A PASTORAL.

WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR, WHEN A STUDENT AT TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, AND FIRST PRINTED IN THE EIGHTH VOLUME OF THE SPECTATOR.

MY time, O ye Muses, was happily spent,

When Phoebe went with me wherever I went; Ten thousand sweet pleasures 1 felt in my breast: Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest! But now she is gone, and has left me behind, What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! When things were as fine as could possibly be, I thought 'twas the Spring; but alas! it was she.

With such a companion to tend a few sheep, To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep: I was so good-humour'd, so cheerful and gay, My heart was as light as a feather all day, But now I so cross, and so peevish am grown; So strangely uneasy, as never was known. My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd, And my heart I am sure it weighs more than a pound.

The fountain, that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, 'Twas pleasure to look at, 't was music to hear: But now she is absent, I walk by its side, And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide; Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.

My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they, How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time,

When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in their prime;

But now, in their frolics when by me they pass,
I fling at their fleeces an handful of grass;
Be still then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad,
To see you so merry while I am so sad.

My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; And Phoebe was pleas'd too, and to my dog said, "Come hither, poor fellow;" and patted his head. But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look Cry "Sirrah;" and give him a blow with my crook: And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away?

When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen,

How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green!
What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade,
The corn-fields and hedges, and ev'ry thing made!
But now she has left me, tho' all are still there,
They none of them now so delightful appear:
'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes,
Made so many beautiful prospects arise.

Sweet music went with us both all the wood

thro'.

The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, tho' still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone: Her voice in the consort, as now I have found, Gave ev'ry thing else its agreeable sound.

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does ought of its sweetness the blossom beguile?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not
smile?

Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you drest,
And made yourselves fine for a place in her

breast:

You put on your colours to pleasure her eye,
To be pluck'd by her hand, on her bosom to die.

How slowly Time creeps, till my Phoebe return!
While amidst the soft Zephyr's cool breezes I burn;
Methinks if I knew whereabouts he would tread,
I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt
down the lead.

A DESCRIPTION OF TUNBRIDGE,

IN A LETTER TO P. M. ESQ.

DEAR Peter, whose friendship I value much more,
Than bards their own verses, or misers their store;
Your books, and your bus'ness, and ev'ry thing
else,

Lay aside for a while, and come down to the Wells:
The country so pleasant! the weather so fine!
A world of fair ladies! and delicate wine!
The proposal, I fancy, you'll hardly reject,
Then hear, if you come, what you are to expect.

Some sev'n or eight mile off, to give you the meeting,

Barbers, dippers, and so forth, we send to you greeting.

Soon as they set eyes on you, off flies the hat, Does your honour want this, does your honour want that?

That being a stranger, by this apparatus [at us. You may see our good manners, before you come Now this, please your honour, is what we call Tooting,

A trick in your custom to get the first footing.

Conducted by these civil gen'men to town You put up your horse, for rhyme sake at the Crown: [word My landlord bids welcome, and gives you his For the best entertainment the house can afford: You taste which is better, his white, or his red, Bespeak a good supper, good room, and good bed: In short just as travellers do when they light, So, to fill up the stanza—I wish you good night. But then the next morning, when Phœbus appears, cheers, And with his bright beams our glad hemisphere You rise, dress, get shav'd, and away to the walks, The pride of the place, of which ev'ry one talks: There I would suppose you a drinking the waters, Didn't I know that you come not for any such matters;

But to see the fine ladies in their dishabille, ▲ dress that's sometimes the most studied to kill.

The ladies you see, ay, and ladies as fair, As charming, and bright as you'll see any where: You eye, and examine the beautiful throng, As o'er the clean walks they pass lovely along; And if any, by chance, looks a little demurer, You fancy, like ev'ry young fop, you could cure her;

Till from some pretty nymph a deep wound you receive,

And yourself want the cure, which you thought you could give.

