 | Miscellaneous Work in Verse and Prose |  |
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POEMS ON Several Occasions.
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VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF Mrs. ELIZABETH FRANKLAND.
Silence, ye plaintiff Instruments of Woe!
Ye bubbling Fonts of Sorrow, cease to flow!
O much lamented, honour'd Maid, too long
The Friend's sad Sigh has check'd the Poet's Song:
While each full Heart is anxious to recite,
And place thy Virtues in an equal Light,
Shall I alone sit silent in thy Praise,
Nor deck thy hallow'd Urn with grateful Lays?
No, languid as it is, I'll touch the Lyre,
Nor shall fond Tears quite damp Apollo's Fire.
Ye bubbling Fonts of Sorrow, cease to flow!
O much lamented, honour'd Maid, too long
The Friend's sad Sigh has check'd the Poet's Song:
While each full Heart is anxious to recite,
And place thy Virtues in an equal Light,
Shall I alone sit silent in thy Praise,
Nor deck thy hallow'd Urn with grateful Lays?
No, languid as it is, I'll touch the Lyre,
Nor shall fond Tears quite damp Apollo's Fire.
Thro' all the various Scenes the Muses rove,
The peopled Town, or the sequester'd Grove,
Amidst the Silvan Choir, or Courtly Throng,
They ne'er found one so worthy of their Song;
Never such Youth with so much Prudence join'd,
Never so tender, yet so firm a Mind:
Such gentle Manners, such refin'd Good-Sense!
Grave without Frowns, and gay without Offence!
A Form adorn'd with ev'ry pleasing Grace,
A Soul where ev'ry Virtue held a Place:
The Vestal's Purity, without her Pride;
The Court's high Breeding, not as There apply'd;
Judgment with Candor, Wit which ne'er revil'd,
Zeal cloath'd with Meekness, Piety that smil'd.
No Window to Her Bosom did we need,
The Goodness there appear'd in ev'ry Deed;
In ev'ry Look, in ev'ry Smile was seen
The Innocence and Peace that reign'd within.
The peopled Town, or the sequester'd Grove,
Amidst the Silvan Choir, or Courtly Throng,
They ne'er found one so worthy of their Song;
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Never so tender, yet so firm a Mind:
Such gentle Manners, such refin'd Good-Sense!
Grave without Frowns, and gay without Offence!
A Form adorn'd with ev'ry pleasing Grace,
A Soul where ev'ry Virtue held a Place:
The Vestal's Purity, without her Pride;
The Court's high Breeding, not as There apply'd;
Judgment with Candor, Wit which ne'er revil'd,
Zeal cloath'd with Meekness, Piety that smil'd.
No Window to Her Bosom did we need,
The Goodness there appear'd in ev'ry Deed;
In ev'ry Look, in ev'ry Smile was seen
The Innocence and Peace that reign'd within.
But what avail'd, O amiable Shade!
The Force of Virtue, or Devotion's Aid;
Or what avail'd a Temp'rance so severe,
Or what, alas! the watchful Parent's Care?
When those who riot on from Day to Day,
And fearless tread the broad voluptuous Way,
In Health and Splendor lengthen out their Span,
Grow gray in Vice, and die without a Pang,
Whilst Thou, fair Flow'r! wert blasted in thy Prime,
And scarce enjoy'dst the Morning of thy Time.
For what were all those bright Perfections given?
For what!—To make her earlier ripe for Heaven:
Tho' few her Hours, yet perfect was her Day,
Tho' short her Sun, yet doubly bright the Ray.
Greatly Inspir'd, Life's golden Prize she won
At Years when few, too few! begin to run.
The Force of Virtue, or Devotion's Aid;
Or what avail'd a Temp'rance so severe,
Or what, alas! the watchful Parent's Care?
When those who riot on from Day to Day,
And fearless tread the broad voluptuous Way,
In Health and Splendor lengthen out their Span,
Grow gray in Vice, and die without a Pang,
Whilst Thou, fair Flow'r! wert blasted in thy Prime,
And scarce enjoy'dst the Morning of thy Time.
For what were all those bright Perfections given?
For what!—To make her earlier ripe for Heaven:
Tho' few her Hours, yet perfect was her Day,
Tho' short her Sun, yet doubly bright the Ray.
Greatly Inspir'd, Life's golden Prize she won
At Years when few, too few! begin to run.
