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Tis thine, great George, to guard thy favourite" ifle

From open force, and every secret wile,

To raise th' opprefs'd, to make the captives smile ;.
To pay juft heaven what righteous monarchs owe,
And, like that heaven, to blefs the world below:
To build new temples, to repair the old,
To bring the straggling sheep into the fold,
And by wife laws reftore an age of gold.
Ye blissful feats where Tame and Ifis join,
Lovely retirement of the facred Nine,
Parent of arts, and once my sweet abode,
Can ye forget the bleffings he bestow'd?
Can fophiftry prevail against that prince,
Whose mercy and beneficence convince ?
Oh! touch each tuneful string, let every muse
From all her ftores her nobleit Pæans choose;
Pay what the can in tributary lays,

And to his virtue grant fupplies of praife.

To all the world your grateful hearts make known,
And in your monarch's fame record your own.
His fame-which envy's breath can never blast,
But ages yet to come shall join the past,
And Brunfwick's glory with the world shall laft.

A SONG FOR THE LUTE.

GENTLY, my lute, move every string,
Soft as my fighs, reveal my pain;
While I, in plaintive numbers, fing

Of flighted vows, and cold disdain.

In vain her airs, in vain her art,

In vain the frowns when I appear;
Thy notes fhall melt her frozen heart;
She cannot hate, if she can hear.

And fee fhe fmiles! through all the groves
Triumphant Iö-Pæans found:
Clap all your wings, ye little loves;
Ye sportive graces, dance around.
Ye listening oaks, bend to my fong;
Not Orpheus play'd a nobler lay:
Ye favages, about me throng;

Ye rocks, and harder hearts, obey.
She comes, the comes, relenting fair!

To fill with joy my longing arms;

What faithful lover can defpair,

Who thus with verfe, and mufic, charms?

THE COQUET.

WHEN tortur'd by the cruel fair
And almost mad with wild despair,

My fleeting fpirits rove;

One cordial glance reftores her slave,
Redeems me from the gaping grave,
And foothes my foul to love.
Thus in a fea of doubt I'm tofs'd,
Now funk, now thrown upon the coast;
What wretch can long endure

Such odd, perplexing pangs as these,
When neither mortal the disease,

Proud tyrant! fince to fave, or kill, Depends on thy capricious will,

This milder fentence give; Reverse my strange, untoward fate, Oh! let me perish by thy hate, Or by thy kindness live!

THE SUPERANNUATED LOVER.

DEAD to the foft delights of love,
Spare me, O fpare me, cruel boy:
Nor feek in vain that heart to move,
Which pants no more with amorous joy.
Of old, thy faithful hardy fwain,

(When fmit with fair Paftora's charms)
I ferv'd thee many a long campaign,
And wide I spread thy conquering arms.
Now, mighty God, difmifs thy flave,
To feeble age let youth fucceed;
Recruit among the ftrong and brave,
And kindly fpare an invalid.
Adieu, fond hopes, fantastic cares,

Ye killing joys, ye pleasing pains! My foul for better guests prepares, Reason reftor'd, and virtue reigns. But why, my Cloe, tell me why? Why trickles down this filent tear? Why do these blushes rife and die? Why ftand I mute when thou art here?

Ev'n fleep affords my foul no reft,

Thee bathing in the ftream I view; With thee I dance, with thee I feast, Thee through the gloomy grove pursue. Triumphant god of gay desires !

Thy vaffal's raging pains remove

I burn, I burn, with fierce fires,
Oh! take my life, or crown my love.

ADVICE TO THE LADIES.

WHо now regards Chloris, her tears, and her whining,

Her fighs and fond wishes, and awkward repining? What a pother is here, with her amorous glances, Soft fragments of Ovid, and scraps of romances!

A nice prude at fifteen! and a romp in decay! Cold December affects the sweet blossoms of May; To fawn in her dotage, and in her bloom spurn us, is to quench love's bright torch, and with touchwood to burn us,

Believe me, dear maids, there's no way of evading: While ye pish, and cry nay, your roses are fading: Though your paffion furvive, your beauty will

dwindle,

And our languishing embers can never rekindle. When bright in your zeniths we proftrate before

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blefling,

ANACREONTIC.

TO CLOE DRINKING.

