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Sir Traffic's name, so well applied, Awak'd his brother-merchant's pride; And Thrifty, who had all his life Paid utmost def'rence to his wife, Confess'd her arguments had reason; And by th'approaching summer season Draws a few hundreds from the stocks, And purchases his country box.

Some three or four miles out of town
(An hour's ride will bring you down)
He fixes on his choice abode,
Not half a furlong from the road;
And so convenient does it lay,
The stages pass it ev'ry day:

And then so snug, so mighty pretty,
To have a house so near the city!
Take but your places at the Boar,
You're set down at the very door.

Well then, suppose them fix'd at last,
White washing, painting, scrubbing past :
Hugging themselves in ease and clover,
With all the fuss of moving over;
Lo, a new heap of whims are bred,
And wanton in my lady's head!

Well! to be sure, it must be own'd, It is a charming spot of ground: So sweet a distance for a ride, And all about so countryfied; Twould come but to a trifling price To make it quite a paradise! I cannot bear those nasty rails, Those ugly, broken, mouldy pales: Suppose, my dear, instead of these, We build a railing all Chinese;. Altho' one hates to be expos'd, Tis dismal to be thus inclos'd; 'One hardly any objects sees'I wish you'd fell those odious trees. Objects continually passing by, Were something to amuse the eye; But to be pent within the walls, "One might as well be at St. Paul's.

Our house beholders would adore,
Was there a level lawn before,
'Nothing its views to incommode,
But quite laid open to the road;
While every traveller in amaze,
Should on our little mansion gaze;
• And, pointing to the choice retreat,
* Cry, That's Sir Thrifty's country-seat !”
No doubt her arguments prevail,
For Madam's TASTE can never fail.
Blest age! when all men inay procure
The title of a connoisseur;
When noble and ignoble herd
Are govern'd by a single word;
Tho, like the royal German dames,

It bears au hundred Christian names—
As Genius, Fancy, Judgment, Gout,
Whim, Caprice, Je ne scais quoi, Virta.
Which appellations all describe
TASTE, and the modern tasteful tribe.

Now bricklayers, carpenters, and joiners, With Chinese artists and designers,

Produce their schemes of alteration,
To work this wondrous reformation.
The useful dome, which secret stood,
Eibosom'd in the yew tree's wood,
The traveller with amazement sees
A temple Gothic or Chinese,
With many a bell and tawdy rag on,
And crested with a sprawling dragon;
A wooden arch is bent astride
A ditch of water, four feet wide,
With angels, curves and zig-zag lines,
From Halfpenny's exact designs;
In front a level lawn is seen,
Without a shrub upon the green;
Where Taste would want its first great law,
But for the skulking sly ha-ha;
By whose miraculous assistance
You gain a prospect to fields distance.
And now from Hyde-park Corner come,
The gods of Athens and of Rome.
Here squabby Cupids take their places,
With Venus, and the clumsy Graces;
Apollo there, with aim so clever,
Stretches his leaden bow for ever;
And there, without the pow'r to fly,
Stands fix'd a tip-toe Mercury.

The villa thus completely grac'd,
All own that Thrifty has a taste;
And Madam's female friends and cousins,
With common-council men by dozens,
Flock ev'ry Sunday to the seat,
To stare about them and to eat.

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On the whole it appears, and my argument | With bodies how to cloth ideas, taught;
[demn, And how to draw the picture of a thought:
With a reasoning the court will never con- Who taught the band to speak, the eye to hear
That the spectacles plainly were made for the A silent language roving far and near; [sound,
Whose softest noise outstrips loud thunder's
And spreads her accents thro' the world's vast

And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.
Then shifting his side, as a lawyer knows how,
He pleaded again in behalf of the eyes;
But what were his arguments few people know,
For the court did not think they were equally

So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn

A voice heard by the deaf, spoke by the dumb,
Whose echo reaches long, long time to come;
Which dead men speak, as well as those alive-
Tell me what Genius did this art contrive.

Decisive and clear, without one if or but-THE
That whenever the Nose put his spectacles on,
By day-light or candle-light-Eyes should be


§ 178. On the Birth Day of Shakspeare. A
Canto. Taken from his Works. BERENGER.
Natura lapsa valere, et mentis viribus excitari, et
quasi quodam divino spiritu afflari.

