But foft-behold new game appears in view-
Obferve that bufy, fluttering, noify crew!
They're all Apollo's fons from top to bottom-
Tho' poor Apollo wonders where he got them!
See how they hurry to that hallow'd fhrine-
That facred feat of Sappho and the Nine;
Where plac'd on quarries of the pureft ftone,
The red brick fhines unrival'd and alone;
Blefs us what toil, what coft has been beftow'd,
To give that profpe&t-of the London road!
Our admiration knows not where to fix-
Here a cascade, and there a coach and fix!
Within a myftic vafe with laurel crown'd-
Hence ye profane!-'tis confecrated ground!
Here Sappho's hands the last fad rites difpenfe
To mangled poetry and murder'd sense;
Here jefts were heard," at which even Juno fmil'd,
"When crack'd by Jove magnificently mild *,"
Jefts, fo fublimely void of fenfe and thought,
Poor fimple mortals cannot find them out;
Rhime, like Scotch coufins,-in fuch order plac'd,
The first scarce claims acquaintance with the laft!
But fee, at length the cold dull fcene to cheer,
Kind Nature bids her Jerningham appear.
See on the bed of ficknefs and despair,
Eliza's form and Yorick's alter'd air;
The laft tear gliftens in his fleepless eye,
While on his lip hangs quiv'ring the cold figh!
At ev'ry pang our tears unbidden flow,
Till the heart fickens at the pictur'd woe.
But now 'tis paft-the dream is done away,
And banish'd Dulness reaffumes her fway.
Go then, my Mufe! to her direct thy lays,
Be dull, be noify, and expect the bays.
No more fhall merit ftrive that prize to win,
"She was a ftranger, and was taken in t."
Go-with McPherson in Teutonic foar,
With Mallet whine, with bluft'ring K- roar ;
Retail like Cumberland the holy writ,
And bid the Ten Commandments pafs for wit.
Should all Parnaffus 'gainft thy efforts join,
Vain were the force of Phoebus and the Nine;
L'en Sappho's felf before thy pow'r fhall bend,
And crown thy nonfenfe-tho' fhe can't commend.
Crack'd his blythe jefts, at which e'en Juno smil'd, Judgment of Apollo.
+ Sappho's fpeech to Lord Abingdon,
The END of WRITING; an Imitation of fome French Verfes: Addreffed to Authors.
HESE fair fheets of foolfcap which thus ye are foiling,
Still cutting, and fcribbling, and blotting, and fpoiling;
This paper, I fay, had an honeft beginning,
Being born of good flax, and begotten by fpinning;
To the loom in due time, and the rag-fhop it paft,
Into leaves of fine foolscap converted at last,
Now, feiz'd by the Wits, it inceffantly teems
Or with vifions in verfe, or political dreams;
Till his Worship, juft rous'd from his afternoon's doze,
With a pipe of Virginia regaleth his nofe;
Then twisted, and twirl'd, and condemn'd to the taper,
In a puff is confum'd this unfortunate paper.
It is thus, my good friends, that Truth fetteth before ye,
Of your boasted employment-the tragical ftory:
Your choiceft productions, whate'er be their name,
Will end, at the best, in the vapour of fame :
That vapour, my friends, do ye think it will flay?
-Like his Worship's last whiff, it will vanish away.
VERSES fent by a Gentleman to his Lady with a Prefent of a Knife.
Knife, dear girl, cuts love, they fay;
Mere modifh love, perhaps, it may;
For any tool of any kind,
Can fep'rate what was never join'd.
The knife that cuts our love in two
Will have much tougher work to do:
Muft cut your foftnefs, worth and spirit,
Down to the vulgar fize of merit;
To level your's with modern taste,
Muft cut a world of fenfe to waste;
And from your fingle beauty's store,
Clip what would dizen out a score.
The felf-fame blade from me muft fever
Senfation, judgment, fight for ever;
All mem'ry of endearments past,
All hope of comforts long to last,
All that makes fourteen years with you
A fummer ;-and a fhort one too :
All that affection feels and fears
When hours, without you, feem like years.
Till that be done (and I'd as foon
Believe this knife will chip the moon)
Accept my prefent undeterr'd,
And leave their proverbs to the herd.
If in a kifs-delicious treat!—
Your tips acknowledge the receipt;
Love, fond of fuch fubftantial fare,
And proud to play the glutton there,
All thoughts of cutting will disdain,
Save only cut and come again.
BROLOGUE Spoken by Sir GEORGE BEAUMONT, Bart. at the Opening of the new Theatre at North Afton, Oxon.
Written by WM. WHITEHEAD, Esq.
OURE fome infection hovers in the air!
For every man and woman is turn'd play'r!
