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Excuse, great Sir, the ravings of a mind,
That can so just a cause for forrow find ;
My words too rudely may a monarch greet,
For oh! was ever grief like mine discreet!
No suff'rings shall my firm alliance end,
An unsuccessful, but a faithful friend.

To the Duke of MARLBOROUGH.

PARD

ARDON, great Duke, if Britain's stile delights;

Orif th’Imperial title more invites ;
Pardon, great Prince, the failings of a Mufe,
That dares not hope for more than your ex

excuse,
Forc'd at a distance to attempt your praise,
And sing your victories in mournful lays,
To cast in shadows, and allay the light,
That wounds, with nearer rays, the dazled fight,
Nor durft in a direct and

open

strain
Such acts, with her unhallow'd notes, prophane:
In tow'ring verse let meaner heroes grow,
And to elab'rate lines their greatness owe,
Your actions, own'd by ev'ry nation, want
Praises, no greater than a foe may grant.

Oh! when shall Europe, by her MARLBRO's sword,
To lasting peace and liberty restor’d,
3

Allow

queen and

Like your

Allow her weary champion a retreat,
To his lov'd country and his rising seat ?
Where
your
foft
partner,

far from martial noise,
Your cares shall sweeten with domestic joys':
Your conquests she with doubtful pleasure hears,
And in the midst of ev'ry triumph fears ;
Betwixt her

you

divides her life, A friend obsequious, and a faithful wife.

Hail Woodstock ! hail ye celebrated glades ! Grow fast ye woods, and flourish thick ye

Thades! Ye rising tow’rs for your new lord prepare,

old Henry come from Gallia's war. The gen’ral's arms as far the king's o’erpow'r, ! As this new structure does surpass the bow'r.

The pleasing prospects and romantic scite,
The spacious compass, and the stately height;
The painted gardens, in their fow'r prime,
Demand whole volumes of immortal rhime,
And if the Mufe would second the design,
Mean as they are, should in my numbers shine,
There live, the joy and wonder of our isles,
Happy in Albion's love, and ANNA's smiles.

White from the godlike race of CHURCHILL borri,
Four beauteous Rofamonds this bow'r adorn,
Who with the ancient fyren of the place
In charms might vie, and ev'ry blooming grace ;
| But bless'd with equal virtues had the been,
Like them she had been favour'd by the QUEEN,

Whom

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Whom your high merit, and their own, prefers
To all the worthieft beds of England's peers.

Thus the great eagle, when heav'n's wars are o'er,
And the loud thunder has forgot to roar,
Jove's fires laid by, with those of Venus burns,
To his forsaken mate and shades returns

i
On some proud tree, more sacred than the rest,
With curious art he builds his spacious nest;
In the warm sun lies basking all the day,
While round their fire the gen'rous eaglets play ;
Their fire, well-pleas'd to see the noble brood
Fill all the loftieft cedars of the wood.

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An ODE on Miss HARRIET HANBURY

at Six Years old.

By Sir CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.

WHY

I.
HY shou'd I thus employ my time,

To paint those cheeks of rosy hue?
Why shou'd I search my brains for rhime,
To sing those eyes of glossy blue ?

II.
The pow'r as yet is all in vain,
Thy num'rous charms, and various graces :
! They only serve to banish pain,
And light up joy in parents' faces.

4

1

III. But

III.
But foon those eyes their strength shall feel;
Those charms their pow'rful sway shall find :
Youth shall in crowds before you kneel,
And own your empire o’er mankind.

IV.
Then when on Beauty's throne you fit,
And thousands court your wish'd-for arms;
My Mufe shall stretch her utmost wit,
To fing the victories of your charms.

V.

Charms that in time shall ne'er be lost,
At least while verse like mine endures :
And future HANBURYS shall boast,
Of verse like mine, of charms like yours.

VI.
A little vain we both

may

be,
Since scarce another house can few,
A poet, that can fing like me ;
A beauty, that can charm like you,

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Upon Miss Harriet HANBÚRY, address'd

to the Rev. Mr. BIRT.

By the Same.

D

1.
EAR doctor of St. Mary's,
In the hundred of

,
I've seen such a lass,

With a fhape and a face,
As never was match'd by any.

II.
Such wit, such bloom, and fuch beauty,
Has this girl of Ponty Pool, Sir,

With eyes that wou'd make

The toughest heart ach,
And the wiseft man a fool, Sir,

III.
At our fair t'other day she appear'd, Sir,
And the Welchmen all flock'd and view'd her ;

And all of them said,

She was fit to have been made
A wife for Owen Tudor.

IV. They

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