Not so wounded howe'er, as to make you forget, That your honour this morn has not breakfasted yet;

So to Morley's you go, look about, and sit down; Then comes the young lass for your honour's halfcrown;

She brings out the book, you look wisely upon her, "What's the meaning of this?""To subscribe, please your honour:", [ye,

So you write, as your betters have all done before 'Tis a custom, and so there's an end of the story.

And now, all this while, it is forty to one But some friend or other you've happen'd upon: You all go to church, upon hearing the bell, [tell: Whether out of devotion-yourselves best can From thence to the tavern to toast pretty Nancy, Th' aforesaid bright nymph, that had smitten your fancy; [mands, Where wine and good victuals attend your comAnd wheatears, far better than French ortolans.

Then, after you've din'd, take a view of our ground,

[round, And observe the fine mountains that compass us And, if you could walk a mile after your eating, There's some comical rocks, that are worth contemplating;

You may, if you please, for their oddness and
make,
[o' Peak;

Compare 'em-
-let's see- -to the De'el's Arse
They're one like the other, except that the wonder
Does here lie above ground, and there it lies under.

To the walks, about seven, you trace back your way, [day; Where the Sun marches off, and the ladies make What crowding of charms! gods! or rather goddesses! [and dresses!

What beauties are here! what bright looks, airs, In the room of the waters had Helicon sprung, And the nymphs of the place by old poets been sung, [reason,

To invite the gods hither they would have had And Jove had descended each night in the season.

If with things here below we compare things on The walks are like yonder bright path in the sky, high,

Where heavenly bodies in such clusters mingle,
'Tis impossible, sir, to describe 'em all single:
But if ever you saw that sweet creature Miss K—y,
If ever you saw her, I say, let me tell ye,
Descriptions are needless; for surely to you,
No beauty, no graces, can ever be new.

But when to their gaming the ladies withdraw, Those beauties are fled, which when walking you

saw:

Ungrateful the scene which you there see display'd, Chance murd'ring those features which Heav'n had made:

If the fair ones their charms did sufficiently prize, Their elbows they'd spare for the sake of their eyes; And the men too-what work! its enough, in good faith is't,

Of the nonsence of chance, to convince any atheist.

But now 'tis high time, I presume, to bid vale, Lest we tire you too long with our Tunbridgiale; Which, if the four critics pretend to unravel, Or at these our verses should stupidly cavil; If this be the case, tell the critics I pray, That I care not one farthing for all they can say: And so I conclude, with my service, good Peter, To yourself, and all friends-farewell Muse farewell metre.

A FULL AND TRUE ACCOUNT OF AN HORRID AND BARBAROUS ROBBERY, COMMITTED ON EPPING FOREST, UPON The body of thE CAMBRIDGE COACH. IN A LETTER TO M. F. ESQ.

Arma virumque cano.

DEAR Martin Foikes, dear scholar, brother, friend;

And words of like importance without end;
This comes to tell you, how, in Epping Hundred,
Last Wednesday morning I was robb'd, and plun-
der'd.

Forgive the Muse, who sings what, I suppose,
Fame has already trumpeted in prose;
But Fame's a lying jade: the turn of fate
Let poor Melpomene herself relate:
Spare the sad nymph a vacant hour's relief,
To rhyme away the remnants of her grief.

On Tuesday night, you know with how much

sorrow

I bid the club farewel-"I go to morrow—"
To morrow came, and so accordingly
Unto the place of rendezvous went I.

Bull was the house, and Bishopsgate the street,
The coach as full as it could cram; to wit,
Two fellow-commoners de Aula Trin.
And eke an honest bricklayer of Lynn,
And eke two Norfolk dames, his wife and cousin,
And eke my worship's self made half a dozen.

Now then, as Fortune had contriv'd, our way
Thro' the wild brakes of Epping Forest lay:
With travellers and trunks, a hugeous load,
We hagg'd along the solitary road;

Where nought but thickets within thickets grew,
No house nor barn to cheer the wand'ring view;
Nor lab'ring hind, nor shepherd did appear,
Nor sportsman with his dog or gun was there;
A dreary landscape, bushy and forlorn,
Where rogues start up like mushrooms in a morn.

