ހ And how does mifs and madam do, The little boy and all?' All tight and well. And how do you, The dinner comes, and down they fit: One wipeshis nofe upon his fleeve, Yet, not to give offence or grieve, The punch goes round, and they are dull Like barrels with their bellies full, At length the bufy time begins. Come, neighbours, we maft wag-' The money chinks, down drop their chins, One talks of mildew and of froft, And one of ftorms of hail, And one of pigs, that he has loft Quoth one, A rarer man than you In pulpit none shall hear : But yet, methinks, to tell you true, You fell it plaguy dear.' Oh, why are farmers made fo coarse, A kick, that scarce would move a horse, Then let the boobies ftay at home; Lefs trouble taking twice the fum, Without the clowns that pay. SONNET ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, Esq. On his emphatical and interefting Delivery of the Defence of Warren Haftings, Efq. in the Houfe of Lords. COWPER, whofe filver voice, tasked fometimes hard, Legends prolix delivers in the ears (Attentive when thou readeft) of England's peers, Let verfe at length yield thee thy juft reward. Thou waft not heard with drowsy difregard, Expending late on all that length of plea Thy generous powers, but filence honoured thee Mute as ever gazed on Orator or Bard. Thou art not voice alone, but haft befide 1 Both heart and head; and couldft with mufic sweet Of Attic phrafe and fenatorial tone, Like thy renowned forefathers, far and wide Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet Of others' fpeech, but magic of thy own. Lines addreffed to DR. DARWIN, AUTHOR OF "THE BOTANIC GARDEN." Two Poets,* (poets, by report, Not oft fo well agree) Sweet Harmonift of Flora's court! They best can judge a poet's worth, The pangs of a poetic birth By labours of their own. We therefore pleafed extol thy song, Rich in embellishment as ftrong, No envy mingles with our praife, They would-they must at thine. Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied thefe lines. But we, in mutual bondage knit With an unjaundiced eye; And deem the Bard, whoever he be, And howfoever known, Who would not twine a wreath for Thee, ON MRS. MONTAGUE's FEATHER-HANGINGS. THE birds put off their every hue To drefs a room for Montague. The Peacock fends his heavenly dyes, His rainbows and his starry eyes; The Pheafant, plumes, which round infold And, river-blanched, the Swan, his fnow. |