd in our Being, and so fenc'd it round,
With Love of Life, Self-Preservation strong,
We dare not leap the Boundaries prescrib'd;
Else would weak Man, oppress'd by Woes, rush out
Of Life more oft; for who can tell the Pangs
Of bashful Merit struggling with Distress;
Whose Education generous as his Mind,
Can't brook Servility, or stoop to ask
Mean Pittance from the Hand of Charity:
Not so the Beggar, who without a Blush,
With clamorous Bawl can roar his Wants aloud,
Which not reliev'd he tauntingly returns,
In muttering Curses on the unbounteous Hand;
These, happy in the sordid Dregs of Life,
But little know what real Anguish means.

Ye lordly Worldlings, who now rowl at Ease
To City Feast, or Midnight Masquerade,
How dare ye let the Worthy be depress'd,
And thus confess the Impudence of Wealth?
Cannot ye read this Picture of Distress?
Must it be heighten'd; Must the Look confus'd
And the Grief clouded Eye still speak in vain?
Not so—the truly Great—who glad improve
Each Hint, each Intimation, that their Breast,
Or social Talk suggests both to prevent,

146

And to assist Distress—to whom kind Heaven
Hath given the Will, largely to dispense,
As largely they possess, whose Eye extends
Even beyond the Circle of Acquaintance,
Joy'd to find Merit in its lone Retreat,
To deal Benevolence diffusive round,
Unbounded—Imitators of their God!
How great to grapple with Adversity,
To wrest the Sceptre from her Iron Hand,
And dash in Pieces her imbitter'd Cup!
Thou Hydra-headed Monster! arduous Task!
More than Herculean Labour it requires
To cope with such a Foe;—how few enjoy
Fit Prowess to engage in equal Fight!
But he whose stubborn Virtue baffles her,
Without the Aid of mean, or servile Arts;
Nor has Recourse to Violence, or Fraud;
And scorns to seek Relief fallacious,
From the intoxicating purple Draught,
A far more glorious Victory has gain'd,
Than Philip's Son or Cæsar e'er could boast.

But 'gainst this Foe what Arms shall we take up?
Shall we in close Attrenchment wait the Assaults?
Or greatly dare her to the open Field?
Shall we with Horace ridicule her Power,
Deride her Force, and laugh her into Shame?
Well might he laugh, when great Augustus smil'd,
And the World's Master own'd him for his Friend:

147

Warm in the Beams of the Augustan Court,
Th'icy Pangs of Poverty ne'er reach'd him;
It was Mæcenas generous and benign,
Who animated all, and gave new Life,
Else had his Wit in languid Numbers flow'd,
And his unmeaning Satire known no Sting.

Shall we with Seneca, in formal, grave,
Collected Maxims of the pedant Schools,
Summon our boasted Reason to our Aid,
And open War declare? but let us scorn
To take the least Advantage of the Foe—
No—when she presseth sore, with heaviest Woes,
Let us engage her then on equal Terms;
Not when we are immers'd in Wealth immense,
Sufficient Price for mighty Provinces.

Away, ye Babblers of the Stoic Race,
Wise, solemn Fools! Nature is Nature still,
Whate'er your vaunted Apathy and Pride,
Rank Pride and Vanity of Heart, would boast,
Oft prov'd too weak—recoils upon itself,
And gives our Nature the opprobrious Lie.

Great Julius tasted oft desponding Fear,
And wavering doubted ev'n to trust his Gods;
Brutus, in whom the Elements were mix'd
So nice, that to be great and good were one,
Could not survive Philippi's fatal Shock;
Ev'n Cato's rigid Virtue bow'd—a Proof
That mere Philosophy's no equal Match:

148

Pardon, great Shades! your Virtues I revere,
But ye were Men, and Men cannot but feel.

Oh! let not those, whose Cup's but lightly dash'd—
Who never yet drank deep of dire Distress,
Define the Bitter of the nauseous Draught—
Let not the Hale, who never felt Disease,
Mock at the Sick—too happy far, Health blest,
To judge aright, and draw Conclusions just.

Necessity, like Death, who levels all,
Would share the Empire with our mortal Foe,
Adding new Conquests to his grim Colleague;
Still gaily glutting his voracious Maw,
Too oft the Greatest and the Best his Prey:
Sad Truth! enough to terrify the Soul,
And make her curse the Privilege of Thought.

No more—Adieu! ye solitary Shades,
Engendering Phantoms buzzing all around,
Thick as a Cloud of Gnats on Summer Eve;
Let sprightlier Scenes divert the gloomy Thought,
And brighten Fancy with the gay Delight:

Hail! Radnor's ever-grateful still Retreat,
Where Art and Nature mutually combine,
(Filling the Mind with pleasing Resveries)
To banish Grief, and anxious Care beguile:
Whilst Poetry's gay Sister here enrob'd,
With various Colours of the rosy Morn,
In Draughts diversify'd, suspends the Mind,
Sweetly perplex'd in Approbation—See!

149

The embattled Heroes live along the Wall,
Wake the Attention, and provoke the Soul
To Deeds of hardy Valour, worthy Fame;
There the droll Piece in grotesque Figure, plays
Upon the Sense, excites the smerking Laugh,
While moodie Melancholy steals away;
Here the cool Grott, and there the cooler Stream,
Whose gentle Current flows clear, deep, serene,
Emblem of Radnor's philosophic Mind—

Enough, my Muse, nor too adventurous soar—
Radnor! tis thine to please, or to instruct,
To form the Manners, or to mend the Heart.

Alluding to the late Earthquake, when many retired from the City.

151

THE MIRROR, For the Year M.dcc.lv.

TO David Garrick, Esq;

------ Ridiculum acri
Fortius ac melius magnas plerumque secat res.

Hor.

152

The Author begs Leave to premise, that in this Essay he has retained some few of the old Words of Spenser, and adopted the Simplicity of the Diction in the ludicrous Cast, at the End of most of the Stanzas, to give it somewhat the exterior Air of that great Original, however far short he may have fell of the Spirit.

In order to make it more intelligible, at the Foot of each Page, is given an Explanation of the obsolete Words, as they occur.—As to the modern Terms of the Ladies Dress, &c. (which perhaps may be thought by some, to require as much Explanation as the obsolete Ones) he presumes as they are pretty well known among the Ladies and Beau Monde, he may be excused a Discussion.—Upon the whole, he hopes that the novel Manner of thus treating these Subjects, will in some Measure atone for its many Imperfections.

153

I

Dan Solomon, the chief of mortal Wights,
Affirms, that all Vexation is and Pain;
That Empire, Glory, Wealth, Love's soft Delights,
Are but as Shadows flitting o'er the Plain:
Vanity of Vanities; all is vain.
And, certes, he is right; without his Meed,
How vain am I, t'attempt, in this poor Strain,
To tell you all, that Death does Life succeed,
Perdie, you jeering say, this is great News indeed.

154

II

Well, I must on—and you may laugh the while,
Nay take your Fill, for there is Reason great;
You may not long to laugh, to droll, to smile,
To troll the Tongue, to vapour, gybe, and prate;
For soon you too must bow t'impartial Fate:
Ha! who is he that traverses yon Plains,
In burnish'd Armour clad, and gorgeous State?
Scarcely his Hand his foaming Palfrey reins,
Who proudly paws the Ground, and dauntless, Fear disdains.

III

A Man of Arms, I think his Coat of Mail,
And all commanding Look denote the same;
How wide he gapes! expands his Chest t'inhale!
Large Draughts of airy Beings known by Name
Of Glory, Honour, and romantic Fame:
What means that direful Din, that glitt'ring Glaive,
Alas! he bleeds, he falls—no more the same—
His lower'd Crest can now but ask a Grave;
Alack! the Bubble's broke—'tis all poor Fame can have.

IV

But here a goodlier Sight my Fancy greets,
Of joyous noisy Wights—a losel Race!—
Of apron'd Gentry crouding thro' the Streets;
Ne Hat, ne Wig have they; with lengthen'd Face

155

They gape, they stare, and thro' the Dirt they trace.
The Oar-lash'd Thames indignant seems to bear
Gilt Barges, Boats, with Music's droll Grimace;
Gay Streamers waving thro' the foggy Air,
While pigmy Cannon bawl, here cometh My Lord-Mayor.

V

He comes! he comes! I hear the Rabble Peals:
Huzza; Sir—in a Coach all Gold;
See! how the Mob cling round, and clog its Wheels,
Nosing the Magistrate, petulantly bold;
At this, my Friends, can ye from Laughter hold?
Bluff, pursy Aldermen, in furred Gown,
With Cits and Dames full more than can be told,
In the Procession roll with half the Town,
Eke Judges, Serjeants, Knights, all Wights of high Renown.

VI

Well, on they pass, and reach the cumbrous House;
They feast, they dance, and all is splendid Glee;
They cram down Fevers, and, in full Carouse,
They swill up Gouts and Rheums, and Hydropsy:
In sooth, why not?—the Toast is Liberty—
And while they quaff, and carol London's Fame,
The recent Lord vaunts none so great as he;
But Death he lounged there in quest of Game,
And dar'd, with saucy Front, dispute his Lordship's Claim.

156

VII

He next attack'd an auncient Knight well known,
Y'clep'd Sir Thrifty Gripe, of mochel Wealth;
With Cent per Cent he prey'd on half the Town;
A Spittle Governour, who heap'd up Pelf,
A Caitiff vile, who e'en would rob himself.
“What, ho! Sir Thrift! a Word, Sir, in your Ear.”
The Knight him spy'd—but, like a cunning Elf,
Soon shuffl'd off.—“Ho!” louder then, and near—
“Your Pardon, good Sir Death! I'm wondrous hard to hear.

VIII

“I'm sorry for't, Sir Knight!—a Word or twain;
“God shield me Sir! I have not Time to talk;
“Besides, my Breath's so short—hem—O the Pain!”
“Come then, Sir Knight, we'll take a little Walk;”
At this he crouch'd as Bird before a Hawk.
“Walk, Sir! I walk! I scarce can crawl my Way”
“You, Muckworm prate! dare you my Fancy baulk!”
The Knight full loth to go, here 'gan the Fray,
Death seiz'd him by the Nape, and huddl'd him away.

IX

At his Return Sir Epicure he ken'd,
Of mighty Paunch, Moon-Face, and brawny Jole;
For Elbow Room he chose the Table's End—
His Napkin tuck'd—around his Eyes did roll;

157

He spar'd not in his Rage—ne Fish—ne Fowl—
He puff'd, he blow'd, he swill'd—lethargic grew—
No Parle, quo' Death, with this same Corm'rant foul,
So set on him his Apoplexy Crew,
Who knock'd him down at once withouten more ado.

X

A beauteous Dame, with tott'ring Step, and slow,
(Alack! the little Heels won't let her haste)
Her Neck and Shoulders bare, and white as Snow,
Came giggling on, (the Taste polite) her Waist,
If so might be, with spangled Tassels grac'd;
Her Sattin Negligée was flounc'd and crimpt,
With many a Yard of Blond her Gauze was lac'd,
Her Apron, Stomacher, and all was pink'd,
And the twin Ruffles round were sheen with Silver Gimp.

XI

To plait, to twist, to sleek the auburn Hair,
Much Time and Pains, methinks, she had bestow'd;
Ne pond'rous Hat this Lady deign'd to wear,
Altho' full pleas'd with purchas'd Locks she yode,
A Feltlock Twist behind, much heavier Load:

158

She leer'd with Scorn, and turn'd her Eyes askew,
On Petitlaires, Pompons; then inward glow'd
With Pride indignant at the fripp'ry Crew;
While all around, in Groupes, the Beaux obsequious drew.

XII

She whisper'd, glanc'd, protested, titter'd, vow'd;
She gam'd, she ogl'd, lisp'd—“the Creature! Thing!
“ Very!” emphatic Word! then, laugh'd aloud—
And buoyant borne on Vanity's broad Wing,
Presumed herself fit Match for any King;
Quo' Death, “if so why then, moe fit for me—
“For I am such, no less—of Terrors King!
“So Wights me call.”—With that he seiz'd his Prey,
And with fell livid Spots he scarr'd her beauteous Clay.

XIII

Among the Crowd that rounded this fair Dame,
A Wight there was, if Wight he be call'd,
Of Aspect pale, small Shank, and lithe his Fame;
At Beauty's Frown his Heart was ne'er appall'd;
His own dear self this mimick Wight enthrall'd.

