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So death the poor delinquent spar'd,
And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a serious look,
His hour-glafs trembled while he spoke-
Neighbour,' he faid, farewel; no more
Shall Death difturb your mirthful hour:
And farther, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future ftation,
Three feveral warnings you thall have,
• Before you're summon'd to the grave:
• Willing for once I'll quit my prey,
And grant a kind reprieve;
In hopes you'll have no more to fay,
But, when I call again this way,
Well pleas'd the world will leave.' To thefe conditions both confented, And parted perfectly contented.
What next the hero of our tale befel,
How long he liv'd, how wife, how well,
How roundly he purfued his course,
And finok'd his pipe, and ftrok'd his horse,
The willing mufe fhall tell :
He chaffer'd then, he bought, he fold,
Nor once perceiv'd his growing old,
Nor thought of Death as near;
His friends not falfe, his wife no fhrew,
Many his gains, his children few,
He pafs'd his hours in peace:
Put while he view'd his wealth increase,
While thus along Life's dufty road
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whofe hafte no mortal spares,
Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares,
Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he fate,
Th' unwelcome meffenger of Fate
Once more before him ftood.
Half kill'd with anger and furprife, • So foon return'd!' old Doblon cries.
So foon, d'ye call it!' Death replies: Surely, my friend, you're but in jeft! Since I was here before
'Tis fix-and-thirty years at least,
And you are now fouricore.'
So much the worse,' the clown rejoin'd ;
To fpare the aged would be kind :
However, fee your fearch be legal ;
And your authority-is't regal?
Elfe you are come on a fool's errand,
With but a Secretary's warrant.
Befides, you promis'd me Three Warnings,
Which I have look'd for nights and mornings!
But for that lofs of time and cafe,
'I can recover damages.'
'I know,' cries Death, that, at the best, I feldom am a welcome gueft; But don't be captious, friend, at leaft: I little thought you'd ftill be able
To ftump about your farm and ftable; Your years have run to a great length; • I with you joy, tho', of your strength !' Hold,' fays the farmer, not fo faft! I have been lame thefe four years past.'
§ 4. The Cit's Country Box.
Vos fapere, et folos aio bene vivere, quorum
Confpicitur nitidis fundata pecunia villis.
THE wealthy cit, grown old in trade,
Now wifhes for the rural fade,
And buckles to his one-horfe chair
Old Dobbin, or the founder'd mare;
While, wedg'd in clofely by his fide,
Sits Madam, his unwieldy bride,
With Jacky on a stool before 'em,
And out they jog in due decorum.
Scarce paft the turnpike half a mile,
How all the country feems to fmile!' And as they flowly jog together,
The cit commends the road and weather
While Madam doats upon the trees,
And longs for ev'ry house the fees;
Admires its views, its fituation,
And thus fhe opens her oration:
What fignifics the loads of wealth,
Without that richcft jewel, health?
Excufe the fondness of a wife,
Who doats upon your precious life!
Such ceafelefs toil, fuch constant care,
Is more than human ftrength can bear:
'One may obferve it in your face-
• Indeed, my dear, you break apace;
And nothing can your health repair,
But exercife, and country air.
Sir Traffick has a houfe, you know,
About a mile from Cheney-row:
He's a good man, indeed, 'tis true;
But not fo warm, my dear, as you:
And folks are always apt to fneer-
'One would not be out-done, my dear!"
Sir Traffick's name, fo well applied, Awak'd his brother merchant's pride; And Thrifty, who had all his life Paid utmoft deference to his wife, Confefs'd her arguments had reafon; And by th' approaching fummer feafon Draws a few hundreds from the ftocks, And purchases his Country Box.
Some three or four miles out of town
(An hour's ride will bring you down)
He fixes on his choice abode,
Not half a furlong from the road;
And fo convenient does it lay,
The ftages pafs it ev'ry day:
And then fo fnug, fo mighty pretty,
To have a houfe fo near the city!
