There ruin'd by the Court he fells a Vote
To the next Burgess, as of old he bought;
Rubs down the Steeds which once his Chariot bore,
Or fweeps the Town, which once he ferv'd before.

But, by this roving Meteor led, I tend Beyond my Theme, forgetful of my Friend. Then take Advice; I preach not out of Time, When good Lord Middlesex is bent on Rhyme.

Their Humour check'd, or Inclination croft,
Sometimes the Friendship of the Great is loft.
Unless call'd out to wench, be fure comply,
Hunt when he hunts, and lay the Fathers by:
For your Reward you gain his Love, and dine

On the best Ven'fon and the beft French Wine:
Nor to Lord ****** make the Observation,
How the twelve Peers have answer'd their Creation,
Nor in your Wine or Wrath betray your Truft,
Be filent ftill, and obftinately juft:

Explore no Secrets, draw no Characters,
For Echo will repeat, and Walls have Ears:
Nor let a bufy Fool a Secret know,
A Secret gripes him till he lets it go:
Words are like Bullets, and we wish in vain,
When once discharg'd, to call them back again.

Defend, dear Spence, the honest and the civil,

But to cry up a Rascal

that's the Devil.

Who guards a good Man's Character, 'tis known,
At the fame Time protects and guards his own.
For as with Houfes, 'tis with Peoples Names,
A Shed may fet a Palace all on Flames;
The Fire neglected on the Cottage preys,
But mounts at last into a general Blaze.

"Tis a fine Thing, fome think, a Lord to know; I wish his Tradefmen could but think fo too.

He gives his Word

He gives his Honour

then all your Hopes are gone :

then you're quite undone. His and fome Women's Love the fame are found, You rafhly board a Firefhip and are drown'd.

Moft Folks fo partial to themselves are grown,
They hate a Temper diff'ring from their own,
The grave abhor the gay, the gay the fad,
And Formalifts pronounce the witty mad:
The Sot, who drinks fix Bottles in a Place,
Swears at the Flinchers who refuse their Glafs.
Would you not pass for an ill-natur'd Man,
Comply with ev'ry Humour that you can.

Pope

Pe will inftruct you how to pafs away
Your Time like him, and never lose a Day;
From Hopes or Fears your Quiet to defend,
To all Mankind as to yourself a Friend,
And facred from the World, retir'd, unknown,
To lead a Life with Morals like his own.

When to delicious Pimperne I retire,
What greater Blifs, my Spence, can I defire?
Contented there my eafy Hours I spend

With Maps, Globes, Books, my Bottle and a Friend.
There can I live upon my Income still,

E'en though the House should pass the Quakers Bill:
Yet to my Share should some good Prebend fall,
I think myself of Size to fill a Stall.

For Life or Wealth let Heav'n my Lot affign,

A firm and even Soul fhall ftill be mine.

ONC

The Fields, as with a purple Robe, adorn: Charwell, thy fedgy Banks, and glift'ring Streams All laugh and fing at mild Approach of Morn; Thro' the deep Groves I hear the chaunting Birds, And thro' the clover'd Vale the various-lowing Herds.

Up mounts the Mower from his lowly Thatch,
Well pleas'd the Progrefs of the Spring to mark,
The fragrant Breath of Breezes pure to catch,
And ftartle from her Couch the early Lark;

More genuine Pleasure fooths his tranquil Breast, Than high-thron'd Kings can boast, in eastern Glory dreft.

The penfive Poet through the Green-wood steals, Or treads the willow'd Marge of murm'ring Brook; Or climbs the fteep Afcent of airy Hills;

There fits him down beneath a branching Oak, Whence various Scenes, and Profpects wide below, Still teach his mufing Mind with Fancies high to glow.

But

But I nor with the Day awake to Bliss, (Inelegant to me fair Nature's Face,

A Blank the Beauty of the Morning is,

And Grief and Darkness all for Light and Grace ;) Nor bright the Sun, nor green the Meads appear, Nor Colour charms mine Eye, nor Melody mine Ear.

Me, void of Elegance and Manners mild,
With leaden Rod, ftern Discipline restrains;
Stiff Pedantry, of learned Pride the Child,

My roving Genius binds in Gothic Chains;
Nor can the cloyfter'd Muse expand her Wing,
Nor bid thefe twilight Roofs with her gay Carols ring.

On Mifs POLLY FOOTE's

Unexpected Arrival at OXFORD,

And Speedy Flight from thence, 1758.

L

ONG had fair Venus and her Son

Distress'd Minerva's darling Town
With Perfecution jealous;

Of Belles fo fcanty was her Choice,

She scarce could furnish Toasts for Boys,

Or Wives for humbler Fellows.