Warm in purfuit, he levees all the great,
Stanch to the foot of title and estate.
Where'er their lordships go, they never find,
Or Lico or their thadows lag behind:
He fets them fure, where'er their lordships
Clofe at their elbows, as a morning-dun;
As if their grandeur, by contagion wrought,
And fame was, like a fever, to be caught:
But after feven years dance from place to place,
The Dane is more familiar with his grace.

Who'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer; Or living pendant, dangling at his ear, For ever whifp'ring fecrets, which were blown For months before, by trumpets, thro' the town? Who'd be a glafs, with flattering grimace, Still to reflect the temper of his face? Or happy pin to flick upon his fleeve, When my lord's gracious, and vouchfafes its leave? Or cufhion, when his heavinefs fhall please To lol, or thump it for his better ease? Or a vile butt, for noon or night bespoke, When the peer rathly fwears he'll club his joke? Who shake with laughter, tho' he could not find His lordship's jeft? or, if his nose broke wind, For bleffings to the gods profoundly bow, That can cry chimney-fweep, or drive a plough? With terms like these howmean the tribe that clofe! Scarce meaner they, who terms like these impofe.

But what's the tribe most likely to comply? The men of ink, or ancient authors lye; The writing tribe, who fhameless auctions hold Of praife, by inch of candle to be fold. All men they flatter, but themselves the most With deathlefs fame, their everlasting boast: For fame no cully makes fo much her jeft, As her old conftant spark, the bard profest. Boyle fhines in council, Mordaunt in the fight, "Pelham's magnificent; but I can write, "And what to my great foul like glory dear?" Till fome god whispers in his tingling car, That fame's unwholefome, taken without meat; And life is beft fuftain'd by what is cat. Grown lean and wife, he curfes what he writ, And wifhes all his wants were in his wit.

Ah! what avails it, when his dinner's loft, That his triumphant name adorns a post? Or that his fhining page (provoking fate!) Defends firloins, which fons of dulnefs eat?

What foe to verfe without compaffion hears? What cruel profe-man can refrain from tears When the poor mufe, for lefs than half-a-crown, A prostitute on ev'ry bulk in town, With other whores undone, tho' not in print, Clubs credit for Geneva in the Mint ?

Ye bards! why will you fing, tho' uninfpir'd? Ye bards why will you ftarve, to be admir'd? Defunct by Phoebus' laws, beyond redress, Why will your fpectress haunt the frighted prefs? Bad metre, that excrefcence of the head, Like hair, will sprout, altho' the poet's dead. All other trades demand, verfe-makers beg; A dedication is a wooden leg;

But ah! not infpiration can obtain That Fame which poets languifh for in vain. How mad their arm who thirst for glory, ftrive To grafp what no man can poffefs alive! Fame's a reverfion, in which men take place (O late reverfion') at their own decease. This truth fagacious Lintot knows so well, He ftarves his authors, that their works may fell ! ́ That fame is wealth, fantastic poets cry; That wealth is fame, another can reply, Who know no guilt, no scandal but in rags; And fivell in juft proportion to their bags. Nor only the low-born, deform'd, and old, Think glory nothing but the beams of gold; The firft young lord, which in the Mall you meet, Shall match the vericft hunks in Lombard-street, From refcu'd candles ends who rais'd a fum, And ftarves to join a penny to a plumb. A beardlefs mifer! 'tis a guilt unknown To former times; a fcandal all our own.

Of ardent lovers, the true modern band Will mortgage Celia to redeem their land. For love, young, noble, rich Caftalio dies; Name but the fair, love fwells into his eyes. Divine Monimia, thy fond fears lay down; No rival can prevail, but-half-a-crown.

He glories to late times to be convey'd, Not for the poor he has reliev'd, but made. Not fuch ambition his great fathers fir'd, When Harry conquer'd, and half France expir'd, He'd be a flave, a pirap, a dog for gain; Nay, a dull sheriff for his golden chain.

"Who'd be a flave?" the gallant colonel cries, While love of glory fparkles from his eyes. To deathlefs fame he loudly pleads his right,Juft is his title, for I will not fight: All foldiers valour, all divines have grace, As maids of honour beauty-by their place. But when indulging on the laft campaign, His lofty terms climb o'er the hills of flain, He gives the foes he flew, at each vain word: A fweet revenge, and half abfolves his fword. Of boating more than of a bomb afraid, A foldier thould be modeft as a maid:

Fame

But our lewd taftes her lawful charms refuse,
And painted Art's deprav'd allurements chule.
Such Fluvia's paffion for the town; fresh air
(An odd effect!) gives vapours to the fair;
Green fields, and fhady groves, and cryftal fprings,
And larks, and nightingales, are odious things;
But fmoke, and duft,and noife, and crowds delight;
And to be preft to death transports her quite !
Where filver riv'lets play thro' flow'ry meads,
And woodbines give their fweets, and limes their
fhades,

Black kennels abfent odours fhe regrets,
And ftops her nofe at beds of violets!

