Triumphant god of gay desires!

Thy vassal's raging pains remove; I burn, I burn, with fiercer fires,

Oh! take my life, or crown my love.

Beauty, fair flower! soon fades away, And transient are the joys of love; But wit, and virtue, ne'er decay, Ador'd below, and bless'd above.

ADVICE TO THE LADIES.

WHO now regards Chloris, her tears, and her whining, Her sighs, and fond wishes, and aukward repining? What a pother is here, with her amorous glances, Soft fragments of Ovid, and scrapes of romances! A nice prude at fifteen! and a romp in decay! Cold December affects the sweet blossoms of May; To fawn in her dotage, and in her bloom spurn us, Is to quench Love's bright torch, and with touchwood to burn us.

Believe me, dear maids, there's no way of evading; While ye pish, and cry nay, your roses are fading: Though your passion survive, your beauty will dwindle,

And our languishing embers can never rekindle. When bright in your zeniths we prostrate before ye, When ye set in a cloud, what fool will adore ye? Then, ye fair, be advis'd,and snatch the kind blessing, And show your good conduct by timely possessing.

ANACREONTIC.

TO CLOE DRINKING.

WHEN, my dear Cloe, you resign
One happy hour to mirth and wine,

Each glass you drink still paints your face
With some new victorious grace :
Charms in reserve my soul surprise,
And by fresh wounds your lover dies.
Who can resist thee, lovely fair!
That wit that soft engaging air!
Each panting heart its homage pays,
And all the vassal world obeys.
God of the grape, boast now no more
Thy triumphs on far Indus' shore:
Each useless weapon now lay down,
Thy tigers, car, and ivy-crown;
Give but this juice in full supplies,
And trust thy fame to Cloe's eyes.

'TO A

DISCARDED TO.1ST.

CELIA, confess 'tis all in vain,
To patch the ruins of thy face;
Nor of ill-natur'd Time complain,
That robs it of each blooming grace.
If Love no more shall bend his bow,
Nor point his arrows from thine eye,
If no lac'd fop, nor feather'd beau,
Despairing at thy feet shall die:
Yet still, my charmer, wit like thine
Shall triumph over Age and Fate;
Thy setting beams with lustre shing,
And rival their meridian height.

THE PERJURED MISTRESS.

FROM HORACE EPOD. XV. AD NERAM.

"Twas night, and Heaven intent with all its eye Gaz'd on the dear deceitful maid;

A thousand pretty things she said,
A thousand artful tricks she play'd,
From me,
deluded me, her falsehood to disguise,
She clasp'd me in her soft encircling arms,
She press'd her glowing cheek to mine,
The clinging ivy, or the curling vine,
Did never yet so closely twine;
Who could be man and bear the lustre of her charms?
And thus she swore : "C
By all the powers above,
When winter storms shall cease to roar,

When summer suns shall shine no more,
When wolves their cruelty give o'er,

Neara then, and not till then, shall cease to love."
Ah! false Neæra! perjur'd fair! but know,

I have a soul too great to bear
A rival's proud insulting air,
Another may be found as fair,

[you.

As fair, ungratefu! nymph! and far more just than Shouldst thou repent, and at my feet be laid, Dejected, penitent, forlorn,

And all thy former follies mourn,

Thy proffer'd passion I would scorn:

The gods shall do me right on that devoted head. And you, spruce sir, who insolently gay,

Exulting, laugh at my disgrace,

Boast with vain airs, and stiff grimace, Your large estate, your handsome face, Proud of a fleet'ng bliss, the pageant of a day: You too shall soon repent this haughty scorn; When fickle as the sea or wind,

The prostitute shall change her mind,

To such another coxcomb kind;

Then shall I clap my wings, and triumph in my turn

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO SPENT THE NIGHT IN TEARS, UPON A REPORT
THAT HER BROTHER WAS TO FIGHT A DUEL THE
NEXT MORNING.

