TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. FINCH,
AFTERWARDS COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA,
UNDER HER NAME OF ARDELIA.
PHOEBUS, now shortening every shade,
Up to the northern tropic came,
And thence beheld the lovely maid
Attending on a royal dame.
The god laid down his feeble rays,
Then lighted from his glittering coach,
But fenced his head with his own bays,
Before he durst the nymph approach.
Under those sacred leaves, secure
From common lightning of the skies,
He fondly thought he might endure
The flashes of Ardelia's eyes.
The nymph, who oft had read in books
Of that bright god whom bards invoke,
Soon knew Apollo by his looks,
And guess'd his business ere he spoke.
He in the old celestial cant
Confess'd his flame, and swore by Styx, Whate'er she would desire, to grant.But wise Ardelia knew his tricks.
Ovid had warn'd her to beware
Of strolling gods, whose usual trade is, Under pretence of taking air, To pick up sublunary ladies.
Howe'er, she gave no flat denial,
As having malice in her heart,
And was resolved, upon a trial,
To cheat the god in his own art.
Hear my request, (the virgin said) Let which I please of all the Nine Attend whene'er I want their aid, Obey my call, and only mine.'
By vow obliged, by passion led,
The god could not refuse her prayer; He waved his wreath thrice o'er her head, Thrice mutter'd something to the air.
And now he thought to seize his due;
But she the charm already tried:
Thalia heard the call, and flew
To wait at bright Ardelia's side.
On sight of this celestial prude
Apollo thought it vain to stay,
Nor in her presence durst be rude,
But made his leg, and went away.
He hoped to find some lucky hour
When on the queen the Muses wait;
But Pallas owns Ardelia's power,
For vows divine are kept by Fate.
Then, full of rage, Apollo spoke ;
Deceitful Nymph! I see thy art, And though I can't my gift revoke, I'll disappoint its nobler part.
'Let stubborn pride possess thee long,
And be thou negligent of fame;
With every Muse to grace thy song,
May'st thou despise a poet's name.
'Of modest poets be thou first;
To silent shades repeat thy verse, Till Fame and Echo almost burst,
Yet hardly dare one line rehearse.
'And, last, my vengeance to complete,
May you
descend to take renown,
Prevail'd on by the thing you hate,
A Whig, and one that wears a gown.'
IMITATED FROM OVID, BOOK VIII.
IN ancient times, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.
It happen'd on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguised in tatter'd habits, went
To a small village down in Kent,
Where, in the strollers' canting strain,
They begged from door to door in vain,
Tried every tone might pity win,
But not a soul would let them in.
Our wandering saints in woful state, Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village pass'd,
To a small cottage came at last,
Where dwelt a good old honest ye’man,
Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon,
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night;
And then the hospitable sire
Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire,
While he from out the chimney took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,
And freely from the fattest side
Cut out large slices to be fried;
Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink,
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink,
And saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful!) they found
Twas still replenish'd to the top,
As if they had not touch'd a drop.
The good old couple were amazed,
And often on each other gazed,
For both were frighten'd to the heart,
And just began to cry- What art?"
Then softly turn'd aside to view
Whether the lights were burning blue.
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on 't,
Told them their calling and their errant.
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