-PEACE to this meeting!
Joy and fair time, health and good wishes:
Now, worthy friends, the cause why we are met
Is in celebration of the day that gave
Immortal Shakspeare to this favour'd isle,
The most replenished sweet work of nature,
Which from the prime creation e'er she fram'd.
Othou divinest Nature! how thyself thou


In this thy son! form'd in thy prodigality,
To hold thy mirror up, and give the time
Its very forin and pressure! When he speaks
Each aged car plays truant at his tales,
And younger hearings are quite ravished,
So voluble is his discourse-gentle
As Zephyr blowing beneath the violet,
Not wagging its sweet head-yet as rough
(His noble blood enchaf'd) as the rude wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him stoop to th'vale.-"Tis won-

That an invisible instinct should frame him
To loyalty, unlearn'd; honour, untaught;
Civility, not seen in others; knowledge
That wildly grows in him, but yields a crop
As if it had been sown. What a piece of work!
How noble in faculty infinite in reason!
A combination and a form indeed,
Where every God did seem to set his seal!
Heaven has him now-yet let our idolatrous
Still sanctify his relics; and this day
Stand ave distinguish'd in the kalendar
To the last syllable of recorded time:
For, if we take him but for all in all,
We ne'er shall look upon his like again.

$175. The Answer.

noble art to Cadmus owes its rise
Of painting words, and speaking to the eyes
He first in wond'rous magic fetters bound
The airy voice, and stopp'd the flying sound,
The various figures, by his pencil wrought,
Gave colour form, and body to the thought

§ 176. On a Spider.

ARTIST, who underneath my table

Thy curious texture hast display'd! Who, if we may believe the fable,

Wert once a lovely blooming maid!
Insidious, restless, watchful spider, ·
Fear no othicious damsel's broom;
Extend thy artful fabric wider,

And spread thy banners round my room.
Swept from the rich man's costly ceiling,
Thou'rt welcome to my homely roof;
Here may'st thou find a peaceful dwelling,
And undisturb'd attend thy woof:
Whilst I thy wond'rous fabric stare at,
And think on hapless poet's fate;
Like thee confn'd to lonely garret,
And rudely banish'd rooms of state.
And as from out thy tortur'd body


$174. On the Invention of Letters. TELL me what Genius did the art invent,

The lively image of the voice to paint; Who first the secret how to colour sound, And to give shape to reason, wisely found;

So does he labour, like a noddy,

Thon draw'st thy siender string with pair.

To spin materials from his brain:
He for some fluttering tawdy creature,
That spreads her charins before his eye;
And that's a conquest little better

Than thine o'er captive butterfly.
Thus far 'tis plain we both agree,
Perhaps our deaths may better shew it-
Tis ten to one but penury

Ends both the spider and the poet.
177. The Extent of Cookery. SHENSTONE
-Aliusque et idem.

WHEN Tom to Cambridge first was sent,
A plain brown bob he wore,
Read much, and look'd as tho' he meant
To be a fop no more.

See him to Lincoln's Inn repair,
His resolution flag;
He cherishes a length of hair,
And tucks it in a bag.


For Coke nor Salkeld he regards,
But gets into the house;
nd soon a Judge's rank rewards
His pliant votes and bows.

dieu, ye bobs! ye bags, give place!
Full-bottoms, come instead!
Food Lord! to see the various ways
Of dressing—a calf's-head.


Slender's Ghost.


Curæ leves loquuntur, ingentes stupent. ENEATH a church-yard yew, Decay'd and worn with age, t dusk of eve, methought I spied or Slender's ghost, that whimpering cried, O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!

Ye gentle bards, give ear!
Who talk of amorous rage,
ho spoil the lily, rob the rose;
me learn of me to weep your woes!
O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!
hy should such labour'd strains
Your formal Muse engage?
ever dreamt of flame or dart,

at fir'd my breast, or pierc'd my heart,
But sigh'd, O sweet Anne Page!
d you, whose love-sick minds

No medicine can assuage,

cuse the leech's art no more,
t learn of Slender to deplore,
> sweet! O sweet Anne Page!

d you, whose souls are held
ike linnets in a cage,

10 talk of fetters, links, and chains,
end, and imitate my strains:
) sweet! O sweet Anne Page!

d you, who boast or grieve,
What horrid wars ye wage,
wounds receiv'd from inany an eye;
mean as I do when I sigh,

) sweet! O sweet Anne Page!

nce every fond conceit

Of shepherd, or of sage!

> Slender's voice, 'tis Slender's way,
presses all you have to say-
O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!

For to what class a writer may be doom'd,
When he hath shuffled off some paltry stuff,
Must give us pause. There's the respect that

Th' unwilling poet keep his piece nine years.
For who would bear th'impatient thirst of fame,
The pride of conscious merit, and, 'bove all,
The tedious importunity of friends,
Whenas himself might his quietus make
With a bare inkhorn? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and sweat under a load of wit,
But that the tread of steep Parnassus' hill
(That undiscover'd country, with whose bays
Few travellers return) puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear to live unknown,
Than run the hazard to be known and damn'd?
Thus critics do make cowards of us all;
And thus the healthful face of many a poem
Is sickiied o'er with a pale manuscript;
And enterprises of great fire and spirit
With this regard from Dodsley turn away,
And lose the name of Authors.

