A Muse in Livery :: :: University of Virginia Library

See! thrice happy Britons! see;
Whilst foreign peace great George bestows,
Carolina sets us free
From the mind's domestick foes,
Sing! sing her virtues! celebrate her worth!
And bless the auspicious Day that gave her birth!

II

See lovely Truth, at her command,
Raises her beauteous head and smiles;
Asham'd, Imposture flies the land,
And all his agents cease their wiles.
Religion charms us with a sweeter voice,
And what before we scorn'd, is now our choice.

III

Mysterious Whims are laid aside,
Holy Grimace and Cant are vain,
Which villains us'd their crimes to hide:
His Deeds must shew the virtuous Man.
Good Sense, inspir'd by her, regains the throne
Which Folly lost, and Superstition won.

IV

Extensive Charity divests
Our souls of Bigotry and Zeal;
Good-nature gently sooths the breasts,
Which Rage and Passion us'd to feel.
By Reason taught, this lesson we receive,
Ourselves to censure, others to forgive.

V

Religion scorning barb'rous aid,
Which Zeal wou'd use, and Force wou'd give;
With Freedom bids our search be made,
And nothing upon Trust receive,
Conscious her Charms no secret arts require,
But they who see them best, will most admire.

VI

Hail, Liberty! fair child of Truth!
Thus aided by a Royal Hand,
Give every art and science growth,
'Till wit and learning fill the Land:
'Till Europe round us sees with envious eyes,
Distinguish'd Albion far superior rise.

VII

And you, her happy sons, confess;
You who are good, or just, or wise,
Grateful, that all your happiness
From Royal Influence does arise.
Sing then her virtues! celebrate her worth;
And bless th' auspicious Day that gave her birth.

AN EPISTLE TO STEPHEN DUCK.

To erring youth there's some compassion due;
But whilst with rigour you their crimes pursue,
What's their misfortune, is a crime in you.
South.

To thee, the happy fav'rite of the nine,
On whom the great and good have deign'd to shine,
Blushing, to thee these artless lines I send,
Ambitious for the title of thy friend;
But fear such advocates will ne'er obtain,
As plead their cause in so uncouth a strain:
Yet some indulgence sure you ought to shew
An infant poet, and unlearn'd as you;
Unskill'd in art, unexercis'd to sing;
I've just but tasted the Pierian spring:
Pardon the faults then, and accept the friend,
Who hopes, would fortune smile, in time to mend.

When first thy wond'rous tale was told abroad,
How did my soul the royal act applaud?

To raise from poverty's most abject state,
And all the countless ills which round her wait,
A mind like thine—proclaims the goodness great!
To free from slavish toil, from low distress,
And give the means to purchase happiness;
To lift from anxious and perplexing care,
A struggling genius plung'd in deep despair,
Is noble, great, and good—as it is rare!
What pleasing consciousness must fill her breast,
Whose happy fiat said—Let him be blest!
Henceforth let his lov'd pen employ his hands,
Pity so long degraded with a flail;
Merit, tho' small, a better fate demands,
The worthless vulgar only let rough want assail.
So the deserts of mortals from on high,
Are with the candid and judicious eye
Of heav'n's great king beheld; who justly weighs,
And ev'ry action bounteously repays.

Cease then, censorious criticks, to repine
At virtues which approach so near divine!
Nor seek for little failings to accuse
A tender and uncultivated muse:
In which, tho' you no master-strokes discern,
Think what could be expected from a barn:
'Tis that exalts the merits of his cause;
And that which ought to give your fury laws.

Were his like Addison's immortal rhyme,
Where judgment guides, and genius shines sublime.
Did his like Prior's easy numbers charm;
Or Pope's fine paintings his descriptions warm:

Did pregnant fancy, with her pictur'd train,
With just ideas furnish out his brain:
Did learning, judgment, and a taste refin'd,
At once spontaneous breed within his mind;
He must be own'd the wonder of mankind.
Cease, then, ill-judging criticks! to degrade;
Can he be learned who no learning had?
We all are ign'rant 'till we're taught to know;
And none can fly—when learning but to go.

And now forgive that such a muse as mine,
Brings her weak aid to the support of thine;
In verse, which if the world should chance to see,
They'd find I pleaded for myself—in thee.
And these poor lines would undergo the fate,
Instead of pity, to excite their hate:
In vain 'twould be to plead in their defence,
My want of learning, genius, wit, or sense:
Such pleas would but encrease my guilt the more,
And render still less pardonable th' offence;
As men ambitious to seem rich, when poor,
Get only laught at for the vain pretence.

But tho' my stock of learning yet is low;
Tho' yet my numbers don't harmonious flow,
I fain wou'd hope it won't be always so.
The morning sun emits a stronger ray,
Still as he rises tow'rds Meridian day:
Large hills at first obstruct the oblique beam,
And dark'ning shadows shoot along the gleam;
Impending mists yet hover in the air,
And distant objects undistinct appear.

But as he rises in the eastern sky,
The shadows shrink, the conquer'd vapours fly;
Objects their proper forms and colours gain;
In all her various beauties shines th' enlighten'd plain.

So when the dawn of thought peeps out in man,
Mountains of ign'rance shade at first his brain;
A gleam of reason by degrees appears,
Which brightens and encreases with his years;
And as the rays of thought gain strength in youth,
Dark mists of error melt, and brighten into truth.

Thus asking ign'rance will to knowledge grow;
Conceited fools alone continue so.
On then, my friend, nor doubt but that in time
Our tender muses, learning now to climb,
May reach perfection's top, and grow sublime.
The Iliad scarce was Homer's first essay;
Virgil wrote not his Æneid in a Day:
Nor is't impossible a time might be,
When Pope and Prior wrote like You and Me.
'Tis true, more learning might their works adorn,
They wrote not from a pantry, nor a barn:
Yet they, as well as we, by slow degrees
Must reach perfection, and to write with ease.

Have you not seen? yes oft you must have seen,
When vernal suns adorn the woods with green,
And genial warmth, enkindling wanton love,
Fills with a various progeny the grove,
The tim'rous young, just ventur'd from the nest,
First in low bushes hop, and often rest;

From twig to twig their tender wings they try,
Yet only flutter when they seem to fly.
But as their strength and feathers more increase,
Short flights they take, and fly with greater ease:
Experienc'd soon, they boldly venture higher,
Forsake the hedge, to lofty trees aspire;
Transported thence, with strong and steady wing,
They mount the skies, and soar aloft, and sing.

