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TO CLOE DRINKING,
Shouldt thou repent, and at my feet be laid,
Dejected, penitent, forlorn,
Thy proffer'd passion I would scorn :
The gods shall do me right on that devoted head One happy hour to mirth and wine,
And you, spruce fir, who insolently gay, Each glass you drink fill paints your face
Exulting, laugh at my disgrace, With some new vidtorious grace :
Boast with vain airs, and stiff grimace, Charm in reserve my soul surprise,
Your large eftate, your handsome face, And by fresh wounds your lover dies.
Proud of a fleeting bliss, the pageant of a day: Who can relift thee, lovely fair! That wit! that soft engaging air !
You too shall soon repent this haughty scorn ;
When, fickle as the sea or wind, Each panting heart its homage pays,
The prostitute fall change her mind, And all the vallal world obeys.
To such another coxcomb kind; (tura. God of the grape, boast now no more
Then shall I clap my wings, and triumph in tay
TO A YOUNG LADY,
Who spent the Night in Tears, upon a Report that ber And trust thy fame to Cloe's eyes.
Brother was to fight a Duel the next Morning. TO A DISCARDED TOAST.
PASTORA Weeps, let every lover mourn,
Her grief is no less fatal than her scorn: CELIA, confess 'eis all in vain,
Those shining orbs inflict an equal pain, To patch the ruins of thy face;
O'erflown with tears, or pointed with disdaia. Nor of ill-natur'd time complain,
When doubts and fears invade the tender breat, That robs it of cach blooming grace.
Where peace, and joy; and love fhould ever rek;
As flowers depriv'd of the sun's genial ray, If love no more shall bend his bow,
Earthward we bend, and filently decay; Nor point his arrows from thine eye,
In spight of all philosophy can do, If no lac'd fop, nor feather'd beau,
Our hearts relent, the bursting torrents flow, Despairing at thy feet shall die:
We feel her pains, and propagate her woe. Yet still, my charmer, wit like thine
Each mournful muse laments the weeping fair, Shall triumph over age and fate ;
The graces all their comcly trefles tear, Thy setting beams with lustre shine,
Love drags his wings, and droops his little head, And rival their meridian height.
And Venus mourns as for Adonis dead. Beauty, fair flower! soon fades away,
Patience, dear maid, nor without cause complain, And transient are the joys of love;
O lavish not those precious drops in vain : But wit, and virtue, ne'er decay,
Under the shield of your prevailing charms, Ador'd below, and bless'd above.
Your happy brother lives fecure from harms,
Your influence unable to withstand,
The conscious steel drops from my trembling hand; From Horace, Epod. xv. ad Neeram. Low at your feet the guilty weapon lies, 'Twas night, and heaven intent with all its eyes
The foe repents, and the fond lover dies. Gaz'd on the dear deceitful maid;
Æneas thus by men and gods pursued, A thousand pretty things the said,
Fecble with wounds, defil'd with duit and blood A thousand artful tricks the play'd,
Beauty's brighe goddess interpos'd her charms, From me, deluded me, her falsehood to disguise.
And lay'd the hopes of Troy from Grecian arms. She clafp'd me in her soft encircling arms,
TO DR. M-
Vain our pursuits of knowledge, vain our care, And thus the swore : by all the powers above, Death from this coarse alloy refines the mind,
When winter storms shall cease to roar, Leaves us at large e' czpatiate unconfin'd;
When wolves their cruelty give o'er, And the good mau is in a moment wife.
The grand elixir thus you must infuse,
B. Though brighter he than blazing kar, And these ingredients to be happy choose :
More fickle thou than wind or fea,
I'd live, contented die with thee.
A DAINTY NEW BALLAD:
age, being married to a young Exciséman. That cold nor hunger may your house infest,
THERE liv'd in our good town, While flames invade the skies, and pudding crowns
A relick of the gown, the feast.
A chaste and humble dame;
Who, when her man of God
Dropt many a tear in vain.
But now, good people, learn all,
No grief can be eternal; 'Thy other self, distinguish'd but by face;
Nor is it meet, I ween, Whose sympathetic soul takes equal share
That folks should always whimper,
There is a time to fimper,
As quickly shall be seen.