Take but your places at the Boar,
You 're fet down at the very door.
Well then, fuppofe them fix'd at last,
Whitc-wathing, painting, fcrubbing pait;
Hugging themselves in eafe and clover,
With all the fufs of moving over;
Lo, a new heap of whims are bred,
And wanton in my lady's head!
Well; to be fure, it must be own'd,
It is a charming fpot of ground:
So fweet a distance for a ride,
And all about fo countryfied;
"Twould come but to a trifling price
To make it quite a paradife!
I cannot bear thofe nafty rails,
• Those ugly, broken, mouldy pales:
Suppofe, my dear, inftead of thele,
We build a railing all Chinefe;
Altho' one hates to be expos'd,
'Tis difmal to be thus inclos'd:
One hardly any objects fees-
I wish you'd fell thofe odious trecs.
Objects continual paffing by,
Were fomething to amufe the eye;
But to be pent within the walls,
One might as well be at St. Paul's.
. Our houfe beholders would adore,
Was there a level lawn before,
Nothing its views to incommode,
But quite laid open to the read;
While ev'ry traveller, in amaze,
Should on our little manfion gaze;
And, pointing to the choice retreat,
Cry, "That's Sir Thrifty's country-feat!"
No doubt her arguments prevail,
For Madam's TASTE can never fail.
Bleft age! when all men may procure
The title of a connoiffeur;
When noble and ignoble herd
Are govern'd by a fingle word;
Tho, like the royal German dames,
It bears an hundred Chriftian names-
As Genius, Fancy, Judgment, Goût,
Whim, Caprice, Je ne fçai quoi, Virtù :
Which appellations all defcribe
TASTE, and the modern tafteful tribe.
Now bricklayers, carpenters, and joiners,
With Chinese artifts and defigners,
Produce their fchemes of alteration,
To work this wondrous reformation.
The ufeful dome, which fecret flood,
Embofom'd in the yew tree's wood,
The traveller with amazement fees
A temple Gothic or Chinefe,
With many a bell and tawdry rag on,
And crefted with a fprawling dragon;
A wooden arch is bent aftride
A ditch of water, four feet wide,
With angles, curves, and zig-zag lines,
From Halfpenny's exact defigns:
In front a level lawn is feen,
Without a fhrub upon the green;
Where Tafte would want its firft great law,
But for the fkulking, fly ha-ha;
By whofe miraculous affiftance
You gain a profpect two fields diftance.
And now from Hyde-park Corner come
The gods of Athens and of Rome.
Here fquabby Cupids take their places,
With Venus, and the clumfy Graces;
Apollo there, with aim fo clever,
Stretches his leaden bow for ever;
And there, without the pow'r to fly,
Stands fix'd a tip-toe Mercury.
The villa thus completely grac'd,
All own, that Thrifty has a tafte;
And Madam's female friends and coufins,
With common-council-men, by dozens,
Flock ev'ry Sunday to the feat,
To ftare about thein, and to eat.
-PEACE to this meeting!
Joy and fair time, health and good wishes :
Now, worthy friends, the caufe why we are met
Is in celebration of the day that gave
Immortal Shakspeare to this favour'd ifle,
The moft replenished fweet work of nature,**
Which from the prime creation e'er fhe fram'd.
O thou divineft Nature! how thyfelf thou blazon'ft
In this thy fon! form'd in thy prodigality,
To hold thy mirror up, and give the time
Its very form and preffure! When he speaks
Each aged ear plays truant at his tales,
And younger hearings are quite ravifhed,
So voluble is his difcourfe-gentle
As Zephyr blowing beneath the violet,
Not wagging its fweet head-yet as rough
(His noble blood enchaff'd) as the rude wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him ftoop to th' vale.-'Tis wonderful
That an invifible inftinct fhould frame him
To loyalty, unlearn'd; honour, untaught;
Civility, not feen in others; knowledge
That wildly grows in him, but yields a crop
As if it had been fown. What a piece of work!