159

A short cut Coat adorn'd this pretty Thing,
A friz'd Peruke conceal'd what else was bald;
His Hand so white display'd the Cluster Ring,
Which ever and anon t' 'is Nose did Strasbourg bring.

XIV

This perfum'd Beau a tiny Beaver wore,
With Silver Cord engirt; on either Side,
Hung dangling Tassels down of Tinsel Ore;
A Sword he trail'd which with the Spaniard vy'd,
In Length, I mean, for he had ne'er it try'd:
He hum'd, he loll'd, minc'd Oaths, solfa'd and danc'd;
To shew his whiten'd Teeth he laughed wide;
He tattl'd, prattl'd, the Discourse enhanc'd,
Squeez'd Miss's lovely Hand, and vow'd he was entranc'd.

XV

Death envious lour'd: Quo' he, “This prating Fool
“Will ne'er give o'er, his Tattle never cease;
“I e'en will stop his Mouth, a fribbling Tool!
“Who does such Noyance give to others Peace.”
A Kerchief white then from his Neck did lease,
Which gave the Beau a Cold, when, sans reponse,
He shrug'd, his Throat grew sore, could hardly wheeze,
“I'll end” quo' Death, “this self-sufficient Dunce;”
So ram'd a Quinsey down, which throttl'd him at once.

160

XVI

With stiffen'd Gaite and supercilious Look,
A rev'rend Clerk here deign'd awhile to stray;
At wanton Dames his Head he often shook,
And fain would turn his Eyes another Way:
But Priests, they are but Men, perhaps you'll say:
I'll grant you more; that many Clerks abound
With solid Worth; but this same Clerk would pray,
And be not what he seem'd; but all around
Would spread Invectives broad wherever they were found.

XVII

With ready Hand would greet the wealthy Cit,
And bow obsequious to the money'd Dame;
But strange would eye the Poor—at Man of Wit,
Perdie, would look asquint; and lordly aim
At Board Preheminence where'er he came;
An Haunch of Venison he would never miss,
For ghostly Wights meet Food he held the same;
But more than Tythe of Fat, he'd take, I wis;
Here double Dues at least he deem'd as Parson, his.

XVIII

At Pray'r indeed this Clerk was grave, profound,
And when in Rostrum he was aptly rear'd,
Looking Benevolence on all around,
With upturn'd Eyes a pious Wight appear'd,

161

And Doctrines preach'd he ne believ'd, ne fear'd;
But crouch'd beneath this seeming Sanctity,
And pious Guise, Death found him out, and leer'd;
“O ho!” quo' he “—a Cheat!—a Cheat!—I spy
“Pride lurking here and Sloth”—so off with him did hie.

XIX

Above the rest Sir Politick the wise,
In plain Attire y'clad, reclin'd at Ease,
There putting on the Courtier's sleek Disguise,
He large harangu'd of Trade, of War, of Peace;
Was all to all—his Study how to please;
Each hung attentive on whate'er he spoke,
And bow'd observant when his Tongue did cease;
Each Deference paid where'er he deign'd a Look,
And loud Acclaims ensu'd whene'er he dropt a Joke.

XX

Yet this same Wight, with circumspective Eye,
Would note the Cits, their ev'ry Action scan,
And as he trac'd, he plainly could descry,
In most, that Interest was their darling Plan,
So dealt his Promise, as he found his Man:
Oft at his Levee he would greet his Grace,
“My Lord! you'r sensible—I'll do all I can”—
Would meet the Prelate with a smiling Face,
But when his Back was turn'd, would laugh at the Grimace.

162

XXI

The Height of Power gain'd, with Affluence blest,
He plan'd new Gardens, and new Villas rais'd;
Said to his Soul, securely thou may'st rest;
At this presumptuous Wight Death sometime gaz'd;
Quo' he, “I'll strike” but when his Dart uprais'd,
The Knight espy'd—“O spare a little, pray—
But Death malign his vital Pow'rs amaz'd—
Mutt'ring, “Fond Fool! sure, thou hast nought to say;
“For e'en a Pelham fell my Victim t'other Day.”

XXII

Exulting thus he cast his Eyes around,
And spy'd a Wight, smart, debonnaire and gay;
(Ah! when again shall such a Wight be found?)
Nature had form'd him of her richest Clay;
(Alack! now mark'd to be his destin'd Prey:)
His Look expressive, piercing were his Eyne,
His Voice as sweet as Philomela's Lay;
Athens nor Rome could ever boast, I ween,
One who the Buskin wore, or Sock with Fame so sheen.

XXIII

This more than Roscius of the present Age,
Nature his Guide, great Shakespeare his Delight,
Struck out new Beauties, rais'd the drooping Stage,
His ev'ry Attitude surpriz'd the Sight,

163

Nay, e'en the Eyes could speak of this same Wight;
In Richard's varied Scenes he all outvied;
Hamlet he felt, reach'd Lear's frantic Height;
In Bayes and Archer was the comic Pride,
And with a Romeo's Woe alternate liv'd and dy'd.

XXIV

Death long had bore this Wight a Grudge—t'excell
In mimic dying he in Dudgeon took;
Quo' he, “this Proteus counterfeits so well,
“That Men will scoff at me”—he glanc'd a Look,
Which ev'ry Vital of our Hero shook;
Him he superior own'd, alledg'd his Age;
But Death, relentless, would no Parley brook,
“Dar'st ape me, Varlet!” he reply'd in Rage,
“I'll realize thy Mocks;” so swept him off the Stage.

XXV

A Son of Æsculapius, 'mong the Fry,
In Pulse well skill'd, in Learning most profound,
With sable Suit, full trim'd, and bushy Tye,
Quaint, stiff, and gravely dealt his Bows around;
When all at once was heard an hideous Sound,
Thro' the whole Place the Bustle was so rife,
That the high vaulted Roofs re-eccho'd round;
In veh'ment Heat, perdie, was good Sir Death,
He tugg'd—the Doctor rail'd, 'till both were out of Breath.

164

XXVI

“Usurper of my Trade!” Death stern reply'd,
And look'd so grim, the Doctor 'gan to fear;
In Tone submiss, “Requite me thus?” he cry'd,
“Who've serv'd you long—” but he with scornful Sneer,
“Do you remonstrate, Sir? I'll quell your Pride;”
Then grasp'd again—“Keep off your scarecrow Paws,
“Thou foul Ingrate! thus use a Friend oft try'd!”
Death waxed wroth, and spite of Friendship's Laws,
Or Roar of foul Ingrate, he rivetted his Jaws.

XXVII

A roaring Blade among the Throng was seen,
In Jockey Cap and Scratch Peruke adorn,
His Name Robustus, of a goodly Mien;
A smart Half-Hunter tipt with Foot of Fawn,
He often smack'd, as scouring o'er the Lawn;
A Buck, Choice Spirit; who would oft at Dawn,
In Half-pint Bumpers, hail the rising Morn;
An honest Fellow, who would make no Scorn,
To dubb his dearest Friend a Brother of the Horn.

XXVIII

A Blood, who bully'd 'mong the Nymphs Purlieus,
Who often beat the Covent-Garden Rounds;
At P---'s, H---'s, G---'s, and D---'s Stews,
He swore, talk'd Bawdy, prais'd his Horses, Hounds;

165

That this is Wit and Taste, attest it Clowns!
Not so the Bloods of boon King Charles's Days;
They rak'd polite, Good-Manners were their Bounds;
Wit, Humour, Elegance the Flame did raise,
And Decency kept in the oft expiring Blaze.

XXIX

But these in Gallantry—Noviciates all!
Raw and uncouth, like the vain drest-up Rout;
Those would seem Gentlemen! who strut the Mall,
In Waistcoats lac'd on Sundays troll about,
Leaving their Minds undrest, all Show without—
Who sneak before their Betters, vail their Pride,
And aukward bow like any Country Lout,
In white Gloves pranckt, strutting his Fingers wide;
You'd swear he had the Itch, if nothing else beside.

XXX

Death spy'd Robustus 'mid this full Resort,
And couldn't but smile to hear him boast aloud,
How much he'd drank, how oft in Venus' Court,
His nervous Strength and Vigor he'd avow'd;
Surveying then his Limbs, thus sneer'd the Croud,
“When, when? with these will any of you vie?”
Quo' Death—“Ingrateful Wretch! vile Reptile proud
“Not thank the Donor! I'll thy Prowess try—
“Fever! dispatch'd him quick—O ho! there Boaster lie.”

166

XXXI

Prudella! luckless Maid, was there that Day,
Who piqu'd herself upon her Virgin Pride,
And spurn'd the Men—she seem'd so sprightly, gay,
You'd swear Ill-Nature could not there reside;
Vain Affectation all! and mere Outside!
To Modesty she made severe Pretence;
Under that Mask her Wantonness would hide;
Too thin Disguise! for oft the grosser Sense
Would reassume the Reins, drive o'er the weaker Fence.

XXXII

Matins and Vespers she would never miss,
A Devotee all o'er! a Christian good,
Who lov'd her Church, but tenfold more, I wis,
She lov'd foul Scandal and Invective leud—
Her Tongue more deadly than the Viper Brood:
Insipid Chat and Stories, wrong or right,
Of this, or t'other being stol'n, or woo'd,
Fill'd up her Time—but O! the high Delight,
She felt from black Malevolence and Spight.

XXXIII

Looking demure, Death took her for a Saint,
But on a nearer View, he knew her well;
“O ho!” cry'd he “fair Sepulchre of Paint!
“Come lig with me To-Night—my pretty Belle,

167

“Nay do not start, my Dear! I'll use you well”—
She turned from him with disdainful Leer,
“None of your Airs to me, my sweet Prudelle!
“On Mortals they may pass—pray stay you here,
“And if thou'st aught to offer, I will deign to hear.”

XXXIV

“Why good, Sir Death! Why sure you'd not be rude,
“And offer Violence to an helpless Maid?
“What is there in me that you take for leud?
“Have I not kept my Church ? Devoutly pray'd?”
Death stopt her short—“'tis nought—mere vain Parade;
“Thy venom'd Tongue fell Instrument of Spite!
“Hath caus'd such Bale, such Desolation made
“That were I but to leave thee here this Night,
“Thou'd'st set the Globe on Fire, then chuckle at the Sight.

XXXV

A certain Wight you well might there espy,
With busy Face fast bustling thro' the Croud,
It chanc'd, he jostl'd Death in passing by,
Who sudden turn'd, and menac'd him aloud,
But when he ken'd him, caught his Hand and bow'd,
“O! my old Friend!” he cry'd, “my Foster Brother!
“To meet thee here, how pleas'd am I and proud!
“Thou precious Imp! thou art so like our Mother
“How cou'd I then mistake, or take thee for another.”

168

XXXVI

“Mishapen Fiend! avant! away thy Paw,
“Thou Kindred claim! thou Friendship boast with me!
“One learn'd as I and studious of the Law,
“Disowns all Ties without the previous Fee;
“I nought can hope from meagre Forms like thee.”
This anger'd Death; quo' he, “I'll make thee know
“That this cold Hand can spoil thy haughty Glee,”
With that he struck a paralytic Blow,
“Hence better learn good Sir! to know a Friend from Foe:’

XXXVII

“O! hold, Sir Death! your Pardon, Sir I crave,
“May it please your Lairdship to admit my Plea—”
“Cease, cease, thy Prate, vain Rhetorician Slave,
“Thy Eloquence at Bar may do, perdie,
“But will not here; thy Quirks are lost on me—”
“Indeed, my Laird! I did but jest, but Joke;”
“Dar'st thou still lie? incorrigible be?
“Hear parry if thou can'st this lairdly Stroke;
“O! my dear Sir, don't winch—I meant it but in Joke.

XXXVIII

Then looking round him with sarcastic Grin,
He spy'd an auncient Knight bedizen'd fine,
Hot in pursuit of the inchanting Sin;
For each young Nymph this feeble Wight did pine.

169

Ah! how unmeet for hoary ninety-nine;
Close cuddling by a blooming Virgin's Side,
Oft round her Waist his shrivell'd Arms he'd twine,
Her snowy Chest full liquorishly he ey'd,
And could, or dream'd he could, do wond'rous Things beside.