WHEN, my dear Cloe, you refign
One happy hour to mirth and wine,
Each glafs you drink ftill paints your face
With fome new victorious grace:
Charm in referve my foul furprise,
And by fresh wounds your lover dies.
Who can refift thee, lovely fair!
That wit that foft engaging air!
Each panting heart its homage pays,
And all the vaffal world obeys.

God of the grape, boaft now no more
Thy triumphs on far Indus' fhore:
Each ufelefs weapon now lay down,
Thy tigers, car, and ivy crown;
Give but this juice in full fupplies,
And truft thy fame to Cloe's eyes.

TO A DISCARDED TOAST.

CELIA, Confefs 'tis all in vain,

To patch the ruins of thy face; Nor of ill-natur'd time complain,

That robs it of each blooming grace. If love no more shall bend his bow,

Nor point his arrows from thine eye, If no lac'd fop, nor feather'd beau,

Defpairing at thy feet fhall die: Yet ftill, my charmer, wit like thine Shall triumph over age and fate; Thy fetting beams with luftre shine,

And rival their meridian height.
Beauty, fair flower! foon fades away,
And tranfient are the joys of love;

But wit, and virtue, ne'er decay,
Ador'd below, and blefs'd above.

THE PERJUR'D MISTRESS.
From Horace, Epod. xv. ad Neæram.

'Twas night, and heaven intent with all its eyes
Gaz'd on the dear deceitful maid;
A thousand pretty things fhe faid,
A thousand artful tricks fhe play'd,

From me, deluded me, her falschood to disguise.
She clafp'd me in her soft encircling arms,

She prefs'd her glowing cheek to mine,
The clinging ivy, or the curling vine,
Did never yet fo closely twine; [charms?
Who could be man and bear the luftre of her
And thus the fwore: by all the powers above,

When winter ftorms fhall cease to roar,
When fummer funs fhall fhine no more,
When wolves their cruelty give o'er,

Neæra then, and not till then, fhall ceafe to love.
Ah! falfe Neæra! perjur'd fair! but know,
I have a foul too great to bear
A rival's proud infulting air,
Another may be found as fair,

[you.

Shouldst thou repent, and at my feet be laid,
Dejected, penitent, forlorn,

And all thy former follies mourn,

Thy proffer'd paffion I would fcorn: The gods fhall do me right on that devoted head. And you, spruce fir, who infolently gay,

Exulting, laugh at my difgrace,

Boaft with vain airs, and stiff grimace, Your large eftate, your handsome face, Proud of a fleeting blifs, the pageant of a day: You too shall soon repent this haughty scorn; When, fickle as the fea or wind,

The prostitute shall change her mind, To fuch another coxcomb kind; [torm. Then shall I clap my wings, and triumph in my

TO A YOUNG LADY,

Who spent the Night in Tears, upon a Report that bes
Brother was to fight a Duel the next Morning.
PASTORA weeps, let every lover mourn,
Her grief is no lefs fatal than her fcorn:
Thofe fhining orbs inflict an equal pain,
O'erflown with tears, or pointed with disdain.
When doubts and fears invade the tender breast,
Where peace, and joy, and love fhould ever reft;
As flowers depriv'd of the fun's genial ray,
Earthward we bend, and filently decay;

In fpight of all philosophy can do,

}

Our hearts relent, the burfing torrents flow,
We feel her pains, and propagate her woe.
Each mournful mufe laments the weeping fair,
The graces all their comely treffes tear,
Love drags his wings, and droops his little head,
And Venus mourns as for Adonis dead.

Patience, dear maid, nor without cause complais,
O lavish not those precious drops in vain :
Under the fhield of your prevailing charms,
Your happy brother lives fecure from harms,
Your bright refemblance all my rage difarms.
Your influence unable to withstand,

The conscious steel drops from my trembling hand;
Low at your feet the guilty weapon lies,
The foe repents, and the fond lover dies.
Eneas thus by men and gods pursued,
Fecble with wounds, defil'd with dust and bloed,
Beauty's bright goddefs interpos'd her charms,
And fav'd the hopes of Troy from Grecian arms.

TO DR. M

READING MATHEMATICS.

VAIN our purfuits of knowledge, vain our care,
The coft and labour we may justly spare.
Death from this coarfe alloy refines the mind,
Leaves us at large t'expatiate unconfin'd;
All science opens to our wondering cyes,
And the good man is in a moment wife.

FROM MARTIAL. EPIG. xlvii.

