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Now meet in the same order they begun,
And then the great celestial dance is done.
Where can the moralist find a juster plan,
Of the vain labours of the life of man?
Awhile thro' justling crowds we toil and sweat,
And eagerly pursue we know not what;
Then when our trifling short-liv'd race is run,
Quite tir'd sit down just where we begun.
Tho' to your arms kind fate's indulgent care
Has giv'n a partner exquisitely fair,
Let not her charms so much engage your heart,
That you neglect the skilful dancer's part;
Be not, when you the tuneful notes should
Still whispering idle prattle in her ear; [hear,
When you should be employ'd be not at play,
Nor for your joys all others' steps delay :
But when the finish'd dance you once have

done,

And with applause thro' every couple run,
There rest awhile: there snatch the fleeting
bliss,

The tender whisper, and the balmy kiss;
ach secret wish, each softer hope confess,
And her moist palm with eager fingers press
Vith smiles the fair shall hear your warm
desites,

When music melts her soul, and dancing fires.
hus mix'd with love, the pleasing toil pursue,
ill th' unwelcome morn appears in view;
hen when approaching day its beams displays,
nd the dull candle shines with fainter rays,
hen when the sun just rises o'er the deep,
nd each bright eye is almost set in sleep,
- Fith ready hands, obsequious youths, pre--

pare,

afe to her coach to lead each chosen fair; nd guard her from the morn's inclement air:

:

et a warm hood enwrap her lovely head,
nd o'er her neck a handkerchief be spread;
round her shoulders let this arm be cast,
"hilst that from cold defends her slender
waist;

ith kisses warm her balmy lips shall glow,
nchill'd by nightly damps or wint'ry snow,
hile gen'rous white wine mull'd with ginger

warm,

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Delightful dreams their pleasing sports restore,
And e'en in sleep they seem to dance once

more.

And now the work completely finish'd lies,
Which the devouring teeth of time defies.
While birds in air, or fish in streams we find,
Or damsels fret with aged partners join'd,
As long as nymphs shall with attentive ear
A fiddle rather than a sermon hear,
So long the brightest eyes shall oft peruse
The useful lines of my instructive muse,
Each belle shall wear them wrote upon her fan,
And each bright beau shall read them-if he can.

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205. Whitsuntide. Written at Winchester College, on the immediate Approach of the Holidays. HENCE, thou fur-clad Winter, fly;

Sire of shivering poverty!

Who, as thou creep'st with chilblains lame
To the crowded charcoal flame,
With chattering teeth and ague cold,
Scarce thy shaking sides canst hold
Whilst thou draw'st the deep cough out:
God of foot-ball's noisy rout,
Tumult loud and boist'rous play,
The dang'rous slide, the snow-ball fray.
But come, thou genial son of Spring,
Whitsuntide, and with thee bring
Cricket, nimble boy aud light,
In slippers red and drawers white;
Who o'er the nicely measur'd land
Ranges around his comely band,
Alert to intercept each blow,
Each motion of the wary foe.

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Or patient take thy quiet stand,
The angle trembling in thy hand,
And mark, with penetrative eye,
Kissing the wave, the frequent fly;
Where the trout with eager spring
Forms the many-circled ring,
And, leaping from the silver tide,
Turns to the sun his speckled side.

Or lead where Health, a Naiad fair,
With rosy cheek and dropping hair,
From the sultry noon-tide beam,
Dives in Itchin's crystal stream.
Thy votries, rang'd in order due,
To-morrow's wish'd-for dawn shall view,
Greeting the radiant star of light
With matin hymn and early kite:

afely protects her inward frame from harm. But ever let my lovely pupils fear [beer; o chill their mantling blood with cold smallh, thoughtless fair! the tempting draught E'en now, these hallow'd haunts among, (muse; To thee we raise the choral song; And swell with echoing minstrelsy The strain of joy and Jiberty. If pleasures such as these await Thy genial reign, with heart elate For thee I throw my gown aside, And hail thy coming, Whitsuntide.

refuse,
Then thus forewarn'd by my experienc'd
et the sad consequence your thoughts employ,
or hazard future pains, for future joy;
estruction lurks within the pois 'nous dose,
fatal fever, or a pimpled nose.