XXXIX

“Beshrew thy Heart! thou fumbling Fool!” quo Death,
“Those unstrung Nerves might warn thee to forbear;
“How durst thou with that foul infectious Breath,
“Deal Love's soft Passion in a Virgin's Ear?”
But he intent, these Threat'nings did not hear;
When lo! with sudden Twist he jerk'd him round,
And down he dropt, as would a mellow Pear,
Strait with his Paw, he pash'd him to the Ground,
As one would pash a Grub, which doth with Filth abound.

XL

Death paus'd—“I'll e'en one Cast, before I go,
“Among the smaller Fry, they're full of Glee;
“See! how they carol, frisk it, to and fro,
“In wanton Dalliance, and ne'er think of me.”
A Net he had of wond'rous Potency;
Old Time had spun the Thread so very fine,
It was invisible to mortal Eye;
The fatal Sisters wove so strong the Twine,
That none could ever break, or once o'erleap the Line.

170

XLI

With Force elastic strait the Net he threw
From off his Arm—he laugh'd amain—when lo!
A Draught miraculous, of divers Hue;
A wond'rous Groupe of Fribbles tout nouveau,
Of Jemmys alamode, half Fool, half Beau;
Of Fiddlers, Dancers, Players, World of Trash!
Of Flirts, Gilts, Singers a F---i to L---w,
Of Hummers, Punsters, who each other lash,
All headed by that doughty Wight, bold Captain Flash.

XLII

Of Poetasters, Spouters, Robinhoodians sage;
Of Jockeys, Clerks, Prigs, Smarts, and Connoisseurs;
Of Scribblers, Orators, who gull the Age;
Of shewy Milliners, Barbiers, Tayleurs,
French Valets, Gamblers, Perruquiers, Frisseurs;
Of Courtezans, Pimps, Bawds, industrious Crew!
Hibernians tall, de là Fortune Chasseurs—
Quo' Death—“enough”—the Cords he instant drew,
Vandykes and Cardinals squeak'd, Adieu! mes Cheres, adieu.

XLIII

“Onward he march'd”—but as he left the Hall,
A crippl'd Lazar at the Gate was lain;
“O! turn your Worship's Eye, he loud did bawl,
“Ah! take me with you, Sir! my Life's a Pain—
“O! good your Worship! ease me of the Chain”—

171

On him Death look'd asquint—“Vile Lump of Clay!
“Dost think I've nought to do?—aye—bawl again,
“I'll call for you anon—some other Day”—
He turn'd upon his Heel, and so went on his Way.

XLIV

A Bard sat pensive at the Sight dismay'd,
These sad Events revolving in his Mind,
He sighed at the Havoc Death had made;
“Is this, alas! the Lot of human Kind?”
A Voice reply'd, “Be humble—be resign'd—
“Cease Mortal to complain, nor anxious grieve;
“The Will of righteous Heav'n from first design'd,
“That nought but Virtue should alone survive,
“That e'en shall conquer Death, that shall for ever live.”

a Term often prefixed by old Writers.

Men.

certainly.

an old Affirmation.

Sword.

idle, loose.

nor.

Mansion-House.

named.

much.

a poor mean Wretch.

without; frequent in Spencer, to lengthen his Words with y and en, as y'clep'd, y'clad, withouten, &c.

shining, bright.

went.

alluding to the Plica Polonica.

a Word much in Vogue a little while ago among the Beau Monde, who have of late, greatly improv'd our Language with the above, and many other Words equally as important.

Slender.

dismay'd, or strongly affected.

Disturbance, Harm.

steal.

understand.

Eyes.

think.

a Concourse of People.

drest.

set off.

in the old Meaning of the Word, scandalous, defamatory.

lie.

A trite Phrase, especially among Female Devotionists.

Sorrow.

Offspring, Child, from the Saxon Word Impan, to graft.

hinted from Milton, Lib. II. Par. Lost.

An Affectation of a noted Council.

172

THE RIDDLE.

A TALE,

In Days of yore the Story goes,
A subterranean Castle rose;
Which rear'd its Head a wond'rous Height,
The Work of some ingenious Sprite;
Who in one Night perform'd the Feat,
And rais'd the Fabrick quite compleat;
A Castle fam'd the Country round,
For Stateliness, Extent of Ground;
Perhaps the Work of fam'd Glendower,
That great Adept in Magic Power;

173

Perhaps of Merlin, hoary Sage!
Name rever'd thro' many an Age:
What matters, who the Architect?
The Fact sure challenges Respect;
It being true, so Legends tell,
As that of Winifredis Well;
And full as true, for aught I know,
As that of Church of Loretto:
These are no Fictions, you'll allow,
But who minds Magic, Legends, now?
Hobgobblins, Fairies, Witches, Sprites,
Don't venture out now e'en o' Nights;
So chang'd the Times since James's Days,
When many a beldam Witch did blaze;
Alack! our now degenerate Kings,
They take no Notice of such Things:
But to the Castle, Sir! I pray,
What have you more of that to say?
Where was this Building so renown'd,
So well contrived under Ground?
Aye, there Sir, I'm not very clear,
A stately Castle 'twas, but where
In Monmouth or Glamorganshire
It Stood—in Truth my Memory fails,
But sure I am, it was in Wales:
Now wave but this—and to be brief,
To introduce you give me Leave;

174

Where dwelt a Knight of high Degree,
Much fam'd for Hospitality;
Of Wealth he knew no other End,
Than to enjoy or serve his Friend—
A Briton true, an honest Soul,
Who lov'd his Country, lov'd his Bowl;
And all who came from far and near,
He'd entertain with welcome Cheer:
A Knight who could his Lineage trace,
From princely Arthur's martial Race;
Zeal for his Country (tho' but rare)
Yet sometimes carry'd him too far:
As he in honest Warmth extoll'd,
The antient Race of Britons bold;
Quo' he—in Saints and Tyrants Reigns,
Saxons or Romans, Normans, Danes;
We still maintain'd our Language pure,
Our Laws and Liberties secure;
What Country else can boast, said he,
Such lengthen'd Lines of Ancestry?
I scorn your motley London Tribe,
Who at True Britons fleer and gibe,
When they with Shouts and Ribaldry,
St. David hang in Effigy:
O! could I, said the Knight, bear Rule,
Fluellin like I'd force each Fool,
To eat the Leek they ridicule;

175

Those Knaves who think themselves so arch,
Perdie should dread the Ides of March;
His Temper apt to wax too warm,
Still the good Knight did mean no Harm;
In Youth susceptible of Charms,
In Love renown'd as well as Arms;
But past the Summer of his Day,
And blest with Autumn's milder Ray;
In social Mirth and honest Ease,
He past his Time, nor knew Disease:
And herein was his chief Delight,
On Winter Evenings to recite,
Of Battles, Sieges, and Redoubts,
Of fierce Attacks, Defeats and Routs,
By Monmouth's famous Harry wrought,
Who Danger spurn'd, and Glory sought:
Oft he'd rehearse the warlike Sport,
Perform'd in Field of Agincourt;
Each hardy Knight recount by Name,
And not forget his Komero Gam;
Insist that Bolingbroke's brave Son,
In Deeds of Arms was ne'er out-done,
By him of Rome or Macedon;
With much Dexterity would shew,
The various Uses of the Bow;

176

Sometimes produce the very Dart,
That struck a Frenchman to the Heart.
Well Sir!—a Traveller benighted,
As Chance would have it here alighted;
One who had trac'd the Globe half o'er,
Yet ne'er in Wales had been before;
But much had heard of this Knight's Fame;
He rang the Bell—the Porter came,
Who quickly op'd the ready Gate,
(Unus'd to let e'en Beggars wait;)
Not like the Porter of his Grace,
With swolen Paunch, and surly Face;
Of Name, Place, Function, makes Demand,
Watching the Motions of your Hand;
Acquaints you, after tedious Stay,
“My Lord will not be seen To-day:”
But here sans Form our wearied Wight,
Was introduced to the Knight:
The good old Knight his Joy exprest,
In hearty Welcomes to his Guest;
Who was, if I am not mislead,
A Youth engaging and well bred;
Handsome his Face, his Person tall,
An easy Freedom graced all;
Of ample Fortune, large Estate,
Stil'd Esquire Manly 'mong the Great;
You might discern, e'en by his Looks,
That he'd read Men, as well as Books,

177

And had not merely travell'd o'er,
Vast Tracks of Land, and nothing more;
But with Propriety could quote,
What he'd remark'd as worthy Note;
Free from those stiff and studied Rules,
Practis'd too much by pedant Fools;
Thus he'd agreeably define
The Laws of Po, the Danube, Rhine;
Aptly account for, well explain,
Why Gravity presides in Spain;
Why the French are so vivacious,
Why the Dutch are so rapacious;
Who stick at nought when Gain's in View,
Amboyna's Farce would e'en renew;
Sure they have Cause to dread the Day,
Which their foul Crimes shall purge away,
Sins of their puny infant State,
E'er High and Mighty prov'd ingrate,
Like Prodigals should be their Fate;
Gladly to feed on Husks of Rice,
No more monopolize the Spice:
Od'sme, I have forgot the Squire;
O! he's above, a little higher:
Well, cross the Seas he'd waft you o'er,
And land you safe on India's Shore;
Then bring you back again intent,
Over the spacious Continent;

178

There set you down with utmost Ease,
In Spain, or France, or where you please:
But here I'll not omit the Truth,
He had his Faults—but then his Youth—
And who as yet from Adam came,
That e'er was wholly free from Blame.
To the Fair Sex too much inclin'd,
As by the Sequel you will find;
The Sequel, without more Parade,
Informs, here dwelt an handsome Maid;
Patty her Name, if I don't blunder,
But Bards to do so is no Wonder;
Patty! ye cry, with Sneer oblique,
Why what o'deuce could Patt be like?
This Damsel, to be sure, must be
Some Nonpareil, some Prodigy:
What, was she fair and honest too?
Have Patience, I'll my Tale pursue—
I'm sure you cannot take amiss
What I've to say, 'tis only this—
That such a Lass, without Prelude,
To introduce, would be quite rude:
Good Sir! no more Preambulation,
Wind up the Thread of your Narration:
Then be it so—Gallants beware;
Fair was her Skin, and black her Hair;
Her Brows were arch'd, and then between,
The prettiest Nose that e'er was seen;

179

Her Forehead round, and smooth, and high,
And Cupids laugh'd in either Eye;
Her Lips were thin, her Teeth were small;
Like Coral those, and these like Pearl;
Her dimpl'd Cheeks and charming Face,
Whene'er she smil'd wore such a Grace,
That had you seen them you'd have swore,
The like was never seen before;
So nice she was, so very neat,
No Damask Rose e'er smelt so sweet;
Her easy Waist well turn'd and small,
And such a pretty Bend withall;
And then her Neck, her Leg, her Thigh,
Who can describe? indeed not I—
All that's unsaid conclude the best,
And let your Fancy do the rest:
But still this Lass had all her Paces,
And well knew how to wear two Faces;
Could look demure, put on the Prude,
Portentous Sign she could be lewd;
At Church none more devoutly pray'd,
Nor more attend what Parson said;
But by the bye this Maxim take,
Saints the best of Sinners make;
As John, sly Rogue, had often prov'd,
When Patt was in the loving Mood;
Indeed take John from Top to Toe,
He was passablement or so;

180

Could very smartly wait at Table,
Clean now a Wig, and now a Stable;
But tall or short, or lean or Fat,
What matters it? he pleas'd Miss Patt:
But here methinks it is not right,
To leave the Knight and 'Squire quite:
Well, we'll suppose them tete â tete,
Supper serv'd up, with Choice replete;
That o'er, the Glass went briskly round,
Gay Mirth and Jollity abound;
Patty was call'd to bring more Light,
And see the Esquire's Bed was right;
He in a Trice the Lass did spy,
The Esquire had a roguish Eye;
And strait it came into his Head,
To court the Damsel to his Bed:
The Ev'ning spent in various Chat,
Of News and Wars, and this and that;
He took his Leave, his Congees paid,
And then was usher'd by the Maid;
Quite opportune with am'rous Glances,
He 'gan to further his Advances;
He sigh'd, he kiss'd, at large exprest,
The raging Tortures of his Breast;
Told her how the Gods above,
All own'd that greater Pow'r, Love;
That Juno, Venus, did the same,
And Love return'd with equal Flame;

