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O how sudden the jessamine strove

With the lilac to render it gay!

Already it calls for my love,

To prune the wild branches away.

From the plains, from the woodlands and groves,
What strains of wild melody flow!
How the nightingales warble their loves

From thickets of roses tbat blow!
And when her bright form shall appear,
Each bird shall harmoniously join
In a concert so soft and so clear,

As she may not be fond to resign.
I have found out a gift for my fair;

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear,

She will say 't was a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd,

Who would rob a poor bird of its young: And I lov'd her the more when I heard

Such tenderness fall from her tongue.
I have heard her with sweetness unfold
How that pity was due to-a dove:
That it ever attended the bold;

And she call'd it the sister of love.
But her words such a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever she say,
Methinks I should love her the more.
Can a bosom so gentle remain

Unmov'd, when her Corydon sighs ?
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
These plains and this valley despise ?
Dear regions of silence and shade!

Soft scenes of contentment and ease? Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,

If aught, in her absence, could please. But where does my Phyllida stray?

And where are her grots and her bowers? Are the groves and the valleys as gay,

And the shepherds as gentle as ours? The groves may perhaps be as fair,

And the face of the valleys as fine; The swains may in manners compare, But their love is not equal to mine.

III. SOLICITUDE.

Way will you my passion reprove?
Why term it a folly to grieve?
Ere I show you the charms of my love,
She's fairer than you can believe,
With her mien she enamours the brave;
With her wit she engages the free;
With her modesty pleases the grave;
She is every way pleasing to me.
O you that have been of her train,
Come and join in my amorous lays;
I could lay down my life for the swain,

That will sing but a song in her praise.
When he sings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and listen the while;
Nay on him let not Phyllida frown;
-But I cannot allow her to smile.
For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favour with Phillis to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,

Might she ruin the peace of my mind!

In ringlets he dresses his hair,

And his crook is bestudded around;
And his pipe,-oh my Phillis, beware
Of a magic there is in the sound.
'Tis his with mock passion to glow,
'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold,
How her face is as bright as the snow,
And her bosom, be sure, is as cold.
How the nightingales labour the strain,
With the notes of his charmer to vie;
How they vary their accents in vain,

Repine at her triumphs, and die.
To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;
Then, suiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at Phillis's feet.
"O Phillis," he whispers, "more fair,
More sweet than the jessamine's flower!
What are pinks in a morn to compare?
What is eglantine after a shower?
"Then the lily no longer is white;

The rose is depriv'd of its bloom;
Then the violets die with despite,
And the woodbines give up their perfume."
Thus glide the soft numbers along,
And he fancies no shepherd his peer;
-Yet I never should envy the song,
Were not Phillis to lend it an ear.
Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,
So Phillis the trophy despise :
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,
So they shine not in Phillis's eyes.
The language that flows from the heart,
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue;
-Yet may she beware of his art,
Or sure I must envy the song.

IV. DISAPPOINTMENT.
YE shepherds, give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my sheep:
They have nothing to do but to stray;
I have nothing to do but to weep.
Yet do not my folly reprove;

She was fair-and my passion begun;
She smil'd-and I could not but love;
She is faithless-and I am undone.
Perhaps I was void of all thought:

Perhaps it was plain to foresee,
That a nymph so complete would be sought
By a swain more engaging than me.
Ah! love every hope can inspire;

It banishes wisdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.
She is faithless, and I am undone ;
Ye that witness the woes I endure,
Let reason instruct you to shun
What it cannot instruct you to cure.
Beware how you loiter in vain
Amid nymphs of a higher degree:
It is not for me to explain

How fair, and how fickle, they be.
Alas! from the day that we met,
What hope of an end to my woes?
When I cannot endure to forget
The glance that undid ny repose.

Yet time may diminish the pain :

The flower, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, In time may have comfort for me. The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,

The sound of a murmuring stream, The peace which from solitude flows,

Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High transports are shown to the sight,

But we're not to find them our own; Fate never bestow'd such delight,

As I with my Phillis had known.

O ye woods, spread your branches apace :
To your deepest recesses I fly;

I would hide with the beasts of the chase;
I would vanish from every eye.
Yet my reed shall resound through the grove
With the same sad complaint it begun;
How she smil'd-and I could not but love;
Was faithless-and I am undone !

LEVITIES;

OR

PIECES OF HUMOUR,

FLIRT AND PHIL;

A DECISION FOR THE LADIES.

