Old Thames can scarce his joy fustain, Augufta's fons from either hand Pour forth, and darken all the strand; But now amidst the loud applause, With fhame the confcious Muse withdraws; 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, New At once conspire the pulpit and the press : So many various changes to impart, Where loft in one promiscuous whim we see, Where the facetious crowd themselves lay down, 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, Of lawyers forc'd, and judges brought to bed: But the chafte Mufe, with blushes cover'd o'er, 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, The fond philofophers for gain Will leave unturn'd no ftone; But though they toil with endless pain, By the fame rock the chemists drown, What is the mad projector's care? He builds his caftles in the air, Yet wants an house to dwell in. At court the poor dependants fail, 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, Her touch awakes the fprings, and life 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 Your's, with Arion's wondrous harp, And on the new-born ftar beftow'd The radiant fpheres had ceas'd their tunes, 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 |