181

Her various Beauties he ran o'er,
Swore what had oft been sworn before;
And when at Loss t'express her Charms,
He hugg'd her close within his Arms;
“My Dear! you know the House is haunted;
“Nay, don't be frighten'd, don't be daunted;
“But should you lay alone To-night,
“Who knows what may the hellish Sprite?
“But here your safe—” O! pray Sir, fie,
“Sprites, De'els, and Goblins I defie:
“My Vartue—'bove the World I prize,
“I hate your Sek, the Men despise—
“Don't—let me go—” then out she flies,
Leaving him there to ruminate
And curse his inauspicious Fate:
Now if one might presume to guess,
What baffl'd thus our 'Squire's Success;
'Tis my Opinion his high Tropes,
Dash'd at once his tow'ring Hopes;
Having neglected Ovid's Rule,
Ne'er to talk learned out of School;
And not t'attack the Fort in Form,
When he should carry it by Storm:
'Tis plain, by John, here lay the Failing;
John's Argument was more prevailing:
The Esquire meeting such Rebuff
But seldom—thought it odd enough:

182

“There's something more in this, quo' he,
“Than at first Sight appears to me;
“The Damsel's pretty, looks too, kind,
“Or else in Love Affairs I'm blind;
“So form'd by Nature to comply,
“A Man wou'd swear she cou'dn't deny;”
But yet to Bed full loth to go,
The Door ajar—walk'd to and fro;
Revolving thus how Things could be,
A Noise disturb'd his Reverie;
John hap'd to trip in passing by,
He look'd, and plainly did descry
The Varlet, nimbly post his Way,
To Chamber where the Virgin lay;
Three soft Taps—Monimia's Sign—
Now John might boast was, Patty's thine;
The well known Raps Admission gain'd,
Whatever vartuous Patt had feign'd;
Sly John stole in, they shut the Door,
Did as they'd often done before;
The Esquire laugh'd—“O ho! O ho!
“'Tis plain enough how Matters go:”
Himself undress'd, in Bed he leapt,
“Woman's a Riddle,” he said, and slept.

a valiant Welshman, fam'd for the Report he made to Edward the Black Prince of the Enemy's Forces.

183

LONDON:

A SATIRE.

Quick let me hie me to some calm Retreat,
And leave the Fopp'ries of the Vulgar Great;
Pleas'd in myself, and with my little Store,
I'll smile at Fools, however gilded o'er;
There at my Leisure, near a Brook reclin'd,
Refresh my Senses, and regale my Mind;
With Books, with Music, or the friendly Bowl,
Which tune and harmonize the ruffl'd Soul:
Cool Reason there shall teach me to deride,
This School of Folly, and this Source of Pride;
This Sink of Panders, Courtezans, and Cullies;
False Friends, Detractors, Sycophants, and Bullies;
Sharpers, and Lawyers, Stockjobbers, and Knaves;
Self-serving Patriots, ministerial Slaves;

184

Statesmen and Courtiers, and the motley Tribe,
Of those who give, and those who take the Bribe;
Tawdry lac'd Coxcombs, and insipid Beaus;
To Wit and Merit, those eternal Foes.

O! let me soon in sweet Oblivion drown,
The Noise and Nonsense of this madning Town;
Where upstart Beggars loll in Coach of State,
Advanc'd by Fortune, or Caprice, or Fate;
Where smiling Villains rise by coz'ning Tricks,
Who sneer, at Honour void of Coach and Six:
Where pow'rful Wealth perverts the rightful Case,
And strong Oppression grinds the needy Face:
Where retail Justice proves a thriving Trade;
And perjur'd Bankrupts the strict Laws evade;
With all the rest of the base cheating Crew,
The half-fac'd Christian, and the tricking Jew:
I hate a Villain of whate'er Degree,
Rich tho' he be as --- poor as ---;
Illustrious Poverty's more splendid far,
Than all the Glories of a guilty Star:
Here Interest, vile Interest, bears such Sway,
Both Law and Gospel readily obey;
The courtly Prelate and the modish Judge,
That Point in view, incessantly will drudge;
This sooths the Audience with a pleasing Art,
Glosses the Text and does the Sense pervert;

185

With specious Form the other spies a Flaw,
While gaping Juries swallow all for Law:
The canting Cit ne'er thinks of what's to come,
But damns his Conscience to make up his Plum;
The supple Courtier with the Cit doth vie,
And pawns his Honour to a shuffling Lie:
See the gay Insects fly at Pleasure's Call,
To Routs, to Drums, to Ranelagh, Vauxball;
Where they display their Vanity, and Dress,
And ev'ry sauntring Attitude express;
They buz, they flutter round th'alluring Flame,
Who can th'enamour'd pretty Triflers blame?
See! pamper'd Actors vie with Lords in Wealth,
Cramm'd with the Pence of each mechanic Elf;
Sure they are right, who while they touch the Crown,
Laugh at the Folly of a play-mad Town:
See! mongrel Poets prostitute their Verse,
To please a Patron, or to deck a Hearse:
See! Tradesmen aping Gentry in their Dress,
The Gentry, Lords—where ends the mad Excess?
See! Lords Buffoons—O! 'tis in vain, no more
The endless Follies of the Town explore.
The grosser Vices I forbear to name,
Nor shall my Page be sullied with their Shame;
Say how they act whose Riches speak them blest,
Whose passive Virtues rank them with the best;
Their hoarded Wealth sequester'd, unemploy'd,
They nor enjoy, nor let it be enjoy'd;

186

Whose narrow Minds absorb'd in meanest Cares,
Ne'er think of making their own Hands their Heirs;
Contracted all in Self, or Second-self,
Dying, bequeath their aggregated Pelf,
T'enrich a Son, (O! high Pursuit in Life)
Or forward Daughter, or a selfish Wife;
To raise a Family, a Phantasm, Name,
Which oft the more perpetuates their Shame;
Or deaf to Cry of Relatives leave all,
Like pious --- --- to an Hospital;
Or else to load with their unweildy Store,
Those partial Fortune had enrich'd before,
For who would give to Merit when 'tis poor:
Their Pride they carry with them to the Grave,
And even there Appearances would save;
Thro' all the distinguish'd Items of their Will,
A Name undubb'd by Wealth would sound but ill;
Thus Young's Muse sings, and what she sings, is plain,
“To merit is but to provide a Pain,
“By Men's refusing what you ought to gain.”
Fools that are honest, if you mean to thrive,
Pimp, flatter, lie, supplant, nay ---, ---.
How great the Man that's gen'rous and humane,
Who dares be Proof against the Lure of Gain?
Whose Veins are fill'd with well attemper'd Blood,
Whose Virtue's fix'd, not whimsically good;
Fancy nor Fashion to direct the Deed,
But Love to Merit and the Man in Need:

187

Such is the rare, disinterested Friend,
One who unask'd will his Assistance lend;
Whose Bosom glowing with the heav'nly Flame,
Spares his Friend's Blush the grating Want to name,
But is beforehand with him in his Grants,
And, truly great, anticipates his Wants:
Hail! sacred Friendship, true celestial Fire!
Such as did once our Ancestors inspire;
Their dastard Sons have so refin'd a Sense,
They're tasteless to the Joys it does dispense:
Who'll now retrench from Equipage and Dress,
Curtail superfluous Folly and Excess?
Deny himself his Bottle and his Whore,
And nobly turn the Current of his Store?
Florio shall squander Hundreds on a Punk,
Or with bright Burgundy get madly drunk;
When one poor Moiety, one hundredth Part,
Would cheer the Afflicted, raise the drooping Heart:
Avidien sacrifice his Children's Ease,
A false insinuating Drab to please,
Who if she tells the old Fool that he's young,
What's sweeter than the Music of her Tongue?
Sons, such as these, O! London, thou hast Store,
Then who can say, Astræa is no more!
To what an Height their Virtues will thee raise?
Thrice happy Children who shall see the Days;
Go on and thrive, the same glorious Tracks pursue,
Contagion's dangerous, I bid ye all, Adieu.

The Blanks the Author has left to be fill'd up by the Reader, as too many Instances must occur to his Observation.

188

The ROYAL CHACE.

*On its being inserted in the Papers, that the K*** had killed Forty-seven Boars with his own Hand.*

God prosper long our noble King,
Our Lives and Safeties all;
A famous Hunting once there did
In H---n---r befall.

The K--- rode out attended well,
By many a gallant Peer;
In comely Order all array'd,
With Bow and warlike Spear:

A glorious Sight! and as they rode,
The K--- a Vow did make,
That he would then, in G---r---n Woods,
His Royal Pastime take;

In Hunting of the foaming Boar,
Sure ne'er was fitter Place;
Odzooks! could you but then have seen,
The Joy in ev'ry Face.

189

The Chace began—but here's a Blank,
I can't describe the Sport;
I was not there upon my Word,
I stay'd behind at Court:

But sure it must be dreadful Work,
If what is said be true;
How G--- with his own Hand no less,
Than Seven and Forty slew:

The Bells did ring, the Boys did shout,
And run about like wild;
The People's Hearts were all right glad,
And Y---r---h's Countess smil'd;

Quo' she, how greatly blest am I,
In such a Man of Might?
Who if such Feats could do To-day,
What may'nt I hope at Night?

St. George he is for England,
St. Dennis is for France;
Now sing, brave Boys, God bless the King,
Honi soit qui mal y pense.

190

Written in an Alcove near Orpington in Kent.

When I survey with wond'ring Eyes,
This beauteous rural Scene;
Pleas'd with the View, my raptur'd Soul
Is lost in Joys serene;

Joys such as these it needs must be
Which Adam once possess'd;
When he beheld great Nature's God
In Eden's Glories dress'd.

Grant me kind Heav'n! indulge thus far,
My Being's utmost Wish;
Life's chequer'd, various Fate to end
In such a Spot as this:

In Contemplation of thy Works,
My peaceful Hours to spend;
O may I ne'er those Blessings want,
A well chose Book and Friend.

O! if it ben't too much to ask,
To crown this calm Retreat;
Grant a kind Fair One to my Arms,
And make the Bliss complete.

191

On the Tragedy of E---a.

E---A scorns to make her Audience weep,
She's better bred,—composes them to sleep;
Là Tendre—Virtue—load the wearied Page,
'Tis a-la-mode Pâri—no buskin Rage—
Not one poor Rhime to animate the Soul;
Believe me, Sir, one Rhime would damn the whole:
Then as for Murder, not for all the World;
The French explode it, from their Stage 'tis hurl'd:
'Tis done, 'tis done—our mighty Shakespear's wreckt,
On French Refinement and a Taste correct.

The Force of Beauty.

Fair Celia! when I prais'd your Charms,
Your lovely Face and circling Arms;
Your sparkling Eyes so full of Fire,
That kindle at each Glance Desire;
Your snowy Breast that rise and fall,
Your Leg so taper neat and small;
An envious Cur sat leering by,
And giving thus my Tale the Lie,
Cry'd hold! your Love runs on too fast,
Believe me 'tis too hot to last;

192

But why so full of Celia's Praise?
Excuse the Laugh your Raptures raise;
They rather should my Pity move,
To see how Men are gull'd by Love;
How can they thus themselves degrade,
Wer'n't they for higher Uses made?
Patience, good Sir! don't testy be;
The Gods above, as well as we,
Have been to blame, if Love's a Fault,
A Thousand Cases might be brought,
To prove the Thing; well do so then—
That can I both from Gods and Men—
The Thund'rer having Right to claim,
As first of Gods, the first to name;
Great Jove himself did ne'er dispute,
To quit the God, commence the Brute;
The Bull's majestic Stride put on,
How soon Europa's Heart he won!
His Head brimful of Leda ran,
He did not scruple turning Swan;
He gain'd Alcmena in Disguise,
Alcmena an Amphitryon plies:
Nay more, his Godship deign'd so far,
E'n Things inanimate to wear;
Fair Danae's lovely Charms he'd win,
And in a Golden Show'r dropt in:
Grave Neptune lov'd his Amphitrité,
They say she'd Charms that would invite ye:

