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Er nunc dilectum fpeculum, pro more retectum,
Emicat in mensâ, que fplendet pyxide densâ :
Tum primum lymphâ, fe purgat candida nympha;
Jamque fine menda, cæleftis imago videnda,
Nuda caput, bellos retinet, regit, implet, ocellos.
Hac ftupet explorans, feu cultus numen adorans.
Inferior claram Pythoniffa apparet ad aram,
Fertque tibi cautè, dicatque fuperbia lautè,
Dona venufta; oris, quæ cunétis, plena laboris,
Excerpta explorat, dominamque deamque decorat.
Pyxide devoti, fe pandit hic India tota,
Et tota ex iftâ tranfpirat Arabia cifta:
Teftudo hic flectit, dum fe mea Lesbia pectit ;
Atque clephas lentè, te pectit Lefbia dente;
Hunc maculis nôris, nivei jacet ille coloris.
Hic jacet et mundè, mundus muliebris abundè;
Spinula refplendens reris longo ordine pendens,
Pulvis fuavis odore, et epiftola fuavis amore.
In luit arma ergo, Veneris pulcherrima virgo;
Pulchrior in præfens tempus de tempore crefcens ;
Jam reparat rifus, jam furgit gratiâ visûs,
Jam promit cultu, mirac'la latentia vultu.
Pigmina jam mifcet, quo plus fua purpura glifcet,
Et geminans bellis fplendet magè fulgor ocellis,
Stant Lentures muti, Nymphæ intentique faluti,
Hic figit zonam, capiti, locat ille coronam,
Hæc manicis formam, plicis dat et altera normam;
Et tibi vel Betty, tibi vel nitidiffima Letty!
Gloria factorum temerè conceditur horum.

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Now early fhepherds o'er the meadow pass,
And print long footsteps in the glittering grafs;
The cows neglectful of their pasture stand,
By turns obfequious to the milker's hand.

When Damon foftly trod the fhaven lawn,
Damon a youth from city cares withdrawn,
Long was the pleafing walk he wander'd through,
A cover'd arbour clos'd the diftant view;
There refts the youth, and, while the feather'd
throng

Raife their wild mufic, thus contrives a fong.

Here, wafted o'er by mild Etefian air, Thou country goddefs, beauteous Health! repair; Here let my breaft through quivering trees inhale Thy rofy bleffings with the morning gale.

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What are the fields, or flowers, or all I fee?
Ah! taftelefs all, if not enjoy'd with thee.

Joy to my foul! I feel the goddess nigh,
The face of nature cheers as well as 1;
O'er the flat green refreshing breezes run,
The fmiling daizies blow beneath the fun,
The brooks run purling down with filver waves,
The planted lanes rejoice with dancing leaves,
The chirping birds from all the compass rove
To tempt the tuneful echoes of the grove:
High funny fummits, deeply-fhaded dales,
Thick moffy banks, and flowery winding vales,
With various profpe&t gratify the fight,
And scatter fix'd attention in delight.

Come, country goddefs, come; nor thou fuffice, But bring thy mountain-fifter, Exercise. Call'd by thy lovely voice, the turns her pace, Her winding horn proclaims the finish'd chace; She mounts the rocks, fhe fkims the level plain, Dogs, hawks, and horfes, crowd her early train. Her hardy face repels the tanning wind, And lines and meshes loofely float behind. All these as means of toil the feeble fee, But thefe are helps to pleasure join'd with thee.

Let Sloth lie foftening till high noon in down, Or lolling fan her in the fultry town, Unnerv'd with reft; and turn her own difeafe, Or fofter others in luxurious cafe:

I mount the courfer, call the deep-mouth'd hounds, The fox unkennell'd flies to covert grounds;

I lead where ftags through tangled thickets tread, And fhake the faplings with their branching head; I make the falcons wing their airy way, And foar to feize, or ftooping ftrike their prey; To fnare the fifh, I fix the luring bait; To wound the fowl, I load the gun with fate. 'Tis thus through change of exercise I range, And ftrength and pleasure rife from every change. Here, beauteous Health, for all the year remain, When the next comes, I'll charm thee thus aOh come, thou goddefs of my rural fong, [gain. And bring thy daughter, calm Content, along, Dame of the ruddy cheek and laughing eye, From whofe bright prefence clouds of forrow fly: For her I mow my walks, I plat my bowers, Clip my low hedges, and support my flowers; To welcome her, this fummer-feat I dreft, And here I court her when she comes to rest; When the from exercife to learned cafe Shall change again, and teach the change to please Now friends converfing my foft hours refine, And Tully's Tufculum revives in mine: Now to grave books I bid the mind retreat, And fuch as make me rather good than great; Or o'er the works of cafy fancy rove, Where flutes and innocence amufe the grove : The native bard, that on Sicilian plains First fung the lowly manners of the fwains; Or Maro's mufe, that in the fairest light Paints rural profpects and the charms of fight; Thefe foft amufements bring content along, And fancy, void of forrow, turns to fong.

