sure :'

Tame expletives, with which dull fashion
Fills vacancies of sense and passion.
Yet, tho' disciple of cold art,
FLORIO SOON found he had a heart;
He saw; and but that admiration
Had been too active, too like passion;
Or had he been to Ton less true,
Cupid had shot him thro' and thro';
But, vainly speeds the surest dart,
Where FASHION's mail defends the heart;
The shaft her cold repulsion found,
And fell without the pow'r to wound:
For FASHION, with a mother's joy,
Dipp'd in her lake the darling boy;
That lake, whose chilling waves impart
The gift to freeze the warmest heart:
Yet guarded as he was with phlegm,
With such delight he ey'd the dame,
Found his cold heart so melt before her,
And felt so ready to adore her;

That FASHION fear'd her son would yield,
And flew to snatch him from the field;
O'er his touch'd heart her ægis threw,
The goddess mother strait he knew ;
Her power he own'd, she saw and smil'd,
And claim'd the triumph of her child.

CELIA a table still supplied,
Which modish luxury might deride :
A modest feast the hope conveys,
The master eats on other days;
While gorgeous banquets oft bespeak
A hungry household all the week.
And decent elegance was there,
And Plenty with her liberal air.
But vulgar Plenty gave offence,
And shock'd poor FLORIO's nicer sense.
Patient he yielded to his fate,

When good sir GILBERT pil'd his plate;
He bow'd submissive, made no question,
But that 'twas sovereign for digestion ;
But, such was his unlucky whim,
Plain meats would ne'er agree with him;
Yet feign'd to praise the Gothic treat,
And, if he ate not, seem'd to eat.

In sleep sad FLORIO hop'd to find,
The pleasures he had left behind.
He dreamt, and lo! to charm his eyes,
The form of WELTJE* seem'd to rise;
The gracious vision wav'd his wand,
And banquets sprung to FLORIO's hand;
Th' imaginary savours rose
In tempting odours to his nose.
A bell, not Fancy's false creation,
Gives joyful note of preparation ;'
He starts, he wakes, the bell he hears ;
Alas! it rings for morning pray'rs.

But how to spend next tedious morning,
Was past his possible discerning;
Unable to amuse himself,

He tumbled every well-rang'd shelf;
This book was dull, and that was wise,
And this was monstrous as to size.

* A celebrated cook and confectioner.

With eager joy he gobbled down
Whate'er related to the town;
Whate'er look'd small, whate'er look'd new,
Half-bound, or stitch'd in pink or blue;
Old play-bills, ASTLEY's last year's feats,
And opera disputes in sheets.

As these dear records meet his eyes,
Ghosts of departed pleasures rise;
He lays the book upon the shelf,
And leaves the day to spend itself.

To cheat the tedious hours, whene'er
He sallied forth to take the air,
His sympathetic ponies knew
Which way their lord's affections drew;
And, every time he went abroad,
Sought of themselves the London road;
He ask'd each mile of every clown,
How far they reckon'd it to town?
And still his nimble spirits rise,
Whilst thither he directs his eyes;
But when his coursers back he guides,
The sinking mercury quick subsides.
A week he had resolv'd to stay,
But found a week in every day;
Yet if the gentle maid was by,
Faint pleasure glisten'd in his eye;
Whene'er she spoke, attention hung
On the mild accents of her tongue;
But when no more the room she grac'd,
The slight impression was effac'd.
Whene er sir GILBERT's sporting guests
Retail'd old news, or older jests,
FLORIO, quite calm, and debonair,
Still humm'd a new Italian air;
He did not even feign to hear 'em,
But plainly show'd he could not bear 'em.

CELIA perceiv'd his secret thoughts, But lik'd the youth with all his faults; Yet 'twas unlike, she softly said, The tales of love which she had read, Where heroes vow'd, and sigh'd, and knelt ; Nay, 'twas unlike the love she felt ; Tho' when her sire the youth would blame, She clear'd his but suspected fame, Ventur'd to hope, with fault' ring tongue, He would reform-he was but young;' Confess'd his manners wrong in part,

But then-he had so good a heart!' She sunk each fault, each virtue rais'd, And still where truth permitted, prais'd; His interest farther to secure, She prais'd his bounty to the poor; For, votary as he was of art, He had a kind and melting heart; Tho', with a smile, he us'd to own He had not time to feel in town; Not that he blush'd to show compassionIt chanc'd that year to be the fashion. And equally the modish tribe, To clubs or hospitals subscribe.

At length, to wake ambition's flame, A letter from BELLARIO came ; Announcing the supreme delight, Preparing for a certain night, By FLAVIA fair, return'd from France, Who took him captive at a glance: The invitations all were given ! Five hundred cards!—a little heaven! A dinner first-he would present him, And nothing, nothing must prevent him. Whoever wish'd a noble air.

Must gain it by an entree there;
Of all the glories of the town,
'Twas the first passport to renown.
Then ridicul'd his rural schemes,
His pastoral shades, and purling streams;
Sneer'd at his present brilliant life,
His polish'd sire, and high-bred wife!
Thus, doubly to inflame, he tried,
His curiosity and pride.

