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To quiet ills that mock the leech's art,
Which opiates fail to deaden in the heart,
This cordial still th' incurable sustains :
He triumphs in the sharp instructive pains,
Nor like a Roman hero, falsely great,
With impious hand anticipates his fate;
But waits resign'd the flow approach of death;
Till that great Power who gave, demands his breath.
Such are thy folid comforts, love divine,
Such solid comforts, O my friend, be thine.
On this firm basis thy foundation lay,
Of happiness unsubject to decay.
On man no more, that frail support, depend,
The kindest patron, or the warmest friend ;
The warmelt friend may one day prove untrue,
And interest change the kindeft patron's view.
Hear not, my friend, the fondness they profess,
Nor on the trial grieve to find it less :
With patience each capricious change endure;
Careful to merit where reward is sure.
To Providence implicitly resign'd,
Let this grand precept poise thy wavering mind :
With partial eyes we view our own weak cause,
And rafhly scan her upright equal laws :
For undeserv'd she ne'er inflicts a woe,
Nor is her recompence unsure, tho' now.
Unpunish'd none tranfgress, deceiv'd none trust,
Her rules are fixt, and all her ways are just,

To

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A

POLLO of old on Britannia did smile,

And Delphi forsook for the fake of this ifle,
Around him he lavishly scatter'd his lays,
And in every wilderness planted his bays ;
Then Chaucer and Spenser harmonious were heard,
Then Shakespear, and Milton, and Waller appear'd,
And Dryden, whose brows by Apollo were cro

crown'd,
As he sung in such strains as the God might have own’d:
But now, since the laurel is given of late
To Cibber, to Eusden, to Shadwell and Tate,
Apollo hath quitted the isle he once lov’d,
And his harp and his bays to Hibernia remov'd;
He vows and he swears he'll inspire us no more,
And has put out Pope's fires which he kindled before ;
And further he says, men no longer shall boast
A science their flight and ill treatment hath loft ;
But that women alone for the future shall write ;
And who can refift, when they doubly delight ?
And left we should doubt what he said to be true,
Has begun by inspiring Saphira and You.

Mrs.

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WHEN home I return’d from the dancing laft night,

And elate by your praises attempted to write,
I familiarly call'd on Apollo for aid,
And told him how many fine things you had said ;
He smild at my folly, and gave me to know,
Your wit, and not mine, by your writing you shew;
And then, says the God, still to make you more vain,
He hath promis'd that I shall enlighten your brain,
When he knows in his heart, if he speak but his mind,
That no woman alive can now boast I am kind :
For fince Daphne to fhun me grew into a laurel,
With the fex I have sworn still to keep up the quarrel.
I thought it all joke, 'till by writing to you,
I have prov'd his resentment, alas ! but too true.

స్వససిన సమయమున

Sir CHARLES's Reply.

I'U

'LL not believe that Phoebus did not smile,

Unhappily for you I know his stile;
To strains like yours of old his harp he strung,
And while he dictated Orinda sung.

Did

Did beauteous Daphne's scorn of proffer'd love
Against the fex his indignation move ?
It rather made you his peculiar care,
Convinc'd from thence, ye were as good as fair.
As mortals who from dust receiv'd their birth,
Muft when they die return to native earth;
So too the laurel, that

your

brow adorns, Sprang from the fair, and to the fair returns.

To a LADY, who sent Compliments to a

CLERGYMAN upon the Ten of Hearts.

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OUR compliments, dear lady, pray forbear,

Old English services are more sincere ; You send Ten Hearts, the tythe is only mine, Give me but One, and burn the other Nine.

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The

G R ο Τ Τ

0.

Written by the late Mr. Green of the Custom-House,

under the Name of Peter Drake, a Fisherman of BRENTFORD.

Printed in the Year 1732, but never published.

Scilicet hic possis curvo dignofcere reétum,
Atque inter filvas Academi quærere verum.

Hor.

Our witz Apollo's influence beg,
The Grotto makes them all with egg :
Finding this chalk-stone in my neft,
I strain, and lay among the rest.

A

DIEU awhile, forsaken flood,

To ramble in the Delian wood,
And pray the God my well-meant song
May not my subject's merit wrong.

Say, father Thames, whose gentle pace
Gives leave to view what beauties grace
Your-flow'ry banks, if you have seen
The much sung Grotto of the queen.
Contemplative, forget awhile
Oxonian towers, and Windsor's pile,

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