Thus thro' each precept of the dancing art,
The muse has play'd the kind instructor's part,
hro' ev'ry maze her pupil she has led,
And pointed out the surest paths to tread :
No more remains; no more the goddess sings,
It drops her pinions and unfurls her wings.
On downy beds the weary dancers lie, feve;
And sleep's silk cords tie down each drowsy!

ROBERTS.

$206. Christmas.
HENCE, Summer, indolently laid

To sleep beneath the cooling shade!
Panting quick with sultry heat,
Thirst and faint fatigue, retreat!

3 D 2

Come,

Come, Christmas, father thou of mirth, Patron of the festive hearth, Around whose social evening flame The jovial song, the winter game, The chase renew'd in merry tale, The season's carols never fail : Who, tho' the winter chill the skies, Canst catch the glow of exercise, Following swift the foot-ball's course; Or with unresisted force, Where frost arrests the harden'd tide, Shooting 'cross the rapid slide; Who, ere the misty morn is grey, To some high covert hark'st away, While Sport, on lofty courser borne, In concert winds his echoing horn With the deeply thund'ring hounds, Whose clangour wild, and joyful sounds, While echo swell's the doubling cry, Shake the woods with harmony. How does my eager bosom glow To give the well-known tally-ho! Or shew, with cap inverted, where Stole away the cautious hare. Or, if the blast of winter keen Spangles o'er the silvery green, Booted high thou lov'st to tread, Marking, thro' the sedgy mead, Where the creeping moor-hen lies, Or snipes with sudden twittering rise; Or joy'st the early walk to take Where thro' the pheasant-haunted brake, Oft as the well-aim'd gun resounds, The cager-dashing spaniel bounds.

For thee of buck my breeches tight, Clanging whip, and rowels bright, The hunter's cap my brows to guard, And suit of sportive greens prepar'd; For since these delights are thine, Christmas, with thy bands I join.

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad,
To ev'ry christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That shew'd the rogues they ly'd;
The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that dy'd.

§ 208. L'Allegro; or Fus, a Parody. HUDDESFORD.

OFF, blubbering Melancholy!

Of the blue devils and book-learning born, In dusty schools forlorn;

Amongst black-gowns, square caps, and books unjolly,

Hunt out some college cell,

[schemes,

Where muzzing quizzes matter monkist And the old proctor dreams;

There, in thy smutty walls o'errun with doch
As ragged as thy smock,

With rusty, fusty fellows ever dwell.
But come, thou baggage, fat and free,
By gentles call'd Festivity,
And by us rolling kiddies, Fux,
Whoin mother Shipton, one by one,
With two Wapping wenches more,
To skipping Harlequino bore:
Or whether, as some deeper say,
Jack Pudding on a holiday
Along with Jenny Diver romping,
As he met her once a pumping,
There on heaps of dirt and mortar,
And cinders wash'd in cabbage-water,
Fill'd her with thee a strapping Jassie,
So spunky, brazen, bold, and saucy.

§ 207. An Elegy on the Death of a mad Dog. Hip! here, jade, and bring with thee

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ood people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song,

GOLDSMITH.

And if you find it wond'rous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But, when a pique began,
The dog to gain his private ends
Went mad and bit the man.

Jokes and suggering jollity,
Christmas gambols, waggish tricks,
Winks, wry faces, licks and kicks,
Such as fall from Moggy's knuckles,
And love to live about her buckles;
Spunk, that hobbling watchmen boxes,
And Horse-laugh hugging both his doxin)
Come, and kick it as you go,

On the stumping hornpipe-toe;
And in thy right-hand haul with thee,
The Mountain brim French liberty.
And if I give thee puffing due,
Fun, admit me of thy crew,
To pig with her, and pig with thee,
In everlasting frolicks free;
To hear the sweep begin his beat,
And squalling startle the dull street,
From his watch-box in the alley
Till the watch at six doth sally;
Then to go, in spite of sleep,
And at the window cry, "Sweep! sweep!"
Through the street-door, or the area,
Or, in the country, through the dairy;