193

Nay, Pluto, that grim God of Hell,
'Tis said lov'd Proserpine so well;
He left his dusky Realm for Love,
And blaz'd in Sunshine here above;
'Till he could meet the lucky Chance,
And with his Proserpine could prance:
Now these three are your first-rate Gods,
Which prove's there's no more need of Words;
For no one e'er would be so rude,
To say the Gods don't know what's good;
But craving Patience—I will on,
And make the Case as clear as Noon:
Mars, best distinguish'd by his Scar,
Tho' stil'd the dreadful God of War;
Yet couldn't resist young Cupid's Dart,
Venus and he were found alert;
So blinded too their love-fraught Eyes,
That Vulcan's Net did both surprize:
Bacchus, that drunken frantic God,
Would drink, and then 'twas no ways odd;
Would wench, then drink, then wench, and so,
The various Round of Mirth would go;
Fair Ariadne was his Flame,
But when drunk, 'twas e'en just the same,
Whether the Daughter of a King,
Or any Drab, mean paltry Thing:
Apollo too, great Wisdom's God!
But Wisdom's sometimes seen to nod;

194

'Tis strange, but yet with all his Cunning,
Couldn't help after Daphne running:
Swift Daphne ran, the God pursu'd;
Could he have caught her, he'd been rude:
One would ha' thought that he'd known better,
And made coy Daphne gallop after.
So much for Gods, I'll e'en begin,
Hercules, as first of Men to sing;
Hercules, that Hero, Man of Might,
Who fifty Boys could get i'th'Night;
That Scourge of Tyrants, Monsters Dread,
The Urchin Cupid tamely led;
Omphale would wear the Lion's Skin,
The while she made him sit and spin;
His Club too he must throw away,
The Distaff take, and with her play:
Achilles too, forsooth, couldn't fight,
Out of Deidamia's Sight;
Oh! how his Stars he oft would bless,
Whilst lay disguis'd in Female Dress;
Among the Royal Fair One's rov'd,
Who highly the Campaign approv'd;
Whilst in their Arms he found Repose,
A Fig for Greece and all her Foes:
Nay, what is stranger yet to tell,
Some Folks have e'en gone down to Hell;
'Tis said Eurydice the fair,
Made crazy Orpheus tramp down there:

195

If there was need of farther Store,
I could produce a Thousand more;
“No, no, you've made the Thing appear;
“Your Pardon, Sir! 'tis very clear:”
Why all I meant by't is to shew,
That Gods above, and Men below;
All, Celia! own the Pow'r divine;
All, all must feel such Charms as thine.

On Miss Esther H---r---s.

No Wonder Persia's King was mov'd,
With Esther's powerful Charms;
Or Haman proud a Victim fell,
To Love's all conqu'ring Arms:

But had the mighty Monarch liv'd,
In these our halcyon Days;
Fair Esther H---r---s would have struck,
His Soul with strange Amaze.

Not Rapture then had let him bow,
The Scepter's Royal Pride;
The Joy had too ecstatic been,
Himself had bow'd—and dy'd.

196

An Acrostic on Sir Peter Warren, Admiral, on board the Invincible at Sea.

Sadly dejected, fair Britannia sat,
Imploring thus the Genius of her State,
Rise to my Aid, she cry'd, some Hero rise,

Protect my Person, and my Foes chastize:
Each Bosom heav'd a Sigh, with Fear dismay'd,
Till George arose to save the drooping Maid:
Elate with Joy, Britannia view'd the Chief,
Resolv'd to perish, or to end her Grief:

Warren, he said, 's my Substitute to save,
As cool in Council, as in Action brave;
Rouz'd to the War, my Thunder he shall pour,
Round Gallia's Coast, and proud Iberia's Shore;
Exacting Vengeance with so strict a Hand,
Nor more thy Foes can give, nor Thou demand.

On the Adam and Eve, badly painted in the Headway of the Invincible.

Thanks to our Stars! the Painter's Skill,
Hath giv'n us no new Letch;
For all must own that Mother Eve,
Is here an ugly Wretch:

197

But then the well contrived Piece,
Doth raise no fierce Desires;
Nay, rather serves to quench, than add
New Fuel to our Fires:

But had he drew, as Milton wrote,
How wretched were our Fate!
Not Adam's Case were half so bad,
As our unhappy State;

The Object nigh, no Damsel near,
To lay the raging Flame,
Dame Nature might have been provok'd,
To what I would not name:

Then who can say, the Painter here,
Hath shew'd nor Art, nor Skill?
For sure, if Judgment's reckon'd aught,
He has perform'd not ill.

On the Battle of Fontenoy.

Britannia! mourn no more, thy Grief restrain;
Cease to lament thy Sons, untimely slain;
Rather rejoice that Fontenöy's Field,
Such Proofs of British Bravery could yield:
Happy Event! which furnishes a Page,
To grace the Annals of the present Age:

198

Thrice glorious Day! most fortunately ill!
Which shew'd that Britons could be Britons still;
Your Courage, Franks! in open Field ne'er shew;
Lurk, lurk in Cover, and annoy the Foe.

An Answer to the Lines as under, on the Death of Mr. Pope.

How dar'st thou, Scribler, to the World to own,
Apollo thee inspir'd to “grave Pope's Stone?”
Wretch that thou art, who shall absolve thy Crime,
To father on Apollo thy Church-yard Rhime?
“On Pope's sad Hearse” there needs no other Stuff,
Acknowledge that thy own is Load enough;
Be wise, repent—there's nothing can thee save;
Mourn for thyself—Dulness has dug thy Grave.

199

On Mr. G---k's Petition in the World to Lord C---d, in a Letter to Lord R---r.

I hope, my Lord, 'tis not amiss,
That I presume to send you this;
Your kind Assistance thus to crave,
To rescue Osman from the Grave:
Alas! I doubt he's near his End,
Unless your Lordship stands his Friend;
And tho', poor Rogue, he is a Turk,
To save is sure a Christian Work;
By Jove I'd rather have him damn'd,
Than moulder thus in Bureau cramm'd.

My Lord! you'll pardon this Address,
And hope his Suff'rings you'll redress;
'Tis no unusual Thing, I'm clear,
For Bards to ask the Aid of Peer;
Shall I a fresh Example quote,
From little Man of greatest Note?
Who did it but the other Day,
Implor'd a C---d they say;

200

To prop the World, an arduous Task!
No such Atlæan Aid I ask;
Indeed, my Lord! to say the Truth,
And sure my Ipse-dixit's Proof;
The World o'er-fraught with Morals sage,
And Lectures grave thro' many a Page,
On naked Shoulders, Breasts, and so,
Has long been reeling to and fro;
And if this Atlas, this Alcides,
(Whose Strength already fully try'd is)
Don't quickly clap his Shoulders to't,
Adieu! vain World and Moore to boot:
Good L**d! what if the World should fall,
Have mercy, Heav'n! preserve us all:
Our Pray'r is heard, my Lord will write,
All brought about by that same Wight,
Who tickl'd C---d with Puff,
Of Finger, Thumb, and Pinch of Snuff;
A quaint Conceit you say, aye marry,
The Deuce is in't if it miscarry;
For if a Finger, Thumb will do't,
What Peer alive is such a Brute!
As to stand gaping at a Distance,
And not to lend the World Assistance:
I am, my Lord! with Zeal quite fervent,
Your most devoted humble Servant.

201

The Important Question.

As Venus sat mop'd, no Mars to divert her,
Her good Man asleep, whom she wished alerter;
“I'll e'en take a Ride, says she, put the Doves to;”
'Tis done, the young Cooers away with her flew,
And gambold the Air, as if proud of her Weight:
“To Vauxhall bend your Course, and wing me there strait;
“Jove bless me! who's this? it is Ceres, I swear,
“Or else Lady Dian by the Shade of her Air;
“Good-morrow, bright Venus! pray, whither so fast?
“Your Ladyship seems to be driving Post Haste;
“I am for Vauxhall, to Pomona the Fair,
“The Queen of the Spring—I'm inform'd, she lives there;
“My Dear! you're quite out, turn your Phaeton round,
“Her Court is at Ranelagh, thither I'm bound;
“Nay prithee, good Ceres! that can't be her home,
“Do you think that she'd live coop'd up in a Dome?
“Believe me, as soon as she'd sit on a Throne,
“Envelop'd all round with the Smoak of yon Town;
“But see! whom have we here, that drive's such a Rate?
“O! Juno, I know by her Peacocks and State;
“Shall she then decide? Yes—hail, Queen of the Sky!
“We've a little Dispute, dear Madam! draw nigh;
“'Tis where Pomona resides? that's the Fracas,
“I say at Vauxhall, she insists Ranelagh.”
At which Juno smil'd, “I thought you and Ceres,

202

“Had much better known, than deal in such Queries;
“When all the World grants, Kendal-House is the Place,
“Pomona the Queen of the Spring deigns to grace;
“In the Bower you'll find her, or else in the Groves,
“Where Linnets and Nightingales warble their Loves;
“Perhaps near the River's Meander she strays,
“Or by the Canal with Vertumnus she plays;
“Or else you will see her in Dance on the Green,
“With the Graces and Loves who encircle their Queen;
“To your Majesty Thanks! excuse further Stay,
“We'll e'en to her Court, where we'll spend a rich Day.”

Colin and Belinda; a Dialogue.

As Colin was tripping it over the Green,
By Way of a Walk for to drive out the Spleen;
It chanc'd that Belinda he met on the Way,
Belinda the fair, the young and the gay:
He guest as she thought herself handsome and tall,
That the Pride of her Heart wou'd give her a Fall;
He knew by the Air of her swimming along,
That she thought she had lived a Maiden full long.

Colin.
Dear Fair one! he cry'd, my Eyes never were blest
With such Beauty and Grace as in you is exprest;
You're some Goddess I'm sure playing o'Tricks,
Come down from above us poor Mortals to vex:

Belinda.
Ah! Men, she reply'd, thus all of you say,
When you purpose to draw us poor Maidens away;

203

Then ye tell us we're handsome, ye flatter and vow,
Protest ye ne'er knew what was Beauty 'till now.

Colin.
Let him that disputes it once look on these Eyes,
That illumine our Sphere as the Stars do the Skies;
Let him view but this Bosom, this Shape and this Air,
Let him then if he can dissemble his Care;
Let him feel but the Tortures I feel in my Breast,
He'll find 'tis you only can lull 'em to Rest:
Ah! fairest of Creatures! can these Looks inspire
The fierce Rage of Love's Flame, and not quench the Fire?
Can such Beauty as this so tyrannical prove,
As to put by at once my first Essay of Love?
For I ne'er lov'd 'till now.

Bel.
Can I believe you?

Col.
you may,
And I'll prove as constant and true as the Day.

Bel
Aye, say you so? then I will tell you my Mind,
My Heart 'till this Instant to Love ne'er inclin'd;
When others addrest me, I was deaf to the Joy,
When Cupid attack'd me, I laugh'd at the Boy;
But your Words and your Looks so tenderly move,
'Tis in vain to resist the sweet Pow'r of Love:
For I find the Time's come.

Col.
Aye, Charmer it is,
And not to make Use on't wou'd be highly amiss;
Come, come to my Arms.

Bel.
I mustn't.

Col.
You shall.

Bel.
Ah! me,
Fate and Fortune's to blame, and all must obey.

Col.
Then leave it to them.

Bel.
how I tremble all o'er!
A shudd'ring Chillness obstructs ev'ry Pore.

204

Colin
open'd a Vein, on the Remedy hit,
He thoroughly warm'd her, shook off the cold Fit.

The Beau, in Answer to the Belle.

Artist! since it is confest,
That of Painters you're the best;
Prithee as thou dost excel,
Draw the Beau as well as Belle;
Draw him just as when I saw,
The Dear One shine at Ranelagh;
Let his Hat be very small,
Of the finest Beaver all;
Light as Feather, Emblem plain!
Of his Levity of Brain;
On his Head a Bag Toupee,
Frizzl'd Alamode Parí:
Short, that so may full appear,
The enchanting Brunette Ear;
Grace his Neck quite debonnair,
With the modish Solitaire;
Of the blackest Riband sleek,
Let it flutt'ring tap his Cheek;
Draw the Lock that's in his Pole,
Give the wanton Eye its Roll;
Don't forget the Patch and Dimple,
Patch that's plac'd to hide a Pimple:

205

And be sure the Coat you load,
With golden Tassels Alamode;
Blue too, of the finest Die,
Just to cover half the Thigh;
Sattin Waistcoat white as Milk,
Breeches of the finest Silk;
Nor a Wrinkle let there be,
Short too, just above the Knee;
Let the Dresden Ruffles shew,
Hand as white as any Snow;
Bright's his Sword, I have been told,
As rough William's was of old;
Heroes then their chief Delight in
Was in conquering and fighting;
Fools who study'd nothing less,
Than Taste in Modes, Taste in Dress:
Now the finest Hose put on,
E'er laborious Silk Worm spun;
Touch off the glitt'ring Buckle too,
Softest Spanish for the Shoe;
O'er all his Form with Art disclose,
An Air like Dancing as he goes:
Take these Hints without Delay,
To the World this Thing display;
The Beau shall then with Shame confess,
That e'en his better Part is Dress.