Look round the fashionable World, and see
The Wealthy, Fair, and Young—all these was She;
Mark how the pretty Triflers waste their Days,
Toiling to kill each Hour a thousand ways:
See to and fro in different Paths they run,
Tho' all still meet at last to be undone.
One this way eagerly pursues the Game,
Whilst one flies that way, tho' they hunt the same:
All stand astonish'd at each other's Choice,
All at each other's vanquish'd Aims rejoice;
Hourly from Hope to Hope deliver'd o'er,
And hourly disappointed as before:
Ev'n now they loath what they but now begun,
And, what they just now wish'd, now wish undone:
Of their Chief Good most fatally possest,
They're—what?—Quite ruin'd at their own Request.
The Wealthy, Fair, and Young—all these was She;
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Toiling to kill each Hour a thousand ways:
See to and fro in different Paths they run,
Tho' all still meet at last to be undone.
One this way eagerly pursues the Game,
Whilst one flies that way, tho' they hunt the same:
All stand astonish'd at each other's Choice,
All at each other's vanquish'd Aims rejoice;
Hourly from Hope to Hope deliver'd o'er,
And hourly disappointed as before:
Ev'n now they loath what they but now begun,
And, what they just now wish'd, now wish undone:
Of their Chief Good most fatally possest,
They're—what?—Quite ruin'd at their own Request.
The Joys of Riches from the Miser know:
What's made no Use of, can no Joys bestow.
Ask the Voluptuous, then, he spares no Cost;
He, with a Sigh, replies, his Palate's lost.
But nobler Ends th' Ambitious have in view,
'Tis Godlike to be great! Alas, how few
Are Great and Godlike both—Pow'r, I must own,
When fix'd in righteous Hands, exalts the Throne;
As Honour's Plumes, when plac'd on high Desert,
Something that's Shining and Sublime impart:
But O, how anxious is that lofty State!
How toss'd, disturb'd, and envy'd are the Great!
Well, Knowledge then—What's that?—the fatal Fruit
Which first made Man joint-Tenant with the Brute:
What is it but a feeble Glow-worm Gleam,
Which proves us meerer Reptiles than we seem;
And all we Profit by the short-liv'd Spark,
Is but to see how much we're in the Dark.
With Toil 'tis purchas'd, and with Toil 'tis kept,
Scarce hail'd its Meeting, ere its Parting's wept;
Nor can at best the Phantom more avail,
Than add some Words to an insipid Tale:
For, learn this Truth, a mighty Diff'rence lies,
Vain Man! between to Know, and to be Wise:
Yet, strange! how many with the Vapour fir'd,
Run mad themselves, to be by Fools admir'd.
What's made no Use of, can no Joys bestow.
Ask the Voluptuous, then, he spares no Cost;
He, with a Sigh, replies, his Palate's lost.
But nobler Ends th' Ambitious have in view,
'Tis Godlike to be great! Alas, how few
Are Great and Godlike both—Pow'r, I must own,
When fix'd in righteous Hands, exalts the Throne;
As Honour's Plumes, when plac'd on high Desert,
Something that's Shining and Sublime impart:
But O, how anxious is that lofty State!
How toss'd, disturb'd, and envy'd are the Great!
Well, Knowledge then—What's that?—the fatal Fruit
Which first made Man joint-Tenant with the Brute:
What is it but a feeble Glow-worm Gleam,
Which proves us meerer Reptiles than we seem;
And all we Profit by the short-liv'd Spark,
Is but to see how much we're in the Dark.
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Scarce hail'd its Meeting, ere its Parting's wept;
Nor can at best the Phantom more avail,
Than add some Words to an insipid Tale:
For, learn this Truth, a mighty Diff'rence lies,
Vain Man! between to Know, and to be Wise:
Yet, strange! how many with the Vapour fir'd,
Run mad themselves, to be by Fools admir'd.
Come then, and ask where Happiness is found,
'Tis not in me, cries Wealth with Titles crown'd;
'Tis not in me, the World reluctant cries;
'Tis not in me, proud Science griev'd replies.
'Tis not in me, cries Wealth with Titles crown'd;
'Tis not in me, the World reluctant cries;
'Tis not in me, proud Science griev'd replies.
