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That ever I was so absurd
To take a man upon
Quoth Frances, Child, I wonder much
You cou'd expect him to keep touch;
'Tis fo, my dear, with all mankind;
When out of fight you're out of mind,
Think you he'd to his fifters write?
Was ever girl so unpolite !
Some fair Italian stands possess’d,
And reigns fole mistress in his breast;
To her he dedicates his time,
And fawns in prose, or fighs in rhyme,
She'll give him tokens of her love,
Perhaps not easy to remove';
Such as will make him large amends
For loss of sisters, and of friends,
Cries Harriot, when he comes to France,
I hope in God he'll learn to dance,
And leave his aukward habits there,
I'm sure he has enough to spare,
O cou'd he leave his faults, faith Fanny,
And bring the good alone, if any,
Poor brother Tom, he'd grow fo light,
The wind might rob us of him quite !
Ill humours are the faults I fear,
For in my life I ne'er saw yeg
A creature half fo passionate,
Good heav'ns ! how did he rave and tear,
On my not going you know where ;
I scarcely yet have got my dread off :
I thought he'd bite my sister's head off.
'Tween him and Jenny what a clatter
About a fig, a mighty matter!
I cou'd recount a thousand more,
But scandal's what I most abhor.
Molly, who long had patient fate,
And heard in silence all their chat,
Observing how they spoke with rancour,
Took up my cause, for which I thank her.
What eloquence was then display'd,
The charming things that Molly said,
Perhaps it suits not me to tell ;
But faith! she spoke extremely well.
She first, with much ado, put on
A prudith face, then thus begun.
Heyday! quoth she, you let your tongue
Run on moft ftrangely, right or wrong.
'Tis what I never can connive at;
- Besides, consider whom you drive at;
A person of establish'd credit,
Nobody better, tho' I said it.
In all, that's good, so tried and knowni,
Why, girls, he's quite a proverb grown,
His worth no mortal dares dispute:
Then he's your brother too to boot.
At this she made a moment's paufe,
Then with a sigh resum'd the cause.
Alas! my dears, you little know
A sailor's toil, a trav'ler's woe ;
Perhaps this very hour he ftrays
A lonely wretch thro’ defart
Or shipwreck'd on a foreign strand,
He falls beneath some ruffian's hand :
Or on the naked rock he lies,
And pinch’d by famine wastes and dies.
you this hated brother see
Floating, the sport of wind and sea ?
his feeble accents hear,
Tho' but in thought, nor drop a tear ?
He faintly strives, his hopes are fled,
The billows booming o'er his head;
He mounts upon the waves again,
He calls on us, but calls in vain;
To death preserves his friendship true,
And mutters out a kind adieu.
See now he rises to our fight,
Now links in everlasting night.
Here Fanny's colour role and fall,
And Harriot's throat began to swell ;
One sidled to the window quite,
Pretending some unusual fight,
The other left the room outright;
While Molly laugh'd, her ends obtain's,
To think how artfully the feign'd.
The History of PORSENNA, King of Russia,
Petamus arva, divites et insulas,
Hor. Epod. 16.
N Ruflia's frozen clime some ages since
Who to his people's good confin'd his care,
And fix'd the basis of his empire there ;
Inlarg'd their trade, the lib'ral arts improv'd,
Made nations happy, and himself belov'd;
To all the neighb'ring states a terror grown,
The dear delight, and glory of his own.
Not like those kings who vainly seek renown
From countries ruin'd, and from battles won ;
Those mighty Nimrods, who mean laws despise,
Call murder but a princely exercise,
And if one bloodless sun shou'd steal away,
Cry out with Titus, they have loft a day;
Who, to be more than men,
Beneath the brute, their Maker's form deface,
Raising their titles by their God's disgrace.
Like fame to bold Erostratus we give,
Who fcorn'd by less than facrilege to live;
On holy ruins rais'd a lasting name,
And in the temple’s fire diffus’d his shame.
Far diff'rent praises, and a brighter fame,
The virtues of the young Porsenna claim;
For by, that name the Russian king was known,
And sure a nobler ne'er adorn'd the throne.
In war he knew the deathful sword to wield,
And sought the thickest dangers of the field,
A bold commander ; but, the storm o'erblown,
He seem'd as he were made for
Then was the golden age again restorid,
Nor less his justice honour'd than his sword.
All needless pomp, and outward grandeur spar'd,
The deeds that grac'd him were his only guard ;
No private views beneath a borrow'd name;
His and the publick interest were the same.
In wealtḥ and pleafure let the subject live,
But virtue is the king's prerogative;
Porsenna there without a rival stood,
And wou'd maintain his right of doing good.
Nor did his person less attraction wear,
Such majesty and sweetness mingled there ;