Or if by Chance their Heads they shook, Of poor St. Peter's* num'rous Dead, Pow'r Whate'er the Caufe, fome angry His murd'rous Mates affembled: Oh! as the mangling Crew appears, Sore Caufe, for ne'er in Grove of Oak Each Arm they maim'd, each Head they topt, To make the Dogs a Gibbet. So looks the poor difmember'd Tar, But fall'n in barb'rous Clutches; * St. Peter's Church, in the East, at Oxford. Oh! Oh! how the fad fucceeding Year, To fee each Tree once green and tall Our Hedge-rows turn'd to Stone. But we, bleft Minions, all our Days No Shade can now controul us: And fhould he chance to overheat us, EPIGRAM, ON AN OXFORD TOAST, L With fine Eyes, and a bad Voice. UCETTA's Charms our Hearts surprise She bears Jove's Lightning in her Eyes, But in her Voice his Thunder. A To the Tune of To you fair Ladies now at Land. Occafioned by a late Copy of Verses on Mifs BRICKENDEN's going to Newnham by Water; in which were the following Lines: "The lofty Trees of Newnham's pendent Wood, "To meet her feem to rufh into the Flood; Peep o'er their Fellows Heads to view the Fair "Whofe Name upon their wounded Barks they bear. 66 Reprefs your amorous Hafte; the lovely Maid "In Perfon deigns to cheer the gloomy Shade." WHILST THILST you my charming Anna reign, Whose Presence decks with Flowers the Plain, With Pride fwells Ifis' Stream; May I prefume you'll lend an Ear, To me, your humble Sonneteer? But left, my Fair, you think me cold, Cry pish, and call me rude; Or think that I dare be fo bold, My Paffion to intrude; - Fa, la. It is not for myself I fue, "Tis for fome Trees that die for you. Fa, la. Since late on Ifis' filver Flood Your fatal Form was feen, Some lucklefs Oaks of Newnham Wood, "Tis faid, that with a Look moft queer, Fa, la. Nay that they ruf'd into the Flood. Were e'er fuch am'rous Sticks of Wood?· Fa, la. How then can all your num'rous Band' When Hearts of Oak could not withstand A Face fo wond'rous fair? Since in your Breaft no Pity's found, Tho' Lovers hang, and Trees are drown'd.-Fa, la. In Pity to your Wit, restrain The Lightning of your Eyes; Since at each Glance upon the Plain, Some bleeding Foreft dies: If you proceed, my lovely Maid, You'll ruin our poetic Shade. Fa, la. Well Well might the Poet's am'rous Song Stile you the publick Care; Think what will good Lord Harcourt do, On a BEAUTY with ILL QUALITIES. Iftaken Nature here has join'd ΜΗ A beauteous Face and ugly Mind; In vain the faultlefs Features ftrike, So in rich Jars from China brought, |