A Wir, by learning well refin'd,
A beau, but of the rural kind,
To Sylvia made pretences;
They both profess'd an equal love;
Yet hop'd, by different means to move
Her judgment, or her senses.
Young sprightly Flirt, of blooming mien,
Watch'd the best minutes to be seen;

Went-when his glass advis'd him:
While meagre Phil of books inquir'd ;
A wight, for wit and parts admir'd;
And witty ladies priz'd him.
Sylvia had wit, had spirits too;
To hear the one, the other view,

Suspended held the scales:

Her wit, her youth too, claim'd its share, Let none the preference declare,

But turn up-heads or tails.

STANZAS

TO THE MEMORY OF AN AGREEABLE LADY, BURIED IN MARRIAGE TO A PERSON UNDESERVING HER.

'T was always held, and ever will, By sage mankind, discreeter T'anticipate a lesser ill,

Than undergo a greater.

When mortals dread diseases, pain,
And languishing conditions;
Who don't the lesser ills sustain
Of physic and physicians ?
Rather than lose his whole estate,
He that but little wise is,

Full gladly pays four parts in eight
To taxes and excises.

Our merchants Spain has near andone
For lost ships not requiting:
This bears our noble king to shun
The loss of blood-in fighting!
With numerous ills, in single life,

The bachelor's attended :
Such to avoid, he takes a wife-

And much the case is mended!
Poor Gratia in her twentieth year,
Foreseeing future woe,

Chose to attend a monkey here,
Before an ape below.

COLEMIRA,

A CULINARY ECLOGUE.

Nec tantum Veneris, quantum studiosa culinæ. NICHT'S sable clouds bad half the globe o'erspread, And silence reign'd, and folks were gone to bed: When Love, which gentle sleep can ne'er inspire, Had seated Damon by the kitchen fire.

Pensive he lay, extended on the ground;
The little lares kept their vigils round;
The fawning cats compassionate his case,
And purr around, and gently lick his face.
To all his plaints the sleeping curs reply,
And with hoarse snorings imitate a sigh.
Such gloomy scenes with lovers' minds agree,
And solitude to them is best society.
"Could I," (he cried) "

grace

express, how bright a

Adorns thy morning hands, and well-wash'd face;
Thou wouldst, Colemira, grant what I implore,
And yield me love, or wash thy face no more.

"Ah! who can see, and seeing not admire,
Whene'er she sets the pot upon the fire!
Her hands outshine the fire, and redder things;
Her eyes are blacker than the pots she brings.

"But sure no chamber-damsel can compare,
When in meridian lustre shines my fair,
When warin'd with dinner's toil, in pearly rills
Adown her goodly check the sweat distills.

"Oh! how I long, how ardently desire, To view those rosy fingers strike the lyre! For late, when bees to change their climes began, How did I see them thrum the frying-pan!

"With her! I should not envy George his queen, Though she in royal grandeur deck'd be seen : Whilst rags, just sever'd from my fair-one's gown, In russet pomp and greasy pride hang down.

"Ah how it does my drooping heart rejoice, When in the hall I hear thy mellow voice! How would that voice exceed the village bell! Would that but sing, I like thee passing well!' "When from the hearth she bade the pointers go, How soft, how casy did her accents flow! 'Get out,' she cried: 'when strangers come to sup, One ne'er can raise those snoring devils up.'

"Then, full of wrath, she kick'd each lazy brute, Alas! I envied even that salute;

'T was sure misplac'd-Shock said, or seem'd to say, He had as lief I had the kick as they.

"If she the mystic bellows take in hand,
Who like the fair can that machine command?
O mayst thou ne'er by Eolus be seen,
For he would sure demand thee for his queen.

LEVITIES.

"But should the flame this rougher aid refuse; And only gentler med'cines be of use;

With full-brown cheeks she ends the doubtful strife, Foments the infant flame, and puffs it into life.

"Such arts as these, exalt the drooping fire, But in my breast a fiercer flame inspire: I burn! I burn! O! give thy puffing o'er; And swell thy cheeks, and pout thy lips, no more! "With all her haughty looks, the time I've seen, When this proud damsel has more humble been, When with nice airs she hoist the pan-cake round, And dropp'd it, hapless fair! upon the ground. "Look, with what charming grace, what winning

tricks,

The artful charmer rubs the candlesticks!
So bright she makes the candlesticks she handles,
Oft have I said,-there were no need of candles.

"But thou, my fair! who never wouldst approve, Or hear the tender story of my love;

Or mind, how burns my raging breast,-a buttonPerhaps art dreaming of-a breast of mutton."

Thus said, and wept the sad desponding swain,
Revealing to the sable walls his pain:
But nymphs are free with those they should deny ;
To those they love, more exquisitely coy.

Now chirping crickets raise their tinkling voice,
The lambent flames in languid streams arise,
And smoke in azure folds evaporates and dies.

