To quiet ills that mock the leech's art,
Which opiates fail to deaden in the heart,
This cordial ftill th' incurable fuftains :
He triumphs in the sharp instructive pains,
Nor like a Roman hero, falfely great,
With impious hand anticipates his fate;
But waits refign'd the flow approach of death;
Till that great Power who gave, demands his breath.
Such are thy folid comforts, love divine,
Such folid comforts, O my friend, be thine.
On this firm bafis thy foundation lay,
Of happiness unfubject to decay.
On man no more, that frail support, depend,
The kindeft patron, or the warmest friend ;
The warmest friend may one day prove untrue,
And intereft change the kindeft patron's view.
Hear not, my friend, the fondness they profefs,
Nor on the trial grieve to find it lefs:
With patience each capricious change endure;
Careful to merit where reward is fure.
To Providence implicitly refign'd,
Let this grand precept poife thy wavering mind:
With partial eyes we view our own weak cause,
And rafhly scan her upright equal laws :
For undeferv'd fhe ne'er inflicts a woe,
Nor is her recompence unfure, tho' flow.
Unpunish'd none tranfgrefs, deceiv'd none trust,
Her rules are fixt, and all her ways are just.
By the Honourable Sir C. H. WILLIAMS.
POLLO of old on Britannia did fmile,
And Delphi forfook for the fake of this isle,
Around him he lavishly scatter'd his lays,
And in every wilderness planted his bays;
Then Chaucer and Spenfer harmonious were heard,
Then Shakespear, and Milton, and Waller appear'd,
And Dryden, whofe brows by Apollo were crown'd,
As he fung in fuch strains as the God might have own'd:
But now, fince the laurel is given of late
To Cibber, to Eufden, 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 fwears he'll inspire us no more,
And has put out Pope's fires which he kindled before;
And further he fays, men no longer shall boast
A fcience their flight and ill treatment hath loft;
But that women alone for the future fhall write :
And who can refift, when they doubly delight?
And left we shou'd doubt what he said to be true,
Has begun by inspiring Saphira and You.
HEN 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 faid;
He fmil'd at my folly, and gave me to know,
Your wit, and not mine, by your writing you fhew
And then, fays the God, ftill to make you more vain,
He hath promis'd that I fhall enlighten your brain,
When he knows in his heart, if he speak but his mind,
That no woman alive can now boaft I am kind:
For fince Daphne to shun me grew into a laurel,
With the fex I have fworn ftill 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.
Sir CHARLES's REPLY.
"LL not believe that Phoebus did not smile,
Unhappily for you I know his ftile;
To ftrains like yours of old his harp he ftrung,
And while he dictated Orinda fung.
Did beauteous Daphne's scorn of proffer'd love
Against the sex his indignation move?
It rather made you his peculiar care,
Convinc'd from thence, ye were as good as fair.
As mortals who from duft 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 fent Compliments to a CLERGYMAN upon the Ten of Hearts.
OUR compliments, dear lady, pray forbear,
YOld English fervices are more fincere;
You fend Ten Hearts, the tythe is only mine,
Give me but One, and burn the other Nine.
Written by the late Mr. GREEN of the Cuftom-Houfe, under the Name of PETER DRAKE, a Fisherman of BRENTFORD.
Printed in the Year 1732, but never published.
Scilicet hic poffis curvo dignofcere rectum,
Atque inter filvas Academi quærere verum.
Our wits Apollo's influence beg,
The Grotto makes them all with egg:
Finding this chalk-ftone in my neft,
I ftrain, and lay among the reft.
DIEU awhile, forfaken flood,
To ramble in the Delian wood,
pray the God my well-meant fong
May not my fubject's merit wrong.
Say, father Thames, whofe gentle pace
Gives leave to view what beauties grace
Your-flow'ry banks, if you have seen
The much fung GROTTO of the queen.
Contemplative, forget awhile
Oxonian towers, and Windfor's pile,
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