WOULD you, my friend, find out the true receipt,

1

The grand elixir thus you must infuse,
And thefe ingredients to be happy choose :
First an eftate, not got with toil and fweat,
But unincumber'd left, and free from debt:
For let that be your dull forefather's care,
To pinch and drudge for his deferving heir;
Fruitful and rich, in land that's found and good,
That fills your barns with corn, your hearth with
wood;

That cold nor hunger may your house infeft, While flames invade the skies, and pudding crowns the feaft.

A quiet mind, ferene, and free from care,
Nor puzzling on the bench, nor noify at the bar;
A body found, that phyfic cannot mend;
And the best phyfic of the mind, a friend,
Equal in birth, in humour, and in place,
Thy other felf, diftinguish'd but by face;
Whofe fympathetic foul takes equal share
Of all thy pleasure, and of all thy care.
A modeft board, adorn'd with men of fenfe,
No French ragouts, nor French impertinence,
A merry bottle to engender wit,

Not over-dos'd, but quantum fufficit:
Equal the error is in each excefs,
Nor dullness less a fin, than drunkenness.
A tender wife diffolving by thy fide,

Easy and chafte, free from debate and pride,
Each day a mistress, and each night a bride.
Sleep undisturb'd, and at the dawn of day,
The merry horn, that chides thy tedious ftay;
A horfe that's clean, fure-footed, fwift, and found,
And dogs that make the echoing clifts refound;
That fweep the dewy plains, out-fly the wind,
And leave domeftic forrows far behind. [paft,
Fleas'd with thy present lot, nor grudging at the
Nor fearing when thy time fhall come, nor hop-
ing for thy last.

TO A GENTLEMAN,

WHO MARRIED HIS CAST MISTRESS.

From Horace, Book III. Ode ix. WHILE I was yours, and yours alone, Proud, and transported with your charnis, I envy'd not the Perfian throne,

But reign'd more glorious in your arms.
B. While you were true, nor Suky fair
Had chas'd poor Bruny from your breaft;
Not Ilia could with me compare,

So fam'd, or fo divinely bleft.
D. In Suky's arms entranc'd I lie,

So fweetly fings the warbling fair!
For whom most willingly I'd die,

Would fate the gentle fyren fpare. B. Me Billy burns with mutual fire,

For whom I'd die, in whom I йvé,
For whom each moment I'd expire,

Might he, my better part, furvive.
D. Should I once more my heart refign,
Would you the penitent receive?
Would Suky-fcorn'd atone my crime,?

B. Though brighter he than blazing kar,
More fickle thou than wind or fea,
With thee, my kind returning dear,
I'd live, contented die with thee.

A DAINTY NEW BALLAD:

Occafioned by a Clergyman's Widow of feventy years of age, being married to a young Excifeman.

THERE liv'd in our good town,

A relick of the gown,

A chafte and humble dame; Who, when her man of God Was cold as any clod,

Dropt many a tear in vain.
But now, good people, learn all,
No grief can be eternal;

Nor is it meet, I ween,
That folks fhould always whimper,
There is a time to fimper,

As quickly fhall be seen.
For love, that little urchin,
About this widow lurching,
Had flily fix'd his dart;
The filent creeping flame
Boil'd fore in every vein,

And glow'd about her heart.
So when a pipe we smoke,
And from the flint provoke

The fparks that twinkling play;
The touch-wood old and dry
With heat begins to fry,

And gently waftés away.
With art the patch'd up nature,
Reforming every feature,

Reftoring every grace:
To gratify her pride,
She ftopp'd each cranny wide,

And painted o'er her face.
Nor red, nor eke the white,
Was wanting to invite,

Nor coral lips that pout; But, oh, in vain she tries! With darts to arm thofe eyes

That dimly fquint about. With order and with care, Her pyramid of hair

Sublimely mounts the sky;
And, that the might prevail,
She bolter'd up her tail,

With rumps three ftories high.
With many a rich perfume,
She purify'd her room,

As there was need, no doubt;
For on thefe warm occafions,
Offenfive exhalations

Are apt to fly about.
On beds of roses lying,
Expecting, wishing, dying,

Thus languifh'd for her love
The Cyprian queen of old,
As merry bards have told,

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In pale of mother church, She fondly hop'd to lurch,

But, ah me hop'd in vain; No doctor could be found, Who this her cafe profound

Durft venture to explain.
At length a youth full fmart,
Who oft by magic art

Had div'd in many a hole;
Or kilderkin, or tun,
Or hogshead, 'twas all one,
He'd found it with his pole.
His art, and eke his face,
So fuited to her cafe,

Engag'd her love-fick heart; Quoth fhe, my pretty Diver, With thee I'll live for ever,

And from thee never part.
For thee my bloom reviving,
For thee fresh charms arifing,
Shall melt thee into joy;
Nor doubt, my pretty sweeting,
Ere nine months are completing,
To fee a bonny boy.

