Το

*

By ANTHONY WHISTLER, Efq;

R

ESOLVE me, Strephon, what is this,
I think you cannot guess amifs.

'Tis the reverse of what

And all the men of fenfe

you love,

approve.

None of the Nine e'er gave it birth;
The offspring first of foolish mirth,
The nurs'ry's ftudy, children's play,
Inferior far to Namby's lay.

What vacant Folly first admir'd,
And then with emulation fir'd,
Gravely to imitate, afpir'd.
"Tis oppofite to all good writing,
In each defect of this delighting.
Obscurity its charms displays,
And inconfiftency, its praise.

No gleam of fenfe to wake the foul,
While clouds of nonfense round it roll.
No fmooth description to delight;
No fire the paffions to excite;
Not joke enough to shake the pit:
A jeft obfcene wou'd here be wit.
What train of thought, tho' e'er so mean,
Of black-fhoe-boy or cynder-quean,
But far out-fhines Sir Fopling's mind
While bent this fecret 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, firft, 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.

SONG.

By the Same.

ET wisdom boast her mighty pow'r,
With paffion ftill at ftrife,

Yet love is fure the fov'reign flow'r,

The sweet perfume of life.

The happy breeze that fwells the fail,

When quite becalm'd we lie;

The drop, that will the heart regale,

And sparkle in thr eye.

t

The fun that wakes us to delight,

And drives the fhades away;

The dream that chears our dreary night,

And makes a brighter day.

But if, alas! it wrongly seize,

The cafe is twice as bad; ¿

This flow'r, fun, drop, or dream, or brzeee,

Will drive a blockhead mad.

Το

To Lady FANE on her Grotto at Bafilden. 1746. By Mr. GRAVES.

LIDE smoothly on, thou filver Thames,

G where FANE has fix'd her calm retreat;

Go pour thy tributary streams,

To lave imperial Thetis' feet.

There when in flow'ry pride you come

Amid the courtiers of the main,
And join within the moffy dome
Old Tiber, Arno, or the Seine;
When each ambitious ftream fhall boast
The glories of its flatter'd lords;
What pomp adorns the Gallic coast,
What Rome, or Tuscany affords.
Then fhalt thoufpeak, (and fure thy tale
Muft check each partial torrent's pride,)
What scenes adorn this flow'ry vale,

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

The beauties of this grott divine:
What miracles are wrought by fhells,
Where niceft tafte 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?

WHAT

W Some write, fome agit, fome cat themfelves a name,

Some write, fome fight, fome eat themselves a name,

For fome beau Frightful haunts each public place,

And grows confpicious for his ugly face,

Laura, the rural circle's constant boast,
Sighs for the Mall, nor fleeps till fhe's a toast.
The priestling, proud of doctrine not his own,
Ufurps a scarf, and longs to preach in town.
Ev'n Weftley's faints, whofe cant has fill'd the nation,
Toil more for fame, I trow, than reformation.
B, tho' bleft with learning, fenfe and wit, -
Yet prides himself in never fhewing it.
Safe in his cell, he fhuns the ftaring crowd,
And inward fhines, like Sol behind a cloud.
For fame let fops to diftant regions roam,
Lo! here's the man—who never ftirs from home!
That unseen wight, whom all men wish to see,
Illuftrious grown by mere obscurity.

The Pepper-box and Salt-feller.

Το

A FABLE. Efq; By the fame.

'HE 'fquire had din'd alone one day,

ΤΗ And Tom was call'd to take

away:

Tom clear'd the board with dextrous art t

But, willing to secure a tart,

The liquorish youth had made an halt;

And left the pepper-box and falt

Who thus, like men, were heard to squabble.

Pepper began, "Pray, Sir, fays he,

What business have you here with me?

Is't fit that fpices of my birth

Should rank with thee, thou scum of earth?

I'd have you know, Sir, I've a fpirit

Suited to my fuperior mèrit

Tho' now, confin'd within this caftre,
I ferve a northern Gothic mafter;
Yet born in Java's fragrant wood,
To warm an eastern monarch's blood,
The fun thofe 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 ftimulating aid,

To give her food the poignant flavour;
And to each fauce, its proper favour.
Pafties, ragouts and fricaffees,
Without my seasoning, fail to please:
'Tis I, like wit, muft give a zeft,
And sprightliness, to every feast.
Phyficians too my use confefs;
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 dulnefs wits complain,
I brace the nerves, and clear the brain,
But, to the 'fquire 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 fcullion your affiftance;