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By ANTHONY WHISTLER, Esq;

ESOLVE me, Strephon, what is this,

I think you cannot guess amiss. 'Tis the reverse of what you love, And all the men of sense approve. None of the Nine e'er

gave

it birth;
The offspring firt of foolish mirth,
The nurs'ry's study, children's play,
Inferior far to Namby's lay.
What vacant Folly first admir'd,
And then with emulation fir'd,
Gravely to imitate, aspir'd.
"Tis opposite to all good writing,
In each defect of this delighting.
Obscurity its charms displays,
And inconsistency, its praise.
No gleam offense to wake the soul,
While clouds of nonsense round it roll.
No smooth description to delight;
No fire the passions to excite;
Not joke enough to shake the pit :
A jest obscene wou'd here be wit.
What train of thought, tho' e'er so mean,
Of black-shoe-boy or cynder-quean,
But far out-fhines Sir Fopling's mind
While bent this secret charm to find !

The

The greatest charm as yet remains,
Best suited to the searcher's brains,
That when he seems on it to fall,
He finds there is no charm at all.
Th’appearance, first, of Nothing's fine,
To find it Nothing is divine !
But Batbo is the flow'r, to fink
Below what mortal man can think
Well, now what is't? what is't--a fiddle!
Yes, do be

angry 'tis a Riddle.

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ET wisdom boast her mighty pow'r,

With passion ftill at ftrife,
Yet love is fure the sov'reign flow'r,

The sweet perfume of life,
The happy breeze that swells the fail,

When quite becaim'd we lie;
The drop, that will the heart regale,

And sparkle in thr eye.
The sun that wakes us to delight,

And drives the shades away; {
The dream that chears our dreary night,

And makes a brighter day.
But if, alas! it wrongly seize,

The case is twice as bad ; *
This flow'r, fun, drop, or dream, or brzeee,

Will drive a blockhead mad. :

To

;

To Lady Fane on her Grotto at Bafilden. 1746.

By Mr. GRAVES.
G
* LIDE smoothly on, thou filver Thames,
Where FANE has fix'd her

calm retreat ;
Go pour thy tributary freams,

To lave imperial Thetis' feet.
There when in flow'ry pride you come

Amid the courtiers of the main,
And join within the mossy dome

Old Tiber, Arno, or the Seine;
When each ambitious stream shall boast

The glories of its flatter'd 'lords ;
What
pomp

adorns the Gallic coast,
What Rome, or Tuscany affords.
Then shalt thou speak, (and sure thy tale

Must check each partial torrent's pride,)
What scenes adorn this flow'ry vale,

Thro’ which thị happier currents glide.
But when thy fond description tells

The beauties of this grott divine :
What miracles are wrought by thells,

Where nicest taste and fancy join:
Thy story shall the goddefs move,
To quit her empire of the main,

.
Her throne of pearls, her coral grove,

And live retir'd with Thee and Fane.
The INVISIBLE. By the Same.
HAT mortal burns not with the love of fame?

Some write, some figlit, fome eat themselves a name,
For fome beau Frightful haunts each public place,
And grows conspicious for his ugly face,

Laura, the rural circle's constant boast,
Sighs for the Mall, nor sleeps till fhe's a toast.
The priestling, proud of doctrine not his own,
Usurps a scarf, and longs to preach in town.
Ev'n Westley's faints, whose cant has fill'd the nation,
Toil more for fame, I trow, than reformation.

B-, tho' bleft with learning, sense and wit, -
Yet prides himself in never shewing it.
Safe in his cell, he shuns the staring crowd,
And inward fines, like Sol behind a cloud.
For fame let fops to distant regions roam,
Lo! here's the man who never stirs from home !
That unseen wight, whom all men wish to see,
Illuftrious grown-by mere obscurity.
The Pepper-box and Salt-feller. A FABLE.
To

Efq; By the fame.
HE 'squire had din'd alone one day,
And Tom was call'd to take

away:
Tom clear'd the board with dextrous art :
But, willing to secure a tart,
The liquorifh yoath had made an halt;
And left the pepper-box and salt

the marble table:
Who thus, like men, were heard to squabble.

Pepper began, “Pray, Sir, says he,
What business have you here with me?
Is't fit that fpices of my birth
Should rank with theě, thou scum of earth?
I'd have you know, Sir, I've a lpirit
Suited to my fuperior merit la

THE

Aloné, upon

Tho' now, confin'd within this castre,
I ferve a northern Gothic master;
Yet born in Java's fragrant wood,
To warm an eastern monarch's blood,
The fun those rich perfections gave me,
Which tempted Dutchmen to enslave me.

Nor are my virtues Here unknown,
Tho'old and wrinkled now I'm grown.
Black as I am, the fairest maid
Invokes my stimulating aid,
To give her food the poignant flavour;
And to each sauce, its proper favour.
Pafties, ragouts and fricaffees,
Without my seasoning, fail to please:
'Tis I, like wit, must give a zest,
And sprightliness, to every feaft.

Physicians too my use confess;
My influence fageft matrons bless:
When drams prove vain, and cholics teaze,
To me they fly for certain ease.
Nay I fresh vigour can dispense,
And cure ev'n

age and impotence :
And, when of dulness wits complain,
I brace the nerves, and clear the brain,

But, to the 'squire here, I appeal
He knows my real value well:
Who, with one pepper-corn content,
Remits the vassal's annual rent

Hence then, Sir Brine, and keep your distance: Go lend the scullion your affiftance;

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