So you and I, just naked from the shell,
In chirping notes our future singing tell;
Unfeather'd yet, in judgment, thought, or skill,
Hop round the basis of Parnassus' hill:
Our flights are low, and want of art and strength,
Forbids to carry us to the wish'd-for length.
But fledg'd, and cherish'd with a kindly spring,
We'll mount the summit, and melodious sing.

The WISH.

I

Ye Pow'rs supreme, who from on high
Distribute good and ill,
My wishes hear, to you they fly,
Submitting to your will:
Grant and refuse, ye Gods, what you think best;
And give me virtue to support the rest.

II

Might I a small estate possess,
Sufficient to supply
My wants, and keep me from distress,
From scorn and infamy;
Content with this, ye Gods, I'd ask no more:
But oh! 'tis wretched to be very poor.

III

My house convenient, warm, and neat,
But very small should be;
Room just to study, sleep, and eat,
Is full enough for me:
And but so far from London let it stand,
As that its noise and hurry mayn't offend.

IV

A little garden too should join
My happy rural seat:
An arbour of sweet Jessamin
Should guard me from the heat:
Here I'd retire some part of ev'ry day,
And read, and think my easy hours away.

V

And since an itch to sacred rhyme
Inflames this longing mind;
O make my muse, tho' soft, sublime;
Tho' easy, yet refin'd:
Let art lie hid in seeming negligence;
And nothing pass for wit, but truth and sense.

VI

Authors, the best in ev'ry art,
My library should boast:
Not such whose learning, but whose parts,
And judgments shine the most.
And some few criticks, whose impartial aim
Is justly to commend, and justly blame.

VII

Some friends I'd have, and those sincere,
Good-natur'd, honest men;
With thoughts unprejudic'd and clear,
With judgments strong and plain.
Freely to these I'd open ev'ry doubt,
And freely search for truth the world throughout.

VIII

A wife young, virtuous, fair, and kind,
If such a one there be;
Yes, one there is 'mongst woman-kind;
O Kitty! thou art she.
With her, ye Gods, with her but make me blest,
Of all your Blessings—that wou'd be the best.

IX

And since perverse, ill-temper'd men,
True bliss can never find,
Let mine be easy and serene,
Compassionate and kind;
With others failings ready to dispense,
Unapt to take, and less to give, offence.

X

Religion, which for human good
Was certainly design'd;
Study'd the most, least understood,
Is made the lab'rinth of the mind:
Aid me, ye Gods, with your assistance here;
Nor thro' its wild meanders let me err.

XI

In fine, to sweeten all the rest,
O give me health and ease!
With pain and sickness ne'er oppress'd,
Nor discontent, the mind's disease.
Then, when fate calls, let death exert his power,
I'll neither wish, nor fear, my dying hour.

THE FOOTMAN.

An Epistle to my Friend Mr. Wright.

Dear Friend,

Since I am now at leisure,
And in the country taking pleasure,
If it be worth your while to hear
A silly footman's business there,
I'll try to tell, in easy rhyme,
How I in London spend my time.

And first,
As soon as laziness will let me,
I rise from bed, and down I set me,
To cleaning glasses, knives, and plate,
And such-like dirty work as that,
Which (by the bye) is what I hate.
This done; with expeditious care,
To dress myself I strait prepare;
I clean my buckles, black my shoes;
Powder my wig, and brush my cloaths;
Take off my beard, and wash my face,
And then I'm ready for the chace.

Down comes my lady's woman strait:
Where's Robin? Here. Pray take your hat,
And go—and go—and go—and go—;
And this—and that desire to know.
The charge receiv'd, away run I,
And here, and there, and yonder fly,
With services, and how-d'ye-does,
Then home return full fraught with news.

Here some short time does interpose,
'Till warm effluvia's greet my nose,
Which from the spits and kettles fly,
Declaring dinner-time is nigh.
To lay the cloth I now prepare,
With uniformity and care;
In order knives and forks are laid,
With folded napkins, salt, and bread:

The side-boards glittering too appear,
With plate, and glass, and china-ware.
Then ale, and beer, and wine decanted,
And all things ready which are wanted,
The smoaking dishes enter in,
To stomachs sharp a grateful scene;
Which on the table being plac'd,
And some few ceremonies past,
They all sit down, and fall to eating,
Whilst I behind stand silent waiting.

This is the only pleasant hour
Which I have in the twenty-four;
For whilst I unregarded stand,
With ready salver in my hand,
And seem to understand no more
Than just what's call'd for, out to pour;
I hear, and mark the courtly phrases,
And all the elegance that passes;
Disputes maintain'd without digression,
With ready wit, and fine expression;
The laws of true politeness stated,
And what good-breeding is, debated:
Where all unanimously exclude
The vain coquet, the formal prude,
The ceremonious, and the rude.
The flattering, fawning, praising train;
The fluttering, empty, noisy, vain;
Detraction, smut, and what's prophane.

This happy hour elaps'd and gone,
The time of drinking tea comes on.

The kettle fill'd, the water boil'd,
The cream provided, biscuits pil'd,
And lamp prepar'd; I strait engage
The Lilliputian equipage
Of dishes, saucers, spoons, and tongs,
And all th' Et cetera which thereto belongs.
Which rang'd in order and decorum,
I carry in, and set before 'em;
Then pour or Green, or Bohea out,
And, as commanded, hand about.

This business over, presently
The hour of visiting draws nigh;
The chairman strait prepare the chair,
A lighted flambeau I prepare;
And orders given where to go,
We march along, and bustle thro'
The parting crouds, who all stand off
To give us room. O how you'd laugh!
To see me strut before a chair,
And with a stirdy voice, and air,
Crying—By your leave, Sir! have a care!
From place to place with speed we fly,
And rat-tatat the knockers cry:
Pray is your lady, Sir, within?
If no, go on; if yes, we enter in.

Then to the hall I guide my steps,
Amongst a croud of brother skips,
Drinking small-beer, and talking smut,
And this fool's nonsense putting that fool's out.

Whilst oaths and peals of laughter meet,
And he who's loudest, is the greatest wit.
But here amongst us the chief trade is
To rail against our Lords and Ladies:
To aggravate their smallest failings,
T' expose their faults with saucy railings.
For my part, as I hate the practice,
And see in them how base and black 'tis,
To some bye place I therefore creep,
And sit me down, and feign to sleep;
And could I with old Morpheus' bargain,
'Twould save my ears much noise and jargon.
But down my Lady comes again,
And I'm released from my pain.
To some new place our steps we bend,
The tedious evening out to spend;
Sometimes, perhaps, to see the play,
Assembly, or the opera;
Then home and sup, and thus we end the day.