206

An ANTIGALLICAN SONG.

Ye Sons of true Freedom! let's drink, and let's sing;
Our Glasses charg'd high, to the Health of the King;
To each honest Tar, and all honest Souls,
Who love Fighting in Earnest, and full flowing Bowls.

To each worthy Captain, whate'er his Command;
Or publick, or private; by Sea, or by Land;
Who the Virtue of Drake, or a Howard inherit;
Those glorious Examples of old English Spirit.

Who ne'er reckon'd Odds when they were to engage,
And scorned to shackle the Lion's just Rage;
For when hard beset they disdained to fly;
The only Word known, was—Boys, conquer or die.

As for those Poltroons, howe'er high their Station;
Who, as Cowards,—or Knaves,—embarrass the Nation;
Who Fighting avoid,—or when Fighting do run;
Let them swing in a Halter, or die by a Gun.

A Health to the Patriot, whoever he be,
From Taxes and Debts who his Country would free;
May so noble a Scheme ev'ry where meet Applause;
No Party, or Faction, t'obstruct the good Cause.

207

Like fam'd Antigallicans let us behave;
Keep our Motto in View,—For our Country—be brave;
Remember our Sires, who the Monsieurs did maul,
And shew the brave Spirit of a true Antigaul.

King's Ships or Privateers.

Howard Earl of Surrey, General of the Forces at the Battle of Floddon-Field.

On the Freedom of the City of London being presented to the Right Hon. William Pitt, Esq; and the Right Hon. Henry Bilson Legge, Esq

When Rome's great Cæsar had her Battles won,
Four diff'rent Triumphs grac'd her darling Son;
Glorious he enter'd 'midst the Spoils of War,
And look'd a God in the Triumphal Car:
The vulgar Shout proclaim'd the Victor's Praise,
And noisy Pomp distinguished the Days:
But Britain's Sons may boast superior Fame,
Their Bosoms glowing with a worthier Flame;
Superior Triumph boast, a nobler Prize,
The general Plaudit of the Good and Wise:
When fair Augusta gave with patriot Hand,
All that true Worth could ask, or Merit could demand.

London so called.

208

The BEQUEST.

Nil admirari, prope res est una, Numici!
Solaq; quæ possit facere & servare beatum.

Wonder at nothing, if you'd be at rest,
'Tis that alone can make and keep you blest;
'Faith Horace, thou art right, there's nothing here,
Deserves our Wonder, Hope, or anxious Fear;
Fidelia dying, greets her promis'd Heir,
“You know, Bellmour, you've been my only Care;”
Grasping his Hand, “You're ever in my Thought,
“God bless the Boy,” but left him not a Groat:
No Doubt her dying Blessing was worth more,
Than cursing him with Trash and worldly Store;
To what an Height in these religious Days,
Will Faith and Piety our Affections raise!
How easy it is when the Case is not our own,
To bid Another trust in God alone.

The Fond Nymph, a Song.

Kind Disturber of my Rest!
Closer, closer, still be prest;
In these Arms, my lovely Boy,
Give me, give me farther Joy.

209

Why would'st hasten thus away,
Prithee, prithee, longer stay;
Why so willing to be gone,
Why would'st leave me here alone?
Phœbus doth not yet arise,
But in Thetis' Arms still lies;
Why would'st thou less tender prove,
To my Passion, to my Love?
Time admits of no Delay,
Let's enjoy it while we may;
Prithee, stay my lovely Boy,
Give me, give me farther Joy.

The Invocation, a Song.

Soft God of Love! to thee I sing,
To thee a wounded Heart I bring;
O! hear, O! hear a tender Maid,
Who suppliant seeks thy friendly Aid.
I own thy Sway, thy Power I feel,
Thyself in gracious Smiles reveal;
Nor let thy Triumph o'er my Breast,
In Rage and Torment be exprest.
Bring Strephon to these longing Eyes,
To thee shall Clouds of Incense rise;
Or hear my Pray'r, or set me free,
Soft God of Love! propitious be.

210

The Happy Maid, a Song.

O! love, how pleasing are thy Darts,
Which wound a Pair of mutual Hearts?
With Joy we wear the pleasing Chain,
When thou with Smiles vouchsafes to reign.

Thy Pow'r in vain we would repel,
They're punish'd most, who most rebel;
But, O! how sweet's the Maiden's Pain,
Who gently sighs, nor sighs in vain.

Pleasing Anguish! gentle Fires!
Tender Wishes! soft Desires!
Smiling Hope, and sprightly Joy,
All her blissful Hours employ.

On its being reported that Lord O---d repents.

O---d! afflicted with the Stone, repents,
And shews, they say, great Signs of Penitence:
Who in the least can doubt his Reformation;
See! he refunds the Plunder of the Nation:
Of all his Funds, Refund he ne'er could like;
How forcibly the racking Stone can strike!

211

Why do ye wonder! Men of Parts so quick,
Repent much faster than the humdrum Sick;
One Hour with them more Sins doth wipe away,
Than Dull-Ones dreaming o'er their Beads a Day.

N. B.

It is desir'd this may be look'd on only as an Excursion of Fancy, no Sarcasm being intended on his Lordship, to whom the Author had the Honour of being personally known, and whom in private Life he greatly revered.

On Water-Gruel, by Desire; occasioned by a singular Adventure.

Hail! Water-Gruel, ever sacred Name,
Once so propitious to my genial Flame;
O! be the Day distinguish'd thro' the Year,
That Day for ever shall my Soul revere;
When thy transcendent Power stood confest,
And eas'd the Torture of my raging Breast;
Delicious Liquor! of a Stock Divine!
For ever honour'd be thy grateful Shrine:
Bow, Sons of Bacchus! bow, no more adore,
Your frantic God, but own superior Pow'r;
No more the Ivy round your Temples twine,
No more extol the Joys of madning Wine;

212

The Juice of Tuscan Grape in vain ye boast,
In vain the Produce of Iberia's Coast;
In vain fam'd Gallia's Burgundy, Champagne;
Tokay, Moselle, the Rhine ye boast in vain;
Nor that blest Spot where Phœbus lenient smiles,
Canaria happy 'mid the happiest Isles;
Nor fair Madeira; nor rich Afric's Coast;
Nor Cyprus, nor the Eastern World can boast,
Beverage so rich: Not e'en so rich that Draught
Wherein the Wealth of Provinces was quaft;
Which Cleopatra mixing fondly gave,
To clasp the World in Anthony the brave.

Hail! Water-Gruel, ever sacred Name,
Be still propitious to my genial Flame:
Thou e'en the Nectar of the Gods outvies,
Which Hebe serves, and Ganimede supplies;
When thro' the Courts of Heav'n they gaily rove,
In Masquerade, and toast the Health of Jove:
Mistaken Bards! no more attempt to sing,
The Joys that flow from the Pierian Spring;
And O! ye Sisters fair, ye tuneful Nine!
Taste, taste ye Liquor more than that Divine;
Salubrious Draught! to Physic deadly Foe!
Parent of ev'ry temp'rate Good below!

O! had thy Virtue Alexander try'd,
Thy Suit, fair Thais, then had been deny'd;
He would not, hadst thou cool'd the heated Brain,
Have fir'd Persepolis, or his Clitus slain:

213

O! had you tasted of the Love-fraught Bowl,
Amanda sipt—'twas then my raptur'd Soul
In Ecstasy was lost, then ev'ry Sense
Feasted on Joys Love could alone dispense:
With me then Water-Gruel you would raise,
'Bove loftiest Themes, and win the Laureat Bays.

The Butterfly and Ant, a Fable.

Fair Cloe! when thou deign'st to come,
To any neighb'ring Rout or Drum;
The Belles who shin'd before so bright,
Dazzl'd each Petit Maitre's Sight;
By thee eclips'd, their Lustre lose,
Thy Charms each Belle with Envy views;
Their Leers malignant round they throw,
At thee, and each admiring Beau:
Ah, envious Train! may never you,
In Dishabille gay Cloe view;
Then ev'ry Ear you'd buzzing fill,
Of slattern Cloe's Dishabille:
What keen Invectives would you spread,
Could you fair Cloe see in Bed?
What Tittle-tattle here and there,
Of soiled Sheets and matted Hair?
O! let not busy Tongues proclaim,
Nor scandalize bright Cloe's Fame;

214

E're they succeed, reflect, amend,
The Moral's plain, if you'll attend.

A Butterfly of Rank and Birth,
As high as any Fly's on Earth;
Upon a Summer's Sun-shine Day,
In wanton Flutters wing'd her Way;
O'er Fields, o'er Lawns, o'er gay Parterres,
And thought the Universe was her's:
At length she lighted on a Spray,
Near which a Race of Emmets lay,
Supine within their Demiball,
'Till rous'd by Industry's loud Call;
When each alert with Vigour sprung,
To end the Task they had begun:
A Female Lab'rer cast her Eye,
And happ'd her Ladyship to spy;
She star'd and look'd like one amaz'd,
At so much Beauty long she gaz'd;
But willing Spouse should have a Share,
And see a Thing so wond'rous rare;
“Come forth, says she, and leave your Grains,
“The Sight will amply pay your Pains;
“For ne'er was seen with Emmet's Eye,
“So delicate a Butterfly:”
This unlook'd-for Invitation,
Put him soon in Agitation;
He issu'd forth, and soon he came,
Where sat the gawdy listless Dame;

215

He Step by Step obsequious drew,
'Till nearer still he came in View;
“Fair Queen of Butterflies! he cry'd,
“What wretch art Thou?” she stern reply'd;
This insolent and haughty Taunt,
Did not dismay the curious Ant;
To gain his Point required Skill,
E'en Ants can flatter if they will;
In lavish Praise he then begun,
And swore her Eyes outvy'd the Sun;
Such burnish'd Feathers tipp'd with Gold,
No Mortal sure did e'er behold:
This Flatt'ry soon her Pride subdu'd,
She vow'd the ugly Ant was rude;
“What would'st thou have, thou little Knave?”
“Permit me, Ma'am, to be your Slave:”
Quite apropòs 'twas taken well,—
He ask'd the Lady to his Cell;
Promis'd to shew her all his Store,
And teach her Arts unknown before:
The dainty Dame then smil'd Consent,
To follow where her 'Squire went:
He bid a trusty Servant hie,
Acquaint the Swarm a Guest was nigh;
Desir'd they'd set their Portals wide,
To lay their num'rous Eggs aside,
And of their Cheer the best provide:

216

When lo! arrives th'illustrious Guest,
The busy Swarm their Zeal exprest;
In Files obsequious back they fell,
Then marched to the inmost Cell;
Where ready stood the plain Repast,
Whate'er could please the sober Taste:
The Banquet o'er, they now presume,
To shew her forth from Room to Room;
Where providential Care was seen,
In hoarded Heaps, and all was clean:
Ah, Fools! to think so fine a Fly,
Could e'er endure Oeconomy;
And hadn't she been a Fly polite,
She would have told them so outright;
Now vapour'd, spleen'd she bid adieu!
Oblig'd to meet the L---d knows who;
Then with Air of Affectation;
Gave her Spark this Invitation;
“On yonder beau Parterre I dwell,
“'Tis there, Sir Ant! I'm known full well:”
To each kind Emmet Thanks she gave,
And did her Honours to her Slave:
The Lady gone, the silly Elf,
Now loath'd his Wife, his Food, hisself;
In melancholy Mood would cry,
Ah! when again shall wretched I,
Behold my most enchanting Fly?

217

He reason'd of unlawful Flame,
But still, alas! 'twas all the same;
Against the wily Cupid's Dart,
What Emp alive could guard his Heart?
His silly Mind by Love o'ercame,
(Wiser than him have been to blame)
No longer able to endure,
He e'en sets out to find a Cure;
Love lent him Wings, he soon arrives,
But who can paint the Emp's Surprize?
So strangely alter'd was the Dame,
He could have swore she wer'n't the same,
And when his Compliments he paid,
Ill-savour'd Scents the House betray'd;
Her Eggs were scatter'd here and there,
And perishing for want of Care;
In short, the whole disorder'd Scene,
Soon gave the cleanly Ant the Spleen;
Quite sick of such a fine Outside,
Cur'd of his Passion, Home he hy'd;
While she, alas! is now the Scorn,
Of ev'ry Housewife in the Swarm.