PASTORA Weeps, let every lover mourn,
Her grief is no less fatal than her scorn:
Those shining orbs inflict an equal pain,
O'erflown with tears, or pointed with disdain.
When doubts and fears invade that tender breast,
Where peace, and joy, and love should ever rest;
As flowers depriv'd of the Sun's genial ray,
Earthward we bend, and silently decay;
In spight of all philosophy can do,
Our hearts relent, the bursting torrents flow,
We feel her pains, and propagate her woe.
Each mournful Muse laments the weeping fair,
The Graces all their comely tresses tear,
Love drags his wings, and droops his little head,
And Venus mourns as for Adonis dead.

Patience, dear maid, nor without cause complain,
O lavish not those precious drops in vain :
Under the shield of your prevailing charms,
Your happy brother lives secure from harms,
Your bright resemblance all my rage disarms.
Your influence unable to withstand,

The conscious steel drops from my trembling hand;
Low at your feet the guilty weapon lies,
The foe repents, and the fond lover dies.
Eneas thus by men aud gods pursued,
Feeble with wounds, defil'd with dust and blood;
Beauty's bright goddess interpos'd her charms,
And sav'd the hopes of Troy from Grecian arms.

TO DR. M

READING MATHEMATICS.

VAIN our pursuits of knowledge, vain our care,
The cost and labour we may justly spare.
Death from this coarse alloy refines the mind,
Leaves us at large t' expatiate uncontin'd;
All science opens to our wondering eyes,
And the good man is in a moment wise.

FROM MARTIAL.

EPIG. XLVII.

WOULD you, my friend, find out the true receipt,
To live at ease, and stem the tide of Fate;
The grand elixir thus you must infuse,
And these ingredients to be happy chuse :
First an estate, not got with toil and sweat,
But unencumber'd left, and free from debt:
For let that be your dull forefather's care,
To pinch and drudge for his deserving heir;
Fruitful and rich, in land that 's sound and good,
That fills your barns with corn, your hearth with wood;
That cold nor hunger may your house infest,
While flames invade the skies, and pudding crowns
A quiet mind, serene, and free from care, [the feast.
Nor puzzling on the bench, nor noisy at the bar;
A body sound, that physic cannot mend;
And the best physic of the mind, a friend,
Equal in birth, in humour, and in place,
Thy other self, distinguish'd but by face;
Whose sympathetic soul takes equal share
Of all thy pleasure, and of all thy care.
A modest board, adorn'd with men of sense,
No French ragouts, nor French impertinence,
A merry bottle to engender wit,

Not over-dos'd, but quantum sufficit:
Equal the errour is in each excess,
Nor dulness less a sin, than drunkenness.
A tender wife dissolving by thy side,
Easy and chaste, free from debate and pride,
Each day a mistress, and each night a bride.
Sleep undisturb'd, and at the dawn of day,
The merry horn, that chides thy tedious stay;
A horse that 's clean, sure-footed, swift, and sound,
And dogs that make the echoing clifts resound;
That sweep
the dewy plains, out-fly the wind,
And leave domestic sorrows far behind.
Pleas'd with thy present lot, nor grudging at the past,
Not fearing when thy time shall come, nor hoping
for thy last.

D.

TO A GENTLEMAN,

WHO MARRIED HIS CAST MISTRESS.

FROM HORACE, BOOK III. ODE IX.
WHILE I was yours, and yours alone,

Proud, and transported with your charms,
I envy'd not the Persian throne,

But reign'd more glorious in your arms.

B. While you were true, nor Suky fair
Had chas'd poor Bruny from your breast;
Not Ilia could with me compare,

So fam'd, or so divinely blest.
D. In Suky's arms entranc'd I lie,

B.

So sweetly sings the warbling fair! For whom most willingly I'd die, Would Fate the gentle Syren spare. Me Billy burns with mutual fire,

For whom I'd die, in whom I live, For whom each moment I 'd expire, Might he, my better part, survive. D. Should I once more my heart resign, Would you the penitent receive? Would Suky scorn'd atone my crime; And would my Bruny own her slave? B. Though brighter he than blazing star, More fickle thou than wind or sea, With thee, my kind returning dear, I'd live, contented die with thee.

