How white. how polifh'd is their skin,
And valued moft when only seen!
She, who before was higheft priz'd,
Is for a crack or flaw defpis'd.
I grant they're frail; yet they're so rare,
The treasure cannot coft too dear!
But man is made of coarfer ftoff,
And ferves convenience well enough;
He's a strong earthen veffel, made
For drudging, labour, toil, and trade;
And, when wives lofe their other felf,
With eafe they bear the lofs of pelf.
Hufbands, more covetous than fage,
Condemn this china-buying rage;
They count that woman's prudence little,
Who fets her heart on things fo brittle.
But are thofe wife men's inclinations
Fix'd on more frong, more fure foundations?
If all that's frail we muft defpife,
No human view or fcheme is wife.
Are not Ambition's hopes as weak?
They fwell like bubbles, fhine, and break.
A courtier's promife is fo flight,
'Tis made at noon, and broke at night.
What pleasure's fure? The mifs you keep
Breaks both your fortune and your fleep.
The man who loves a country life
Breaks all the comforts of his wife;
And, if he quit his farm and plough,
His wife in town may break her vow.
Love, Laura, love, while youth is warm,
For each new winter breaks a charm;
And woman's not like china fold,
But cheaper grows in growing old;
Then quickly choofe the prudent part,
Or else you break a faithful heart.
On a Mifcellany of Poems. To Bernard Lintott.
Ipfa varietate tentamus efficere ut alia aliis, quædam fortaffe omnibus placeant." PLIN. Epift.
As when fome skilful cook, to please each gueft,
Would in one mixture comprehend a feast,
With due proportion and judicious care
He fills his dish with different forts of fare,
Tifhes and fowls delicioufly unite,
To feal at once the taste. the smell, and fight.
So, Bernard, n.uft a mifcellany be
Compounded of all kinds of poetry;
The mules olio, which all talles may fit,
And treat each reader with his darling wit.
Would't thou for mifcellanies raife thy fame,
And bravely rival Jacob's mighty name,
Let all the mufes in the piece confpire;
The lyric bard muft ftrike th' harmonious lyre;
Heroic ftrains muft here and there be found,
And nervous fenfe be fung in lofty found;
Let elegy in moving-numbers flow,
And fill fome pages with melodious woe;
Let not your amorous fongs too numerous prove,
Nor glut thy reader with abundant love;
Satire muft interfere, whofe pointed rage
May lafh the madness of a vicious age;
Satire! the mufe that never fails to hit,
For if there's fcandal, to be fure there's wit.
Tire not our patience with Pindaric lays,
Thofe fwell the piece, but very rarely please;
Let fhort-breath'd epigram its force confine,
And ftrike at follies in a fingle line. [fown,
Tranflations fhould throughout the work be
And Homer's godlike mufe be made our own;
Horace in ufeful numbers fhould be fung,
And Virgil's thoughts adorn the British tongue.
Let Ovid tell Corinna's hard disdain,
And at her door in melting notes complain;
His tender accents pitying virgins move,
And charm the liftening ear with tales of love.
Let every claffic in the volume shine,
And each contribute to thy great defign;
Through various subjects let the reader range,
And raise his fancy with a grateful change.
Variety's the fource of joy below,
From whence ftill fresh revolving pleasures flow.
In books and love, the mind one end pursues,
And only change th' expiring flame renews.
Where Buckingham will condefcend to give,
That honour'd piece to distant times muft live;
When noble Sheffield ftrikes the trembling strings,
The little loves rejoice, and clap their wings;
Anacreon lives, they cry, th' harmonious fwain
Retunes the lyre, and tries his wonted ftrain,
'Tis be-our loft Anacreon lives again.
But, when th' illuftrious poet foars above
The sportive revels of the God of Love,
Like Maro's mufe, he takes a loftier flight,
And towers beyond the wondering Cupid's fight.
If thou would't have thy volume ftand the
test,
And of all others be reputed best,
Let Congreve teach the liftening groves to mourn, As when he wept o'er fair Paftora's urn.
