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A desperate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce,
Against the gothic sons of frozen verse!
How changed from him who made the boxes groan,
And shook the stage with thunders all his own!
Stood up to dash each vain pretender's hope,
Maul the French tyrant, or pull down the pope !
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn;
If there's a critic of distinguish'd rage;
If there's a senior who contemns this age;
Let him to-night his just assistance lend,
And be the critic's, Briton's, old man’s, friend.

o \ MACER.

AYCHARA&TER. When simple Macer, now of high renown, First sought a poet's fortune in the town, 'Twas all the ambition his high soul could feel To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele: Some ends of verse his betters might afford, And gave the harmless fellow a good word.' Set up with these he ventured on the town, And with a borrow'd play outdid poor Crown. There he stopp'd short, nor since has writ a tittle, But has the wit to make the most of little; Like stunted hide-bound trees, that just have got Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot. Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends, Not of the wits his foes, but fools bis friends.

So some coarse country wench, almost decay'd, Trudges to town, and first turns chambermaid ;

Awkward and supple each devoir to pay,
She flatters her good lady twice a day;
Thought wondrous honest, though of mean degree,
And strangely liked for her simplicity :
In a translated suit then tries the town,
With borrow'd pins and patches not her own;
But just endured the winter she began,
And in four months a batter'd harridan:
Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk,
To bawd for others, and go shares with punk.


FLUTTERING spread thy purple pinions,

Gentle Cupid ! o'er my heart;
I a slave in thy dominions :

Nature must give way to art.
Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,

Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming

All beneath yon flowery rocks.
Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,

Mourn’d Adonis, darling youth!
Him the boar, in silence creeping,

Gored with unrelenting tooth. Cynthia ! tune harmonious numbers;

Fair Discretion ! string the lyre; Soothe my ever-waking slumbers;

Bright Apollo! lend thy choir.

Gloomy Pluto! king of terrors,

Arm'd in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors

Watering soft Elysian plains. Mournful cypress, verdant willow,

Gilding my Aurelia's brows, Morpheus hovering o'er my pillow,

Hear me pay my dying vows. Melancholy smooth Mæander

Swiftly purling in a round, . On thy margin lovers wander,

With thy flowery chaplets crown'd. Thus when Philomela, drooping,

Softly seeks her silent mate; See the bird of Juno stooping;

Melody resigns to fate.



I Know the thing that's most uncommon;

(Envy, be silent and attend !) I know a reasonable woman,

Handsome and witty, yet a friend :

Not warp'd by passion, awed by rumour,

Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly; An equal mixture of good humour,

And sensibļe soft melancholy, .

· Has she not faults then, (Envy says) sir ?

Yes, she has one, I must aver;
When all the world conspires to praise her,

The woman's deaf, and does not hear.





Thou who shalt stop where Thames' translucent

wave Shines a broad mirror through the shady cave; Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil, And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill; Unpolish'd gems no ray on pride bestow, And latent metals innocently glow; Approach. Great Nature studiously behold! And eye the mine without a wish for gold. Approach; but awful! lo! the’ Ægerian grot, Where, nobly pensive, St. John sat and thought, Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole, And the bright flame was shot through March

mont's soul. Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor, Who dare to love their country, and the poor.



Yes, I beheld the’ Athenian queen

Descend in all her sober charms; * And take, (she said, and smiled serene)

Take at this hand celestial arms: Secure the radiant weapons wield;

This golden lance shall guard desert, And if a vice dares keep the field,

This steel shall stab it to the heart.' Awed, on my bended knees I fell,

Received the weapons of the sky, And dipp'd them in the sable well,

The fount of fame or infamy.
• What well? what weapon? (Flavia cries)

A standish, steel, and golden pen!
It came from Bertrand's, not the skies;

I gave it you to write again. :
· But, friend! take heed whom you attack;

You'll bring a house (I mean of peers) Red, blue, and green, nay, white and black,

L** and all about your ears. "You'd write as smooth again on glass,

And run on ivory so glib, As not to stick at fool or ass, Nor stop at flattery or fib.

These lines were occasioned by the poet's being threatened with a prosecution in the House of Lords, for writing the Epilogue to Dr. Donne's Satires.

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