TO A FRIEND.
HAVE you ne'er seen, my gentle squire,
The humours of your kitchen fire?
Says Ned to Sal, "I lead a spade,
Why don't ye play ?-the girl's afraid-
Play something-any thing-but play-
'Tis but to pass the time away-
Phoo-how she stands-biting her nails-
As though she play'd for half her vails-
Sorting her cards, haggling and picking-
We play for nothing, do us, chicken?—
That card will do--'blood never doubt it,
It's not worth while to think about it."
Sal thought and thought, and miss'd her aim, And Ned, ne'er studying, won the game.
Methinks, old friend, 't is wondrous true,
That verse is but a game at loo.
While many a bard, that shows so clearly
He writes for his amusement merely,
Is known to study, fret, and toil;
And play for nothing all the while:
Or praise at most; for wreaths of yore
Ne'er signified a farthing more:
Till, having vainly toil'd to gain it,
He sees your flying pen obtain it.
Through fragrant scenes the trifler roves,
And hallow'd haunts that Phoebus loves;
Where with strange heats his bosom glows,
And mystic flames the god bestows.
You now none other flame require,
Than a good blazing parlour fire;
Write verses-to defy the scorners,
In shit-houses and chimney-corners.
Sal found her deep-laid schemes were vain-
The cards are cut-" Come deal again-
No good comes on it when one lingers--
I'll play the card comes next my fingers-"
Fortune could never let Ned loo her,
When she had left it wholly to her.
Well, now who wins?-why, still the sameFor Sal has lost another game. "I've done ;" (she mutter'd) It did not argufy my playing. Some folks will win. they cannot choose, But think or not think-some must lose. have won a game or soBut then it was an age ago
It ne'er will be my lot again
I won it of a baby then
Give me an ace of trumps and see,
Our Ned will beat me with a three.
'Tis all by luck that things are carried-
He'll sufler for it, when he's married."
Thus Sal, with tears in either eye;
While victor Ned sat tittering by.
Thus I, long envying your success, And bent to write and study less, Sate down, and scribbled in a trice, Just what you see-and you despise.
You, who can frame a tuneful song, And hum it as you ride along; And, trotting on the king's high-way, Snatch from the hedge a sprig of bay; Accept this verse, howe'er it flows, From one that is your friend in prose.
What is this wreath, so green! so fair! Which many wish, and few must wear? Which some men's indolence can gain, And some men's vigils ne'er obtain ? For what must Sal or poet sue, Ere they engage with Ned or you? For luck in verse-for luck at loo? Ah no! 't is genius gives you fame, And Ned, through skill, secures the game.
THE POET AND THE DUN. These are messengers That feelingly persuade me what I am. COMES a dun in the morning and raps at my door"I made bold to call-'tis a twelvemonth and more— I'm sorry, believe me, to trouble you thus, sir,— But Job would be paid, sir, had Jobbeen a mercer." "My friend, have but patience"-" Aye, these are your ways."
"I've got but one shilling to serve me two daysBut, sir-pry'thee take it, and tell your attorney, If I ha'n't paid your bill, I have paid for your journey."
Well, now thou art gone, let me govern my passion,
And calmly consider-consider? vexation! What whore that must paint, and must put on false locks,
And counterfeit joy in the pangs of the pox! What beggar's wife's nephew, now starv'd, and now beaten,
Who, wanting to eat, fears himself shall be eaten ! What porter, what turnspit, can deem his case hard!
Or what dun boast of patience that thinks of a bard! Well, I'll leave this poor trade, for no trade can be
Turn shoe-boy, or courtier, or pimp, or procurer;
Get love, and respect, and good living, and pelf,
And dun some poor dog of a poet myself.
One's credit, however, of course will grow better;
Here enters the footman, and brings me a letter.
"Dear sir! I receiv'd your obliging epistle,
Your fame is secure-bid the critics go whistle.