As ye have feen, no doubt,
A candle when just out,

In flames break forth again;
So fhone this widow bright,
All blazing in defpight

Of threescore years and ten.

CANIDIA'S EPITHALAMIUM.

UPON THE SAME,

TIME as malevolent, as old,

To blaft Canidia's face,

(Which once 'twas rapture to behold)
With wrinkles and disgrace.

Not fo in blooming beauty bright,
Each envying virgin's pattern,
She reign'd with undifputed right
A* priestess of St. Cattern.

Each fprightly foph, each brawny thrum,
Spent his first runnings here;
And hoary doctors dribbling come,
To languish and defpair.

Low at her feet the proftrate arts
Their humble homage pay;
To her the tyrant of their hearts,
Each bard directs his lay.
But now, when impotent to please,
Alas! fhe would be doing;
Reversing nature's wife decrees,
She goes herself a-wooing.

Though brib'd with all her pelf, the swain
Moft awkwardly complies;

Prefs'd to bear arms, he serves in pain,

Or from his colours flies.

So does an ivy, green when old,

And sprouting in decay;

In juiceless, joyless arms infold

A fapling young and gay.

The thriving plant, if better join'd, Would emulate the skies;

But, to that wither'd trunk confin'd, Grows fickly, pines, and dies.

HUNTING-SONG.

BEHOLD, my friend, the rofy-finger'd morn
With blushes on her face,

Peeps o'er yon azure hill;
Rich gems the trees enchase,

Pearls from each bush distil,

Arife, arise, and hail the light new-born.
Hark! hark! the merry horn calls, Come away:

Quit, quit the downy bed;
Break from Amynta's arms;
Oh, let it ne'er be faid,

That all, that all her charms,

Though she's as Venus fair, can tempt thy stay.
Perplex thy foul no more with cares below,
For what will pelf avail!

Thy courfer paws the ground,
Each beagle cocks his tail,

They spend their mouths around,

While health, and pleasure, fmiles on every brow.
Try, huntsmen, all the brakes, spread all the plain
Now, now, fhe's gone away,
Strip, ftrip, with speed pursue;
The jocund god of day,

Who fain our fport would view,

Sec, fee, he flogs his fiery fteeds in vain.

Pour down, like a flood from the hills, brave boys
On the wings of the wind
The merry beagles fly;
Dull forrow lags behind:
Ye fhrill echoes, reply;

Catch each flying found, and double our joys.

Ye rocks, woods, and caves, our mufic repeat: The bright spheres thus above,

A gay refulgent train,
Harmoniously move

O'er yon celestial plain

Like us whirl along, in concert so sweet.

Now Pufs threads the brakes, and heavily flies
At the head of the pack
Old Fidler bears the bell,
Every foil he hunts back,

And aloud rings her knell,

Till, forc'd into view, the pants, and fhe dies.

In life's dull round thus we toil, and we [weat;
Difeafes, grief, and pain,
An implacable crew,
While we double in vain,
Unrelenting pursue,

Till, quite hunted down, we yield with regret.

This moment is ours, come live while we may,

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What's decreed by dark fate

Is not in our own power,

Since to-morrow's too late, Take the prefent kind hour:

A TRANSLATION OF HORACE, EP. X.

Horace recommends a Country Life, and diffuades bis
Friend from mbition and Avarice.