Here, beauteous Health, for all the year re

main; [gain. When the next comes, I'll charm thee thus a

THE FLIES. AN ECLOGUE.

WHEN in the river cows for coolness ftand,
And theep for breezes feek the lofty land,
A youth, whom op taught that every tree,
Each bird and infect, fpoke as well as he,
Walk'd calmly mufing in a fhady way,
Where flowering hawthorns broke the funny ray,
And thus inftructs his moral pen to draw
A fcene that obvious in the field he faw.

Near a low ditch, where fhallow waters meet,
Which never learn'd to glide with liquid feet;
Whofe Naiads never prattle as they play,
But fereen'd with hedges flumber out the day,
There stands a flender fern's aspiring shade,
Whofe answering branches regularly laid
Put forth their anfwering boughs, and proudly rife
Three ftories upward, in the nether skies.

For fhelter here, to fhun the noon-day heat, An airy nation of the flies retreat; Some in soft airs their filken pinions ply, And fome from bough to bough delighted fly ; Some rife, and circling light to perch again; A pleasing murmur hums along the plain. So, when a ftage invites to pageant fhews, (If great and small are like) appear the beaux; In boxes fome with fpruce pretenfion fit, Some change from feat to feat within the pit, Some roam the fcenes, or turning ceafe to roam; Preluding mufic fills the lofty dome.

When thus a fly (if what a fly can say Deferves attention) rais'd the rural lay. Where late Amintor made a nymph a bride, Joyful I flew by young Favonia's fide, Who, mindlefs of the feafting, went to fip The balmy pleasure of the fhepherd's lip, I faw the wanton, where I ftoop'd to fup, And half refolv'd to drown me in a cup; Till, brush'd by carelefs hands, the foar'd above: Ceafe, beauty, ceafe to vex a tender love.

Thus ends the youth, the buzzing meadow rung, And thus the rival of his mufic fung.

When fans by thousands fhone on orbs of dew, I wafted foft with Zephyretta flew; Saw the clean pale, and fought the milky cheer, While little Daphne feiz'd my roving dear. Wretch that I was! I might have warn'd the dame, Yet fate indulging as the danger came. But the kind huntress left her free to foar: Ah! guard, ye lovers, guard a mistress more. Thus from the fern, whose high projecting arms The fleeting nation bent with dusky fwarms, The fwains their love in cafy mufic breathe, When tongues and tumult fun the field beneath : Black ants in teams come darkening all the road, Some call to march, and some to lift the load ; They ftrain, they labour with inceffant pains, Prefs'd by the cumbrous weight of fingle grains. The flies ftruck filent gaze with wonder down: The bufy burghers reach their earthy town; Where lay the burthens of a wintery store, And thence unwearied part in search of more. Yet one grave fage a moment's space attends, And the finall city's loftiest point afcends,

Wipes the falt dew that trickles down his face,
And thus harangues them with the gravest grace.
Ye foolish nurflings of the fummer air,
These gentle tunes and whining fongs forbear;
Your trees and whispering breeze, your grove and
love,

Your Cupid's quiver, and his mother's dove;
Let bards to bufinefs bend their vigorous wing,
And fing but feldom, if they love to fing:
Elfe, when the flowerets of the feafon fail,
And this your ferny fhade forfakes the vale,
Though one would fave you, not one grain of
wheat,

Should pay fuch fongfters idling at my gate.

He ceas'd: the flies, incorrigibly vain, Heard the mayor's fpeech, and fell to fing again.

AN ELEGY TO AN OLD BEAUTY.

In vain, poor nymph, to please our youthful fight
You fleep in cream and frontlets all the night,
Your face with patches foil, with paint repair,
Drefs with gay gowns, and fhade with foreign hair..
If truth, in fpite of manners, must be told,
Why really fifty-five is fomething old.

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Once you were young; or one, whofe life's fo
She might have borne my mother, tells me wrong.
And once, fince envy's dead before you die,
The women own, you play'd a sparkling eye,
Taught the light foot a modifh little trip,
And pouted with the prettieft purple lip.