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While the dustman, with his din,
Bawls and rings to be let in,
And at the fore, or the back-door,
Slowly plods his jades before.
Oft hearing the sow-gelder's hora
Harshly rouse the snoring morn,
From the side of a large square,
Through the long street grunting far.
Sometimes walking I'll be seen
By Tower hill, or Moorfields green,
Right against Old Bedlam-gate,
Where the mock king begins his state,
Crown'd with straw and rob'd with rags,
Cover'd o'er with jags and tags,

While the keeper near at hand

Bullies those who leave their stand;

Then crop-sick down the stairs he flings
Before his master's bell yet rings.
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
By hoofs and wheels soon lull'd to sleep.
But the city takes me then,
And the hums of busy men,

Where throngs of train-band captains bold
In time of peace fierce meetings hold,
With stores of stock-jobbers, whose lies
Work change of stocks and bankruptcies;
Where bulls and bears alike contend
To get the cash they dare not spend.
Then let aldermen appear,

In scarlet robes, with chandelier,
And city feasts and gluttony,
With balls upon the lord-mayor's day;

And milk-maids' screams go through your ears, Sights that young 'prentices remember,

And grinders sharpen rusty sheers, And every cryer squalls his cry Under each window he goes by. Straight mine eye hath caught new gambols, While round and round this town it rambles; Sloppy streets and foggy day, Where the blundering folks do stray; Pavements, en whose slippery flags wearing coachmen drive their mags; Barbers jostled 'gainst your side, Narrow streets, and gutters wide. Grub-street garrets now it sees, o the muse open and the breeze, Where, perhaps, some scribbler hungers,' he back of neighbouring newsmongers. lard by, a tinkers' furnace smokes, rom betwixt two pastry-cooks, Where Dingy Dick and Peggy, met, re at their scurvy dinner set, If cow-heel, and such cellar messes, Which the splay-foot Rachael dresses; And then in haste the shop she leaves, nd with the boy the bellows heaves; rif 'tis late, and shop is shut, crubs at the pump her face from smut. Sometimes, all for sights agog, o t' other end of the town I jog, When St. James's bells ring round, and the royal fiddles sound, When every lord's and lady's bum igs it in the drawing-room;

and young and old dance down the tune, honour of the fourth of June; ill candles fail and eyes are sore, hen home we hie to talk it o'er, With stories told of many a treat, low Lady Swab the sweetmeats eat; he was pinch'd and something worse, And she was fobb'd and lost her purse: ell how the drudging Weltjee sweat, o bake his custards duly set, When in one night, ere clock went seven, lis 'prentice-lad had robb'd the oven Of more than twenty hands put in; Then lies him down, a little glutton,

Sleeping or waking, all November.
Then to the play-houses anon,
If Quick or Bannister be one;
Or drollest Parsons, child of Drury,
Balls out his damns with comic fury.
And ever, against hum-drum cares,
Sing me some of Dibdin's airs,
Married to his own queer wit,
Such as my shaking sides may split,
In notes, with many a jolly bout,
Near Beaufort Buildings oft roar'd out,
With wagging curls and smirk so cunning,
His rig on many a booby running,
Exposing all the ways and phizzes
Of" wags, and oddities and quizzes ;"
That Shuter's self might heave his head
From drunken snoozes, on a bed
Of pot-house benches sprawl'd, and hear
Such laughing songs as won the ear
Of all the town, his slip to cover,
Whene'er he met 'em half-seas over.

Freaks like these if thou canst give,
Fun, with thee I wish to live.

§ 209. The Picture.

CUNNINGHAM.

A PORTRAIT, at my lord's command
Completed by a curious hand-

For dabblers in the nice vertú
His lordship set the piece to view,
Bidding their connoisseurships tell
Whether this werk was finish'd well:
Why-says the loudest, on my word,
Tis not a likeness, good my lord;
Nor, to be plain, for speak I must,
Can I pronounce one feature just.
Another effort straight was made,
Another portraiture essay'd :
The judges were again besought
Each to deliver what he thought.
Worse than the first the critics bawl;

Oh what a mouth! how monstrous sma"!
Look at the cheeks-how lank and thin. !
See, what a most preposterous chin!