Let Prior's mufe with foftening accents move, Soft as the ftrains of conftant Emma's love: Or let his fancy choose fome jovial theme, As when he told Hans Carvel's jealous-dream; Prior th' admiring reader entertains With Chaucer's humour, and with Spenfer's trains. Waller in Granville lives; when Mira fings, With Waller's hand he ftrikes the founding
With fprightly turns his noble genius fhines,
And manly fenfe adorns his eafy lines.
On Addifon's fweet lays attention waits,
And filence guards the place while he repeats;
His mufe alike on every subject charms,
Whether the paints the god of love, or arms:
In him pathetic Ovid fings again,
And Homer's Iliad fhines in his campaign.
Whenever Garth fhall raife his fprightly fong, Senfe flows in eafy numbers from his tongue; Great Phoebus in his learned fon we fee, Alike in phyfic, as in poetry.
When Pope's harmonious mufe with pleasure [groves, Amids the plains, the murmuring fireams, and
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THE BIRTH OF THE SQUIRE.
In Imitation of the Pollio of Virgil.
Yz fylvan muses, loftier strains recite :
Not at all in fhades and humble cots delight.
Hark! the bells ring; along the diftant grounds
The driving gales convey the fwelling founds;
Th' attentive fwain, forgetful of his work,
With gaping wonder, leans upon his fork.
What fudden news alarms the waking morn?
To the glad Squire a hopeful heir is born.
Mourn, mourn, ye flags, and all ye beafts of chafe;
This hour deftruction brings on all your race:
See the pleas'd tenants duteous offerings bear,
Turkeys and geese, and grocer's sweetest ware;
With the new health the ponderous tankard flows,
And old October reddens every nose.
Beagles and spaniels round his cradle stand,
Kifs his moift lip, and gently lick his hand.
He joys to hear the fhrill horn's echoing founds,
And learns to lifp the names of all the hounds.
With frothy ale to make his cup o'erflow,
Barley fhall in paternal acres grow
The bee fhall fip the fragrant dew from flowers,
To give metheglin for his morning-hours;
For him the cluttering hop fhall climb the poles,
And his own orchard fparkle in his bowls.
His fire's exploits he now with wonder hears,
The monstrous tales indulge his greedy ears;
How, when youth ftrung his nerves and warm'd
his veins,
He rode the mighty Nimrod of the plains.
He leads the staring infant through the hall,
Points out the horny fpoils that grace the wall;
Tells, how this flag through three whole counties
fled,
What rivers fwam, where bay'd, and where he bled.
Now he the wonders of the fox repeats,
Describes the defperate chafe, and all his cheats ;
How in one day, beneath his furious speed,
He tir'd feven courfers of the fleetest breed;
How high the pale he leap'd, how wide the ditch,
When the hound tore the haunches of the witch!
Thefe ftories, which defcend from fon to fon,
The forward boy fhall one day make his own.
Ah, too fond mother, think the time draws nigh,
That calls the darling from thy tender eye;
How fhall his fpirit brook the rigid rules,
And the long tyranny of grammar-schools?
Let younger brothers o'er dull authors plod,
No, let him never feel that fmart difgrace:
Lafh'd into Latin by the tingling rod;
Why fhould he wifer prove than all his race?
When ripening youth with down &'erfhades his
chin,
And every female eye incites to fin;
The milk-maid (thoughtless of her future fhame)
With fmacking lip fhall raife his guilty flame;
The dairy, barn, the hay-loft, and the grove,
Shall oft be confcious of their ftolen love.
But think, Prifcilla, on that dreadful time,
When pangs and watery qualms fhall own thy crime.
How wilt thou tremble when thy nipple's preft,
To fee the white drops bathe thy fwelling breaft!
Nine moons fhall publicly divulge thy fhame,
And the young fquire forestall a father's name.
When twice twelve times the reaper's sweeping
hand
On fam'd St. Hubert's feaft, his winding horn
With levell'd harvests has beftrown the land;
Shall cheer the joyful hound, and wake the morn:
This memorable day his eager speed
Shall urge with bloody heel the rifing fteed.