The youth, with agitated heart,
Prepar'd directly to depart;
But, bound in honour to obey
His father, at no distant day,
He promis'd soon to hasten down,
Tho' business call'd him now to town;
Then faintly hints a cold proposal-
But leaves it to the knight's disposal-
Stammer'd half words of love and duty,
And mutter'd much of worth and beauty;'
Something of passion' then he dropt,

And hop'd his ardour-Here he stopt; For some remains of native truth Flush'd in his face, and check'd the youth; Yet still th' ambiguous suffusion, Might pass for artless love's coufusion. The doating father thought 'twas strange, But fancied men like times might change; Yet own'd, nor could he check his tongue, It was not so when he was young. That was the reign of love he swore, Whose halcyon days are now no more.

In that blest age, for honour fam'd, Love paid the homage Virtue claim'd; Not that insipid, daudling Cupid, With heart so hard, and air so stupid, Who coldly courts the charms which lie In Affectation's half-clos'd eye. Love then was honest, genuine passion, And manly gallantry the fashion; Yet pure as ardent was the flame Excited by the beauteous dame; Hope could subsist on slender bounties, And suitors gallop'd o'er two counties, The ball's fair partner to behold, Or humbly hope-she caught no cold. But mark how much Love's annals mend! Should Beauty's goddess now descend; On some adventure should she come, grace a modish drawing-room; Spite of her form and heavenly air, What beau would hand her to her chair? Vain were that grace, which, to her son, Disclos'd what Beauty had not done : Vain were that motion which betray'd, The goddess was no earth-born maid If noxious FARO's baleful spright, With rites infernal rul'd the night, The group absorb'd in play and pelf, VENUS might call her doves herself.

To

AS FLORIO pass'd the castle-gate, His spirits seem to lose their weight; He feasts his lately vacant mind With all the joys he hopes to find; Yet on whate'er his fancy broods, The form of CELIA still intrudes; Whatever other sounds he hears, The voice of CELIA fills his ears; Howe'er his random thoughts might fly, Her graces dance before his eye; Nor was the obtrusive vision o'er, E'en when he reach'd BELLARIO's door.

The friends embrac'd with warm delight, And FLAVIA's praises crown'd the night.

Soon dawn'd the day which was to show, Glad FLORIO what was heaven below. FLAVIA, admir'd wherever known, Th' acknowledg'd empress of bon-ton; O'er FASHION'S wayward kingdom regns, And holds BELLARIO in her chains; Various her powers; a wit by day, By night unmatch'd for lucky play. The flattering, fashionable tribe, Each stray bon-mot to her ascribe; .nd all her little senate' own

.

She made the best charade in town;
Her midnight suppers always drew
Whate'er was fine, whate'er was new.
There oft the brightest fame you'd see
The victim of a repartee;

For Slander's priestess still supplies
The SPOTLESS for the sacrifice.
None at her polish'd table sit,
But who aspire to modish wit;
The persiflage, th' unfeeling jeer,
The civil, grave, ironic sneer;

The laugh, which, more than censure wounds,
Which, more than argument, confounds.
There the fair deed, which would engage
The wonder of a nobler age,
With unbelieving scorn is heard,
Or still to selfish ends refer'd;
If in the deed no flaw they find,
To some base motive 'tis assign'd;
When Malice longs to throw her dart,
But finds no vulnerable part,
Because the Virtues all defend,
At every pass, their guarded friend;
Then by one slight insinuation,
One scarce perceiv'd exaggeration;
Sly Ridicule, with half a word,
Can fix her stigma of absurd;
Nor care, nor skill, extracts the dart,
With which she stabs the feeling heart;
Her cruel caustics inly pain,
And scars indelible remain.

Supreme in wit, supreme in play,
Despotic Flavia all obey;

Small were her natural charms of face,
Till heighten'd with each foreign grace ;
But what subdued Bellario's soul
Beyond Philosophy's control,
Her constant table was as fine
As if ten rajahs were to dine;
She every day produc'd such fish as
Would gratify the nice APICIUS,
Or realize what we think fabulous
I' th' bill of fare of HELIOGABALUS.
Yet still the natural taste was cheated,
'Twas delug'd in some sauce one hated.
'Twas sauce! 'twas sweetmeat! 'twas con-
fection!

