(For well to file his tongue, fage Chiron knew)
And learnt to difcipline his life aright;
To pay to pow'rs fupreme a reverence due,
Chief to Saturnian Jove, whofe dreaded might
Wings thro' difparted clouds the bik’ring light'ning's flight.
Aye was the ftripling wont, ere morning fair
Had rear'd o'er eastern waves her rofy tede,
To grafp with tender hand the pointed fpear,
And beat the thicket where the boar's fell breed
Enshrouded lay, or lion's tawny feed.
Oft wou'd great Dian, with her woody train,
Stop in mid chace to wonder at his speed,
Whilft up the hill's rough fide fhe faw him ftrain, Or fweep with winged feet along the level plain.
And when dun fhades had blent the day's bright eye,
Upon his fhoulders, with flow ftagg'ring pace,
He brought the prey his hand had done to die,
Whilft blood with duft befprent did foul difgrace
The goodly features of his glowing face.
When as the fage beheld on graffy foil
Each panting corfe, whilft life did well apace,
The panther of his fpotted pride he'd spoil,
To deck his fofter fon : fit need of daring toil.
And ever and anon the godlike fire,
To temper stern behefts with pleasaunce gay, Would touch (for well he cou'd) the filver lyre; So fweetly ravish'd each enchanting lay,
That Pan, in fcornful wife, wou'd fling away
His ruftick pipe, and e'en the facred train Wou'd leave their lov'd Parnafs' in trim array, And thought their own Apollo once again Charm'd his attentive flock, a fimple fhepherd fwain.
And ever and anon of worthies old,
Whose praise Fame's trump thro' earth's wide bounds had spread,
To fire his mind to brave exploits, he told;
Pirithous, known for proweft hardy-head; Thefeus, whose wrath the dire Procruftes fled; And Hercules, whom trembling Lerna fear'd, When Hydra fell, in loathfome marfhes bred, In vain against the fon of Jove uprear'd
Head sprouting under head, by thrillant faulchion fhear'd.
The ftern-brow'd boy in mute attention flood,
To hear the fage relate each great emprise ;
Then ftrode along the cave in haughtier mood,
Whilft varying paffions in his bofom rife,
And lightning-beams flash from his glowing eyes.
Ev'n now he scorns the prey the defarts yield,
Ev'n now (as hope the future fcene fupplies)
He shakes the terror of his heav'n-form'd fhield,
And braves th' indignant flood, and thunders o'er the field.
An EPISTLE from S. J. Efq; in the
Country, to the Right Hon. the Lord
LOVELACE in Town.
N days, my Lord, when mother Time,
now grown old, was in her prime,
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
And thought and did no mortal harm ;
On moffy banks fair virgins flept,
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 fure the cafe 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 unfound;
Fierce party-rage each village fires,
With wars of juftices and 'fquires;
Attorneys, for a barley ftraw,
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 fome for diff'rence in religions:
Some hold their parfon the best preacher,
The tinker fome a better teacher;
These to the Church they fight for, ftrangers,
Have faith in nothing but her dangers;
While thofe, a more believing people,
Can fwallow all things-but a fteeple.
But I, my Lord, who, as you know,
Care little how these matters go,
And equally deteft the ftrife
And ufual joys of country life,
Have by good fortune little share
Of its diverfions, or its care;
For feldom I with 'fquires unite,
Who hunt all day, and drink all night;
Nor reckon wonderful inviting,
A quarter-feflions, or cock-fighting;
But then no farm I occupy,
With sheep to rot and cows to dye:
Nor rage I much, or much defpair,
Tho' in my hedge I find a fnare;
Nor view I, with due admiration,
All the high honours here in fashion;
The great commiffions of the quorum,
Terrors to all who come before 'em ;
Militia fcarlet, edg'd with gold,
Or the white staff high sheriffs hold
The reprefentative's careffing,
The judge's how, the bishop's bleffing.
Nor can I for my foul delight
In the dull feaft of neighb'ring, knight,
Who, if you fend three days before,
In white gloves meets you at the door,
With fuperfluity of breeding
First makes you fick, and then with feeding.
Or if with ceremony cloy'd,
You wou'd next time fuch plagues avoid,
And vifit without previous notice,
JOHN, JOHN, a coach!-I can't think who 'tis,
My lady cries, who fpies your coach,
Ere you the avenue approach;
Lord, how unlucky!-wafhing-day!
And all the men are in the hay!,
Entrance to gain is fomething hard,
The dogs all bark, the gates are barr'd;
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