However, since we, none of us, had yet
Such rogues, but in a Sessions-paper, met,
We jok'd on fear; tho', as we pass'd along,
Robbing was still the burden of the song.
With untry'd courage bravely we repell'd
The rude attacks of dogs-not yet beheld.
With val'rous talk still battling, 'till at last
We thought all danger was as good as past.
Says one-too soon alas!" Now let him come,
Full at his head I'll fling this bottle of rum."
Scarce had he spoken, when the brickman's wife
Cry'd out," Good Lord! he's here, upon my life."
Forth from behind the wheels the villain came,
And swore such words as I dare hardly name;
But you'll suppose them, brother, not to drop
From me, but him-" G-d d-n ye, coachman,
stop:

Your money, zounds, deliver me your money, Quick, d-n ye, quick; must I stay waiting on ye? Quick, or I'll send"-(and nearer still he rode) "A brace of balls amongst ye all, by -."

1 leave you, sir, to judge yourself what plight We all were put in, by this cursed wight. The trembling females into labour fell; Big with the sudden fear, they pout, they swell; And soon, deliver'd by his horrid curses, [purses: Brought forth two strange and preternatural That look'd indeed like purses made of leather; But let the sweet-tongued Manningham' say wheA common purse could possibly conceal [ther Shillings, half-crowns, and half-pence by piecemeal.

The youth, who flung the bottle at the knave
Before he came, now thought it best to wave
Such resolution, and preserve the liquor;
Since a round guinea might be thrown much
quicker:

So with impetuous haste he flung him that,
Which the sharp rascal parried with his hat.
His right-hand man, a brother of our quill,
Prudently chose to show his own good will
By the same token, and without much scruple
Made the red-rugg'd collector's income duple.

My heart-for truth I always must confess→→→
Did sink' an inch exactly-more or less?
With both my eyes I view'd the thief's approach;
And read the case of-Ristol versus Coach.
A woeful case, which I had oft heard quoted;
But ne'er before in all my practice noted.
So when the lawyers brought in their report,
Guinea per Christian to be paid in court,
Well off, thinks I, with this same son of a whore,
If he prefers his action for no more.

No more! why hang him, is not that too much, To pay a guinea for his vile High Dutch? 'Tis true, he has us here upon the hank, With action strong; and swears to it point blank: Yet why resign the yellow one pound one? No, tax his bill, and give him silver, John. So said, so done, and putting fist to fob

I flung th' apparent value of the job,

An ounce of silver, into his receiver,
And mark'd the issue of the rogue's behaviour.

He, like a thankless wretch, that 's overpaid,
Resents, forsooth, th' affront upon his trade;
And treats my kindness with a-" this won't do,
Look ye here, sir, I must ha' gold from you."
To this demand of the ungrateful cur,
Defendant John thought proper to demur.
The bricklayer joining in the white opinion,
Tender'd five shillings to Diana's minion;
Who still kept threat'ning to pervade his buff,
Because the payment was not prompt enough.

Before the women, with their purses each, Had strength to place contents within his reach,

'Dr. Manningham; who wrote a pamphlet in defence of the well-known story of the RabbitWoman. An expression used by of the Royal Society, and afterwards proverbially adopted in ridicule by the author and his friends.

One of his pieces, falling downwards, drew
The rogue's attention hungrily thereto.
Straight he began to damn the charioteer:-
"Come down, ye dog, reach me that guinea there."
Down jumps th' affrighted coachman on the sand,
Picks up the gold, and puts it in his hand :
Missing a rare occasion, tim'rous dastard,
To seize his pistol, and dismount the bastard.

Now, while in deep and serious ponderment
I watch'd the motions of his next intent,
He wheel'd about, as one full bent to try
The matter in dispute 'twixt him and I;
And how my silver sentiments would hold
Against that hard dilemma, balls or gold.
"No help!" said I, "no tachygraphic pow'r,
To interpose in this unequal hour!