All poignancy and all perfection!
Rich entremets, whose name none knows,
Ragouts, tourtes, lendrons, fricandeaux,
O' th' hogs of EPICURUS' Sty;
Yet all so foreign and so fine,
'Twas easier to admire, than dine.
O! if the muse had power to tell
Each dish, no muse has power to spell!
Great goddess of the French Cuisine?
Not with unhallow'd hands I mean
To violate thy secret shade,

Which eyes profane shall ne'er invade;
No! of thy dignity supreme,

1, with mysterious reverence,' deem!
Or, should I venture with rash hand,
The vulgar would not understand;
None but th' initiated know
The raptures keen thy rites bestow.
Thus much to tell I lawful deem,
Thy works are never what they seem;
Thy will this general law has past,
That nothing of itself shall taste.
Thy word this high degree enacted,
In all be nature counteracted !'
Conceive, who can, the perfect bliss,
For 'tis not given to all to guess,
The rapturous joy BELLARIO found,
When thus his ev'ry wish was crown'd.
TO FLORIO, as the best of friends,
One dish he secretly commends;
Then hinted, as a special favour,
What gave it that delicious flavour;
A mystery he so much reveres,
He never to unhallow'd ears
Would trust it, but to him would show
How far true friendship's power could go.
FLORIO, tho' dazzled by the fete,
With far inferior transport eat;
A little warp his taste had gain'd,
Which, unperceived, till now remain'd;
For, from himself he would conceal
The change he did not chuse to feel;
He almost wish'd he could be picking
An unsophisticated chicken;
And when he cast his eyes around,
And not one simple morsel found,
O give me, was his secret wish,
My charming CELIA's plainest dish!
Thus Nature, struggling for her rights,
Lets in some little, casual lights:
And Love combines to war with Fashion,
Tho' yet 'twas but an infant passion;
The practis'd FLAVIA tried each art
Of sly attack to steal his heart;
Her forc'd civilities oppress,
Fatiguing thro' mere graciousness:
While many a gay, intrepid dame,
By bold assault essay'd the same.
Fill'd with disgust, be strove to fly
The artful glance and fearless eye;
Their jargon now no more he praises,
Nor echoes back their flimsy phrases.
He felt not CELIA's powers of face,
Till weigh'd against bon-ton grimace;
Nor half her genuine beauties tasted,
"Till with factitious charms contrasted;
Th' industrious carpies hover'd round,
Nor peace nor liberty he found!
By force and flattery circumvented,
To play, reluctant, he consented;
Each dame her power of pleasing tried,
To fix the novice by her side;
Of pigeons be the very best,
Who wealth, with ignorance, possest.
But FLAVIA's rhetoric best persuades,
That sybil leads him to the shades;
The fatal leaves around the room,
Prophetic, tell the approaching doom!
Yet, different from the tale of old,
It was the fair one pluck'd the gold;
Her arts the pond'rous purse exhaust;
A thousand borrow'd, stak'd, and lost.
VOL. I.

Wakes him to sense and shame again,
Nor force, nor fraud, could more obtain.
He rose, indignant, to attend
The summons of a ruin'd friend,
Whom keen BELLARIO's arts betray
To all the depths of desperate play;
A thoughtless youth who near him sat,
Was plunder'd of his whole estate;
Too late he call'd for FLORIO's aid,
A beggar in a moment made.

And now, with horror, FLORIO views
The wild confusion which ensues;
Marks how the dames, of late so fair,
Assume a fierce demoniac air;
Marks where th' infernal furies hold
Their orgies foul o'er heaps of gold;
And spirits dire appear to rise,
Guarding the horrid mysteries;
Marks how deforming passions tear
The bosoms of the losing fair;

How looks convuls'd, and haggard faces, Chase the scar'd Loves, and frighten'd Gra

ces!

Touch'd with disdain, with horror fir'd,
CELIA! he murmur'd, and retir'd.

That night no sleep his eyelids prest,
He thought; and thought's a foe to rest:
Or if, by chance, he clos'd his eyes,
What hideous spectres round him rise!
Distemper'd Fancy wildly brings
The broken images of things;
His ruin'd friend, with eye ball fixt,
Swallowing the draught Despair had mixt;
The frantic wife beside him stands,
With bursting heart, and wringing hands;
And every horror dreams bestow,
Of pining want, or raving wo.

Next morn, to check, or cherish thought,
His library's retreat he sought;
He view'd each book, with cold regard,
Of serious sage, or lighter bard;
At length, among the motley band,
The IDLER fell into his hand;
Th' alluring title caught his eye,
It promis'd cold inanity :

He read with rapture and surprise,
And found 'twas pleasant, though 'twas wise:
His tea grew cold, whilst he, unheeding,
Pursu'd this reasonable reading.
He wonder'd at the change he found,
Th' elastic spirits nimbly bound;
Time slipt, without disgust, away,
While many a card unanswer'd lay:
Three papers, reeking from the press,
Three pamphlets thin, in azure dress,
Ephemeral literature well known,
The lie and scandal of the town;
Poison of letters, morals, time!
Assassin of our day's fresh prime !
These, on his table, half the day,
Unthought of, and neglected lay.

FLORIO had now full three hours read,
Hours which he us'd to waste in bed;
His pulse beat virtue's vigorous tone,
The reason to himself unknown;
And if he stopped to seek the cause,
Fair CELIA's image fiill'd the pause.

And now, announc'd BELLARIO's name
Had almost quench'd the new-born flame :
Admit him,' was the ready word
Which first escap'd him, not unheard ;