A DAINTY NEW BALLAD

OCCASIONED BY A CLERGYMAN'S WIDOW OF SEVENTE YEARS OF AGE, BEING MARRIED TO A YOUNG

EXCISEMAN,

THERE liv'd in our good town,

A relict of the gown,

A chaste and humble dame; Who, when her man of God Was cold as any clod,

Dropt many a tear in vain. But now, good people, learn all, No grief can be eternal;

Nor is it meet, I ween, That folks should always whimper, There is a time to simper,

As quickly shall be seen. For Love, that little urchin, About this widow lurching,

Had slily fix'd his dart; The silent creeping flame Boil'd sore in every vein,

And glow'd about her heart.

So when a pipe we smoke,
And from the flint provoke

The sparks that twinkling play;
The touchwood old and dry
With heat begins to fry,

And gently wastes away.

With art she patch'd up Nature,
Reforming every feature,

Restoring every grace:
To gratify her pride,
She stopp'd each cranny wide,
And painted o'er her face,

Nor red, nor eke the white,
Was wanting to invite,

Nor coral lips that pout;
But, oh! in vain she tries,
With darts to arm those eyes
That dimly squint about.
With order and with care,
Her pyramid of hair

Sublimely mounts the sky; And, that she might prevail, She bolster'd up her tail,

With rumps three stories high. With many a rich perfume, She purify'd her room,

As there was need, no doubt;
For on these warm occasions,
Offensive exhalations

Are apt to fly about.
On beds of roses lying,
Expecting, wishing, dying,
Thus languish'd for her love
The Cyprian queen of old,
As merry bards have told,
All in a myrtle grove.
In pale of mother church,
She fondly hop'd to lurch,

But, ah me! hop'd in vain;
No doctor could be found,
Who this her case profound

Durst venture to explain. At length a youth full smart, Who oft by magic art

Had div'd in many a hole; Or kilderkin, or tun, Or hogshead, 'twas all one, He'd sound it with his pole. His art, and eke his face, So suited to her case, Engag'd her love-sick heart; Quoth she, my pretty Diver, With thee I'll live for ever, And from thee never part. For thee my bloom reviving, For thee fresh charms arising, Shall melt thee into joy; Nor doubt, my pretty sweeting, Ere nine months are compleating, To see a bonny boy.

As ye have seen, no doubt,

A candle when just out,

In flames break forth again;

So shone this widow bright,
All blazing in despight

Of threescore years and ten.

She reign'd with undisputed right

A priestess of St. Cattern 1.

Each sprightly soph, each brawny thrum,
Spent his first runnings here;

And hoary doctors dribbling come,
To languish and despair.

Low at her feet the prostrate arts
Their humble homage pay;
To her the tyrant of their hearts,
Each bard directs his lay.

But now, when impotent to please,
Alas! she would be doing;
Reversing Nature's wise decrees,
She goes herself a-wooing.

Though brib'd with all her pelf, the swain
Most aukwardly complies;
Press'd to bear arms, he serves in pain,
Or from his colours flies.

So does an ivy, green when old,
And sprouting in decay,

In juiceless, joyless arms infold
A sapling young and gay.
The thriving plant, if better join'd,
Would emulate the skies;
But, to that wither'd trunk confin'd,
Grows sickly, pines, and dies.

HUNTING-SONG.

BEHOLD, my friend, the rosy-finger'd Mor,

With blushes on her face

Peeps o'er yon azure hill;
Rich gems the trees enchase,

Pearls from each bush distil,

Arise, arise, and hail the light new-born.

207

Hark! hark! the merry horn calls, come away:
Quit, quit thy downy bed;

Break from Amynta's arms;
Oh! let it ne'er be said,

That all, that all her charms,

Though she 's as Venus fair, can tempt thy stay.
Perplex thy soul no more with cares below,
For what will pelf avail !

Thy courser paws the ground,
Each beagle cocks his tail,

They spend their mouths around,

While health, and pleasure, smiles on every brow.

Try, huntsmen, all the brakes, spread all the plain,
Now, now, she 's gone away,
Strip, strip, with speed pursue;
The jocund god of day,

Who fain our sport would view,

See, see, he flogs his fiery steeds in vain.

Pour down, like a flood from the hills, brave boys,

HORACE RECOMMENDS A COUNTRY LIFE, AND DISSUADES
HIS FRIEND FROM AMBITION AND AVARICE.