Thus wild they run Life's giddy Race about,
No Goal in view, no proper Course mark'd out;
A Scene of Vice, of Vanity, and Toil,
Of lifeless Leisure, or of fruitless Coil;
Employ'd in Scandal, Politicks, or Play,
In Dancing, or in dreaming Life away:
Some absent Idol still in View—Ay, this
Give us, they cry, and 'twill compleat our Bliss:
'Tis granted—but alas! delusive Thought,
The distant Goddess is a Cloud when caught.
Save Virtue, each Expedient try'd in vain,
Save Virtue, each Expedient try'd again;
Plung'd always, or in plain, or gilded Woe,
Wretched, alike, in all they act or know,
Lo! trembling they behold their Ruin near,
Lo! the dark Chambers of the Grave appear,
The End of all they hope, the Birth of all they fear.
No Goal in view, no proper Course mark'd out;
A Scene of Vice, of Vanity, and Toil,
Of lifeless Leisure, or of fruitless Coil;
Employ'd in Scandal, Politicks, or Play,
In Dancing, or in dreaming Life away:
Some absent Idol still in View—Ay, this
Give us, they cry, and 'twill compleat our Bliss:
'Tis granted—but alas! delusive Thought,
The distant Goddess is a Cloud when caught.
Save Virtue, each Expedient try'd in vain,
Save Virtue, each Expedient try'd again;
Plung'd always, or in plain, or gilded Woe,
Wretched, alike, in all they act or know,
Lo! trembling they behold their Ruin near,
Lo! the dark Chambers of the Grave appear,
The End of all they hope, the Birth of all they fear.
Not so, Good Spirit! were thy Powers employ'd,
Not so thy precious Talents were destroy'd;
Thy Life's sole Joy was but false Joys to fly,
Thy Life's sole Business but to learn to die:
Each Pleasure tax'd for Bounty's just Supplies,
Each Passion blinded to give Reason Eyes;
Yet nothing rigid or morose was seen,
But all was free without, as all was fair within.
Conscious, sweet Numbers and sweet Sounds combin'd,
To nobler Meditations fire the Mind,
For this she tun'd her lovely Voice to sing,
And wak'd to Harmony the trembling String;
For this the Joy-fraught Page she'd oft' peruse,
And deign to smile on the deserted Muse.
Not so thy precious Talents were destroy'd;
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Thy Life's sole Business but to learn to die:
Each Pleasure tax'd for Bounty's just Supplies,
Each Passion blinded to give Reason Eyes;
Yet nothing rigid or morose was seen,
But all was free without, as all was fair within.
Conscious, sweet Numbers and sweet Sounds combin'd,
To nobler Meditations fire the Mind,
For this she tun'd her lovely Voice to sing,
And wak'd to Harmony the trembling String;
For this the Joy-fraught Page she'd oft' peruse,
And deign to smile on the deserted Muse.
But hark! she's call'd—Heav'n claims her for its own.
“No—first one more bright Virtue must be shewn”
She cries— “Patience, that kindest Gift of Heaven,
“That only Balm for Fate's corroding Leaven;
“Patience which lengthens Hope, and lightens Fear,
“And makes us bravely scorn the Ills we bear;
“Lifts us above Misfortune, Care, and Pain,
“And Life's rough Journey helps us to sustain.
“Learn all from me the Succours it bestows,
“Ev'n in the last Extremity of Woes;
“Whilst meagre Phthisis preys upon my Breast,
“With a dead Weight my feeble Limbs opprest,
“Whilst struggling Coughs my tender Bosom rend,
“And scorching Hecticks ev'ry Vein distend;
“Whilst Clay-cold Damps bedew my Body o'er,
“And Life steals painful out at ev'ry Pore;
“By Patience prop'd, the bitter Load I bear,
“Without a Sigh, a Murmur, or a Tear;
“Unmov'd endure the cruel Scourge of Pain,
“Whilst baffled Medicine tries its Art in vain:
“Ev'n now, when Fate and Nature are at Strife,
“In these last Struggles of desponding Life,
“She sooths each Pang, helps each convulsive Breath,
“And gently smooths the Iron Hand of Death.”
She said—when Death cut short th' instructive Tale,
Conscious should such Almighty Truths prevail,
Mankind his Bugbear Terrors would defy,
Pleas'd, as prepar'd, alike to sleep or die.