Sir Amorous Whimsie:

OR, THE DESPERATE LOVER.

A True TALE.

O cupid! God of whining speeches,
Sighs and tears, and fond beseeches,
Folded arms, and sleepish looks,
Trifling griefs, and serious jokes:
God of dears, of sweets, and honies,
Flames, and darts, and fools, and ninnies;
That doat on damsels more than guineas:
God of fond, endearing prate,
Hugs, and kisses, and all that
Which sets poor hearts a-pit a-pat:
God of squeezes, nods, and winks,
And wishes,—which the muse but thinks:
O God of all these pretty things!
Aid my pen, thy power she sings:
Thy dreadful power o'er mortal life
With halter, poison, pistol, knife.
Yet this no cut-throat business is,
No hang, nor drowning matter this;
But a sad tale, which late befel
To a poor knight that lov'd too well;
Too well, as you shall hear, alas!
And thus the dismal story was.

In Cornwal, or in Cumberland,
Or somewhere else, we understand,
Lately there dwelt a knight of fame,
Sir Am'rous Whimsie was his Name.
This knight was gay, and brisk, and young,
And dress'd, and danc'd, and laugh'd, and sung;
And with these airs, this life and spirit,
He thought himself a man of merit;
Thought himself qualify'd to strole
Amongst the fair without controul:
Imagin'd these his shining parts
Must rend, and tear, and sadly maul their hearts.

Fine feathers make fine birds, 'tis true;
But they don't make fine singers too:
Nor is the value altogether,
Determin'd by the gaudiest feather:
For if they han't a tuneful Note,
To some they are not worth a groat.
So tho' our knight in gaudy vest
With gold and silver lace was dress'd;
Altho' his locks in ringlets twirl'd,
Was powder'd, scented, crimp'd, and curl'd;
Tho' he cou'd ogle, smile, and bow,
And hum an opera tune, or so;
Yet these his utmost limits was,
All further he was but an ass:
His silly, pert, insipid prate;
His airs, and gestures, and all that,
Declar'd their source an empty pate.

Thus wanting wit, or rather sense,
To check his vain impertinence:
The fair, disgusted with the fool,
Far from admiring, ridicule.
But when they laugh, his vain conceit
Imagines they applaud his wit;
In vain they jeer, in vain they flout,
The coxcomb can't his merit doubt;
Enamour'd of his own dear parts,
He's sure they all belie their hearts;
And, tho' they seemingly deride,
Wou'd each be glad to be his bride.

Thus, vain of int'rest with the fair,
As all your empty coxcombs are,
He struts in triumph thro' the throng
Of witty, amiable, and young;
Gaining imagin'd victories,
And fancying every heart his prize:
Still boasting to secure his own,
Amidst his triumphs touch'd by none.

It must be own'd, the best defence
'Gainst Beauty's power is—want of sense.
Yet fools and sops submit to fate,
And feel its influence soon or late.
And now, his fatal hour being come,
Our warriour knight came wounded home:
Cælia, the fair, his heart betray'd;
Cælia, the fair, the cruel maid.

Shot from her eyes the conquering dart
That found a passage to his heart.
And now he feels the pleasing fire,
And languishes in soft desire;
Her fair idea charms his soul;
But then her eyes his hopes controul:
He there observes a scornful pride,
And fears his suit will be deny'd.
Anxious, he fain wou'd silence break,
But feels he knows not how to speak.
Love, which refines the brightest wit,
First taught this fool his want of it.
He who before thro' crouds cou'd rove,
Now knows not how to say—I love.

But soon the coxcomb gains th' ascendant:
He'll speak, he vows, and there's an end on't.
Shall I, who have made thousands bow,
Despair of conquering Cælia too?
Faith I'm a puppy if I do.
Is not my air, my shape admir'd?
Who is more handsomely attir'd?
In short, I'll tell her I'm her man,
Let her deny me if she can.

With this resolve away he goes,
And now before the fair he bows.
Cælia, surpriz'd, observ'd his mein,
Saw the confusion he was in;
And quickly, from his silly face,
Imagin'd what the matter was.

For, 'spite of all his vain pretences,
Her presence so o'er aw'd his senses,
And love within so tim'rous made him,
He fear'd to say what might degrade him.
Confounded thus, he stood awhile,
Cælia survey'd him with a smile:
At this the coxcomb bolder grew,
Dam it, I'll speak; now, now's my cue:
“Well, Ma'm, said he, and how d'ye do?
The witty Cælia, with much pain,
From downright laughing did refrain;
And gravely as 'twas possible,
Thank'd him, and told him, very well.
“'Tis curious weather, Madam, this.
Yes, Sir, said she, and so it is.
“But won't it rain d'ye think to day?
Why truly, Sir, perhaps it may.
Here the knight scratch'd his empty head,
And bit his fingers 'till they bled,
Before another word was said.
At last, his watch pull'd out to look,
“Pray, Ma'm, said he, what is't a clock?
Cælia, with wond'rous Gravity,
Look'd on his watch, and told him, three.
Our knight had now no more to say,
And must of course have sneak'd away,
Had not a lucky accident
Given him the wish'd-for argument.

Whether by chance, or by design,
Shall now be no concern of mine;

But Cælia let her thimble drop,
Which, with great joy, Sir knight catch'd up.
And now for some fine thing to say,
In giving it, that might display
At once his love, and ready wit;
Quick was the thought—and this was it.
“O, Ma'm, said he, with a low bow,
“That we were in a church just now,
“And this here thimble was a ring,
“And you and I were bargaining,
“Before the priest, for term of life,
“To have and hold, as man and wife!
“I say no more—but what say you?
“Wou'dn't it be very pretty now?
Cælia again was hard put to't,
To keep herself from laughing out,
But willing one more speech to hear,
She let not the least smile appear;
But feign'd to seem she knew not how,
And blush'd, and said, she didn't know.

Sir knight in's sleeve begun to laugh,
And thought he had her safe enough;
Triumphing, to himself he cry'd,
I knew I cou'dn't be deny'd!
Dam it, who'd ever be afraid
Of speaking to a silly maid?
Then turning to the blushing fair,
With a more pert, familiar air,
“Well, Ma'm, said he, methinks I find
“You're not to cruelty enclin'd;

“Therefore, in short, to tell you true,
“I'm deep in love, and 'tis with you:
“And this is all I have to say,
“If you'll be happy, Ma'm, you may.