HEALTH to my friend lost in the smoky town,
From him who breathes in country air alone,
In all things else thy soul and mine are one;
And like two aged long acquainted doves, [loves.
The same our mutual hate, the same our mutual
Close, and secure, you keep your lazy nest,
My wandering thoughts won't let my pinions rest:
O'er rocks, seas, woods, I take my wanton flight,
And each new object charms with new delight.
To say no more, my friend, I live, and reign,
Lord of myself: I 've broke the servile chain,
Shook off with scorn the trifles you desire,
All the vain empty nothings fops admire.
Thus the lean slave of some fat pamper'd priest
With greedy eyes at first views each luxurious feast;
But, quickly cloy'd, now he no more can eat
Their godly viands, and their holy meat:
Wisely ambitious to be free and poor,
Longs for the homely scraps he loath'd before.
Seek'st thou a place where Nature is observ'd,
And cooler Reason may be mildly heard;
To rural shades let thy calm soul retreat,
These are th' Elysian fields, this is the happy seat,
Proof against winter's cold, and summer's heat.
Here no invidious care thy peace annoys,
Sleep undisturb'd, uninterrupted joys;
Your marble pavement with disgrace must yield
To each smooth plain, and gay enamel'd field:
Your muddy aqueducts can ne'er compare
With country streams, more pure than city air;
Our yew and bays enclos'd in pots ye prize,
And mimic little beauties we despise.
The rose and woodbine marble walls support,
Holly and ivy deck the gaudy court:
But vet in vain all shifts the artist tries,
The discontented twig but pines away and dies.
The house ye praise that a large prospect vields,
And view with longing eyes the pleasure of the fields;

'Tis thus ye own, thus tacitly confess,
Th' inimitable charms the peaceful country bless.
In vain from Nature's rules we blindly stray,
And push th' uneasy monitrix away:

Still she returns, nor lets our conscience rest,
But night and day inculcates what is best,
Our truest friend though an unwelcome guest.
As soon th' unskilful fool that's blind enough,
To call rich Indian damask Norwich stuff,
Shail become rich by trade; as he be wise,
Whose partial soul and undiscerning eves
Can't at first sight, and at each transient view,
Distinguish good from bad, or false from true.
He that too high exalts his giddy head
When Fortune smiles, if the jilt frowns, is dead:
Th' aspiring fool, big with his haughty boast,
Is the most abject wretch when all his hopes are lost.
Sit loose to all the world, nor aught admire,
These worthless toys too fondly we desire;
Since when the darling's ravish'd from our heart,
The pleasure's over-balanc'd by the smart.
Confine thy thoughts, and bound thy loose desires,
For thrifty Nature no great cost requires:
A healthful body, and thy mistress kind,
An humble cot, and a more humble mind:
These once enjoy'd, the world is all thy own,
From thy poor cell despise the tottering throne,
And wakeful monarchs in a bed of down.
The stag well arm'd, and with unequal force,
From fruitful meadows chas'd the conquer'd horse ;
The haughty beast that stomach'd the disgrace,
In meaner pastures not content to graze,
Receives the bit, and man's assistance prays.
The conquest gain'd, and many trophies won,
His false confederate still rode boldly on;
In vain the beast curs'd his perfidious aid,
He plung'd, he rear'd, but nothing could persuade
The rider from his back, or bridle from his head.
Just so the wretch that greedily aspires,
Unable to content his wild desires;
Dreading the fatal thought of being poor,
Loses a prize worth all his golden ore,
The happy freedom he enjoy'd before.
About him stil th' uneasy load he bears,

Spur'd on with fruitless hopes, and curb'd with anrjous fears.

The man whose fortunes fit not to his mind,
The way to true content shall never find;
If the shoe pinch, or if it prove too wide,
In that he walks in pain, in this he treads aside.
But you, my friend, in calm contentment live,
Always well pleas'd with what the gods shall give;
Let not base shining nelf thy mind deprave,
Tyrant of fools, the wise man's drudge and slave;
And me reprove if I s' all crave for more,
Or seem the least uueasy to be poor.
Thus much I write, merry, and free from care,
And nothing covet, but thy presence here.

THE MISER'S SPEECH.

FROM HORACE, EVOD. II.

