Old Thames can scarce his joy fustain,
But runs down headlong to the main,
His mighty mafter to descry,
And leaves his fpacious channel dry.

Augufta's fons from either hand

Pour forth, and darken all the strand;
Their eyes pursue the royal barge,
Which now refigns her facred charge.
Th' unruly transport shakes the fhore,
And drowns the feeble cannon's roar ;
The nations in the fight rejoice,
And fend their fouls in every voice.

But now amidst the loud applause,

With fhame the confcious Muse withdraws;
Nor can her voice be heard amidst the throng,
The theme fo lofty, and fo low the fong.

ΟΝ

W

THE

MASQUERADE S.

"Si Natura negat, facit indignatio verfum." ELL-we have reach'd the precipice at last; The prefent age of vice obfcures the past. Our dull forefathers were content to stay, Nor fin'd, till nature pointed out the

way: No arts they practis'd to foreftall delight, But ftop'd, to wait the calls of appetite. Their top-debauches were at best precife, An unimprov'd fimplicity of vice.

But

But this bleft age has found a fairer road,
And left the paths their ancestors had trod.
Nay, we could wear (our tafte fo very nice is)
Their old caft-fashions fooner than their vices.
Whoring till now a common trade has been,
But masquerades refine upon the fin:
An higher tafte to wickedness impart,
And fecond nature with the helps of art.
ways and means to pleasure we devife,
Since pleasure looks the lovelier in disguise.
The stealth and frolick give a smarter guft,
Add wit to vice, and eloquence to luft.
In vain, the modish evil to redrefs,

New

At once conspire the pulpit and the press :
Our priests and poets preach and write in vain;
All fatyr's loft both facred and profane,

So many various changes to impart,
Would tire an Ovid's or a Proteus' art;

Where loft in one promiscuous whim we see,
Sex, age, condition, quality, degree.

Where the facetious crowd themselves lay down,
And take up every person but their own.

Fools, dukes, rakes, cardinals, fops, Indian queens,

Belles in tye-wigs, and lords in harlequins ;

Troops of right-honourable porters come,

And garter'd small-coal-merchants crowd the room: Valets adorn'd with coronets appear,

Lacqueys of ftate, and footmen with a star:

Sailors of quality with judges mix,

And chimney-fweepers drive their coach and fix.

52

Statesmen fo us'd at court the mask to wear,
With less disguise assume the vizor here.
Officious Heydegger deceives our eyes,
For his own person is his best disguise:
And half the reigning toasts of equal grace,
Truft to the natural vizor of the face.
Idiots turn conjurers; and courtiers clowns ;
And fultans drop their handkerchiefs to nuns.
Starch'd quakers glare in furbelows and filk ;
Beaux deal in fprats, and dutcheffes milk.
cry
But guard thy fancy, Muse, nor stain thy pen
With the lewd joys of this fantastic scene;
Where fexes blend in one confus'd intrigue,
Where the girls ravish, and the men grow big:
Nor credit what the idle world has faid,

Of lawyers forc'd, and judges brought to bed:
Or that to belles their brothers breathe their vows,
Or husbands through mistake gallant a spouse.
Such dire difafters, and a numerous throng
Of like enormities, require the fong:

But the chafte Mufe, with blushes cover'd o'er,
Retires confus'd, and will reveal no more.

ΟΝ A

SHAD O W.

ΑΝ

O D E.

OW are deluded human kind

By empty fhows betray'd?

In all their hopes and schemes they find

A nothing or a fhade.

The

The prospects of a truncheon cast

The foldier on the wars;

Difmift with fhatter'd limbs at last,
Brats, poverty, and scars.

The fond philofophers for gain

Will leave unturn'd no ftone;

But though they toil with endless pain,
They never find their own.

By the fame rock the chemists drown,
And find no friendly hold,
But melt their ready fpecie down,
In hopes of fancy'd gold.

What is the mad projector's care?
In hopes elate and swelling,

He builds his caftles in the air,

Yet wants an house to dwell in.

At court the poor dependants fail,
And damn their fruitless toil,
When complimented thence to jail,
And ruin'd with a smile.

How to philofophers will found

So strange a truth display'd ? "There's not a fubftance to be found,

"But every where a fhade."

To CELIA PLAYING ON A LUTE.

W

ΑΝ O D E.

HILE Cælia's hands fly fwiftly o'er,
And ftrike this soft machine,

Her touch awakes the fprings, and life
Of harmony within.

Sweetly they fink into the ftrings,

The quivering ftrings rebound,

Each stroke obfequiously obey,

And tremble into found.

Oh! had bleft the

you

years

of old;

His lute had Ovid ftrung,

And dwelt on yours, the charming theme
Of his immortal fong.

Your's, with Arion's wondrous harp,
The bard had hung on high;

And on the new-born ftar beftow'd
The honours of the sky.

The radiant fpheres had ceas'd their tunes,
And danc'd in filence on,
Pleas'd the new harmony to hear,

More heavenly than their own.

Of old to raise one fhade from hell,

To Orpheus was it given : But every tune of yours calls down

An angel from his heaven.

To