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My coat of pureft Turkey-red,
With gold embroid❜ry richly spread;

To which, I've fure as good pretenfions,
As Irish lords who starve on penfions.
What tho' proud ministers of state

Did at your antichamber wait;

What tho' your Oxfords, and your St. Johns,
Have at your Levee paid attendance;
And Peterborough and great Ormond,
With many chiefs who now are dormant,
Have laid afide the general's staff
And public cares, with you to laugh;
Yet I fome friends as good can name,
Nor less the darling fons of fame;
For fure my Pollio and Mecenas
Were as good statesman, Mr. Dean, as
Either your Bolingbroke or Harley,
T'ho' they made Lewis beg a parley :
And as for Mordaunt your lov'd hero,
I'll match him with my Drufus Nero.
You'll boaft perhaps your fav'rite Pope,
But Virgil is as good I hope.

I own indeed I can't get any
To equal Helfham and Delany;
Since, Athens brought forth Socrates,
A Grecian Ifle Hippocrates;
Since, Tully liv'd before my time,

And Galen blefs'd another clime.

You'll

You'll plead perhaps to my request,

To be admitted as a guest,

Your hearing's bad

but why fach fears?

I speak to eyes, and not to ears;
And for that reafon, wifely took

The form you see me in, a book.
Attack'd, by flow-devouring moths,
By rage
of barb'rous Huns and Goths:
By Bentley's notes, my deadlieft foes,
By Creech's rhimes and Dunfter's profe;
I found my boafted wit and fire

In their rude hands almoft expire :
Yet ftill they but in vain affail'd,

For had their violence prevail'd,

And in a blast destroy'd my fame,

They wou'd have partly mifs'd their aim;
Since all my spirit in thy page

Defies the Vandals of this age.

'Tis yours to fave these small remains

From future pedants muddy brains,

And fix my long-uncertain fate,

You best know how,-which way ?. -tranflate.

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VERSES written in a GARDEN.

By Lady M. W. M.

EE how that pair of billing doves

SFF; how that pain of own their loves;

And heedless of cenforious eyes,
Pursue their unpolluted joys:

No fears of future want moleft
The downy quiet of their neft;
No int'reft join'd the happy pair,
Securely bleft in Nature's care,
While her dear dictates they pursue:
For conftancy is nature too.

Can all the doctrine of our schools,
Our maxims, our religious rules,
Can learning to our lives enfure
Virtue fo bright, or blifs fo pure ?
The great Creator's happy ends,,
Virtue and pleasure ever blends :

In vain the church and court have try'd
Th' united effence to divide ;

Alike they find their wild mistake,
The pedant prieft, and giddy rake.

AN

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I

By the Same.

S it to me, this fad lamenting strain :

Are heaven's choiceft gifts bestow'd in vain?
A plenteous fortune, and a beauteous bride,
Your love rewarded, gratify'd your pride:
Yet leaving her 'tis me that you pursue
Without one single charm, but being new.
How vile is man! how I deteft their ways
Of artful falfhood, and defigning praise!
Taftelefs, an eafy happiness you flight,
Ruin your joy, and mischief your delight.
Why should poor pug (the mimic of your kind)
Wear a rough chain, and be to box confin❜d ?
Some cup, perhaps, he breaks, or tears a fan,—
While roves unpunish'd the deftroyer, man.
Not bound by vows, and unrestrain'd by shame,
In fport you break the heart, and rend the fame.
Nor that your art can be fuccessful here,
Th' already plunder'd need no robber fear:

VOL. IV.

N

Nor

Nor fighs, nor charms, nor flatteries can move,
Too well fecur'd against a fecond love.

Once, and but once, that devil charm'd my mind;
To reafon deaf, to obfervation blind;

I idly hop'd (what cannot love persuade !)
My fondness equal'd, and my love repay'd;
Slow to diftruft, and willing to believe,

Long hush'd my doubts, and did myself deceive:
But oh! too foon-this tale would ever laft;
Sleep, fleep, my wrongs, and let me think 'em past.
For you, who mourn with counterfeited grief,
And ask fo boldly like a begging thief,
May soon some other nymph inflict the pain,
You know fo well with cruel art to feign.
Tho' long you sported have with Cupid's dart,
You may fee eyes, and you may feel a heart.
So the brisk wits, who ftop the evening coach,
Laugh at the fear that follows their approach;
With idle mirth, and haughty scorn despise
The paffenger's pale cheek, and staring eyes:
But feiz'd by Juftice, find a fright no jeft,
And all the terror doubled in their breast.

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