Quick at your call the trembling flaves appear,
Advance with caution, and retire with fear;
Ev'n Peggy trembles, though (or authors fail)
At times the anti-falic laws prevail.

!

Now, Lord have mercy on poor Dick! fay I; "Where's the lac'd fhoe-who laid the flannel by ?” Within, 'tis hurry, the house feems poffeft; Without, the ho: fes wonder at their reft. What terrible difmay, what scenes of care Why is the footy Mintrem's hopeful heir * Before the morning-dawn compell'd to rife, And give attendance with his half-fhut eyes? What makes that girl with hideous visage ftare? What fiends prevent Ead's † journey to the fair ‡ ? Why all this noise, this bustle and this rout? "Oh, nothing but poor master has the gout." Meantime, fuperior to the pains below, Your thoughts in foaring meditations flow, In rapturous trance on Virgil's genius dwell, To us, poor mortals, his strong beauties tell, And, like Æneas, from your couch of ftate, In all the pomp of words difplay the Trojan fate, Can nothing your afpiring thoughts reftrain? Or does the Mufe fufpend the rage of pain?

*Mr. Pitt's fervant, the fon of a blacksmith,

Another fervant of Mr. Pitt.

Blandford fair; two miles from Pimpern, Mr. Pitt's rectory, where he was born, and where he died, April 13, 1748, aged 48. See his epitaph in Hutchins's Dorfet, I. 82. N.

Awhile give o'er your rage; in fickness prove
Like other mortals, if you'd pity move;
Think not your friends compaffionate can be,
When fuch the product of disease they see;
Your fharpeft pangs but add to our delight,
We'll wish you still the Gout, if ftill you write.

Written in the Folds of a PIN-PAPER,

F old, a hundred Cyclops ftrove

OF

To forge the thunder-bolt for Jove;
I too employ a hundred hands,
And travel through as many lands.
A head I have, though very small,
But then I have no brains at all.
The mifer locks me up with care,
Clofe as his money, all the year.
When John and Joan are both at strife,
'Tis I find money for the wife.
At court I make the ladies fhine,
I grace ev'n gracious Caroline:
And, though I often take my way
Through town and country, land and sea,
I'm neither fish, flesh, nor herring,
And now I live with goody Verring *.

* A feller of pins at Blandford. PITT.

De

DE MINIMIS MAXIMA.

AUTORE LUDOVICO DUNCOMBE*.
XIGUA crefcit de glande altiffima quercus,
Et tandem patulis furgit in aftra comis:
Dumque anni pergunt, crefcit latiffima moles;
bellica navis aquas.

Mox fecat

æquoreas

Angliacis hinc fama, falus hinc nafcitur oris,
Et glans eft noftri præfidium imperii.

TRANSLATION of the foregoing, by MR. PITT.

ROM a fmall acorn, fee! the oak arise,

FRO

Supremely tall, and towering in the skies!
Queen of the groves! her stately head she rears,
Her bulk increafing with increafing years:
Now moves in pomp, majestic, o'er the deep,
While in her womb ten thousand thunders sleep.
Hence Britain boasts her far-extended reign,
And by th' expanded acorn rules the main.

See this ingenious young gentleman's verfes to the memory of Mr. Hughes, in vol. XXXI. He was fecond fon of John Duncombe, Efq. of Stocks; and died at Merton College, Oxford, where he was a gentleman commoner, Dec. 26, 1730, in the twentieth year of his age. N.

AN

AN EPITAPH,

Infcribed on a Stone that covers his Father, Mother, and Brother *,

YE facred fpirits! while your friends diftrefs'd

Weep o'er your afhes, and lament the blefs'd;

O let the penfive Muse inscribe that stone,
And with the general forrows mix her own:

The penfive Mufe!-who, from this mournful hour,
Shall raise her voice, and wake the string no more!
Of love, of duty, this laft pledge receive;

'Tis all a brother, all a fon can give,

*Robert Pitt, A. M. his eldest brother. See the Latin infcription, in Hutchins's Dorfet, vol. I. p. 83.

A POEM

A POEM on the DEATH of the late Earl STANHOPE.

Humbly inscribed to the Countess of STANHOPE.

"At length, grim Fate, thy dreadful triumphs cease: "Lock up the tomb, and seal the the tomb, and feal the grave in peace."

NOW from thy riot of deftruction breathe,

Call in thy raging plagues, thou tyrant Death: Too mean's the conqueft which thy arms beftow, Too mean to fweep a nation at a blow. No, thy unbounded triumphs higher run, And feem to ftrike at all mankind in one; Since Stanhope is thy prey, the great, the brave, A nobler prey was never paid the grave. We feem to feel from this thy daring crime, A blank in nature, and a pause in time. He flood fo high in Reafon's towering sphere, As high as man unglorify'd could bear. In arms, and eloquence, like Cæfar, fhone So bright, that each Minerva was his own. How could fo vaft a fund of learning lie Shut up in fuch a fhort mortality? One world of science nobly travell'd o'er, Like Philip's glorious fon, he wept for more.

And now, refign'd to tears, th' angelic choirs, With drooping heads, unftring their golden lyres, Wrapt in a cloud of grief, they figh to view Their facred image laid by death fo low:

And