I read over with wonder the poem you sent me;
And I must speak your praises, no soul shall pre-
The audience, believe me, cried out every line Was strong, was affecting, was just, was divine; All pregnant, as gold is, with worth, weight, and beauty,
And to hide such a genius was-far from your duty. I foresee that the court will be hugely delighted: Sir Richard, for much a less genius, was knighted. Adieu, my good friend, and for high life prepare ye; I could say much more, but you're modest, I'spare ye."
Quite fir'd with the flattery, I call for my paper, And waste that, and health, and my time, and my
I scribble till morn, when, with wrath no small store, Comes my old friend the mercer, and raps at my door.
"Ah! friend, 't is but idle to make such a pother, Fate, Fate has ordain'd us to plague one another.”
WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY. To thee, fair Freedom! I retire
From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;
Nor art thou found in mansions higher
Than the low cot, or humble inn.
'Tis here with boundless power I reign;
And every health which I begin,
Converts dull port to bright champaigne;
Such freedom crowns it, at an inn.
I fly from pomp, I fly from plate !
I fly from Falsehood's specious grin ;
Freedom I love, and form I hate,
And choose my lodgings at an inn.
Here, waiter! take my sordid ore,
Which lacqueys else might hope to win;
It buys, what courts have not in store;
It buys me freedom at an inn.
Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found
The warmest welcome at an inn.
WHAT Village but has sometimes seen
The clumsy shape, the frightful mien,
Tremendous claws, and shagged hair,
Of that grim brute yclept a bear?
He from his dam, the learn'd agree,
Receiv'd the curious form you see;
Who, with her plastic tongue alone,
Produc'd a visage-like her own-
And thus they hint, in mystic fashion,
The powerful force of education 1–
Perhaps yon crowd of swains is viewing
E'en now, the strange exploits of Bruin;
Who plays his antics, roars aloud;
The wonder of a gaping crowd!
So have I known an awkward lad,
Whose birth has made a parish glad,
Forbid, for fear of sense, to roam,
And taught by kind mamma at home;
Who gives him many a well-tried rule,
With ways and means-to play the fool.
In sense the same, in stature higher,
He shines, ere long, a rural squire,
Pours forth unwitty jokes, and swears,
And bawls, and drinks, but chiefly stares:
His tenants of superior sense
Carouse, and laugh, at his expense;
And deem the pastime I'm relating
To be as pleasant as bear-baiting.
THE CHARMS OF PRECEDdence.
A TALE.
SIR, will you please to walk before?" "No, pray, sir-you are next the door." "Upon mine honour, I'll not stir-❞ "Sir, I'm at home, consider, sir—” "Excuse me, sir, I'll not go first." "Well, if I must be rude, I mustBut yet I wish I could evade it"T is strangely clownish, be persuaded→→→→ Go forward, cits! go forward, squires! Nor scruple each what each admires. Of a fond matron's education.
Life squares not, friends, with your proceeding;
It flies, while you display your breeding;
Such breeding as one's granam preaches,
Or some old dancing-master teaches.
O for some rude tumultuous fellow,
Halfcrazy, or, at least, half mellow,
To come behind you unawares,
And fairly push you both down stairs!
But Death's at hand-let me advise ye,
Go forward, friends! or he'll surprise ye,
Besides, how insincere you are!
Do ye not flatter, lie, forswear,
And daily cheat, and weekly pray,
And all for this-to lead the way?
Such is my theme, which means to prove,
That though we drink, or game, or love,
As that or this is most in fashion,
Precedence is our ruling passion.
When college-students take degrees,
And pay the beadle's endless fees,
What moves that scientific body,
But the first cutting at a gaudy?
And whence such shoals, in bare conditions,
That starve and languish as physicians,
Content to trudge the streets, and stare at
The fat apothecary's chariot,
But that, in Charlotte's chamber (see
Moliere's "Medicin malgré lui")
The leech, howe'er his fortunes vary,
Still walks before th' apothecary?
Flavia in vain has wit and charms,
And all that shines, and all that warms;
In vain all human race adore her,
For-Lady Mary ranks before her.
O Celia, gentle Celia ! tell us,
You who are neither vain nor jealous;
The softest breast, the mildest mien !