To fome new charmer are the rofes fled,
Which blew, to damask all thy cheek with red;
Youth calls the graces there to fix their reign,
And airs by thoufands fill their casy train.
So parting summer bids her flowery prime
Attend the fun to dress fome foreign clime,
While withering seasons in fucceffion, here,
Strip the gay gardens, and deform the year.

But thon, fince nature bids, the world refign,
'Tis now thy daughter's daughter's time to shine.
With more addrels, or fuch as pleafes more,
She runs her female exercises o'er,
Unfurls or closes, raps or turns the fan,
And fmiles, or blufhes at the creature man.
With quicker life, as gilded coaches pass,
In fideling courtesy she drops the glafs.
With better ftrength, on vifit-days the bears
To mount her fifty flights of ample stairs.
Her mein, her fhape, her temper, eyes, and tongue,
Are fure to conquer-for the rogue is young :
And all that's madly wild, or oddly gay,
We call it only pretty Fanny's way.

Let time, that makes you homely, make you fage, The fphere of wildom is the fphere of age.

'Tis true, when beauty dawns with early fire, And hears the flattering tongues of soft delire, If not from virtue, from its graveft ways The foul with pleafing avocation ftrays. But beauty gone, 'tis easier to be wife; As harpers better by the lofs of eyes. Henceforth retire, reduce your roving airs, Haunt lefs the plays, and more the public prayers,

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Reject the Mechlin head, and gold brocade,
Go pray, in fober Norwich crape array'd.
Thy pendant diamonds let thy Fanny take-
(Their trembling luftre fhows how much you
fhake);

Or bid her wear thy necklace row'd with pearl,
You'll find your Fanny an obedient girl.
So for the rest, with lefs incumbrance hung,
You walk through life, unmingled with the
young,

And view the fhade and fubftance as you pafs,
With joint endeavour trifling at the glafs,
Or folly dreft, and rambling all her days,
To meet her counterpart, and grow by praise :
Yet ftill fedate yourself, and gravely plain,
You neither fret, nor envy at the vain.
'Twas thus, if man with woman we compare,
The wife Athenian croft a glittering fair,
Unmov'd by tongue and fights, he walk'd the place,
Through tape, toys, tinsel, gimp, perfume, and
lace;

Then bends from Mar's hill his awful eyes,
And-What a World I never want? he cries:
But cries unheard: for folly will be free.
So parts the buzzing gaudy crowd and he :
As careless he for them, as they for him:

By thee my Ovid wounded lies;
By thee my Lesbia's fparrow dies;
Thy rabid teeth have half destroy'd
The work of love in Biddy Floyd,
They rent Belinda's locks away,
And spoil'd the blouzelind of Gay.
For all, for every fingle deed,
Relentless justice bids thee bleed.
Then fall a victim to the nine,
Myself the priest, my desk the shrine.
Bring Homer, Virgil, Taffo near,
To pile a facred altar here;
Hold, boy, thy hand out-runs thy wit,
You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ g
You reach'd me Philips' ruftic strain ;
Pray take your mortal bards again.

Come, bind the victim,-there he lies, And here between his numerous eyes This venerable duft I lay,

From manufcripts just swept away.

The goblet in my hand I take, (For the libation's yet to make) A health to poets! all their days May they have bread, as well as praise; Senfe may they feek, and lefs engage In papers fill'd with party-rage

He wrapt in wisdom, aud they whirl'd by But if their riches fpoil their vein, whim.

THE BOOK-WORM.

COME hither, boy, we'll hunt to-day,
'The book-worm, ravening beast of prey,
Produc'd by parent earth, at odds,
As fame reports it, with the gods.
Him frantic hunger wildly drives
Against a thousand authors lives:
Through all the fields of wit he flies ;
Dreadful his head with clustering eyes,
With horns without, and tufks within,
And scales to ferve him for a skin.
Obferve him nearly, left he climb
To wound the bards of ancient time,
Or down the vale of fancy go
To tear fonie modern wretch below.
On every corner fix thine eye,
Or ten to one he flips thee by.
See where his teeth a paffage eat :
We'll roufe him from the deep retreat.
But who the fhelter's forc'd to give?
i facred Virgil, as I live!
From leaf to leaf, from fong to fong,
He draws the tadpole form along,
He mounts the gilded edge before,
He's up, he feuds the cover o'cr,
He turns, he doubles, there he past,
And here we have him, caught at last.
Infatiate brute, whofe teeth abuse
The sweetest fervants of the mufe.
(Nay never offer to deny,

I took thee in the fact to fly.)
His rofts nipt in every page,

My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage;

Ye mufes, make them poor again.