I doubt I must resign-there's no defending
The cause against that murderous fire-engine."

When lo! descending to her champion's aid The goddess Short-hand, bright celestial maid, Clad in a letter'd vest of silver bue 3, Wrought by her fav'rite Phoebe's hand, she flew, Th' unfolded surface fell exactly neat, In just proportions o'er her shape complete; Distinct with lines of purer flaming white, Transparent work, intelligibly bright; Form'd to give pleasure to th' ingenious mind, But puzzle and confound the stupid hind.

Soon as the wretch the sacred writing spy'd, "What conjuration-sight is this," he cry'd! My eyes meanwhile the heav'nly vision clear'd, It show'd how all his hellish look appear'd. (Heav'n shield all travellers from foul disgrace, As I saw Tyburn in the ruffian's face; And if aright I judge of human mien, His face ere long in Tyburn will be seen.) The hostile blaze soon seiz'd his miscreant blood;

He star'd-turn'd short-and fled into the wood.

Danger dismiss'd, the gentle goddess smil'd, Like a fond parent o'er her fearful child; And thus began to drive the dire surprise Forth from my anxious breast, in jocund wise. "My son," said she, "this fellow is no Weston, No adversary, child, to make a jest on. With ink sulphureous, upon human skin He writes indenting, horrid marks therein; But-thou hast read his fate-the halter'd slave Shall quickly sing his penitential stave.

"Pursue thy rout; but when thou tak'st another, Bestride some generous quadruped or other. Let this enchanted vehicle confine, From this time forth, no votaries of mine: Let me no more see honest short-hand men Coop'd up in wood, like poultry in a pen. And at Trin. Col. whene'er thou art enlarging On Epping Forest, note this in the margin: 'Let Cambridge scholars, that are not quite bare, Shun the dishonest track, and ride thro' Ware.'

3 Alluding to some short-hand characters neatly eut in paper by the author's sister, and presented to M. F. esq.

4 Weston, the inventor of a method of shorthand, then in some vogue; the great irregularity and defects of which our author had often humorously exposed.

"Adieu! my son-resume thy wonted jokes; And write account hereof to Martin Folkes." This said, she mounts-the characters divine Thro' the bright path immensely brilliant shine. Now safe arriv'd-first for my boots I wroteI tell the story-and subjoin the noteAnd lastly, to fulfil the dread commands, These hasty lines presume to kiss your hands. Excuse the tedious tale of a disaster,

I am your humble servant and Grand Masters.

A LETTER TO R. L. ES2.

ON HIS DEPARTURE FROM LONDON.

DEAR Peter', whose absence, whate'er I may do In a week or two hence, at this present I rue; These lines, in great haste, I convey to the Mitre, To tell the sad plight of th' unfortunate writer: You have left your old friend so affected with grief, That nothing but rhyming can give him relief; Tho' the Muses were never worse put to their trumps,

To comfort poor bard in his sorrowful dumps.

The moment you left us, with grief be it spoken, This poor heart of mine was as thoff it were broken;

And I almost faint still, if a carriage approach
That looks like a Highgate or Barnet stage-coach;
And really, when first that old vehicle gap'd
To take in friend Pee-so the fare had but 'scap'd-
If I did not half wish the man might overturn it,
And swash it to pieces-I am a sous'd gurnet.

The Rhenish and sugar, which at your departure [what heartier; Yet the wine but more strongly to weeping inWe drank, would have made me, I hop'd, some

clin'd,

And my grief, I perceiv'd, was but double refin'd: It is not to tell how my breast fell a throbbing, When at the last parting our noses were bobbing: Those sad farewell accents! (I think on 'em still) "You'll remember to write John ?"-"Yes, Peter, I will."