“No—first one more bright Virtue must be shewn”
She cries— “Patience, that kindest Gift of Heaven,
“That only Balm for Fate's corroding Leaven;
“Patience which lengthens Hope, and lightens Fear,
“And makes us bravely scorn the Ills we bear;
“Lifts us above Misfortune, Care, and Pain,
“And Life's rough Journey helps us to sustain.
“Learn all from me the Succours it bestows,
“Ev'n in the last Extremity of Woes;
“Whilst meagre Phthisis preys upon my Breast,
“With a dead Weight my feeble Limbs opprest,
“Whilst struggling Coughs my tender Bosom rend,
“And scorching Hecticks ev'ry Vein distend;
“Whilst Clay-cold Damps bedew my Body o'er,
“And Life steals painful out at ev'ry Pore;
“By Patience prop'd, the bitter Load I bear,
“Without a Sigh, a Murmur, or a Tear;
“Unmov'd endure the cruel Scourge of Pain,
“Whilst baffled Medicine tries its Art in vain:
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“In these last Struggles of desponding Life,
“She sooths each Pang, helps each convulsive Breath,
“And gently smooths the Iron Hand of Death.”
She said—when Death cut short th' instructive Tale,
Conscious should such Almighty Truths prevail,
Mankind his Bugbear Terrors would defy,
Pleas'd, as prepar'd, alike to sleep or die.
Hail, spotless Shade! with noblest Honours bless'd,
With Patience crown'd, in white-rob'd Virtue drest;
Go seek and prove thy kindred Realms above,
Seats, like thy Breast, of Harmony and Love.
With Patience crown'd, in white-rob'd Virtue drest;
Go seek and prove thy kindred Realms above,
Seats, like thy Breast, of Harmony and Love.
And Ye, good Guardians of a Charge so good,
O cease to grieve, Heav'n must not be withstood;
Weep not for Her—lo! all her Labours o'er,
Happy, O happy! on the Heav'nly Shore;
There where no Moths corrupt, no Thieves infest,
In endless Sunshine, and in endless Rest;
Gayly triumphant, in a bless'd Relief
From future Chance, from Sickness, and from Grief;
Beyond the Reach of Malice, Pow'r, or Pride,
By Angels greeted, and to Saints ally'd;
Past Toils with Joy revolving in her Mind,
She only pities you who're left behind.
O cease to grieve, Heav'n must not be withstood;
Weep not for Her—lo! all her Labours o'er,
Happy, O happy! on the Heav'nly Shore;
There where no Moths corrupt, no Thieves infest,
In endless Sunshine, and in endless Rest;
Gayly triumphant, in a bless'd Relief
From future Chance, from Sickness, and from Grief;
Beyond the Reach of Malice, Pow'r, or Pride,
By Angels greeted, and to Saints ally'd;
Past Toils with Joy revolving in her Mind,
She only pities you who're left behind.
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AN EPISTLE TO Godfrey Clarke, Esq; and Miss Pole, upon their Nuptials.
Such Youth and Judgment, Wealth and Goodness join'd!
Say, are no Marriages in Heaven design'd?
If not, blest Pair! we must at least agree,
That Love and Fortune both, for once, could see.
Long may you live to grace those Sacred Bands,
By Hearts as close united as by Hands.
Say, are no Marriages in Heaven design'd?
If not, blest Pair! we must at least agree,
That Love and Fortune both, for once, could see.
Long may you live to grace those Sacred Bands,
By Hearts as close united as by Hands.
Of Blessings which the World has best in store,
So fair your Lot I need not wish you more;
But, that in These true Relish you may find,
I wish you Health of Body, Peace of Mind;
Whilst num'rous blooming Branches round you stand,
Obedient to the skilful Parents Hand;
And, early turn'd to all that's Wise and Good;
Be Children of your Virtues as your Blood!
May those you chuse for Friends, be Friends sincere;
For Servants—serve you more thro' Love than Fear.
May ne'er the Thirst of Titles, Pomp or Power,
Those Idols which the Court-bred Crowd adore,
Make you in quest of foreign Honours roam,
True Greatness only's to be found at Home;
Dwells in th' enobled Breast, and does not spring
Or from the Sword, or Deckings of a King.
So fair your Lot I need not wish you more;
But, that in These true Relish you may find,
I wish you Health of Body, Peace of Mind;
Whilst num'rous blooming Branches round you stand,
Obedient to the skilful Parents Hand;
And, early turn'd to all that's Wise and Good;
Be Children of your Virtues as your Blood!
