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On the whole it appears, and my argument | With bodies how to cloth ideas, taught;
shews,
[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,
Nose,
Whose softest noise outstrips loud thunder's
And spreads her accents thro' the world's vast
round;

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

wise.

So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone,

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

§ 175. The Answer.

Decisive and clear, without one if or but-THE noble art to Cadmus owes its rise That whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By day-light or candle-light-Eyes should be shut.

§ 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
blazon'st

In this thy son! form'd in thy prodigality,
To hold thy mirror up, and give the time
Its very form and pressure! When he speaks
Each aged ear 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-
derful

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.

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 confin'd to lonely garret,
And rudely banish'd rooms of state.
And as from out thy tortur'd body
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

[fancy§

$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;

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.

Not

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BENEATH

a church-yard yew,

Decay'd and worn with age,

At dusk of eve, methought I spied

Poor Slender's ghost, that whimpering cried,
O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!
Ye gentle bards, give ear!
Who talk of amorous rage,
Who spoil the lily, rob the rose;
Come learn of me to weep your woes!
O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!
Why should such labour'd strains
Your formal Muse engage?

I never dreamt of flame or dart,
That fir'd my breast, or pierc'd my heart,
But sigh'd, O sweet Anne Page!
And you, whose love-sick minds

No medicine can assuage,
Accuse the leech's art no more,
But learn of Slender to deplore,

O sweet! O sweet Anne Page! And you, whose souls are held

Like linnets in a cage,

Who talk of fetiers, links, and chains,
Attend, and imitate my strains:

O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!
And you, who boast or grieve,

What horrid wars ye wage,

Of wounds receiv'd from many an eye;
Yet mean as I do when I sigh,

O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!
Hence every fond conceit

Of shepherd, or of sage!

'Tis Slender's voice, 'tis Slender's way, Expresses all you have to say

O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!

$179. Hamlet's Soliloquy imitated. JAGO.
To print, or not to print-that is the question.
Whether 'tis better in a trunk to bury
The quirks and crotchets of outrageous fancy,
Or send a well-wrote copy to the press,
And, by disclosing,end them. To priat, to doubt
No more; and by one act to say we end
The head-ach, and a thous and natural shocks
Of scribbling phrensy-'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To print-to beam
From the same shelf with Pope, in calf well

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'
makes

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 pate manuscript ;
And enterprises of great fire and spirit
With this regard from Dodsley turn away,
And lose the name of Authors.

$180. To the Memory of George Lewis Langton, Esq.who died on hisTravels to Rome. SHIPLEY. LANGTON, dear partner of my soul,

Accept what pious passion meditates
To grace thy fate. Sad memory,
And grateful love and impotent regret.
Shall wake to paint thy gentle mind,

| The wise good-nature, friendship delicate;
In secret converse, native mirth
And sprightly fancy, sweet artificer
Of social pleasure; nor forgot

The noble thirst of knowledge and fair fame
That led thee far through foreign climes
Inquisitive: but chief the pleasant banks
Of Tiber, ever-honour'd stream,
Detain'd thee visiting the last remains
Of ancient art; fair forms exact

In sculpture, columns, and the mould ring bulk
Of theatres. In deep thought wrapp'd
Of old renown, thy mild survey'd the scenes
Delighted where the first of inen
Once dwelt, familiar; Scipio, virtuous chief,
Stern Cato, and the patriot mind
Of faithful Brutus, best philosopher.

Well did the generous search employ [death
Thy blooming years by virtue crown'd, though
Cnveen oppress'd thee, far from horne,
A helpiess stranger. No familiar voice,
No pitying eye, cheer'd thy last pangs.
O worthy longest days! for thee shall flow
The pious solitary tear,
[urn.
And thoughtful friendship sadden o'er thine

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Would a little too oft get a little too mellow. [the rub - Body coachman was he to an eminent brewer To sleep, perchance, with Quarles-Ay, there's No better e'er sat on a box, to be sure,

bound:

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His

His coach was kept clean, and no mothers or § 183. To-morrow. COTTON.

nurses

[his horses.

Pereunt et imputantur.

[row.

Took that care of their babes that he took of He had these―ay, and fifty good qualifies more; TO-MORROW, didst thou say? But the business of tippling could ne'er be got Go to-I will not hear of it-To-morrow! Methought I heard Horatio say, To-mor So his master effectually mended the matter [o'er: "Tis a sharper, who stakes his penury By hiring a man who drank nothing but water. Against thy plenty-who takes thy ready cash, Now, William, says he, you see the plain case; And pays thee nought but wishes, hopes, and Had you drank as he does, you had kept a good promises, [done so, place. Drink water! quoth William-had all men You'd never have wanted a coachman, I trow. They're soakers, like me, whom you load with It reproaches,

That enable you brewers to ride in your coaches.

WILLIAMS.

That gulls the easy creditor!-To-morrow!
The currency of ideots-injurious bankrupt,

is a period no where to be found
In all the hoary registers of Time,
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
Unless perchance in the fool's calendar.
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,

But soft, my friend-arrest the present mo meats;

§ 182. Ode on the Death of Matzel, a favourite Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father; [less Bullfinch. Addressed to Phillip Stanhope, Esq. (natural Son to the Earl of Chesterfield Wrought of such stuff as dreams are, and as baseto whom the Author had given the Reversion As the fantastic visions of the evening. of it when he left Dresden. TRY not, my Stanhope, 'tis in vain, Το 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.

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 [gur
For every fugitive; and when thou thus
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal
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
precious

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.