218

The Swan and Gander, a Fable.

I'd fain instruct you, pretty Bell,
How you most others might excel;
The Lesson's short, and mighty easy,
I scorn with long Harangues to teaze you;
Seem ignorant of what you are,
Is all you have to learn, my Fair!
For oh! It grieves me much to see,
Such Beauty lost in Vanity:
You're mighty pretty I'll allow,
But yet, proud Nymph! I've seen e'er now,
A Shape, an Air, a Lip, an Eye,
That with the stately Bell's might vie;
Your Air's majestic, Shape too fine,
But don't mistake them for Divine:
Ah! let not hateful Pride debase,
So fine a Form, so fair a Face;
Reflect if e'er the Grave and Wise,
Should once your Conduct scrutinize;
How poignant then your Grief to see,
A homely Maid preferr'd to thee;
Vouchsafe the Fable to peruse,
And profit by the Moral Muse.

Once on a Silver Stream a Swan,
Grand and majestic sail'd along;

219

Her glossy Pinions proudly rear'd,
Whiter than driven Snow appear'd;
Waving with ev'ry wanton Gale,
And form'd between, a downy Vale;
In the reflecting Stream with Pride,
Raptur'd to see her Shadow glide;
In Ecstasy she oft would cry,
Was ever Swan so white as I?
No Mortal sure did ever see,
So grand, so fine a Bird as me;
No Brilliant Diamond e'er can vye
With this same curious Chrystal Eye;
Tell me what Architect can shew,
So regular, so true a Bow,
As is this arched Neck of Snow?
What can surpass this Foot and Thigh;
Alabaster this—that Ebony?
Like to a Marble Pillar set,
On Pedestal of blackest Jett:
Fam'd Leda's Swan, why what was he?
A simple Goose compar'd with me.

An honest Gander feeding by,
Listen'd, and heard this Rhapsody;
Fir'd with Indignation, crys,
“Your Pride I heartily despise;
“A simple Goose, for aught I see,
“May be as wise, forsooth, as thee:

220

The Swan retorts—“As handsome too;
“You think, perhaps, these Praises due
“To such a clumsey Bird as you:”
“Ah! cease, the Gander crys, in short,
“You're vain beyond the Cure of Art;
“But know, it is not my Intent,
“Proud Swan, to hold an Argument;
“But if you will, I'll here apply,
“To know who's wrong, Ma'am, you or I.”
An Owl then having perch'd before 'em,
Grave as a Justice of the Quorum:
“Agreed, he cry'd, and Face to Face,
“Pray, Mr. Wisdom! state the Case.”
He fairly did; when grave Sir John,
Accosting thus the haughty Swan;
“Ah! void of Sense! pray learn, he cry'd,
“Vain Boaster of a fair Outside!
“Who e'er submits to be a Tool
“To Vanity, becomes a Fool;
“And Fools and Coxcombs all despise,
“All who are worth our Note—the Wise.”
The Gander pleas'd, now smiling said,
“I think, good Ma'm, you seem dismay'd;
“You see I've fairly gain'd my Cause,
“And justly merit some Applause;
“But that a clumsey Bird like me,
“Must never hope to gain from thee.”

221

Stung to the Heart with this Retort,
Th'enraged Swan reply'd, in short,
“Rather than herd with such a Dunce,
“I'd rush on certain Death at once;
“I scorn the Thought, I'd have you know,
“I am not fallen yet so low;
“Before I'd live with such a Fool,
“I'd spend my Days in yonder's Pool;
“Nay, I wouldn't see thy Face again,
“To swim sole Monarch of the Main.”
Now fearful least she should betray
Her Grief—she proudly sail'd away;
To a retired Fountain came,
In Solitude to hide her Shame,
Where from her hated Rival free,
Alone she wail'd her Misery;
On Death she call'd to ease her Pain,
She often call'd, nor call'd in vain;
With Grief o'ercharg'd, th'expiring Swan
Began to chaunt her dying Song:
The Fountain now a while forbore,
Her bubbling Waters ceas'd to pour;
The murm'ring Rill that stole hard by,
Stood list'ning to her Melody;
Charm'd with her soft expiring Strains,
The loud Cascade its Fall restrains;
In gentle Drops did Homage pay,
To this her last harmonious Lay;

222

The feather'd Songsters all around,
Attracted by the dulcet Sound;
Flagged their little Wings, and cry'd,
“Ah! see the sad Effects of Pride.

Part of the Twelfth Chapter of the Second Book of Samuel render'd into Verse nearly verbatim.

Nathan received his Orders from above,
To go to David and his Crime reprove;
Attend great King! to what I shall unfold,
And briefly thus the well wrought Fable told.

Two certain Men in one fair City dwelt,
One Plenty cheer'd, Content the other felt;
This rich in Numbers of the fleecy Flock,
One little Lamb was all the other's Stock;
Of Food and Cup the little Lamb had Share,
The bleating Innocent his only Care;
He lov'd it, fed it, laid it in his Breast,
(The friendly Bosom fittest Place for Rest)
Thus pleas'd and happy in his humble Store,
He thank'd kind Providence, nor ask'd for more:
It chanc'd a Traveller to the rich Man came,
The Laws of Hospitality to claim;
Received kindly by his wealthy Host,
A welcome Guest but at another's Cost;

223

For his own Flock he spared, and with Haste,
Killed the poor Man's Lamb for his Repast;
Then David's Anger kindled at the Fact,
His shudd'ring Soul disdain'd the sordid Act;
Resentment shot like Lightning thro' his Eyes,
The Man that's done this Deed, he surely dies;
No Spark of gen'rous Pity in his Breast,
Pleading within to spare the Poor distrest;
As for the Lamb, fourfold shall be restor'd—
Thou art the Man, said Nathan—thus the Lord—
I made thee King o're Israel, and from Saul,
Turned the pointed Jav'lin to the Wall;
Thy Master's House and Wives I gave to Thee;
Israel, nay Judah too at my Decree,
Their Lord confess, and prostrate bow to Thee:
If these my Favours had been thought too poor,
For David's Sake I would have added more;
Why hast thou then despis'd the Lord of Might,
And done this Evil in thy Maker's Sight?
With Ammon's Sword you took Uriah's Life,
In wanton Lust you robb'd him of his Wife;
The Sword, the brandish'd Spear, the fatal Dart,
From David's future House shall ne'er depart;
Thus saith the Lord, for this thy cruel Deed,
Unnumber'd Ills and homebred Woes succeed;
Thy Wives I'll take, and they shall yield their Charms,
Their glowing Beauties to thy Neighbour's Arms;

224

Thou didst thy Crime with secret Care conceal,
I to all Israel will thy Shame reveal.
Thus self-condemn'd, opprest with conscious Woes,
With swelling Sighs his manly Bosom rose;
The streaming Eye confest the lab'ring Heart,
Repentant now and humble for his Fault;
I have sinned against the Lord—
Then Nathan thus—Your Lamentation cease,
Receive the Balm of Pardon and of Peace;
The Lord thy God hath heard thy humble Cry;
The Lord in Mercy saith, Thou shalt not die;
Howbeit, by this Offence thou'st given Cause,
Unto the Heathen to blaspheme my Laws;
My righteous Vengeance I will strait prepare;
To strike the Child thy Fondness fain would spare,
The just Decree as soon perform'd as spoke;
The destin'd Infant felt the fatal Stroke;
The tedious Night and melancholly Day,
In humble Sorrow David prostrate lay;
Besought the Lord with never-ceasing Pray'r,
To spare the Child, and Israel's future Heir:
The Elders kind Persuasions were in vain,
He touch'd no Bread, but nourish'd Grief and Pain;
But God in pity, ever kind and just,
Recall'd the Infant to its Parent Dust:
By Sighs and Whispers David learnt his Fate,
And chearfully resum'd his former State;

225

In haste from off the Earth's cold Bosom rose,
He wash'd, anointed, chang'd with Joy his Cloaths;
Into the awful House of God he came,
And rendred Praises to his holy Name;
His Servants wond'ring, said—the Child alive,
You fasted, wept and persever'd in Grief;
Now dead, you seem to triumph in your Loss;
This is a Mystery to your Friends and us.
David then spake—While yet the Child did live,
I fasted, wept, and did not cease to grieve;
As God is gracious, so I did not know,
But he in Pity would have spar'd the Blow;
Now Grief is fruitless, Sighs and Tears are vain,
Nor Sighs, nor Tears, will bring him back again;
When I go hence I may the Dear One see,
Never, ah! never will he come to me:
In his glad Face now sparkling Joys appear,
Of new Delights his Bathesheba must share;
Israel be glad, proclaim with cheerful Horn,
Your Infant King, your Solomon is born.

The Forty-sixth Psalm.

God is our Hope and Strength, a present Aid,
When threat'ning Dangers on all Sides invade;
Altho' the Cloud-topt Mountains tott'ring shake,
And ev'ry Hill with trembling Horror quake;

226

Nay, tho' those Mountains should be roll'd away,
And lodg'd amidst the Terrors of the Sea,
We will not fear—
The Rivers of the Flood at his high Will,
Shall glad the City of God—Sion's Hill
Shall ring aloud with Joy—the Holy Place,
Residence of his more immediate Grace;
God's in the midst of her, his Help alone,
Shall be her surest Stay, and that right soon;
The Heathen Pow'rs mov'd on in dread Array,
But God hath spoke, the Earth shall melt away;
The Lord of Hosts is with us in Distress;
The God of Jacob is our sure Redress:
Come hither and behold his Works, his Wrath,
Shewn in the mighty Ruins of the Earth;
He maketh universal War to cease,
And bids contending Nations be at Peace;
The Bow he breaketh, and the vengeful Spear,
In splint'ring Peices wounds the ambient Air;
The stately Chariots mourn their goodly Frame,
Burnt up, devoured in the greedy Flame;
Be ye still then, and know that I am Lord;
Among the Heathen I will be ador'd,
And no less Homage shall the whole Earth afford:
The Lord of Hosts is with us in Distress;
The God of Jacob is our sure Redress.

227

The Third Chapter of Proverbs.

My Son! attend th'Instructions that I give,
And let them ever in thy Memory live;
So shall thy Life with Length of Days be crown'd,
And as thy Days, so shall thy Peace abound:
Let heav'n-born Mercy ever fill thy Breast,
And Truth be there an ever constant Guest;
Then shall thy Deeds with God Acceptance find,
And Men shall hail thee, Friend of Human-kind!
With steady Trust confide in God alone,
Upon his Judgment lean, and not thy own;
In all thy Ways acknowledge Him—he'll shew,
The Path most safe, direct the Way to go:
Let no vain Self-conceit so dim thy Eyes,
To puff thee up, and tell thee thou art wise;
But let thy Wisdom be to fear the Lord,
To fly from Evil, and revere his Word;
'Tis that shall keep thee from Distemper free,
And ruddy Health shall thy Companion be:
Honour thou him from whom thy Blessings flow,
Let thy First-fruits an Heart that's grateful shew;
So shall thy Feilds with Plenteousness be crown'd,
And with new Wines thy Presses shall abound:
Despise not thou the Chast'ning of the Lord,
Nor spurn the Blessings that his Stripes afford;

228

For whom he loveth, those he doth reprove;
These are the Marks of his Paternal Love;
In Anger pitiful, in Correction mild,
As the fond Father to his fav'rite Child:
Happy is he who Wisdom can attain,
And the rich Treasure of true Knowledge gain;
A Treasure far surpassing what the Coast
Of Afric, or rich India's Shore can boast;
Rubies and Diamonds are of Price less far,
In Value nothing when compar'd with her:
On her Right-hand do Length of Days attend,
Riches and Honours on her Left do stand;
Her Ways are Pleasantness, her Paths are Peace,
Where ev'ry Step we take, our Joys increase;
She is a Tree of Life, thrice happy Man!
Who holds her fast, and can her Gifts retain:
Behold the Glories of yon azure Sky,
Then to the Earth direct thy wond'ring Eye;
Wisdom all perfect did the Fabrick raise,
And Heav'n and Earth proclaim their Maker's Praise:
He spake—their destin'd Course the Depths pursue,
And Clouds obsequious drop their pearly Dew:
My Son! from Wisdom do thou ne'er depart,
And sound Discretion treasure in thy Heart;
So shall they add, while Years on Years do roll,
Grace to thy Neck, and Life unto thy Soul;
Then shalt thou walk securely in thy Way,
No guileful Passion shall thy Steps betray:

229

When thou liest down, thou shalt not be afraid,
Thy Sleep be sweet, no frightful Dreams invade;
Be not dismay'd, when Desolation wide
O'er takes the Wicked, for the Lord thy Guide,
Shall lead thee forth, thy Foot shall make full fast,
Until his righteous Vengeance be o'er-past:
Withhold not Good from them to whom 'tis due,
When in the Power of thy Hand to do;
Let not the Poor distrest e'er sue in vain,
Put him not off, nor bid him come again;
Say not To-morrow I'll thy Wants relieve,
With Joy embrace the present Now to give:
Hurt not the Man who in thee puts his Trust,
Nor give him Cause to say thou art unjust:
Strive not with him who never meant thee Ill,
Th'Oppressor envy not, nor approve his Will;
For God abominates the froward Heart,
But to the Righteous doth his Will impart;
Curses that House that hath his Laws withstood,
But Blessings fill the Dwellings of the Good:
Surely the Scorner, he shall ever scorn,
But Grace and Wisdom shall the Meek adorn;
Honour and Glory shall attend the Wise,
But Fools on ignominious Shame shall rise.