Happy the man, who, free from care,
Manures his own paternal fields,
Content, as his wise fathers were.
T enjoy the crop his labour yields:

Nor usury torments his breast,

That barters happiness for gain, Nor war's alarms disturb his rest,

Nor hazards of the faithless main: Nor at the loud tumultuous bar,

With costly noise, and dear debate, Proclaims an everlasting war;

Nor fawns on villains basely great. But for the vine selects a spouse,

Chaste emblem of the marriage-bed, Or prunes the too luxuriant boughs,

And grafts more happy in their stead. Or hears the lowing herds from far, That fatten on the fruitful plains, And ponders with delightful care,

The prospect of his future gains.

Or shears his sheep that round him graze,
And droop beneath their curling loads;
Or plunders his laborious bees

Of balmy nectar, drink of gods!
His chearful head when Autumn rears,
And bending boughs reward his pains,
Joyous he plucks the luscious pears,

The purple grape his finger stains.
Each honest heart 's a welcome guest,
With tempting fruit his tables glow,
The gods are bidden to the feast,

To share the blessings they bestow. Under an oak's protecting shade,

In flowery meads profusely gay, Supine he leans his peaceful head,

And gently loiters life away.

The vocal streams that murmuring flow,
Or from their springs complaining creep,
The birds that chirp on every bough,
Invite his yielding eyes to sleep.

But, when bleak storms and lowering Jove
Now sadden the declining year,
Through every thicket, every grove,
Swift he pursues the flying deer.

With deep-hung hounds he sweeps the plains;
The hills, the vallies, smoak around:

The woods repeat his pleasing pains,
And Echo propagates the sound.

Or, push'd by his victorious spear,
The grisly boar before him flies,
Betray'd by his prevailing fear

Into the toils, the monster dies.
His towering falcon mounts the skies,
And cuts through clouds his liquid way;
Or else with sly deceit he tries

To make the lesser game his prey.
Who, thus possess'd of solid joy,

Would Love, that idle imp, adore?
Cloe 's coquet, Myrtilla 's coy,
And Phyllis is a perjur'd whore.
Adieu, fantastic idle flame !

Give me a profitable wife,
A careful, but obliging dame,
To soften all the toils of life:
Who shall with tender care provide,

Against her weary spouse return,
With plenty see his board supply'd,
And make the crackling billets burn:
VOL. XI.

And while his men and maids repair
To fold his sheep, to milk his kime,
With unbought dainties feast her dear,
And treat him with domestic wine.

I view with pity and disdain

The costly trifles coxcombs boast,
Their Bourdeaux, Burgundy, Champaign,
Though sparkling with the brightest toast.
Pleas'd with sound manufacture more,
Than all the stum the knaves impose,
When the vain cully treats his whore,

At Brawn's, the Mitre, or the Rose.
Let fops their sickly palates please,
With luxury's expensive store,
And feast each virulent disease
With dainties from a foreign shore.

I, whom my little farm supplies,
Richly on Nature's bounty live;
The only happy are the wise,

Content is all the gods can give.
While thus on wholesome cates I feast,
Oh! with what rapture I behold
My flocks in comely order haste

T'enrich with soil the barren fold!
The languid ox approaches slow,

To share the food his labours earn;
Painful he tugs th' inverted plough,
Nor hunger quickens his return.
My wanton swains, uncouthly gay,
About my smiling hearth delight,
To sweeten the laborious day,

By many a merry tale at night.
Thus spoke old Gripe, when bottles thre
Of Burton ale, and sea-coal fire,
Unlock'd his breast: resolv'd to be
A generous, honest, country squire.
That very night his money lent,

On bond, or mortgage, he call'd in,
With lawful use of six per cent :
Next morn, he put it out at ten.

For prog and plunder scour'd the plains, Some French Gens d'Armes surpris'd, and beat, And brought their trumpeter in chains. In doleful plight, th' unhappy bard For quarter begg'd on bended knee, "Pity, Messieurs! In truth tis hard To kill a harmless enemy. "These hands, of slaughter innocent, Ne'er brandish'd the destructive sword, To you or yours no hurt I meant,

O take a poor musician's word."

But the stern foe, with generous rage, "Scoundrel !" reply'd, "thou first shalt die,

Who, urging others to engage,

From fame and danger basely fly.

P