THE RAPE OF THE TRAP.
A BALLAD, 1737.

'TWAS in a land of learning,
The Muses' favourite city,

Such pranks of late

Were play'd by a rat,

As tempt one to be witty.

All in a college study,

Where books were in great plenty ; This rat would devour

More sense in an hour,

Than I could write in twenty.

Corporeal food, 'tis granted,

Serves vermin less refin'd, sir;

But this, a rat of taste,

All other rats surpass'd,

And he prey'd on the food of the mind, sir.

His breakfast, half the morning,

He constantly attended:

And when the bell rung

For evening song,

His dinner scarce was ended.

He spar'd not e'en heroics,
On which we poets pride us;
And wou'd make no more
Of king Arthurs', by the score,
Than all the world beside does.

In books of geo-graphy,

He made the maps to flutter:

A river or a sea

Was to him a dish of tea;

And a kingdom, bread and butter.

By Blackmore.

But if some mawkish potion

Might chance to over-dose him, To check its rage,

He took a page

Of logic-to compose him.

A trap, in haste and anger,

Was bought, you need not doubt on't:
And such was the gin,
Were a lion once got in,

He could not, I think, get out on't.
With cheese, not books, 't was baited,
The fact I'll not belye it,
Since none-I'll tell you that,
Whether scholar or rat,

Mind books, when he has other diet, But more of trap and bait, sir,

Why should I sing, or either? Since the rat, who knew the sleight, Came in the dead of night,

And dragg'd them away together. Both trap and bait were vanish'd Through a fracture in the flooring : Which, though so trim

It now may seem,

Had then-a dozen or more in. Then answer this, ye sages,

Nor deem a man to wrong ye, Had the rat which thus did seize on The trap, less claim to reason,

Than many a scull among ye? Dan Prior's mice, I own it,

Were vermin of condition : But this rat, who merely learn'd What rats alone concern'd,

Was the greater politician. That England 's topsy-turvy,

Is clear from these mishaps, sir;
Since traps; we may determine,
Will no longer take our vermin,
But vermin2 take our traps, sir!
Let sophs, by rats infested,

Then trust in cats to catch 'em;
Lest they grow as learn'd as we,
In our studies; where, d' ye see,

No mortal sits to watch 'em.
Good luck betide our captains!
Good luck betide our cats, sir!
And grant that the one

May quell the Spanish Don,

And the other destroy our rats, sir!

ON CERTAIN PASTORALS. So rude and tuneless are thy lays, The weary audience vow,

'Tis not th' Arcadian swain that sings, But 't is his herds that low.

ON MR. C.

301

OF KIDDERMINSTER'S

POETRY.

THY verses, friend, are Kidderminster 3 stuff,
And I must own you 've measur'd out enough.

2 Written at the time of the Spanish depredations. 3 Famous for a coarse woollen manufacture.

TO THE VIRTUOSOS.
HAIL, curious wights to whom so fair
The form of mortal flies is !
Who deem those grubs beyond compare,
Which common sense despises.
Whether,o'er hill, morass, or mound,
You make your sportsman sallies;
Or that your prey in gardens found
Is urg'd through walks and alleys:
Yet, in the fury of the chase,

No slope could e'er retard you;
Blest if one fly repay the race,

Or painted wings reward you.
Fierce as Camilla o'er the plain

Pursued the glittering stranger;
Still ey'd the purple's pleasing stain,
And knew not fear nor danger.
"Tis you dispense the favourite meat
To Nature's filmy people;

Know what conserves they choose to eat,
And what liqueurs to tipple.
And if her brood of insects dies,
You sage assistance lend her;
Can stoop to pimp for amorous flies,
And help them to engender.

'Tis you protect their pregnant hour;
And when the birth 's at hand,
Exerting your obstetric power,
Prevent a mothless land.

Yet oh! howe'er your towering view
Above gross objects rises,
Whate'er refinements you pursue,
Hear what a friend advises:

A friend, who, weigh'd with yours, must prize
Domitian's idle passion;

That wrought the death of teasing flies,

But ne'er their propagation..

Let Flavia's eyes more deeply warm,
Nor thus your hearts determine,
To slight dame Nature's fairest form,
And sigh for Nature's vermin.
And speak with some respect of beaux,
Nor more as triflers treat 'em:
Tis better learn to save one's clothes,
Than cherish moths, that eat 'em.

THE EXTENT OF COOKERY.
Aliusque et idem.

WHEN Tom to Cambridge first was sent,
A plain brown bob he wore;

Read much, and look'd as though he meant
To be a fop no more.

See him to Lincoln's Inn repair,

His resolution flag;

He cherishes a length of hair,

And tucks it in a bag.