Now bring the weapon, yonder blade,
With which my tuneful pens are made.
I ftrike the fcales that arm thee round,
And twice and thrice I print the wound;
The facred altar floats with red,
And now he dies, and now he's dead.

How like the son of Jove I stand,
This Hydra ftretch'd beneath my hand!
Lay bare the monster's entrails here,
To fee what dangers threat the year:
Ye gods! what fonnets on a wench!
What lean tranflations out of French!
"Tis plain, this lobe is fo unfound,
S

prints, before the months go round. But hold, before I close the scene, The facred altar fhould be clean. Oh had 1 Skadwell's fecond bays, Or, Tate! thy pert and humble lays! (Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow I never mifs'd your works till now) I'd tear the leaves to wipe the thrine, (That only way you pleafe the nine) But fince I chance to want thefe two, I'll make the fongs of Durfey do.

Rent from the corps, on yonder pin,
I hang the fcales that brac'd it in;
I hang my ftudious morning-gown,
And write my own infcription down.

"This trophy from the Python won, "This robe, in which the deed was done, "Thefe, Parnell, glorying in the feat, "Hung on these fhelves, the mufes feat. "Here ignorance and hunger found

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Large realms of wit to ravage round: "Here ignorance and hunger fell: "Two foes in one I sent to hell. "Ye poets, who my labours fee, "Come share the triumph all with me!

Ye critics! born to vex the mufe, Go mourn the grand ally you lose."

AN ALLEGORY ON MAN.

A THOUGHTFUL being. long and spare,
Our race of mortals call him Care
(Were Homer living, well he knew'
What name the god have call'd him too),
With fine mechanic genius wrought,
And lov'd to work, though no one bought.
This being, by a model bred
In Jove's eternal sable head,
Contriv'd a shape empower'd to breathe,
And be the worldling here beneath.

The man rose staring, like a ftake;
Wondering to fee himself awake!
Then look'd fo wise, before he knew
The business he was made to do;
That, pleas'd to fee with what a grace
He gravely fhew'd his forward face,
Jove talk'd of breeding him on high,
An under-fomething of the fky.

But ere he gave the mighty nod,
Which ever binds a poet's god
(For which his curls ambrofial shake,
And mother earth's oblig'd to quake),
He faw old mother earth arife,
She stood confefs'd before his eyes;
But not with what we read fhe wore,
A castle for a crown before,

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Nor with long streets and longer roads
Dangling behind her, like commodes:
As yet with wreaths alone fhe dreft,
And trail'd a landskip-painted vest.
Then thrice fhe rais'd, as Ovid faid,
And thrice fhe bow'd her weighty head.
Her honours made, great Jove, fhe cry'd;
'This thing was fashion'd from my fide:
His hands, his heart, his head, are mine;
'Then what haft thou to call him thine?

Nay rather alk, the monarch faid,
What boots his hand, his heart, his head,
Were what I gave remov'd away?
'Thy part's an idle fhape of clay.

Halves, more than halves! cry'd honest Care,
Your pleas would make your titles fair,
You claim the body, you the foul,

But I who join'd them, claim the whole.
Thus with the gods debate began,
On fuch a trivial cause, as man.
And can celestial tempers rage?
Quoth Virgil, in a later age.

As thus they wrangled, Time came by;
(There's none that paint him fuch as I,
For what the fabling ancients fung
Makes Saturn old, when Time was young.)
As yet his winters had not shed
Their filver honours on his head;
He just had got his pinions free,
From his old fire, Eternity.
A ferpent girdled round he wore,
he tail within the mouth, before;
VOL. VII.

By which our almanacks are clear
That learned Egypt meant the year.
A ftaff he carry'd, where on high
A glass was fix'd to measure by,
As amber boxes made a show
For heads of canes an age ago.
His veft, for day and night, was py'd;
A bending fickle arm'd his fide;
And spring's new months his train adorn!
The other feafons were unborn.

Known by the gods, as near he draws,
They make him umpire of the cause.
O'er a low trunk his arm he laid,
Where fince his hours a dial made;
Then leaning heard the nice debate,
And thus pronounc'd the words of fate :
Since body from the parent earth,
And foul from Jove receiv'd a birth,
Return they where they firft began,
But fince their union makes the man,
Till Jove and earth fhall part these two,
To Care who join'd them, man is due.

He faid, and fprung with fwift career To trace a circle for the year; Where ever since the feafons wheel, And tread on one another's heel.

