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Pleas'd while with fmiles his happy lines you view,
And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you.

The brightest eyes of France infpir'd his Muse;
The brighteft eyes of Britain now peruse;
And dead, as living, 'tis our author's pride,
Still to charm thofe who charm the world befide.


To the fame, on her leaving the Town after
the Coronation, 1715.



AS fome fond virgin, whom her mother's care
Drags from the Town to wholesome country air,
Juft when the learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a fpark, yet think no danger nigh,
From the dear man unwilling the muit fever,
Yet takes one kifs before the parts for ever;
Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,.
Saw others happy, and with fighs withdrew;
Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent;
She figh'd not that they stay'd, but that she went. 10
She went to plain work, and to purling brooks,
Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from opera, park, affembly, play,
To morning walks, and pray'rs three hours a-day;
To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea,
To mufe, and fpill her folitary tea,

Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
Count the flow clock, and dine exact at noon;
Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,
Hum half a tune, tell ftories to the fquire;
Up to her godly garret after sev❜n,

There ftarve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n.
Some fquire, perhaps, you take delight to rack,
Whole game is Whift, whofe treat a toast in fack;
Who vifits with a gun, prefents you birds,
Then gives a fmacking bufs, and cries-no words!
Or with his hounds comes hallooing from the stable,
Makes loves with nods, and knees beneath a table;
Whofe laughs are hearty, tho' his jefts are coarse,
And loves you best of all things--but his horse.





In fome fair ev'ning, on your elbow laid,
You dream of triumphs in the rural shade;
In penfive thought recall the fancy'd scene,
See coronations rife on ev'ry green:
Before you pass th' imaginary fights



Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights,
While the fpread fan o'erfhades your closing eyes,
Then give one flirt, and all the vifion flies.
Thus vanifh fceptres, coronets and balls,
And leave you in lone woods or empty walls!
So when your flave, at fome dear idle time,
(Not plagu'd with headachs or the want of rhyme,)
Stands in the streets abftracted from the crew,
And while he feems to ftudy, thinks of you;
Juft when his fancy points your fprightly eyes,
Or fees the blush of foft Parthenia rife,

Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanquish quite,
Streets, chairs, and coxcombs, rufh upon my fight:
Vext to be still in Town I knit my brow,

Look four, and hum a tune, as you may now.


To Mr. John Moore, Author of the celebrated

HOW much, egregious Moore! are we
Deceiv'd by fhews and forms!

Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,

All humankind are worms.

Man is a very worm by birth,
Vile reptile, weak, and vain!
A while he crawls upon the earth,
Then fhrinks to earth again.



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That woman is a worm we find,

E'er fince our grandam's evil;

She first convers'd with her own kind,

That ancient worm the devil.

The learn'd themfelves we Book-worms name,

The blockhead is a Slow-worm;

The nymph whofe tail is all on flame,

Is aptly term'd a Glow-worm.

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The fops are painted butterflies,

That flutter for a day;

Firft from a worm they take their rife,
And in a worm decay.

The flatterer an ear-wig grows;
Thus worms fuit all conditions;

Mifers are muck-worms, filk-worms beaus,
And death-watches physicians.


That ftatefmen have the worm, is feen


By all their winding play;

Their confcience is a worm within,

That gnaws them night and day.

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Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rife,


If thou couldft make the courtier void

The worm that never dies!

O learned friend of Abchurch-lane,
Who fett'ft our entrails free;

Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,
Since worms fhall eat e'en thee.

Our fate thou only canft adjourn
Some few fhort years, no more!

E'en Button's wits to worms fhall turn,

Who maggots were before.



To Mrs. M. B. on her Birth-day.



H! be thou blefs'd with all that Heav'n can fend,
Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend;

Not with thofe toys the female world admire,

Riches that vex, and vanities that tire.

With added years, if life bring nothing new,
But like a fieve let ev'ry bleffing thro',
Some joys ftill loft, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain some sad reflection more :


Is that a birth-day? 'tis, alas! too clear,
'Tis but the fun'ral of the former year.

Let joy or eafe, let affluence or content,
And the gay confcience of a life well spent,
Calm ev'ry thought, infpirit ev'ry grace,
Glow in thy heart, and fmile 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 fome foft dream, or ecftacy of joy,
Peaceful fleep out the fabbath of the tomb,
And wake to raptures in a life to come.


To Mr. Thomas Southern, on his Birth-day, 1742.

RESIGN'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
A table with a cloth of bays;
And Ireland, mother of fweet fingers,
Prefents her harp ftill to his fingers..
The feaft his tow ring genius marks
In yonder wild-goofe and the larks!
The mushrooms fhew his wit was fudden!
And for his judgment, lo, a pudden!
Roast beef, tho' cold, proclaims him stout,
And grace, altho' a bard devout.

May Tom, whom Heav'n fent down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays,
Be ev'ry birth-day more a winner,
Digeft his thirty-thousandth dinner;
Walk to his grave without reproach,
And fcorn a raícal and a coach.











THE Baffet-table spread, the tallier come,
Why tays Sinilinda in the dreffing-room?
Rife, penfive nymph! the tallier waits for you.
Smil. Ah, Madam! fince my Sharper is untrue,
I joyle's make my once ador'd Alpheu.

I faw him ftand behind Ombrelia's chair,
And whisper with that foft deluding air,


And thofe feign'd fighs which cheat the lift'ning fair.
Card. Is this the cause of your romantic strains?
A mightier grief my heavy heart fuftains;
As you by love, fo I by fortune croft ;
One, one bad deal three Septlevas have lost.


Smil. Is that the grief which you compare with mine? With eafe the fmiles of Fortune I refign: Would all my gold in one bad deal were gone, Were lovely Sharper mine, and mine alone. Card. A lover loft is but a common care,


And prudent nymphs against that change prepare: The knave of clubs thrice loft; oh! who could guess This fatal stroke, this unforeseen diftrefs?

Smil. See Betty Lovet! very à propos,

She all the cares of love and play does know:
Dear Betty fhall th' important point decide;
Betty! who oft' the pain of each has try'd;
Impartial, fhe fhall fay who fuffers moft,
By cards' ill ufage, or by lovers loft.

Lov. Tell, tell your griefs; attentive will I stay, Tho' time is precious, and I want fome tea.




Card. Behold this equipage, by Mathers wrought, With fifty guineas (a great penn'worth) bought. See on the toothpick Mars and Cupid strive, And both the struggling figures seem alive.


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