Cælia cou'd now no longer seign,
Contempt and scorn at once were seen;
And quick resentment in her look,
Whilst thus ironical she spoke.
“Dear Sir, no doubt I should be bless'd,
“But I'm afraid you're but in jest;
“Might I but on your words rely,
“Sure my poor heart would burst with joy!
“To see myself the happy bride
“Of one who thousands had deny'd,
“How wou'd it gratify my Pride?
“How pleasant too 'twou'd be! how sweet!
“To sit and listen to your wit!
“A specimen of which I've seen
“Most wonderful, since you came in.
“What wit there was, when spoke by you,
“In that same—Well, and how d'ye do?
“And then—What curious weather 'tis?
“No doubt a bright transition this!
“As sure it was a pleasant joke,
“To look, then ask—What is't a Clock?
“But that which follow'd next to this,
“The thimble metamorphosis,
“Alias, Sir Knight's wit's master-piece:
“O 'twas a wond'rous piece of wit!
“Sure none but he cou'd thought of it!

“Yes,—when this parlour here shoots up
“A church, with a long spire a top;
“When time, which changes every thing,
“Shall change this thimble to a ring;
“When this old chair's a priest, and when
“This stool starts up, and says, Amen:
“When all these things shall come to pass,
“Then I'll be married to an ass.
Here she burst into a laugh;
The knight like fury scamper'd off:
Home he retir'd in deep disgrace,
Resolv'd no more to shew his face,
Nor man, nor woman see again,
For death, he swore, shou'd end his pain.
Thus raging mad, he from the wall,
Takes down a pistol charg'd with ball;
And now before the glass he stood,
Resolv'd to wash this stain away in blood;
But seeing his own shade appear,
Confus'd, he thought himself was there;
And hast'ly aiming at his head,
This moment is thy last, he said;
Then furiously the tricker drew,
Slap, thro' the glass the bullet flew:
Down fell the mirrour, down the knight;
That with the blow, this with the fright.
Struggling a while he lay; at length,
Fetching a groan with all his strength,
His heart, or something from him broke,
And these few words were all he spoke:
“Oh! oh! I'm dead, or just as good—
“I feel my breeches full of blood.

KITTY. A PASTORAL.

I

From beneath a cool shade, by the side of a stream,
Thus writes thy Theander, and thou art his theme:
Thy beauties inspiring, my dearest I'll shew,
There's nothing in nature so beauteous as you.

II

Tho' distance divides us, thy beauties I see,
Those beauties so lov'd and admir'd by me!
Now, now I behold thee, sweet-smiling and pretty,
O Gods! you've made nothing so fair as my Kitty!

III

Come, lovely Idea, come fill my fond arms,
And whilst I thus gaze, on thy numerous charms,
The beautiful objects which round me do lie,
Grow sick at thy presence with envy, and die.

IV

Now Flora the meads and the groves does adorn,
With flowers and blossoms on every thorn;
But look on my Kitty!—There sweetly does blow,
A spring of more beauties than Flora can show.

V

See, see how that rose there adorns the gay bush,
And, proud of its colour, wou'd vie with her blush;
Vain boaster! thy beauties shall quickly decay,
She blushes—and see how it withers away.

VI

Observe that fair lilly, the pride of the vale,
In whiteness unrivall'd; now droops and looks pale;
It sickens, and changes its beautiful hue,
And bows down its head in submission to you.

VII

The Zephirs that fan me beneath the cool shade,
When panting with heat on the ground I am laid,
Are less grateful and sweet than the heavenly air
That breaths from her lips when she whispers—my dear.

VIII

O hear the gay lark as she mounts in the skies,
How sweet are her notes! how delightful her voice!
Go dwell in the air, little warbler, go;
I have musick enough while my Kitty's below.

IX

With pleasure I watch the laborious bee,
Extracting her sweets from each flower and tree;
Ah fools! thus to labour to keep you alive,
Fly, fly to her lips, and at once fill your hive.

X

See there, on the top of that oak, how the doves,
Sit brooding each other, and cooing their loves:
Our loves are thus tender, thus mutual our joy,
When folded on each others bosoms we lie.

XI

It glads me to see how the pretty young lambs
Are fondled, and cherish'd, and lov'd by their dams:
The lambs are less pretty, my dearest, than thee;
Their dams are less fond, nor so loving as me.

XII

I view all the beauties the world now puts on,
Which all owe their birth to the warmth of the Sun:
The world is to me in my dear Kitty's arms,
And my love's the warm sun that must fill it with charms.

XIII

But leaving the fields and the groves, I retire
To visit the gardens, where art does conspire
With nature, to finish one beauteous Parterre:
But heav'n, in her face, has out-done them by far.

XIV

Here various flowers still paint the gay scene,
And as some fade and die, others bud and look green;
The charms of my Kitty are constant as they;
Her virtues will bloom as her beauties decay.

XV

I sit on the ground, and reclining my head,
Repose amongst flowers, a sweet-smelling bed!
A sweet-smelling bed; yet ah! nothing so sweet,
As Kitty's dear bosom, my balmy retreat.

XVI

As I gaze on the river that smoothly glides by,
Thus even and sweet in her temper, I cry;
Thus clear is her mind, thus calm and serene,
And virtues,like gems, at the bottom are seen.

XVII

But in vain I compare her, here's nothing so bright,
And night now approaches, and hinders my sight:
To bed I must hasten, and there all her charms,
In softer ideas, I'll bring to my arms.

To Mrs. A. H. occasioned by seeing her Seal a Letter with the Impression of a Cupid.

Thus from your eyes united beams conspire,
To kindle in our souls a pleasing fire;
Each softening heart dissolves within its breast,
And love, as on this wax, is there imprest:
And when 't has once the dear impression took,
'Till death it holds, as this does 'till it's broke.

VERSES Occasioned by A Visit expected from the Right Honourable the Countess of Hartford, to the Honourable Lady Howe, at Compton, in Gloucestershire.

The EXPECTATION.

I

Rise, rise, my raptur'd muse, arise!
Sound ev'ry tuneful string:
Hartford prepares to bless our eyes
In notes sublime her welcome sing.

II

Ye shady woods, ye groves serene,
Whose pleasing walks invite,
Adorn ye in your loveliest green,
To give the fair delight.

III

Ye warbling queristers around,
Your choicest notes prepare;
With wild, yet sweet, harmonious sound
Regale the listening fair.

IV

More sweetly smile, ye beauteous flow'rs,
With richer odours greet;
Her smiles still fairer are than yours,
Her breath more balmy sweet.

V

And thou, bright planet of the day,
In all thy glories shine;
Lest from her eyes a brighter ray
Obscure the light of thine.

