Then finish, Dear CLOE, this Pastoral War;
And let us like HORACE and LYDIA agree :
For Thou art a Girl as much brighter than Her,
As He was a Poet sublimer than Me.
SING to the Lord with joyfull Voice;
Let every Land his Name adore ;
The British Isles shall send the Noise
A-cross the Ocean to the Shore.
Nations, attend before his Throne
With solemn Fear, with sacred Joy;
Know that the Lord is God alone;
He can create, and he destroy.
His sovreign Power without our Aid
Made us of Clay, and form'd us Men:
And when like wand'ring Sheep we stray'd,
He brought us to his Fold again.
We are his People, we his Care,
Our Souls and all our mortal Frame: What lasting Honours shall we rear Almighty Maker, to thy Name?
Wee'll croud thy Gates with thankfull Songs,
High as the Heavens our Voices raise ;
And Earth with her ten thousand Tongues
Shall fill thy Courts with sounding Praise.
Wide as the World is thy Command,
Vast as Eternity thy Love;
Firm as a Rock thy Truth must stand
When rolling Years shall cease to move.
MAN FRAIL AND GOD ETERNAL
OUR God, our Help in Ages past,
Our Hope for Years to come,
Our Shelter from the stormy Blast,
And our eternal Home.
Under the Shadow of Thy Throne
Thy Saints have dwelt secure ;
Sufficient is thine Arm alone,
And our Defence is sure.
Before the Hills in order stood
Or Earth receiv'd her Frame,
From everlasting Thou art God,
To endless Years the same.
Thy Word commands our Flesh to Dust,
Return, ye Sons of Men.
All Nations rose from Earth at first,
And turn to Earth again.
A thousand Ages in thy Sight
Are like an Evening gone;
Short as the Watch that ends the Night Before the rising Sun.
The busy Tribes of Flesh and Blood
With all their Lives and Cares
Are carried downwards by thy Flood,
And lost in following Years.
Time like an ever-rolling Stream
Bears all its Sons away;
They fly forgotten as a Dream
Dies at the opening Day.
Like flow'ry Fields the Nations stand
Pleas'd with the Morning-light;
The Flowers beneath the Mower's Hand
Ly withering e'er 'tis Night.
Our God, our Help in Ages past,
Our Hope for Years to come,
Be Thou our Guard while Troubles last
And our eternal Home.
THE HUE AND CRY
O YES!-Hear, all ye beaux and wits,
Musicians, poets, 'squires, and cits,
All, who in town or country dwell !
Say, can you tale or tidings tell
Of Tortorella's hasty flight?
Why in new groves she takes delight,
And if in concert, or alone,
The cooing murmurer makes her moan?
Now learn the marks, by which you may
Trace out and stop the lovely stray !
Some wit, more folly, and no care,
Thoughtless her conduct, free her air;
Gay, scornful, sober, indiscreet,
In whom all contradictions meet;
Civil, affronting, peevish, easy,
Form'd both to charm you and displease you ; Much want of judgment, none of pride,
Modish her dress, her hoop full wide;
Brown skin, her eyes of sable hue,
Angel, when pleas'd, when vex'd, a shrew.
Genteel her motion, when she walks,
Sweetly she sings, and loudly talks ;
Knows all the world, and its affairs,
Who goes to court, to plays, to prayers,
Who keeps, who marries, fails, or thrives,
Leads honest, or dishonest, lives;
What money match'd each youth or maid,
And who was at each masquerade;
Of all fine things in this fine town,
She's only to herself unknown.
By this description, if you meet her,
With lowly bows, and homage greet her;
And if you bring the vagrant beauty
Back to her mother and her duty,
Ask for reward a lover's bliss,
And (if she'll let you) take a kiss ;
Or more, if more you wish and may,
Try if at church the words she'll say,
Then make her, if you can-" obey.'
AN ELEGY ON A LAP-DOG
SHOCK's fate I mourn; poor Shock is now no more,
Ye Muses mourn, ye chamber-maids deplore.
Unhappy Shock! yet more unhappy Fair,
Doom'd to survive thy joy and only care!
Thy wretched fingers now no more shall deck,
And tie the fav'rite ribband round his neck;
No more thy hand shall smooth his glossy hair,
And comb the wavings of his pendent ear.
Yet cease thy flowing grief, forsaken maid;
All mortal pleasures in a moment fade :
Our surest hope is in an hour destroy'd,
And love, best gift of heav'n, not long enjoy'd.
Methinks I see her frantick with despair,
Her streaming eyes, wrung hands, and flowing hair; Her Mechlen pinners rent the floor bestrow,
And her torn fan gives real signs of woe.
Hence Superstition, that tormenting guest,
That haunts with fancy'd fears the coward breast ;
No dread events upon this fate attend,
Stream eyes no more, no more thy tresses rend.
Tho' certain omens oft forewarn a state,
And dying lyons show the monarch's fate;
Why should such fears bid Celia's sorrow rise?
For when a Lap-dog falls, no lover dyes.
Cease, Celia, cease; restrain thy flowing tears,
Some warmer passion will dispell thy cares.
In man you'll find a more substantial bliss,
More grateful toying, and a sweeter kiss.
He's dead. Oh lay him gently in the ground! And may his tomb be by this verse renown'd. Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is laid; Who fawn'd like man, but ne'er like man betray'd. JOHN GAY.
THE LADY'S LAMENTATION
PHYLLIDA, that lov'd to dream
In the grove, or by the stream;
Sigh'd on velvet pillow.
What, alas! should fill her head,
But a fountain, or a mead,
Water and a willow?
"Love in citys never dwells,
He delights in rural cells
Which sweet woodbine covers.
What are your Assemblys then?
There, 'tis true, we see more men ;
But much fewer lovers.
"Oh, how chang'd the prospect grows !
Flocks and herds to Fops and Beaus,
Coxcombs without number!
Moon and stars that shone so bright,
To the torch and waxen light,
And whole nights at Ombre.
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