Would you not feel some little spleen,
Nor bite your lip, nor furl your brow,
If Florimel, your equal now,
Should, one day, gain precedence of ye?
First serv'd-though in a dish of coffee?
Plac'd first, although, where you are found,
You gain the eyes of all around?
Nam'd first, though not with half the fame
That waits my charming Celia's name?
Hard fortune! barely to inspire
Our fixt esteem, and fond desire!
Barely, where'er you go, to prove
The source of universal love!-
Yet be content, observing this,
Honour's the offspring of Caprice:
And Worth, howe'er you have pursued it,
Has now no power-but to exclude it.
You'll find your general reputation
A kind of supplemental station.
Poor Swift, with all his worth, could ne'er, He tells us, hope to rise a peer;
So, to supply it, wrote for fame:
And well the wit secur'd his aim.
A common patriot has a drift
Not quite so innocent as Swift:
In Britain's cause he rants, he labours;
"He's honest, 'faith”—have patience, neigh bours!
For patriots may sometimes deceive,
May beg their friends' reluctant leave
To serve them in a higher sphere,
And drop their virtue to get there.-
As Lucian tells us, in his fashion,
How souls put off each earthly passion,
Ere on Elysium's flowery strand Old Charon suffer'd them to land; So, ere we meet a court's caresses,
No doubt our souls must change their dresses:
And souls there be, who, bound that way,
Attire themselves ten times a day.
If then 't is rank which all men covet,
And saints alike and sinners love it:
If place, for which our courtiers throng
So thick, that few can get along;
For which such servile toils are seen,
Who's happier than a king?-a queen.
Howe'er men aim at elevation,
'Tis properly a female passion:
Women, and beaux, beyond all measure
Are charm'd with rank's ecstatic pleasure.
Sir, if your drift I rightly scan,
You'd hint a beau was not a man:
Say, women then are fond of places;
I wave all disputable cases,
A man perhaps would something linger,
Were his lov'd rank to cost-a finger;
Or were an ear or toe the price on 't,
He might deliberate once or twice on 't;
Perhaps ask Gataker's advice on 't,
And many, as their frame grows old,
Would hardly purchase it with gold.
But women wish precedence ever :
'Tis their whole life's supreme endeavour;
It fires their youth with jealous rage,
And strongly animates their age.
Perhaps they would not sell out-right,
Or maim a limb-that was in sight;
Yet on worse terms they sometimes choose it;
Nor e'en in punishments refuse it.
Pre-eminence in pain! you cry,
All fierce and pregnant with reply.
But lend your patience and your ear,
An argument shall make it clear.
But hold, an argument may fail,
Beside, my title: says a tale.
Where Avon rolls her winding stream,
Avon, the Muses' favourite theme!
Avon, that fills the farmers' purses,
And decks with flowers both farms and verses,
She visits many a fertile vale-
Such was the scene of this my tale.
For 't is in Evesham's vale, or near it,
That folks with laughter tell and hear it.
The soil with annual plenty blest
Was by young Corydon possest.
His youth alone I lay before ye,
As most material to my story:
For strength and vigour too, he had them,
And 't were not much amiss to add them.
Thrice happy lout! whose wide domain
Now green with grass, now gilt with grain,
In russet robes of clover deep,
Or thinly veil'd and white with sheep;
Now fragrant with the bean's perfume,
Now purpled with the pulse's bloom,
Might well with bright allusion store me;
-But happier bards have been before me!
Amongst the various year's increase,
The stripling own'd a field of pease;
Which, when at night he ceas'd his labours,
Were haunted by some female neighbours.
Each morn discover'd to his sight
The shameful havoc of the night:
Traces of this they left behind them,
But no instructions where to find them.
The Devil's works are plain and evil,
But few or none have seen the Devil.
Old Noll, indeed, if we may credit
The words of Echard, who has said it,
Contriv'd with Satan how to fool us,
And bargain'd face to face to rule us;
But then old Noll was one in ten,
And sought him more than other men.
Our shepherd too, with like attention,
May meet the female fiends we mention.
