A N IMITATION of SPENSER. A I. Well known Vase of fovraign Ufe I fing, Pleafing to Young and Old, and Jordan hight. The lovely Queen, and eke the haughty King Snatch up this Veffel in the murky Night: Ne lives there poor, ne lives there wealthy Wight, But ufes it in mantle brown or green; Sometimes it ftands array'd in gloffy white; And eft in mighty Dortours may be seen Of China's fragile earth, with azure Flowrets sheen. II. The Virgin comely as the dewy Rose, Here gently sheds the foftly-whifp'ring Rill; Here frouzy Housewives clear their loaded Reins; The Beef-fed Juftice, who fat Ale doth fwill, Grafps the round-handled Jar, and tries, and strains, While flowly dribbling down the fcanty Water drains. The III. The Dame of Fraunce shall without Shame convey For Virtue's comely Tints their Cheeks adorn; Thus o'er the diftant Hillocks you may trace The purple Beamings of the infant Morn: Sweet are our blooming Maids the fweeteft Crea tures born. IV. None but their Hufbands or their Lovers true They trust with Management of their Affairs ; Nor even these their Privacy may view, When the foft Beavies feek the Bow'r by Pairs : Then from the Sight accoy'd, like tim❜rous Hares, From Mate or Bellamour alike they fly; Think not, good Swain, that these are scornful Airs, Think not for Hate they fhun thine am'rous Eye, Soon fhall the Fair Return, nor done thee, Youth, to V. While Belgic frows across a Charcoal Stove (Replenish'd like the Vestal's lafting Fire) (dye. Bren for whole Years, and fcorch the Parts of Love, No longer Parts that can delight infpire, Erft Erft Cave of Blifs, now monumental Pyre; Fair Venus' mystic Bow'r, Dan Cupid's feather'd Seat. So may your Hours foft-fliding steal away, your In foft Breasts the Fruits of Joyance grow. Brave be the Youth from whom your Bofoms glow, Ne other Joy but you the faithful Striplings know. An An Excellent W1 BALL A D. To the Tune of Chevy-Chace. Hilome there dwelt near Buckingham, At a known Place, hight Whaddon Chace, A Druid's facred Form he bore, A Stick torn from that hallow'd Tree, And tell his Tales with leering Glee, High on a Hill his Manfion ftood, But gloomy dark within; Here mangled Books, as Bones and Blood Crude, undigested, half-devour'd, On groaning Shelves they're thrown ; Such Manufcripts no Eye could read, Nor Hand write-but his own. No No Prophet He, like Sydrophel, A walking Alm'nack he appears, His Boots were made of that Cow's Hide, Who firft receiv'd the precious Boon, By Spelman, Cambden, Dugdale, worn, Hearne, ftrutted in them for a while; Brown claim'd and feiz'd the precious Spoil, His Car himself he did provide, To ftand in double Stead; That it fhould carry him alive, And bury him when dead. By |