Imatges de pÓgina
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Drive all Objections from your Mind,
Else you relapse to human Kind:
Ambition, Avarice and Luft,
And factious Rage, and Breach of Trust;
And Flatt'ry tipt with nauseous Fleer,
And guilty Shame, and servile Fear,
Envy, and Cruelty, and Pride,
Will in your tainted' Heart preside.

Heroes and Heroins of old,
By Honour only were enrollid
Among their Brethren of the Skies ;
To which (though late) shall Stella rise.
Ten thousand Oaths upon Record,
Are not so facred as her Word ;
The World shall in its Atoms end, .
E’re Stella can deceive a Friend.
By Honour seated in her Breaft,
She still determines what is best ;
What Indignation in her Mind
Against Enslavers of Mankind!
Base Kings and Ministers of State,
Eternal Objects of her Hate.

SHE thinks, that Nature ne'er design'd
Courage to Man alone confin'd:
Can Cowardice her Sex adorn,
Which moft exposes ours to Scorn ?
She wonders where the Charm appears
In Florimel's affected Fears :
For Stella, never learn'd the Art,
At proper times to scream and start ;

Nor

Nor calls up all the House at Night,
And swears she saw a thing in white :
Doll never flies to cut her Lace,
Or throw cold Water in her Face,
Because she heard a sudden Drum,
Or found an Earwig in a Plum.

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Her Hearers are amaz'd from whence
Proceeds that Fund of Wit and Sense;
Which tho’her Modefty would fhroud,
Breaks like the Sun behind a Cloud;
While Gracefulness its Art conceals,
And yet through ev'ry Motion steals.

SAY, Stella, was Prometheus blind,
And forming you, miftook your Kind?
No: 'Twas for you alone he stole
The Fire that forms a manly Soul ;
Then to compleat it ev'ry way,
He moulded it with Female Clay :
To that you owe the nobler. Flame,
To this, the Beauty of your Frame.

How would Ingratitude delight
And, how would Censure glut her Spight?
If I should Stella's Kindness hide
In Silence, or forget with Pride,
When on my sickly Couch I lay,
Impatient both of Night and Day,
Lamenting in unmanly Strains,
Call'd ev'ry Power to ease my Pains:

Then

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Then Stella ran to my Relief,
With chearful Face, and inward Grief:
And, though by Heav'n's fevere Decree
She suffers hourly more than me:
No cruel Master could require
From Slaves employ'd for daily Hire,
What Stella, by her Friendship warm’d,
With Vigour and Delight perform’d:
My sinking Spirits now supplies,
With Cordials in her Hands and Eyes ;
Now, with a soft and filent Tread,
Unheard she moves about my Bed.
I see her taste each nauseous Draught,
And so obligingly am caught ;
I bless the Hand from whence they came,
Nor dare distort my Face for Shame.

Best Pattern of true Friends, beware 3
You pay too dearly for your Care:
If while your Tenderness secures
My Life, it must endanger yours.
For such a Fool was never found,
Who pulld a Palace to the Ground,
Only to have the Ruins made
Materials for an House decay'd.

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On cutting down the OLD THORN

at MARKET-Hill,

Written in the Year 1727.

AT

T Market-Hill, as well appears

By Chronicle of ancient Date, There stood for many a Hundred Years,

A spacious Thorn before the Gate.

Hither came every Village-Maid,

And on the Boughs her Garland hung ; And here, beneath the spreading Shade,

Secure from Satyrs, fat and sung.

* Sir Archibald, that val'rous Knight,

Then Lord of all the fruitful Plain, Would come to listen with Delight,

For he was fond of rural Strain.

(Sir Archibald whose fav’rite Name

Shall stand for Ages on Record, By Scottija Bards of highest Fame,

+ Wise Hawthorden and Sterling's Lord.)

But

* Sir ARCHIBALD ACHEspŇ, Secretary of State for Scotland.

+ DRUMMOND of Howthorden, and Sir WILLIAM ALEXANder, Earl of Sterling, both famous for their Poetry, who were Friends to Sir ARCHIBALD,

But Time, with Iron Teeth, I wèen,

Has canker'd alt its Branches round; No Friit or Bloffom to be seen,

Its Head reclining tow'rds the Ground. This aged, sickly, fapless Thorn,

Which must alas no longer stand; Behold! the cruel Dean in Scorn

Cuts down with facrilegious Hand. Dame Nature, when the faw the Blow,

Astonish'd gave a dreadful Shriek;
And Mother Tellus trembled fo,

She scarce recover'd in a Week.
The Sylvan Pow’rs with Fear perplex'd, .

In Prudence and Compassion fent,
(For none could tell whose Turn was next)

Sad Omens of the dire Event.
The Magpye, lighting on the Stock,

Stood chatt'ring with inceffant Din;
And with her Beak gave many a Knock

To rouze and warn the Nymph within The Owl forefaw in pensive Mood,

The Ruin of her antient Seat ; And fled in Haste with all her Brood,

To seek a more fecure Retreat.

Last trotted forth the gentle Swine,

To ease her Itch against the Stump, And dismally was heard to whine,

All as the scrubb'd her meazly Rump.

The

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