How noble in faculty infinite in reafon!
A combination and a form indeed,
Where every God did feem to fet his feal!
Heaven has him now-yet let our idolatrous fancy
Still fanctify his relics: and this day
Stand aye distinguish'd in the kalendar
To the last fyllable of recorded time:
For, if we take him but for all in all,
We ne'er fhall look upon his like again.
§ 7. On the Invention of Letters. ELL me what Genius did the art invent, The lively image of the voice to paint; Who firft the fecret how to colour found, And to give fhape to reafon, wifely found; With bodies how to clothe ideas, taught; And how to draw the picture of a thought: Who taught the hand to fpeak, the eye to hear A filent language roving far and near; Whofe fofteft noife outftrips loud thunder's found, And fpreads her accents thro' the world's vaft round;
A voice heard by the deaf, fpoke by the dumb, Whofe echo reaches long, long time to come; Which dead men fpeak, as well as thofe aliveTell me what Genius did this art contrive.
On a Spider.
ARTIST, who underneath my table
Who, if we may believe the fable,
Thy curious texture haft difplay'd!
Wert once a lovely blooming maid!
Infidious, reftlefs, watchful fpider,
Fear no officious damfel's broom;
Extend thy artful fabric wider,
And fpread thy banners round my room.
Swept from the rich man's coftly ceiling,
Thou 'rt welcome to my homely roof;
Here mayft thou find a peaceful dwelling,
And undisturb'd attend thy woof.
Whilst I thy wondrous fabric ftare at,
And think on hapless poet's fate;
Like thee confin'd to lonely garret,
And rudely banifh'd rooms of ftate.
And as from out thy tortur'd body
Thou draw'ft thy flender ftring with pain;
So does he labour, like a noddy,
To fpin materials from his brain.
He for fome fluttering tawdry creature,
That spreads her charms before his eye;
And that's a conqueft little better
Than thine o'er captive butterfly.
Thus far 'tis plain we both agree,
Perhaps our deaths may better fhew it-
'Tis ten to one but penury
Ends both the fpider and the poet.
§ 10. The Extent of Cookery.
WHEN Tom to Cambridge first was fent,
A plain brown bob he wore,
Read much, and look'd as tho' he meant
To be a fop no more.
See him to Lincoln's Inn repair,
His refolution flag;
He cherishes a length of hair,
And tucks it in a bag.
Nor Coke nor Salkeld he regards,
But gets into the houfe
And foon a Judge's rank rewards
His pliant votes and bows.
Adieu, ye bobs! ye bags give place!
Full-bottoms come instead!
Good Lord! to fee the various ways
Of dreifing-a calf's head.
§ 11. Slender's Gooft.
I never dreamt of flame or dart,
That fir'd my breaft, or pierc'd my heart,
But figh'd, O fweet Anne Page!
And you, whofe love-fick minds
No medicine can affuage,
Accufe the leech's art no more,
But learn of Slender to deplore,
O fweet! O fweet Anne Page!
And you, whose souls are held ·
Like linnets in a cage,
Who talk of fetters, links, and chains,
Attend, and imitate my ftrains:
O sweet! O fweet Anne Page!
And you, who boaft or grieve,
What horrid wars ye wage!
Of wounds receiv'd from many an eye, Yet mean as I do when I figh,
O fweet! O fweet Anne Page! Hence every fond conceit
Of thepherd, or of fage!
'Tis Slender's voice, 'tis Slender's way, Expreffes all you have to fay
O fweet! O fweet Anne Page!
$12. Hamlet's Soliloquy imitated. JAGO.
TO print, or not to print that is the queftion.