May those you chuse for Friends, be Friends sincere;
For Servants—serve you more thro' Love than Fear.
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Those Idols which the Court-bred Crowd adore,
Make you in quest of foreign Honours roam,
True Greatness only's to be found at Home;
Dwells in th' enobled Breast, and does not spring
Or from the Sword, or Deckings of a King.
In Life's uncertain Sea, where none but find
Some dang'rous Quicksand, or some adverse Wind,
If Storms arise how little it avails
That the proud Mast is deck'd with purple Sails;
The silken Cables, or the silver Oar,
Won't sooner smooth the Surge or gain the Shoar;
The Winds impartial beat, the Lightnings strike
The Royal Bark and Fisher's Hulk alike.
No, 'tis what few—but may YOU always!—find,
'Tis the calm Sunshine of the Halcyon Mind,
That Heart-felt Peace, those Plaudits which accrue
Not from the Goods you have, but Good you do;
'Tis These must light you o'er the trackless Main,
By These the wish'd-for Haven you may gain;
For know, to raise dejected Merit's Head,
A double Lustre round yourselves will shed;
And to relieve the Good-Man's aking Heart,
A seven-fold Transport to your own impart.
Some dang'rous Quicksand, or some adverse Wind,
If Storms arise how little it avails
That the proud Mast is deck'd with purple Sails;
The silken Cables, or the silver Oar,
Won't sooner smooth the Surge or gain the Shoar;
The Winds impartial beat, the Lightnings strike
The Royal Bark and Fisher's Hulk alike.
No, 'tis what few—but may YOU always!—find,
'Tis the calm Sunshine of the Halcyon Mind,
That Heart-felt Peace, those Plaudits which accrue
Not from the Goods you have, but Good you do;
'Tis These must light you o'er the trackless Main,
By These the wish'd-for Haven you may gain;
For know, to raise dejected Merit's Head,
A double Lustre round yourselves will shed;
And to relieve the Good-Man's aking Heart,
A seven-fold Transport to your own impart.
Thus bless'd with all that Wisdom's Wish can reach,
With all that true Philosophy can teach,
With more than e'er in noisy Courts was seen,
Or ever deign'd to light on King or Queen,
To crown the whole you can possess below,
Heav'n grant you still your Happiness may know.
With all that true Philosophy can teach,
With more than e'er in noisy Courts was seen,
Or ever deign'd to light on King or Queen,
To crown the whole you can possess below,
Heav'n grant you still your Happiness may know.
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The LIFE of a BEAU. A Song.
How brim-full of Nothing's the Life of a Beau?
They've nothing to think of, they've nothing to do;
Nor they've nothing to talk of, for—nothing they know:
Such, such is the Life of a Beau.
They've nothing to think of, they've nothing to do;
Nor they've nothing to talk of, for—nothing they know:
Such, such is the Life of a Beau.
For nothing they rise, but to draw the fresh Air;
Spend the Morning in nothing but curling their Hair;
And do nothing all Day but Sing, Santer and Stare:
Such, such is the Life of a Beau.
Spend the Morning in nothing but curling their Hair;
And do nothing all Day but Sing, Santer and Stare:
Such, such is the Life of a Beau.
For nothing at Night to the Playhouse they croud,
For to mind nothing done there they always are proud,
But to bow, and to grin, and talk—nothing aloud:
Such, such is the Life of a Beau.
For to mind nothing done there they always are proud,
But to bow, and to grin, and talk—nothing aloud:
Such, such is the Life of a Beau.
For nothing they run to th' Assembly and Ball;
And for nothing at Cards a fair Partner call,
For they still must be beasted who've—Nothing at all:
Such, such is the Life of a Beau.
And for nothing at Cards a fair Partner call,
For they still must be beasted who've—Nothing at all:
Such, such is the Life of a Beau.
For nothing on Sundays at Church they appear,
For they've nothing to hope, nor they've nothing to fear;
They can be nothing no where, who—nothing are here:
Such, such is the Life of a Beau.
For they've nothing to hope, nor they've nothing to fear;
They can be nothing no where, who—nothing are here:
Such, such is the Life of a Beau.
The Life of a Fool. A Song.
