"Quoth the olive, Shall I leave my fatness and oil "For an unthankful office, a dignify'd toil ?
"Shall I leave, quoth the fig-tree, my fweetness and fruit, "To be envy'd or flav'd in fo vain a pursuit ?
"Thus rebuff'd and furpriz'd they apply'd to the vine: "He anfwer'd, Shall I leave my grapes and my wine, "(Wine the fovereign cordial of god and of man) "To be made or the tool or head of a clan ? "At laft, as it always falls out in a fcramble, "The mob gave the cry for a bramble! a bramble! "A bramble for ever! O! chance unexpected! "But bramble prevail'd, and was duly elected."
"O! ho! quoth the knight with a look most profound, "Now I fee there's fome good in good books to be found. "I wish I had read this fame bible before:
Of long miles at the leaft 'twould have fav'd us fourscore. * You, Plumb, with your olives and oil might have staid, ** And myself might have tarried my wines to unlade. "What have merchants to do from their business to ramble! "Your electioneer-errant should still be a bramble."
Thus ended at once the wife comment on Jotham, And our citizens' jaunt to the borough of Gotham.
This poem being a parody on the most remarkable paffages in the well-known epifle of Eloifa to Abelard, it was thought unneceffary to tranfcribe any lines from that poem, which is in the hands of all, and in the memory of moft readers.
N fcenes where HALLET's genius has combin'd
With BROMWICH to amuse and cheer the mind;
Amid this pomp of coft, this pride of art,
What mean thefe forrows in a female heart?
a Hallet and Bromwich were two eminent upholsterers. The former purchafed the celebrated seat of the duke of Chandos at Cannons, near Edgware, on the site of which he built himsel a house on his retiring from bufinefs.
Ye crowded walls, whofe well-enlighten'd round With lovers fighs and proteftations found;
Ye pictures, flatter'd by the learn'd and wife,
Ye glaffes, ogled by the brightest eyes;
Ye cards, which beauties by their touch have blest,
Ye chairs, which peers and minifters have preft;
How are ye chang'd! like you my fate I moan;
Like you, alas! neglected and alone-
For ah! to me alone no card is come,
I must not go abroad-and cannot be at home.
Bleft be that focial pow'r, the first who pair'd
The erring footman with th' unerring card!
'Twas VENUS fure; for by their faithful aid
The whisp'ring lover meets the blushing maid;
From folitude they give the cheerful call
To the choice fupper, or the fprightly ball:
Speed the foft fummons of the gay and fair,
From diftant Bloomsbury to Grosvenor's fquare
And bring the colonel to the tender hour,
From the parade, the fenate, or the Tower!
Ye records, patents of our worth and pride!
Our daily leffon, and our nightly guide!
Where'er ye ftand, difpos'd in proud array,
The vapours vanish, and the heart is gay;
But when no cards the chimney-glafs adorn,
The dismal void with heart-felt fhame we mourn;
Conscious neglect infpires a fullen gioom,
And brooding fadness fills the flighted room.
If but fome happier female's card I've feen,
I fwell with rage, or ficken, with the fpleen;
While artful, pride conceals the bursting tear,
With fome forc'd banter or affected fneer:
But now, grown defp'rate and beyond all hope,
I curfe the ball, the dutchefs, and the pope.
And, as the loads of borrow'd plate go by,
Tax it! ye greedy minifters, I cry.
How fhall I feel, when Sol refigns his light
To this proud fplendid goddess of the night!
Then when her aukward guests in measure beat
The crowded floors, which groan beneath their feet;
What thoughts in folitude fhall then poffefs
My tortur'd mind, or foften my distress!
Not all that envious malice can fuggeft
Will footh the tumults of my raging breast.
(For envy's loft amid the numerous train,
And hiffes with her hundred fnakes in vain)
Though with contempt each despicable foul
Singly I view,-I must revere the whole.
The Methodist in her peculiar lot,
The world forgetting, by the world forgot,
Though fingle happy, though alone is proud,
She thinks of heav'n (fhe thinks not of a crowd);
And if the ever feels a vap❜rish qualm,
Some b drop of boney, or fome holy balm,
b The title of a book of modern devotion.
The pious prophet of her fect diftils,
And her pure foul feraphic rapture fills;
Grace fhines around her with ferenest beams,
And whisp'ring WHITEFIELD prompts her golden dreams.
Far other dreams my fenfual foul employ,
While confcious nature tastes unholy joy:
I view the traces of experienc'd charms,
And clafp the regimentals in my arms.
To dream last night I clos'd my blubber'd eyes;
Ye foft allufions, dear deceirs, arise;
Alas! no more. Methinks I wand'ring go
To distant quarters 'midst the Highland snow;
To the dark inn where never wax-light burns,
Where in fmoak'd tap'ftry faded DIDO mourns;
To fome affembly in a country town,
And meet the colonel-in a parfon's gown-
I ftart-I fhriek-
O! could I on my waking brain impose,
Or but forget at least my present woes!
Forget 'em!-how!-each rattling coach fuggests
The loath'd ideas of the crowding guests.
To vifit-were to publish my difgrace;
To meet the spleen in every other place;
To join old maids and dowagers forlorn ;
And be at once their comfort and their scorn!
For once, to read with this distemper'd brain,
Ev'n modern novels lend their aid in vain.
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