For love, that little urchin, Not over-dos'd, but quantum fufcit :
About this widow lurching, Equal the error is in each excess,
Had lily fix'd his dart; Nor dullness less a sin, than drunkenness.
The filent creeping flame
Boild sore in every vein,
So when a pipe we smoke,
With are the patch'd up nature,
Reforming every feature, Nor fearing when thy time hall come, nor hop
Restoring every grace : ng for thy lat.
To gratify her pride,
She lopp'd each cranny wides
And painted o'er her face.
Nor red, nor cke'ihe white,
Was wanting to invite,
Nor coral lips tha: pout;
But, oh, in vain she tries: Proud, and transported with your charms,
With darts to arm those eyes I envy'd not the Persian throne,
That dimly fquint about. But reign'd more glorious in your arms.
With order and with care, B. While you were true, nor Suky fair
Her pyramid of hair Had chas'd poor Brony frotn your breatt;
Sublimely mounts the sky; Not llia could with me compare,
And, that she might prevail,
She bolster'd up her tail, So fam'd, or lo divinely bicft.
With rumps three sterics high. D. In Suky's arms entranc'd I lie,
With many a rich perfume, So sweetly fings the warbling fair !
She purify'd her room, For whom mot willingly I'd die,
As there was need, no doubt; Would face the gentie Syren spare.
For on these warm occasions, B. Me Billy burns with mutual fire,
Offensive exhalations For whom I'd die, in whom I live,
Are apt to fiy about. For whom each moment I'd expire,
On beds of roses lying, Might he, my better part, survive.
Expecting, wishing, dying, D. Should I once more my heart resign,
Thus langush'd for her love Would you the penitent receive ?
The Cyprian queen of old, Would Suky scorn' acone my crime ?
As merry bards have told, And would iny Brusy one her dave
All in a myrtle grove.
In pale of mother church,
In juiceless, joyless arms infold She fondly hop'd to lurch,
A sapling young and gay. But, ah me! hop'd in vain;
The thriving plant, if better join'd, No doctor could be found,
Would emulate the skies; Who this her casc profound
But, to that wither'd trunk confin'd,
Grows (ickly, pines, and dies.
Berold, my friend, the rosy-finger'd mort,
With blushes on her face,
Pceps o'er yon azure hill;
Rich gems the trees cochase, His art, and eke his face,
Pearls from each bush distil, So fuited to her case,
Arise, arise, and hail the light new-born.
Hark! hark! the merry horn calls, Come away:
Quit, quit the downy bed;
Break from Amynta's arnis; And from thee never part.
Oh, let it ne'er be said, For thee my bloom reviving,
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 ! To see a bonny boy.
Thy courser paws the ground,
Each beagle cocks his tail, As ye have seen, no doubt,
They spend their mouths around, A candle when just out,
While health, and pleasure, smiles on every brow.
Try, huntsmen, all the brakes, spread all the plain,
she's All blazing in despight
gone away, Of thrcescore years and ten.
Strip, Itrip, with fpeed pursue ;
Who fain our sport would view,
See, see, he flogs his fiery steeds in vain.
On the wings of the wind
The merry bcagles fly; To blait Canidia's face,
Dull forrow lags behind : Which once 'twas rapture to behold)
Ye shrill echoes, reply; With wrinkles and disgrace.
Catch each flying found, and double our joys. Not so in blooming beauty bright,
Ye rocks, woods, and caves, our music repeat: Each envying virgin's pattern,
The bright spheres thus above, She reign'd with undisputed right
A gay refulgent train, A * priestess of St. Cartern.
Harmoniously move, Each sprightly soph, each brawny thrum;
O'er yon celestial plain Spent his first runniogs here;
Like us whirl along, in concert fo sweet. And hoary doctors dribbling come,
Now Pufs threads the brakes, and heavily flies; To languish and despair.
At the head of the pack Low at her feet the proftrate arts
Old Fidler beats the bell, Their humble homage pay;
Every foil he hunts back, To her the tyrant of their hearts,
And aloud rings her knell, Each bard directs his lay.
