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Ten thousand flocks his shepherd told,
His coffers overflow'd with gold;
The land all round him was his own.
With corn his crowded granaries groan.
In short, so vast his charge and gain,
That to possess them was a pain :
With happiness oppress'd he lies,
And much too prudent to be wise.
Near him there liv'd a beauteous maid,
With all the charms of youth array'd;
Good, amiable, sincere and free,
Her name was Generosity.
'Twas hers the largess to bestow
On rich and poor, on friend and foe.
Her doors to all were open'd wide,
The pilgrim there might safe abide :
For th' hungry and the thirsty crew,
The bread she broke, the drink she drew;
There Sickness laid her aching head,
And there Distress cou'd find a bed.-
Each hour with an all-bounteous hand,
Diffus'd she blessings round the land:
Her gifts and glory lasted long,
And numerous was th' accepting throng.
At length pale Penury seiz'd the dame,
And Fortune fled, and Ruin came,
She found her riches at an end,
And that she had not made one friend.-
All curs'd her for not giving more,
Nor thought on what she'd done before;
She wept, she rav'd, she tore her hair,
When lo! to comfort her came Care.-
And cry'd," My dear, if you will join
Your hand in nuptial bonds with mine;
All will be well-you shall have store,
And I be plagu'd with wealth no more.
Tho' I restrain your bounteous heart,
You still shall act the generous part."
The bridal came-great was the feast,
And good the pudding and the priest;
The bride in nine moons brought him forth
A little maid of matchless worth:
Her face was mix'd of care and glee, ¦
They christen'd her Economy;
And styled her fair Discretion's queen,
The mistress of the golden mean.
Now Generosity confin'd,
Perfectly easy in her mind;
Still loves to give, yet knows to spare,
Nor wishes to be free from Care.
Is every age, and each profession,
Men err the most by prepossession,
But when the thing is clearly shown,
And fairly stated, fully known,
We soon applaud what we deride,
And penitence succeeds to pride.-
A certain baron on a day,
Having a mind to show away,
Invited all the wits and wags,
Foot, Massey, Shutter, Yates and Skeggs,
And built a large commodious stage,
For the choice spirits of the age;
But above all, among the rest,
There came a genius who profess'd
To have a curious trick in store,
Which never was perform'd before.
Thro' all the town this soon got air,
And the whole house was like a fair;
But soon his entry as he made,
Without a prompter, or parade,
'Twas all expectance, all suspense,
And silence gagg'd the audience.
He hid his head behind his wig,
And with such truth took off a pig,
All swore 'twas serious, and no joke,
For doubtless underneath his cloak,
He had conceal'd some grunting elf,
Or, was a real hog himself.
A search was made, no pig was found-
With thund'ring claps the seats resound,
And pit, and box, and galleries roar,
With-O rare! bravo! and encore.
Old Roger Grouse, a country clown,
Who yet knew something of the town,
Beheld the mimic and his whim,
And on the morrow challeng'd him,
Declaring to each beau and bunter,
That he'd out-grunt th' egregious grunter.
The morrow came the crowd was greater➡
But prejudice and rank ill-nature
Usurp'd the minds of men and wenches,
Who came to hiss, and break the benches...
The mimic took his usual station,
And squeak'd with general approbation.
Again, encore! encore!" they cry-
'Twas quite the thing-'twas very high:
Old Grouse conceal'd, amidst the racket,
A real pig beneath his jacket-
Then forth he came and with his nail
He pinch'd the urchin by the tail.
The tortur'd pig from out his throat,
Produc'd the genuine nat'ral note.
All bellow'd out-'twas very sad!
Sure never stuff was half so bad!
"That like a pig !"—each cry'd in scoff,
"Pshaw! Nonsense! blockhead! Off! Off! Off!”
The mimic was extoll'd; and Grouse
Was hiss'd, and catcall'd from the house.
"Soft ye, a word before I go,"
Quoth honest Hodge-and stooping low
Produc'd the pig, and thus aloud
Bespoke the stupid partial croud :
"Behold, and learn from this poor creature,
How much you crities know of Nature."
And Billy bas laurels enough of his own.
The next was the gift that I could not contemn,
For she brought me two roses that grew on a stem:
Of the dear nuptial tie they stood emblems confest,
So I kiss'd 'em, and press'd 'em quite close to
She brought me a sun-flow'r-" This, fair one's your due ;
For it once was a maiden, and love-sick like you:" Oh! give it me quick, to my shepherd I'll run, As true to his flame, as this flow'r to the Sun.
THE LASS WITH THE GOLDEN LOCKS.