He rose one morn at break of day,
And near the field in ambush lay:
When lo! a brace of girls appears,
The third, a matron much in years.
Smiling, amidst the pease, the sinners
Sate down to cull their future dinners;
And, caring little who might own them,
Made free as though themselves had sown them.
'Tis worth a sage's observation
How Love can make a jest of Passion.
Anger had fore'd the swain from bed,
His early dues to Love unpaid!
And Love, a god that keeps a pother,
And will be paid one time or other,
Now banish'd Anger out of door,
And claim'd the debt withheld before,
If Anger bid our youth revile,
Love form'd his features to a smile:
And knowing well 't was all grimace,
To threaten with a smiling face,
He in few words express'd his mind—
And none would dem them much unkind.
The amorous youth, for their offence,
Demanded instant recompence:
That recompence from each, which shame
Forbids a bashful Muse to name.
Yet, more this sentence to discover,
"I was what Bet ** grants her lover,
When he, to make the strumpet willing,
Has spent his fortune-to a shilling.
Each stood a while, as 't were suspended,
And loth to do, what-each intended.
At length, with soft pathetic sighs,
The matron, bent with age, replies—
""Tis vain to strive-Justice, I know,
And our ill stars will have it so-
But let my tears your wrath assuage,
And show some deference for age!
I from a distant village came,
Am old, God knows, and something lame;
And if we yield, as yield we must,
Dispatch my crazy body first."
Our shepherd, like the Phrygian swain,
When circled round on Ida's plain
With goddesses he stood suspended,
And Pallas's grave speech was ended,
Own'd what she ask'd might be his duty;
But paid the compliment to Beauty.
TO BE PERFORMED BY DR. BRETILE, AND A CHORUS OP HALES-OWEN CITIZENS.
The Instrumental Part, a Viol d' Amour.
AIR BY THE DOCTOR.
AWAKE' I say, awake, good people!
And be for once alive and gay;
CUPID AND PLUTUS.
WHEN Celia, love's eternal foe,
To rich old Gomez first was married, And angry Cupid came to know
His shafts had err'd, his bow miscarried;
He sigh'd, he wept, he hung his head,
On the cold ground, full sad, he laid him;
When Plutus, there by Fortune led,
In this desponding plight survey'd him.
"And sure," he cried, "you'll own at last
Your boasted power by mine exceeded:
Say, wretched boy, now all is past,
How little she your efforts heeded.
"If with success you would assail,
Gild, youngster, doubly gild your arrows:
Little the feather'd shafts avail,
Though wing'd from Mamma's doves and spar
"What though each reed, each arrow grew Where Venus bath'd herself; depend on't, 'T were more for use, for beauty too,
A diamond sparkled at the end on't." "Peace, Plutus, peace!"-the boy replied; "Were not my arts by yours infested, I could each other power deride, And rule this circle unmolested. "See yonder pair! no worldly views
In Chloe's generous breast resided: Love bade her the spruce valet choose, And she by potent love was guided. "For this she quits her golden dreams, In her gilt coach no more she ranges: And her rich crimson, bright with gems, For cheeks impearl'd with tears, she changes. "Though sordid Celia own'd your power, Think not so monstrous my disgrace is: You gain'd this nymph-that very hour I gain'd a score in different places,"
EPILOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF CLEONE.
WELL, ladies so much for the tragic style-
And now the custom is to make you smile.
To make us smile!-methinks I hear you say—
Why, who can help it, at so strange a play?
The captain gone three years!-and then to blame
The faultless conduct of his virtuous dame!
My stars!-what gentle belle would think it treason,
When thus provok'd, to give the brute some reason?
Out of my house!-this night, forsooth, depart!
A modern wife had said-"With all my heart—
But think not, haughty sir, I'll go alone!
Order your coach-conduct me safe to town-
Give me my jewels, wardrobe, and my maid-
And pray take care my pin-money be paid."