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Lilies are, by plain direction,
Emblems of a double kind;
Emblems of thy fair complexion,
Emblems of thy fairer mind.

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

§ 186. To Miss Lucy Fortescue. LYTTELTON.
ONCE, by the Muse alone inspir'd,

I sung my am'rous strains:
No serious love my bosom fir'd;
Yet every tender maid, deceiv'd,
The idly mournful tale believ'd
And wept my fancied pains.
But Venus now, to punish me,
For having feign'd'so well,
Has made my heart so fond of thee,
That not the whole Aonian quire
Can accents soft enough inspire
Its real flame to tell.

187. To Mr. West*, at Wickham↑.

AIR Nature's sweet simplicity,

1740.

LYTTELTON.

With elegance refin'd,

Vell in thy seat, my friend, I see,

But better in thy mind.

o both from courts and all their state Eager I fly, to prove

oys far above a courtier's fate,

Tranquillity and love.

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

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

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.

$ 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,

WILKES.

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:

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,

188. The Temple of the Muses. To the Coun-The sun-shine of a mind serene,

tess Temple.

THE Muses and Graces to Phoebus com-
plain'd,

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

When Apollo replied, "To make you amends,
In one Fair you shall see wit and virtue, good

friends:

'The Grecian's high-spirit and sweetness I'll "join

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

* You must visit the earthly Elysium of Stowe."

$189. To a Lady who sung in too low a Voice.
WHEN beauteous Laura's gentle voice
Divides the yielding air,
Fix'd on her lips, the fault'ring sounds
Excess of joy declare.

Where all is peace within, are seen.
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 name!

}

$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 coufin.
+ Near Croydon.
Dr. John Armstrong, author of The Art of Preserving Health, &c.
3 C4

Pleasure

Pleasure came smiling in her train,
And chas'd the family of Pain.
Let lovers every charm admire,
The easy shape, the heav'nly fire
That from those modest beaming eyes
The captive heart at once surprise.
A Father's is another part;
I praise the virtues of the heart,
And wit so elegant and free,
Attemper'd sweet with modesty.
And may kind Heaven a lover send
Of sense, of honour, and a friend,
Those virtues always to protect,
Those beauties-never to neglect!

$192. An Ode in imitation of Alcaus. SIR WILLIAM JONES. [mound, Not high-rais'd battlements or labour'd Thick wall or moated gate; [crown'd; Not cities proud, with spires and turrets Not bays and broad-arm'd ports, Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; Not starr'd and spangled courts, [pride. Where low-brow'd baseness warts perfume to No-MEN, high-minded MEN, With powers as far above dull brutes endued In forest, brake, or den,

WHAT constitutes a state?

As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude: Men who their duties know,

And all made Pimlico their choice,
And prais'd him with their sweetest voice.
Young Pim, the gallant and the gay,
Like ass divided 'tween the hay,

At last resolv'd to gain his ease,
And choose his wife by eating cheese.
He wrote his card, he seal'd it up,
And said with them that night he'd sup;
Desir'd that there might only be
Good Cheshire cheese, and but them three;
He was resolv'd to crown his life,
And by that means to fix his wife.
The girls were pleas'd at his conceit;
Each dress'd herself divinely neat;
With faces full of peace and plenty,
Blooming with roses, under twenty.
Were sweet as lilies of the valley :
For surely Nancy, Betsy, Sally,
But singly surely buxom Bet
Was like new hay and mignionet;
But each surpass'd a poet's fancy,
For that, of truth, was said of Nancy:
And as for Sal, she was a Donna,
As fair as those of old Cretona, †
Who to Apelles lent their faces
To make up madain Helen's graces.
To those the gay divided Pin
Came elegantly smart and trim:
When ev'ry smiling maiden, certain,
Cut of the cheese to try her fortune.
Nancy, at once, not fearing-caring

But know their rights, and, knowing, dare To shew her saving ate the paring;

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And Bet, to shew her gen'rous mind, Cut, and then threw away the rind; While prudent Sarah, sure to please, Like a clean maiden, scrap'd the cheese. This done, young Pimlico replied, "Sally I now declare my bride. "With Nan I can't my welfare put, "For she has prov'd a 'dirty slut: "And Betsy, who has par'd the rind, "Would give my fortune to the wind. "Sally the happy medium chose,

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And I with Sally will repose; "She's prudent, cleanly; and the man "Who fixes on a nuptial plan

Shall Britons languish, and be men no more?" Can never err, if he will choose

Since all must lite resign,

Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'Tis folly to decline,

And steal inglorious to the silent grave.

$198. The Choice of a Wife by Cheese. CAPTAIN THOMPSON.

THERE liv'd in York, an age ago,

A man whose name was Pimlico:
He lov'd three sisters passing well,
But which the best he could not tell.
These sisters three, divinely fair,
Shew'd Pimlico their tenderest care:
For each was elegantly bred,

And all were much inclin'd to wed;

Diferetionary or arbitrary power. beautiful Helen.

"A wife by cheese-before he ties the noos

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IF Heaven the grateful liberty would give,
That I might choose my method how to l
And all those hours propitious fate should le
In blissful ease and satisfaction spend:

Near some fair town I'd have a private se
Built uniform, not little, nor too great:
Better, if on a rising ground it stood;
On this side fields, on that a neighbouring wood
It should within no other things contain,
But what are useful, necessary, plain:
Methinks 'tis nauseous, and i'd ne'er endure
The needless pomp of gaudy furniture.

Apelles, from five beautiful virgins of Cretona, drew the

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