Imatges de pÓgina
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Instead of poring on a book,
Providing butter for the cook!
Three morning-hours you toss and shake
The bottle till your fingers ake:
Hard is the toil, nor small the art,
The butter from the whey to part ;
Behold a frothy substance rise;
Be cautious, or your bottle flies.
The butter comes, our fears are ceas’d;
And out you squeeze an ounce at leaft.

Your rev’rence thus, with like success
(Nor is your skill or labour less),
When bent upon fome smart lampoon,
Will tofs and turn your brain till noon;
Which, in its jumblings round the skull,
Dilates and makes the vessel full:
While nothing comes but froth at first,
You think your giddy head will burst:
But squeezing out four lines in rhime,
Are largely paid for all your time.

But you have rais’d your generous mind To works of more exalted kind. Palladio was not half so skill'd in The grandeur or the art of building. Two temples of magnific fize Attract the curious trav'ler's eyes,

That might be envy'd by the Greeks ;
Rais’d up by you in twenty weeks :
Here gentle goddess Cloacine
Receives all off'rings at her shrine.
In sep’rate cells the he's and she's
Here
pay

their vows with bended knees :
For 'tis profane when sexes mingle,
And ev'ry nymph must enter single,
And when she feels an inward notion,
Come fill'd with rev'rence and de ion.
The bashful maid, to hide our blush,
Shall creep no more behind a bush ;
Here unobserv'd she boldly goes,
As who should say, to pluck a rose.

Ye, who frequent this hallow'd scene,
Be not ungrateful to the dean;
But duly, ere you

leave
your

station,
Offer to him a pure libation
Or of his own, or * Smedley's lay,
Or billet-doux, or lock of hay:
And, O! may all who hither come,
Return with unpolluted thumb.

Yet, when your lofty domes I praise, I sigh to think of ancient days.

* See the character hereafter.

O 2

Permit

Permit me then to raise my style,
And sweetly moralize a while.

Thee, bounteous goddess Cloacine,
To temples why do we confine ?
Forbid in open air to breath;
Why are thine altars fixt beneath ?

1

When Saturn rul'd the skies alone
( That golden age to gold unknown),
This earthly globe to thee assign'd
Receiv’d the gifts of all mankind.
Ten thousand altars smoaking round
Were built to thee with off'rings crown'd:
And here thy daily vot'ries plac’d
Their facrifice with zeal and hafte:
The margin of a purling stream
Sent up to thee a grateful steam
(Though sometimes thou wert pleas’d to

wink,
If Naiads swept them from the brink).
Or where appointing lovers rove,
The shelter of a shady grove ;
Or offer'd in some flow'ry vale,
Were wasted by a gentle gale.
There many a flow'r abstersive grew,
Thy fav’rite flowers of yellow hue;

The

The crocus and the daffodil,
The cowslip soft, and sweet jonquil.

But when at last usurping Jove Old Saturn from his empire drove; Then gluttony with greasy paws Her napkin pinn'd up to her jaws, With watry chaps, and wagging chin, Brac'd like a drum her oily skin ; Wedg’d in a spacious elbow-chair, And on her plate a treble share, As if she ne'er could have enough, Taught harmless man to cram and stuff. She sent her priest in wooden shoes From haughty Gaul to make ragoos; Instead of wholsome bread and cheese, To dress their foops and fricassees; And, for our home-bred British cheer, Botargo, catsup, and caveer.

This bloated harpy sprung froin hell Confin’d thee, goddess, to a cell: Sprung from her womb that impious line, Contemners of thy rites divine. First, lolling foth in woollen cap Taking her after-dinner nap: Pale dropsy with a sallow face, Her belly burst, and flow her pace: O 3

And

And lordly gout, wrapt up in furr :
And wheezing asthma, loth to ftir.
Voluptuous ease, the child of wealth,
Infecting thus our hearts by stealth;
None seek thee now in open air,
To thee no verdant altars rear;
But in their cells and vaults obscene
Present a sacrifice unclean ;
From whence unfav’ry vapours rose,
Offensive to thy nicer nose.
Ahl who, in our degenerate days,
As nature prompts his offering pays?
Here nature never difference made
Between the sceptre and the spade.

Ye great ones, why will ye disdain To pay your tribute on the plain? Why will you place in lazy pride Your altars near your couches side?

When from the homelieft earthen ware Are sent up offerings more sincere, Than where the haughty dutchess locks Her silver vase in cedar-box.

Yet some devotion still remains Among our harmless northern swains t,

* Vide Virgil and Lucretius,

+ The north of Ireland.

Whose

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