HEALTH to my friend loft in the smoky town,
From him who breathes in country air alone,
In all things elfe thy foul and mine are one;
And like two aged long acquainted doves,
The fame our mutual hate, the fame our mutual
loves,

Close, and fecure, you keep your lazy neft,
My wandering thoughts won't let my pinions reft:
O'er rocks, feas, woods, I take my wanton flight,
And each new object charms with new delight,
To fay no more, my friend, I live, and reign,
Lord of myself: I've broke the fervile chain,
Shook off with fcorn the trifles you defire,
All the vain empty nothings fops admire.
Thus the lean flave of fome fat pamper'd priest
With greedy eyes at first views each luxurious
feaft;

But, quickly cloy'd, now he no more can eat
Their godly viands, and their holy meat:
Wifely ambitious to be free and poor,
Longs for the homely fcraps he loth'd before.
Seek it thou a place where nature is obferv'd,
And cooler reafon may be mildly heard;
To rural fhades let thy calm foul retreat,
Thefe are th' Elyfian fields, this is the happy feat,
Proof against winter's cold, and fummer's heat,,
Here no invidious care thy peace annoys,
Sleep undiflurb'd, uninterrupted joys;
Your marble pavements with difgrace muft yield
To each smooth plain, and gay enamel'd field:
Your muddy aqueducts can ne'er compare
With country streams, more pure than city air;
Our yew and bays enclos'd in pors ye prize,
And mimic little beauties we defpife.
The role and woodbine marble walls support,
Holly and ivy deck the gaudy court:
But yet in vain all shifts the artist tries,

The difcontented twig but pines away and dies.
The house ye praise that a large profpe& yields,
And view with longing eyes the pleasure of the
fields;

'Tis thus ye own, thus tacitly confefs,

Th' inimitable charms the peaceful country bless.
la vain from nature's rules we blindly stray,
And push th' uneafy monitrix away:
Still the returns, nor lets our confcience reft,
But night and day inculcates what is beft,
Our trueft friend, though an unwelcome guest
As foon th' unskilful fool that's blind enough,
To call rich Indian damaík Norwich stuff,
Shall become rich by trade, as he be wife,
Whose partial foul and undifcerning eyes
Can't at first fight, and at each tranfient view,
Diftinguifh good from bad, or falfe from true.
He that too high exalta his giddy head
When fortune fmiles, if the jilt frowns, is dead:
Th' afpiring fool, big with his haughty boaft,
Is the most abject wretch when all his hopes are loft.
Sit loose to all the world, nor aught admire,
There worthless toys too fondly we defire;

Since when the darling's ravish'd from our heart
The pleasure's over-balanc'd by the smart.
Confine thy thoughts, and bound thy loose defires,
For thrifty nature no great coft requires:
A healthy body, and thy mistress kind,
A humble cot, and a more humble mind:
Thefe once enjoy'd, the world is all thy own,
From thy poor cell defpife the tottering throne,
And wakeful monarchs in a bed of down.
The ftag well-arm'd, and with unequal force,
From fruitful meadows chas'd the conquer'd horfe
The haughty beast that stomach'd the disgrace,
In meaner pastures not content to graze,
Receives the bit, and man's affistance prays.
The conqueft gain'd, and many trophies won,
His falfe confederate ftill rode boldly on;
In vain the beast curs'd his perfidious aid,
He plung'd, he rear'd, but nothing could per-
fuade

The rider from his back, or bridle from his head.,
Juft fo the wretch that greedily aspires,
Unable to content his wild defires;
Dreading the fatal thought of being poor,
Lofes a prize worth all his golden ore,
The happy freedom he' enjoy'd before.
About him still th' uneafy load he bears,
Spurr'd on with fruitlefs hopes, and curb'd with
anxious fears,

The man whofe fortune fit not to his mind,
The way to true content shall never find;
If the fhoe pinch, or if it prove too wide,
In that he walks in pain, in this he treads afide.
But you, my friend, in calm contentment live,
Always well pleas'd with what the god, shall give;
Let not bafe fhining pelf thy mind deprave,
Tyrant of fools, the wife man's drudge and flave;
And me reprove if I shall crave for more,
Or feem the least uneasy to be poor.
Thus much I write, merry, and free from care,
And nothing covet, but thy presence here.

THE MISER'S SPEECH.
FROM HORACE, EPOD. II.
HAPPY the man, who, free from care,
Manures his own paternal fields,
Content, as his wife fathers were,
T' enjoy the crop his labour yield
Nor ufury torments his breast,

That barters happiness for gain,
Nor war's alarms difturb his reft,
Nor hazards of the faithlefs main:
Nor at the loud tumultuous bar,

With coftly noife, and dear debate,
Proclaims an everlafting war;

Nor fawns on villains basely great.
But for the vine felects a spouse,

Chafte emblem of the marriage-bed,
Or prunes the too luxuriant boughs,

And grafts more happy in their stead,
Or hears the lowing herds from far,

That fatten on the fruitful plains,
And ponders with delightful care,
The profpect of his future gains

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