Till, forc'd into view, the pants, and the dies. But now, when impotent to please,
lo life's dull round thus we toil, and we (west; Alas! she would be doing ;
Diseases, grief, and pain, Reversing nature's wife decrees,
An implacable crew, herself a-wooing.
While we double in vain, Though bribid with all her pelf, the fwaia
Unrelenting pursue, Most awkwardly complies;
Till, quite hunted down, we yield with regret. Press’d to hear arms, he serves in pain,
This moment is ours, come live while we may, Or from his colours flies.
What's decreed by dark fate
Is not in our own power, So does an ivy, green when old,
Since to-morrow's too late, And sprouting in decay ;
Take the present kind hour: * She was bar-koeper ei tbe Cattern-wheel in Oxford. I With wine cheer the night, as sports bless the day
UPON THE SAME.
Since when the darling's ravith'd from our heart, A TRANSLATION OF HORACE, EP. X. The pleasure's over-balanc'd by the finart.
Confine thy thoughts, and bound thy loose defires, Horace recommends a Country Life, and diffuades bis For thrifty nature no great cost requires : Friend from t'mbition and Avarice.
A healthy body, and thy mistress kind,
A humble cot, and a more huinble mind : Healti to my friend loft in the smoky town,
These once enjoy'd, the world is all thy own, From him who breathes in country air alone,
From thy poor cell despise the tottering throne, In all things else thy soul and mine are one;
And wakeful monarchs in a bed of down. And like two aged long acquainted doves,
The stag well-arn’d, and with unequal force, The same our mutual hate, the same our mutual
From fruitful meadows chas'd the conquer'd horses loves,
The haughty beast that stomach'd the disgrace, Close, and secure, you keep your lazy neft,
In meaner pastures not content to graze, My wandering thoughts won't let my pinions rest:
Receives the bit, and man's all lance prays. O'er rocks, seas, woods, I take my wanton flight,
The conquest gain'd, and many trophies won, And each new object charms with new delight, His faise confederate still rude boldly on; To say no more, my friend, I live, and reign,
In vain the beast curs d his perfidious aid, Lord of myself : I've broke the servile chain,
He plung'd, he rear'd, but nothing could perShook off with scorn the trifles you desire,
suade All the vain empty pothings fops admire.
The rider from his back, or bridle from his head. Thus the lean Nave of some fat pamper'd priest Just fo the wretch that greedily aspires, With greedy eyes at first views each luxurious Unable to content his wild desires; feast;
Dreading the fatal thought of being poor, But, quickly cloy’d, now he no more can eat
Lofes a prize worth all his golden ore, Their godly viands, and their holy meat :
The happy freedom he enjoy'd before. Wisely ambitious to be free and poor,
About him ftill ch'unea!y load he bears, Longs for the homely scraps be loth'd before.
Sparr’d on with fruitless hopes, and curbid wich Seekit thou a place where nature is observ'd,
anxious fears, And cooler reason may be mildly heard ; The man whofc fortune fit not to his mind, To rural shades let thy calm soul retreat,
The way to true content shall never find; These are th'Elysian fields, this is the happy seat,
If the shoe pinch, or if it prove too wide, Proof against winter's cold, and summer's hear,
In that he walks in pain, in this he treads afide. Here no invidious care thy peace annoys, But you, my friend, in calm contentment live, T Sleep undisurbid, uninterrupted joys;
Always well pleas'd with what the god, fhallgive; Your marble pavements with ditgrace must yield Let nor base ihining peli thy niind deprave, To each smooth plain, and gay enamel'd field :
Tyrant of fools, the wise man's drudge and lave; Your miuddy aqueducts can ne'er compare And me reprove if I shall crave for more, With country streams, more pure than city air ;
Or seem the least uneasy to be poor.
And nothing covet, but thy presence here.
THE MISER'S STEECH.