VI

Ye various beauties which adorn
This mourning, rural Seat;
Now, now let all your charms be worn,
For her your griefs forget.

The Arrival.

I

She comes, the Venus of our isle!
Cyprus ne'er saw so fair a thing;
The loves and graces round her smile,
The wond'ring muse admires the while,
Admires, but fears to sing.

II

See! where she walks the groves conspire
In closer shades to grow;
And trees whose loftier trunks aspire,
Bow down their heads, and seem t' admire,
And envy shrubs below.

III

The birds too leaving nests and young,
Fly down to gaze on her;
From bush to bush they hop in throngs,
And entertain her with their songs,
Devoid of wonted fear.

IV

When in the garden she arrives,
The smiling scene seems blest;
Each withering flow'r a while revives,
And those in bud put out their leaves
To see so fair a guest.

V

The sun too seems with brighter ray
T' adorn the lovely scene;
But it's her eyes augments the day,
Her presence makes the prospect gay,
O Phœbus! more than thine.

VI

Ev'n the lov'd Lady of the place,
So long with grief opprest,
More chearful seems, which from her face,
Diffuses gladness round the place,
And joy thro' ev'ry breast.

The Departure.

I

But transient is the date
Of sublunary joys;
And those we highest rate,
The soonest leave our eyes:
This truth we prove: O muse, in sadness flow,
The fair prepares, so soon prepares to go!

II

See how the groves around
A gloomier green put on;
And leaves upon the ground;
Like dropping tears fall down.
The sighing winds thro' ev'ry bush make moan;
The trees seem toss'd with grief, and bend, and groan.

III

The pretty wond'ring Birds,
Tho' silent, seem in pain;
And range the grove in herds
To find her out again:
Returning, pensive on some naked bough
They sit, and think (if Birds can think) on you.

IV

The flow'rs which but just now
In loveliest colours shone,
Fade, and droop, and bow,
As if their sun was gone;
'Tis sudden grief which thus their charms impairs,
To lose the lustre they receiv'd from her's.

V

The sun too seems to shine
Less warm, and far less bright:
O Hartford! losing thine,
He loses half his light.
A cloudy veil too hides from us his face,
And show'rs of sorrow drown this mournful place.

VI

Compton, which just began,
Its native charms to shew,
Relapsing now again
In mourning seems for you:
In careless grief its clouded beauties lie,
Which lately so delighted every eye.

THE ENQUIRY. A FABLE.

Humbly Inscribed to My Lord Beauchamp.

The kingly ruler of the plain,
Just ent'ring on his savage reign,
To grace his coronation feast,
Sent and invited ev'ry beast;
And soon the royal cave beheld,
With all his various subjects fill'd:
For leagues of peace were lately made,
And lambs and wolves together play'd:
Foxes and tim'rous hares agree
With dogs, their ancient enemy.
And now a sumptuous table spread,
Friendly they altogether fed;
And having din'd, sit still and prate
Familiarly of this and that;
'Till with a kind, yet serious, look,
The king, desiring audience, spoke.

“My friends, and loving subjects all,
“Who've kindly thus obey'd my call,

“I give you thanks: and now I crave
“Your further kindness to receive.
“I'm seated on the throne, you see,
“In peaceable tranquility;
“No cares of war disturb my breast;
“With taxes you are not opprest:
“This life I'll therefore spend in joy;
“None shall be happier than I.
“But lest I should pursue false bliss,
“What I would ask of you is this;
“To tell me—What true Pleasure is.

The Beasts seem'd pleas'd with this request;
Each thought he could advise him best:
And striving who should silence break,
They all at once rose up to speak;
'Till by his Majesty's command,
Their forward zeal was soon restrain'd;
Who calmly bidding them sit down,
And let him hear them one by one,
Th' impatient Monkey thus begun.

“Pleasure, my Liege, is free from strife,
“To lead a thoughtless, easy life:
“Airy, and wild, and brisk, and gay,
“To sing, and dance, and laugh, and play.
“Now following this, now that, and that;
“And, so't be new, no matter what.
“Free from all rules of just and fit,
“Do mischief first, then laugh at it;
“This is diversion, pleasure, wit.

The Ass was here provok'd to rise,
And gravely thus bray'd his advice.
“If, said he, real pleasure is
“In such buffoonery as this,
“Then beaus and smarts amongst mankind,
“Are in their notions most refin'd;
“But well we know by men of sense,
“They're tax'd with vain impertinence.
“I therefore think true pleasure lies
“(If I may be thought fit t'advise)
“In careless indolence and ease,
“Not suff'ring any thing to teaze:
“Regardless what th' ambitious fly at,
“So we're but undisturb'd and quiet;
“Well knowing 'tis but to attain
“More ease, that they're at so much pain:
“And he's more happy, none can doubt it,
“Who's easy without taking pains about it.

Now rose the Hog, and with a grunt,
“Pleasure, cry'd he, they know nought on't.
“A life trail'd on in laziness,
“Can only suit a stupid Ass;
“And fool'd away in Monkey mirth,
“It's really full as little worth:
“For doing nothing worthy fame,
“And doing nothing—'s much the same.
“But if you'd real pleasure know,
“Let gen'rous liquor smiling flow;
“In jovial crews spend every hour,
“And drink, and sing, and rant, and roar.

“Thus every care will sink and drown,
“Whilst mirth and joy runs laughing round:
“I seem a monarch while I drink so;
“And you'll be a God, if you but think so.

Here burst the Goat into a laugh,
And thus beginning with a scoff,
“Doubtless, said he, it must be fine,
“T' exalt a nasty dirty swine
“To such a height in fancying,
“As to believe himself a king.
“But that which thus perverts our senses,
“Can have, I think, but small pretences
“To recommend it to our favour,
“As pleasure of the truest flavour.
“Nature, methinks, should guide in this,
“Who seems t' have shewn the highest bliss,
“In having plac'd the sweetest gust,
“In gratifying natural lust.
“And that 'tis the sublimest joy
“I think's so plain none can deny:
“Witness the mad tormenting pain,
“When disappointed, we sustain;
“Witness how eagerly we press on;
“Witness our raptures in possession.

But here the Leopard, rising slow,
Expos'd his beauteous spots to show,
And with a grave majestick face,
Thus gave his verdict in the case.
“Pleasure consists not in such short,
“Imperfect, transitory sport;

“Of which, the pains we're at to get it,
“O'erpays the bliss when we come at it:
“Nor can it e'er be call'd true joy,
“With such a mixture of alloy.
“No; that must be the most refin'd
“Which most exalts and charms the mind;
“And nothing sure more charming is
“Than honour, pomp, and dignities;
“Than grandeur, and magnificence;
“Than sumptuous trains, and vast expence;
“Than place, distinction, and preferment,
“And when we die a grand interment.