Think on the murders of a five-bar gate!
O check the foamy bit, nor tempt thy fate,
*The most common accident to sportsmen, to hunt a
witch in the pape of a bare.
U
Yet, prodigal of life, the leap he tries,
Low in the duft his groveling honour lies,
Headlong he falls, and on the rugged ftone
Distorts his neck, and cracks the collar-bone.
O venturous youth, thy thirst of game allay :
May'ft thou furvive the perils of this day!
He fhall furvive; and in late years be fent
To fnore away debates in parliament.
The time fhall come, when his more folid fenfe
With nod important fhall the laws difpenfe;
A Juftice with grave Juftices fhall fit;
He praife their wifdom, they admire his wit.
No greyhound fhall attend the tenant's pace,
No rufty gun the farmer's chimney grace;
Salmons fhall leave their covers void of fear,.
Nor dread the thievifh net or triple spear;
Poachers fhall tremble at his awful name, [game.
Whom vengeance now o'ertakes for murder'd
Affift me, Bacchus, and ye drunken powers,
To fing his friendships and his midnight hours!
Why doft thou glory in thy ftrength of beer,
Firm cork'd and mellow'd till the twentieth year;
Brew'd, or when Phoebus warms the fleecy fign,
Or when his languid rays in Scorpio fhine?
Think on the mifchiefs which from hence have
fprung!
It arms with curfes dire the wrathful tongue;
Foul fcandal to the lying lip affords,
And prompts the memory with injurious words.
O where is wisdom when by this o'erpower'd?
The ftate is cenfur'd, and the maid deflower'd!
And wilt thou ftill, O Squire, brew ale fo ftrong?
Hear then the dictates of prophetic fong.
Methinks I fee him in his hall appear, Where the long table floats in clammy beer, Midft mugs and glaffes fhatter'd o'er the floor, Dead drunk, his fervile crew fupinely fnore; Triumphant, o'er the proftrate brutes he ftands, The mighty bumper trembles in his hands; Boldly he drinks, and, like his glorious fires, In copious gulps of potent ale expires.
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Since Lydia knew the bloffom of fifteen ;
No lovers now her morning hours moleft,
And catch her at her toilette half undreft;
The thundering knocker wakes the freet no more,
No chairs, no coaches, crowd her filent door;
Her midnights once at cards and hazard fled,
Which now, alas! fhe dreams away in bed.
Around her wait fhocks, monkeys, and mockaws,
To fill the place of fops and perjur'd beaux;
In thefe the views the mimickry of man,
And fmiles when grinning Pug gallants her fan;
When Poll repeats, the loands deceive her ear
(For founds like his once told her Damon's care);
With thefe alone her tedious mornings pafs;
Or, at the dunib devotion of her glafs,
She smooths her brow, and frizzles forth her hairs,
And fancies youthful drefs gives youthful airs;
With crimson wool fhe fixes every grace,
That not a blush can difcompofc her face.
Reclin'd upon her arm, the penfive fate,
And curs'd th' inconftancy of youth too late.
O youth! O fpring of life! for ever loft !
No more my name fhall reign the favourite toast;
On glass no more the diamond grave my name,
And rhymes mif-fpelt record a lover's flame:
Nor fhail fide-boxes watch my restless eyes,
And, as they catch the glance, in rows arise
With humble bows; nor white lov'd beaux en-
In crowds behind, to guard me to my coach.
Ah, hapless nymph! such conquests are no more;
For Chloe's now what Lydia was before!
'Tis true, this Chloe boasts the peach's bloom.
But does her nearer whisper breathe perfume?
I own, her taper shape is form'd to please.
Yet if you faw her unconfin'd by flays!
She doubly to fifteen may make pretence;
Alike we read it in her face and fenfe.
Her reputation but that never yet
Could check the freedoms of a young coquette.
Why will ye then, vain fops, her eyes believe?
Her eyes can, like your perjur'd tongues, deceive.
What fhall I do? how spend the hateful day?
At chapel fhall I wear the morn away?
