In sooth, the sorrow of such days When he that takes, and he that pays, Now all unwelcome at his gates And well he may, for well he knows So in they come each makes his leg, And flings his head before, And looks as if he came to beg, And not to quit a score. "And how does miss and madam do, "The little boy, and all?" "All tight and well. And how do you "Good Mr. What-d'ye-call?" The dinner comes, and down they sit One wipes his nose upon his sleeve, Yet not to give offence or grieve, Holds up the cloth before. The punch goes round, and they are dull And lumpish still as ever; Like barrels with their bellies full, They only weigh the heavier. At length the busy time begins, The money chinks, down drop their chins, One talks of mildew and of frost, And one of storms of hail, And one of pigs, that he has lost By maggots at the tail. Quoth one, "A rarer man than you "In pulpit none shall hear : "But yet, methinks, to tell you true, O why are farmers made so coarse A kick that scarce would move a horse, May kill a sound divine. Then let the boobies stay at home; SONNET ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ. On his emphatical and interesting delivery of the defence of Warren Hastings, Esq. in the House of Lords. COWPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard Legends prolix delivers in the ears, (Attentive when thou read'st,) of England's peers, Let vorse at length yield thee thy just reward. Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard, Expending late on all that length of plea Thy gen'rous pow'rs, but silence honour'd thee, Mute as e'er gaz'd on orator or bard. Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside Both heart and head; and couldst with musick sweet Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide LINES, ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN, Author of "The Botanick Garden" TWO Poets,* (poets by report, Sweet harmonists of Flora's court! They best can judge a poet's worth We therefore pleas'd extol thy song No envy mingles with our praise, At They would they must at thine. But we in mutual bondage kni And deem the Bard, whoo'er he be, And howsoever known, Who would not twine a a wreath for Thee, Unworthy of his own, Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which companied these lines ON MRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER HANG INGS. THE Birds put off their ev'ry hue, The Peacock sends his heavenly dyes, Shall drench again or discompose, But, screen'd from every storm that blows, To this same patroness resort, Strong Genius, from whose forge of thought |