Such is the language of each modish fair;
Yet memoirs, not of modern growth, declare
The time has been when modesty and truth
Were deem'd additions to the charms of youth;
When women hid their necks, and veil'd their faces,
Nor romp'd, nor rak'd, nor star'd at public places,
Nor took the airs of Amazons for graces:
Then plain domestic virtues were the mode,
And wives ne'er dreamt of happiness abroad;
They lov'd their children, learnt no flaunting airs,
But with the joys of wedlock mix'd the cares.
Those times are past-yet sure they merit praise,
For marriage triumph'd in those golden days:
By chaste decorum they affection gain'd;
By faith and fondness what they won, maintain'd.
'Tis yours, ye fair, to bring those days again,
And form anew the hearts of thoughtless men;
Make Beauty's lustre amiable as bright,
And give the soul, as well as sense, delight;
Reclaim from folly a fantastic age,
That scorns the press, the pulpit, and the stage.
Let truth and tenderness your breasts adorn,
The marriage chain with transport shall be worn;
Each blooming virgin rais'd into a bride,
Shall double all their joys, their cares divide;
Alleviate grief, compose the jars of strife,
And pour the balm that sweetens human life.
THE JUDGMENT OF HERCULES. WHILE blooming Spring descends from genial skies, By whose mild influence instant wonders rise; From whose soft breath Elysian beauties flow, The sweets of Hagley, or the pride of Stowe ; Will Lyttelton the rural landscape range, Leave noisy Fame, and not regret the change? Pleas'd will he tread the garden's early scenes, And learn a moral from the rising greens? There, warm'd alike by Sol's enlivening power, The weed, aspiring, emulates the flower: The drooping flower, its fairer charms display'd, Invites, from grateful hands, their generous aid: Soon, if none check th' invasive foe's designs, The lively lustre of these scenes declines.
"Tis thus the spring of youth, the morn of life, Rears in our minds the rival seeds of strife. Then passion riots, reason then contends; And on the conquest every bliss depends:
Life, from the nice decision, takes its hue:
And blest those judges who decide like you!
On worth like theirs shall every bliss attend:
The world their favourite, and the world their friend.
There are, who, blind to Thought's fatiguing ray,
As Fortune gives examples, urge their way:
Nor Virtue's foes, though they her paths decline,
And scarce her friends, though with her friends they
In hers, or Vice's casual roads advance [join,
Thoughtless, the sinners or the saints of Chance!
Yet some more nobly scorn the vulgar voice;
With judgment fix, with zeal pursue their choice,
When ripen'd Thought, when Reason, born to reign,
Check the wild tumults of the youthful vein;
While Passion's lawless tides, at their cominand,
Glide through more useful tracts, and bless the laud,
Happiest of these is he whose matchless mind,
By learning strengthen'd, and by taste refin'd,
In Virtue's cause essay'd its earliest powers;
Chose Virtue's paths, and strew'd her paths with
flowers.
The first alarm'd, if Freedom waves her wings:
The fittest to adorn each art she brings:
Lov'd by that prince whom every Virtue fires:
Prais'd by that bard whom every Muse inspires:
Blest in the tuneful art, the social flame;
In all that wins, in all that merits fame:
'Twas youth's perplexing stage his doubts inspir'd,
When great Alcides to a grove retir'd.
Through the lone windings of a devious glade,
Resign'd to thought, with lingering steps he stray'd;
Blest with a mind to taste sincerer joys,
Arm'd with a heart each false one to despise,
Dubious he stray'd, with wavering thoughts possest,
Alternate passions, struggling, shar'd his breast;
The various arts which human cares divide,
In deep attention all his mind employ'd:
Anxious, if Fame an equal bliss secur'd,
Or silent Ease with softer charms allur'd.
The sylvan choir, whose numbers sweetly flow'd,
The fount that murmur'd, and the flowers that
The silver flood that in meanders led
His glittering streams along th' enliven'd mead;
The soothing breeze, and all those beauties join'd,
Which, whilst they please, effeminate the mind,
In vain! while distant, on a summit rais'd,
Th' imperial towers of Fame attractive blaz'd.