Who there frequents at these unmodifh hours,
But ancient matrons with their frizzled towers,
And gray religious maids? My prefence there
Amid that fober train would own despair;
Nor am I yet fo old; nor is my glance
As yet fixt wholly to devotion's trance.
Straight then I'll drefs, and take my wonted Through every Indian fhop through all the Change; Where the tall jar erects his coftly pride, With antic fhapes in china's azure dy'd; There carclefs lies the rich brocade unroll'd; Here fhines a cabinet with burnish'd gold: But then remembrance will my grief renew, 'Twas there the raffling dice falfe Damon threw; The raffling dice to him decide the prize; 'Twas there he first convers'd with Chloe's eyes. Hence fprung th' ili-fated caufe of all my fmart; To me the toy he gave, to her his heart. But foon thy perjury in the gift was found, The fhiver'd china drept upon the ground; Sure omen that thy vows would faithlefs prove; Frail was thy prefent, frailer is thy love.
O happy Poll, in wiry poifon pent;
Thou ne'er haft known what love or rivals meant,
And Pug with pleasure can his fetters bear,
Who ne'er believ'd the vows that lovers (wear!
How am I curft (unhappy and forlorn)
With perjury, with love, and rival's fcorn!
Falfe are the loofe coquette's inveigling airs,
Falle is the pompous 'grief of youthful heirs,
Falfe is the cringing courtier's plighted word,
Falfe are the dice when gamefters itamp the board,
Falfe is the fprightly widow's public tear;
Yet these to Damon's caths are all fincere.
Fly from perfidious man, the fex difdain;
Let fervile Chloe wear the nuptial chain.
Damon is practis'd in the modish life,.
Can hate, and yet be civil to a wife.
He games; he fwears; he drinks; he fights; he | Yet, in the gallery mobb'd, the fits fecure,
Yet Chloe can believe he fondly loves.
Miftrefs and wife can well fupply his need;
A mifs for pleasure, and a wife for bread.
But Chloe's air is unconfin'd and gay,
And can perhaps an injur'd bed repay;
Perhaps her patient temper can behold
The rival of her love adorn'd with gold.
Powder'd with diamonds; free from thought and
A hufband's fullen humours she can bear. [eyes?
Why are thefe fobs? and why these streaming
Js love the caufe? No, I the fex defpife
I hate, I lothe his bafe perfidious name.
Yet if he fhould but feign a rival flame?
But Chloe boafts and triumphs in my pains;
To her he's faithful, 'tis to me he feigns.
Thus love-fick Lydia rav'd. Her maid appears;
A band-box in her steady hand the bears.
How well this ribband's glofs becomes your face;
She cries, in raptuaes; then, fo fweet a lace!
How charmingly you look! fo bright! fo fair!
'Tis to your eyes the head-drefs owes its air.
Straight Lydia fmil'd: the comb adjusts her locks
And at the playhouse Harry keeps her box.
And laughs at jefts that turn the box demure.
Doris.
Truft not, ye ladies, to your beauty's power,
For beauty withers like a fhrivel'd flower;
Yet thofe fair flowers, that Sylvia's temples bind,
Fade not with fudden blights or winter's wind;
Like thofe, her face defies the rolling years;
For art her rofes and her charms repairs.
Melantbe.
Laura defpifes every outward grace,
The wanton fparkling eye, the blooming face;
The beauties of the foul are all her pride,
For other beauties nature has deny'd :
If affectation fhow a beauteous mind,
Lives there a man to Laura's merits blind?
Doris.
Sylvia be fure defies the town's reproach,
Whofe difhabille is foil'd in hackney coach;
What though the fafh was clos'd, muft we con
clude,
That she was yielding, when her fop was rude?
Melantbe.
Laura learnt caution at too dear a cost,
What fair could e'er retrieve her honour loft?
Secret fhe loves; and who the nymph can blame,
Who durft not own a footman's vulgar flame?
Doris.
Though Laura's homely tafte defcends fo low;
Her footman well may vie with Sylvia's beau.
Melantbe.