At this the Horse with noble look,
Raising his crested neck, thus spoke.
“That merit should be rais'd on high,
“I think's so just, none can deny;
“But he who places all his bliss,
“In the external pomp of this,
“Knows not what greatness, nor what pleasure is.
“His judgment errs as much at least,
“As his who thinks that painting best,
“Which is in gaudiest colours drest:
“Of both we may affirm the same,
“Their taste lies only in the gilded frame.
“I grant preferment, honour, place,
“Are rising steps to happiness;
“but whilst we're upwards thus aspiring,
“We're anxious still, and still desiring.
“To act with an unbounded will,
“Can only our desires fulfil;

“Whence the highest bliss in my opinion,
“Must be in power and dominion.

Thus all their various sense exprest,
And each advis'd what he thought best;
But still, what each as best esteem'd,
Was by the next that spoke condemn'd.
Mean while the savage monarch sate
Attentive to the warm debate;
The nature saw, without disguise,
Of every beast in his advice.
But soon the disputants grew rude,
Confusion, noise, tumultuous feud,
Enrage the jarring multitude:
'Till weary'd out, the royal beast
Thus spoke, and silenc'd all the rest.

“Cease, cease your vain contention; cease
“Your shallow schemes of happiness;
“Which only have confirm'd me more,
“'Tis where I thought it was before.
“Greatness is no establishment
“Of real bliss, or true content;
“Luxurious banquets soon disgust;
“We're quickly pall'd with sensual lust.
“Virtue alone can give true joy!
“The sweets of Virtue never cloy:
“To take delight in doing good,
“In justice, truth, and gratitude;
“In aiding those whom cares oppress,
“Admin'string comfort to distress;

“These, these are joys which all who prove,
“Anticipate the bliss above;
“These are the joys, and these alone,
“We ne'er repent, or wish undone.

He spoke: the beasts without delay,
Rose from their seats, and sneak'd away.

An EPISTLE to my Friend J. B.

Why, Jack, how now? I hear strange stories,
How Molly—what-d'ye-call't your whore is:
Hold,—blot that word;—rhyme forc'd it in,
Your dear kind mistress, Sir, I mean:
And people say, but whisper that,
That she, poor soul! is big with brat.

If this, as I believe, is true,
In what a cursed case are you!
You must the Child maintain and father,
Or hang, or marry, which you'd rather:
Confounded choices all, I vow:
But you ne'er dream'd of these till now.
These thoughts, alas! were ne'er in your head,
Th' unlucky feat was done hand o'er head:
Reason was then esteem'd a bastard,
True pleasure's foe, a fearful dastard,
And by stiff passion over-master'd.
But don't you think yourself an ass,
To vent your spleen upon a lass;
A silly unexperienc'd girl,
Who, you might swear, in time wou'd tell.
Besides you might, better than there,
Have spit your venom you know where;
And then no further harm had come on't;
Now you must reap the fruit of some on't.
O bitter fruit! to those that taste it;
You've cause to pray that heav'n may blast it,
And from the tree abortive cast it.
For shou'd the wicked embrion,
(As all ill weeds are apt) come on
The Lord have mercy on poor John!
Who'll then be cursedly surrounded
With noise and squall; and quite confounded
With highting, dancing, jumping, jowling,
And th' hateful noise of cradle rowling:
Now deaf'd with mammy's lullaby,
In consort with the peevish cry

Of squeaking, squalling, roaring brat,
Enough to make one tear one's hat.

Then (to say nothing of the shame
It brings unhappy dad and mam)
Your silver will be ever flying;
Something or other always buying:
Clouts, blankets, barrows, hippins, swaddles;
Fine painted gewgaws, corals, rattles,
Caps, aprons, bibs, white frocks, and mantling,
To cloath the little sh---n bantling.

On th' other side, when pregnant fœtus
Breaks from the womb with strong impetus,
And comes into this world of grief,
(O that it ne'er may come with life!)
There's such a hurry, such a pother!
Old wives and midwives one with th' other;
Such eating, drinking, and devouring;
Such washing, rinsing, scrubbing, scouring;
Such waiting, running, and attending,
Thy purse had need to have no ending.

But hold, I run on hand o'er head,
And quite forget poor Moll in bed.
Ah John! the new-made granny cries,
Behold my girl, with pitying eyes,
See, see, poor soul, how sick she lies!
How weak, how faint, and how decay'd;
Some strengthening cordials must be had;

Then item this, and that—and that;
And item—item—God knows what;
For mammy some, and some for brat.

And now look back again, and view
The mischiefs thou hast run into;
Led blindly on by sinful passion,
(God knows!) and small consideration!
See what a num'rous train of plagues
Attend upon the damn'd intrigues
Of that part of the female sex!
See, and beware their future wiles,
Fly, fly their false deluding smiles;
Shun 'em as basilisks, whose eyes
Dart wounds, and he that's wounded dies.
Fly their temptations, fly their charms,
Fly their damn'd deceitful arms.
Avoid them as the plague or pox,
Shun 'em as precipices, rocks;
Dire rocks! near which whoever came,
Was sure to split, and sink, and damn.

A SIMILE.

Often, dear friend, I've laugh'd to see,
And so have you as well as me,
On Sunday, in your little towns,
How spruce appear the country clowns.
Dick, Jack, and Tom are drest most fine;
And how the lasses faces shine!

Gaffer and Gammer too put on
Their best apparel, hose, and shoon:
All, old and young, in roastmeat cloaths,
To church repair, like belles and beaus:
There plac'd in rows, they sit and sigh,
And lift their hands and eyes on high,
In raptures all, they know not why.
From noise and sound their joys proceed,
Good sense will never do the deed;
But Nonsense utter'd in a tone,
Is sure to fetch a pious groan;
To hear the rev'rend vicar hollow,
And from his throat damnation bellow,
With threat'ning look and great emotion,
Lord, how it heightens their devotion!
To hear him preach of incarnation,
Or rail at transubstantiation,
Election, and predestination:
To hear him tell the just affinity
Betwixt the persons of the Trinity;
And make full easily agree
Omniscience and free agency:
Tho' points which he poor man's as short in,
As I should be to tell your fortune;
And which they understand as much,
As if he preach'd to them in Dutch:
Yet he's a scholar, they admire him;
He preaches just as they desire him:
'Tis sound, not sense, which warms their hearts,
And tones and accents shew his parts.

