His roses nipt in every page, Hold, boy, thy hand outruns thy wit, From manuscripts just swept away. Now bring the weapon, yonder blade The sacred altar floats with red, How like the son of Jove I stand, This hydra stretch'd beneath my hand! Lay bare the monster's entrails here, To see what dangers threat the year: Ye gods! what sonnets on a wench? What lean translations out of French? 'Tis plain, this lobe is so unsound, S prints before the months go round. But hold, before I close the scene, The sacred altar should be clean. Oh, had I Shadwell's second bays, Or Tate, thy pert and humble lays! (Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow I never miss'd your work till now) I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine, (That only way you please the Nine) But since I chance to want these two, I'll make the songs of Durfey do. Rent from the corps, on yonder pin I hang the scales that brac'd it in: I hang my studious morning gown, And write my own inscription down:"This trophy from the Python won, This robe, in which the deed was done, These, Parnell, glorying in the feat, Hung on these shelves, the Muses' seat. Here ignorance and hunger found Large realms of wit to ravage round; Here ignorance and hunger fell, Two foes in one, I sent to hell. Ye poets, who my labours see, Come share the triumph all with me! Ye critics! born to vex the Muse, Parnell. ON AN INKGLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN. TO APOLLO. PATRON of all those luckless brains, Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams, Why, stooping from the noon of day, Upborne into the viewless air It floats a vapour now, Impell'd through regions dense and rare, Ordain'd perhaps ere summer flies, To form an Iris in the skies, Illustrious drop! and happy then Phoebus, if such be thy design, To place it in thy bow, Give wit, that what is left may shine Cowper. THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. THANKS, my lord, for your ven'son, for finer or fatter Ne'er rang'd in a forest, or smok'd on a platter; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The white was so white, and the red was so ruddy; Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: I had thoughts, in my chamber to place it in view, To be shown to my friends as a piece of vertù : As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show; But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pronounce, This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce; Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest, in my turn, It's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr. Burne*. • Lord Clare's nephew. To go on with my tale-as I gaz'd on the haunch, Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose; "Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's; But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when. There's Coley, and Williams, and Howard, and I think they love ven'son-I know they love beef. Why whose should it be, sir? cried I with a flounce; 'I get these things often'-but that was a bounce : 'Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleas'd to be kind--but I hate ostentation.' "If that be the case then,' cried he very gay, 'I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; No words-I insist on't—precisely at three : |