SAINT James's noon-day bell for prayers had toll'd, Yet why fhould Laura think it a difgrace,
And coaches to the patron's levee roll'd,
When Doris rofe. And now through all the room
From flowery tea exhales a fragrant fume.
Cup after cup they fipt, and talk'd by fits,
For Doris here, and there Melanthe fits.
Doris was young, a laughter-loving dame,
Nice of her own alike and others' fame:
Melanthe's tongue could well a tale advance,
And fooner gave than funk a circumftance;
Lock'd in her memory, fecrets never dy'd.
Doris begun: Melanthe thus reply'd.
Doris.
Sylvia the vain fantastic fop admires;
The rake's loose gallantry her bosom fires:
Sylvia like that is vain, like this fhe roves;
la liking them, fhe but herself approves.
Melanthe.
Laura rails on at men, the sex reviles,
Their vice condemns, or at their folly smiles.
Why should her tongue in just resentment fail,
Since men at her with equal freedom rail?
Doris.
Laft masquerade was Sylvia nymph-like feen,
Her hand a crook fuftain'd, her dress was green;
An amorous fhepherd led her through the crowd,
The nymph was innocent, the thepherd vow'd;
But nymphs their innocence with fhepherds truft;
So both withdrew, as nyniph and shepherd muft.
Melantbe.
Name but the licence of the modern flage,
Laura takes fire, and kindles into rage;
The whining tragic love the scarce can bear,
But naufeous comedy ne'er shock'd her car ;
When proud Miranda's groom wears Flanders lace?
What though for mufic Cynthio boasts an ear?
Robin perhaps can hum an opera air.
Cynthio can bow, takes inuff, and dances well;
Robin talks common-fenfe, can write and fpell.
Sylvia's vain fancy drefs and fhow admires;
But 'tis the man alone whom Laura fires.
Melanthe.
Plato's wife morals Laura's foul improve:
And this, no doubt, must be Platonic love!
Her foul to generous acts was ftill inclin'd.
What shows more virtue than an humble mind?
Doris.
What though young Sylvia love the park's cool
fhade,
And wander in the dusk the fecret glade?
Mafqu'd and alone (by chance) fhe met her spark;
That innocence is weak which fhuns the dark.
Melarthe.
But Laura for her flame has no pretence;
Her footman is a footman too in fenfe.
All prudes I hate; and thofe are rightly curft
With fcandal's double load, who cenfure first.
Doris.
Who fuch a foot and fuch a leg would hide;
And what if Cynthio Sylvia's garter ty'd?
When crook-kneed Phyllis can expofe to view
Her gold-clock'd locking, and her tawdry thoc?
If pure devotion centre in the face,
If cenfuring others how intrinfic grace,
If guilt to public freedoms be combin'd,
Prudes (all muft own) are of the holy kind!
Doris.
Sylvia difdains referve, and flies constraint;
She neither is, nor would be thought, a faint.
Melanthe.
Love is a trivial paffion, Laura cries:
May I be bleft with friendship's stricter ties!
To fuch a breaft all fecrets we commend;
Sure the whole drawing-room is Laura's friend.
Doris.
At marriage Sylvia rails; who men would trust?
Yet hufbands' jealoufies are fometimes just.
Her favours Sylvia shares among mankind:
Such generous love fhould never be confin'd.
As thus alternate chat employ'd their tongue. With thundering raps the brazen knocker rung. Laura and Sylvia came; the nymphs arife; "This unexpected vifit," Doris cries, "Is doubly kind!" Melanthe Laura led: "Since I was last so bleft, my dear," she said, "Sure 'tis an age." They fate; the hour was fet; And all again that night at ombre met.
A TOWN ECLOGUE.
Sabina. Lucy.
TWICE had the moon perform'd her earthly race,
Since firft the veil o'ercaft Sabina's face.
Then dy'd the tender partner of her bed.
And lives Sabina when Fidelio's dead?
Fidelio's dead, and yet Sabina lives.