Stretch'd lumbering 'fore the fire, they tell ye, After remonstrance made in vain,

And bakes the custards in his belly;

I'll, says the painter, once again

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(If my good lord vouchsafes to sit)
Try for a more successful hit:
If you'll to-morrow deign to call,
We'll have a piece to please you all.
To-morrow comes-a picture's plac'd
Before those spurious sons of taste-
In their opinions all agree,
This is the vilest of all three.
"Know-to confute your envious pride
(His lordship from the canvass cried),
"Know-that it is my real face,
"Where you could no resemblance trace:
"I've tried you by a lucky trick,
"And prov'd your genius to the quick :
"Void of all judgment, goodness, sense,
"Out-ye pretending varlets,-hence!"

The connoisseurs depart in haste,
Despisid, neglected, and disgrac'd.

Now in cropt greasy hair, and leather breeches,
He loudly bellows out his patriot speeches;
Kings, lords, and commons ventures to abuse,
Yet dares to shew those ears he ought to lose.
From hence to White's our virtuous Cato)
Alies,

There sits with countenance erect and wise,
And talks of games of whist, and pig-tail pies;
Plays all the night, nor doubts each law to
break

Himself unknowingly has help'd to make;
Trembling and anxious, stakes his utmost great,
Peeps o'er his cards, and looks as if he thoug
Next morn disowns the losses of the night,
Because the fool would fain be thought a bite

Devoted thus to politics and cards,
Nor mirth, nor wine, nor women he regards;
So far is ev'ry virtue from his heart,
That not a gen'rous vice can claim a part;
Nay, lest one human passion e'er should me

§ 210. The Modern Fine Gentleman. Written His soul to friendship, tenderness, or love,

in the Year 1746.

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To Figg and Broughton † he commits
To steel it to the fashionable test.

[bre

Thus poor in wealth, he labours to no e.... Wretched alone, in crowds without a friendInsensible to all that's good or kind, Deaf to all merit, to all beauty blind;

JUST broke from school, pert, impudent, and For Irie too busy, and for wit too grave,

raw,

Expert in Latin, more expert in taw,
His honour posts o'er Italy and France,
Measures St. Peter's dome, and learns to dance.
Thence, having quick through various coun-

tries flown,

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Next, because business is now all the vogue,
And who'd be quite polite must be a rogue,
In parliament he purchases a seat,
To make th' accomplish'd gentleman complete.
There safe in self-sufficient impudence,
Without experience, honesty, or sense,
Unknowing in her ini'rest, trade, or laws,
He vainly undertakes his country's cause;
Forth from his lips, prepar'd at all to rail,
Torrents of nonsense burst like bottled ale,"
*Tho' shallow, muddy; brisk, tho' mighty
dall;
[full.
Fierce without strength; o'erflowing, tho' not
Now quite a Frenchman in his garb and air,
His neek yok'd down with bag and solitaire,
The Piberties of Britain he supports,
Andstorms at placemen, ministers, and courts;

A harden'd, sober, proud, luxurious knare:
By little actions striving to be great,
And proud to be, and to be thought a che

And yet in this so bad is his success,
That, as his fame improves, his rents grow!
On parchment wings his acres take their fi
And his unpeopled groves admit the light,
With his estate his int'rest too is done,
His honest borough seeks a warmer sun:
For him, now cash and liquor flows no
His independent voters cease to roar;
And Britain soon must want the great de:
Of all his honesty and eloquence,
But that the gen'rous youth, more anxies“)

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Quickly again distress'd for want of co
He digs no longer in th' exhausted mine,
But seeks preferment, as the last resort,
Cringes each morn at levees, bows at court
And, from the hand he hates, implores sup
port.

The minister, well pleas'd at small expens
To silence so much rude impertinence,
With squeeze and whisper yields to his
mands,

And on the venal list enroll'd he stands;

* Parody on these lines of Sir John Denham:
Tho' deep yet clear, tho' gentle yet not dull,
Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full.

† One, a celebrated prize-fighter; the other, a no less famous boxer.