A fool enjoys the Sweets of Life,
Unwounded by its Cares;
His Passions never are at Strife;
He hope's not, He, nor fear's.
Unwounded by its Cares;
His Passions never are at Strife;
He hope's not, He, nor fear's.
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If Fortune smiles, as smile she will,
Upon her booby Brood,
The Fool anticipates no Ill,
But reaps the present Good.
Upon her booby Brood,
The Fool anticipates no Ill,
But reaps the present Good.
Or should, thro' Love of Change, her Wheels
Her fav'rite Bantling cross,
The happy Fool no Anguish feels,
He weighs not Gain or Loss.
Her fav'rite Bantling cross,
The happy Fool no Anguish feels,
He weighs not Gain or Loss.
When Knaves o'er-reach, and Friends betray,
Whilst Men of Sense run mad,
Fools, careless, whistle on—and say,
'Tis silly to be sad.
Whilst Men of Sense run mad,
Fools, careless, whistle on—and say,
'Tis silly to be sad.
Since free from Sorrow, Fear, and Shame,
A Fool thus Fate defies,
The greatest Folly I can name
Is to be Overwise.
A Fool thus Fate defies,
The greatest Folly I can name
Is to be Overwise.
The World's a Song. A Song.
If Life can yield any thing pleasant or sweet,
To strew its rough Valley along,
In Musick, I'm sure, we the Blessing must meet,
For why, the whole World's a mere Song.
To strew its rough Valley along,
In Musick, I'm sure, we the Blessing must meet,
For why, the whole World's a mere Song.
Repair to the Court, and you'll instantly find
Amidst the delusive gay Throng,
No Friendship can hold, nor no Promise can bind,
For the Courtier's Honour's a Song.
Amidst the delusive gay Throng,
No Friendship can hold, nor no Promise can bind,
For the Courtier's Honour's a Song.
Go next to the Camp, and review each trim Blade,
How they strut it so stout and so strong,
Turn 'em into War's Field, and I'm hugely afraid,
Their Courage would prove a mere Song.
How they strut it so stout and so strong,
Turn 'em into War's Field, and I'm hugely afraid,
Their Courage would prove a mere Song.
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Pray, what are Possessions, tho' ever so great,
Once got the good Lawyers among?
For they'll brief it and thief it, they'll pocket and prate
'Till they've brought all your Wealth to a Song.
Once got the good Lawyers among?
For they'll brief it and thief it, they'll pocket and prate
'Till they've brought all your Wealth to a Song.
The Doctor who sagely lays Finger to Wrist,
With his Hems and his Ha's, ere so long,
When he sits down to write, 'tis to grease his own Fist,
For his Scribble to you's a mere Song.
With his Hems and his Ha's, ere so long,
When he sits down to write, 'tis to grease his own Fist,
For his Scribble to you's a mere Song.
The Fair One who vows to young Thirsis, so kind,
She ne'er his fond Passion will wrong,
The Moment he's gone Damon's call'd from behind,
For why, Lovers Oaths are a Song.
She ne'er his fond Passion will wrong,
The Moment he's gone Damon's call'd from behind,
For why, Lovers Oaths are a Song.
Thus, Youth run thro' Life, and try all that you can,
This Truth you must own e'er 'tis long,
Take Greatness or Riches, take Woman or Man,
Your Gains will turn out a mere Song.
This Truth you must own e'er 'tis long,
Take Greatness or Riches, take Woman or Man,
Your Gains will turn out a mere Song.
The Loss of Faronello. A Song.
What dire Misfortune hath befel
Each quav'ring Beau and tuneful Belle!
Lost Faronello's killing Note,
For Spain has caught him by the Throat:
Far, far away
He's forc'd to stay;
Killing, thrilling,
Thrilling, killing,
O! we're ruin'd, lost, undone,
Charming Faronello's gone!
Each quav'ring Beau and tuneful Belle!
Lost Faronello's killing Note,
For Spain has caught him by the Throat:
Far, far away
He's forc'd to stay;
Killing, thrilling,
Thrilling, killing,
O! we're ruin'd, lost, undone,
Charming Faronello's gone!
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Our Tears had scarcely ceas'd to flow,
That Senesino needs would go;
When straight a heavier Loss we rue,
Dear Faronello's kidnap'd too.
Faronello!
Senesino!
Senesino!
Faronello!
