SONG, by a Person of Quality..

F

Written in the Year 1733.

I.

LUTTERING spread thy purple Pinions,,

Gentle Cupid, o'er my Heart;

I a Slave in thy Dominions;

Nature must give way to Art..

II.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your Flocks,

See my weary Days confuming,
All beneath yon flowery Rocks.

III.

Thus the Cyprian Goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling Youth;
Him the Boar, in Silence creeping,

Gor'd with unrelenting Tooth.

IV.

Cynthia, tune harmonious Numbers;.

Fair Difcretion, string the Lyre; Sooth my ever-waking Slumbers: Bright Apollo, lend thy Choir.

V.

Gloomy Pluto, King of Terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine Chains,

Lead me to the Crystal Mirrors,
Watering foft Elysian Plains.

VI.

Mournful Cypress, verdant Willow,

Gilding my Aurelia's Brows,

Morpheus hovering o'er my Pillow,

Hear me pay my dying vows.

VII.

Melancholy smooth Mæander,

Swiftly purling in a Round,

On thy Margin Lovers wander,

With thy flowery Chaplets crown'd.

VIII.

Thus when Philomela drooping,
Softly feeks her filent Mate,
See the Bird of Juno ftooping;
Melody refigns to Fate.

I

ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT.

Know the thing that's most uncommon;
(Envy be filent, and attend!)

I know a reasonable Woman,

Handsome and witty, yet a Friend.

Not warp'd by Paffion, aw'd by Rumour;

Not grave through Pride, nor gay through Folly; An equal Mixture of Good-humour,

And fenfible soft Melancholy.

"Has she no faults then, (Envy says) Sir?"
Yes, she has one, I must aver:

When all the World confpires to praise her,
The Woman 's deaf, and does not hear.

VOL. XLVI.

Aa

On

On his GROTTO at Twickenham,

COMPOSED OF

MARBLE, SPARS, GEMS, ORES, and MINERALS.

HOU who shalt stop, where Thames' translucent

T

wave

Shines a broad Mirrour through the shadowy Cave;
Where lingering drops from mineral Roofs distil,
And pointed Crystals break the sparkling Rill,
Unpolish'd Gems no Ray on Pride bestow,

5

And latent Metals innocently glow;

Approach. Great NATURE studiously behold!
And eye the Mine without a wish for Gold.

Approach: but awful! Lo! th' Ægerian Grott, Where, nobly pensive, ST. JOHN sat and thought; 10 Where British sighs from dying WYNDHAM stole, And the bright flame was shot through MARCHMONT'S

Soul.

Let such, fuch only, tread this facred Floor,
Who dare to love their Country, and be poor.

To

Το Mrs. M. B. on her BIRTH-DAY.

OH

H, be thou blest with all that Heaven can send,
Long Health, long Youth, long Pleasure, and a
Friend!

"Not with those Toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and Vanities that tire.

With added years, if Life bring nothing new,
But like a Sieve let every blessing through,
Some joy ftill loft, as each vain year runs o'er,

5

And all we gain, some fad Reflection more;
Is that a Birth-Day? 'tis alas! too clear,
'Tis but the Funeral of the former year.

10

Let Joy or Eafe, let Affluence or Content,
And the gay Confcience of a life well spent,
Calm every thought, inspirit every grace,
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.
Let day improve on day, and year on year.
Without a Pain, a Trouble, or a Fear;
Till Death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
In some foft dream, or Ecstasy of joy,
Peaceful fleep out the Sabbath of the Tomb,
And wake to Raptures in a Life to come.

VARIAΤΙΟΝ.

Ver. 15. Originally thus in the MS.

And oh, fince Death must that fair frame destroy,
Die, by some sudden Ecstasy of Joy;

In some foft dream may thy mild foul remove,
And be thy latest gasp a Sigh of Love.

Aaz

15

20

To

R

Το Mr. THOMAS SOUTHERN,

On his BIRTH-DAY, 1742.

ESIGN'D to live, prepar'd to die,
With not one fin, but poetry,

This day Tom's fair Account has run

(Without a blot) to eighty-one. Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays

5

A table, with a cloth of bays;

And Ireland, mother of sweet fingers,

Presents her harp still to his fingers.
The feaft, his towering genius marks
In yonder wild-goofe and the larks!
The mushrooms shew his wit was fudden!

10

And for his judgment, lo a pudden!
Roast beef, though old, proclaims him ftout,
And grace, although a bard, devout.
May Tom, whom Heaven sent down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays,
Be every birth-day more a winner,
Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner;
Walk to his grave without reproach,
And scorn a rascal and a coach,

15

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