Plate XVII.

Published as the Act directs by Harrison & C. April 1,1782.

Page 403. line 22.

Thither the nymph directs the monarch's way,
He treads her footsteps, joyful to obey.

There, fir'd with paffion, clasp'd her to his breast,
And thus the transport of his foul confefs'd.

• Delightful beauty! deck'd with ev'ry charm

High Fancy paints, or glowing Love can form! 'I figh, I gaze, I tremble, I adore!

• Such lovely looks ne'er bless'd my fight before!
Here, under covert of th' embow'ring fhade,.
• For Love's delights and tender transports made,
• No bufy eye our raptures to detect,

No envious tongue to cenfure or direct;
Here yield to love, and tenderly employ

• The filent season in extatick joy!'

With arms enclos'd, his treasure to retain,
He figh'd and woo'd, but woo'd and figh'd in vain :
She rush'd indignant from his fond embrace,
While rage with blushes paints her virgin face;
Yet ftill he fues with fuppliant hands and eyes,
While fhe to magick charms for vengeance flies.
A limpid fountain murmur'd thro' the cave;
She fill'd her palm with the translucent wave,
And fprinkling, cried, Receive, falfe man, in time,
The just reward of thy detefted crime.
Thy changeful fex in perfidy delight,
Defpife perfection, and fair virtue flight;

Falfe, fickle, base, tyrannick, and unkind,

• Whose hearts, nor vows can chain, nor honour bind; Mad to poffefs, by paffion blindly led,

And then as mad to stain the nuptial bed: • Whose roving fouls no excellence, no age, No form, no rank, no beauty, can engage; Slaves to the bad, to the deserving worst, • Sick of your twentieth love, as of your firft. The ftatues which this hallow'd grot adorn, Like thee were lovers, and like thee forfworn ; 3 E 2

• Whofe

1

• Whose faithlefs hearts no kindness could fecure,
• Nor for a day preserve their paffion pure;
• Whom neither love nor beauty could reftrain,
• Nor fear of endless infamy and pain.

In me behold thy queen; for know, with ease
• We deities affume each form we please ;
• Nor can the feeble ken of mortal eyes

• Perceive the goddess thro' the dark disguise.

• Now feel the force of Heav'n's avenging hand,
And here, inanimate, for ever stand.'

She spoke; amaz'd the lift'ning monarch stood,
And icy horror froze his ebbing blood;
Thick shades of death upon his eyelids creep,
And clos'd them fast in everlasting sleep;
No sense of life, no motion he retains,
But fix'd, a dreadful monument remains:
A ftatue now, and if reviv'd once more,
Would prove, no doubt, as perjur'd as before.

THE

MAN

OF TASTE.

BY THE REV. MR. BRAMSTON.

HOE'ER he be that to a taste aspires,

WH

Let him read this, and be what he defires. In men and manners vers'd, from life I write,

Not what was once, but what is now polite.

Those who of courtly France have made the tour,
Can fcarce our English aukwardness endure.

But honeft men who never were abroad,

Like England only, and it's taste applaud.
Strife ftill fubfifts, which yields the better goût;
Books or the world, the many or the few.

True taste to me is by this touchstone known,
That's always best that's nearest to my own.

Το

To fhew that my pretenfions are not vain,
My father was a play'r in Drury Lane;
Pears and pistachio-nuts my mother fold:
He a dramatick poet, fhe a fcold.

His tragick Muse could counteffes affright,
Her wit in boxes was my lord's delight.
No mercenary priest e'er join'd their hands,
Uncramp'd by wedlock's unpoetick bands.
Laws my Pindarick parents matter'd not,
So I was tragi-comically got.

My infant tears a fort of measure kept,
I fquall'd in diftichs, and in triplets wept.
No youth did I in education waste,
Happy in an hereditary taste.

Writing ne'er cramp'd the finews of my thumb,
Nor barbarous birch e'er brush'd my tender bum.
My guts ne'er fuffer'd from a college cook,
My name ne'er enter'd in a buttery-book.
Grammar in vain the fons of Priscian teach,
Good parts are better than eight parts of speech:
Since thefe declin'd, thofe undeclin'd they call,
I thank my stars, that I declin'd them all.
To Greek or Latin tongues without pretence,
I trust to Mother Wit and Father Sense.
Nature's my guide, all fciences I fcorn;
Pains I abhor, I was a poet born.

Yet is my goût for criticism fuch,

I've got fome French, and know a little Dutch.
Huge commentators grace my learned shelves,
Notes upon books out-do the books themselves.
Criticks, indeed, are valuable men,

But hyper-criticks are as good again.

Tho' Blackmore's works my foul with raptures fill,
With notes by Bentley, they'd be better ftill.
The Boghoufe-Mifcellany's well defign'd,
To ease the body, and improve the mind.

Swift's