No more of my Harriot, of Polly no more,
Nor all the bright beauties that charm'd me be-
My heart for a slave to gay Venus I've sold,
And barter'd my freedom for ringlets of gold:
I'll throw down my pipe, and neglect all my
And will sing to my lass with the golden locks. Though o'er her white forehead the gilt tresses flow, Like the rays of the Sun on a hillock of snow; Such painters of old drew the queen of the fair, 'Tis the taste of the ancients, 'tis classical hair: And though witlings may scoff, and though raillery mocks,
Yet Pll sing to my lass with the golden locks.
To live and to love, to converse and be free,
Is loving, my charmer, and living with thee:
Away go the hours in kisses and rhyme,
Spite of all the grave lectures of old father Time;
A fig for his dials, his watches and clocks,
He's best spent with the lass of the golden locks.
Than the swan in the brook she's more dear to my
Her mien is more stately, her breast is more white,
Her sweet lips are rubies, all rubies above,
They are fit for the language or labour of love;
At the Park in the Mall, at the play in the box,
My lass bears the bell with her golden locks.
Her beautiful eyes, as they roll or they flow,
Shall be glad for my joy, or shall weep for my
She shall ease my fond heart, and shail sooth my
While thousands of rivals are sighing in vain ;
Let them rail at the fruit they can't reach, like
While I have the lass with the golden locks.
And sing with more than usual glee To Nancy, who was born for me. Tell the blithe Graces as they bound Luxuriant in the buxom round; They're not more elegantly free, Than Nancy, who was born for me. Tell royal Venus, though she rove, The queen of the immortal grove; That she must share her golden fee With Nancy, who was born for me. Tell Pallas, though th' Athenian school, And ev'ry trite pedantic fool, On her to place the palm agree, Tis Nancy's, who was born for me. Tell spotless Dian, though she range, The regent of the up-land grange, In chastity she yields to thee, O, Nancy, who wast born for me. Tell Cupid, Hymen, and tell Jove, With all the pow'rs of life and love, That I'd disdain to breathe or be, If Nancy was not born for me.
MY FLORIO, wildest of his sex,
(Who sure the veriest saint would vex)
From beauty roves to beauty; Yet, though abroad the wanton roam, Whene'er he deigns to stay at home,
He always minds his duty.
Something to every charming she,
In thoughtless prodigality,
To Phyllis that, to Cloe this,
He's granting still and granting;
And every madam, every miss;
If haply I his will displease,
Yet I find nothing wanting.
Tempestuous as th' autumnal seas
He foams and rages ever;
But when he ceases from his ire,
I cry, "Such spirit, and such fire,
Is surely wond'rous clever."
I ne'er want reason to complain;
But sweet is pleasure after pain,
And every joy grows greater.
Then trust me, damsels, whilst I tell,
I should not like him half so well,
If I cou'd make him better.
'Tis Nancy's birth-day-raise your strains, Ye nymphs of the Parnassian plains,
THE TALKATIVE FAIR.
FROM morn to night, from day to day
At all times and at every place,
You scold, repeat, and sing, and say,
Nor are there hopes you'll ever cease.
Forbear, my Celia, oh! forbear,
If your own health, or ours you prize;
For all mankind that hear you, swear
Your tongue's more killing than your eyes.
Your tongue's a traitor to your face,
Your fame's by your own noise obscur'd,
All are distracted while they gaze;
But if they listen they are cur'd,
Your silence would acquire more praise,
Than all you say, or all I write;
One look ten thousand charms displays;
'Then hush-and be an angel quite.
THE FORCE OF INNOCENCE.
TO MISS C****
THE blooming damsel, whose defence
Is adamantinę innocence,
Requires no guardian to attend
Her steps, for Modesty's her friend;
Though her fair arms are weak to wield
The glitt'ring spear, and massy shield;
Yet safe from force and fraud combin'd,
She is an Amazon in mind.
With this artillery she goes,
Not only 'mongst the harmless beaux ;
But e'en unhurt and undismay'd,
Views the long sword and fierce cockade,
Though all a syren as she talks,
And all a goddess as she walks,
Yet decency each action guides,
And wisdom o'er her tongue presides.
Place her in Russia's showery plains,
Where a perpetual winter reigns,
The elements may rave and range,
Yet her fix'd mind will never change.
Place her, Ambition, in thy tow'rs,
Mongst the more dang'rous golden show'rs,
E'en there she'd spurn the venal tribe,
And fold her arms against the bribe.