'Tis well, faid Jove, and for confent
Thund'ring he shook the firmament.
Our umpire Time fhall have his way,
With care I let the creature ftay:
Let business vex him, avarice blind,
Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind,
Let error act, opinion speak,

And want afflict, and ficknefs break,
And anger burn, dejection chill,
And joy diftract, and forrow kill.

Till, arm'd by Care, and taught to mow,
Time draws the long deftructive blow;
And wasted man, whofe quick decay
Comes hurrying on before his day,
Shall only find by this decree,

The foul flies fooner back to me.

AN

IMITATION OF SOME FRENCH VERSES,

RELENTLESS time! deftroying power,
Whom tone and brass obey,
Who giv'ft to every flying hour
To work fome new decay;

Unheard, unheeded, and unfeen, Thy fecret faps prevail, And ruin man, a nice machine, By nature form'd to fail.

My change arrives; the change I meet, Before I thought it nigh.

My fpring, my years of pleafure fleet, And all their beauties die,

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In age I fearch, and only find
A poor unfruitful gain,
Grave wisdom ftalking flow behind,
Opprefs'd with loads of pain.

My ignorance could once beguile,
And fancy'd joys inspire;
My errors cherifh'd hope to fmile
On newly born defire.

But now experience fhews, the blifs
For which I fondly fought
Not worth the long impatient wifh,
And ardour of the thought.

My youth met fortune fair array'd,
In all her pomp fhe fhone,
And might perhaps have well effsay'd
To make her gifts my own:

But when I faw the bleffings fhower On fome unworthy mind,

I left the chace, and own'd the power Was juftly painted blind.

I pass'd the glories which adorn

The fplendid courts of kings,

And while the perfons mov'd my scorn, I rofe to fcorn the things.

My manhood felt a vigorous fire

By love encreas'd the more;

But years with coming years conspire To break the chains I wore.

In weakness safe, the fex I fee

With idle luftre fhine;

For what are all their joys to me, Which cannot now be mine?

But hold-I feel my gout decrease,

My troubles laid to rest,

And truths which would disturb my peace Are painful truths at best.

Vainly the time I have to roll

In fad reflection flies;

Ye fondling paffions of my foul ! Ye fweet deceits! arife.

I wifely change the scene within,
To things that us'd to please;
In pain, philofophy is fpleen,
In health, 'tis only ease.

A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH.

Br the blue taper's trembling light,
No more I waste the wakeful night,
Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the fages o'er :
Their books from wifdom widely stray,
Or point at best the longest way.

I'll feek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom's furely taught below.

How deep yon azure dyes the sky!
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie,
While through their ranks in filver pride
The nether crefcent feems to glide.
The flumbering breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is fmooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the fpangled fhow
Defcends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds, which on the right aspire.
In dimnefs from the view retire :
The left prefents a place of
graves,
Whofe wall the filent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful fight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass with melancholy ftate
By all the folemn heaps of fate,
And think, as foftly-fad you tread
Above the venerable dead,
Time was, like thee, they life poffeft,
And time shall be, that thou sbalt reft.

Those with bending ofier bound, That nameless have the crumbled ground, Quick to the glancing thought disclose, Where toil and poverty repofe.

The flat fmooth ftones that bear a name, The chiffel's flender help to fame (Which ere our fet of friends decay Their frequent fteps may wear away); A middle race of mortals own, Men, half ambitious, all unknown.

The marble tombs that rife on high, ·
Whofe dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whofe pillars fwell with fculptur'd flones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,

These, all the poor remains of state,
Adorn the rich, or praife the great

Who, while on earth in fame they live,
Are fenfeless of the fame they give.

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Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades, The bursting earth unveils the shades! All flow, and wan, and wrap'd with shrouds, They rife in vifionary crowds, And all with fober accent cry, Think, mortal, what it is to die.

Now from yon black and funeral yew, That bathes the charnel-houfe with dew, Methinks, I hear a voice begin;

(Ye ravens, ceafe your croaking din,

Ye tolling clocks, no time refound

O'er the long lake and midnight ground!)

It fends a peal of hollow groans,

Thus fpeaking from among the bones.

When men my scythe and darts fupply,

How great a king of fears am I !

They view me like the laft of things;

They make, and then they draw, my strings,
Fools! if you lefs provok'd your fears,
No more my spectre form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever país to God:
A port of calms, a state to ease
From the rough rage of fwelling feas.

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Why then thy flowing fable stoles, Deep pendant cyprefs, mourning poles,

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