Is ftormy life preferr'd to the ferene?
Or is the public to the private fcene?
Retir'd, we tread a fmooth and open way;
Thro' briers and brambles, in the world we ftray,
Stiff oppofition, and perplex'd debate,

And thorny care, and rank and stinging hate,
Which choke our paffage, our career control,
And wound the firmeft temper of the foul.
O facred folitude! divine retreat!
Choice of the prudent, envy of the great!
By thy pure ftream, or in thy waving fhade,
We court fair Wisdom, that celestial maid:
The genuine offspring of her lov'd embrace
(Strangers on earth!) are innocence and peace.
There, from the ways of men laid fafe afhore,
We finile to hear the diftant tempest roar;
There, bleft with health, with bus'nefs unper-
plex'd,

This life we relifh, and enfure the next:
There too the Mufes fport; thefe numbers free,
Pierian Eaftbury! I owe to thee.

There fport the Mules; but not there alone: Their facred force Amelia feels in town. Nought but a genius can a genius fit;

A wit herself, Amelia weds a wit..

Both wits! tho' miracles are faid to ceafe,

"

As Flayia in her glafs an angel fpies, Pride whispers in her ear perious mes Tells her, while the furveys a face so fine, There's no fatiety of charíns divine: Hence, if her lover yawns, all chang'd appears Her temper, and the melts (fweet foul) in tears, She, fond and young, laft week, her with enjoy'd, In foft amusement all the night employ'd, The morning came, when Strephon waking found (Surprifing fight!) his bride in forrow drown' What miracle, fays Strophon, 'makes thee weep?' [you-fleep?" "Ah, barbarous man," fhe cries," how could Men love a miftrefs as they love a feaft; How grateful one to touch, and one to tafte? Yet fure, there is a certain time of day, We with our miftrefs and our meat away; But foon the fated appetites return; Again our ftomachs crave, our bofoms burn. Eternal love let man, then, never fwear; Let women never triumph, nor defpair; [chill; Nor praife nor blame too much the warm or Hunger and love are foreign to the will.

There is indeed a paflion more refin'd, For thofe few nymphs, whofe charms are of the But not of that unfathionable fet [mind: Is Phillis: Phillis and her Damon met. Eternal love exactly hits her tafte; Phillis demands eternal love at leaft. Embracing Phillis with foft finiling eyes, Eternal love I vow, the fwain replies: But fay, my all! my miftrefs! and my friend! What day next week th'eternity thall end

Some nymphs prefer aftronomy to love; Elope from mortal men, and range above. The fair philofopher to Rowley flies, Where in a box the whole creation lies. She fees the planets in their turns advance, And fcorns, Poitier, thy fublunary dance.

peace!

With the fourth fun a warm difpute arofe,
On Durfey's pocfy and Bunyan's profe.
The learned war both wage with equal force,
And the fifth morn concluded the divorce!

Phoebe, tho' the poffeffes nothing lefs,
Is proud of being rich in happiness.
Laboriously purfues delufive toys,
Content with pains, fince they're reputed joys;
With what well-acted tranfport will the fay,
"Well, fure, we were fo happy yesterday!
"And then that charming party for to-morrow!"
Tho' well the knows 'twill languish into forrow.
But the dares never boaft the prefent hour,
So grofs that cheat, it is beyond her pow'r.
For fuch is or our weakness, or our curfe,
Or rather fuch our crime, which still is worfe,
The prefent moment, like a wife we fhun,
And ne'er enjoy, becaufe it is our own.

Pleafures are few, and fewer we enjoy;
'Pleafure, like quickfilver, is bright and coy;
We strive to grafp it with our utmost skill;
Still it cludes us, and it glitters ftill:
If feiz'd at laft, compute your mighty gains,
What is it but rank poifon in your veins?

And Whifton has engagements with the fair. What vain experiments Sophronia tries! 'Tis not in air-pumps the gay colonel dies. But tho' to-day this rage of fcience reigns (O fickle fex!) foon end her learned pains. Lo! Pug from Jupiter her heart has got, Turns out the ftars, and Newton is a fot.