So have I seen at modern opera's,
As great a zeal for greater fopperies.
Here the grand monde in crowds resort,
And chairs and coaches jostle for't:
The pit and boxes gradual fill;
The show begins, and all are still.
First recitativo's hum drum noise
Their listening ears a-while employs;
Then Senesino, or La Strada,
Begins ha, ha,—and all run mad-a:
They're raptur'd, lost in extasy!
And bravo, bravo, bravo! cry,
Not one in ten tho' knows for why.

To the Honourable Lady Howe, upon the Death of her Husband Sir Richard Howe Bart. who died July 2. 1730. after they had lived together upwards of Fifty Years.

I

He's gone! the great good man is gone!
No power on earth could save:
The will of heaven at last is done;
This night conveys him to the grave.

II

But let this thought alleviate
The sorrows of your mind:
He's gone;—but he is gone so late,
You can't be long behind.

III

Heav'n saw your love; was very loath
To part so blest a pair,
Till it was time to take you both,
That each might equal share.

IV

As well in heaven, as on earth,
The joys which each possess'd;
Knowing that either, whilst alone,
Wou'd even in heaven but half be bless'd.

To my Friend Mr. WRIGHT, upon his commending something I had wrote.

Say, was the real merit of my lays
The happy motive of your gen'rous praise?
Or did your partial friendship in each line,
Too much indulge the muse because 'twas mine?
Yes, yes, 'twas so; the first can ne'er be true;
'Tis hard to please a judge and critick too.

Upon finding the two following Lines transcrib'd by a Lady

When some with cold superior looks redress,
Relief seems insult, and confirms distress.

The beautiful contrast to these two lines,
Reigns in your breast, in all your actions shines:
With other's woes your suffering soul is grieved,
Your aid and pity is at once receiv'd;
Distress is pleasant to be so reliev'd.

The GUARDIAN ANGEL.

I.

The sun had now withdrawn his glim'ring beams,
And bluish mists began to rise
From the low vales, and from the cooling streams,
A pleasing stillness by degrees came on;
And not one single breeze,
With the least wave disturb'd the silent trees:

The cooing doves had ceas'd their am'rous moan,
And all the winged quire to rest were gone.
Soft hushing murmurs issu'd from the floods,
Eccho lay dead in all the silent woods:
Nature herself was hush'd, and seem'd to stand
Attentive, listening to some great command.

II.

The lovely prospect charm'd me out alone,
A pleasing contemplation led me on:
Wrap'd in extatick thought I rove,
And view the solemn scene,
All silent and serene,
Nor stopp'd, 'till in the middle of a Grove:
A gloomy grove, whose awful shade,
By rocks impervious, and thick branches made,
A mixture of delight and horror had.
Admiring here, with mute surprize,
Nature's inexplicable prodigies;
Sudden, a dismal grone I hear,
And mournful sighs succeeding wound mine ear.
Softly advancing tow'rds the doleful sound,
I spy'd, beneath a spreading oak,
Stretch'd on the naked ground,
A youth, whose grief profound,
His heaving breast and troubled motions spoke.

III.

Compassion in my breast arose.
Methought I felt his woes!

His frequent sighs,
And gushing tears surprize,
With sympathetick grief, my trickling eyes.
A settled sorrow dwelt upon his look;
Distress, and dire despair,
O'erwhelm his soul with anxious care:
A smother'd discontent,
Was in his throbbing bosom pent:
And hopeless quite of all relief,
Stupid he seem'd, with silent grief,
'Till thus, at last, to ease his lab'ring mind, he spoke.

IV.

“Ye Gods! and must I thus for ever live?
“Will no kind power my woes relieve?
“Helpless, forlorn, abandon'd to despair,
“A hopeless wretch I wander here;
“Expos'd to penury and want,
“A poor unhappy mendicant,
“To whom no pitying hand vouchsafes relief,
“No pitying eye looks down upon my grief.
“What have I done? ye cruel powers,
“Who guide this strange, unequal world of ours!
“What have I done? that on my destin'd head,
“Your wrath thus heavy falls, your choicest plagues are shed?

V.

“Oh! was it not enough to make me poor?
“Why must this curse be still augmented more?
“Why, but to finish me a wretch, was join'd
“To such a narrow fate, a boundless mind?

“When you my fortune made so low,
“Had you but made my mind so too,
“A chearful life I might have led,
“With pleasure lab'ring for my daily bread,
“But, O perverse! you in my mind have plac'd
“A relish of those joys,
“From virtue, truth, and knowledge which arise,
“Yet cruelly deny'd me power to taste.
“In hell 'tis thus
“With wretched Tantalus:
“Fair apples tempt his lips, yet from them fly;
“Clearstreams provoke his thirst, yet leave him dry.
“But I, more wretched, even from my birth,
“Endure this hell, am tantaliz'd on earth.
“Learning's clear streams my thirst invite;
“The tree of knowledge grows within my sight;
“But when I beg to drink, or taste the fruit,
“Not having where withal
“To pay for what I call,
“In vain I ask, I'm forc'd to cease my suit.

VI.

“And must it thus, ye Gods, for ever be?
“Will no kind power extend its arm to me?
“For ever must I thus remain a slave;
“O rather send me quickly to the grave.
“What pleasure can I have, what joy in life!
“Surrounded thus with poverty and want;
“My high desires with my low fate at strife,
“Those still desiring what this cannot grant.
“O why is this my fate?
“This very worst estate!

“Say, ye great Gods, who all our thoughts foresee,
“Should I, was any one to favour me,
“Or undeserving or ungrateful be?
“Riches corrupt the mind, I grant;
“But a small competence is all I want;
“Would this my virtue taint?
“Oh! if it would, if you're appriz'd of this,
“Still let my fate be wretched as it is:
“But if 'twould only furnish me with power,
“T' encrease my knowledge and my virtue more;
“If this appears, without disguise,
“As sure it does to your all-seeing eyes,
“The genuine motive of my small petition,
“O grant my suit, ye Gods, and mend my poor condition!

VII.

He ceas'd; and lo! a sudden light
Shot smiling thro' the gloom, dispers'd the shades of night;
The rocks and trees around with brightness shone,
Brightness before unknown!
Cœlestial fragancies perfume the air;
All shew the presence of some angel there.
And now before his wondring eyes,
A heavenly form descends, and gently bids him rise:
Charm'd with the sound,
Trembling he rises from the ground,
Quick beats his heart with new-born hopes and joys.
Raising his head, at once his raptur'd sight
Is struck with awe, and ravish'd with delight!
Surprising dignity, majestick grace;
With smiling sweetness mix'd, adorns her face.