Nor Coke nor Salkeld he regards,
But gets into the house,

And soon a judge's rank rewards
His pliant votes and bows.

Adien, ye bols! ye bags, give place!
Full bottoms cone instead!
Good Lord! to see the various ways
Of dressing-a calf's head.

THE PROGRESS of ADVICE,

A COMMON CASE.

Suade, nam certum est.

SAYS Richard to Thomas (and seem'd half afraid), "I am thinking to marry thy mistress's maid: Now, because Mrs. Lucy to thee is well known, I will do 't if thou bidst me, or let it alone. "Nay don't make a jest on't; 't is no jest to me; For 'faith I'm in earnest, so pr'ythee be free.

I have no fault to find with the girl since I knew her, But I'd have thy advice, ere I tie myself to her." Said Thomas to Richard, "To speak my opinion, There is not such a bitch in king George's dominion, And I firmly believe, if thou knew'st her as I do, Thou wouldst choose out a whipping-post, first to be tied to.

"She's peevish, she's thievish, she's ugly, she's old, And a liar, and a fool, and a slut, and a scold." Next day Richard hasten'd to church and was wed, And ere night had inform'd her what Thomas had said.

A BALLAD.

Trahit sua quemque voluptas.

FROM Lincoln to London rode forth our young squire,

To bring down a wife, whom the swains might admire :

But, in spite of whatever the mortal could say,
The goddess objected the length of the way!

To give up the opera, the park, and the ball,
For to view the stag's horns in an old country-hall;
To have neither China nor India to see!
Nor a laceman to plague in a morning-not she!
To forsake the dear play-house, Quin, Garrick, and

Clive,

Who by dint of mere humour had kept her alive; To forgo the full box for his lonesome abode,

O Heavens! she should faint, she should die on the road:

To forgo the gay fashions and gestures of France,
And leave dear Auguste in the midst of the dance,
And Harlequin too!-'t was in vain to require it;
And she wonder'd how folks had the face to desire it.
She might yield to resign the sweet singers of
Ruckholt,

Where the citizen-matron seduces her cuckold;
But Ranelagh soon would her footsteps recall, [hall.
And the music, the lamps, and the glare of Vaux-
To be sure she could breathe no where else but in
town,
[clown;
Thus she talk'd like a wit, and he look'd like a
But the while honest Harry despair'd to succeed,
A coach with a coronet trail'd her to Tweed.

SLENDER'S GHOST.
(Vide Shakespear.)

BENEATH a church-yard yew,

Decay'd and worn with age,

At dusk of eve methought I spied
Poor Slender's ghost, that whimpering cried,
O sweet, O sweet Anne Page!

Ye gentle bards, give ear!

Who talk of amorous rage,
Who spoil the lily, rob the rose,

Come learn of me to weep your woes:
O sweet, O sweet Anne Page!
Why should such labour'd strains
Your formal Muse engage?

I never dream'd of flame or dart,

That fir'd my breast or pierc'd my heart,
But sigh'd, O sweet Anne Page!
And you, whose love-sick minds

No med'cine can assuage!
Accuse the leech's art no more,
But learn of Slender to deplore;

O sweet, O sweet Anne Page! And ye, whose souls are held

Like linnets in a cage!

Who talk of fetters, links and chains,
Attend and imitate my strains:

O sweet, O sweet Anne Page!

And you who boast or grieve,

What horrid wars we wage!

Of wounds receiv'd from many an eye; Yet mean as I do, when I sigh,

O sweet, O sweet Anne Page! Hence every fond conceit

Of shepherd or of sage;

'T is Slender's voice, 'tis Slender's way Expresses all you have to say—,

O sweet, O sweet Anne Page!

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I ASK'D a friend amidst the throng,
Whose coach it was that trail'd along:
"The gilded coach there-don't ye mind?
That with the footmen stuck behind."

"O sir!" says he, "what! ha'n't you seen it? 'Tis Damon's coach, and Damon in it. "T is odd, methinks, you have forgot Your friend, your neighbour, and—what not! Your old acquaintance Damon !"—" True; But 'faith his equipage is new.

"Bless me," said 1, "where can it end? What madness has possess'd my friend? Four powder'd slaves, and those the tallest, Their stomachs doubtless not the smallest!

Can Damon's revenue maintain,

In lace and food, so large a train? I know his land-each inch of ground'Tis not a mile to walk it roundIf Damon's whole estate can bear To keep his lad and one-horse chair, I own 'tis past my comprehension." "Yes, sir, but Damon has a pension."

Thus does false Ambition rule us, Thus Pomp delude, and Folly fool us; To keep a race of flickering knaves, He grows himself the worst of slaves.

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