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Tell phisick of her bouldness
Tell skill it is pretension ;
Tell charity of couldness ;
Tell law it is contention.
And if they yield replye,
Then give them still the lye.
Tell fortune of her blindness
Tell nature of decay ;
Tell friendship of unkindness;
Tell justice of delay.
And if they do replye,
Then give them all the lye.
Tell artes they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeminge;
Tell skollers lack profoundness,
And stand too much on seeminge.
If artes and sooles replye,
Give artes and skooles the lye.
So, when thou hast, as I
Commanded the, done blabbing;
Althoughe to give the lye
Deserves no lesse than stabbing ;
Yet stabb at the whose will,
No stabb the soul can kill.
An EPISTLE to Lord COBH A M.
In allufion to HORACE, Book I. Epist. 4.
By Mr. CONGREV E.
Incerest critick of my prose or rhyme,
Tell how thy pleasing Stow employs thy time :
Say, COBHAM, what amuses thy retreat ?
Or schemes of war, or stratagems of state?
Dost thou recall to mind, with joy or grief,
Great MARLBRO's actions, that immortal chief,
Whose slightest trophies, rais'd in each campaign,
More than suffic'd to signalize a reign?
Doth thy remembrance rising warm thy heart
With glories past, where thou thyself hadît part?
Or dost thou grieve indignant now to see
The fruitless end of all thy victory;
To see th' audacious foe, so late fubdued,
Dispute those terms, for which so long they sued ?
As if Britannia now were sunk so low,
To beg that peace she wonted to bestow.
Be far that guilt, be never known such shame,
That England should retract her rightful claim,
Or, ceasing to be dreaded and ador’d,
Stain with the pen ihe lustre of the fword !
Or dost thou fix thy mind on rural scenes,
To turn the levelld lawns to liquid plains;
To raise the creeping rills from humble beds ;
And force the latent springs to lift their heads;
On wat’ry columns capitals to rear,
That mix their flowing curls with upper air?
Or dost thou weary grown these works neglect,
No temples, ftatues, obelisks erect;
But seek the morning breeze from fragrant meads,
Or shun the noontide sun in wholesome shades;
Or flowly walk along the mazy wood,
To meditate on all that's great and good ?
For nature bountiful in thee hath join'd
A pleasing person with a worthy mind;
Nor giv’n thee form alone, but means and art
To draw the eye, and to allure the heart.
Poor were the praise in fortune to excel,
Yet want the means to use that fortune well.
While thus adorn’d, while thus with virtue crown'd,
At home in peace, abroad in arms renown'd,
Graceful in form, and winning in address,
While well you think what aptly you express,
While health, with honour, with a fair estate,
A table free and elegantly neat,
What can be added more of mortal bliss ?
What can he want who stands pofsest of this:
What can the fondest wishing mother more
Of heaven attentive for her son implore ?
And yet an happiness remains unknown,
Or to philofophy reveal'd alone;
A precept, which unpractis'd renders vain
Thy glowing hopes, and pleasure turns to pain,
Should hope or fear thy breast alternate tear,
Or love, or hate, or rage, or anxious care;
Whatever passions may thy mind infest,
(And where's the mind that passions ne'er molest?)
Amid the pangs of such intestine strife
Still think the present day the last of life,
Defer not 'till to-morrow to be wise :
To-morrows sun to thee
Or should to-morrow chance to chear thy fight
With her enliv'ning and unlook'd for light,
How grateful will appear her dawning rays,
As favours unexpected doubly please!
Who thus can think, and who such thoughts pursues,
Content may keep his life, or calmly lose.
Of this a proof thou mayst thyself receive ;
When leisure from affairs will give thee leave.
Come see thy friend, retir'd without regret,
Forgetting cares, or trying to forget;
In easy contemplation soothing time
With morals much, and now and then with rhyme;
Not so robust in body as in mind,
And always undejected, tho' declin’d;
Not wond’sing at the world's new wicked ways,
Compar'd with those of our forefather's days :
For virtue now is neither more nor less,
And vice is only varied in the dress.
Believe men have ever been the fame,
And all the golden age is but a dream.
Spoken to Queen CAROLINE in
By Mr. FREIND, Son to the late Dr. John FREIND.
OULD all that passes in my breast be seen,
Whilst thus I bow before a gracious queen,
What gratitude would here, what joy appear,
What sense of honour mixt with awful fear!
'Tis from your grace desire of merit flows,
And as my years encrease, the ardour grows.
So the young plant on which your honour'd name
My father gravid, and bid me mark that tree,
Extends its branches, and aspires to fame,
And year by year advancing calls on me :
For well he knew what duty, love, and fire
Your sacred name, your presence can inspire.
RECITAT I V E.
YLVIA, the most contented of her kind,
Remain’d in joyless widowhood resign'd:
In vain to gain her ev'ry shepherd strove,
Each passion ebb’d, but grief, which drowned love.
RECITAT I V E.
She said:--A youth approach'd of manly grace,
A fon of MARs and of th' Hibernian race:
In Aow'ry rhetorick he no time employ'd,
He came ------he wood, he wedded and enjoy'd.