Whether 'tis better in a trunk to bury
The quirks and crotchets of outrageous Fancy,
Or fend a well-wrote copy to the prefs,
And, by difclofing, end them. To print, to doubt
No more; and by one act to fay we end
The head-ach, and a thousand natural fhocks
Of fcribbling phrenzy-'tis a confummation
Devoutly to be with'd. To print to beam
From the fame fhelf with Pope, in calfwell bound:
To fleep, perchance, with Quarles-Ay, there's
For to what clafs a writer may be docm'd,
When he hath fhuffled off fome paltry ituff,
Muft give us paufe. There's the relpect that makes
Th'unwilling poet keep his piece nine years.
For who would bear th' impatient thift of fame,
The pride of confcious merit, and, 'bove all,
The tedious importunity of friends,
When as himself might his quietus make
With a bare inkhorn? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and fweat under a load of wit,
But that the tread of steep Parnaßus' bill
(That undiscover'd country, with whofe bays
Few travellers return) puzzies the will,
And makes us rather bear to live unkrown,
Than run the hazard to be known and damn'd?
Thus critics do make cowards of us all;
And thus the healthful face of many a poem
Is fickled ofer with a pale manufcript;
And curerprizes of great fire and ípirit
With the regard from Dodfley turn away,
And lofe the name of Authors.
§ 12. To the siemory of Coge Lewis Largten,
Ef. who died on bis Travels to Rome. SHIPLEY.
LANGTON, dear partner of my foul,
Accept what pious paflion meditates
Το grace thy fate. Sad memory,
And grateful love and impotent regret,
Shall wake to paint thy gentle mind,
Thy wife good-nature, friendship delicate
In fecret converfe, native mirth
And fprightly fancy, fweet artificer
Of focial pleafore; nor forgot
The noble thirst of knowledge and fair fame
That led thee far through foreign climes
Inquifitive but chief the pleasant banks
Of Tiber, ever-honour'd ftream,
Detain'd thee vifiting the laft remains
Of ancient art; fair forms exact
In fculpture, columns, and the mould'ring bulk
Of theatres. In deep thought w app'd
Of old renown, thy mind furvey'd the fcenes
Delighted where the first of men
Once dwelt, familiar: Scipio, virtuous chief,
Stern Cato, and the patriot mind
Of faithful Brutus, beft philofopher.
Well did the generous fea.ch employ
Thy blooming years by virtue crown'd, tho' death
Unfeen opprefs'd thee, far from home,
A helplefs ftranger. No familiar voice,
No pitying eye, chcer'd thy laft pangs.
O worthy longest days! for thee fhal flow
The pious folitary tear,
And thoughtful friendship fadden o'er thine urn.
§ 14. The Brewer's Coachman. TAYLOR: HONEST William, an eafy and good-natur'd
He had thefe-ay, and fifty good qualities more;
But the bufinefs of tippling could ne'er be got o'er:
so his mafter effectuary mended the matter,
By hiring a man who drank nothing but water.
Now, William, fays he, you fee the plain cafe;
Had you drank as he does, you'd keep a good place.
Drink water! quoth William ad ali mer done fo,
You'd never have waned a coachman, i trow.
They're foakers, like me, whom you load with
That enable you brewers to ride in your coaches.
Sic. Ode on the death of Malzel, a favourite Bullfinch. Adil ffed to Pbil. Stanhope, Elg. (natural Son to the Earl of Chele.field) to whom the Author given the Reversion of it when be left Drefden. WILLIAMS. TRY not, my Star hope, 'tis in vain, To ftop your tears, to hide your pain, Or check your honest rage; Give forrow and revenge their fcope, My prefent joy, your future hope,
Lies murder'd in his cage. Matzel's no more! Ye graces, loves, Ye linnets, nightingales, and doves, Attend th' untimely bier;
Let every forrow be exprefs'd,
Beat with your wings each mournful breast,
And drop the nat'ral tear.
In height of fong, in beauty's pride,
By fell Grimalkin's claws he died-
But vengeance shall have way:
On pains and tortures I'll refine;
Yet, Matzel, that one death of thine
His nine will ill repay.