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Well did the generous search employ [death
Thy blooming years by virtue crown'd, though
Unseen oppress'd thee, far from home,
A helpless stranger. No familiar voice,

No pitying eye, cheer'd thy last pangs.
O worthy longest days! for thee shall flow
The pious solitary tear,
And thoughtful friendship sadden o'er thine


79. Hamlet's Soliloquy imitated. JAGO.
O print, or not to print-that is the question.
Whether 'tis better in a trunk to bury
quirks and crotchets of outrageous fancy,
end a well-wrote copy to the press,
4,by disclosing,end them. To print, to doubt
more; and by one act to say we end

HONEST William, an easy and good-natur'd

head-ach, and a thousand natural shocks§ 181. The Brewer's Coachman. TAYLOR. -cribbling phrensy-'tis a consummation outly to be wish'd. To print-to beam m the same shelf with Pope, in calf well [the rubsleep, perchance, with Quarles-Ay, there's



Would a little too oft get a little too mellow.
Body coachman was he to an eminent brewer-
No better e'er sat on a box, to be sure,

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Pereunt et imputantur.


TO-MORROW, didst thou say?
Go to-I will not hear of it-To-morrow!
Methought I heard Horatio say, To-mor
Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury

His coach was kept clean, and no mothers or § 183. To-morrow. COTTON. [his horses. Took that care of their babes that he took of He had these―ay, and fifty good qualifies more; But the business of tippling could ne'er be got So his master effectually mended the matter[o'er: By hiring a man who drank nothing but water. Now, William, says he, you see the plain case; Against thy plenty-who takes thy ready cash, Had you drank as he does, you had kept a good And pays thee nought but wishes, hopes, and place. promises, [done so, The currency of ideots-injurious bankrupt, Drink water! quoth William-had all men That gulls the easy creditor!-To-morrow! You'd never have wanted a coachman, I trow. It is a period no where to be found They're soakers, like me, whom you load with In all the hoary registers of Time,

That enable you brewers to ride in your coaches.

§ 182. Ode on the Death of Matzel, a favourite
Bullfinch. Addressed to Phillip Stanhope,
Esq. (natural Son to the Earl of Chesterfield)
to whom the Author had given the Reversion
of it when he left Dresden.
TRY not, my Stanhope, 'tis in vain,

To stop your tears, to hide your pain,
Or check your honest rage:
Give sorrow and revenge their scope,
My present joy, your future hope,
Lies murder'd in his cage.

Matzel's no more! Ye graces, loves,
Ye linnets, nightingales, and doves,
Attend th' untimely bier;
Let every sorrow he express'd,

Beat with your wings each mournful breast,
And drop the natral tear.

In height of song, in beauty's pride,
By fell Grimalkin's claws he died-

But vengeance shall have way;
On pains and tortures I'll refine;
Yet, Matzel, that one death of thine
His nine will ill repay.

For thee, my bird, the sacred Nine,
Who lov'd thy tuneful notes, shall join
In thy funereal verse:
My painful task shall be to write
Th' eternal dirge which they indite,
And hang it on thy hearse.
In vain I lov'd, in vain I mourn,
My bird, who never to return
Is fled to happier shades,
Where Lesbia shall for him prepare
The place most charming and most fair,
Of all th' Elysian glades.

There shall thy notes in cypress grove
Sooth wretched ghosts that died for love;
There shall thy plaintive strain
Lull impious Phædra's endless grief,
To Procris yield some short relief,
And soften Dido's pain:

'Till Proserpine by chance shall hear
Thy notes, and make thee all her care,
And love thee with my love;
While each attendant soul shall praise
The matchless Matzel's tuneful lays,
And all her songs approve.

Unless perchance in the fool's calendar.
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,

Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father; [less
Wrought of such stuff as dreams are, and as base
As the fantastic visions of the evening.

But soft, my friend-arrest the present mo-

For be assur'd they all are arrant tell-tales;
And tho' their flight be silent, and their path
Trackless, as the wing'd couriers of the air,
They post to heaven, and there record thy folly.
Because, tho' station'd on the important watch,
Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentine'.
Didst let them pass unnotic'd, unimprov'd.
And know, for that thou slumb'redst on the
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar [gust
For every fugitive; and when thou thus
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribuna!
Ofhood-wink'dJustice, who shall tell thy audit?