Leave her, defenceless and alone,
A pris'ner in the torrid zone,
The sunshine there might vainly vie
With the bright lustre of her eye;
But Phoebus' self, with all his fire,
Cou'd ne'er one unchaste thought inspire;
But yirtue's path she'd still pursue,
And still, my fair,' wou'd copy you.
THE DISTRESSED DAMSEL.
OF ALL my experience how vast the amount,
Since fifteen long winters I fairly can count !
Was ever a damsel so sadly betray'd,
To live to these years and yet still be a maid?
Ye heroes, triumphant by land and by sea,
Sworn vot'ries to love, but unmindful of me;
You can storm a strong fort, or can form a
Yet ye stand by like dastards, and see me a maid.
Ye lawyers so just, who with slippery tongue, Can do what you please, or with right, or with wrong,
Can it be or by law or by equity said,
That a buxom young girl ought to die an old
Ye learned physicians, whose excellent skill
Can save, or demolish, can cure, or can kill,
To a poor, forlorn damsel contribute your aid,
Who is sick-very sick-of remaining a maid.
Ye fops, I invoke, not to list to my song,
Who answer no end-and to no sex belong;
Ye echoes of echoes, and shadows of shade
For if I had you I might still be a maid.
THE FAIR RECLUSE.
YE ancient patriarchs of the wood,
That veil around these awful glooms,
Who many a century have stood
In verdant age, that ever blooms.
Ye Gothic tow'rs by vapours dense.
Obscur'd into severer state,
In pastoral magnificence
At once so simple and so great.
Why all your jealous shades on me,
Ye hoary elders, do ye spread?
Fair innocence shou'd still be free,
Nought shou'd be chain'd, but what we
Say, must these tears for ever flow?
Can I from patience learn content,
While solitude still nurses woe,
And leaves me leisure to lament.
My guardian see !-who wards off peace,
Whose cruelty is his employ,
Who bids the tongue of transport cease
And stops each avenue to joy.
Freedom of air alone is giv'n,
To aggravate, nor sooth my grief, To view th' immensely-distant Heav'n, My nearest prospect of relief.
ONE OF THE CHICHESTER GRACES.
Written in Goodwood Gardens, September, 1750.
"YE HILLS that overlook the plains,
Where wealth and Gothic greatness reigns,
Where Nature's hand by Art is check'd,
And Taste herself is architect;
Ye fallows gray, ye forests brown,
And seas that the vast prospect crown,
Ye fright the soul with Fancy's store,
Nor can she one idea more!"
I said when dearest of her kind
(Her form, the picture of her mind)
Chloris approach'd—The landscape flew!
All nature vanish'd from my view!
She seem'd all nature to comprize,
Her lips! her beauteous breasts! her eyes!
That rous'd, and yet abash'd desire,
With liquid, languid, living fire!
But then her voice !-how fram'd t' endear!
The music of the gods to hear!
Wit that so pierc'd, without offence,
So brac'd by the strong nerves of sense!
Pallas with Venus play'd her part,
To rob me of an honest heart;
Prudence and passion jointly strove,
And reason was th' ally of love.
Ah me! thou sweet, delicious maid,
From whence shall I solicit aid?
Hope and despair alike destroy,
One kills with grief, and one with joy.
Celestial Chloris! Nymph divine!
To save me, the dear task be thine.
Though conquest be the woman's care,
The angel's glory is to spare.
A CRAMBO BALLAD,
GREAT Phoebus in his vast career,
Who forms the self succeeding year,
Thron'd in his amber chariot;
Sees not an object half so bright,
Nor gives such joy, such life, such light,
As dear delicious Harriot.
Pedants of dull phlegmatic turns,
Whose pulse not beats, whose blood not burns,
Read Malebranche, Boyle and Marriot;
I scorn their philosophic strife,
And study nature from the life,
(Where most she shines) in Harriot,
When she admits another wooer,
I rave like Shakespeare's jealous Moor,
And am as raging Barry hot.
True, virtuous, lovely, was his dove,
But virtue, beauty, truth and love,
Are other names for Harriot,
Ye factious members who oppose,
And tire both houses with your prose,
Though never can you carry aught;
You might command the nation's sense,
And without bribery convince,
Had ye the voice of Harriot.
You of the music common weal,
Who borrow, beg, compose, or steal,
Cantata, air, or ariet;
You'd burn your cumb'rous works in score,
And sing, compose, and play no more,
If once you heard my Harriot.
Were there a wretch who dar'd essay,
Such wond'rous sweetness to betray,
I'd call him an Iscariot;
But her e'en satire can't annoy,
So strictly chaste, but kindly coy,
Is fair angelic Harriot.