To-turn, the never took the height
Of Saturn, yet is ever in the right;
She ftrikes each point with native force of mind,
While puzzl'd learning blunders far behind.
Graceful to fight, and elegant to thought,
The great are vanquish 'd, and the wife are taught.
Her breeding finifh'd, and her temper fweet,
When ferious, cafy; and when gay, difcrect;
In glitt'ring fcenes, o'er ber own heart, fevere;
In crowds, collected; and in courts, fincere;
Sincere and warm with zeal well understood,
She takes a noble pride in doing good.
Yet not fuperior to her lex's cares,
The mode the fixes by the gown the wears;
Of filks and china fhe's the laft appeal;

In thefe great points the leads the common-weal;
And if difputes of empire rife between
Mechlin (the queen of lace) and Colberteen,

24

'Tis

'Tis doubt! 'tis darknefs! till fufpended fate Affumes her nod to close the grand debate. When fuch her mind, why will the fair express Their emulation only in their drefs?

But O! the Nymph that mounts above the
fkies,

And, gratis, clears religious myfteries!
Refolv'd the church's welfare to enfure,
And make her family a finecure.
The theme divine at cards she'll not forget,
But takes in texts of fcripture at piquet!
In thofe licentious meetings acts the prude,
And thanks her Maker that her cards are good.
What angels would thefe be, who thus excel
In theologics, could they few as well!
Yet why thould not the fair her text pursue ?
Can fhe more decently the doctor woo?
'Tis hard too, the who makes no ufe but chat
Of her religion, fhould be barr'd in that!

Ifaac, a brother of the canting ftrain,
When he has knock'd at his own fkull in vain,
To beauteous Marcia often will repair
With a dark text, to light it at the fair.
O how his pious foul exults, to find
Such love for holy men in womankind!
Charm'd with her learning, with what rapture he
Hangs on her bloom, like an induftrious bee;
Hums round about her, and with all his pow'r
Extracts fweet wifdom from fo fair a flow'r!

The young and gay declining, Abra flics At nobler game, the mighty and the wife: By nature, more an eagle than a dove, She impioufly prefers the world to love. Can wealth give happiness look round, and fee What gay diftrefs what fplendid mifery! Whatever fortune lavishly can pour The mind annihilates, and calls for more. Wealth is a cheat, believe not what it fays; Like any Lord it promifes--and pays. How will the mifer startle, to be told Of fuch a wonder as infolvent gold! What nature wants has an intrinfic weight: All mare is but the fashion of the plate, Which, for one moment, charms the fickle view; It charms us now, anon we caft anew, To fome freth birth of fancy more inclin'd: Then wed not acres, but a noble mind.

Miftaken lovers, who make worth their care, And think accomplishments will win the fair, The fair, 'tis truc, by genius fhould be won, As flow'rs unfold their beauties to the fun; And yet in female scales a fop outweighs, And wit muft wear the willow with the bays. Nought thines fo bright in vain Liberia's eye As riot, impudence, and perfidy; The youth of fire, that has drunk deep, and play'd, And kill'd his man, and triumph'd o'er his maid;

An antidote in female caprice lies (Kind Heav'n!) against the poifon of their eyes, Thaleftris triumphs in a manly mien, Loud is her accent, and her phrafe obfcene. In fair and open dealing where's the flame? What nature dares to give, the dares to name. This honeft fellow is fincere and plain, And justly gives the jealous husband pain; (Vain is the talk to petticoats affign'd, If wantón language thews a naked mind) And now and then to grace her eloquence, An oath fupplies the vacancies of fenfe. Hark! the thrill notes tranfpierce the yielding air, And teach the neighb'ring echoes how to fwear, By Jove, is faint, and for the fimple fwain; She on the Chriftian fyftem is profane. But tho' the volley rattles in your ear, Believe her drefs, the's not a grenadier. If thunder's awful, how much more our dread, When Jove deputes a lady in his stead! A lady! pardon my mistaken pen;

A fhameless woman is the worft of men.

Few to good-breeding make a just pretence, Good-breeding is the bloffom of good sense; The laft refult of an accomplish'd mind, With outward grace, the body's virtue, join'd, A violated decency now reigns, And nymphs for failings take peculiar pains. With Indian painters modern toafts agree; The point they aim at is deformity: They throw their perfons with a hoyden air Across the room, and tofs into the chair. So far their commerce with mankind is gone, They, for our manners have exchang'd their own, The modeft look, the caftigated grace, The gentle movement, and flow measur❜d pace, For which her lovers dy'd, her parents paid, Are indecorums with the modern maid. Stiff forms are bad, but let not worse intrude, Nor conquer art and nature to be rude.

Modern