A noble grandeur forms her outward mein,
Cœlestial virtues dart their glories from within.
A kind benevolence, a heavenly love,
With gen'rous pity in her bosom move.
Goodness divine appear'd in every look,
And thus, with grace ineffable, she spoke.

VIII.

“Blame not the Gods, young man, for what they've done,
“Their dispensations, tho' to you unknown,
“Are doubtless just: besides, thou canst not see
“What they may yet design for thee;
“Virtue is certainly their care,
“If thou art truely so, no more despair;
“Behold, thy Guardian Angel here.
She spoke, and darted shining thro' the wood,
The youth transported, in amazement stood.
And now beneath her care he lives at ease,
His present wants supply'd,
Nor future hopes deny'd,
His anxious troubles cease,
His griefs subside in peace;
And all his care for blessings such as these,
Is how, with gratitude enough, to honour, serve, and please.

To Sir Griffith Boynton Bar.

And is it true, my muse, does Boynton praise?
So great a man approve thy infant lays?
Cease then thy fears, nor dread the critick's frown;
Applause from him alone is great renown.
From him! so nice a judge and critick known,
Might fill ev'n Pope himself with pride to own.
Henceforth I'll fearless tune the trembling lyre,
And bolder notes and loftier flights aspire;
No more distrust my muse's power to fly,
Since uncondemn'd she has pass'd the nicest eye.

But say, O grateful muse! not only praise,
The poor reward of poets now-a-days;
That empty favour not suffic'd a mind
More truly great, more gen'rously inclin'd:
His condescending goodness deign'd to shew,
What he thought worthy praise, he would encourage too.

Now fain in gratitude I'd something say,
But humble thanks are all I have to pay;
Stay yet, my muse, till more refin'd and strong,
Then sing his praise who first approv'd thy song.

Wrote upon the Cellar-Door at my Lord H---d's.

Hence more delicious streams of liquor flow,
Than Canaan's choicest rivers can bestow;
Let Moses then alone be there a dweller,
And let my Canaan be—Lord H---d's Cellar.

An EPISTLE to my Friend Mr. H.

To you, dear doctor, I appeal,
My faults and beauties to reveal;
Failings in me my friend may spy,
Which may escape my partial eye;
And beauties, if found out by you,
'Twould give me hopes they might be true.
But here, amongst the common rout
Of praise and blame, I'm left in doubt
Whether my works are good or bad;
Whether they praise me or degrade.
Some flattering people say they see
Prior's ease reviv'd in me:
Others, whose censure I think hard,
Degrade me down to doggrel Ward.
The difference wide betwixt these two!
Pray tell me truly what think you.
But quite forgetting you're my friend,
Let judgment your opinion send:
I know, my friend, you think well of me,
Yet praise me not because you love me:

Far rather I'd your censure hear,
Than an encomium unsincere:
I should be fond, I own, of fame,
Yet give me honest praise, or blame.
Soon level with the ground shall lie
His pyramid of fame, tho' high,
Whose basis stood on flattery:
Then shall be seen, to his disgrace,
What dirt and rubbish built the place.
How should I wish I ne'er had wrote,
Should this hereafter be my lot?
Then sooth me not, but tell me true,
What you think I ought to do.
Shall I suppress this glimmering light?
Or may I hope 'twill e'er burn bright?
Methinks I would not have it said,
As all my praise, when I am read,
“The Lines, considering whence they came,
“Are well enough, nor merit blame.
Such cold encomiums won't suffice;
A fame with such restrictions I despise.
Yet when I inward turn my thoughts,
View all my weaknesses and faults;
I own my rashness, blush with shame,
Lay down my pen, nor hope for fame.
But soon the rhyming fit returns,
The fire within impatient burns;
My pen resum'd, a line or two
With ease and wit, perhaps may flow,
And then I stop—
Dullness regains her ancient seat,
Retards my flight, and damps my heat;

Involves my fire in flame and smoke,
And turns true wit to some false joke.

Say, gentle bard, harmonious Prior!
Did thy soft muse with thee expire?
O she expir'd, she dy'd with thee,
'Tis but her shadow dwells with me!
No Prior's ease moves in these lines,
Nor judgment guides, nor fancy shines,
Nor strength, nor wit, like his, refines.
Ah no! 'tis flatt'ry all, nor dare
These empty lines with his compare.
'Tis true, sometimes an easy flow
Of words may into metre grow,
And form a smoothish verse or two;
Or here and there a single line,
With a good thought perhaps may shine;
As here and there a glimmering star
Does in a cloudy hemisphere:
But these, alas! no more admit.
The name of poetry or wit,
Than those odd stars, with scatter'd light,
Make what we call a starry night:
'Tis the whole firmament must glow,
And the whole piece the poet shew.

O shall I e'er arrive to this?
Shall I e'er see a finish'd piece?
No, I must never hope t' excel,
I feel my weakness too, too well.
My genius leads me on 'tis true,
But what can genius unassisted do?

No aids of learning grace my Song,
To me no languages belong,
Save just to spell my mother-tongue.
O poor pretence to poetry!
What can be thought to come from me?
Shall future ages see me shine,
My name, O Prior! join'd with thine?
Vainly I hope such fame, alas!
I but record my own disgrace.
These lines can only live to be
Examples of false poetry:
Can only last to future ages,
Quoted in criticks lashing pages.
And shall they thus, thus give my name
A monument of lasting fame?
O hateful thought! cease, cease my pen,
And never, never write again.

University of Virginia Library

EFFIGIES AUTHORIS: OR, THE Mind of the Frontispiece.

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AN ENTERTAINMENT Designed for Her Majesty's Birth-Day. 8

ODE.

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AN EPISTLE TO STEPHEN DUCK.

The WISH.

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THE FOOTMAN.

An Epistle to my Friend Mr. Wright.

Sir Amorous Whimsie:

OR, THE DESPERATE LOVER.

A True TALE.

KITTY. A PASTORAL.

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To Mrs. A. H. occasioned by seeing her Seal a Letter with the Impression of a Cupid.

VERSES Occasioned by A Visit expected from the Right Honourable the Countess of Hartford, to the Honourable Lady Howe, at Compton, in Gloucestershire.

The EXPECTATION.

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The Arrival.

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The Departure.

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THE ENQUIRY. A FABLE.

An EPISTLE to my Friend J. B.

A SIMILE.

AN ENTERTAINMENT Designed for Her Majesty's Birth-Day.
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