For thee, my bird, the facred Nine,
Who lov'd thy tuneful notes, fitall join
In thy funereal verfe:
My painful tafk fhall be to write
Th' eternal dirge which they indite,
And hang it on thy hearse.
In vain I lov'd, in vain I mourn,
My bird, who never to return
Is fled to happier fhades,
Where Lefbia fhall for him prepare
The place moft charming and most fair
Of all th' Elyan glades.
There shall thy notes in cypress grove
Sooth wretched ghofts that died for love;
There hall thy plaintive ftrain
Lull impious Phædra's endlefs grief,
To Procris yield fome fhort relief,
And foften Dido's pain.
Till Proferpine by chance fhall hear
Thy notes, and make thee all her care,
And love thee with my love;
While each attendant foul fhall praise
The matchlefs Matzel's tuneful lays,
And all her fongs approve.
§ 16. To-morrow. COTTON.
Pereunt et Imputantur.
TO-MORROW, didft thou fay?
Methought I heard Horatio fay, To-morrow. Go to-I will not hear of it-To-morrow! 'Tis a fharper, who ftakes his penury Against thy plenty who takes thy ready cash, And pays the nought but wishes, hopes, and promifes,
The currency of ideots-injurious bankrupt,
That gulls the eafy creditor!-To-morrow!
It is a period nowhere to be found
In all the hoary registers of Time,
Unless perchance in the fool's calendar.
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds fociety
With thofe who own it. No, my Horatio,
'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father;
Wrought of fuch ftuff as dreams are; and as bafelefs
As the fantaftic vifions of the evening.
But foft, my friend-arreft the prefent moments;
For be affur'd they all are arrant tell-tales;
And though their flight be filent, and their path
Tracklefs, as the wing'd couriers of the air,
They poft to heaven, and there record thy folly.
Becaufe, tho' ftation'd on th' important watch,
Thou, like a fleeping, faithlefs centinel,
Didft let them pafs unnotic'd, unimprov'd.
And know, for that thou flumb'redft on the guard,
Thou fhalt be made to anfwer at the bar
Gilbert Weft, Efq. the author's coufin,
For every fugitive; and when thou thus
Shalt ftand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hood-wink'd Juftice, who fhall tell thy audit!
Then ftay the prefent inftant, dear Horatio,
Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings. [cious
'Tis of more worth than kingdoms ! far more pre
Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain.
O! let it not elude thy grafp; but, like
The good old patriarch upon record,
Hold the fleet angel faft, until he bless thee.
§ 17. On Lord Cobham's Gardens. COTTON, IT puzzles much the fages brains,
Where Eden flood of yore;
Some place it in Arabia's plains;
Some fay, it is no more.
But Cobham can thefe tales confute,
As all the curious know;
For he has proy'd beyond difpute
That Paradife is Stow.
18. To a Child five Years Old. COTTON. FAIREST flow'r, all flow'rs excelling Which in Eden's garden grew,
Flow'rs of Eve's embower'd dwelling
Are, my fair-one, types of you.
Mark, my Polly, how the rotes
Emulate thy damask cheek;
How the bud its fweets difclofes ;
Buds thy opening bloom bespeak.
Lilies are, by plain direction,
Emblems of a double kind;
Emblems of thy fair complexion,
Emblems of thy fairer mind.
But, dear girl, both flow'rs and beauty
Bloffom, fade, and die away;
Then purfue good fenfe and duty,
Evergreens that ne'er decay.
$ 19. To Mifs Lucy Fortefcue. LYTTELTON. ONCE, by the Mufe alone infpir'd,
I fung my am'rous strains: No ferious love my bofom fir'd; Yet every tender maid, deceiv'd, The idly mournful tale believ'd,
And wept my fancied pains.
But Venus now, to punish me,
For having feign'd fo well,
Has made my heart fo fond of thee,
That not the whole Aonian quire
Can accents foft enough infpire
Its real flame to tell.