Then stay the present instant, dear Horatio,
Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings.
'Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more

Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain.
O! let it not elude thy grasp; but, like
The good old patriarch upon record,
Hold the fleet angel fast, until he bless thee.

$ 184. On Lord Cobham's Gardens. COTTOS.
IT puzzles much the sages' brains,
Where Eden stood of yore:
Some place it in Arabia's plains;
Some say, it is no more.

But Cobham can these tales confute,
As all the curious know;

For he has prov'd beyond dispute
That Paradise is Stowe.

$185. To a Child five Years old. COTTON.
FAIREST flow'r, all flow'rs excelling

Which in Eden's garden grew,
Flow'rs of Eve's embower'd dwelling
Are, my fair one, types of you.
Mark, my Polly, how the roses

Emulate thy damask cheek;
How the bud its sweets discloses ;
Buds thy opening bloom bespeak.

There, lingering round the rosy gate,
They view their fragrant cell;
Unwilling to depart that mouth
Where all the Graces dwell.

ies are, by plain direction, Emblems of a double kind; blems of thy fair complexion, Emblems of thy fairer inind.

, dear girl, both flow'rs and beauty Blossom, fade, and die away: en pursue good sense and duty, Evergreens that ne'er decay.

36. To Miss Lucy Fortescue. LYTTELTON.
VCE, by the Muse alone inspir'd,
I sung my am'rous strains:
serious love my hosom fir'd;
every tender maid, deceiv'd,
idly mournful tale believ'd
nd wept my fancied pains.
Venus now, to punish me,
or having feign'd so well,
made my heart so fond of thee,
not the whole Aonian quire
accents soft enough inspire
s real flame to tell.

7. To Mr. West*, at Wickham.

IR Nature's sweet simplicity,
With elegance refin'd,
I in thy seat, my friend, I see,
it better in thy mind.


oth from courts and all their state
ger I fly, to prove
far above a courtier's fate,
anquillity and love.

8. The Temple of the Muses. To the tess Temple.

E Muses and Graces to Phoebus plain'd,

at no more on the earth a Sappho remain'd: at their empire of wit was now at an end, d on beauty alone the Sex must depend: the Men he had giv'n all his fancy and fire, rt of healing to Armstrong, as well as his "Ivre:"

Some tuneful accents strike the sense
With soft imperfect sound;
While thousand others die within,
In their own honey drown'd.

he Grecian's high-spirit and sweetness I'll join


ith a true Roman virtue, to make it divine: our pride and my boast, thus form'd, would "you know,

ou must visit the earthlyElysium of Stowe."

Yet thro' this cloud, distinct and clear,
Sweet sense directs its dart;
And, while it seems to shun the ear,
Strikes full upon the heart.

And, at seventeen, with truth shall own
The bud of beauty's fairly blown.
Softness and sweetest innocence
Here shed their gentle influence;
Fair modesty comes in their train,
To grace her sister virtue's reign.
Then, to give spirit, taste and ease,
The sov'reign 'art, the art to please;
Good-humour'd wit, and fancy gay,
To-morrow cheerful as to-day,
Coun-The sun-shine of a mind serene,

Where all is peace within, are seen.
com-What can the grateful Muse ask more?
The gods have lavish'd all their store.
Maria shines their darling care;
Still keep her, Heaven, from every snare:
May still unspotted be her fame,
May she remain through life the same,
Unchang'd in all-except in nanic!

. To a Lady who sung in too low a l'oice. HEN beauteous Laura's gentle voice Divides the yielding air,

on her lips, the fault'ring sounds ess of joy declare.

$ 190. To Miss Wilkes, on her Birth-day, Aug. 16th, 1767. Written in France.


AGAIN I tune the vocal lay

On dear Maria's natal day.
This happy day I'll not deplore
My exile from my native shore.
No tear of mine to-day shall flow
For injur'd England's cruel woe,
For impious wounds to Freedom given,
The Muse with joy shall prune her wing;
The first, most sacred gift of Heaven:
Maria's ripen'd graces sing:

en Apollo replied, "To make you amends,

one Fair you shall see wit and virtue, good $191. To Miss Wilkes, on her Birth-day, Aug. 16th, 1768. Written in Prison. WILKES.


How shall the Muse in prison sing,
How prune her drooping ruffled wing?
Maria is the potent spell,
Ev'n in these walls, all grief to quell;
To cheer the heart, rapture inspire,
And wake to notes of joy the lyre,
The tribute verse again to pay
On this auspicious festive day.
When doom'd to quit the patriot band,
And exil'd from my native land,
Maria was my sure relief;
Her presence banish'd every grief.

⚫ Gilbert West, Esq. the author's cousin.

+ Near Croydon.

† Dr. John Armstrong, author of The Art of Preserving Health, &c.

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