But fee the tribute of her tears the gives;
Their abfent lord her rooms in fable mourn,
And all the day the glimmering tapers burn;
Stretch'd on the couch of ftate fhe penfive lies,
While oft' the fnowy cambric wipes her eyes.
Now enter'd Lucy: trufty Lucy knew
To roll a fleeve, or bear a billet-doux ;
Her ready tongue, in fecret fervice try'd,
With equal fluency spoke truth or ly'd;
She well could flufh or humble a gallant,
And serve at once as maid and confidant !
A letter from her faithful stays she took,
Sabina fnatch'd it with an angry look,
And thus in hafty words her grief confeft;
While Lucy ftrove to foothe her troubled breast.
Sabina.
What, ftill Myrtillo's hand his flame I fcorn;
Give back his paffion with the seal untorn.
To break our foft repofe, has man a right?
And are we doom'd to read whate'er they write?
Not all the fex my firm refolves fhall move;
My life's a life of forrow, not of love.
May Lydia's wrinkles all my forehead trace,
And Celia's palenefs ficken o'er my face;
May fops of mine, as Flavia's favours, boast,
And coquettes triump in my honour loft;
May cards employ my nights, and never more
May these curft eyes behold a matadore ;
Break china, perifh fhock, die perroquet;
When I Fidelio's dearer love forget!
Fidelio's judgment fcorn'd the foppish train;
His air was cafy, and his dress was plain;
His words fincere, refpect his prefence drew,
And on his lips fweet converfation grew.
Where's wit, where's beauty, where is virtue fled?
Alas! they're now no more; Fidelio's dead!
Lucy.
Yet, when he liv'd, he wanted every grace;
That eafy air was then an aukward pace:
Have not your fighs in whispers often said,
His dress was flovenly, his fpeech ill-bred?
Have not I heard you, with a fecret tear,
Call that fweet converfe fullen and severe ?
Think not I come to take Myrtillo's part:
Let Chloe, Daphne, Doris, fhare his heart;
Let Chloe's love in every ear express
His graceful perfon and genteel addrefs;
All well may judge what shaft has Daphne hit,
Who fuffers filence, to admire his wit.
His equipage and liveries Doris move;
But Chloe, Daphne, Doris, fondly love.
Sooner fhall cits in fashions guide the court,
And beaux upon the bufy Change refort;
And fops apartments fmoke with India's weed;
Sooner the nation fhall from fnuff be freed,
Sooner I'd wish and figh through nunnery grates;
Than recommend the flame Sabina hates.
Because some widows are in hafte fubdued;
Shall every fop, upon our tears intrude?
Can I forget my lov'd Fidelio's tongue,
Soft as the warbling of Italian fong?
Did not his rofy lips breathe forth perfume,
Fragrant as steams from tea's imperial bloom?
Lucy.
Yet once you thought that tongue a greater curle
Than fqualls of children for an abfent nurse.
Have you not fancy'd, in his frequent kifs,
Th' ungrateful leavings of a filthy mils?
Sabini.
Love, I thy power defy; no fecond flame
Shall ever raze my dear Fidelio's name.
Fannia without a tear might lose her lord,
Who ne'er enjoy'd his prefence but at board.
And why fhould forrow fit on Lefbia's face?
Are there fuch comforts in a fot's embrace?
No friend, no lover, is to Lefbia dead;
For Lefbia long had known a feparate bed. [breaft;
Gufh forth, ye tears; wafte, wafte, ye fighs, my
My days, my nights, were by Fidelio bleft!
Lucy.
You cannot fure forget how oft' you faid,
His teazing fondnefs jealoufy betray'd!
When at the play the neighbouring box he took,
You thought you read fufpicion in his look.
When cards and counters flew around the board
Have you not wifh'd the abfence of your lord?
His company was then a poor pretence,
To check the freedom of a wife's expence.
Sabina.
But why should I Myrtillo's paffion blame,
Since love's a fierce involuntary flame?
Lucy.
Could he the fallies of his heart withstand,
Why should he not to Chloe give his hand?
For Chloe's handfome; yet he flights her flame=
Laft night the fainted at Sabina's name.
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