A ribband

A ribband and a pension buy the slave:
This bribes the fool about him; that the knave.
And now arriv'd at his meridian glory,
He sinks apace, despis'd by Whig and Tory;
Of independence now he talks no more,
Nor shakes the senate with his patriot roar;
But silent votes, and with court-trappings
hung,
[tongue.
Eyes his own glitt'ring star, and holds his
In craft political a bankrupt made,
He sticks to gaming, as the surer trade;
Turns downright sharper, lives by sucking
blood,

And grows, in short, the very thing he wou'd:
Hunts out young heirs who have their fortunes
spent,

And lends them ready cash at cent. per cent.
Lays wagers on his own and others' lives,
Fights uncles, fathers, grandmothers, and
wives,

Till death at length, indignant to be made
The daily subject of his sport and trade,
Veils with his sable hand the wretch's eyes,
And groaning for the betts he loses by 't, he

dies.

And equally detest the strife
And usual joys of country life,
Have by good fortune little share
Of its diversions, or its care;
For seldom I with 'squires unite,
Who hunt all day and drink all night,
Nor reckon wonderful inviting,
A quarter-sessions, or cock-fighting:
But then no farm I occupy
With sheep to rot, and cows to die;
Nor rage I much, or much despair,
Tho' in my hedge I find a snare;
Nor view I, with due admiration,
All the high honours here in fashion;
The great commissions of the quorum,
Terrors to all who come before 'em ;
Militia scarlet edg'd with gold,
Or the white staff high-sheriffs hold;
The representative's caressing,
The judge's bow, the bishop's blessing;
Nor can I for my soul delight

In the dull feast of neighb'riug knight,
Who, if you send three days before,
In white gloves meets you at the door,
With superfluity of breeding
First makes you sick, and then with feeding:
Or if, with ceremony cloy'd,
You would next time such plagues avoid,
And visit without previous notice,

['tis,"

$211. An Epistle, written in the Country, to the Right Honourable the Lord Lovelace, then in Town, September 1785. JENYNS. John, Johu, a coach!-I can't think who

I do now grown wild, was in her prime,

days, my Lord, when mother Time,

When Saturn first began to rule,
And Jove was hardly come from school,
How happy was a country life!
How free from wickedness and strife!
Then each man liv'd upon his farm,
And thought and did no mortal harm;
On mossy banks fair virgins slept,
As harmless as the flocks they kept;
Then love was all they had to do.
And nymphs were chaste, and swains were true.
But now, whatever poets write,
Tis sure the case is alter'd quite :
Virtue no more in rural plains,
Or innocence, or peace remains;
But vice is in the cottage found,
And country girls are oft unsound;
Fierce party rage each village fires,
With wars of justices and 'squires;
Attorneys for a barley straw,
Whole ages hamper folks in law,
And ev'ry neighbour's in a flame
About their rates, or tythes, or game;
Some quarrel for their hares and pigeons,
And some for diff'rence in religions:
Some hold their parson the best preacher,
The tinker some a better teacher;
These, to the Church they fight for strangers,
Have faith in nothing but her dangers;
While those, a more believing people,
Can swallow all things-but a steeple.
But I, my Lord, who, as you know,
Care little how these matters go,

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My lady cries, who spies your coach
Ere you the avenue approach:

Lord, how unlucky!-washing day!
"And all the men are in the hay!"
Entrance to gain is something hard,
The dogs all bark, the gates are barr'd;
The yard's with lines of linen cross'd,
The hall door's lock'd, the key is lost:
These difficulties all o'ercome,

We reach at length the drawing-room;
Then there's such trampling over-head,
Madam you'd swear was brought-to-bed;
Miss in a hurry bursts her lock,

To get clean sleeves to hide her smock;
The servants run, the pewter clatters,
My lady dresses, calls and chatters;
The cook-maid raves for want of butter,
Pigs squeak, fowls scream, and green geese Alut-
Now after three hours tedious waiting, [ter.
On all our neighbours' faults debating,
And having nine times view'd the garden,
In which there's nothing worth a farthing,
In comes my lady, and the pudden:
"You will excuse, sir,-on a sudden"→→
Then, that we may have four and four,
The bacon, fowls, and cauliflow'r
Their ancient unity divide,
The top one graces, one each side;
And by and by, the second course
Comes lagging like a distanc'd horse;
A salver then to church and king,
The butler sweats, the glasses ring:
The cloth remov'd, the toasts go round,
Bawdy and politics abound;
3D +

And,

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