While sultans, emperors, and kings,
(Mean appetite of earthly things)
In all the waste of war riot;
Love's softer duel be my aim,
Praise, honour, glory, conquest, fame,
Are center'd all in Harriot.
I swear by Hymen and the pow'rs
That haunt love's ever blushing bow'rs,
So sweet a nymph to marry ought:
Then may I hug her silken yoke,
And give the last, the final stroke,
T'accomplish lovely Harriot,
TO JENNY GRAY,
BRING, Phœbus, from Parnassian bow'rs,
A chaplet of poetic flowers,
That far outbloom the May;
Bring verse so smooth, and thoughts so free, And all the Muses heraldry,
To blazon Jenny Gray.
Observe yon almond's rich perfume,
Presenting Spring with early bloom,
In ruddy tints how gay!
Thus, foremost of the blushing fair,
With such a blithsome, buxom air,
Blooms lovely Jenny Gray.
The merry, chirping, plumy throng!
The bushes and the twigs among
That pipe the sylvan lay,
All hush'd at her delightful voice
In silent ecstacy rejoice,
And study Jenny Gray.
Ye balmy odour-breathing gales,
That lightly sweep the green rob'd vales,
And in each rose-bush play;
I know you all, you're arrant cheats,
And steal your more than natural sweets,
From lovely Jenny Gray.
Pomona and that goddess bright,
The florist's and the maids delight,
In vain their charms display;
The luscious nectarine, juicy peach,
In richness, nor in sweetness reach
The lips of Jenny Gray.
To the sweet knot of Graces three,
Th' immortal band of bards agree,
A tuneful tax to pay ;
There yet remains a matchless worth,
There yet remains a lovelier fourth,
And she is Jenny Gray.
HER CAT CROP.
ULL many a heart, that now is free, May shortly, fair one, beat for thee, And court thy pleasing chain; Then prudent hear a friend's advice, And learn to guard, by conduct nice,
The conquests you shall gain.
When Tabby Tom your Crop pursues,
How many a bite, and many a bruise
The amorous swain endures?
E'er yet one favouring glance he catch,
What frequent squalls, how many a scratch
His tenderness procures?
Tho' this, 'tis own'd, be somewhat rude,
And Puss by nature be a prude,
Yet hence you may improve,
By decent pride, and dint of scoff,
Keep caterwauling coxcombs off,
And ward th' attacks of love.
Your Crop a mousing when you see,
She teaches you economy,
Which makes the pot to boil:
And when she plays with what she gains,
She shows you pleasure springs from pains,
And mirth's the fruit of toil.
THE PRETTY BAR-KEEPER OF THE
Written at College, 1741,
"RELAX, sweet girl, your wearied mind, And to hear the poet talk,
Gentlest creature of your kind,
Lay aside your sponge and chalk;
Cease, cease the bar-bell, nor refuse
To hear the jingle of the Muse.
"Hear your numerous vot'ries prayers,
Come, O come, and bring with thee
Giddy whimsies, wanton airs,
And all love's soft artillery;
Smiles and throbs, and frowns, and tears.
With all the little hopes and fears."
She beard-she came-and e'er she spoke,
Not unravish'd you might see
Her wanton eyes that wink'd the joke,
E'er her tongue could set it free.
While a forc'd blush her cheeks inflam'd,
ad seem'd to say she was asham'd.
No handkerchief her bosom hid,
No tippet from our sight debars
Her heaving breasts with moles o'erspread,
Mark'd, little hemispheres, with stars;
While on them all our eyes we move,
Our eyes that meant immoderate love.
In every gesture, every air,
Th' imperfect lisp, the languid eye,
In every motion of the fair
We awkward imitators vie,
And, forming our own from her face,
Strive to look pretty as we gaze.
If e'er she sneer'd, the mimic crowd
Sneer'd too, and all their pipes laid down;
If she but stoop'd, we lowly bow'd,
And sullen if she 'gan to frown
In solemn silence sat profound—
But did she laugh!-the laugh went round.
Her snuff-box if the nymph pull'd out,
Each Johnian in responsive airs
Fed with the tickling dust his snout,
With all the politesse of bears.
Dropt she her fan beneath her hoop,
Ev'n stake-stuck Clarians strove to stoop.
The sons of culinary Kays
Smoking from the eternal treat,
Lost in ecstatic transport gaze.
As though the fair was good to eat; Ev'n gloomiest king's men, pleas'd awhile, "Grin horribly a ghastly smile."
But hark, she cries, "My mamma calls," And straight she's vanish'd from our sight; 'Twas then we saw the empty bowls,
"Twas then we first perceiv'd it night; While all, sad synod, silent roan, Both that she went-and went alone.