Lady. WHAT! Virgil in London ?-'twill never

go down

He'll meet but a sorry reception in town;

His manners are coarse, and his language, you know
(As Dryden translates), is exceedingly low;
An old fashion'd poet, whose obsolete rhymes
Will ne'er suit the taste of these whimsical times;
Unlike Thomas Little, all pathos and passion,
A Bard, that, I'm sure, will be always in fashion!
But what hieroglyphics are these that I see?—
Lord F- with a dash, and the Countess of D—,
No scandal, I hope.-

Author.

Not a stroke of ill-nature,

All sober hilarity, good-humour'd satire ;

My Muse, no prim quakeress, straight, and tightlac'd

Will, I hope, prove a nymph to your Ladyship's

taste.

Lady. But why thus confine your poetical rage? Give scope to your talents, and write for the stage; 'Tis a second-hand task o'er the classics to pore, And Virgil has had his translators before. Author. The Stage!-'twere in vain for your poet to try,

No half-witted melo-dramatist am I.

Lady. Write a poem in Erse

Author.

And provoke the Reviews!

What! rival the chaste Caledonian Muse?

Lady. Then conjure up Spirits, and boldly advance

A champion for fame in the field of Romance; Try Politics-they've been the fashion of late!Turn critic-but ne'er condescend to translate.

Author. Though pedants may rail, though the learned may frown,

Still Virgil shall make his appearance in town.

A masquerade, pic-nic, a grand city ball,

A Carlton House fête, or a squeeze at Vauxhall, The play-house, the park, and occasional news, Shall furnish right popular themes for his Muse. How like you the thought?

Lady.

Why, the subject is witty,

"Tis a novel idea, and exceedingly pretty!

For Virgil to sing, when he travels from home,

The fashions of London as well as of Rome.-
The grave with the gay, you must skilfully blend;
If dull, you will tire; if severe, you'll offend;
Be cautious, and take the advice of a friend.

Author. Ye Critics! before whose tribunal severe,

As a dutiful bard, I am bound to appear;
To a poet be merciful once in your lives,

And

spare him the smarts of your critical knives! If sometimes, a truant from classical rules,

His muse take a license unknown to the schools, Reflect, Alma-mater is nothing to him,

A laughing disciple of frolic and whim;

Nor scalp a poor author for trifles like these,

Who strives to amuse, and whose aim is to please.

ECLOGUE I.

THE RETIRED CITIZEN TO HIS FRIEND IN TOWN.

Fortunate Senex, hic inter flumina nota,
Et fontes sacros, frigus captabis opacum.

VIRGIL, ECLOGA I.

WHILE you, M-, fond of noise and strife,
Endure the bustle of a city life,

Content with Mopsa, your enamour'd bride,
To breathe the smoky vapours of Cheapside;
I, far remov'd from busy scenes like these,
Enjoy the morning sun, the evening breeze,
To rural prospects unrepining go,
While life has yet some pleasures to bestow.

Let sordid misers ev'ry art employ
In heaping gold for others to enjoy ;
Ket sober cits, resolv'd to take a trip,
Give once a year their customers the slip,
And rashly dare (anticipating joy)
The ten-fold horrors of a Margate hoy;

Let them, good folks! forsake the town in droves,

And idly stray through Dandelion's groves,

Or, proud to show a daughter's clumsy air,
Half-stifled in a ball-room, strut and stare;
Let them, in shuffling cards and throwing dice,
Expend a twelvemonth's profits in a trice,
And, cursing inwardly their journey down,
With empty pockets travel back to town ;-
Beneath a shade I take my cheerful glass,
Nor let the precious moments idly pass;
Those blissful moments, which, in age we learn
Too swiftly vanish'd, never to return.

For wealth, the most desir'd of earthly things, Is only useful for the joys it brings; And let me never tauntingly be told I simply barter'd happiness for gold. ere gouty ills, a direful train,

Let me,

Disturb my rest, and rack my joints with pain,
Or cough consumptive, when I mount the stairs,
With hollow sound, delight my greedy heirs,
Improve by mirth this remnant of my span,
And gaily cut a caper while I can;
For age is not a time for roguish tricks,
And few can dance a reel at sixty-six.
Our neighbour Gripus left his shop and till,
To breathe the purer air of Greenwich-hill,
To taste the soft delights of rural bow'rs,
But not till age had frozen all his pow'rs:

K