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FROM nature, too, I take my rule,
Can grave and formal pafs for wife,
Kites, hawks, and wolves, deferve their fate.
Do not we just abhorrence find
Against the toad and ferpent kind?
THY fame is juft, the fage replies:.
HE fan fhall flutter in all female hands,
And various fashions fhew, of various lands. For this, fhall elephants their ivory fhed, And polish'd sticks the waving engine spread; His clouded mail the tortoife fhall refign, And, round the rivet, pearly circles fhine. On this, fhall Indians all their art employ, And, with bright colours, ftain the gaudy toy. Their paint fhall here in wildeft fancies flow, Their drefs, their cuftoms, their religion fhew: So fhall the British fair their minds improve, And, on the fan, to diftant regions rove. Here China's ladies fhall their pride display, And filver figures gild their loose array. This, hoafts her little feet, and winking eyes; That, tunes the fife, or tinkling cymbal plies: Here, cross-legg'd nobles, in rich state, fhall dine There, in bright mail, diftorted heroes fhine. The peeping fan, in modern times, shall rife, Through which, unseen, the female ogle flies; This fhall, in temples, the fly maid conceal, And shelter love, beneath devotion's veil. As learned orators, that touch the heart, With various action raise their soothing art, Both head and hand affect the lift'ning throng, And humour each expression of the tongue; So fhall each paffion, by the fan, be feen, From noify anger, to the fullen spleen.
N Leven's banks, while free to rove,
I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod th' Arcadian plain.
PURE ftream! in whofe tranfparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents ftain thy limpid fource
STILL on thy banks, so gaily green,
INVITATION TO THE FEATHERED RACE.
AGAIN the balmy zephyr blows,
Fresh verdure decks the grove;
Each bird, with vernal rapture, glows,
Ye gentle warblers! hither fly,
Here, freely hop, from fpray to spray;
Or weave the moffy neft:
Here, rove and fing the live-long day;
Amid this cool translucent rill,
That trickles down the glade,
Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill,
And revel in the shade.
No fchool-boy rude, to mifchief prone,
E'er fhews his ruddy face,
Or twangs his bow, or hurls a ftone,
In this fequefter'd place.
Hither the vocal thrush repairs;
The goldfinch dreads no flimy fnares,
Sad Philomel! ah, quit thy haunt,
Yon diftant woods among,
And, round my friendly grotto, chant
Let not the harmless red-breast fear,
And feek a fure afylum here,
My trees for you, ye artless tribe!
For you, thefe cherries I protect;
To you, thefe plums belong :
Let, then, this league betwixt us made,
Where fmiling fpring its earliest vifit paid,