230

The WISH.

Our English Homer in his Rhimes,
Asserts our Notions change with Times;
This Maxim granted, makes me doubt,
When some few Years are whirl'd about,
Whether my present System then,
May not give Way to some new Plan:
Now would the Gods not take amiss,
What I've to ask, it should be this:
Let me from vile Dependance free,
Enjoy the Sweets of Liberty;
Let no vain upstart Purse-proud Fool,
Or o'er my Mind, or Person rule;
Lording it with a thousand Airs,
Drawcansir-like because he dares;
Let no vile Knave with smooth Address,
Deceive me cloak'd in Friendship's Dress:
From lukewarm Friends, ye Gods! preserve me,
Who'll nothing do—but wish—to serve me:
My Fortune, Heaven! be it such,
One nor too scanty, nor too much:
Oh! let me in the Midway steer,
And keep myself from Lawsuits clear;
Placed some half-score Miles from Town,
Where I could easily ride down;

231

I'd have a little Country Seat,
One that is elegant and neat;
No pompous Thing to strike the Eye,
Of each Beholder passing by;
But as fam'd Horace once did say,
Simplex munditiis be the Thing:
Thus the exterior, then within
All should be decent neat and clean;
Yet still I other Notions have,
Than to that Neatness be a Slave;
No sawcy Servant there should lour,
Give herself Airs, look crabb'd or sour;
If I or Friend trod off the Matt;
No, no, I would have none of that;
Neither would I thus you treat,
To make you pay for what you eat;
No one should stare you in the Face,
And seem to ask with awkward Grace;
Or blund'ring on before you stand,
Watching the Motion of your Hand;
Nor an officious prating Fool,
Nor fawning Wretch should there bear Rule.

When at my Leisure, void of Care,
Books some Part of it should share;
Antients or Moderns, Verse or Prose,
As Inclination should dispose;
Pope, Dryden, Addison and Boyle,
I own I should prefer to Hoyle;

232

Prior! you should tell a Story;
To tell a Tale there's none before thee:
O! how thy Emma's striking Charms,
Thy Nutbrown Maid my Bosom warms!
Who can enough thy Beauties Praise,
Thy happy, easy graceful Lays;
When you in tuneful Numbers shew,
That all is Vanity below?
Congreve! thy free Dramatic Page,
Should trace the Foibles of the Age;
Shakespeare! thy Flights unrivall'd shew,
What simple Nature once could do:
Or on Milton's Wing I'd soar,
Traverse thro' Worlds untrac'd before;
Or with Homer, Virgil climb,
Noting from them the true Sublime;
Or Horace's genteelest Art,
Should useful moral Truths impart:
Ovid, Tibullus, many more,
Whom I've not Time to reckon o'er;
Should all alternately take place,
And be receiv'd with welcome Grace:
But 'tis no Rule because I read,
And now and then talk with the Dead;
That I by Books should be engrost,
To ev'ry other Joy be lost:
No—soon as the Morning's chearful Grey,
Gleams thro' the Clouds, and hails the Day;

233

When with awful solemn State,
All Nature hush'd, seems then to wait
Light's grand Approach—
All but the Cock, whose clam'rous Voice,
Proclaims the same with shrilling Noise:
Long e'er Phœbus gilds the Tops
Of Mountains bleak, or drinks the Drops
Of balmy Dews, which Heav'n does yeild,
Long before that I'd take the Field:
With Horse and Hounds would chase the Hare,
Drink in large Draughts of vital Air:
Horses and Dogs, a motley Shew!
High mettl'd both with Ardour glow;
With Nose sagace the sprightly Hound,
Should trail her o'er the tainted Ground;
Hark! hark! what Music in their Crys?
How ev'ry Note doth higher rise!
The Hills, the Dales, the Woods rebound,
Re-echo warm the gladsome Sound:
The Hare's gone off, I d' impel the Chace,
Pursue her thro' each winding Maze;
Her artful Shifts at length evade
The eager Hound—the Tract she made,
Now dubious grown—the Hounds at Fault,
Now here, now there, now run, now halt:
Hark! to Rattler—she's now in View,
The joyous Dogs more close pursue;

234

I cheer them on, away she flies,
Men, Horses, Dogs too fly—she dies:
Such Sports as these do Vigour give,
And blest with that we truly live;
Return'd from these we better taste,
Our Studies, or Love's sweet Repast.

Another Time, some other Morn,
I'd range o'er Field that's newly shorn;
With Gun in Hand would softly steal,
Sancho attending at my Heel;
With wary circumspective Eyes,
The little Family he spies;
He winds 'em, points me where they lie,
The feather'd Folk disturbed fly;
The leaden Death conveys the Wound,
A Brace falls whirling to the Ground:
Alas! that we should owe our Joy,
To what we wantonly destroy:
Sancho now gallops o'er the Field,
And proud his best Respects to yield,
With smiling Looks and fond Caress,
Wishes me Joy of my Success:
I thank him, pat his Head, and then
With eager Haste I charge again:
Thus on—till weary of the Roam,
I call him off and seek my Home.

Sometimes I'd try my Greyhound's Pow'r,
Give Puss due Law and let her scow'r;

235

See! o'er the extended Lawn she flies,
The Dog his utmost Effort tries;
With Speed as quick almost as Sight,
He strives to intercept her Flight;
Strains ev'ry Nerve to turn her back,
You'd think his very Eye-balls crack:
Puss, fond of Life, outstrips the Wind,
The Dog lies chopping close behind;
And now hard-run, she tacks about,
With Art evasive throws him out;
The Dog his Glee still adding Strength,
Recovers her within a Length;
Both now near spent with dubious Strife,
Puss gets to Cover, saves her Life.

When I am in less gayer Mood,
And more dispos'd for Solitude;
In the cool Decline of Day,
I'd to the Riv'let take my Way;
There to decoy the finny Race,
Their various Haunts and Holes would trace;
Under Pretence of proffer'd Good,
Would drag 'em from their native Flood;
Unless they cautiously beware,
And shun the sly intended Snare:
Ah! how too oft is this the Way,
That Men on one another prey:
Now Hopes and Fears alternate rise,
Suspend the Mind in equal Poise;

236

I feel him nibbling at my Hook,
I see him too, so clear the Brook;
What various Turns, what Rounds he takes!
What different Attacks he makes!
How oft retreats! the tempting Prize
Grows still more lovely to his Eyes;
Lures him still on, he 'ttempts again,
But fear his Wishes doth restrain;
'Till bolder grown, he takes the Bait,
Ventures too far, and meets his Fate:
So have I seen an heedless Youth,
Reluctant quit the Paths of Truth;
'Till by Degrees he plunges on,
And finds too late himself undone.

Nor so engag'd in rural Sport,
Would I neglect the social Sort;
Each honest Man should welcome be,
My Friends I should be glad to see;
With them my Soul I would unbend,
With them the cheerful Ev'ning spend:
The sparkling Glass or friendly Bowl,
With temp'rate Mirth should tune the Soul;
The Song with Sentiments refin'd,
Music should elevate the Mind;
Freedom and Ease should here take place,
Politeness heighten ev'ry Grace;
No Nonsense loud, or roaring Noise,
Should here confound our social Joys;

237

No impious Jest should pass for Wit,
Nor fulsome Rabaldry unfit;
The mean, the low, ill-manner'd Sneer,
Should meet with no Reception here:
No Tale obscene should give Offence,
Betraying Want of better Sense;
No senseless Pun should Mirth excite,
Resolv'd to laugh, or wrong, or right:
Far hence be these mean vulgar Ways,
We want not these our Mirth to raise;
Let Fools and Blockheads count for Joys,
Such wretched Stuff, such empty Noise.

Neither I here my Joys would end,
Some of a softer Kind attend;
Visit the Circle of the Fair,
Th'Assembly gay and debonair:
O! how sweet the Morning Breeze,
Sweeter still the Talk of these;
To taste 'em both I would resort,
To Putney, Dulwich, or Ruckholt:
What various Scenes upon the Green!
The World in Miniature is seen:
Here Belles and Beaus, and Smarts and Wits,
Jostle with Quality and Cits:
See! here the Lady Dishabille,
There the modish Ma'amoiselle:
Here hoyd'ning Miss brimful of Laughter;
Miss of Threescore still hobbles after;

238

Survey the whole and look around,
What diff'rent Figuers may be found!
The Tall, the Short, the Young, the Old,
The Gay, the Grave, the Coy, the Bold:
—See! the affected vain Coquette;
The Prude can't here her Airs forget:
Delia reserv'd, puts on Disdain,
Giving herself the greatest Pain;
In vain she acts the mimic Part,
Her sparkling Eyes betray her Heart:
Proud Flavia with an haughty Grace,
Demands your Homage to her Face;
Belinda with neglectful Air,
Consigns her Lovers to Despair:
Not that I would be thought to mean,
That nothing else fills up the Scene;
No, no; see! what a blooming Grace,
Sits smiling on Amanda's Face;
What Ease! what unaffected Air!
Attends the lovely Mira there;
Their native Charms disdaining Art,
At first Sight captivate the Heart:
No Pride, Ill-nature, there appear,
Affected Scorn, invidious Leer;
Wit and Good-humour, ever gay,
In Loves and Smiles around them play:
O! how sweet with these to walk,
O! how sweet with these to talk;

239

Or blest with Stella to advance,
And join the rest in sprightly Dance:
Where Beauty and Politeness meet,
The Bliss must needs be then complete;
Their Converse sure must raise the Mind,
Give us the Pleasure most refin'd;
To the Fair Sex alone we owe,
The Sweets that from Politeness flow;
Such Influence their Charms impart,
They soften and enlarge the Heart;
They all our ruffl'd Passions sooth,
They all our rugged Natures smooth;
Insensibly by them refin'd,
We grow benevolent and kind.

Thus let me pass my Hours away,
Serene—or innocently gay;
But still to taste the Sweets of Life,
Grant me, kind Heav'n! a virtuous Wife;
No domineering high-flown Dame,
Superiority to claim:
A Mistress some would sooner keep,
Than e'er with such a Vixen sleep:
In this Affair, it is most fit,
That chiefly Love the Knot should knit;
A mere Wife's what I can't but hate,
Joyless and flat that wedded State:
Give me the She in whom contend,
The fairest with the faithful Friend;

240

One whose beauteous Face invites,
To taste of Hymen's sacred Rites;
One whose Virtue, Manners, Truth,
Heighten the Charms of blooming Youth;
One whose Dress isn't all her Care,
Not puzzl'd how t'adjust an Hair;
But whose polish'd well-drest Mind,
Makes her amiable and kind:
Now would, ye Gods! but grant all this,
I would not ask for farther Bliss:
At this my conscientious Pray'r,
Methinks I see your Godships stare;
Nay—if ye throw my Petition out,
I know the worst—I will do without.

FINIS.