You no sooner was gone, but this famous metropolis,

That seem'd just before so exceedingly populous, When I turn'd me towards it, seem'd all of a sudden

As if it was gone from the place it had stood in:
But for squire Hazel's brother, sagacious Jack,
I should hardly have known how to find my way
back;

How he brought me from Smithfield to Dick's I can't say,

But remember the Charter-house stood in our way

At Dick's I repos'd me, and call'd for some coffee, [of ye; And sweeten'd, and supt, and still kept thinking But not with such pleasure as when I came there To wait 'till sir Peter should chance to appear:

A title usually given to the author by his short-hand scholars.

R. L. esq. generally called by his collegeacquaintance, sir Peter.

While Jonathan past thro' a Holborn of heads.

From Newgate to Tyburn he made his procession,

Supported by two of the nimble profession:
Between the unheeded poor wretches he sat,
In his night-gown and wig, but without e'er a hat;
With a book in his hand he went weeping and
praying,

The mob all along, as he pass'd 'em, huzzaing; While a parcel of verses the hawkers were hollowing,

Of which I can only remember these following.

“The cunning old pug, ev'ry bɔdy remembers, That when he saw chesnuts a roasting i' th' embers,

To save his own bacon, took puss's two foots,
And so out o' th' embers he tickled his nuts.
Thus many a poor rogue has been burnt in the hand,
And 't was all nuts to Jonathan, you understand;
But he was not so cunning as Æsop's old ape,
For the monkey has brought himself into the
scrape."

And now, Peter, I'm come to the end of my
tether,
[ther:

So I wish you good company, journey, and wea-
When friends in the country inquire after John,
Pray tender my service t'em all every one,
To the ladies at Toft, Mr. Legh of High-Legh,
To the Altringham Meeting, if any there be,
Darcy Lever, Will Drake, Mr. Cattell, and Cot-
[tom!
An excellent rhyme that, to wind up one's bot-

tam

And to morrow, earl Thomas's fate to determine, Their lordships come arm'd both with judgment and ermine: [case, The surgeons, they say, have got Jonathan's carIf so-I'll go see 't-or it shall be a hard case.

VERSES,

SPOKEN EXTEMPORE AT THE MEETING OF A
CLUB, UPON THE PRESIDENT'S APPEARING IN
A BLACK BOB WIG, WHO USUALLY WORE A
WHITE TYE.

OUR President, in days of yore,
Upon his head a caxen wore;
Upon his head he wore a caxen,
Of hair as white as any flaxen;
But now he cares not of a fig;
He wears upon his poll a wig,

shabby wig upon his poll, Of hair as black as any coal,

A sad and dismal change alas! Choose how the duce it came to pass: Poor President! what evil fate

Revers'd the colour of his pate?

For if that lamentable dress
Were his own choosing, one would guess,
By the deep mourning of his head,
His wits were certainly gone dead.

Sure it could ne'er be his own choosing
To put his head in such a housing:
It must be ominous, I fear;
Some mischief, to be sure, is near:
Nay, should that black foreboding phiz
Speak from that sturdy trunk of his,
One could not help but think it spoke

Just like a raven from an oak.

A caxen of so black a hue, On our affairs looks plaguy blue : We do not meet with such an omen In any story, Greek or Roman: A comet, or a blazing star, Were not so terrible by far; No; in that wig the Fates have sent us Of all portents the most portentous,

Who does not tremble for the Club

That looks upon his wig-so scrub!
Without a knot! without a tye!-
What can we hang together by?
So scrub a wig to look upon,
How can the dire phenomenon
Be long before it has undone us?
Oh! 't is a cruel bob upon us.

The President, when's wig was white, He was another mortal quite; Nay, when he sprinkled it with powder, No man in Manchester talk'd louder. How blest were we! but now alack! The wearing of a wig so black Such a disgrace has brought aboutBurn it! 't will never be worn out.

Thou art a lawyer, honest Joe,

I prithee wilt thou let us know Whether the black act wont extend, So as to reach our worthy friend.