O! we're ruin'd, lost, undone,
Both the Warblers, both are gone!
That Senesino needs would go;
When straight a heavier Loss we rue,
Dear Faronello's kidnap'd too.
Faronello!
Senesino!
Senesino!
Faronello!
O! we're ruin'd, lost, undone,
Both the Warblers, both are gone!
O cruel Spain! will nought suffice?
Will nought redeem this lovely Prize?
Take all our Ships, take all our Men,
So we enjoy but him again:
O send him straight,
Our Nobles wait!
O send him quick,
We all are sick!
Ruin'd, Lords and Commons all,
From St. James's to Guild-Hall!
Will nought redeem this lovely Prize?
Take all our Ships, take all our Men,
So we enjoy but him again:
O send him straight,
Our Nobles wait!
O send him quick,
We all are sick!
Ruin'd, Lords and Commons all,
From St. James's to Guild-Hall!
Written at the Age of Sixteen in the Ivory Leaf of a Tweezer-Case, presented by the Author to his Sister.
In This repose the Secrets of your Mind,This the same silent, faithful Friend you'll find,
Let Fortune smile, or let her prove unkind.
Or should a favour'd Youth some Five Years hence,
I think you're Ten—make amorous Pretence,
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Swears that he loves, and vows he does adore;
Whilst rebel Wishes take his Part within,
And Nature pleads to let the Suppliant in,
Learn hence—that when our Tongues most Zeal impart,
We're then most thorough Atheists at the Heart.
To a Young Lady, desiring a Copy of Verses from the Author.
Madam, I've laid aside my Muse,
But, when You bid, I can't refuse
To tune my Harp, to put a String on
And think of something new to sing on;
But Oh! the Task is hard to hit
On something new, and something fit!
But, when You bid, I can't refuse
To tune my Harp, to put a String on
And think of something new to sing on;
But Oh! the Task is hard to hit
On something new, and something fit!
To write of Heroes, and of Wars,
Intestine Feuds, or foreign Jars;
Of mighty Matters done in Battel,
How Towns are storm'd, and Cannons rattle,
Are things without a Lady's Sphere,
And therefore not so proper here.
Intestine Feuds, or foreign Jars;
Of mighty Matters done in Battel,
How Towns are storm'd, and Cannons rattle,
Are things without a Lady's Sphere,
And therefore not so proper here.
To talk of Swains and Shepherdesses,
Their aukward Dialogues, and Dresses,
How the fond Clowns adore their Dames,
Old-fashion'd things, with constant Flames,
And how the Nymphs, Occasion blessing,
And gentle Nature jointly pressing,
Relieve their Pain with kind caressing;
Of Moon-light Freaks, and Cynthia's Train,
How Fairies wanton in the Plain,
Of flowery Valleys, lofty Hills,
Resounding Grots, and whisp'ring Rills,
Above, or much below, my Strain is,
And therefore to attempt it vain is.
Their aukward Dialogues, and Dresses,
How the fond Clowns adore their Dames,
Old-fashion'd things, with constant Flames,
And how the Nymphs, Occasion blessing,
And gentle Nature jointly pressing,
Relieve their Pain with kind caressing;
Of Moon-light Freaks, and Cynthia's Train,
How Fairies wanton in the Plain,
112
Resounding Grots, and whisp'ring Rills,
Above, or much below, my Strain is,
And therefore to attempt it vain is.
A King's or Cobler's Death to pity,
And pen a grievous Church-yard Ditty,
In sable Elegy to wail,
Would prove, I fear, a drouzy Tale;
And therefore I'm resolv'd to keep
My Muse from crying you to sleep.
And pen a grievous Church-yard Ditty,
In sable Elegy to wail,
Would prove, I fear, a drouzy Tale;
And therefore I'm resolv'd to keep
My Muse from crying you to sleep.
To sing of Beauty, and of You,
And give your Merit half its due;
Your Charms and Virtues to rehearse
Is far beyond the Pow'r of Verse.
And give your Merit half its due;
Your Charms and Virtues to rehearse
Is far beyond the Pow'r of Verse.
What, then, to sing, or what to say,
Without a Subject for my Lay!
Troth, Madam, all that can be done,
Is to leave off where I begun.
Without a Subject for my Lay!
Troth, Madam, all that can be done,
Is to leave off where I begun.
| Miscellaneous Work in Verse and Prose | |