FROM HORACE, E POD. I And view with longing eyes the plealure of the Happs the man, who, free from care, fiel is;
Manures his own paternal litlus, 'Tis thus ye own, thus tacitly confess,
Content, as his wife fathers were,
That bartero happiness for gain,
Nor war’s alarms duturb his relt,
Nor hazards of the faithlef main :
Nor at the loud tumukuous bar,
With coftly noise, and dear deba:e, Shall become rich by trade, as he be wise,
Proclaims an evcilalıng war; Whole partial foul and undiscerning eyes
Nur suwne un viliains bufely great. Can't at firit fight, and at each tranficet view,
Bue for the vine fele&: a spouse, D.ftinguith good from bad, or falic from true.
Chatte emblema of the narriage-bed,
Or prunes che tuo luxuriant boughs,
The prospect of bis future gains,
Or shears his sheep that round him graze, Let fops their lickly palates please,
With luxury's expensive fore,
And feast each virulent disease Of balmy nectar, drink of gods!
With dainties from a foreign shore. His cheerful head when Autunın rears,
1, whom my little farm fupplies, And bending boughs reward his pains,
Richly on nature's bounty live; Joyous he plucks the luscious pears,
The only happy are the wife, The purple grape his finger itains.
Content is all the gods can give. Each honest heart's a welcome guest,
While thus on wholesome cates 1 fealt, With tempting fruit his tables glow,
Oh, with what rapture I behold The gods are bidden to the sealt,
My flocks in comely order halte To share the bleslings they beltow.
T'enrich with soil the barren fold! Under an oak's proteding shade,
The languid ox approaches flow, In flowery meads profusely gay,
To share the food his labours earn; Supine he leans his peaceful head,
Painful he tugs th' inverted plough, And gently loiters life away.
Nor hunger quickens his return. The vocal streams that murmuring flow,
My wanton swains, uncouchly gay, Or from their springs complaining creep,
About my smiling hearth delight, The birds that chirp on every bough,
To sweeten the laborious day,
By many a merry tale at night.
Of Burton ale, and fea-coal fire,
Unlock'd his breast ; refolv'd to be
A generous, honest, country 'squire.
On bond, or mortgage, he call'd in,
With lawful use of six per cent. And echo propagates the found.
Next morn, he put it out at ten. Or, puli'd by his victorious fpear,
FABLE I. The grilly boar before him Hies,
The Captive Trumpeter. Betray'd by his prevailing fear
Quo non præstantior alter Into the toils, the monster dies.
“ Æreciere viros, Martemque accendere cantu. His towering falcon mounts the skies,
VIRG. And cuts through clouds his liquid way; A PARTY of huTirs of late Or else with sly deccit he tries
For prog and plunder scour'd the plains, To make the leffer game prey.
Some French Gens d'Armes surpris'd, and began Wlio, thus poffef,'d of solid joy,
And brought their trumpeter in chains. Would love, that idie imp, adore ?
In doleful plight, th' unhappy bard Clee's coquet, Myrtilla's coy,
For quarter begg'd on bended knee, And Phyllis is a perjur'd whore.
Pity, Meffieurs! In truth 'cis hard Adieu, fantastic idle Alame!
To kill a harmless enemy. Give me a profitable wife,
These hands, of flaughter innocent, A careiul, bue obliging dame,
Ne'er brandish'd the destructive (word, To sofren all the toils of life :
To you or yours no hurt I meant, W'ho shall with tender care provide,
O take a poor musician's word. Against het weary fpouse return,
But the stern foe, with generous rage, With plenty see his board supply'd,
Scoundrel! reply'd, thou first shalt dies And niake the crackling billets burn :
Who, urging others to engage, And while his men and maids repair
From fame and danger barely fiy. To fold his sheep, to milk his kine,
The brave by law of arms we fparc, With unbought dainties fcat her dear,
Thou by the hangman halt espire; And treat him with domestic wine,
'Tis just, and not at all severe,
To stop the breath that blew the fire.
Tbebald-Pated Welfman, and the Fls. Though sparkling with the brightest toast.
- Qui non moderabitur ira, Pleas'd with found manufa&ture more,
“ Infectum volet clie, dolor quod fualerit Than all the sum the knaves impose,
“ Dum pænas odio per vim feftinat inulto." When the vain cully creats his whore,
Hoe At Drawn's, the lisce, or the Roit.
A 'SQUIRE of Wales, whose blood ran higher