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What good, or better, we may call,
Our friend Dan Prior told (you know)
The veriest hermit in the nation May yield, God knows, to stropg temptation. Away they came, through thick and thin, To a tall house near Lincoln's-inn : ('Twas on the night of a debate, When all their lordships had sat late).
Behold the place, where if a poet Shined in description, he might shew it: Tell how the moon-beam trembling falls, And tips with silver all the walls; Palladian walls, Venetian doors, Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors :
But let it (in a word) be said,
Our courtier walks from dish to dish,
Que ça est bon! Ah goûtez ça !
'tis mighty rude To eat so much—but all's so good. I have a thousand thanks to give My lord alone knows how to live.' No sooner said, but from the hall Rush chaplain, butler, dogs and all : • A rat, a rat! clap to the door'The cat comes bouncing on the floor. O for the heart of Homer's mice, Or gods to save them in a trice! (It was by Providence they think, For your damn'd stucco has no chink). • An't please your honour,' quoth the peasant: • This same dessert is not so pleasant: Give me again my hollow tree, A crust of bread, and liberty!'
TO VENUS. AGAIN? new tumults in my breast;
Ah spare me, Venus ! let me, let me rest! I am not now, alas! the man
As in the gentle reign of my queen Anne. Ah! sound no more thy soft alarms,
Nor circle sober fifty with thy charms! Mother too fierce of dear desires ! Turn, turn to willing hearts your wanton fires : To number five direct your doves,
There spread round Murray all your blooming loves; Noble and young, who strikes the heart
With every, sprightly, every decent part; Equal the injured to defend,
To charm the mistress, or to fix the friend. He, with a hundred arts refined,
Shall stretch thy conquests over half the kind : To him each rival shall submit,
Make but his riches equal to his wit. Then shall thy form the marble grace,
(Thy Grecian form) and Chloe lend the face; His house, embosom'd in the grove,
Sacred to social life and social love, Shall glitter o'er the pendent green,
Where Thames reflects the visionary scene : Thither the silver-sounding lyres
Shall call the smiling Loves and young Desires; There, every grace and muse shall throng,
Exalt the dance, or animate the song; There youths and nymphs, in consort gay,
Shall hail the rising, close the parting day, With alas! those joys are o'er;
For me the vernal garlands bloom no more. Adieu ! fond hope of mutual fire,
The still-believing, still renew'd desire ; Adieu ! the heart-expanding bowl,
And all the kind deceivers of the soul ! But why? ah tell me, ah too dear!
Steals down my cheek, th' involuntary tear ? Why words so flowing, thoughts so free,
Stop, or turn nonsense, at one glance of thee? Thee, dress'd in fancy's airy beam,
Absent I follow, through th' extended dream; Now, now I cease, I clasp thy charms,
And now you burst (ah cruel) from my arms!
Or softly glide by the canal;
And now on rolling waters snatch'd away.
THE NINTH ODE OF THE FOURTH BOOK.
LEST you should think that verse shall die
Which sounds the silver Thames along, Taught on the wings of Truth to fly
Above the reach of vulgar song ; Though daring Milton sits sublime,
In Spenser native muses play; Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,
Nor pensive Cowley's moral laySages and chiefs long since had birth
Ete Cæsar was, or Newton named; These raised new empires o'er the earth,
And those new heavens and systems framed. Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride ! They had no poet, and they died: In vain they schemed, in vain they bled ! They had no poet, and are dead.
ON RECEIVING FROM THE RIGHT HON. LADY FRANCES SHIRLEY A STANDISH AND TWO PENS.
YES, I beheld th’ Athenian queen
Descend in all ber sober charms;
• Take at this hand celestial arms:
This golden lance shall guard desert,
This steel shall stab it to the heart.'
Awed, on my bended knees I fell,
Received the weapons of the sky;
The fount of fame or infamy.
• A standish; steel and golden pen!
I gave it you to write again.
L***** and all about your ears.
And run on ivory so glib,
Nor stop at flattery or fib.
I tell you, fool, there's nothing in 't :
In Dryden's Virgil see the print.
That dares tell neither truth nor lies,
Of those that sing of these poor eyes.'
ROBERT, EARL OF OXFORD, AND EARL MORTIMER. Sent to the Earl of Oxford, with Dr. Parnell's Poems,
published by our Author, after the said Earl's Im. prisonment in the Tower and Retreat into the Coun
try, in the Year 1721.