No age escapes it-antiquated dames
And reverend Romeos breathe fictitious flames;
Pale miffes antedate love's future force
And school boy Richards lifp
No rank escapes it with a Garrick art
Right Honourable Hamlets ftare and start;
And Lady Belvideras every where,
Pat the ftarch'd handkerchief, and squeeze a tear.
What wonder then, in this theatric age,
If we too catch the epidemic rage?
If with the reft we play the mimic's part,
And drive to our own barn the Thespian cart;
For we confefs this pageant pomp you
Was once a barn-the seat of industry;
And time may come, when all this glittering fhow
Of canvas, paint, and plafter, fhall lie low;
Thefe gorgeous palaces, yon cloud-capt fcene,
This barn itfelf, may be a barn again:
The fpirit-ftirring drum may cease to roar,
The prompter's whistle may be heard no more;
But echoing founds of ruftic toil prevail,
The winnowing hifs and clapping of the flail ;
Hither once more may unhous'd vagrants fly,
To fhun th' inclement blaft and pelting sky;
On Lear's own ftraw may gypfies reft their head,
And trulls lie fnug in Defdemona's bed.
JUPITER and MERCURY. A Fable.
Written fome Time fince by D. G—, Esq.
ERE, Hermes, fays fove, who with nectar was mellow, Go fetch me fome clay-I will make an odd fellow ;Right and wrong fhall be jumbled,—much gold and fome drofs; Without cause be he pleas'd, without cause be he cross ;
Be fure, as I work, to throw in contradictions,
A great love of truth, yet a mind torn'd to fictions;
Now mix these ingredients, which warm'd in the baking,
Turn to learning and gaming, religion and raking.
With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste;
Tip his tongue with ftrange matter, his pen with fine taste ;
That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail,
Set fire to the head, and fet fire to the tail:
For the joy of each fex, on the world I'll beftow it,
This Scholar, Rake, Chriftian, Dupe, Gamefter and Poet:
Tho' a mixture fo odd, he fhall merit
great fame,
And among brother mortals-be GOLDSMITH his name!
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
You, Hermes, shall fetch him,-to make us fpost here!
On Dr. GOLDSMITH'S CHARACTERISTICAL COOKERY.
A Jeu D'Esprit.
By D. G. Efq.
RE these the choice dishes the Doctor has fent us?
Is this the great poet whofe works fo content us?
This Goldfmith's fine feaft, who has written fine books?
Heaven fends us good meat-but the Devil fends cooks.
LINES from Dr. BARNARD, Dean of Derry, to Dr. GOLDSMITH
EAR Noll and dear Dick, fince you've made us fo merry,
Accept the best thanks of the poor Dean of Derry!
Tho' I here must confefs, that your meat and your wine
Are not quite to my tafte, tho' they're both very fine;
For fherry's a liquor monaftic, you own;
Now there's nothing I hate fo-as drinking alone-
It may do for your monks, or your curates and vicars,
But, for my part, I'm fond of more fociable liquors.
Your ven'fon's delicious-tho' too fweet your fauce is
Sed non ego maculis offendar paucis.
So foon as you please, you may serve me your difh-up,
But inftead of your fherry, pray make me a—Bishop!
Bishop CORBET to his Son VINCENT CORBET, two Years of Agt.
WHAT I shall leave thee none can tell,
But all fhall fay I wish you well;
I wish thee, Vin. before all wealth,
Both bodily and ghoftly health:
Not too much wealth nor wit come to thee-
Too much of either may undo thee.
I with thee learning, not for show,
Enough for to inftruct and know;
Not fuch as gentlemen require,
To prate at table and at fire.
I wish thee all thy mother's graces,
Thy father's fortunes and his places.
I wish thee friends, and one at Court,
Not to build on, but to fupport;
To keep thee not in doing many
Oppreffions, but from fuff'ring any.
I wish thee peace in all thy ways,
Nor lazy nor contentious days;
And when thy foul and body part,
As innocent as now thou art.
CHARACTERS of Mr. GRANVILLE, (Nephew to Lord Landf. down,) and of WILLIAM HARRISON, Efq; from an Epiftle of Dr. YOUNG'S, not yet inferted among his Works.
ET ftill one blifs, one glory, I forbear,
A darling friend whom near your heart you wear :
That lovely youth, my Lord, whom you must blame,
That I grow thus familiar with your name.
He's friendly, open, in his conduct nice,
Nor ferve thefe virtues to atone for vice:
Vice he has none, or fuch as none with lefs,
But friends indeed, good-nature in excess.
You cannot boast the merit of a choice
In making him your own, 'twas Nature's voice,
Which call'd too loud by man to be withstood,
Pleading a tie far nearer than of blood;
Similitude of manners, fuch a mind,
As makes you lefs the wonder of mankind.
Such eafe his common converse recommends,
As he ne'er felt a paffion, but his friends;
*Made Bishop of Norwich, in 1632.
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