While thus he trac'd through Fancy's puzzling
The separate sweets of pleasure and of praise;
Sudden the wind a fragrant gale convey'd,
And a new lustre gain'd upon the shade.
At once, before his wondering eyes were seen
Two female forms of more than mortal mien.
Various their charms; and in their dress and face
Each seem'd to vie with some peculiar grace.
This, whose attire less clogg'd with art appear'd,
The simple sweets of innocence endear'd.
Her sprightly bloom, her quick sagacious eye,
Show'd native merit, mix'd with modesty.
Her air diffus'd a mild but awful ray,
Severely sweet, and innocently gay.
Such the chaste image of the martial maid,
In artless folds of virgin white array'd!
She let no borrow'd rose her cheeks adorn,
Her blushing cheeks that sham'd the purple morn.
Her charms nor had, nor wanted artful foils,
Or studied gestures, or well-practis'd smiles.
She scorn'd the toys which render beauty less :
She prov'd th' engaging chastity of dress;
And while she chose in native charms to shine,
E'en thus she seem'd, nay more than seem'd, divine,
One inodest emerald clasp'd the robe she wore,
And in her hand th' imperial sword she bore.
Sublime her height, majestic was her pace,
And match'd the awful honours of her face.
The shrubs, the flowers, that deck'd the verdant
ground,
Seem'd, where she trod, with rising lustre crown'd.
Still her approach with stronger influence warm'd;
She pleas'd, while distant; but, when near, she
charm'd.
So strikes the gazer's eye, the silver gleam
That glittering quivers o'er a distant stream:
But from its banks we see new beauties rise,
And in its crystal bosom trace the skies.
With other charms the rival vision glow'd;
And from her dress her tinsel beauties flow'd.
A fluttering robe her pamper'd shape conceal'd,
And seem'd to shade the charms it best reveal'd.
Its form, contriv'd her faulty size to grace;
Its hue, to give fresh lustre to her face.
Her plaited hair disguis'd with brilliants glar'd;
Her cheeks the ruby's neighbouring lustre shar'd;
The gaudy topaz lent its gay supplies,
And every gem that strikes less curious eyes;
Expos'd her breast with foreign sweets perfum'd;
And round her brow a roseate garland bloom'd.
Soft smiling, blushing lips conceal'd her wiles;
Yet, ah! the blushes ariful as the smiles.
Oft gazing on her shade, th' enraptur'd fair
Decreed the substance wel? deserv'd her care:
Her thoughts, to others' charins malignly blind,
Centred in that, and were to that confin'd:
And if on others' eyes a glance were thrown,
'Twas but to watch the influence of her own.
Much like her guardian, fair Cythera's queen,
When for her warrior she refines her mien;
Or when, to bless her Delian favourite's arins,
The radiant fair invigorates her charms:
Much like her pupil, Egypt's sportive dame,
Her dress expressive, and her air the same,
When her gay bark o'er silver Cydnos rolld,
And all th' emblazon'd streamers wav'd in gold.
Such shone the vision; nor forbore to move
The fond contagious airs of lawless love.
Each wanton eye deluding glances fir'd,
And amorous dimples on each cheek conspir'd.
Lifeless her gait, and slow, with seeming pain
She dragg'd her loitering limbs along the plain;
Yet made some faint efforts, and first approach'd
So glaring draughts, with tawdry lustre bright,
Spring to the view, and rush upon the sight:
More slowly charms a Raphael's chaster air,
Waits the calm search, and pays the searcher's care.
Wrapp'd in a pleas'd suspense, the youth survey'd
The various charms of each attractive maid;
Alternate each he view'd, and each admir'd,
And found, alternate, varying flames inspir'd.
Quick o'er their forms his eyes with pleasure ran,
When she who first approach'd him, first began :
"Hither, dear boy, direct thy wandering eyes
'Tis here the lovely vale of pleasure lies.
Debate no more, to me thy life resign;
Each sweet which Nature can diffuse is mine:
For me the nymph diversifics her power,
Springs in a tree, or blossoms in a flower;
To please my ear, she tunes the linnet's strains;
To please my eye, with lilies paints the plains;
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